Let Love Come Last

by Caldwell, Taylor;

  Very carefully, Eugene struck a match and burned the note. He waited until the last frail wisp of it was carried away on the cold astringent air. He pursed up his lips as if about to whistle, but no sound came. Now he was frowning as he swung up the grade leading to the nearest street. Julia, he thought. He wanted Julia. He wanted her for many reasons, and none of them, he believed, had to do with passion.

  Yet, even when he had not wished to think of her, Julia had a way of intruding into the most calculating of his thoughts. After seeing her, he would hear her voice for a long time, like an echo. He knew that she loved him as she had never loved anyone before and as, most probably, she would never love again.

  He was approaching a quiet and almost deserted street. He walked down it more slowly, for it came to him that he had been hurrying and that he was short of breath, as if he had been trying to run away from something that threatened. He began to glance about him, coolly wary, vigilant. Nothing mattered, he thought, but what he wanted. If he were guilty of a puerile emotion, that, in itself, would not shake or change him.

  He heard the quiet rattling of wheels on the cobblestones of the streets. He did not look around, but he slowed his pace. The carriage, undistinguished, passed him. It hesitated a few steps down the street; he went towards it without hurry. It was empty. The coachman muttered a greeting. Eugene opened the door himself, got in, closed the door. He leaned far back against the leather cushions, his hat tipped over his eyes.

  A half hour later the carriage stopped before the sheltered brownstone house of Dr. Banks. Eugene left the carriage swiftly. The large grilled door opened for him, and he entered the warm and firelit hall. Dr. Banks, smoking a particularly rich cigar, came into the hall and extended his fat moist hand.

  “Well, Gene,” he said, in the most urbane of voices.

  “Well, Doctor,” answered Eugene.

  “Dinner is ready, I believe,” said Dr. Banks, laying his arm about Eugene’s shoulder. “A pleasant day, wasn’t it?”

  CHAPTER XXXVIII

  William’s delight in Julia’s company did not decrease as the carriage rolled towards Schiller Road. This gave him a sense of rejuvenation and well-being. Of all his children, Julia was his favorite, the dearest to him. He believed that she understood him; in this, he was quite correct, but he did not know that she understood him in a way that was both cruel and dangerous, and quite without illusion and love.

  Because she was so precious to him he rarely, if ever, denied her anything. He was proud of her beauty, her wit and vivacity. He knew she had an excellent mind, and flattered himself that she had inherited this from him. Then, too, in these last few years, she had not been crudely exacting, but had extorted concessions from him in so gay and affectionate a way as to give him pleasure in granting her whatever she wished.

  For the first time, he observed the signs of spring, and called Julia’s attention to them. She leaned against his shoulder, and murmured assentingly. Her mind was busy, as it had been ceaselessly busy all this past year. It was time, she thought, that some hint be given her father of her restlessness and discontent; with the utmost artfulness, she would suggest to him that he must find the reason for her emotional state, and help her. It was a very uncertain situation. She knew that William had no strong liking for Eugene. She knew the family history. She knew that William admired Eugene and had relied, more and more, these months, upon Eugene’s judgment. She knew also that William’s distrust of his general manager always lay below the surface of his consciousness, and that it would take little to bring it to the surface.

  She allowed herself to sigh, and because William was so attuned to all the moods of this beloved daughter, he heard the sigh and all his happiness was overcome by anxiety. He turned his head and looked at her. She was leaning back on the velours cushions now; her eyes were closed. There was a mournful expression on her lovely face.

  “What is it, my darling?” he asked. He took her small gloved hand and held it tightly. Julia opened her eyes, gave him a gentle smile.

  “Nothing, really, Papa,” she said, as if with an effort. “But sometimes I am so worried about you. Did you have a hard day, today?” Her voice became sweetly concerned.

  William was touched. He pressed her hand warmly. “Don’t worry, dear. No, I didn’t have a hard day.” For this moment the letters he had just mailed had no power to hurt him. “I am getting better, Julie. And you are too young to be worrying over an old fogey like me.”

  “Papa, how can you talk so!” Julia sat up, regarded him indignantly. “But there, I admit I’m selfish. I sometimes think of all the terrible things that would happen to me if—if you went away.” She could actually bring tears to her eyes, and William saw them, as she intended he should.

  He laughed heartily. “I’m still in my early fifties, you silly child! I don’t intend to die yet. I intend to see you married to someone worthy of you, and to enjoy myself at your wedding reception.”

  Julia sighed again, leaned against him. “But, Papa, I am almost eighteen, and who is there in Andersburg to marry? If I had gone away to school, I might have met the sisters of eligible young men, and have made friends of them.”

  William’s expression darkened. He said, roughly: “Now, don’t tell me you are just like Barbie, wanting to leave your home and go away to college, and become a ‘new woman’. I couldn’t stand that, Julie. I want my girls at home. It was bad enough that the boys had to go away.” He paused. “Do you want to go away to school, Julie?” he asked, jealously.

  “Oh, Papa, you misunderstand me,” said Julia, with reproach. “I don’t want to be a ‘new woman’ at all. I’m just a simple girl. But there are times, and I admit it, when I wonder what is to become of me, and whom I’ll marry, if ever.”

  “Why, you have dozens of beaux,” said William, soothed again, and indulgent. “The sons of all our friends. The house is full of young men, when they come home from college. Surely there is one among them, or even two, worth serious consideration.”

  “There are none like you, Papa,” said Julia, in a low tone.

  William straightened involuntarily. It ought to have been pathetic to Julia to see her father, so weary and pale, assume a debonair expression, smiling and pleased. He patted her shoulder. “Now, now, you are only flattering me, my darling. I’m nothing exceptional, nothing exceptional at all.”

  Julia sighed, laughed lightly. “There is no one, Papa, really. They are so boyish and irresponsible, the young men I know. I feel so old beside them. They have no minds.” She paused. Now was the crucial moment. She laughed again, as if what she was about to say were very absurd. “Now, if Eugene Arnold were just a little younger, I might become interested in him!”

  William’s hand fell from her shoulder. It had never occurred to him for a moment that Julia might even have looked at Eugene Arnold. He said, coldly: “Even if Eugene were younger, I’d certainly never consider him fit for you, Julie. I never liked him. Yes, I know I’ve advanced him steadily through the years, and that he’s worthy of his hire. But there was always something about him, and still is, which I feel I must watch.”

  Julia was silent. There was a sharp and bitter anger in her, and hatred for her father. She hated him for making her way so hard, for forcing her to the most exquisite tact and diplomacy. Of course, she and Eugene could elope, but Julia did not believe that William would forgive them. Eugene would be ruined. Worse, Eugene would not even consider running away with her. She was less to him than were his own ambitions.

  She picked her way carefully when she answered her father: “You are so paradoxical, Papa. You do everything for Eugene, and acknowledge how valuable he is to you, yet you don’t like him or trust him. Why?” she smiled at him ingenuously.

  William stared before him. He felt somewhat ridiculous. He could not confess to his daughter: “I don’t know why.” There was too much emotion in him, and he knew it, and he felt it was a weakness which must never be revealed to Julia if he was to keep her respect.
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  He must answer her, sensibly. But where was there logic in his attitude towards Eugene? For the first time, it came to him that he was unreasonable, and this was precisely what Julia intended him to feel.

  He said, shortly: “Whenever I see him, I think of his father, and I detested Chauncey Arnold. He was a boor, a fool and a scoundrel.”

  “But Eugene isn’t, Papa, or you wouldn’t have done so much for him?”

  William did not answer. More and more, he was becoming sure that he was irrational, and this annoyed him.

  “I don’t know why I bother to defend Eugene to you,” said Julia, obviously bored. “But it does sound sort of silly, you giving Eugene everything, yet not liking him or trusting him.” She paused, while William glowered, confounded.

  Again, William was silent. His annoyance with himself increased. He sat far back in the corner of the carriage, away from his daughter, while she watched him under her auburn lashes.

  “I think, Papa, that you really do like Eugene,” said Julia, fondly. “But you won’t confess it, even to yourself. And he was so wonderful when you were ill. Do you remember saying that you didn’t know what you’d have done without him? So, you must trust him, after all. And he admires you so much. I’m sure he’d be shocked to know that you don’t like him or trust him.”

  Again, William was soothed and flattered. He smiled sheepishly. “My dear girl, I didn’t say I actually disliked or distrusted young Arnold! If I did, I’d not have him within a mile of me. And I suppose it is a little stupid of me to keep thinking of his father. Yes, perhaps stupid,” he added, half to himself. His instinct, usually so sure, was smothered. He even felt slightly ashamed of himself.

  Julia was elated. It had been so easy, after all, to instil self-doubt into the mind of her father. Yes, he was stupid, as he himself had admitted. She leaned towards him and kissed him with apparent impulsiveness. “Oh, Papa, you are so precious!” she exclaimed tenderly.

  She said nothing else. In these few minutes she had done excellent work. She must let the subject drop for a bit, until her artful suggestions had had time to seep fully into William’s mind. She began to talk to him vivaciously, made him laugh at her little jokes. By the time the carriage had arrived home, William was again in high good-humor.

  Ever since his illness, Ursula had listened with an almost terrible anxiety for the sound of William’s voice. The tension in her would not relax until she was certain that his voice held no hint of pain or weakness; then she would tremble a little with relief. She always waited until she heard William and Julia go into the library before she would slip downstairs with a tranquil air and as pleasant a smile as she could summon. She knew it was not love which impelled Julia to call for her father; she knew that behind everything Julia did lay selfishness and self-seeking. Yet Julia gave William delight, even if the delight was a delusion, and she could make him laugh as could no one else. This was sufficient for Ursula, it helped her to endure her now chronic pain and fear.

  Though they had long ago, as if by mutual consent, abandoned the home-coming kiss, her first and only glance was for William. If that piercing glance at him reassured Ursula that he did not appear more tired than usual, that he was not paler, she would sigh over and over, like one who permits himself to breathe after prolonged and frightened holding of the breath. Only then could she say, “Good evening, William,” and smile.

  Tonight, William’s spirits were so high that his expression did not become as gloomy as it usually did on the appearance of Ursula. He even returned her smile, answered her questions about his health with less impatience than customary, and actually asked after hers. He held out a chair for her. Julia sat down too, and looked at the fire pensively. Ursula studied her sharply for a moment, She always knew when Julia was plotting.

  The doctor had recommended a glass of whiskey before dinner for William, an order to which he had acceded with dislike. A glass of sherry was brought for Ursula.

  What a cosy scene this is, with the three of us before the fire, and the lamps not yet lit, thought Ursula bitterly. Julia was absorbed in her thoughts; William sipped his whiskey and only grimaced once. Ursula put her sherry to her lips. She said: “Did you see Barbie, on your way home? It is getting dark. She went out on her bicycle.”

  “I detest women on bicycles,” said William irritably. “Why does she have to have one? It’s too mannish.”

  “It’s a craze,” said Ursula hurriedly, and in an apologetic tone. “All her friends have bicycles. In fact, almost every woman has one.”

  “I haven’t,” said Julia, sweetly. “And I’m sure, Mama, that I wouldn’t ride one under any circumstances.”

  William gave her an approving glance. Ursula bit her lips in vexation but she held back a swift tart reply. Yes, Julia was plotting. Ursula changed the subject. “I was disappointed at not hearing from the boys today. This is the day we usually hear from them.”

  William said nothing. He put down his glass as one puts aside an obnoxious medicine. Ursula regarded him narrowly. He had heard from them, then. They had asked for money again.

  “But there is a very nice letter from Oliver,” she went on. “He is so concerned about you, William. And he has a very amusing story to tell about Judge Muehller’s nephew.”

  William looked at the fire. It was as if he had not heard Ursula. Julia yawned delicately. “Dear Oliver,” she murmured. There was the daintiest ridicule in her voice. It was then that to Ursula’s astonishment William stirred and gave his daughter a cold, harsh look.

  “Oliver,” he said, “justified his education. I have only recently heard that he will graduate with honors.”

  Julia, too, was astonished by her father’s strange defense of his adopted son. She stared at William, her golden eyes widening in the firelight. Ursula had the most absurd struggle against tears.

  “Yes,” she said, feebly. “It is something to make us proud. Proud,” she repeated, and had to stop.

  William became silent again. He sat in his chair near the hearth, and there was about him a dark and brooding quality which frightened Julia and renewed Ursula’s anxiety.

  They heard the distant crash of a door. Barbara had returned. Immediately following the crash, the dressing-bell sounded.

  Another evening of tension and loneliness had begun, for William, Ursula and the younger girl. But Julia had her thoughts, and her plans.

  PART FOUR

  “Thy sons and thy daughters shall be given unto another people, and thine eyes shall look, and fail with longing for them all the day long: and there shall be no might in thine hand.”

  DEUT. 28:32

  CHAPTER XXXIX

  They are all old men, thought Eugene. And, above all, they are gentlemen. That is to say, not one of them would betray a friend or an associate for anything less than money. Their God, if they have one, is less substantial than their fortunes, and a word, however light, uttered against money is more of a blasphemy than the overturning of an altar.

  Nothing of what Eugene thought showed on his quiet dry face. He sat in Dr. Banks’ library, with the doctor’s two closest friends and associates, Judge Oscar Muehller and Banker Ezra Bassett. Dr. Banks was a widower, now. His three daughters were married; they had done well in their marriages. He had six grandchildren. He loved them all dearly; he loved them almost as much as he loved his money. He was in his sixties, yet appeared much younger, so plump and ruddy was he, so interested and urbane of manner. Though he had learned nothing for twenty-five years, and smiled indulgently at the “germ theory,” he was still the fashionable physician in Andersburg. His fat white hand gently stroked his white beard as he regarded Eugene intently.

  Mr. Bassett was, as he would admit with a chuckle, “staring old age in the face.” He, too, had no complaint to make of life. Still rosy, still radiant, still beaming with good-temper, he looked at Eugene with the friendliest of smiles.

  Time had increased the saintliness of Judge Muehller; the years had refined even the original
refinement, so that he was a silvery wisp of a tall old man.

  A love for money, the possession of money, is a great preservative, thought Eugene, amused. All the original members of the board of directors, and all the officers of the Prescott Lumber Company, were still alive, and flourishing in bright autumn health, full of peace of mind, prosperity and zest, admired and honored by their neighbors, respected by their pastors. In short, they had attained that blissful state somewhat optimistically promised by religion to the pure in heart, the meek, and the merciful.

  The firelight fluttered on the marble hearth of the library, danced on the red and blue and brown and gold backs of the morocco-bound books on the walls, joined with soft lamplight to give the room richness, comfort and peace. Dr. Banks’ dinner had been excellent; later on, the two other old gentlemen had joined the doctor and Eugene for brandy, and for a very important discussion. The strong winds of spring had been muffled by leaded windows and thick velvet draperies. The sweet incense of cigar smoke rose tranquilly in the warmth of the library. Eugene looked about the room. His fleshless fingers tapped the briefcase on his knee.

  He was one with these old men. He was, like themselves, a gentleman. During the past five years, he had served them well, and they knew he served them for his own purposes. They approved of him heartily.

  He had just finished outlining to them the national industrial and financial picture during the past five years. He spoke quietly and dispassionately. They kept nodding.

  “More and more,” Eugene had just said, “and despite the anti-Trust laws passed in the eighties, industrialization is inexorably moving towards a concentration of ownership. Laws can do nothing against the progress of industry and finance; laws are impotent against a natural process. The greatest five or six trusts in the country have now a capitalization of nearly three billion dollars; they employ nearly three-fourths of all the workers, and will soon produce at least four-fifths of all commodities. Despite radical laws, centralization is a fact. It is a natural and healthy process.”