“Nonsense,” said the stranger. “Why should I wait until tomorrow? I saw the land this evening, and I immediately wanted it. I can’t go to bed without having bought it. I don’t want to diddle with lawyers. You sound like a sensible woman. Why pay your lawyer the commission?”
“Simply because he is my lawyer,” replied Ursula, obdurately.
“If I go to your lawyer,” said the stranger, with a most absurd threat in his voice, “I’ll offer him five hundred dollars less than he asks, and then you’ll pay his commission to boot.” He paused. “I suppose I was mistaken. You aren’t a sensible woman after all.”
“But why does it have to be settled tonight?” asked Ursula, with a sharp edge to her voice. “I can’t bargain with you on the doorstep—”
“Then you can invite me in.” His own voice softened, as if he were smiling. “I’m harmless, and I’m in a hurry. You don’t need to be afraid of me.”
“I’m not in the least afraid,” said Ursula, with cool impatience. She hesitated. The heads were still at the windows. If she admitted this man, this stranger, the news would be told at breakfast in every house on the street: “Ursula Wende had a male caller last night; sheallowed him to enter her house, though she had no female friend with her. Of course, everyone knows that Ursula is the soul of discretion, but still—”
Suddenly, Ursula was sick of discretion. Besides, she was by nature respectful of money. Extra dollars would not harm her in the slightest. The land was worthless. It adjoined no farms; it was in the least fashionable of the suburbs, and no one wanted it for new houses. She resented the taxes she had to pay on it, small as they were. She thought of the grasping Mr. Jenkins. She opened the door wider, and said, briefly: “Come in.”
The man promptly followed her into her tiny warm hall. She had a moment’s nervousness as she closed the door and found herself alone with him. She remembered newspaper stories of lone women murdered in their beds. But I am not in my bed, she thought to herself with faint humor. She restrained a desire to hurry into her parlor and place herself close to the poker near the fireplace. She led the way sedately into the room. The lamp had a heartening light. It revealed the walnut panelling on the walls, the faded Aubusson rug in its blue and rosy tints, the well-polished ancient chests, chairs and tables, the cat on the hearth, the darkened portrait over the mantelpiece, the Chelsea porcelain figurines and ormolu clock below it. It all had an exquisite look of loving care and taste, fastidiousness and elegance.
The stranger stood in the center of the room, and looked frankly about him. He smiled. He had a dark saturnine smile. There was about him an atmosphere of force and ruthlessness. All at once, the parlor seemed to Ursula too dainty, too attenuated, too refined, a woman’s room, for all her father had furnished it, had chosen each article from the houses of his deceased relatives.
“A nice room,” said the stranger. Ursula eyed him narrowly. Was he making game of her? But she saw, after a moment, and with surprise, that he was sincere. He was admiring the room, and everything in it. To Ursula, this seemed grotesque. He was such a big man. He was neither old nor young. She guessed his age as thirty-two or three.
“I always thought there must be such rooms,” said the stranger. “I, myself, though, prefer heavier furniture, and thicker rugs. But I know what is here is very good. Probably priceless.” There was a suggestion of a query in his voice. Exasperated again, but just a little amused also, Ursula replied: “I really do not know. Everything here belonged to my father’s people. He chose what he wished.”
“Old, and priceless,” said the man. He was well dressed, in an excellently cut coat of the best black broadcloth and discreetly striped trousers. His waistcoat was of heavy silk. His black cravat boasted a good pearl pin. He carried a fine greatcoat on his arm, and his boots were handmade and brilliant. A malacca cane hung from his other arm. His clothing proclaimed the gentleman. But Ursula, with the instinct of her breeding, knew he was no gentleman.
She felt an unfamiliar curiosity, and studied him with more interest than was usual with her. He had a large but narrow head, with thick, straight, black hair, well-combed and neat. Below it was a knotted forehead, brown as if it had been repeatedly, and vulgarly, exposed to much sun. Eyebrows, thick, unruly and very black, almost met over deep-set and restless gray eyes. His nose was predatory, thin and curved, with flaring nostrils. His wide thin mouth was set tautly; he had a sound hard chin with a deep dimple.
With more and more surprise, Ursula said to herself: He has an eloquent face, and very expressive. I do not know whether I like what it expresses, for I do not know what it is. But though his face is eloquent, it has a quality of earth. How can features be so eloquent of so many things, and yet be so coarse? The coarseness, she decided, with astuteness, must come from some quality of his nature.
“Won’t you sit down, Mr.—” she suggested, and hated her voice for its note of primness.
“William Prescott,” he said, and sat down, after laying his hat, greatcoat and cane on a nearby sofa. He glanced at the fire, then before she could say anything, or make a move, he was up again, was tossing coals on the red embers, and was vigorously stirring them up. “I hate to be cold,” he remarked. “I like heat, plenty of heat. I suppose that is because I was so often cold in my life, and could not get warm.”
Nonplussed, Ursula watched him, and listened to him. She sat down, feeling quite numb, and waited until he had seated himself again. He gave her his cold, unfriendly smile; she noticed that he had strong white teeth. He should have made her uneasy. But, on the contrary, the queerest excitement stirred her.
She observed he was studying her candidly. She could see herself through his own eyes. She saw her tall slenderness, her narrow waist and high breasts under the russet wool frock, her thin thighs and neat and narrow feet. She saw the white lace collar at her throat, fastened with her mother’s cameo brooch circled with seed pearls, and the white lace at her strong but narrow wrists. A ruby ring sparkled on the ring finger of her right hand. The left was ringless. All at once, she did not know why, she was glad that she had fine white hands with the “philosopher’s” prominent knuckles, and fingers that tapered. She had novanity, and she knew that she was not beautiful. Still, friends had commented upon her long oval face, so smooth and cool and colorless except for the rather inflexible mouth of a pale coral tint. She knew that she had a delicately Roman nose, arched and somewhat arrogant, a nose which had caused her secret tears in her girlhood, when she had compared it with the little retroussé or straight noses of her friends.
Her hair and eyes were faultless, she admitted frankly. The hair was smooth and heavy and waveless, very long and thick, and of a deep russet color, like an oaken leaf in autumn. She had eyes to match. Her father had said they reminded him of the best sherry, for, though aloof, they were liquid and bright, flecked with golden brown, and set in strong russet lashes. Ursula never cared much for passing style. She wore her beautiful hair parted in the middle, over a very high white forehead, and drawn back austerely to a large knot on her nape, with never a curl or a coquettish fringe.
She dressed discreetly, but with taste, and she had about her an unbendingly composed air, sometimes a little stern but invariably self-possessed. Once, her father, feeling more affectionate than usual, had told her she was a great lady, and he speculated, audibly, how such a great lady could have sprung from his sturdy, “Pennsylvania Dutch” ancestry. “There is something Spanish about you, my pet,” he had said. Then he had added, with a little malice: “But there is nothing Spanish in your temperament.”
She had been pleased. But now the memory disturbed her, made her vaguely resentful. What had her father really known of her, and her potentialities?
William Prescott said, with another of his unpleasant smiles: “You think me precipitous coming like this, hardly two hours after seeing your land?”
Ursula was exasperated at her own emotionalism, and she replied in a cool tone: “It does seem extraordinary. You
were not expecting to build on it tonight, were you, Mr. Prescott?”
He laughed suddenly. The laugh was hoarse, and as disagreeable as his smile. “Strange to admit, but in a way I was. I never wait. I’ve found that everything that is ever accomplished is done by precipitate people.”
“I prefer people who take a little thought,” said Ursula.
He looked at her, still smiling. His small grey eyes were very penetrating and hard, like bits of stone. “I take plenty of thought. But I do it faster than the average person. When I saw that land, I had not only bought it in my mind, but I had built upon it what I wished, complete to the last detail.”
She thought: He is a conceited lout.
He continued: “I have been looking for such a piece of ground. Isolated. Large enough, not too large. And cheap. It is the cheapest suburb of Andersburg.”
Ursula was again irritated. “You haven’t even asked the price. I am not prepared to sell the land cheaply.”
“How much?” he asked. She became aware that there was always a demand in his questions. She began to dislike him more and more. She hesitated. She had placed a price of one thousand five hundred dollars on the land. She said indifferently: “Two thousand dollars.”
He stared, then glowered. “Two thousand dollars! That’s exorbitant. I could buy a fairly good small farm for that.”
Ursula smiled frigidly, but said nothing.
“I had expected to pay no more than one thousand five hundred, at the very most,” said Mr. Prescott. “Even that is too much, and you know it. There is nothing around it of any value, and you know that, too. I understand they may even put up workmen’s shacks all about it! If they do, you won’t get a thousand for the whole fifteen acres.”
“Mr. Prescott,” said Ursula, formally, “I did not solicit you to buy what I own. You came here yourself.”
“But you saw I wanted the infernal land, so you put up the price,” he said, with a very nasty inflection in his voice. His words were offensive, yet Ursula, incredulously, saw suddenly that his expression was almost admiring.
“I am not going to argue about prices,” she said. “I have given you the price I will take. If you do not wish to pay it—or cannot,” she added, with a sudden and subtle awareness that with this she could cut him sharply, “then we need not go on with the discussion.”
She saw she was right, for he turned an ugly brick-red. “You know nothing of my financial condition,” he said rudely. “You know nothing about me; you never saw me before.”
So, he was vulnerable. This made Ursula smile with pleasure.
“You are quite correct, Mr. Prescott.” She made her voice haughtily insolent. “Who are you? Are you a stranger to Andersburg?”
Now he glanced away from her, and his mouth tightened. “I was born in Andersburg, Miss Wende. On Clifton Street. But, of course, you know nothing of Clifton Street.” He said this with an insolence that surmounted her own.
“Oh, yes,” remarked Ursula, with repellent pleasantness, “I know all about Clifton Street. The Ladies Aid of my church makes up Christmas baskets for the unfortunate inhabitants. We also gather up discarded clothing, mend and patch and clean it.”
All at once, she was disgusted with herself, for she saw him involuntarily glance down at his rich clothing as though it had turned abruptly to rags. The disagreeable expression went from his face, and was replaced by one so gloomy that she hated herself.
“I’m sorry,” she said, with real humility and regret. “I ought not to have said that.”
He laughed shortly. “I have that effect on people,” he said.
He said this, not with apology, but with a kind of hard bitterness and defiance. Then he added: “I no longer live on Clifton Street, Miss Wende. I am temporarily living in the Imperial Hotel.” He watched her closely, then smiled. “You aren’t impressed?”
“Should I be? Should I admit that I know that the Imperial Hotel is very expensive?” Her words were unkind, but her voice had become gentle at the last.
“I have the best suite,” he said, frankly, and his own voice was almost humorous. His eloquent face expressed amusement at himself, and now it lost its earthy quality and took on a vivid liveliness. “When I was a very young fellow, I promised myself I should have that suite. I worked in the hotel for a while, as a waiter.”
He watched her narrowly for a look of disdain. But she was gazing at him with that new gentleness. “How nice that you realized your ambition,” she commented. Something warm was spreading in her, something she did not recognize as pity. She had never before really pitied anyone, for she had never cared enough.
“My mother kept a boarding-house on Clifton Street, for the men who worked in the Leslie Carriage Shops,” he said. “Of course, this is of no interest to you, Miss Wende, and I don’t know why I am telling you this. But I might say that I am a lumber man, now. After I was a waiter, I began to work for the American Lumber Company.”
Ursula knew Mr. Chauncey Arnold, president of the American Lumber Company. The acquaintanceship was distant, for Ursula had always considered Mr. Arnold to be very gross. The gentleman had tried to cultivate August Wende, without notable success.
“I shan’t bore you with all the details,” said William Prescott. “Ladies, I know, are not interested in commerce, or money. Except when they try to get the highest price for a poor piece of land,” he added, smiling.
Ursula returned the smile. “Mr. Prescott, I’ll bore you with a few details of my own. I am an unmarried woman. My father came of a wealthy ‘burgher’ family, but they lost their money after the war. My father was a schoolmaster. He died less than a year ago. He left me a sum of money, but it is not enough to keep me for the rest of my life. I have found a position as a teacher. The salary is small, even if just enough for my needs. I like to think that I have a small, secure principal. I am quite healthy, and may live a long time. You are, obviously, a gentleman of means. You will forgive me, then, for driving as good a bargain as I can.”
She was amazed at her unique retreat from habitual reserve.
She added, with angry pride: “I originally put a price of one thousand five hundred dollars on the land. You may have it for that, if you wish.”
He looked down at his big thin hands, brown and strong, and he was thoughtful. “I’ll take your original offer of two thousand,” he said.
Ursula could not endure this. She stood up. He raised his eyes to her. Then, apparently, he remembered that gentlemen rise when ladies rise, and he, too, stood up. They faced each other on the hearth.
“Mr. Prescott,” said Ursula, “my price is one thousand five hundred. I shall take no more. So, let us end the matter.”
He inclined his head indulgently, after a moment’s study of her. “One thousand five hundred, then.” He put his hand in the inner pocket of his coat and drew out a purse of the best Florentine leather and workmanship. His fingers rubbed it almost lovingly. “I will give you a deposit, now, of two hundred, and take your receipt. Within a few days, you can give me the deed, and receive the balance of the money.” He looked at her steadily. “Or shall I call on Mr. Jenkins?”
Ursula, for all her irritation, could not help laughing.
“Never mind Mr. Jenkins,” she replied. “As you said before, why should I pay him a commission? Only last week he told me that I would never sell that piece of property.”
Smiling in answer, William Prescott extended two gold-backed bills to her. She took them. Her fingers brushed his, and a strange thrill ran down her arm, struck at her heart. This so bemused her that she stood there, staring at him in confusion.
“I’ll give you a receipt at once,” she stammered. She stepped back a single pace; she could not look away from him. He said nothing, but now his eyes were keener than ever. He was frowning, as if disturbed.
She turned suddenly, and went to her delicate rosewood desk in a distant corner of the room. She sat down quickly. Now her eyes blurred. She began to fumble in the drawers of the desk
.
She heard his voice beside her. “Let me light the lamp for you,” he was saying. He had taken a box of matches from his pocket. He took the chimney off the desk lamp, then lighted it. The little flare trembled as if a breeze had touched it. He had some difficulty with the flame of the lamp. She watched him, as if in a dream, her mouth parted. Then he replaced the chimney. “There now,” he said, with absurd triumph, as though he had accomplished something of tremendous difficulty and importance.
She wrote out the receipt. Involuntarily, she managed to brush his fingers again. They looked at each other, hypnotized, as he folded the receipt without glancing at it, and put it away in that resplendent purse. She sat there, and he stood there, for a long time, in utter silence.
He said, in a stupid tone, dull and shaken: “You ought to have gas in this house. It isn’t very expensive. And quite safe. I have gas-lights in my suite. Very convenient. Much better light, too, and better for the eyes. Some people object to the glare, and say the smell is more offensive than that of oil. I don’t think so. Of course, one has to keep a window a little open. The fumes, you know.”
“I’ve heard about the fumes,” said Ursula, faintly, leaning back in her chair. “I understand they give you a headache. I don’t think I should care for gas.”
“But you must have gas!” cried William Prescott. He appeared quite excited. “One should progress.” Then he fell into silence. He stared down at Ursula. The smooth, cool pallor of her face was suffused. She was beautiful as she had never been beautiful before. The light brightened her russet hair to a ring of gold about her head. She felt a warm swelling in her breast, a richness in her thighs, an urgency all through her body.
He turned abruptly and went back to the hearth, and stood there, looking at the fire. Slowly, Ursula got to her feet. She returned to the hearth, sat down. They both stared intensely at the leaping flames that crackled all over the fresh coal. William Prescott, though standing too near her, did not move. There was a somberness about him, and something like a deep silent anger. She could feel this. But she was not alarmed, or dismayed. Something excited rose in her. For the first time since her childhood she was feeling, and not thinking, and the experience was primordial.