Her voice was almost inaudible: “If you wish.”
He was actually leaving her. She did not move. He opened the outside door, and the sound was loud in the silence.
Then he put little Oliver down swiftly, on the step outside the door. He returned quickly to the parlor. He came rapidly across the room to Ursula. Suddenly he grasped her arms and pulled her to him. She did not resist, for she was too weak, too shaken. He bent her head and kissed her lips with so much fierceness that they were pressed against her teeth, and bruised.
“Ursula,” he said. And then again, as if he were moved: “Ursula.”
He released her as suddenly as he had seized her. He was going away. He did not look back. He picked little Oliver up in his arms, and the door closed after him.
A few moments later she heard the carriage drive away.
The next morning, when she arose after a sleepless night, a messenger arrived with a small package for her. She opened it, to find a brilliant emerald ring resting on golden velvet. There was a small note in Prescott’s handwriting: “I bought this for you a week ago, in New York.”
CHAPTER VII
One of the handsomest houses in Andersburg was the home of Mr. and Mrs. Ezra Bassett. It was not a mansion, in the true sense of the word, for it contained only fourteen rooms, but it had a solid massiveness of dark-red brick and stone which made it appear larger than it really was. All Andersburg approved of it, with its mansards and turrets and little useless stone balconies, its pretty formal gardens, its flagged walks and driveways and stables and conservatory.
The townsfolk had watched the building of the house, immediately after the war, with some dubiousness, for money was “scarce,” and the making of the Panic of ’73 was already under way. There were trouble-makers who professed to be anxious about their deposits. Mr. Bassett eventually ended all anxieties by allowing to be published in the local papers, with no modest fanfare, the fact that many wealthy depositors from nearby communities, and even from Pittsburgh, were now doing business with him. Mr. Bassett was indeed a shrewd and expert banker; he had an uncanny ability whereby he was occasionally able to purchase apparently slow or obscure stocks, of which few had ever heard and, within a year or two, have the satisfaction of seeing them boom preposterously, with happy results for all.
Mr. Bassett had his sources of information, which he never divulged. Smiling, short, fat, and full of jokes, he could keep his own counsel while maintaining an outward aspect of open-hearted joviality and candor. Not even his wife knew anything about his affairs, but by some process of osmosis she had acquired her husband’s hard and hidden shrewdness, and much of a banker’s mentality. None of her friends felt this, for she was much like her spouse: sweet-tempered, discreet, forthright about unimportant matters, hospitable, and sympathetic. Like Mr. Bassett, she had a short round plumpness all dimples and rosiness, a pair of steady blue eyes, a friendly smile, and an air of sympathy. Like all good ladies, she was an excellent gossip, but she never repeated, not even by insinuation, anything which might antagonize a depositor or investor. However, compared with Mrs. Bassett, the two newspapers of Andersburg were very poor vendors of news, indeed.
Mrs. Bassett had a nose for news. When she received a little note from her dear friend, Ursula Wende, asking for a “quiet hour of tea and conversation, alone,” she “smelled” something excessively important, and eagerly sent off, by messenger, a cordial invitation for that very afternoon. It was no secret in town that that frightful and odious Mr. Prescott had paid Ursula two visits, and while it was virtuously admitted that this was doubtless because Mr. Prescott had business with the young lady, there was still some delicious if rigorous speculation.
In the meantime, Mrs. Bassett, thoroughly enjoying the speculations and the condemnations and all the innuendoes, added nothing to the scandal, though her friends had wondered if she had had any “news.” Mrs. Bassett shook her head regretfully. If there really was anything, she promised, she would not refrain from divulging it. When Mrs. Bassett received Ursula’s note, then, she was extremely excited, and announced to a number of friends that she might have something to tell them the next day. Her manner was mysterious and fateful, and her friends received the impression that the news would be very exciting, indeed.
Every lace curtain on Englewood Street was discreetly and formally in place when Ursula arrived on foot at Mrs. Bassett’s house. Behind every curtain was an alert and eager face. Ursula’s costume, it was noticed, was very quiet, even for Ursula. She wore the black bombazine which had been her mourning garb, but her bonnet was obviously new, and very smart, formed of black velvet and bugle beads, tipped with a black ostrich feather, and tied under the chin very smartly with a black satin bow. Her light spring cloak, of black broadcloth, was also new, and very chic, heavily embroidered at the border by Ursula’s own clever hands, and fastened with black jet buttons ringed with crystal. She moved, quietly yet swiftly, up the stone steps of Mrs. Bassett’s house, and it is truly a comment on the exquisite powers of perception on her watchers’ part that not a detail of Ursula’s costume went unnoticed. Nor was it unobserved that Ursula was indeed very pale and subdued, her mouth troubled, her head slightly bent.
The door closed behind Ursula. The whole street heard it. There was not a lady who did not ardently wish that she might be present at the interview. But one must wait. In the meantime, the ladies speculated excitedly among themselves.
Mrs. Bassett received her guest with the gravity and formality befitting the occasion. The drawing-room had been thrown open, though Mrs. Bassett was accustomed to hold her teas in the small cosy morning-room in the rear of the house. Now a low fire sparkled on the marble hearth, and glinted on the silver and china of the small tea-table. The draperies had been partially drawn, not only to exclude the sun which might fade the carpets, but also to lend to the room an air of solemnity. This might have been the hour for the reading of a significant will or the setting for some somber discussion about intimate family matters, too doomful for a less elaborate atmosphere. The wax flowers were dim shapes under the dull gleam of the glass dome on the great walnut table in the center of the room; in the half-light, the red plush of the enormous sofas and chairs became funereal. Though the air was soft and mild outside, a chill lurked here, hung down from the high white ceiling, swathed the red damask walls, like a cold vapor inhabiting some vault.
Mrs. Bassett, a cheery little person ordinarily given to bright colors, ruffles, fichus, sashes and bangles, had dressed herself to add weight to this hour. She, too, wore black, her best silk, bought for the funeral of her husband’s brother hardly six months ago. Even the frills were black, unrelieved by a sparkle of jet or crystal. She was not given to caps, but today she wore a cap on her graying curly brown hair, a cap as punctilious and grave as her gown, a dignified creation of lace and black ribbons.
Ursula, who had indeed been troubled and subdued before her entrance into this room, gave one quick look about, glanced at her hostess, and immediately had difficulty in keeping down the corners of her lips. It was fortunate that Mrs. Bassett did not see the dancing in her visitor’s eyes; her own were downcast with majestic sorrow. While the maid took away her cloak, Ursula had a moment or two in which to compose herself. She sat down at a little distance from Mrs. Bassett, who had already murmured greetings.
Good heavens, thought Ursula. One would think there was a body about. She understood very well the reason for all this fatefulness and ponderous atmosphere; she understood Mrs. Bassett’s black gown and lace cap, and irritation mingled with her amusement. But, with humor, she saw that if this was her own hour, it was also Mrs. Bassett’s, and she had too much kindness to want to destroy the imposing climate of this room. Her irritation vanished; she even entered into the spirit of this play, folded her hands over each other on her lap, and even bowed her head a trifle. Sitting thus, her slight figure, draped in black, took on a helpless and piteous attitude.
A little silence fell on the room, brok
en only by the sober crackle of the fire. Ursula mischievously refused to speak first, so that at length Mrs. Bassett raised her full blue eyes and fixed them upon her guest.
“Dear Ursula,” she murmured, mournfully, “you do not seem at all well. So very pale, my dear. Only this morning I had a premonition that all was not well with you, and when your note arrived, I was certain of it.”
Ursula wanted to say, briskly: “Nonsense, dear Jemima! Don’t be a fool.” But, of course, she murmured in reply: “Dearest friend, I have need of your help. I could think of no one else but you, for have you not been a sister to me for many years?” By these words, she not only followed Mrs. Bassett’s sorrowful lead, but tactfully overlooked the twelve years’ difference in their ages. Mrs. Bassett, warmed by both these graciousnesses, smiled at Ursula tenderly.
“Indeed, darling Ursula, I should have been most grieved had you solicited the aid of any other but myself.” Her voice melted yearningly as she spoke, but her eyes gleamed in the dusk, and she leaned forward towards her visitor as if to clasp her to her plump bosom. “To whose heart but mine could you have come in your—your hour of need?”
Ursula bit her lips severely. She bowed her head even more, and sighed.
“You know my orphan state,” she said, with sadness. “My unprotected condition.”
Mrs. Bassett clasped her hands together passionately; they were plump, white little hands, well-tended, but ringless today except for her massive wedding-band.
“Ah!” she exclaimed, “have I not thought of this many times, my poor dear friend! I have often reproached myself that I have not offered you shelter under—under my wing, in my own home, but I knew your pride—”
Oh, dear God, thought Ursula, quite hard-heartedly. She managed to utter a sound that could pass for a dry sob; she also managed to touch her eyes with the corner of a white handkerchief.
She sighed again, to cover her thoughts. “Pride,” she admitted, “often has its penalties. But it is a fortress against weakness, dear Jemima.”
Mrs. Bassett, who had begun to suffer some consternation over her recent hasty words, and who had visions of a guilty Ursula seeking refuge in the immaculate Bassett ménage, drew a deep breath of relief.
“You were never weak, dearest Ursula,” she said, her voice shaking after so narrow an escape from disaster. “You were always so strong and composed, so independent—”
“Nevertheless,” breathed Ursula, “I have come to you for help, on this occasion. Who is there, but you, darling friend, to announce my approaching marriage?”
“Your—” began Mrs. Bassett. She sat upright with a loud creak of stays, and her round full face was a white glare in the dimness.
Ursula nodded heavily. “Yes, my marriage. You see, my dear, I have engaged myself to Mr. William Prescott. The name is familiar to you? Hardly, I am afraid.”
Mrs. Bassett could not speak. She had not known what she had expected Ursula to say. She had been half-prepared for some confession of an indiscreet but essentially innocent nature; she had thought that because of her behavior Ursula had been notified by the head schoolmistress that her services would not be required in the autumn, and that Ursula was coming to her today to beg for her intercession. Mrs. Bassett had been prepared to listen with stern sympathy, to administer an elder-sisterly lecture of some length, to offer some uncompromising advice, and then rid herself of Ursula in order to satisfy the intense curiosity of her waiting friends.
Mrs. Bassett’s head whirled. Not only was Ursula not confessing some outrageous conduct, and imploring help and shelter, but she had uttered completely incredible words. She had actually announced an approaching marriage with a man whose nefarious machinations were rumored to have made him one of the potentially richest men in Andersburg, if not the richest, if one were to credit febrile speculation!
She stammered feebly: “You—you said Mr. William Prescott, Ursula?”
Ursula was enjoying herself more and more, but she merely allowed herself a dolorous nod, and dropped her head even lower on her breast.
“Yes,” she whispered, “he proposed to me two days ago. I know I ought to have referred him to you, dearest Jemima, as my closest friend, and to Ezra, as your husband.”
Again, Mrs. Bassett could not speak.
Ursula went on in a deliberately pleading voice: “Of course, you do not know of Mr. William Prescott, Jemima, or, at least, you have not met him. There have been some completely unfounded and libelous statements about him in the public press, but you, with your love for truth, would not read such things. I assure you, dear Jemima,” she went on, allowing her tone to rise, “that Mr. Prescott has been cruelly maligned! I know him well; he is the best and worthiest of men, and he tells me he is quite rich, though, naturally, I am not concerned with that.”
Oh dear, she reprimanded herself, I am really behaving and speaking very extravagantly. This is a little too thick, for even Jemima to swallow.
It was not “too thick.” Mrs. Bassett swallowed it all in one huge gulp. Moreover, her thoughts were beginning to form some pattern out of the chaos. Very clearly, she remembered her husband’s bitter comments on Mr. Prescott. Ezra had denounced the gentleman as a rogue and a thief and an utter blackguard. But he had been less censorious about Mr. Prescott’s crimes than he had been about Mr. Prescott’s failure to do business at his bank.
“He, an ignoramus, a dolt, might have had the decency to respect my advice, which is always waiting to be of assistance to anyone who requires it, and he—we—I mean, Jemima, we might have turned a pretty penny—but an honest one, you understand—together,” Mr. Bassett had said.
Mrs. Bassett stared feverishly at Ursula. Ursula was about to marry this man. And Ursula was not one to forget her friends, her protectors against a cruel world. Ursula would have influence with her husband-to-be—dear, dearest Ursula! Mrs. Bassett gulped loudly in the silence. Her voice came, shaken, with an attempt at loving severity:
“It was indeed imprudent of you, my dearest, not to have sent the—the gentleman to your friends, before accepting his proposal. But how imprudent!” Then, frightened that she might have affronted Ursula even a little, she stammered: “But it must all have been so very sudden, and how very trying, for you!” She clasped her hands together and rolled her eyes effectively.
Her eyes filled with tears. She rose with a rapid crackle of skirts, rushed over to Ursula, dropped on plump knees beside her, and drew the young woman’s head to her bosom, all in one fervent motion quite astonishing in one of Mrs. Bassett’s avoirdupois. Ursula allowed herself to be embraced; she even managed a tear or two. Over and over, she begged her darling friend’s forgiveness, and meekly asked her help. Mrs. Bassett kissed her in a quite delirious transport.
“You are breaking my heart, my dearest!” cried Mrs. Bassett. “All is forgiven!” She wiped Ursula’s eyes with her own kerchief, then rocked her in her arms. “We shall never speak of it again; it is gone, forgotten! What a naughty rogue that Mr. Prescott of yours is, indeed, to have stolen so quietly behind our backs, and to have robbed us of our treasure! And how precipitous, and sudden—”
“Yes,” sighed Ursula, humbly. “I can hardly believe it, myself. We have met but a few times. But we understood each other at once.”
“How could he have failed to be enraptured with you, dear,” said Mrs. Bassett, ardently, seeing impossible beauty in Ursula now. “One can understand his recklessness, in proposing so soon. And, of course, no one really believes in the stories about him. It is all envy, and jealousy, and other unChristian emotions.” She sat back on her heels, and gazed on Ursula, enchanted.
It was then that Ursula revealed her ring, the great emerald which she had turned in towards her palm after removing her glove. She displayed it artlessly. Mrs. Bassett caught her breath, seized Ursula’s hand, and with unChristian emotions of her own she turned the ring about, to catch the faint light in the room, which, though feeble, could not dim the deep-green sparkle and sea-colored glow. Neve
r had Mrs. Bassett seen such a gem before! Never had it been possible to conceive of such a jewel! Mrs. Bassett’s thoughts actually stammered: Why, it—it was a king’s ransom! It was the treasure in a crown! If—of course—it was real.
She glanced up, then, at Ursula’s smiling face. She still held her fingers about the ring, loath to release it, loath to believe it was genuine, but bitterly convinced that it was. She smiled with pale difficulty. “A lovely stone, my dear,” she said. “It is, certainly, a—?”
“An emerald,” replied Ursula, with immense indifference. “From Cartier’s, in New York. I have the box.” She laughed sweetly. “I do declare, the box is as handsome as the ring itself!”
Then, it was real. Cartier’s lofty name was well known to Mrs. Bassett. She went back to her chair, to catch her breath, to compose herself, to control her very uncharitable emotions. She studied Ursula intently, to discover how it was that a man able to buy such a ring could ever have become enamored of her dear friend.
As from some giddy distance, Mrs. Bassett became aware that Ursula was speaking: “It is so impetuous of dear William, is it not, to insist upon our being married on Monday!”
“Monday!” gasped Mrs. Bassett. “This coming Monday?”
“Indeed,” sighed Ursula.
Mrs. Bassett’s head again went into a mad spin. Then, out of the chaos, a glorious plan rushed into her mind, a plan which would not only be magnificent for Ursula, with her poor little house, but which would, immediately and completely, fortify Mr. Bassett’s position with Mr. Prescott, and put the latter gentleman forever in the debt of the amiable banker.
“My dear, dear child! This cannot be! You cannot be married with such unseemly haste! Mr. Prescott would not wish you to be placed in such embarrassment! You have only to impress this upon him, Ursula. After all, he has—will have—a high place in the society of Andersburg. You must insist, my dearest one, in being married at the home of your best and most devoted friends, at my home, and Ezra’s. That will take at least two weeks to manage; the best wedding-cake, of course, Ezra’s best wines—” She stopped, overcome with her own visions. She put her hands to her plump breast. “And there is the matter of vour wedding dress, your trousseau—the guests, the dinner—”