Let Love Come Last

by Taylor Caldwell

  For over a year, now, Oliver had been trying to find some trace of the parents who had brought him to life. He had had to move carefully. William was a director of the orphanage from which he had taken Oliver. The other directors and officers and managers were William’s friends. Oliver had had to approach them obliquely. But it had been impossible for them not to guess for what he was looking. The orphanage could give him only meagre information, if any at all. At that time, over twenty-three years ago, it had been a small and poverty-stricken little institution, supported by a grudging public charity. It had had two old nurses, now dead, a female manager, dead these past fifteen years, a charwoman and a janitor. The last two were probably dead, also, for they had been old when Oliver was an infant.

  He had gone through the files of the Andersburg newspaper. He had found a single item which noted briefly the fact of his desertion at the orphanage, and the date. The police, said the newspaper, were trying to find the infant’s parents. He had been deserted at night. A man had reported seeing “a female furtively leaving the door of the orphanage.” His mother? But the witness had been certain, in spite of the feebleness of the one streetlight, that the “female” had been an elderly woman. She had been poorly dressed, and wore a shawl over her head. Later, the newspaper had noted the fact that this deserted orphan had been adopted by William Prescott.

  As a lawyer, Oliver had access to the files of the local courts. He had found his adoptive papers. “Parents unknown.” But one parent, dead now for twenty-two years, was no longer unknown. He was Chauncey Arnold.

  Had Oliver’s mother been a servant in his house? Or a shop-girl, a little milliner, a dressmaker? Any one of these was possible. Oliver, oblivious to the storm, lighted another cigarette, shielded the flame with his cupped hands. It was little enough to go on. It would probably end in nothing. Wasn’t it wiser to let it end in nothing?

  The truth, brought out into the open, might ruin him, might hold him up to ridicule and wide public scorn. Scott, Meredith and Owens was an old and prudent firm, full of honor, integrity and tradition. Meredith and old Scott were, themselves, Harvard graduates. They had received a letter of quiet but enthusiastic commendation from their ancient friend at Harvard, the dean of the Law school, who had written them in Oliver’s behalf. He had been certain that they had made their dignified overtures to him in spite of the fact that he was of unknown parentage, and the adopted son of William Prescott. Insofar as Mr. Scott and Mr. Owens and Mr. Meredith were concerned, William Prescott did not exist.

  The shadow of scandal, falling upon their junior, would horrify them. There was nothing the least unseemly in their lives; they accepted no sensational cases, only the dullest and most proper ones, estates, mortgages, sound partnerships. He, Oliver, was slowly winning their admiration and approval. But, if he once laid bare the truth, all would be lost. They would probably repudiate him, in the stateliest way, without regret or apology.

  Nevertheless, he must find the truth, even if it ruined him. Something enormously important lay in that truth.

  Now he was conscious that he was very cold, and that his shoulders were heavy with snow. He was about to turn back towards the house, which lay huge and dark behind him, when he heard the swift crackling of footsteps, as if someone were running towards him.

  He stood still. The footsteps were light and quick; someone was in full flight. A footpad, a burglar? He was hidden by the tall spruce; in a moment the runner would pass him. He heard the wide branches of the spruce being disturbed; a shower of white snow blew up into the air. And then he saw that the runner was Barbara, her head bent against the wind. She was running as if pursued. She had stumbled sideways into the spruce, but it had hardly slowed her rush.

  Oliver caught her by the arm. “Barbara!” he exclaimed.

  Her round fur hat, her coat, her hair, glittered with the fine snow that had fallen upon them. Oliver saw, by the distant glow of the street lamps, that her face was distorted in terror, and that her eyes were flooded with tears. Then a fresh gust of wind and snow swirled between them.

  “Don’t be frightened, dear,” he said. Something sinister had sent her out into this black and white fury. He felt her resist him for a moment; then, all at once, she was leaning against him and sobbing uncontrollably.

  “Barbara,” he said. He put his arms about her, held her close. “My poor child.” Then he only held her strongly, putting his cheek against her forehead.

  He let her cry, and said nothing, though he was deeply alarmed. It was not like Barbara to weep easily; he had never seen her hysterical. He felt her gloved hands clinging to him. She could not control herself, though she pressed her mouth against his shoulder in a wild attempt to stop her cries. He heard the smothered gasps and sobs, and they hurt him physically.

  Now he tried to calm her. “Barbara,” he said, urgently. “Dear, sweet Barbara. Try to tell me. Let me help you. What is it?”

  He took her face in his hands. The tears rolled down her cheeks; her mouth was open in an expression of anguish. Impulsively, he bent his head and kissed her, first on her cheek and forehead, then on her cold lips. All at once, she was standing still and trying to see him through the swirls of snow.

  She said: “What did you call me, Oliver?”

  “What did I call you?” he repeated. He withdrew his hands. He looked down at her earnestly.

  “You called me ‘dear’ and ‘sweet’,” she said. She was crying again, but softly now. “Did you mean that, Oliver? Am I dear and sweet—to you?”

  He was silent. She took his sleeve in both her hands. “Am I, Oliver? Please tell me. I must know.”

  When he did not answer her, she shook him with a renewal of her wildness. “Oliver, you kissed me. You didn’t kiss your sister, did you? You kissed me, didn’t you?”

  He took her elbows in his hands and held her tightly. “No, dear,” he said. “I didn’t kiss my sister. I kissed you, Barbara. Dear Barbie.”

  He glanced back at the house. It was almost lost in the storm. Here and there a rectangle of yellow light, blurred and misted, showed where it stood. “Barbie,” he said, and then again, “Barbie.”

  She was only a young girl, and there, in that house, was her father, and here he was, with no name of his own and nothing to offer her, except, perhaps, hatred and violence and ignominy. Hardly knowing what he said, he exclaimed: “I don’t even know who I am!”

  She laughed and cried together, and leaned against him. “I don’t care! I have only been afraid that you wouldn’t want me, or that—” She stopped abruptly, and turned her head away from him in the deepest shame.

  “Or what, Barbie?”

  When she did not reply, he laughed a little, drearily. “Did you think I was your brother, Barbie?”

  “Yes,” she murmured.

  He waited a moment, then drew a deep breath. “I see,” he said. “You were afraid we couldn’t be married. But we can, Barbie.” Now he was astounded by his own words. “Barbie, we can’t talk like this,” he continued. “You are only seventeen. You don’t know what you are saying. I was a fool, too, to say what I’ve said.”

  She clung to him again. “Oliver, I love you. Haven’t you seen it, Oliver?”

  Once again, he looked at the house. He sighed. “Yes, dear, I saw it. And I love you, too. I’ve always loved you, I suppose. But Barbie, I’ve nothing to offer you, nothing. And there is something that I must do that might make it quite impossible for you ever to marry me. I don’t want to do it, but I must.”

  She had heard only what she wanted to hear. She threw her arms about his neck and kissed him again and again. The fresh sweet breath was against his lips. “Oliver!” she cried. There was so much innocence, so much passion, in her voice and in her kisses, that he was profoundly moved and shaken. He put his arms about her again. He wanted to return her kisses; instead, he said:

  “Please listen, my love, my dear. I have nothing, I am nobody. In a little while, perhaps, I’ll be even worse than a nobody. There’s
something I have to do. We must wait, Barbie, wait until you have enough judgment and understanding.”

  She heard him now. She leaned back against his arms and looked at him piercingly. “You think I am too young, don’t you?” she asked. “I’m not, Oliver, not really. Oliver, I ran out because I couldn’t stay in that house any longer. You must take me away, soon, or perhaps I’ll have to go away by myself and never come back. I’m not hysterical. You must believe me.”

  He thought of Matthew, and though he was again alarmed for Barbara, he said: “I believe you. Yes, I believe you.”

  Her hands held the arms she was leaning back against. She said: “Oliver, will you marry me? Soon?”

  “Barbie,” he began.

  She was speaking faster, and the clutch of her fingers was strong. “You said you have nothing, that you’re a ‘nobody’. Even if it were true, which it isn’t, I wouldn’t care. You have what you are, and to me that is so much that I feel ashamed to ask for it. Will you marry me, Oliver? Will you take me away?”

  He tried to withdraw his arms, but she held them tightly about her.

  “Do I have to wait until I know what it is you’ve got to do?” she asked. When he did not answer her, she said: “No. I won’t, and I can’t wait. Whatever it is, it’ll mean nothing to me, Oliver, can’t you see that?”

  But he was looking beyond her, as if he had forgotten her. He was seeing Eugene Arnold. Barbara saw this, and her hands dropped from him. “What is it, Oliver?” she stammered. “Why do you look like that? You looked like—”

  “Who, Barbie?” He regarded her with sudden sharpness.

  She was shivering with the cold. “I don’t know,” she faltered, and even took a step backward from him. “I don’t know. But it’s someone I don’t like.”

  He tried to make his voice indulgent, but the hardness was behind it: “And you’ve never before noticed what you thought was a resemblance to someone?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, unsteadily. “Yes, I think I do know. I think I kept seeing the—resemblance, and I shut it out of my mind. I think that was because I didn’t want to know whom you resembled. I still don’t. I don’t know what you’re talking about!” she cried, with abrupt wildness.

  She began to cry: “Even if you do look like someone I hate, it doesn’t matter to me. Lots of people look like other people who are perfect strangers. What does it matter? What’s wrong with you, Oliver?”

  Eugene and Julia. He had forgotten Julia. Somehow, Julia would contrive to have Eugene.

  Oliver suddenly remembered the girl who was staring at him so wretchedly. He was disturbed to see her in such misery and confusion. “Barbie, dear,” he said gently, “you are quite right. It doesn’t matter.” He put his arm about her, held her tightly. “Barbie, will you marry me? Not right away, but in a few months perhaps?”

  “Oliver!” She was stunned with joy.

  “You mustn’t tell this to anyone, Barbie, until we are ready, not even to your mother. You must promise me that.”

  “I will! I will, Oliver!” she cried.

  She was like a child. She is a child, thought Oliver. But she is also a woman. No child could kiss a man as she had kissed him.

  “Well, then,” he said, affectionately, “it’s all settled. It’s very late. And you are shaking with cold. Let us go back to the house.”

  He drew her hand through his arm, and they returned to the house together.

  CHAPTER XLVII

  The cold spring air numbed Oliver’s face as he left the court-house. But he was both elated and satisfied. He had won his case, in behalf of the clients of Scott, Meredith & Owens, against almost insuperable difficulties. Mr. Scott had been very dubious; he had intended to present the case, himself, but had been stricken with influenza. As Oliver was familiar with all the details, he had asked him to take his place. Oliver had won. Mr. Scott, in his majestic way, would be more than pleased.

  Oliver was still not certain that he would be able to retain his position when the truth was known. However, he treated himself to a good luncheon at the Imperial Hotel. He had almost three hours before court opened again. In the meantime, he had some personal business to do. That morning, before going to court, he had received two messages. One had been from his adoptive father, William Prescott, the other from Mr. Ezra Bassett. The one from William had disturbed him greatly, for he was apprehensive that William, the strangely intuitive, had guessed the secret engagement between himself and Barbara. In any event, the interview would hardly be pleasant.

  He went at once to the great sprawling saw-mills, to which he was now almost a stranger. Under a pewter sky, the wide and curving river gleamed silver-gray. Beyond, the mountains raised rough brown heads in the pale spring sunlight. They were like the heads of enormous old giants, patched with white. About the mills and the barges and flatboats drawn up at the docks there hummed an immense activity. Oliver could smell the clean resinous odor of lumber, could hear the screeching thunder of machinery. Business was good again, and Oliver was pleased; though, remembering William, he felt again a sudden pang. He looked up at the main building; the words, “The Prescott Lumber Company,” had been newly painted, as if in exultant defiance of the prophesied “panic.” The brilliant white letters blazed in the sunlight.

  He was respectfully told by a clerk that Mr. Prescott had not yet returned from luncheon, and “Mr. Oliver” was requested to wait. The other clerks looked at him curiously. He sat in the waiting-room, and looked about him. The door was open. Across the hall was another door; it was shut, and on it was painted in gilt letters: “Eugene Arnold, General Manager.”

  Oliver stood up. He went across the hall, opened the door, encountered the surprised face of a reception clerk. “Mr. Arnold, please,” said Oliver, abruptly. “Mr. Oliver Prescott calling.”

  The clerk scuttled to a distant door, opened it, disappeared. In a moment or two he returned, agape. “Mr. Arnold will receive you, sir,” he said. Oliver went at once to the door, closed it behind him.

  Eugene was sitting at his desk, a wide and shining width of clean mahogany. Everything about the room had his own aseptic quality, austere and barren. The bare windows looked out on the river, and so large were they that the view outside seemed an extension of the interior. For a moment or two, Eugene looked at Oliver in deliberate silence, then said, indifferently: “Hello, Oliver. You wished to see me?”

  Oliver was perturbed. He did not know why he had come to this room; he had acted on impulse, and he was not given to impulse either by nature or by his legal training. He sat down slowly, watching Eugene very closely. He studied him with great penetration. Eugene, in return, just sat there, his pen poised above a sheaf of papers. Oliver saw the thin fleshless fingers. Involuntarily, he looked down at his own. Eugene’s hands were almost colorless; his own were dark. Yet, they were the same hands. That face, with its lack of color, the skin parched and drawn about the tight mouth, might have been his own face, younger and darker and slightly fuller. Ten years younger, thought Oliver. As I grow older, we are becoming more and more alike. One of these days everyone is bound to notice.

  “Father asked me to call in to see him,” he said. “I’m in a hurry, and I thought he might be in here with you.”

  Eugene laid down his pen. There was a pucker of bleached flesh between his eyes.

  “Well, he isn’t here,” said Eugene. He looked at his watch consideringly, all his movements neat and patrician. His clothing fitted him excellently; there were no blurred outlines about Eugene. Oliver saw his brother’s thin broad chest and shoulders, so like his own.

  Eugene was looking at him again, and again there was the pucker between his light eyebrows. “Have you any idea why he asked you to come?” he said. “Perhaps I could help, and save him time. He isn’t well, you know.”

  Oliver was vaguely angered. “I know that,” he said slowly. Why hadn’t anyone noticed that their voices at times were startlingly alike, especially when he, Oliver, was annoyed? He smiled
. Eugene was indeed disturbed, not only instinctively, but consciously. So far as he knew, Oliver had never before been summoned to these offices by William. He is trying to pump me, thought Oliver, with bitter enjoyment. He said: “After all, I ought to know whether Father is well or ill. I live in the same house with him.”

  Eugene said nothing. He stared at Oliver, thoughtfully. He is trying to read my mind, thought the younger man. He is good at that.

  Then, as never before, he became aware of the controlled and silent power that was in Eugene Arnold. He had never underestimated Eugene, but he had not fully known him until now. A deadly man, he said to himself. He is like a big lean cat, waiting to strike in the dark with the most exquisite precision and deadliness.

  Oliver thought of Julia, so pale and speechless these days that William was fearfully and angrily demanding of her that she see Dr. Banks, or, better still, that she consent to go to New York with him for an examination. On these occasions, Julia would either rise and go out of the room, still not speaking, or would burst into tears. Oliver, remembering this, looked at Eugene closely. Nothing was disturbing this man very much. He was not giving Julia any assistance. He would not endanger himself. Many men risked danger for women. This man would not.

  He became aware that Eugene was still regarding him almost without blinking, and that he had been regarding Eugene in the same manner. Eugene frowned slightly. He said: “Tom is beginning to take many details off his hands.”

  Oliver had been so obsessed with this man whom he believed to be his brother that he momentarily was confused. He almost said: “Who?” He caught himself. “Yes, I suppose so. Good for Tom, and good for Father.” His tone was sincere. “You haven’t been to dinner recently, Gene.”

  “No,” said Eugene, coldly. “I’ve been spending quite a few nights here, going over a few small matters.”

  Small matters! thought Oliver.