The panorama of wide radiant sky, dark hills and jade river stretched before the girl, and—in the valley, and circling the river—the living city. She was free of the city, but she was not free of her thoughts, sadly rebellious and gloomy, too heavy for so young a creature. Only three months ago, on the eve of January, 1900, she had said to herself, hopefully: “It is a new century beginning! Everything will be new, for the world, for me.” In spite of all the wild celebrations, in spite of the predictions of oracles, nothing had become new and promising, nothing had changed. Now, in spite of all the late winter brightness lying beneath her, in spite of the promise of spring in the rising excitement of the birds, in spite of the sun and the wind, she felt in the air something ominous, something baleful. She was not given to morbid thoughts, so that these struck on her mind with fresh fear and apprehension.
She was wrong, she thought. Something had changed, was changing. She did not know what it was; but the premonition persisted in her.
The sun lowered towards the opposite mountains, and a sudden flush began to spread upwards above the folded darkness of the hills. If she was to reach home before evening came, she must hurry. But she could not make herself move. She stood there, growing colder by the moment. Now the air stung her eyes.
Oliver, she thought. Oh, Oliver, Oliver. Her hands were numb in their gloves; the numbness crept up her arms, struck at her heart.
CHAPTER XXXVII
The administrative buildings of the Prescott Lumber Company had grown during the past ten years to almost twice their size. William
Prescott’s own offices were composed of his private inner office, much enlarged, and far more luxurious than before, the office of his chief clerk, once more Mr. Ben Watson, now that Eugene Arnold, some two years ago, had been promoted to the position of general manager of the mills, an office adjoining that of Mr. Watson’s, filled with busy clerks and bookkeepers and stenographers, and a large room full of filing cabinets adjoining this office. There was also a waiting-room for salesmen, and a more gracious waiting-room for more important callers. Across the hall were Eugene Arnold’s offices, much smaller, of course, but equally well furnished.
To William’s massive and expansive furnishings had been added a heavy leather couch, with a folded afghan at the foot, for only six months ago William had suffered what Dr. Banks vaguely referred to as a “heart attack.” The attack had not been serious, but orders had been given that William must have an hour’s rest after his noonday meal, and must lie down whenever he felt “weak” or “faint.” William acceded to the short afternoon nap; more than that he would not do. In fact, he was angered at the suggestion that he might need additional rest periods. But the seizure had been sufficiently painful to alarm him; he wanted no others. He remembered, only too clearly, the sensation of impending death which had accompanied the “attack,” and the several weeks of miserable inanition in bed to which he had been forced to submit. It was all nonsense, of course; Banks was an “old woman.” However, he usually lay down after his luncheon, and never confessed to anyone, not even to his physician, that he was grateful for the excuse.
Though Eugene Arnold was general manager of the mills, William had not deviated from his earlier determination to keep the most important part of the business to himself. The protests of his associates and officers, who more and more grumbled at his “high-handedness,” had still no effect upon him. The years of the nineties, with their economic and financial upheavals, had been survived, with incredible profits, while other businesses all over the country had succumbed. William never failed to call the attention of his associates to this amazing fact, yet their restiveness increased rather than diminished. Upon leaving his offices, they would eye the locked files hungrily. He would see the look, and smile to himself. Not even Eugene Arnold had access to them. Eugene knew only what it was absolutely necessary for him to know, in connection with his management of the mills.
Accusations of “unorthodoxy,” and of “single-handed authority,” did not move William. They only amused him. The most significant reports were made to himself alone. He did not trust even Mr. Jay Regan, of New York. He asked Mr. Regan’s advice. Whether or not he followed this advice Mr. Regan was not always certain.
William, always acutely intuitive, had noticed of late that his officers and associates had become less impatient, less demanding, that they appeared more placid, more complacent and agreeable towards him. There were passing moments when this caused him a vague thoughtful uneasiness.
In spite of all the responsibility which he had delegated to the young man, he did not trust Eugene Arnold. Even now, he did not like him. His attitude towards his subordinate was paradoxical and capricious, moved by instinct rather than by reason. He was grateful to have so intelligent and competent a manager, and his manner towards Eugene was sometimes paternal and affectionate. During his illness, Eugene had carried on the business flawlessly and, again, William was grateful. But still, it was not possible for him to trust Eugene.
It was William’s belief that any show of weakness, dependency or trust inspired only scorn and suspicion in one’s subordinates. So it was that during the first acute weeks of his illness, when Eugene visited him for orders, William invariably made an exhausting effort to appear quite himself. Eugene, in every word and gesture and enigmatic smile, betrayed an admiration and respect which were entirely sincere. William saw this. Again, he was grateful. He knew that Eugene was not dissembling.
William knew that Ursula had a deep and instinctive hatred for Eugene Arnold, which, though it had become somewhat less vocal and more resigned, had not diminished in intensity through the years. “You say he is honest in his admiration for you, William,” she would say, “and that he is devoted to your interests. Perhaps you are right. But what else do you know about him? What is he thinking? What, beyond what I have named, is his feeling towards you?”
“Good God!” William would cry in answer. “What else is there for him to ‘feel’? He is paid for his services. There is nothing else.”
But he knew, or suspected, that there was something else. He never watched Eugene approach, never spoke to him, without staring at him piercingly, and trying to hear, with an inner ear, what Eugene was thinking. He never succeeded. He did not like people who had money (and Eugene must have a good deal now) and did not spend it on the things which, to William, made life tolerable.
During altercations at board meetings, at which, unknown to himself, William was becoming more and more irascible and impatient and overbearing, it was Eugene’s quiet voice, supporting him with facts and figures and impeccable reason, which always quieted the angry voices of the others, which had an almost magical effect upon them. They appeared to trust Eugene, as they did not trust William. Eugene would then efface himself. He had the ability to be physically present yet unnoticeable, whenever he desired. This gratified William. Had Eugene taken on an importance of his own, had he asserted himself too openly, as a young man might have been tempted to do, William would soon have found ways to make him smart and to reduce his authority.
What Eugene did with his private time sometimes made William speculate interestedly. Once or twice he had hinted of his interest. Eugene, faintly smiling, would dexterously fend off this curiosity. He read. He played Ursula’s piano. He had practically no friends. During his holidays he liked to travel. He enjoyed his garden. He walked extensively. No, he was not interested in marriage. “Why not?” William would demand. “Don’t you want children, Gene?”
“Not particularly, sir,” Eugene would reply, with one of his odd smiles.
“You aren’t getting any younger,” William had remarked to the young man only recently. “You don’t expect to spend all the rest of your life in Mrs. Prescott’s house?”
Eugene had shrugged his shoulders. “I am satisfied. And I think Mrs. Prescott’s house suits me perfectly.”
“But to whom do you expect to leave your money, Gene? You’ve asked me for advice on investments, and
you’ve given me to understand that you’ve profited neatly. I don’t know just what money you have, but it must be very substantial. What do you intend to do with it?”
Eugene had smiled again. His pale eyes had rested on William inscrutably.
“One of these days, sir, I’ll give it thought,” he had replied.
He had left William then, and William had frowned to himself for several long moments, uneasily.
The same spring sun which was now lying on Barbara’s head and shoulders on the mountain terrace struck her father’s head and shoulders as he gathered up his papers in preparation for leaving his office.
He was unusually tired today. When this weariness came upon him he was ready with a dozen different excuses, all trivial, to explain it. It had been a “hard” day; he had not slept well; his luncheon had disagreed with him; some of his employees had demonstrated remarkable stupidity. He did not admit, even in the most unguarded moments, that his weariness might be part of a strengthening spiritual malaise, a terrible and still unrecognized hopelessness. He did not admit it, for he did not know it.
Two letters lay on his desk, one from his son, Thomas, one from his son, Matthew. Slowly he laid down the papers in his hands, and sat and stared at the letters. The exhaustion became an overpowering weight on his shoulders, so that he had to fold his arms upon his desk and lean heavily upon them, as if for support. His attitude was that of a man who is very ill and who, for a while, cannot fight against this illness, but must rest briefly.
Letters asking for money always came to the offices. Letters written jointly to both parents arrived at home. Ever since the twins had been away at school, these letters addressed only to William had begun to arrive, and he had smiled sheepishly and fondly, thinking how much his sons trusted him and how much they preferred not to have their mother know of their affairs. By writing only to their father, they excluded their mother. They reaffirmed their dependence upon him. Thomas, who understood his father’s delusion, contributed to it craftily and deliberately. Matthew, who never had understood, nor cared to understand, any living being, knew only that Ursula would object to extra sums of money being sent him, over and above his already extravagant allowance. He wrote, therefore, to his father.
This sly leeching of money had gone on almost from the beginning, when, two years ago, Thomas had entered Yale, and Matthew, Princeton. It was nothing new; it had given William the deepest pleasure. It was extraordinary, then, that as he now looked at those two letters on his desk he should feel so mortally tired, so undone.
The letters themselves were not at all extraordinary. In fact, they might have been mere copies of dozens of their predecessors. Thomas bluffly announcd that “some of the fellows” were planning a “shindig” next week and every “fellow” was expected to pay his very large share. He had to confess that he needed at least two hundred dollars. Would Father send him a check “forthwith,” and “thanks a million, kind sir,” and, of course, he, Thomas, sent his love and hoped his father had completely recovered his health.
Matthew’s note was as subdued and elusive as himself, but, coldly, more explicit than Thomas’s. There was a sketch by Goya which he coveted, and which was for sale “very reasonably.” Three hundred dollars, and warranted genuine.
William opened his desk with slow and deliberate movements, his fingers trembling. He found his check-book. He wrote out the checks. Thomas and Matthew would receive, not the two hundred or the three hundred dollars requested, but at least one hundred more. It was very strange that William did not feel the old pleasure in writing these checks, only a queer sort of sickness.
In his tense small writing, in which the loops visibly trembled, he wrote a short note to each of his sons. The notes were full of his excessive love, his anxiety for his children, his hope that they would write again, very soon. He put the notes and checks in their envelopes, addressed them, stamped them. He would drop them in the post-office box in the general office. He put the letters aside for a moment, and said aloud, in a dwindled voice: “God, but I am tired!”
His thoughts returned inexorably to his sons. Thomas was popular at Yale; he excelled in sports; his marks were far above the average; he had made some very substantial friends, of whom William approved. Nothing more could be expected. William leaned his forehead on the back of his right hand and tried to subdue the sudden throbbing of his heart.
Matthew never spoke of friends. It was evident that he had made none, though he had developed a frail attachment for one of his instructors. His marks, as usual, were either phenomenally high or incredibly low, fluctuating without reason.
There was a light tapping, three times, upon his door. He knew it was Eugene Arnold. He tried to call out, but his voice came only in a whisper. He gripped the edge of his desk, cleared his throat, and finally made himself heard. The door opened, and Eugene entered the room silently, and smiling. “Gene,” said William, dully. He tried to smile. The letters to and from his sons lay on the desk before him. Eugene glanced at William’s face, then glanced at what lay on the desk. William involuntarily put his hands over the letters, then turned them over so that the addresses could be seen. He did not know why he did this; he did not, in fact, know that he had done it.
“What is it, Gene?” asked William, impatiently. “I am about to leave for home.”
“Nothing, really, sir,” replied Eugene. “I just came to say goodnight.” He paused. He saw the sick pallor under William’s dark skin.
But his smile did not change. “There is nothing else today, sir?”
“No. But there is a board meeting day after tomorrow, as you know.”
“Yes, everything is ready.”
There was a silence in the room. William’s hand still covered the letters, as if defending them, as if hiding them. He looked at Eugene. The latter’s earlier thinness had become a hard brittleness which yet curiously suggested enormous reserve strength. His narrow face, over these years, had attained a bleached dryness, so that though he was only thirty-three, sharp thin lines sprang out about his mouth and eyes when he smiled, and of late were etching themselves deeper. Even when he was not smiling, the lines remained, fainter, but incisive, as if drawn by a sharp knife. His fleshless hands, clean and without color, had a look of potency about them, and aseptic cruelty. His light hair had faded; in some lights it appeared almost gray.
William pushed himself to his feet, his hands on the desk. “I’ll walk down to the gates with you,” he said. For one moment, as if to escape those unreadable eyes, he glanced through the window at the shining river, the flat-boats, the tugs, and the distant mountains. Eugene deftly assisted his employer into his coat. His manner had just the slightest hint of thoughtful solicitude. “Thanks,” said William, curtly. He slipped the letters into his pocket. He put on his hat. Eugene carried his until they both emerged into the cold and bitter air.
The carriage was waiting at the gates, and in the carriage sat Julia, beautiful in her mink jacket, her wide, plume adorned hat, her red wool frock. Her gloved hands were cosily snuggled in a mink muff, and her knees were covered with a fur rug.
At the sight of his elder daughter the somber exhaustion on William’s face lifted, was replaced by an expression of pleasure and delight. Julia often called for him lately, smiling at him with sweetest fondness and arch coquetry, so that gay sparks seemed to flash from her amber eyes and dimples indented themselves in her pink cheeks. No matter how dreary or vexatious the day had been, the ride home would raise William’s spirits and Ursula would often hear the laughter of husband and daughter mingling as they entered the house.
Tonight, William hurried to the carriage as a frozen man hurries towards warmth and comfort. Eugene followed more slowly, again removing his hat. Julia’s attention was concentrated on her father, whom she kissed affectionately, laying one gloved hand on his shoulder. It was only then that she apparently became aware of Eugene, who was waiting for recognition. She extended her other hand to him graciously. Their palms touc
hed; Eugene felt, as he often had felt, the thin folded slip of paper in her hand. While he spoke to her pleasantly, and inquired about her health, he expertly closed two fingers over the note. It was all done so cleverly that William never suspected.
William’s relief at what he believed the tender affection in the eyes of his daughter was so great that he turned almost excitedly to Eugene and said: “Will you join us for dinner tonight, Gene?”
Eugene said quietly: “Thank you, but no. I have these papers to go over tonight, in preparation for the board meeting,” and he glanced down at the briefcase he carried.
Julia’s lovely face darkened with disappointment. Eugene gave her a swift look. Her auburn brows relaxed, but some of the light went out of her eyes.
Masterfully happy and assured, William entered the carriage, and Julia covered his knees with the rug. Eugene bowed; Julia inclined her head in silence. The carriage drove away, its wheels twinkling in the thin and dying sunlight. Julia looked back over her shoulder for an instant. Eugene was still standing at the gates, watching the carriage. He lifted his hand briefly. She dared not reply.
He had not brought his buggy today. He turned from the gates, went towards the city. Now he was very thoughtful. He stopped for a moment to read Julia’s note. It was brief but vehement. “I shall soon be eighteen. Don’t ask me to wait any longer, dear Eugene. I am sure you are wrong about Papa; he will consent to anything which will make me happy. Anything. I am afraid of this slipping out and meeting you. Someone is bound to see us sooner or later. Then Papa really will be angry. Shall we decide to tell him when I have passed my eighteenth birthday?”