Before William could speak again, and she knew that what he would say would be both offensive and abusive, she went on: “For instance, the boys ought to be in Sunday school. They are going on five. But they know no more of God than does an insensate rock. Oh, I know your argument—that religion is superstition! How do we know there is nothing in religion? How can we judge? At any rate, we have no right to deny the children the contact with a civilizing influence, which may, at some later time, give them consolation and hope, and help them in some crucial situation of temptation or agony.”
“Form!” cried William. Now all his hatred and rage against restraint of any kind rushed out to meet her cold reason. “I am not going to have my children’s minds polluted by superstition. They are going to be free individuals, in spite of you and your friends, who have such an adoration for ‘manners’, and who spend half your time in the ancestor-worship you call tradition—”
Ursula interrupted. Her temper was under control now. She dropped her voice, so that it sounded more emphatic against the vibrating background William’s loud voice had left in the atmosphere. “I am afraid I haven’t made myself very clear. I don’t admire form and tradition as things in themselves. I admire them because they are civilizing influences. Convention and form are the patterns of civilized behavior and culture. Out of them comes a code of ethics which enables man to live in masses, in cities, without murdering his neighbor. And without form, there can be no graciousness in living.”
In spite of himself, William listened, as he always listened when Ursula spoke in this cold and remote fashion. He listened, though he liked her less when she spoke like this than at any other time. He tried to keep his voice down as he said: “I want my children to be natural. Anything else is hypocrisy, and dangerous. Freedom is more valuable than mincing manners.”
Ursula laughed wearily. “Naturalness and freedom, in the social sense, cannot exist save in a society of civilized people. You don’t want the children to be barbarians, do you? Discipline, too, is one of the aspects of ‘form’. The undisciplined man, who is free to express his natural brutality, coarseness and ‘honesty’, cannot live in a civilized society without becoming its enemy, and being rejected by it.
“By evolving form and ceremony, and even ritual, we have, over the centuries, acquired a little civilization, and what is called ‘grace’. ‘Grace’ is the difference between man and the other animals.”
William looked at her in silence and, again, he almost hated her. He hated what he thought she represented: people who had phlegm in their veins instead of blood. His biased mind had fixed upon her as the archetype of those who both disconcerted and infuriated him.
Ursula, for once losing her subtlety, believed that he was listening to her. She went on: “There never was a society distinguished for refinement and polish which lacked reticence and self-restraint. Form, then, is man’s civilized substitute for the innocence he never possessed, an innocence which, in an animal, is a stern code of instinctive behavior.”
He said, with malignance: “You shall not make weaklings of my children, with your ‘form’ and your discipline.”
Ursula sighed. “It is not I who am making our children weak. It is you. You are not preparing them for life. When they encounter it, it will destroy them, for they will be too weak to fight.”
She thought: He does not hear me at all. It is not that he deliberately refuses to listen. It is just that he is on the defensive all the time.
She was sure she was right, for he did not reply to her last words. Instead, his voice loud again, he said: “You dislike our children. You care for none of them, except Oliver.”
She turned to him incredulously. “How can you say that? I love them! That is why I am afraid for them. Oliver? Yes, I love Oliver, too. William, why are you so antagonistic to Oliver?” She knew, but she wanted to hear it from him. It was too much to expect, she realized, when he said: “I, antagonistic? You must be out of your mind. Though Oliver is not really my son, I treat him as if he were. Can you deny that? Can you honestly say he is deprived of anything, or ill-treated, or neglected?”
“Neglected, yes,” she answered, very softly. “He worships you. You hardly give him a word. Why, William? You used to adore him.”
Again, he was furiously excited. “I have never distinguished between him and my own sons. But I have noticed that he avoids me. Young as he is, he is ungrateful. He is indifferent. You are the cause of that, Ursula. You have turned him against me, and mine.”
The accusation was so absurd that Ursula could not answer it. She sat down in her chair and closed her eyes wearily. It was no use.
She heard her bedroom door bang behind her husband; she did not open her eyes. Depression weighed her down. She was not given to crying, but now the tears ran down her cheeks, silently.
They were not for her children, nor even for Oliver. They were for William.
CHAPTER XXV
William Prescott, in his office, glanced somberly at his watch. In two hours, his Board of Directors would meet in the Board Room. He put away his watch; he tapped the dully shining surface of his desk. He stared through the large windows of his office at the brilliant snow outside. The office was very quiet. The small mahogany clock on the stone mantelpiece ticked loudly; the fire-irons twinkled in the strong red blaze of the fire, and now and then the burning wood crackled, threw up a miniature storm of sparks behind the screen. It was a large and pleasant room; he had made it so. Once it had been Chauncey Arnold’s office, gloomy and cluttered. Now a row of books stood against one panelled wall; chairs in red and green leather were scattered about, and a sofa in crimson leather stood against another wall. There were some who discreetly suggested that he had an unbridled and untidy mind. The large quiet order of his office disproved this, in business matters at least.
He liked the portrait of Dr. Cowlesbury, which hung over the mantelpiece, and often, during conferences, or in the midst of lonely work, he would glance at the portrait, or would regard it steadily. Though it had been painted from an old daguerreotype, it was an excellent piece of work. Dr. Cowlesbury had given it to the younger William, mockingly, because William had insisted. The thin but ruddy, bearded face, the intense narrow eyes, the fine long head, had been wonderfully reproduced by the artist. The background was of a deep but neutral green, suggesting the woods in which the old man had lived. William, tapping his fingers on his desk more and more restlessly, looked up at the portrait. The fingers slowed, and finally his hand was still. Suddenly William remembered a conversation he had had with Ursula when she had first seen this portrait. “There is a man who has always known what he wanted,” she had said.
This, for some reason, had irritated William. But Ursula frequently irritated him, without conscious reason. “Well, then, he and I are alike,” he had replied, “and he taught me very well. I, too, have always known what I wanted.”
Ursula had only said: “No.” And she had turned away from the portrait and had begun to talk of something else.
His clerk, Ben Watson, came in with a small sheaf of papers. “This is the report on the cypress wood, sir,” he said. He laid the sheaf on the desk. William frowned at it, then looked up at the clerk. Ben Watson was a man of his own age, a bald neat man with a large crooked nose and an efficient manner. His air was always respectful to his employer; he rarely made mistakes. He was, in all ways, impeccable. Ben Watson, like all his other employees, might show the greatest respect to the man who owned this huge company, might at all times display the utmost alacrity and willingness. Yet, in some subtle and undeniable way, William knew that his employees hated him and derided him among themselves with slight smiles, slighter gestures, a word or two murmured under the breath. Why was this? He paid them almost extravagantly. He never overworked them. If any of them were ill for short periods, he did not deduct money from their salaries.
He had established something revolutionary in his dealings with them, something so startling that his associates were staggered and indig
nant: he had put aside a fund for his employees from which they could draw for medical bills, or other catastrophes. Yet they hated him, and despised him.
“Thanks,” he said to Ben Watson, and the clerk withdrew, walking on quiet feet. Was that contempt in the discreet closing of the door? William, as he had done a thousand times before, tried to tell himself it was his imagination. Yet something assured him he had not imagined it. There was Bassett, for instance, the banker, and his employees. Bassett might be genial to equals, but he was remorseless and hard with employees and others dependent upon him. He treated them brusquely; he spoke to them as little as possible. He made it plain that they were of an inferior species. In his presence, they cringed; they showed every evidence of servility. If they had tails, thought William bitterly, they would probably wag them!
He said to himself: I’ll discharge that damn Watson. But he knew he would not. Watson had a family of five children. His salary was large, almost twice as large as anyone else would pay him. Damn them! Is it impossible to trust anyone whom you treat decently? Must you hound a dependent like a swine, and abuse him, in order to get his respect? Do they think generosity weakness, and is it in the nature of man to attempt to destroy weakness, to despise it? Am I weak?
A subtle but powerful anger started up in him. He began to get to his feet when the door opened again, and Ben Watson reentered. He said, in his quiet and respectful voice: “There is a young man to see you, sir. Eugene Arnold. I have told him you are not to be disturbed, but he begs you to see him. He won’t go away.”
“Eugene Arnold!” William’s dark face colored.
Ben Watson was silent, waiting attentively. The answer to many things, had William been able to see it, was in that clerk’s attitude—the oddly watchful speculation, the concealed and furtive derision, the elaborate deference. Ben Watson knew that another man, in William’s position, would not have colored, would not have betrayed that tight uneasiness. He would have said, indifferently: “Eugene Arnold? Send him away.”
Ben still waited. There was no pride in working for a man who had twinges and uneasinesses and insecurities, who was no better than those working for him. Ben felt the stirring of his secret ridicule, which he shared with his fellow-workers. He looked down at his boots, afraid that this might be seen by William, yet not quite afraid.
“Eugene Arnold,” repeated William. Moments went by. “What does he want, Ben?”
“He wouldn’t say, sir. But he stands there, and short of throwing him out bodily, there is nothing we can do.”
William picked up a paper-weight, set it down heavily. He felt Ben’s contempt.
“Did you tell him I am busy? Well, then, why does he stay?”
“He wouldn’t say, sir,” repeated Ben, imperturbably.
“The Board meets in little more than an hour. You ought not to have annoyed me with this, Ben. Go tell Arnold that I cannot see him now.”
“I shall tell him to return later, sir?” Nothing could have been suaver than Ben Watson’s voice. William looked somberly at his clerk.
“I didn’t say that, Ben.” He kept his voice quiet.
Ben was surprised. He glanced up, swiftly, with disbelief. Then he bowed again, walked slowly towards the door. He might be wrong—they might all be wrong. Now he heard William’s voice, rising irritably: “Never mind! Send him in. But warn him that I can give him only a few minutes.”
Ben went out, smiling contemptuously. He left the door ajar, a piece of impudence which made William start to his feet. And so it was that when Eugene entered, William was standing behind his desk, as if expecting and awaiting an honored visitor, and not a young man who was little more than a beggar, the son of a dead and bankrupt father.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Prescott,” said Eugene. His hat was in his hand. He held it with negligent dignity.
William sat down. He looked at Eugene over his desk. His old dislike for Eugene returned violently, but with it was a kind of discomfort. He saw that, for all the elegance of Eugene’s manner and dress, his clothing was shabby. The boots might be polished, but they were cracked, wet with snow. He noticed all these things before he noticed Eugene’s light expressionless eyes, pale and colorless face, and smooth, pale hair. In consequence, he did not sense Eugene’s assurance, composure and air of self-confidence and authority.
“What is it, Arnold?” asked William, abruptly. “I think you have been told I am very busy.” He paused. “Sit down,” he added, even more abruptly.
Eugene smiled to himself. But he was far more intelligent than Ben Watson and his kind. He felt no contempt for William. He knew the flaw he had suspected long ago was as deep and as wide as ever, capable of cracking asunder. But it would take much to crack it; perhaps it could never be cracked.
“Thank you, sir,” he said, and sat down. He paused. “I am sorry to disturb you. I know you are very busy. I came to ask you if you could find a place for me, here.”
“You want to work for me?” William’s voice was cold and incredulous. “Why?”
“Because I wish to learn the lumber business. And I wish to learn it from you.”
William stared at Eugene, his eyes narrowing. He had come to Chauncey Arnold like this, many years ago, a young man like this. He had come with a purpose. Had Eugene come with the same purpose? William smiled grimly.
“There are other lumber companies,” he said.
“Not in Andersburg. And none as large or important as this.” Nothing could have been more dignified than Eugene’s tone. William continued to look at him intently. He could not read beyond Eugene’s face, beyond those eyes that told nothing at all.
“This might be tactless,” said William, with deliberate slowness, “but I shouldn’t have thought you’d have wanted to come—here.”
“If you are thinking of my father, Mr. Prescott, I can assure you I am not,” said Eugene. He added: “I am thinking of myself. I have always been interested in this business. I have some knowledge of it. I must do what is best for myself, and for my mother, and for my future. Nothing else attracts me.”
William again picked up the paper-weight, and set it down. He studied it. “You sound like a sensible young man.” He hesitated. He knew what another man in his position would have done, even if he had been fool enough to have allowed this interview to take place at all. But he could not do it. This made him irascible.
“But what can you do here? Do you want to work in the mills? After all, you have had an education. Or, was it your idea to ask for work in these offices?”
Eugene heard the tone. It had iron in it. He must be very careful. It was dangerous to underestimate this man.
“I want to work in the offices,” said Eugene, calmly. He crossed one long leg gracefully over the other. “As you have said, sir, I have had an education. And I know there is no better place than this company in which to work.”
“You could go to another city,” said William. He was contemplating Eugene with a hard expression in his eyes.
“Perhaps. But I prefer to remain here.”
William leaned back in his chair. His hands were no longer restless.
In a long silence, he studied Eugene. I was right, thought Eugene. Only a fool would underestimate him.
William’s unshakable dislike for Eugene was increasing. He remembered the young man as a child, standing near his father, sitting by his father’s side, always watching, always waiting. Waiting for what?
Eugene said: “I have my way to make, sir. And I am being as realistic as possible.”
He is another of those I detest, thought William. Again, he studied Eugene, and Eugene returned that look with quiet respect. Still, William could not conquer his dislike and aversion. He did not want Eugene near him. He did not want to see him. It had nothing in the slightest to do with Chauncey Arnold. Then, involuntarily, William thought of Ben Watson. He touched the bell on his desk, leaned back in his chair, and waited.
Ben entered almost immediately. William spoke to him, but kep
t his eyes on Eugene: “Ben, Mr. Arnold has asked for a position here, as a clerk. I understand you need an assistant.”
Ben was nonplussed. He looked at William, then at Eugene. Eugene did not rise, as a young man ought to rise in the presence of a potential superior. In fact, he appeared unaware of Ben.
William smiled. “Arnold, this is Mr. Watson, my chief clerk, and secretary.”
It was then, and then only, that Eugene stood up. He looked directly at Ben Watson, whose expression had become flustered and uncertain. “Good-afternoon,” he said. He was taller than the other man; authority was implicit in his bearing and his voice.
“Good-afternoon,” he replied sullenly. He turned to his employer. “Mr. Prescott, I don’t need an assistant. I have never asked for one.”
“You have one now,” said William. Ben was silent. He had made a mistake, a bad mistake. He saw it now; he saw it in William’s eyes, which were staring at him fixedly.
“Ben, suppose you take Mr. Arnold out now, and begin to explain his new duties to him,” said William.
Eugene turned to him. “Thank you, sir. I shall do my best.” Nothing could have been more courteous or more formal than his manner and his voice.
William did not answer. He watched the other two. Eugene bowed, then went to the door. Ben Watson followed him more slowly. At the door, Ben hesitated. He turned quickly, but before he could speak, William said: “I am not to be disturbed again today, Ben.”
Ben closed the door very softly behind him. His own office adjoined that of William. It was smaller, but very comfortable. Ben went to his desk, sat down, picked up his pen. Eugene watched him. He began to smile. Ben threw down his pen. He opened his mouth to speak, to express some of the rage he felt, but Eugene said, very quietly: “My duties, Mr. Watson?”
He put down his hat and coat on a chair; then, seeing a clothes-hanger, he carried his coat and hat to it, and hung them up. He said, as if speaking aloud to himself: “Only a fool thinks others are fools.”