CHAPTER XXVI
Mr. Watson did not like Eugene Arnold. A minor source of the dislike had been the forcing upon him of the young man as his assistant, an assistant he had not requested. But more than this was the acute apprehension which Mr. Watson was now suffering. The fact that the apprehension was the result of his own under-estimation of his employer, and that he, himself, was at fault in this, did not occur to Mr. Watson. Instead, he felt greatly abused and viciously resentful.
Under Mr. Watson’s reluctant tutelage, Eugene at once displayed great intelligence and understanding. His politeness and dignity never failed for a moment, in spite of Mr. Watson’s surly manner and sneering comments. His grasp of the subject matter amazed, and frightened, Mr. Watson. He suspected that William had known of this, and that a plot was beginning to reveal itself in all its sinister outlines.
Mr. Watson was very curious, as well as mean-spirited. During a lull, he leaned back in his chair and scrutinized Eugene slyly.
“Your dad once owned this firm, didn’t he, Arnold?”
“He did,” replied Eugene, coolly. He examined a paper intently. “Cypress wood,” he remarked. He quoted from the report: “‘Though buried for nearly one hundred years, cypress retained its indestructible strength, in spite of water and the natural decaying action of earth and minerals. Ought to be important as a source of coffins.’ I suppose this is to be presented at the meeting of the Directors?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Watson, impatiently. He continued, with a leer: “Must feel funny coming here as a clerk, after your dad got thrown out.”
Eugene appeared slightly bewildered. “No. Why should it? Fortunes of war, to quote a fine old aphorism.”
“Good Christian charity,” said Mr. Watson, sarcastically. “I shouldn’t have thought you’d feel like that.”
Eugene smiled. “Why not? Resentment, if I ever felt it, which I did not, is only a waste of time. I greatly value time. It is all any of us have, really. And I don’t want to attach myself to any minor lumber company. I want to work here. Emotions, of any sort, have nothing to do with it. I have no time for emotions. They are the luxury of the very rich, or of the very poor.”
“Dear, dear,” replied Mr. Watson, mincingly. “Well, I’m not a scholar. I don’t know much about these ‘emotions’. But then, I’m not educated—like you.”
Eugene placed his long pale hand over the papers, and smiled again.
That smile infuriated Mr. Watson. Superior young hound! he thought. I’ll take him down a peg. There’s some place I can hit him—hard.
Mr. Watson shook his head regretfully. “Education is wasted here, Arnold. You won’t find no Greek or Roman grammars around, and no poetry. That’ll be bad for you, eh?”
“Not at all, Mr. Watson. It is true I have some education in Greek and Latin, and that I like poetry. But I hardly expected to find them here. This is a lumber business, isn’t it?”
Mr. Watson studied him narrowly. His instincts were not unsound. In spite of Eugene’s blandness, he felt something intangible. He could not think what it was. But he knew it was there.
“Still,” he insisted, “it must be funny, you coming here, Christian sentiments and all, and no ‘emotion’, as you say. Don’t see the ghost of your dad around, do you?”
There was no change in Eugene’s expression as he regarded Mr. Watson with a long contemplativeness. Yet the older man had the sensation that something had subtly changed. It was too tenuous for a man like Mr. Watson to perceive in its completeness; he could not be aware of what it meant. He knew only that the change had come, that in a moment it had already gone, and that Eugene had not stirred.
Eugene said, almost gently: “I don’t believe in ghosts, Mr. Watson.”
Mr. Watson studied him with a curious uneasiness, but why he should have felt this uneasiness he did not know. The change, if there had been any at all, was in the atmosphere.
Mr. Watson rubbed an ink-stained finger along the side of his big crooked nose, his eyes closed almost to slits. His bald head glimmered in the reflected light of the snow, which came through the windows. He said, slowly: “You’re only a young shaver. You’re just out of school.
I’ve heard about you. My cousin’s janitor at the school you went to. He said you’ve got the reputation of being bad medicine.”
Smooth and indulgent surprise made Eugene’s face almost boyish. “In what way, Mr. Watson?” His tone was very polite and interested, but something in it made Mr. Watson’s seamed face turn a dull crimson.
“Impudent,” he remarked, in an ugly voice. “Look here, boy, there’s no room for impudence in this office. I won’t have it. I’m chief clerk here, and you’re only my assistant. I hope you won’t forget it.” He added, more loudly: “And no tricks. You are a natural trickster; and I’ve lived long enough to recognize a trickster when I see one. Understand? There’ll be no tricks here, from you.”
Eugene laid down his pen. He did not smile, yet Mr. Watson felt that he was smiling. “Mr. Watson, you wound me. Frankly, I am afraid I do not understand. I need to work; I like this business. I am prepared to do my tasks well—under your intelligent direction. All I ask is that I please you—and Mr. Prescott.”
Again, there was that change in the atmosphere, but now it was stronger. Mr. Watson stared at Eugene with open vindictiveness, in which there was a touch of unconscious fear.
Eugene was “quality.” Ben feared and distrusted gentlefolk. They were “tricky.” They had manners and desires and aspirations beyond his comprehension. As these were not to be comprehended, they could, Ben sensed, be very dangerous, and very potent. They rose from an obscure kind of thought and code, and they had an easy and ominous power.
Suddenly Ben was exhilarated. All his life he had dreamed of humiliating Eugene’s class, of having power over them. It would be a revenge upon one of those whom nothing could openly disconcert, one who could smile with assurance in the face of disaster, who had the gallantry to regard events, however fearful, as impotent to disturb some inner and invulnerable security.
“I know you,” said Ben, with slow deliberateness. “I wasn’t born this morning. There’s just one thing to remember: I’m your superior, and I’ll be watching you. Any tricks, and out you’ll go. I’ve worked for Mr. Prescott a long time; my word about the other clerks in this office goes with him.”
“And why should it not?” asked Eugene, suavely. “It would be surprising if it were otherwise.” He paused. “Mr. Watson, I can only promise to do my best. I hope it may please you.”
“It’d better,” said Ben Watson, threateningly.
The door opened and William Prescott appeared on the threshold. Eugene rose at once, in one angular movement, and with a look of polite expectancy. It was not Ben’s custom to rise at the appearance of his employer. Eugene had risen; Ben could do no less, but as he did so he flashed at the youth a glance of intense hatred.
William regarded Eugene in silence. “Oh, Arnold,” he finally said. He turned to Ben. “Ben, I’m on my way to the Directors’ Room. You’ll take the minutes, as usual. And, Ben, please bring Arnold with you.” He studied Ben Watson almost pleasantly. “We must teach him to take the minutes, mustn’t we? Then, after he has learned, he can relieve you of the job entirely. That ought to be a relief, eh?”
Fear struck at Mr. Watson. He had never been afraid of William before; he was afraid now. “But, Mr. Prescott,” he faltered, “I’ve always taken the minutes. I don’t mind it at all. In fact I—I like to do it. And it’s confidential, and—”
“And?” said William, agreeably.
Ben was silent. Out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw Eugene make the slightest of movements.
“Arnold, I am sure, realizes that minutes are confidential,” said William. Never had Ben heard him speak so heartily. “You do realize that, Arnold?” he continued, turning to the young man.
“Indeed, sir, I do,” said Eugene.
“Well, then, come along with Mr. Watson. It o
ught to be very educational, Arnold. I don’t think you have forgotten that your father permitted you to attend such meetings? I thought not. I was chief clerk myself, then, wasn’t I?”
Ben looked furtively from William to Eugene. There was a quality they both shared, and this quality, too, could be felt but not comprehended by Mr. Watson.
“You were, sir,” said Eugene.
“It is the same room,” said William. “Nothing has been changed. It will be familiar to you.”
Something tight and fearful in Ben Watson relaxed. He almost grinned.
“I have never forgotten,” said Eugene. Now he was apart from William and Mr. Watson, in his inaccessibility, and Ben knew that William hated and distrusted it as much as he did.
“Good,” said William. Nothing about him was pleasant now. He walked abruptly to the opposite door. “In five minutes, Watson,” he said, without looking back.
Eugene stood and looked at the door which had slammed shut behind William. Ben sat down, and chuckled to himself. But Eugene continued to look at the door. Was he smiling faintly? Ben leaned forward the better to see. If it had been a smile, it was no longer there.
CHAPTER XXVII
No matter how often William Prescott saw his Directors assembled together, either here in the Board Room or in private, he felt for them the same aversion and disgust he had felt at first acquaintance, and, though he did not know it himself, the same wary fear.
Once, when he had been a child, his mother had found the ten cents necessary for him to visit a wild animal show as it passed through Andersburg from its spring engagement in Pittsburgh. There, with fascinated eyes, he had watched a tamer, armed only with a flimsy whip, enter a cage of tigers. The tigers had sat on their stools, tawny and sleek and indifferent, only their slit-like eyes revealing their innate savagery. “Ain’t they the perfect gentlemen?” a woman within William’s hearing had asked of her escort with admiration.
The “perfect gentlemen” had watched the entrance and approach of their tamer with superb poise. They regarded him with courtesy and polite detachment. But William was enthralled by the eyes of the tigers, sleepily but unremittingly regarding the man. He wondered if the tamer saw that look, was aware of it, and understood it.
He wondered no longer. He knew. He was now the tamer, and the “perfect gentlemen” who surrounded him might conceal their sentiments under smiles, proper gestures, and sleekness; he knew, nevertheless, that these sentiments were hatred, contempt, and a relentless waiting to destroy him. Let them wait, he thought, grimly.
There were “bears” in what William privately called his menagerie. He was not too wary of them, for they were so obvious. The “bears” were Albert Jenkins, the lawyer, former suitor of Ursula, present husband of Rose Jenkins (née Bassett), ex-Senator David Whiscomb, and Mr. Hazlitt Leslie, owner of the Leslie Carriage Company. They might be dangerous and cunning, but they lumbered, though they had acquired the “gentlemanliness” of the “tigers” who were their associates: Ezra Bassett, the banker; Judge Oscar Muehller; and Dr. Eli Banks. He, William Prescott, dared never be careless in their presence. He was not of them, he never had been of them.
The Directors were waiting for him, and greeted him in their “bearlike” or “tigerish” individual fashion. Jenkins, Whiscomb and Leslie figuratively hugged him in their excess of friendly cordiality. Bassett, Muehller and Banks smiled upon him with urbane suavity. Their handclasps were like soft fur, laid gently across the palms. The “bears” wrung his hand. He did not know which he detested more. But he did know that if he had any respect for any of them at all, it was not for the “bears.”
The past five years had not dimmed Ezra Bassett’s rosy round geniality. He asked after William’s fourth child, Barbara, born three months ago. Barbara was Bassett’s goddaughter. He beamed upon the father of Barbara, earnestly inquired after Ursula’s health, which, he confessed, was still causing him and Jemima some secret anxiety. Dr. Banks, with his usual rich urbanity, reassured both godfather and father. The lady was recovering nicely, though, of course, it was sad that there would be no more children. “However, my dear Prescott,” said Dr. Banks, touching his thick brown beard with dainty fingertips, “four children are a good family. Five, one might say, with Oliver.” He paused, and twinkled. “Of course, Oliver is not really your own child but, as I was remarking to Mrs. Banks recently, the lad is evidently of good blood, and that is reassuring. Astonishing if one remembers that he was an abandoned orphan, before you rescued him.”
William glanced at the doctor sharply. “Wonderful manners,” murmured Dr. Banks. “Native good manners.”
Did he mean that William’s own children did not have “native good manners”? Dr. Banks met William’s glance with a deep unctuousness.
“Ah, yes, remarkable,” said Judge Oscar Muehller. “I commented upon it myself, when we saw him at the Christmas party at the church. His behavior is perfect. And his superior intelligence was quite obvious.”
Thomas and Matthew had been at that party also. No one mentioned them. Were these men twitting him, William? Was this one of their delicate tiger scratches? He stared at them somberly. They smiled back at him with ease. Their manner suggested that they had gratified him. William was silent. He turned from them abruptly.
The Directors still used Chauncey Arnold’s Directors’ Room, but William had changed it. It was no longer plain, bare, and somewhat dusty. The wooden fireplace had been replaced by one of white marble. A thick brown rug lay upon the floor. The chairs were of red leather, the long table of dark polished wood. It was a room for discussion, relaxation and smoky pleasure. William had had the three narrow windows thrown into one, so that a view of the wide river might rest and fascinate the eye. Today the river ran like liquid steel under the brilliant winter sky; flat-boats, loaded with lumber, or waiting, stood at long neat docks. The whir and hum of the great saw-mills could be heard in the clarified air.
The “tigers” were too polite to sit down before their president did. The “bears” had no such breeding. They were of the mentality of Ben Watson. They sat back in their deep leather chairs and puffed contentedly upon their cigars. William sat down at the head of the table, his back to the blazing sun and water. They could not see his face clearly, but he could see every other face as if it were illuminated.
In a few moments, Ben Watson and Eugene Arnold would arrive. William looked slowly from one man to another. He sat at the table, big, bulky, indomitable. His hands never lay at ease on the table; no one could remember seeing them except tensed. As usual, he gave the impression of surly fierceness and power.
“Before the meeting is called,” he said, in the loud neutral voice so distasteful to three of the men in the room, “I wish to mention a small matter. I have, today, hired an assistant to Ben Watson, my chief clerk. He will accompany Ben into this room in a few moments, to learn how to take down the minutes.”
Again, his deep-set eyes passed from man to man, more quickly now. “Eugene Arnold,” he said, and his voice was louder than before.
The low creaks, murmurs and movements in the room suddenly subsided. Dr. Banks, Mr. Bassett and Judge Muehller became very still; a deep paralysis fell upon them. Across their faces slid a kind of inexpressive smoothness, which washed away anything that might betray what they thought. Dr. Banks slowly lifted his cigar to his mouth, removed it, gently blew out the smoke he had inhaled. His black silk cravat glimmered in a shaft of sunshine; a kind of contemplative thoughtfulness still lay about his eyes, which had become bland. Mr. Bassett’s rosiness did not deepen; no uneasiness marred his faint and amiable smile. Judge Muehller, more than ever, resembled a fine and ascetic saint. Pensively, his mild hazel eyes gazed at William, as if expecting him to add something to his remark.
It was the others, who had no advantages of breeding to assist them, and no fundamental training to help them suppress normal emotions, who became obviously furtive and disturbed. Mr. Jenkins, his sharp features becoming even sharper, Mr. Le
slie, turning ruddy with angry embarrassment, and former Senator Whiscomb, resembling a floury grocer in his uncouthness, could not completely hide their awkward confusion and umbrage. For an instant or two they glared belligerently at William. Then, as if called by some secret signal, they all of them looked at their three other colleagues.
Dr. Banks thought: What taste! He said, urbanely: “Eugene Arnold? Has he come back to Andersburg, with his mother?”
A gloomy smile appeared on William’s face. “The boy has never been away,” he said, with indifferent disgust. He shifted his hands on the table. “You know he has not, Banks.”
“I really did not know,” murmured Dr. Banks apologetically. With rich deliberateness, he turned to the banker. “Did you know, Ezra, or you, Oscar?”
“No, indeed,” said Mr. Bassett. He was all roseate friendliness. “I did not know,” said the judge, in his melodious voice.
Liars, thought William contemptuously. He said: “Of course you knew, all of you. That schoolmaster, Landsdowne, is your friend. He couldn’t have failed, in all these years, to have mentioned Arnold.”
As usual, reflected Dr. Banks, the boor never takes advantage of a discreet opening. Or, does he voluntarily refuse to take advantage of it?
The doctor said amiably: “Now, William, that is unfair. I don’t happen to discuss Landsdowne’s pupils with him. I am not interested in the younger male generation, possibly because I have been—blessed—with daughters rather than with sons. Moreover, Landsdowne is not a man to talk about the boys in his school, unless perhaps to their parents. I think the same is true of you, Ezra? Two daughters, young ladies—”
“As for me,” the judge laughed softly, “my sons are at Harvard.”
The circle was closed. Mr. Jenkins, Mr. Leslie and Senator Whiscomb scurried about the glassy contour of that circle, seeking to enter it, to hide within it. But on disagreeable occasions, such as this, the circle remained impervious. Mr. Jenkins looked with hard but shifting eyes upon William.
Let Love Come Last Page 24
