Let Love Come Last

by Caldwell, Taylor;

  He folded his hands together strongly on the papers. His eyes sparkled at her inimically across the room.

  “I do not intend that you shall bring any of that furniture to my house,” he said, in a cold, neutral voice.

  “But why? You once said it was beautiful! Besides, it was my parents’ furniture, and they had taste!”

  “Why do you harp on ‘taste’? Do you think I lack it entirely?” His voice was becoming ugly.

  Yes! she said inwardly. But aloud, she only protested: “I have my own taste, also.”

  “It is not mine,” he replied. He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “It is almost eleven. I am tired. I must get up early.”

  He put the papers away, quickly and neatly, and rose. Without glancing back at her, he left the room.

  Ursula did not follow him. She sat for a long time alone. It was not until half an hour had passed that she reminded herself that clichés served an excellent purpose. “Things are not usually nearly so bad as one imagines beforehand,” she said aloud.

  CHAPTER XV

  Firmly determined to hold to every cliché she knew, Ursula accompanied her husband to the site of the new house on Schiller Road.

  William was as amiable as it was possible for him to be, but Ursula detected an uneasiness under all that solicitude for her comfort in the rich and sparkling carriage, under his attempt to infuse her with his own delight in the house he was building. Looking at him with the large and tender charity of her love, she replied gently, pretended to a girlish enthusiasm and anticipation. Very carefully, she avoided any comment upon the hugeness of the building, and studiedly kept the fatal word “taste” from every remark.

  The late May weather assisted her. It was not hard to be gay and optimistic amid all this great foam of green and lilac and white and blue and gold. They passed through streets where every window glittered in a brilliant sun, and every newly-leafed tree swung in a soft sweet wind against the blue-green skies. A shining sprightliness moved in the air, a reassurance from the earth. The cobbled streets sparkled; even ugly vistas had acquired a mellowing beauty. The lavender hills above the city lay overlapping each other, in folds of velvet. Ursula had a glimpse of the golden river, full of barges and flat-boats. Down there lay her husband’s saw-mills; he had promised to take her there soon. She was in no particular hurry for this “pleasure,” for she had very early come to the conclusion that the less she knew of her husband’s affairs the less friction there would be between them, and the less apprehension she would suffer. “If ignorance is bliss, ’tis folly to be wise,” Ursula said to herself, grateful for another remembered cliché.

  William had never appeared to her so impressive as he did today, and she was proud of him, in spite of the unfamiliar sadness which had come to her in these days, even in the face of a premonition that this sadness would never again entirely leave her. There was no doubt that he made her nervous, for, tactful though she was, she never knew when she would offend him by the most innocent remark and cause his capricious rage to explode against her.

  She became aware that there had been silence between her and her husband for several minutes, when he spoke awkwardly: “You look so well today, Ursula. That—that bonnet is very becoming, and the cloak also.”

  Ursula was surprised and pleased. She could not, at the moment, recall ever hearing him make any comment on her dress. She remembered that she had indeed appeared very fashionable in her mirror, even chic, in these garments she had carefully made or chosen for her trousseau. After a mental survey of herself, she looked up to see William smiling at her uncertainly. His hand touched hers for a brief instant, and then he looked away stolidly.

  He had a roll of paper at his side. He unrolled it slowly. “I never showed you the architect’s drawing of the exterior,” he said. He avoided her eyes. She took the roll from him apprehensively.

  She had need of all her natural self-control, when she saw the drawing. In that moment, she could hardly restrain a cry of pure dismay. It was much worse than she had feared. All those turrets, those towers, those rounded windows, those swelling bays! The great stone piazza which encircled two-thirds of the house! Even set in the midst of beguiling trees and gardens and flowering borders and walks, the house was a monstrosity. It was of stone, and the stone was a swart, almost blackish, brown.

  It was no worse, in many ways, than many of the wealthier homes in Andersburg and its suburbs, except that its enormous size made all its ugliness and architectural faults more overpowering. Gone, forever then, was her dream of a chaste and noble Georgian house of whitish stone, with a fanlight over the door, and fine casement windows. This was the house where she was to live, where she would spend so many years, and where she would doubtless die. She could not bear it.

  “Well?” said William, impatiently.

  She rerolled the paper with great care. “It is certainly—magnificent,” she murmured.

  He almost snatched the paper from her. “You do not like it!” he said, accusingly.

  “I did not say so, William. It is just that I—that I have never imagined I might live in such a house.” Her voice was very calm.

  “That is a very ambiguous remark,” he said, wrathfully.

  She did not know what to say in answer. She had tried so hard, and now he was enraged again.

  “You have always lived such a bloodless life,” he said, with sneering condescension. “You have never really known anything except a little house with pale furniture and dim walls and shuttered windows and tiny fireplaces. A woman’s house. This is a man’s house.”

  Then she saw that he was deeply hurt, even greatly pained. This was the dream of his life, this dreadful house. He had planned it and loved it, had smiled over it and cherished it, even before he had bought her land. She detested herself for wounding him so. Quickly, she placed her hand over his and held it tightly, and looked at him with eyes bright with tears.

  “Dear William!” she cried. “I am sorry I am so stupid. You are right; I haven’t really appreciated such a wonderful house. What do I know of houses? Nothing! But this is not really a house; it is a mansion, and you deserve it, and I have no doubt that when it is completed we’ll both have reason to be proud of it.”

  He stared at her with fierce and almost childlike intensity. She looked at him, her eyes still wet, her mouth smiling and trembling. For once, his subtlety deserted him. He did not remove his hand.

  “You are not—not deceiving me?” he asked.

  “Oh, no. How can you think that, William? I mean every word of it, I assure you.”

  He smiled at her then. Once or twice, in the past week or so, she had caught a flash of tenderness for her in his eyes. Now that tenderness was alive again, deeper than she had ever seen it before.

  “Even if the house might seem too big to you?” he insisted.

  She made herself laugh a little. “Indeed, it is big. I am afraid that is why I was frightened last night, and even just now. I have never lived in a big house before, William. I never expected I should live in one.”

  She had pleased him. He patted her hand with affectionate patronage. “I understood from the beginning,” he said.

  She smiled at him meekly. Nothing mattered, except his peace and happiness. She would live in a worse house than this, gladly, if it gave him pleasure. She would live anywhere, if she could help alleviate the chronic tensions and torments that tortured him.

  They had reached the large desolate plot of land which had once been hers. Here May had briefly triumphed. The shacks on the borders of the land, already cleared by William of their former inhabitants, were almost hidden in flowering trees. More workmen were on hand. Ursula saw the stone. Her last hope fled. The color was even worse than in the drawing. Each hewn stone glittered in an ugly chocolate brown on its high surfaces, with ridges and curving valleys of blackish brown in the hollows and depressions. The workmen had been very busy. The framework of the house was already up, raw and yellow in the bright sunlight. A few
stones had been mortared, and it took very little imagination to see the whole edifice towering to the sky, and spreading out in a massive pile. Fifteen acres of land would surround it or, rather, would be overpowered by it.

  “I am breathless!” cried Ursula. “I cannot wait until we live here!”

  A few days later, Lucy and Oliver came to the red suite. Mrs. Templeton returned to her own home, on salary, until the house on Schiller Road should be completed. Ursula welcomed Lucy and Oliver with an almost hysterical pleasure and relief. Now the days would not be so empty, the after-dinner hours not so taut and filled with apprehension. She had never thought to be glad to see a child, but she embraced Oliver with such vehemence that she came close to frightening him. She beamed upon Lucy, who was watching her with blue-eyed gravity and strange understanding.

  Dear Lucy! thought Ursula. What a comfort this girl would be in the coming days and years! Her blunt intelligence, her wisdom and strength, would be urgently needed by her mistress. Lucy was a friend, and all at once Ursula understood that she had never really possessed a friend before.

  CHAPTER XVI

  So it was that Ursula struggled with herself to forget the growing house as much as possible. She did, however, have a few rebellious and secret thoughts. Elegance, she reflected, remembering William’s condemnation of it as “bloodlessness,” does not necessarily mean effeminacy. Refinement is not austerity or bareness. Greek architecture, the very essence of noble simplicity, was not inferior to Byzantine overornamentation and confusion and lavish heedlessness of color. Bright gilt and plush and vivid damask do not excel muted grace, cleanness of line and quiet panelled walls.

  In late June and July, William was compelled to go on business journeys to Ohio and Michigan and Illinois, and even to other states. Sometimes he was gone for ten days or more, returning with an air of victory and satisfaction. She would listen with eager attention, exclaim admiringly at the proper intervals, and look at him with love. But, for her, the lumber business remained always a complete mystery which she had no desire to penetrate and understand. Apparently, William was becoming wealthier, for not only was he triumphant, but his directors and other officers showed every sign of elation. The ladies of Andersburg displayed towards Ursula an affection and solicitude and tenderness whose origin was very evident. Again, she took refuge in clichés, and tried to suppress a growing cynicism.

  In August, the red suite began to oppress Ursula unbearably. The weather had become intolerably humid and hot. With a passion that approached desperation, she longed for her garden. The house, with its contents, was up for sale. More than once, Ursula went to visit her house, to sit in the quiet rooms, whose walls flickered with the shadow of leaves, to lie down upon her old bed, or to wander like a lost soul in the gardens, there to pluck away a yellowing leaf or a blown flower. There was comfort in the house, though it was beginning to have a faint, old and musty smell. It was filled with ghosts. Once Ursula found herself weeping uncontrollably in the small and charming parlor. She was shocked at her own tears, and reproached herself sternly. It then occurred to her that she was pregnant.

  She visited Dr. Banks, who heartily assured her that her suspicions were correct, and that she might make plans for “a fine heir” the latter part of March. She returned to the suite, somberly considering her condition. She felt no real happiness, but, instead, a sudden upsurge of fear. William was away in Michigan, and it was to Lucy, and to Lucy alone, that Ursula confided what she knew should be regarded in the light of great good news.

  Lucy regarded her pale mistress seriously. Oliver had just had his afternoon nap, and was sitting on Lucy’s knee while she brushed his damp hair. All the crimson draperies were pushed back to admit what breeze might be hovering through the street. The hot sunlight splashed the red damask walls, the fiery red carpet. Ursula closed her eyes on a swell of nausea.

  “Well, ma’am,” said Lucy, in her sound and sturdy voice. “Mr. Prescott’ll be very happy to hear it.”

  Ursula whispered, her eyes still closed: “All this red! It makes me quite ill.”

  Lucy set Oliver on his feet. The child sensed something wrong. He stared at Ursula soberly, his underlip thrust out as if he were contemplating a few tears. Lucy said: “Let me help you undress, ma’am. You should lie down. I’ll make you a cool drink with lemons.”

  Ursula opened her eyes; they had a slightly wild expression. “Lucy! Do you know that there’ll be endless acres of red in the new house, too?”

  Lucy did not reply to this. She assisted Ursula into the bedroom, removed her thin batiste frock and wide straw hat and gloves and boots. Ursula lay down on the smooth white sheets and let Lucy slip a pillow under her head. Then she remarked with a sick smile: “I am hysterical. It is so hot.”

  Lucy brought cool water and bathed Ursula’s face, brushed her hair and neatly braided it. Oliver crept uncertainly into the room. Ursula’s tired eyes touched him; they brightened, and she held out her hand to him. Immediately, and with relief, he ran to her and kissed her. “Mama,” he said, and then patted her hand gently.

  “He knows. He always knows when someone feels bad,” said Lucy, with a fond glance at the child. “He’s got a heart. Haven’t you, dear?” she asked, stooping to kiss him.

  “Yes,” he replied gravely. This broke the tension, and both Lucy and Ursula laughed together. After a bewildered moment, Oliver joined them, clapping his hands together in prideful glee that he could evoke such abandoned merriment.

  Later, Ursula said: “If only we could be spending this time in my own little house, Lucy, where it is quiet and cool and peaceful. There is more room there than in this suite. But Mr. Prescott does not care for the house.”

  Lucy replied: “Well, then. At least, ma’am, when you go there, you must use the carriage.”

  Ursula regarded her with surprise. “You knew, then, I went home occasionally?”

  “Oh, yes, ma’am. It was only natural,” said Lucy, quietly.

  She, herself, was to be married to John Shaeffer in October. Both she and John were to remain in William’s employ. That was understood, tacitly. William liked neither of them, but then, he would never like any servant except Mrs. Templeton, who had somehow ingratiated herself with him. Ursula knew that both Lucy and John remained for her sake and Oliver’s.

  It had been Ursula’s intention to tell William immediately of her new prospects, when he returned to Andersburg. But he entered the suite looking so stern and abstracted that she decided to delay the telling for a while. When he was in this mood nothing could distract his attention from his own affairs for very long. She could not understand her relief at her decision not to tell him just yet. She wondered what was engaging all his concentration this time, but the wonder was brief and indifferent.

  Ursula, remembering the whispered and oblique stories of married friends, expected to be ill during this period. To her surprise, she remained conspicuously well. After that initial loss of self-control, she recovered her equanimity, and when William, a day or so later, suggested that she could visit his saw-mills if she wished, she consented at once. They drove away together, with John driving them. William’s abstraction had disappeared, and Ursula felt his restrained elation and high confidence. He remarked that she appeared rather pale, accepted her murmur about the heat, advised that she rest as much as possible, then told her briefly of his new triumph, which had at first threatened to be a defeat. It had something to do with an option on an especially fine pine forest. Ursula listened attentively, and nodded her head. He said once more: “But you are pale.”

  Ursula had a quick reply to this: “The hotel is so hot, William, I cannot wait until we have our own home, among gardens.” She was touched by this unusual solicitude.

  He was highly pleased, and for the moment forgot her paleness. “It ought not to be too long, now. I expect to spend our first Christmas in the new house. Yes, the hotel is hot. But you have the carriage; you ought to go for frequent drives.”

  Ursula
contemplated Christmas in the new house, and felt a great weariness. She smiled with every appearance of anticipation.

  Once before, some four years ago, she had accompanied Alice Arnold on a visit to these mills, which had then been the property of Alice’s husband. The mills had appeared large and sturdy. Now, as the carriage approached the river, and Ursula saw the mills again, she was astonished. The original buildings had become only the small nucleus of a newer and more imposing aggregation, all, apparently, having been built during the past few months. Some of them were still unpainted, others were in this process, still others had been finished.

  Full of pride, William told John to halt the carriage a little distance away, and then sat back to wait for Ursula’s astounded comments.

  The late August day had turned fearfully oppressive, the heat sultry with an ominous threat of storm. The earlier blue of the sky had been replaced by a ponderously moving mass of dim lavender clouds, streaked with brassy gold. Under this lay the river, plum-colored water flowing into eddies and little tides of burnished yellow. The trees along the river banks hung dark and weighted, smelling of dust. The opposite shore lay, a dull irregular streak, beyond restless water. When the sun could force its light through the clouds, it was in the form of straight coppery beams, which suddenly, and until the sun was obscured again, lit up the river and land with a strong and eerie light, rendering everything unnatural and foreboding.

  Ursula’s attention was drawn to all this, away from the mills, and she felt again the nameless threat which hung over her marriage. A heavy despondency took hold of her, and a new fear. She forgot what she had come to see. She could look only at the sky and the river.

  William said, growing impatient because of her prolonged silence: “Well, what do you think of it all?”