Ursula, alarmed, was about to decline all this at once. She paused. She remembered William Prescott’s expressions of scorn for Andersburg’s “best” citizens. But now, very suddenly, she knew that he did not intend to remain the town’s pariah, that it was his own full plan to establish himself firmly and with conspicuous eminence in the ranks of those who pretended to despise him, or who still genuinely despised him, and to lord it over them with grandeur. She glanced down at her ring. It was not the gift of a man who wished to live in splendid isolation, his aggrandizements a secret to himself.
Now her face was deeply troubled. She turned the ring slowly on her finger. He, William Prescott, had known that Ursula had a considerable position of her own in Andersburg society; she was a lady; she had influential friends. Mr. Prescott would not be unaware of all this; in fact, Ursula very clearly knew that he had been well-informed. Well, she attempted to chide herself, it is only human. What did I expect? What did I believe? That he wished to lurk like a hermit in the house he is building, with all windows and doors shut? How very foolish of me.
Yet, a chill, and still another, ran over her. It was absurd, but she had believed he might be superior to her friends in character, as he was superior to them in energy, imagination and ruthlessness.
Without her own conscious volition, she began to draw the ring from her finger. Then her cold fingers halted.
She saw him, lonely, fierce, and hating, and she wanted to go to him immediately and put her arms about him, as if in protection and consolation.
“Dear Jemima, it is so very kind of you. I accept. Mr. Prescott will agree, with gratitude, I know. If I could send him a note at once—”
Mrs. Bassett became wildly animated. “At once, my love! At once!” she cried. She clapped her hands together, and stared at Ursula. “And, dearest one! It would never do for you to remain alone in your house, now! A companion must be found for you. I know the very lady—Mrs. Templeton, the widow of our late minister. I shall approach her on the subject this evening, and I know she will be delighted. Oh, Ursula, how incredible, how marvelous, all this is!”
A maid interrupted with hot tea, and Mrs. Bassett, her hands shaking with the glory of the occasion, served tea and cakes to Ursula, whom she now regarded as the most adorable female of her acquaintance, the one most esteemed and most loved. The ladies sat and drank delicately from their cups, and nibbled at the little cakes, and Mrs. Bassett’s tremendous joy and delight gushed out like a small cataract. Ursula listened, in pale and smiling silence, the great cold emerald pressed tightly in her palm. It cut her flesh.
CHAPTER VIII
The next day, both the Andersburg newspapers carried, in a prominent position, this interesting item:
“Mr. and Mrs. Ezra Bassett have the pleasure of announcing the betrothal of Miss Ursula Wende of Englewood Road to Mr. William Prescott, who is residing temporarily at the Imperial Hotel. The marriage will take place on May 20th, at the Bassett residence. Miss Wende has chosen Mrs. Bassett as her Matron of Honor, and Miss Rose Bassett and Miss Lily Bassett as her bridesmaids.
“Miss Wende is the only daughter of the late Dr. August Wende, Ph.D., well known to all Andersburg as a scholar of extreme eminence, and instructor in English Literature at Mr. John Landsdowne’s School for Young Gentlemen. Mr. Prescott has recently founded the Prescott Lumber Company in Andersburg.
“Until Mr. Prescott’s mansion on Schiller Road is completed, he will continue to reside at the Imperial Hotel where, after her marriage to him, Miss Wende will also reside.”
Andersburg was thrown into the utmost excitement and turmoil after this announcement. Nothing else was of any significance, or worthy of discussion, except, perhaps, that Mr. Jenkins remained away from his office for two days thereafter and returned, on the third day, with a marked pallor. Friends attempted to gain his opinion, but the usually garrulous gentleman was strangely silent.
Ursula had sent her note to William Prescott. She had also mentioned the fact that Mrs. Martin Templeton would be her companion until the day of the wedding. She felt some trepidation about this. But Mr. Prescott replied immediately:
“I consider that you have acted with extreme prudence in all matters.” Ursula read this, and her mouth became somber, and just a trifle cynical. She had not been mistaken in her conjectures then. With something quite heavy in her breast, she read on: “I am leaving for New York day after tomorrow morning, and shall not return for two weeks. Thereafter, I am at the disposal of your friends.”
The answer was accompanied by a most enormous sheaf of red roses bearing Mr. Prescott’s card: “From Oliver and your ever faithful servant, William.”
Mrs. Templeton, newly installed as Ursula’s companion and chaperone, exclaimed ecstatically over the roses. But Ursula turned away from them, slowly tearing the card to shreds.
What did she want? She did not know. Her emotions and her actions were inexplicable, even to herself. Once she thought: He is a hypocrite. But she could not believe this.
If Andersburg had been electrified at reading the news in the morning, it had another exciting event to discuss, later in the day. For, at noon, precisely, Mr. William Prescott was observed entering Mr. Bassett’s bank, the First National of Andersburg, and it was afterwards reported that Mr. Bassett had received him with the warmest expressions of regard and had personally conducted him into his private office.
Two hours later, Mr. Prescott emerged, his dark face smiling but taciturn, and Mr. Bassett accompanied him to the very door of the bank. Mr. Bassett’s arm was linked cosily with Mr. Prescott’s, though Mr. Prescott walked stiffly and rigidly. If Mr. Bassett felt some lack of response on the part of his visitor, this was not evident; his unctuous banker’s voice held that nice blend of obsequiousness, warmth, brotherly intimacy and devotion reserved only for the most important clients. His round and rosy face was more pink than usual; his full blue eyes glowed upon Mr. Prescott with tender delight. Like Mr. Prescott, he must have been so engrossed with whatever had been told him in his inner sanctum that, unaware of the absorbed attention of a score of clerks and depositors, he rubbed his hands together after Mr. Prescott had closed the outer door behind him, and capered once, as if unable for sheer rapture to compose himself.
Mr. Bassett was besieged the next day with callers at his bank. The eager clerks observed that he received with coldness many whom he had formerly received with affection, and that others, formerly coolly treated, were escorted within, arm over shoulder. Some emerged from his office with elated faces, some deeply downcast. Among the latter was Mr. Chauncey Arnold, of the American Lumber Company. Mr. Bassett’s voice, from the depths of his office, was heard to say, to the retreating back of Mr. Arnold: “And again, Chauncey, I want you to remember that the man has shown a lot of damned Christian magnanimity in all this!” Mr. Arnold did not reply. He slammed the door after him, and his complexion was gray and ashen.
What had transpired in that office that day was not to become public property until just before the marriage of Mr. Prescott and Miss Wende. In the meantime, the town simmered.
The late afternoon before Mr. Prescott went to New York, Ursula received a note from him. Since the announcement of their betrothal, he had not attempted to see her, and this, while it obscurely relieved her, had disturbed her. His note read simply: “It is my wish that you become more accustomed to little Oliver, so that when we are married he may not feel strange with you. So, by your leave, I am sending him, with his nursemaid, Lucy Jones, to remain with you at your home until I return in a few days.”
Ursula was both dismayed and chagrined at this note. Her first impulse was to send a prompt message that this would not do at all, that she had a small house, and had acquired a chaperone. Moreover, she resented this high-handed method of burdening her without consulting her wishes.
I am certainly bewitched, she sighed to herself. She wrote a note in which she tried to express pleasure at Mr. Prescott’s arrangement. She sent off the note by messenge
r. Mr. Prescott’s carriage, containing Lucy and Oliver, arrived promptly. Ursula received them with graciousness, and installed them in August’s bedroom, where there was a couch as well as a bed.
Mrs. Templeton, a tall, spare, meek-faced woman, childless and lonely, was quite delighted at this invasion. It was just what dear Ursula needed, and it would be so good for this darling of a child, whom Mrs. Templeton, though an austere minister’s widow, could not help but regard with fascination as a creature personifying wealth and power. She busied herself carrying in fresh linens and blankets to the pretty if sulky Lucy, and once she even dared to embrace little Oliver. Ursula, somewhat grim, watched these proceedings from the doorway.
“You will be quite comfortable, Lucy, on this couch,” prattled Mrs. Templeton, laying on the narrow sofa the linens and blankets assigned to the nursemaid. (She had already chosen the softest and most scented linen and the fluffiest blankets for the big tester bed in which August had slept and died and in which, it was now taken for granted by Mrs. Templeton, Oliver would sleep.) “The darling baby will so enjoy this bed,” said Mrs. Templeton with an air of sprightliness.
Lucy was silent. She had removed her bonnet and shawl, and her pretty yellow ringlets fell to her shoulders. She was undressing Oliver, who was surveying all this with intense solemnity. Lucy gave the couch a brief and indignant glance, but did not speak. Lucy was a full-sized girl; the couch had not been meant for prolonged sleep, being hardly more than five feet three inches long, while its width would not permit of much turning. It was adequate for a child; certainly not for an adult. Ursula, speaking for the first time, moved quietly into the room.
“Lucy,” she said to Mrs. Templeton, “cannot possibly sleep on that couch. She will occupy my father’s bed. The baby will have the couch.”
Mrs. Templeton straightened up from the bed, which she was tenderly making for Oliver. She looked at Ursula with pale eyes that protruded with astonishment. “But Ursula,” she protested faintly, “the little one—”
“The little one will be comfortable on the couch. He is very small,” said Ursula, firmly.
“But—but he is Mr. Prescott’s child,” stammered Mrs. Templeton.
“And Lucy is a young woman whose comfort is very important if she is to do her tasks competently,” replied Ursula. Her mouth drew together in a thin line. “Bertha,” she continued, still gazing at Mrs. Templeton with that hard look, “a full-grown human being is more important than a child.”
Mrs. Templeton was speechless. Her thin worn hands fluttered impotently. Lucy hid a discreet smile behind Oliver’s head. Little Oliver, sensing something exciting, bounced on Lucy’s knee, chirped and beamed. In spite of her annoyance, Ursula could not help smiling at him. She went across the room, picked up the child, and kissed him with sincere heartiness. Lucy looked on with appreciation. She had been prepared to hate Ursula, as she hated her employer, but now she looked at Ursula as if in speculation and surprise.
“I’ll be quite suited on the couch, ma’am,” she ventured.
“Nonsense, Lucy,” said Ursula, gently pinching Oliver’s cheek. “You know you won’t. And why should you be uncomfortable? Why should anyone be uncomfortable for anybody, especially when it isn’t necessary?” She returned the child to Lucy.
Lucy became uneasy. But before she could protest again, Mrs. Templeton found her voice, and it came forth in a wavering and indignant squeak: “I think you are forgetting, Ursula, that the child is—is the son of Mr. Prescott, while this young woman is—is—”
“A servant?” interrupted Ursula, tranquilly. She looked at Mrs. Templeton, and her eyes were a chill amber. “Does not a servant have flesh and bones that would protest if laid on a cot fit for a child? Is not a servant a human being?”
Mrs. Templeton’s wits swirled together in confusion. She could not understand. She was a good Christian woman, but everyone knew that servants should be satisfied with the most meagre of accommodations, and the poorest of food, and should be content with the lot which God had ordained for them. Ursula was certainly not behaving in a proper and Christian manner.
She said, almost weeping: “I think you are forgetting, Ursula, that my late dear husband was a minister, and that for years I was his wife, in the parsonage—” She gulped, then stammered on: “I think I might be considered an authority on Christian behavior.”
“You might, dear Bertha, I admit,” said Ursula. “But in this case you are not demonstrating your knowledge.”
Mrs. Templeton was dumbfounded. Ursula studied the couch critically. “We can push a chair or two against it,” she observed, “so that the baby won’t fall off.”
Lucy was alarmed. “Mr. Prescott would not like it,” she muttered.
Mrs. Templeton found her voice: “He certainly would not!” she cried. A dark unhealthy flush appeared on her lean and sunken cheeks. “He would be outraged, and with good reason! Whoever heard of—”
“Mr. Prescott,” interposed Ursula, tartly, “does not live in this house. It is mine. He did not consult me about the sleeping arrangements. As mistress here, I shall insist on making what arrangements I deem most satisfactory to everyone.” In spite of her outward calm, her heart was beating with angry vigor.
Mrs. Templeton, struggling for dignity, but with the dark color still high on her cheeks, went out of the room with a rustle. Ursula smiled slightly. She sat down in an old rocking-chair, and with a pleasant expression surveyed Lucy.
“Oliver seems to flourish in your care,” she said, kindly. “I hope it is your intention, Lucy, to remain with him after I marry Mr. Prescott.”
Lucy stared at her with shy devotion. All the sulkiness had disappeared from her pretty, common face. “Oh, yes, ma’am! I did hope you would have me!”
Ursula gave her a quizzical smile. “Why not? I know nothing about children, Lucy, and I am not overly fond of them. In fact, I find them quite tiresome, and their company tedious. I have friends who profess to be fascinated by what they call a child’s ‘mind,’ but I suspect they are only being affected, and want others to believe that they are exceptionally discerning people.”
She waited. Lucy did not comment. Her fair brows had drawn themselves together in a puzzled fashion. She smoothed Oliver’s tumbled hair absently.
“Have you not discovered that those who are elaborately devoted to children are generally hard-hearted and suspicious and without real character?” asked Ursula.
Lucy colored. She straightened Oliver’s frock. “Well, now, ma’am, I never thought of it before, but it’s true,” she replied, with sudden impulsiveness. “Not that I don’t like babies, Miss Wende,” she continued earnestly. “I do. In their proper place. And it’s cruel to the children, ma’am, to push them out of their proper place. They don’t understand. So it makes them mean and bad-tempered, and they don’t know what it’s all about, and no one denying them anything—” She caught her breath, then burst out quickly: “It’s wrong for the children, ma’am! They’ve got to be taught their place, and how to control themselves, so that people won’t hate them, as they always hate children who’ve always had their way, and no discipline!” She turned crimson.
Now she became frightened at what she had said. She hugged Oliver against her plump young breast, and stared at Ursula pleadingly. “But Oliver’s not spoiled,” she stammered.
Ursula sat back in her chair, her face grave. “No, I see he is not,” she murmured. Then she added: “Lucy, you know I am about to marry Mr. Prescott. You may trust me, my dear. Does Mr. Prescott try to spoil Oliver?”
Lucy hesitated. She was close to tears. “Well, yes, ma’am, he does. Very bad. If it was any other baby but Oliver, Oliver would be ruint. Toys all over, ma’am, so you can’t walk. Never a ‘no’ to the baby, when the master’s about. Oliver must have what he wants. If he doesn’t want to eat, he mustn’t eat. If he doesn’t want to sleep, then he must be sung to, until he sleeps, instead of being made to sleep natural. If Oliver has a cough, Oliver must never be left a
n instant; he must be read stories to, and played with, and dandled, instead of learnin’ to bear his misery as he’ll have to some day, anyway. If Oliver’s naughty, then he mustn’t be punished, because punishment is ‘barbaric.’ That’s what Mr. Prescott calls it, ma’am: ‘barbaric.’ If Oliver tears a book, then the book must just be taken away, and his fingers mustn’t be slapped, as they should. If he stamps and shouts, when crossed, then no attention must be paid. All must be pleasant, as if he hadn’t stamped and shouted. You know what that does to a child, ma’am?” asked Lucy.
“I think I know,” smiled Ursula. “It thwarts him, not to have his naughtiness noticed.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Lucy. “It kind of sets a baby back on his heels when he isn’t punished when he knows he should be punished. It makes him feel helpless, kind of. A baby wants to feel his father cares if he’s naughty, and he wants to feel his daddy is a strong man, and standin’ no nonsense. And if a baby don’t have that—that—”
“Safety,” said Ursula.
“Well, yes, ma’am. I guess you’d call it that. If he don’t have that feelin’ of strength in his parents, he just goes all a-twitter inside, and that makes him act up like a little frightened fiend, and he’s a nuisance, and everybody hates him. They don’t know he’s just scared and doesn’t know what’s right or wrong.” She paused a moment. She added quietly: “And he gets to hate everything and everybody, and his whole life is ruint.”
Ursula had listened with profound and serious attention. She regarded Lucy now with respect.
Ursula said: “You’ve had other charges besides Oliver, Lucy?”
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