Ursula brought back her attention forcibly. She regarded the mills with concentration, and now she saw that the piers along the river were lined with flat-boats and barges, some of them being filled with sawed lumber by busy workmen, and some still waiting for cargoes. She became aware, for the first time, of smoke pouring from chimneys, and the deep throbbing of the steam-driven saws within the mills. The air was pungent with the smell of sap and resin. Near the mills stood huge piles of raw yellow sawdust.
“Astounding,” she murmured.
William was apparently disappointed at this vague comment, so Ursula tried again: “How much you have accomplished in such a short time, dear William. It is hard to believe. Why, when I first saw these mills, they were so small and insignificant—in comparison.” Her tongue felt dull and ponderous in her mouth, and she moved it with an actual physical effort.
“I think I have made considerable progress,” admitted William, smiling again. He looked with satisfaction at the huge lettering on the buildings: “The Prescott Lumber Company.”
Now something else caught Ursula’s attention. One of the small buildings was in process of being repainted. Scaffolding stood along its side. A painter was just beginning to attack the faded words: “The American Lumber Company.” This was in preparation for the new name. Just below the painter stood a tall thin boy, leaning against a pile of newly-sawn lumber.
Letter by letter, the old name began to be washed away in paint. Above the older building, a newer one rose wide and stark. The wild and terrible sun suddenly struck the words on the face of it: “The Prescott Lumber Company.” The smaller building, with its old lettering, now being obliterated, sank into its shadow.
William had not as yet noticed the boy who was watching the disappearing of the name which had once sparkled so brightly on the smaller building. Somewhere, in the distance, Ursula heard William’s strong voice speaking on and on. She saw only the boy as he gazed upward at the painter. He continued to lean against the cut lumber, his attitude almost nonchalant. But Ursula knew this was not nonchalance at all. Her first impulse of pity, her first look of concern at that colorless, lean face, turned to a keener insight, a sharper watchfulness. She had begun to think: “Poor Eugene! How frightful it must be for him to watch the name of his father’s company disappearing before his eyes!” But the thought fell away, dwindled and faded. For there was no anger, no regret, no sadness, in that hard, clear profile.
Ursula, determined to feel only pity and pain, tried also to forget that she had never liked Eugene. His manners had always been grave and impeccable, his voice polite; he had always bowed to her with ceremony, and had invariably inquired after her health. Thereafter, thankfully, and not in the manner of other children, he had removed himself. Once she had even thought: “I should feel easier if he were about!” There was no explaining, even to herself, why she thought this, but Eugene present was less ominous than Eugene absent.
Now, as she looked at him acutely, she forgot him and remembered his mother. Her face grew troubled. No one ever spoke to her of Alice Arnold. In her presence, that name was carefully withheld. No one ever mentioned having seen the widow of the man whom William had ruined. Her friends had simply decided not to be aware of Alice any longer, nor to speak of her. She had lost prestige in Andersburg; she no longer existed for those who had still retained their importance or were striving madly for it.
I must see Alice, thought Ursula, wretchedly. But what could William Prescott’s wife do for the widow of Chauncey Arnold, which Alice would accept?
“Ursula!” William’s voice was loud and vexed in her ear. “You haven’t been listening to me.”
Ursula started. She tried to think of some remark to placate her husband. But none came. She touched his arm swiftly, then said in a low and anxious tone: “Look over there, William. That boy. Eugene Arnold.”
William’s eyes followed her quick gesture. His dark face flushed uncomfortably. For a few moments he watched the unaware Eugene, then he said: “Let us drive on.”
It was then that Eugene stood upright, carefully dusted off the hands which had lain along the lumber, turned, and saw them. He stared at the carriage for what seemed to Ursula a miserably long time. He did not move, or seem in the least embarrassed. His pale fine hair lifted in the slight breeze from the river. Standing there, regarding the man and the woman in the carriage, he had a fine distinction, an attitude of dignity and poise. Ursula saw his face clearly, that face so like Alice’s, with its marks of breeding, and yet so unlike in its expression.
Ursula wished herself a thousand miles away. She could not look at her husband. Fervently, she willed Eugene to walk off quietly. To her acute misery, she saw that the boy was beginning to move towards the carriage. His tall young figure did not appear defenseless against the purple and yellow of sky and water. Rather, it had strength and a kind of power.
“What shall we say to him?” whispered Ursula to William, in distress.
He did not answer. He watched Eugene come. His flush was deeper than ever.
Eugene did not hurry. He came to them, and there was something about his quiet manner, his straightforward look, which gave Ursula the impression that he was entirely aware of their embarrassment, and disdainful of it. Now he was standing but five feet away.
“Good afternoon,” he said, and bowed a little.
“Eugene,” murmured Ursula. She paused. “How is your mother, Eugene?”
“Very well, thank you,” replied the boy.
Ursula’s hands were damp. “Please tell her I asked about her. I—I have been very much engaged lately, Gene. I mean to call upon her soon.” She stopped a moment. “I am sure your mother will understand.”
“Oh, yes,” said Eugene quietly. He looked at Ursula directly, and she saw a flicker in his almost colorless eyes. “Mother always understands.” Was his tone ironical?
William sat stiff and bulky beside Ursula. Ursula could feel his angry unhappiness. She felt, rather than saw, his awkward gesture. She knew it was a prelude to an even more unfortunate remark, and she wished she knew how to forestall it. He said, too loudly: “How do you like the new mills, Eugene?”
Eugene regarded him thoughtfully. “I’ve been watching them being built for a long time. They are wonderful.”
William studied the mills with an elaborate attention which Ursula suspected was to cover his overpowering discomfiture. “Yes,” he said, heavily. “A lot of work has gone into this expansion.” He added, lamely: “Thank you, Eugene.”
“Do give your mother my love,” said Ursula, helplessly.
Eugene said, very politely: “Of course, Mrs. Prescott.”
He turned to William then, with an air of expectation, and now there was something about the boy which made Ursula’s lips tighten and her eyes narrow with trouble. But her chief concern was with William, and with his dreadful tactlessness. He had not intended the brutality of his question to Eugene. It had been only a lack of taste, and however deplorable that lack it had still not implied any meanness. William, Ursula thought, had not had any formal or consistent education, and this had narrowed his life, had prevented him from acquiring a fixed point of reference; hence his want of taste, his inability to understand his fellowmen, his vulnerability when confronted by delicate situations, and his capriciousness.
Eugene still waited, with that air of polite expectation. Why does he wait? thought Ursula. It only prolongs the discomfort of both William and myself. And then, with incredulity, it came to her that this was exactly Eugene’s intention. She regarded the boy sharply. She had not been mistaken. With more abruptness than was common with her, she said: “Eugene, please tell your mother that I hope to call upon her within a few days.”
“Yes,” muttered William, and lifted his hand to John, who had been watching with deep interest.
Eugene bowed again. He was smiling almost imperceptibly. “Goodbye, Mrs. Prescott. And Mr. Prescott.” His voice was smooth and courteous.
The carriag
e turned about. Ursula did not glance back, for she was positive that she would see Eugene still standing there, smiling inscrutably. It was a most repugnant idea.
William said, after several long minutes had passed: “I am sorry for the boy. It is too bad he had such a father. Still, I can’t like him, even if he is young. In fact,” and he laughed shortly, “I don’t think he ever was young.”
“No,” said Ursula, “he was never young.”
The lavender clouds had deepened to purple. Now the sky was disturbed by a surge of distant thunder, and then a flash, and a louder surge. The horses quickened their pace, and there was a restless movement to their heads. Just as the carriage approached the Imperial Hotel, Ursula told William that she was expecting a child.
CHAPTER XVII
Ursula, five days later, was still anxiously contriving a graceful, warm letter to Alice Arnold, a letter to be as smooth as glass yet transparent as genuine friendship. Just as she had finally become satisfied with the last draft, a note came to her from Alice, herself. Alice had written:
“Dear Ursula: Eugene has given me your very kind message, which gave me great pleasure. He also told me that you wished to call upon me, a very delightful prospect. Would Sunday afternoon, about four, be convenient for you? There is a matter I should like to discuss with you which is of importance to me. But I prefer to come to the Imperial. If Sunday is not feasible, please send me a message. Yours, with affection, Alice.”
The short note was implicit with Alice’s gentleness and tact. Ursula read it with sadness. She endeavored to surmise what might be of such importance to Alice as to bring her to this violent suite, at an hour when the streets would be filled with carriages and walkers. Ursula’s anxiety made her throat tighten. Alice no longer had a carriage. The auctioning of her property had begun. Daily, her house was filled with the curious and greedy and shamefaced. To spare her former friends any embarrassment, Alice would invariably retire to the servants’ quarters on the third floor of her house, while her cherished plate and china, rugs and cabinets, Chippendale chairs, Queen Anne sofas, lace curtains and draperies, glassware and ornaments, were being auctioned and fingered and appraised.
Fortunately, William had again gone to Michigan. Alice probably knew this, for surely she would not ask to call upon Ursula with William present. But, remembering her friend, Ursula was not too sure. There was such a pellucid serenity about Alice, such a noble simplicity and majesty, that not even the thought of meeting William could have disturbed her.
Ursula wrote: “Instead of coming to this hotel, dear Alice, I think I should prefer to see you in my old home, which I visit regularly. William is not in the city, and I intend to go there this Sunday, as the prospective buyer for the property has asked me to choose what I wish to take with me to my new home. Four o’clock, then.”
Sunday dawned, sultry and molten. Perhaps it was concern for her friend, and the anticipation of pain at meeting her again, which made Ursula feel quite ill all through the morning, and even far into the afternoon.
The street on which Ursula’s house stood was very quiet in the still blankness of the heat. Every blind was drawn; every shutter was closed against the blast from the shimmering cobblestones. Not even a child strolled languidly before fenced gardens, or sat on a doorstep. Ursula’s hand trembled as she inserted the key in the old lock; she heard the loud click echo back from the sleeping faces of the sun-drenched houses. She closed the door behind her. Now the drowsy odors of potpourri and lavender and old leather drifted in the silent air. Here, too, the shutters were closed. The silent rooms lay in bluish shadow, cool and restful and welcoming, the polished furniture and walls shining faintly in the dusk, the portraits masked and dim in their ancient gold frames.
Ursula went into the kitchen. She lit a fire in the black stove, worked the pump until the rusted water disappeared and sparkling fresh water replaced it. She filled the kettle and put it on the stove. She opened the parcels she had brought; one of them was a small packet of tea; she had also brought a lemon, some sugar, and a box of fresh biscuits. She brought out her best lace and linen traycloth, placed it on a round silver tray, and laid upon it her priceless old egg-shell teacups and saucers of ivory and pale rose. Her silver, wrapped in flannel, was not yet tarnished; the thin silver bowls of the spoons glimmered in the tree-shaded quiet of the kitchen, as did her silver teapot, hot-water jug and sugar bowl. She found a fluted plate for the rich biscuits. All of this she carried into the parlor and laid upon a table.
At four o’clock, precisely, she poured boiling water onto the tea in the teapot. She had left the front door ajar, so that no clamor of the knocker would awake the curious neighborhood. As she had expected, she heard quick light footfalls on the street outside as she made the tea, a rustle of stiff silk, and then a soft knock on the door. Alice Arnold entered the parlor, tall and very thin in her heavy widow’s weeds, a black veil hanging over her face from the brim of her small black bonnet.
“Alice,” said Ursula, faintly.
Alice drew back the veil, and advanced to greet her hostess, holding out her hand. Even in that shuttered dusk Ursula could see the clear, colorless shining of her tender eyes, so candid, so wise and so gentle. She had no need of beauty or ringlets or jewels. She had a dignity which quietly denied that she was a woman open to any expression of sympathy. A single smooth strand of light hair passed across her high forehead under the bonnet. There was a seed-pearl brooch at her throat, and for an instant the broad gold band of her wedding-ring gleamed in the shadowy room.
“Dear Ursula,” she said, softly. Very simply she kissed Ursula on the cheek. There was no hint in her manner of any embarrassment, only a mild kindliness. Ursula gave a sigh of relief. She ought to have remembered Alice more clearly. They had not been very intimate friends, yet all at once Ursula felt an overpowering need for Alice’s friendship and understanding.
“It was so kind of you to see me today,” said Alice, as she sat down near the tea-table and smiled gratefully at it. “I do hope it was no inconvenience.”
“On the contrary, Alice,” murmured Ursula, “it was very good of you to come.” The words sounded fatuous in her own ears. She sat down near Alice, and poured the tea.
Alice went on, as she took a biscuit: “How cool it is in this sweet room, Ursula. It always was so charming. I have always loved your house.”
She glanced about the room, smiling faintly, her eyes lingering on every object. She sighed, the merest breath of a sigh.
“Yes,” said Ursula. Her glance followed that of her guest’s. She added, politely, “How is Eugene, Alice?”
“Eugene is quite well,” replied the other woman. “I am thankful he can still attend his school.” Her voice was quietly impersonal. “He does so well there. He had honors again this year.”
“Eugene is a very remarkable boy,” said Ursula, already tired of Eugene. Her poise was very ragged. This was painful beyond her previous imagining.
Alice was so delicately subtle that she sensed at once Ursula’s misery and lack of interest in Eugene. She said: “Please forgive me that I did not ask you before how you are, Ursula.”
“I am very well,” replied Ursula, mechanically. “And you, Alice?”
“I am always well,” answered Alice, with almost her old light cheerfulness. “Not even the heat can disconcert me.”
Ursula thought of the dismantling of the beautiful Arnold home, of the constant rumbling of strangers’ footsteps in the large rooms, of the endless mutter of alien voices in the halls. Her fingers tightened about her teacup handle.
Alice said, in a tranquil voice: “It was really very rude of me to ask you to meet me here today, Ursula. After all, we all of us have our duties. I am being very selfish, and you must forgive me. I must make my visit as brief as possible, and my request.” She paused. “You said you had a buyer for this house, I believe.”
“There is a gentleman who is interested,” stammered Ursula.
“But you have not sol
d the house as yet?”
“No.” Ursula could glance up now. Her face was very pale, and even in the cool of this room it was damp and beaded.
Alice sighed. Then she laughed a little. “I have been wondering, Ursula, if you would rent this house to me, with its contents. As I said before, I have always loved it.”
Ursula put down her cup. “Rent the house to you?” she repeated in a dull and stupid tone.
“Yes.” Then added Alice, quickly: “But perhaps you would prefer to discuss this with your husband first. That would be only right, of course.”
Ursula looked at her cup. “The house,” she said, without inflection, “is mine. It belonged to my father. No one else dares presume—” She went on: “You may rent it, Alice, if it pleases you.”
But Alice did not speak immediately. A strong deep solicitude shone in her eyes, illuminated her face like a beam. Almost abstractedly, she murmured: “Do not make an immediate decision, dear Ursula, for I cannot pay you more than twenty-five dollars a month.” There was nothing of self-pity in her words or inflection, just a quiet statement of fact.
There was a silence between the two women, while Ursula fought down the mortifying desire to cry out to Alice: “Take the house! I ask nothing for it!” Then Alice said, gently and slowly: “It was most kind of Mr. Prescott to send me that check, Ursula. But, of course, it was not possible for me to accept it. I do hope he did not think I misunderstood his gesture. I am truly grateful.”
“William sent you money?” asked Ursula, in a stifled voice. Bitter color ran up her cheeks.
Almost playfully, Alice said at once: “Yes. It was so very kind! I was extremely touched. But, I am so sorry! You did not know, Ursula?”
Ursula could only move her head in negation, and numbly.
“Please, then, do not tell him, I pray you.”
Ursula was still speechless. She clasped her hands on her knees. She thought of William and his stupid action. Had she not, only a moment or two ago, had her own impulse to offer Alice charity, she would have experienced anger against her husband, and humiliation for herself.