Now, near the dresser, she saw William’s tall chiffonier. On it were his few brushes topped with silver, and a dispatch case. She approached them, and stood looking at them. All at once, though she did not know why, her eyes filled with tears. Perhaps it was because they were so lonely there, in all this gory magnificence. Now she was no longer afraid of William.
Mr. Ogden was still pleading with William in the “parlor,” imploring that gentleman to tell him, the manager, if there was anything further he could do to increase the comfort of Mr. Prescott and his lady. William was denying this firmly. Ursula heard his voice, again a little hoarse and awkward. Why did he not dismiss the fool? Suddenly it came to Ursula that if she had been afraid of William he was equally, if not more, afraid of her. He was dreading the moment when he would be alone with her, his wife.
His wife. Ursula looked down upon the gleaming wedding-band upon her finger. Again, her heart ached. She kissed the ring. Then, with a bright smile, she went into the “parlor.” The two men were suddenly silent. She wanted to laugh. Instead, she thanked Mr. Ogden graciously for the flowers and for his courtesy, and politely if inconspicuously dismissed him. He retired, bowing three times before the door finally closed upon him.
Ursula, carefully avoiding glancing at the sofa, sat down upon it. She looked at her husband, and again smiled brightly. The smile ached at the corners, but she maintained it. But William did not return the smile. He stood on the brilliant rug before the fireplace. He said, abruptly: “There is something I must tell you.”
“Yes, William,” she answered, with much quietness. But she felt a kind of dread.
William did not immediately enlighten her. He looked down at his hands, flexed and unflexed them. The signet ring on his left hand shone. He put his hands behind his back. Then he said: “Do you like this suite?” His voice was accusing, as it had so often been in the past, as if he were challenging her.
Ursula looked at him pleasantly, avoiding the pervading color. “It is very comfortable.” Apparently this did not satisfy him. She tried again, though she knew he hardly heard her: “But then, everyone knows the Imperial Hotel is very luxurious.”
William was silent. He turned away from her, and faced the fireplace. The mantelpiece was embellished by a cloisonné clock and two vases to match. He said, in a strange and muffled voice: “It never occurred to me that he would die. I did not want him to die. I never thought of it.”
Ursula’s hands tightened together. Now the whole immense and glittering room became full of horror and menace. She made her voice very calm and without inflection. “Who, William?”
“Chauncey Arnold.” William paused. “He died just about the time we were—married.”
Oh, my God! thought Ursula. She did not know what to say. But she knew she had to say something, and it must be at once. Her own voice, though still calm, in spite of its steadfastness had dwindled when she said: “Of course not. Of course, you did not know he would die. But everyone knew he had a bad heart; he ate so very much. Dr. Banks had warned him repeatedly. I knew that.”
She had a sudden vision of Alice Arnold, and for a moment or two she closed her eyes tightly. The room was very quiet. Ursula opened her eyes; William’s back was still turned towards her.
“I wanted him to be a vice-president. I offered him three thousand a year.”
For an instant Ursula was incredulous and filled with a wild anger against William. What a dreadful cruelty he had perpetrated in that offer! Then, with that mysterious intuition which always came to her when dealing with William, she understood that it had not been cruelty.
“After all,” William was saying, “it meant a livelihood for him.”
Ursula could not speak. She had no words. Again, she saw Alice Arnold. She sat on the sofa, and her lips had no more color than her cheeks.
William turned to her and she saw his face. He was suffering.
“I thought you ought to know,” he said, and his voice had a rush of brutality in it.
“Why?”
“Well, he was a friend of yours, wasn’t he? You’ve known him for years, haven’t you? ”
Ursula’s chest was tight and breathless. “I told you before, William, that I never liked him. I am sorry he is dead. But I never liked him. My father despised him.”
“I heard, once, that his wife was a particular friend of yours.”
Why did he speak so brutally, throwing the words at her like stones? Did he expect her to rise up and denounce him, perhaps walk out of this appalling place? Ursula frowned. “I never had any ‘particular’ friends, William. Probably I have been too self-centered. I don’t know. I’ve liked Alice; I still like her. I am sorry for her. It is too bad that Chauncey has died. But it cannot be helped. Perhaps his—his loss—might have hastened the time of his death. That is something I can’t tell. At any rate, if it had not been you, it would have been someone else. He was a fool of a man.”
“Yes,” said William, slowly. Then, more heavily: “Yes.”
He stood there so stiffly on the hearth, and now he thrust his hands into his pockets. He regarded her with phlegmatic curiosity. “I thought it might change—might do something to you, when I told you.”
“And if it had?”
He shrugged. That dull thick look she despised had settled on his face again.
“Did you actually expect I might become hysterical, might even leave you—I, your wife?” she asked incredulously.
Again, he shrugged. He was a tall and stolid peasant, when he stood like this, just looking down at her with a peasant’s expressionless stare.
“I shall send her—Arnold’s wife—some money,” he said, still watching her.
“She will return it,” answered Ursula.
“Then, she is as big a fool as her husband is—was.” The voice, for all its heavy coarseness, was not a peasant’s voice.
“She might have some pride,” said Ursula, coldly.
“Why? She’ll need the money, won’t she? What has pride got to do with money?”
He means it, thought Ursula, with fresh incredulity. The whole scene was taking on the quality of a nightmare. Again, this man was a stranger. She was not afraid of him. But she was coming perilously close to disliking him.
“Nevertheless,” said Ursula, wearily, “Alice will return the money. Why should she take it from a stranger? Have you ever met her?”
“No.”
Ursula smiled without mirth. Don’t be a fool, she wanted to say. She repressed the natural and healthy impulse. “Alice has some money of her own, I believe. And there’s probably enough for the boy, too.”
This is my wedding-night, she thought, tiredly. And here we are, talking of tragedy, and my husband looks like a big and obstinate ditch-digger, and stares at me as if I am a disliked and suspected stranger. I am not saying what he thinks I should say, but if I said it, it would be all finished between us.
William was saying: “The boy. That boy of his, Eugene. He was always about. His father often brought him to board meetings, and had him lounging around the offices after school and on Saturdays, letting him hear what went on, as if it could possibly have interested a child of eight or ten or twelve! There the boy would sit, just staring; sometimes my attention would wander away from the business at hand, and I would sit there myself, trying to see if he ever blinked!” He was becoming heavily excited. Some deep resentment and contempt were stirring in him. “If the boy ever did blink, I never saw it. Sometimes Arnold would turn to him and ask his opinion. I’ll say this for the kid: I never heard him say very much in return, which shows he had more sense than his father. They went down to the mills together, often.”
He waited for Ursula’s comment. She made none.
William made one of his powerful if uncouth gestures. “Oh, I suppose it was all right. I can see now that it wasn’t that that annoyed me. It was a way the boy had of looking at me, even when one of the other men was speaking, or his father.”
Ursula said: “Gene
isn’t stupid. He is extremely intelligent, in a somewhat formidable way, I am afraid. He is very like his mother, in appearance. But certainly not in character. Nor is he like his father.”
She gazed at William with a curiosity of her own. He hated Eugene, he who professed to love all children.
“Eugene is only twelve,” she said, with some malice in her voice.
“I don’t care what his age is,” said William. “Boys like that are never young.”
Ursula lifted her eyebrows. “You are right, of course.”
Now he actually smiled, his gloomy smile. “He isn’t stupid, either. It is just that I don’t like him. But I think his mother ought to accept money, for his sake. I know that if he were consulted he’d take any money that came along.”
Ursula repeated: “Yes, you are right. But I am thinking of Alice.” She added: “It is evident that you interested Eugene.”
All at once, she was completely exhausted. She had just been married; she was alone with her husband. Perhaps it was selfish to think of herself just now, but distracted resentment took possession of her. Why did he need to tell her of Chauncey Arnold at this time, to discuss Alice and Eugene? What did it all matter, on her wedding-night? William had not kissed her; he had not spoken her name. He had been carrying on an insistent and disturbing conversation when he ought to be speaking to her with tenderness and desire, when she ought to be in his arms. All her body yearned for deep and passionate reassurance, for love and the drama of love. She sat there on that horrible rubicund sofa, in a vivid blue dress which she now hated and which she would never wear again, and her face appeared white and thin, and her russet hair had dimmed in contrast with all that effervescence of stormy and clashing color.
He must have sensed something of all this, for his face turned as red as everything about him and he looked down awkwardly at his feet.
“Why are we talking about these things?” he mumbled. He paused. “I had ordered a little dinner, and champagne for us, at ten. It is almost that, now.”
She laughed, and the sound had a wild note. “I don’t want anything to eat. There was so much at the Bassetts. And, frankly, I never liked champagne. Could you not cancel the order, William?”
He appeared relieved. He almost ran to the bell-rope. A boy appeared as if by magic. William cancelled the order. His voice was strong again, and reassured. He closed the door and returned to the spot in front of the fireplace. Now he began to stare fixedly at Ursula, and his face was redder than ever.
“My name,” she said, smiling faintly, “is Ursula.”
He frowned, then laughed. “You tell me that so often. Ursula.” He paused. “It doesn’t suit you. It is a rough name.”
Such a weight was lifted from her now. She said: “What would you prefer?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Nevertheless, it is my name. I really should like you to use it, William.”
He was a strong and vital man. He ought to be wooing her. What was wrong with him? Then she saw that he was afraid, with that queer, dark fearfulness of his which underlined all that he ever said or did.
Suddenly all her conjectures and reflections vanished, blew away. She stood up, and lifted her arms towards him. She understood so much. This man had known nothing but bloody struggle all his life. He had never had any roots anywhere; this had been the impulse behind his dynamic insistence upon success at any price. It had also made him a dangerous man. Perhaps if he had roots, if he knew himself loved and established, firmly planted, it might still be well with him, and with her, Ursula, who had married him.
“William!” she cried.
She ran to him then, and threw her arms about him, holding him close, weeping on his shoulder, clutching him, torn with pity and compassion and a fierce tenderness. For several moments he did not respond; he stood unbending in the circle of her arms. She cried, as she was to cry after his death: “My dear, my dear, it doesn’t matter! Nothing matters!”
His arms were about her, holding her so close to him that she could not move, could scarcely breathe. “Ursula,” he said, his lips in her hair. “Ursula, Ursula.”
CHAPTER XIII
Ursula was to forget many things, as she had forgotten many before, but she never forgot that moment during her first night of marriage when William whispered against her ear: “Sweet. Sweet.”
It was such a reluctant word, coming from him, as if hugely forced from some denial in himself. Ursula heard it with bliss and joy. She did not reply to it. No one had ever called her “sweet” before. She was glad of it. This was something she could hold to herself forever, forever remembering. Even in that moment she had a premonition that she would need this memory.
She could not sleep, even when it was early morning and William slept beside her. The most irrelevant ideas kept coming into her mind, but she was so orderly of thought that she was soon able to see that they were not so irrelevant after all. Once, she said to herself: If only he had a cantankerous father, or mother, with whom he had to deal, or a few worthless brothers always in difficulties, or a crowd of exigent sisters! These would give him stability, draw him away from a dangerous center of self.
At last, she slept fitfully. When she awoke, the place beside her was empty. She heard William in the garish “parlor” giving orders for breakfast. She rose and put on the rose-colored velvet peignoir she had made only two weeks ago. It was becoming. Nevertheless, there was so much red about that she hastily removed the garment, found another of white wool with black velvet ribbons. Calmly, without embarrassment, she went into the parlor. William, she discovered with some surprise, was completely dressed. He did not look at her directly; his mouth had a sullen expression. He said: “There will be breakfast in a few minutes.”
Ursula sighed. She sat down on the crimson couch. She waited. He said nothing else. Someone had brought him the morning paper. He stood starkly in the center of the room and rustled the sheets all around him. Finally, he said, in a voice of satisfaction: “There is a prominent article, here, about our marriage.”
“Is that important?” Ursula could not keep the acid from her words.
He dropped the paper a little to stare at her with stolid affront.
“Of course it is.”
“Why?”
He opened his mouth to answer, then turned quite red.
“What do you care whether the papers in this town write about you or not?” she went on, wanting to hurt him as he was hurting her.
“If we are going to live here, it is important that our existence be noticed,” he said, with sarcasm.
“I never particularly wanted to live here,” said Ursula. She was weary of this childish battle of words. It was so foolish. She went to the window, pushed aside the crimson velvet draperies and looked down at the busy street below. She wished it were a street in New York. All at once, she felt deprived and injured. A few days more or less would not have mattered; there ought to have been a honeymoon. Vaguely, she noticed that it was raining again; the street had washed itself in gray and glimmering water; umbrellas moved below her. Carts and carriages and drays rattled by hastily. The gaslight was flaring behind her, for the day had begun in drabness and dimness. It was not May, after all. It was an ugly timelessness. Some new guests were coming into the hotel, the women scurrying, holding up their skirts, the gentlemen bobbing umbrellas about, the hotel men in their red uniforms dragging leather baggage from the hired carriages. It was only Andersburg, though this was the Imperial Hotel. Futility filled Ursula. Who had called her “Sweet” in the night? It had been a dream.
She turned back to the room. William was picking up the scattered newspaper sheets. She thought: He is embarrassed. He does not know what to say to me. I am a petulant fool.
She said, gayly: “What am I going to do, before Oliver and Lucy return here, while you are off most of the day, as you threatened you were going to be?”
His dark face had resumed its natural color. “I thought,” he said, “that y
ou might visit your friends.”
“Good heavens, they certainly would not expect it of me!” She was amused.
“I don’t intend to leave you today.” Again, he was embarrassed. “I thought, if it cleared, we might go for a drive.” He paused. He said: “I am sorry about not having a honeymoon just now. I can see that it leaves you at odds and ends. But perhaps you can read, or something, while I am away a few hours during these next few days—”
It sounded very absurd to her. She laughed.
“We’ll go out and see how the new house is coming along,” he added. “I’d also like you to see the—I mean, my new saw-mills.”
Ursula became grave. She twisted a tassel of the draperies in her hands. William’s taste in everything was execrable. She had to admit that. She must accept it.
She felt a rush of compassion for him. “I should like that,” she said, simply. “Please don’t be concerned about me. I should have enjoyed a honeymoon. But it is only temporarily delayed.” She waited. He was moving a table to the center of the room, very carefully. “I suppose we could call around and see Oliver?”
To her grateful surprise, he replied at once: “No. Not for a day or two, at least.” The table was moved to his satisfaction now. He looked down at it. “I suppose Mrs. Templeton told you I have asked her to be our housekeeper, when our home is built?”
“No!” cried Ursula in sudden exasperation. “You never told me, and she did not! Really, William, ought I not to have been consulted?”
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