Let Love Come Last

by Taylor Caldwell

  She did not want to see him again; she did not want to think of him. And so she forced herself, deliberately, to think of the most humdrum things, to prepare for her position as schoolmistress. She brought out her sober lengths of brown wool and black cloth, she commenced to transform these lengths into proper garments for the schoolroom. She worked on them diligently. Then, one day, she remembered the rich blue silk her father had given her only a week before he died. She brought out the silk and, after long contemplation, she flung aside the brown wool and black cloth, and began to fashion a handsome gown.

  She was beginning to learn not to think or to study her thoughts. Under her swift and skillful fingers, the silk began to take on shape. She remembered a dress she had seen in one of the great shopwindows on Fifth Avenue in New York. The bodice was plain and closely fitted; she added rich buttons of crystal, purchased in New York, which marched from high throat to waist in a close sparkling blaze. The skirt was molded, yet formed of rows of full ruffles to the floor; the rear was a cascade of draped full softness, so arranged that it caught the light in a mingled flow of brilliant and darker blue. She made the sleeves tight, so that they shimmered, then broke into wide ruffles at the wrist. She worked almost feverishly, sometimes forgetting her garden. When the gown had been completed, and she stood before her mirror, she saw how the color brought out the copper in her hair and made her eyes appear to be of a deep amber shade, and she saw that she was a woman, and young, and desirable.

  She put away the gown firmly, wrapping it in a sheet. Immediately afterwards, she was overcome with exhaustion.

  It was the next day that the “terrible” news about William Prescott burst out in thick black headlines in both the Andersburg newspapers. There were editorials, too, which, while they did not cry “robber” and “swindler,” implied these things very forcefully.

  The papers went into the story extensively, and imaginatively. From them, Ursula learned much of a strange industry, the lumber business. It seemed that William Prescott had started as a clerk in the offices of the benign Mr. Arnold, “a gentleman well known to most Andersburg residents, and respected and admired by all.” Mr. Arnold, “always benevolent and interested in the welfare of his employees,” had taken much interest in the young Mr. Prescott of ten years ago. “Almost a son,” wailed The Clarion. The Clarion acknowledged, reluctantly, that Mr. Prescott had demonstrated a “natural ability,” and therefore Mr. Arnold had taught him the ramifications of the lumber industry, to the learning of which “Mr. Prescott had applied himself with an assiduousness which might have been admirable had it not been with a sinister intent.” Mr. Prescott had learned to be a lumber surveyor, and had very frequently been sent by Mr. Arnold to survey virgin forests in Michigan, and “other Western states,” there to buy up options for the American Lumber Company. The forests of Pennsylvania had begun to show signs of ruthless depletion, and it was necessary to find new sources of special woods.

  Only a year ago, Mr. Arnold had sent his trusted employee to Michigan to survey a certain region of forests and to discover whether the wood were suitable for our expanding railroads. Mr. Prescott had returned, had uncompromisingly reported that the wood was of no consequence, and had advised Mr. Arnold not to take options on the forests. However, in a very underhanded and reprehensible fashion, he had taken up options in his own name on ten thousand acres of the choicest forest lands in Michigan, lands which the owners wished cleared. It was “rumored” that he had paid a dollar an acre for options, “the money having been earned during his years of employment under his benefactor, Mr. Arnold.”

  This was an evil enough thing, but worse followed. Mr. Prescott had gone slyly to New York, and in some way had “forced” Mr. Jay Regan, the great New York financier, to see him, Apparently, he had persuaded Mr. Regan to finance him. He had shown Mr. Regan the options, and Mr. Regan, through the network of bankers extending from city to city, had verified that Mr. Prescott was indeed a man of experience. “The eminent Mr. Regan apparently overlooked the despicable flaw in this man’s character, or was unaware of it. We cannot believe that a gentleman of Mr. Regan’s renown would have lent himself to so base a scheme.” Whether or not Mr. Regan had known, or had been unaware, he had “backed” Prescott, who, still working undercover, had set himself up as the Prescott Lumber Company, incorporated only two months ago.

  The snowball of this man’s evil had begun to enlarge. It seemed that Mr. Arnold had offered a certain large railroad a tremendous load of lumber. The railroad officials had practically promised to buy the wood. Suddenly, and without warning, this New York company had politely rejected the offer, and had placed its order with the Prescott Lumber Company, of which Mr. Prescott was president, and, as yet, sole officer. Moreover, Mr. Prescott had bought up several saw-mills near Andersburg, had placed large orders for coal, and had begun to hire men. Immense modern machinery was, at this writing, already arriving in Andersburg.

  In the meantime, Mr. Prescott had not been idle. He had gone again to Michigan, and to other states and had, with Mr. Regan’s money, bought up more options on endless forests. He had also returned with certain selected lumbermen who were to supervise the mills. Further, he had purchased saw-mills in Michigan and in other states.

  The American Lumber Company, small but prosperous, had felt this terrific blow. It had fully counted on the order for wood from the New York railroad. It was in no position to sell wood as cheaply as the Prescott Lumber Company, backed by Mr. Jay Regan, could sell it. One by one, other orders fell into the hands of the contemptible Mr. Prescott, “this man without honor or gratitude or morals.” The stock of the American Lumber Company had begun to drop dangerously in the market. Dozens of local businessmen, who had invested in that company, would be almost if not entirely ruined. “The savings of a lifetime are threatened!” cried The Clarion. The paper implied that Mr. Prescott was not only a scoundrel, but a despoiler of widows and orphans, a betrayer of his benefactor.

  This, then, was the story of William Prescott, a penniless unknown, the son of a woman who had kept a boarding-house for factory and mill workers, the man without a friend in Andersburg, the man who had succeeded by treachery, chicanery and double-dealing, the man who had been able to hoodwink his “noble employer and friend” and persuade the august Mr. Regan of New York to finance him. “Let Mr. Regan beware!” exclaimed The Clarion. “He has taken a viper to his bosom!”

  Ursula said aloud, after she had finished reading this history of infamy: “What an unprincipled scoundrel!” She sat back in her chair, and tried to summon up intense moral indignation. Certainly, the story was bad enough. Certainly, the man had acted with cold-blooded mercilessness. Certainly, he had deceived, exploited and betrayed his employer. Even discounting the fervent righteousness of the newspapers (one of which had been financed by Mr. Arnold), the tale had in it elements of disgusting truth.

  The reprehensible part of it all was that Ursula, try though she did, could feel neither revulsion nor contempt. She knew Mr. Arnold quite well, and she knew that his own hands were “soiled,” to use a delicate local expression describing some of that gentleman’s own chicanery and avarice. No, she had no pity for Mr. Arnold, and she doubted very much whether he had ever been a “benefactor” to anyone. If he had trusted, advanced, and paid William Prescott an excellent salary—so excellent that he had been able to save ten thousand dollars in ten years—then Mr. Prescott had been worthy of his hire, if not more. Given the same opportunity, a thousand Mr. Arnolds would have done as Mr. Prescott had done.

  But, thought Ursula, if I had never met the man I should have been very indignant. She stood up, walked about the room restlessly, refusing to admit what she knew. Moment by moment, she became more agitated. She put on the kettle to brew a cup of tea for herself, and then walked to the kitchen window. It was two o’clock in the afternoon; the hills had become a deep and brilliant green under the mild spring sky. The lilac bushes in the garden frothed in white and lavender and purple near th
e window, and a puff of their perfume came to her as she pushed open one side of the casement. The poignant odor aroused that strong yearning which was becoming familiar to her, and she turned away and went back to the stove.

  Her cat rubbed himself against her skirts. She looked down at him, and said disdainfully: “How they harp on the fact that his mother kept boarders! That seems to infuriate them more than his manipulations, the silly fools! Let a man succeed, and all the envious dogs begin to yap about his antecedents. If he becomes rich, they howl that he was once poor. If he attains fame of any kind, a dozen people who knew him in his meagre days snarl about his once-shabby clothes, and resentfully recall that he was often hungry.”

  I wish, she thought with exasperation, that I had never seen the man. He has upset my whole life, disordered all my ideas. I must remain home as quietly as possible until I am in control of myself again.

  She heard someone strike the knocker on her door. She stood very still near the stove. The caller was undoubtedly a friend, come to discuss the horrid news with her. It was well-known that she had sold Mr. Prescott her land, and that he had visited her. Doubtless, too, old Bob had let it be known that she had talked with Mr. Prescott that day earlier in the month. The fact that no one had mentioned it to her had given her some moments of uneasiness. As her knocker sounded again, she said aloud, irritably: “I wish Papa had left me more money!”

  She opened the door, and with a rush of relief saw that her caller was a young man shabbily dressed, who held a letter in his hand. He pulled off his cap, and mumbled: “A message from Mr. William Prescott at the Imperial Hotel, ma’am. He says I am to wait for an answer.” He stared at her curiously.

  For a moment or two, Ursula could not take the letter, and when she did so, it dropped from her trembling fingers. She bent for it swiftly, before the dull young man could reach it. Then, caution coming to her again, she raised her eyebrows, and said, in a bewildered voice: “Mr. William Prescott? Why should he write to me? I think you ought to have taken this to my lawyer, Mr. Albert Jenkins, who is taking care of the sale of my land.”

  Apparently, she saw with relief, her acting had deeply interested the young man. He said awkwardly: “Mr. Prescott wanted an answer, personal, ma’am. He didn’t say to give this letter to no one else.”

  Ursula said, clearly and primly: “I certainly have no business with Mr. Prescott. I can’t imagine why he should write me. My lawyer manages all my affairs.” I hope I am not overdoing this, she admonished herself. She sighed loudly. “Well, if Mr. Prescott insists, I shall read the message, and you may wait for an answer.”

  She left the door ajar, and went into her parlor. Her fingers were thick and shaking as she tore open the envelope. There were only a few lines scrawled in a large, black and arrogant hand: “Oliver and I should like to call upon you at six o’clock this evening, on a matter of importance.” There was no salutation; Mr. Prescott had signed his name at the end of his message without any of the accepted and polite conclusions.

  Slowly Ursula refolded the note. She had to sit down. She held the note in her hand, and bit her lips. She really must control herself, she thought, sternly.

  The young man shuffled on her doorstep, and coughed. Ursula made herself get up and go to the door. She said, coldly: “Please tell Mr. Prescott that I cannot change any of the terms agreed upon between him and Mr. Jenkins, and that if he is not satisfied I shall be glad to tell him so, myself.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said the messenger eagerly. He walked away, and Ursula closed the door. Would William Prescott understand? She was really trembling quite ridiculously. What if he did not understand, and did not come? What would he think of such an extraordinary message? But there was nothing else she could have done, with safety.

  CHAPTER VI

  At four o’clock, Ursula Wende was extremely incensed with herself for her folly and for the ludicrous anxiety she was experiencing. She tried to force herself to work in the garden. But a silvery rain had begun to whirl down from the hills, and was beating into the grass. A mist rose to meet it from the earth; the hills became vague dark shapes swathed in vapor. Little traffic sounded from the street, as all housewives or their servants were busy in the kitchens; only once or twice did a wagon or a carriage rumble over the cobblestones. The wind was blowing from the proper direction, and Ursula could hear the wailing of the daily train from Pittsburgh. A faint light, like quicksilver, shone from the sky. With the rain a chill had come into the spring air, and Ursula made a fresh fire in her charming little parlor.

  Her thoughts no longer shocked or vexed her. She said aloud, slowly and wonderingly: “I love him.” She heard her voice in the warm silence of the kitchen, and she caught her breath. This emotion was too strong, too profound, too naked and stark, to insult it with a call upon “common sense.” For the first time, she realized that common sense might sometimes be a mean and petty thing, a thing without imagination or passion, artificial compared to the poignancy of powerful emotion.

  She pushed aside her kitchen curtains; the gardens were afloat in mist; the trees were ghosts under the polished pewter of the evening sky. Except for a dripping of the eaves, all the world lay hushed and smothered in this spectral half-light. Ursula thought: It is not possible that he might come to love me. Why should he? I have seen him twice, and each time he looked at me with sharp dislike, each time we ended by quarreling in the most stupid and incredible fashion. We had only to face each other, and something like the strongest antipathy or enmity sprang up between us.

  She turned away heavily from the window. Her eye fell on the newspapers she had been reading, and she saw again the black headlines. He had aroused in her so many alien if latent instincts, she could not rid herself of an immense premonition of disaster.

  I wish, she thought again passionately, that I had never seen him!

  William Prescott had wrecked all the carefully nurtured serenity of her life, all the consciously guarded tranquillity. What if these were more than a trifle precious and selfish? At least, she had been invulnerable to disorderly passions, to superficial and bedraggled emotions.

  Slowly and wearily, she went upstairs. She lighted the lamps on her dresser, and studied her face with somberness. She spoke to that face honestly and simply: “Even if he does not love me—and surely, he does not, for he could never love anyone, I am certain—I shall never forget him. If I never see him again, I shall never forget him. I have never loved anyone but myself; I see that now. Therefore, I have no resources, no consolations, no possibility for healing. Yet I prefer this pain, even though it will last all the rest of the years I have to live, to a return to that death-in-life I knew before.”

  She put on the new blue gown, fastened the crystal buttons. There was a great pounding all through her body, a desperate elation. She opened the bottle of French scent which her father, just before he had died, had given her for her birthday; it had never been used before. With a new artfulness, she touched her ears and her hair with it, and let fall a drop on a lace-bordered handkerchief.

  All at once, she was conscious of the utter stillness of her small house. She stood and listened to the stillness; clear and sweet, she heard the chiming of the little clock on her mantelpiece. It chimed six times. He will not come, thought Ursula. Carefully she blew out the lamps, went down the stairs, slowly, quietly.

  She had just reached the bottom of the winding curve of white stairs when she heard a carriage roll to a stop before the house. Her heart jumped so violently that she pressed her hands to her breast. Then, before she could control it, the habit of a lifetime reasserted itself: “Why am I permitting this indiscreet thing? I ought to have had a woman friend in the house with me. If he knocks on the door, a dozen heads will be at windows, and I shall be ruined.”

  Before the knocker could be sounded, she ran to the door in a loud rustle of silk. She flung the door open. William Prescott’s carriage stood outside, its lamps burning in the misty street; the wet cobblestones gleamed in t
he yellow light of the street-lamps. Ursula stood on the threshold, and a strong gust of wind blew inward against her, bringing with it the almost intolerably sweet smell of the living earth.

  William Prescott was alighting from the carriage, which his coachman had opened. He was carrying the child, Oliver. He carefully tucked the collar of the baby’s coat around his neck, and though Ursula could not see his face, she knew at once that it wore that doting expression she had caught on it before when he had looked at his adopted son. Oh, it was absurd! A child was only a child, only a human being in an amorphous state. It was not a special species, an angel, a delicate and impossibly valuable creature above humanity. It carried in itself all the ugliness, viciousness, evil, good, indifference, brutishness and intelligence, or the lack of it, of all its ancestors, time out of mind—

  For the first time, then, William became aware of her. The light behind her fell full upon him, his face changed instinctively, and she saw, again, that look of dull withdrawal which had so repelled her before, that suspiciousness in his small gray eyes, in the hard wariness of his mouth.

  “We have come to see you,” he said, in his flat and toneless voice, which told her nothing.

  “So I see,” she answered. Her throat was dry and stiff. She glanced at the carriage. The coachman was huddled on his high seat again. So, Mr. Prescott did not expect to stay long; he had not dismissed his carriage; he had evidently told the coachman to wait.

  Mr. Prescott entered the little vestibule, and he filled it, and once more Ursula felt him there, ominous and lurking. She closed the door behind him, then led the way into her parlor. She could not speak. She stood in the center of the room, her hands clasped before her. She watched William Prescott remove his hat and coat, and toss them on her sofa. He then removed Oliver’s absurdly expensive cap and coat, and revealed the child in an even more absurd little frock of wine-colored velvet and lace. While he did this, Oliver stared at Ursula gravely with his large dark eyes. He studied her for a moment, then smiled. Involuntarily, she smiled back, and took a step towards the child.