Martin’s lips pressed themselves together, but he said nothing.
“A fine pair you are, you and Ernest!” Joseph continued, in the strained voice of a sick man. “One can’t rely on either of you! Ernest with his close mouth and scheming and conniving, and you with that humpback! A man might as well have no sons.”
“Pa, you are ill,” replied Martin, with quick concern and gentleness. “Let me help you to bed. Tomorrow, I’m going to ask Dr. Fisher to see you. You’d best stay home and rest.” He took his father’s arm. “Let me help you to bed.”
Joseph, with an oath, wrenched his arm away. “Blast it, I’m no more ill than you are! All this petty-fogging business! I’m in the prime of my life.” His voice rose menacingly, as though his words were intended for other ears, too. “Damn it, I’m not fifty, yet! I’ve got a long way to go.”
Martin regarded him gravely and thoughtfully.
“Who said you didn’t have a long way to go, Pa?”
“Nobody!” Joseph exploded. He struggled out of the chair, stood up, swayed for a moment. Martin, careful not to enrage him, did not put out his hand to steady him. “But you and your mother, and that damned Frenchman, and your scheming brother—all of you whining: ‘You’d best see a doctor! You’re very ill!’” His voice rose higher, shriller, full of hysterical rage. “What do you want of me? Are you trying to get me to peg out, all of you?”
“You’re being very foolish, Pa,” said Martin quietly. “And you’re upsetting yourself. Please come to bed. What you wanted to say to me tonight can keep, can’t it?”
“No, it can’t! That’s always been the trouble with you, Martin, shilly-shallying, leaving everything for tomorrow, pretending that everything’ll be all right if you leave it alone. But it’s never all right! Things’ve got to be settled—”
Martin smiled patiently. “All right, then, what things? Let us sit down, and talk about them.”
They sat down, and Martin tried to break up the dull coals into a blaze with the poker. He threw on fresh coals, and the fire brightened. Joseph shivered, huddled his body forward on his chair, trying to get warm. He kept rubbing his chin with a shaking hand. Martin turned to him. “What’s bothering you, Pa? If I can help you, please tell me.”
Joseph’s hand fell slowly and slackly to his knee, and then lay there, like a leaf that has been caught on a ledge. His shoulders, thin under his coat, sagged. He stared at Martin with empty eyes. Then, very slowly and heavily, he shook his head, blinking.
“But, Pa, you must have wanted to ask me something, tell me something, or you wouldn’t have waited up for me. What did you want to tell me?”
Yes, what? thought Joseph stupidly. It was too late. He had not wanted to ask or tell anything. But he had been deadly frightened all day and all night; he had wanted Martin to come home, so that he would have an illusion of safety. Martin always understood things that stiff-necked brother of his never understood. He understood without words. Anyway, his mere presence would have been sustaining, for he had calmness and quietness, and a serenity that often comforted his father, though he could not understand it. Had he come home at nine, or ten, Joseph would have said nothing, would only have smiled, talked to him desultorily, and gone to bed, a little relieved. But he had waited and waited, and it was past midnight, and it seemed that when one waited until midnight one should have something to say, in all truth. But what could he say? Could he say: I think your brother is a rascal, and will rob us all some day and throw us into the street? What shameful words, and how untrue! Could he say: I feel that I am going to die soon, and I am afraid? But this too would be a lie. A sick irritation began to smoulder in him.
But though the thoughts had been put into crude, harsh words in his mind, hardening there like rock that has been molten but is now cooling, and though he repudiated them with silent fury, a distillation of them filtered all through him, and his fear started up again. But it was a vague fear that floated like mist over the rock-like thoughts that he refused to see or acknowledge.
“Damn it,” he said weakly, “do we have to make a special occasion of it, just because I was feeling a little off color, and lonely, and wanted to talk to someone besides your mother? So I waited for you, thinking you’d be home at a decent hour, and then I fell asleep and your Ma went to bed herself. Come, come. Don’t sit there! In about five bloody hours we’ve got to get up again. A man gets no peace, anywhere.”
He went up the stairs slowly, with the helpless and abandoned movements of a sick child. Martin watched him go. When he heard the bedroom door shut after his father, he poked the fire into a blaze of last heat and fury, blew out the candles, and went upstairs himself. The house had been enlarged during the past year, and Martin had a bedroom to himself. In emulation of the saints he had been introduced to originally by Jacques Bouchard, he had furnished his room severely, so that it was more than a little chill and cell-like. He never had a fire, and there were no rugs on the floor, no curtains at the windows. The bed was narrow and hard, with no canopy, no fringed and flounced counterpane. On a bare table stood a simple, undecorated oil lamp, and beside it was a stiff chair; in one corner stood a homemade bookcase, full of Martin’s many books. Over his bed he had hung a very bad print of the Sistine Madonna, and had silenced Hilda’s violent protests and accusations of “Popery” with the specious story that the print was a present from Jacques, He had smiled at her warning that he was never to let his father suspect that such a thing was in the house.
He always entered his room with a sense of austere satisfaction, but tonight it struck him that the air was as dank and chill as that of a cellar, and that it was utterly cheerless. He shivered as he lit the doleful lamp, and waited while its bleak white shadow fell on the boarded walls, the cold wooden floor and the hard narrow bed. His depression had given way to a profound emptiness of emotion, which was partly due to the unceasing demands on his emotions during this night. Standing there in the middle of the room, irresolute and exhausted, he thought to himself that he could not bear these blank walls and coldness and dreariness. He threw off his coat, ran downstairs, and came up again with an armload of wood, paper and a scuttle of coal. Within a short time he had a roaring fire. The chimney had never been used since it had been built, and there was somewhat of a stench in the room for a little while, but Martin, sitting close to the fire and rubbing his dry and dusty hands, felt cheered and confident again. The sense of escape and relief that he had felt when leaving Jacques came back; it seemed to him that something within him stretched cramped muscles, breathed, looked about and laughed a little. He forgot entirely until the next day that he was supposed to enter a monastery very shortly.
When the room felt sufficiently warm, he started to undress. Then he heard a faint knocking at his door. He opened it, and little twelve-year-old Dorcas stood there in her chemise, a candle in her hand.
“What are you doing up at this hour, child?” he asked softly. He saw she was shivering in the darkness and coldness of the hall, so picked her up and carried her to the fire in his arms. She put her small arms about his neck, and cuddled her face against his. A thrill of tenderness and love passed through him. He rubbed the girl’s cold feet in his warm hands, as she chattered in a whisper, and perched kisses on his cheek and chin.
“I heard the awful noise you made, Martin, bringing up the coal. And I wanted to talk to you. I feel so lonesome.”
He smiled down at her. How beautiful she was! he thought. The blue eyes were dark and brilliant, the lashes bronzed, the fair hair like threads of rippling gold. Her complexion was not bright, like Florabelle’s, but pale and lustrous, and there was a deep dimple in her left cheek. She was a very slight child, delicately and exquisitely made, and she had a trustful and innocent air that was very touching. Between the brother and the sister was an intense affection, stronger than it had been when Martin was a young boy with a small baby to mind. He held her very close to him, her head on his breast, and he began to rock her with meaningless croo
ning sounds. The warmth, the comfort of his presence, and his arms, soothed her so that she fell asleep, and he continued to rock her. The heat of her body mingled with the heat of his; her little white hand slipped from his neck; her breath touched his cheek like a feather.
Holding her so, and rocking her, Martin became conscious of a still bright joy in him, which made him strong, drove out forever all chill and doubt and indecision as to what he should do. His sister needed him, looked to him for protection and affection. Besides, he loved her so!
For the first time in his life he did no feel afraid; he was powerful and ardent, sure and firm. When he carried the sleeping girl back to her bed, it seemed to him that he carried all that was beautiful and warm and living in the world.
CHAPTER XIX
One beautiful spring day Ernest rode over to the Sessions Steel Company to keep an appointment with Gregory Sessions.
Ernest was jubilant. His jubilation did not show itself in excitement, nor even by a sparkle in his light and implacable eye. He neither hurried his horse nor betrayed other signs of exhilarated impatience. But there was a dusky flush on his face, and when he walked into Gregory’s office his step rang confidently. He greeted the older man, flung his gloves on his desk with a flourish. Gregory smiled, raised his eyebrows slightly at these unusual demonstrations.
“Ah, the spring air has finally permeated the iron, eh?” he asked indolently. “What it is to be young! Is it a matter of the heart?”
Ernest’s exhilaration was such that he was not annoyed at this chaffing.
“No, money,” he answered, with his convulsion of a smile. He lifted his coattails, sat down and crossed his legs. “Money,” he repeated, his smile broadening as Gregory’s became a little thin and acid.
“Money,” said Gregory thoughtfully. He snapped his fingers. “Like that.”
Ernest snapped his fingers also. “Yes, like that.”
“Am I to presume that you are here to borrow money, Ernest? That is astonishing. I understand, from the bank, that Barbour & Bouchard are doing extraordinarily well, and that you ought to be millionaires within half a dozen years.” This recalled to his mind that he still owned thirty-three and a half per cent of the Barbour & Bouchard stock, and a sense of satisfaction pervading him added cordiality to his voice. “I cannot believe you are here to borrow money? It is I who should borrow money from you.”
“Nevertheless,” said Ernest, “I want to borrow money. From the bank. You are one of the directors of the bank, and I expect that you will approve my note.” He leaned forward, closer to Gregory. “For seventy-five thousand dollars.”
“Seventy-fi—! You are mad, my dear boy, quite mad!” Gregory pulled his long and elegant body upright in his chair, and looked irate. “Of course, it is out of the question! But I am curious. Whatever do you wish seventy-five thousand dollars for? God help us!”
“Our balance at the bank is well over that amount,” said Ernest, unperturbed. “I shall have to withdraw twenty-five thousand, however, to add to the seventy-five I intend borrowing. The other fifty thousand is to remain in the bank for emergencies. I shall expect, of course, to pay the bank six per cent interest.”
Stupefied, Gregory stared at him, clutching the arms of his chair. His expression was that of a man who contemplates a maniac. Ernest laughed a little, lit one of Gregory’s cheroots and smoked it for a moment, though the taste was obnoxious to him.
“I want,” he said, “to buy the Kinsolving Ammunition Works. Old Mr. Kinsolving wants to retire. He has no sons to leave the business to. He wants to travel. I heard just a rumor of this a month ago, and I’ve been talking to him. He wanted one hundred fifty thousand dollars for the business. That includes everything, naturally, patents and all. Finally, after prolonged argument, he agreed to take one hundred thousand dollars. Cash.”
Gregory came out of his stupefaction a little. “Very nice of him, I must say,” he remarked ironically. His thin face suddenly was suffused with angry color. “Of all the damned nonsense! What do you want that business for? Haven’t you enough to do? Do you want to plunge us into bankruptcy? Hell, you talk like a child! I’m amazed at you, Ernest, I really am. Ammunition! Why, it’s all over town that Kinsolving is just one step ahead of the sheriff! And you propose—Damn it, lad, you are wasting my time!”
Ernest listened quietly, smoking. Then he said: “You are one of the directors of the bank. No matter how you decide, the others may decide in my favor. If not, I shall go to Pittsburgh or Philadelphia and get the money. Armand and my father are quite in accord with me. However, I wanted to give the bank this opportunity. I believe in doing business in the home town.
“You have said many a time that I am no fool. Please recall your incredulity and annoyance when I first approached you for that measly twenty thousand. But you see that I was justified, that I knew exactly what I was doing. And I know now what I am doing.
“It is true that old Kinsolving is on the verge of bankruptcy. If he weren’t, the business would cost me twice as much. But he is about to go bankrupt because he is incompetent and old. Perhaps you aren’t aware that he holds many valuable patents, one for an exploding cannon ball that is still, I admit, in the experimental stage. But his best patent is a percussion cap for guns, a device using a highly explosive powder for the setting off of a bullet charge. I have investigated it thoroughly, and I am now of the opinion that it is far superior to the Forsyth percussion cap, which Robsons-Strong of England manufacture. Besides, they still use the black gunpowder, whereas we have just patented my father’s latest invention: an almost smokeless powder.
“Of course, the business is run down. It will need a lot of building up. But with Barbour & Bouchard behind it, with new machinery, workmen, our reputation, our money, it will not be hard. We make the arms: we can make the ammunition. I have it worked out in detail.” He laid a sheaf of long papers before Gregory, then fixed his eyes intently on those of the other man so that Gregory stared back as a bird stares at a snake. “Look these over, Mr. Sessions, sir. And I am sure that you will be quite in agreement with me.”
“You are quite mad,” Gregory repeated. His voice was dull and absent, and his expression heavy and hostile.
Ernest smiled. “You do not believe that, yourself, sir. I do not believe you underestimate my—business ability. When I speak, I generally know what I am talking about. I always have things prepared, settled, worked out in my own mind, before I say anything about them. With all unexpected events allowed for, we cannot fail to profit by this.” A crafty look narrowed his eyes, widened his mouth. “I have taken an option on the business. That was a week ago. This morning, Mr. Kinsolving informs me, he received an offer from Burbank Summers Company for twenty-five thousand more than I offered. Mr. Kinsolving,” added Ernest, “hopes that I shall not be able to raise the balance of his price.
“It is my plan to give the bank six notes at six per cent. That will give as six years to repay the seventy-five thousand. I have allowed generous time. But I expect to repay it within two years.
“Now, Mr. Sessions, what do you say?”
Gregory fingered the papers on his desk. He was experiencing mixed emotions. Never had he disliked Ernest so much as he did at this minute. He positively abhorred him. It would have given him great satisfaction to have refused so finally that the young man would not have been able to float his loan anywhere. He would have given a great deal to see that confident look destroyed, that cold equanimity broken. He felt toward Ernest at that instant like an enemy, full of malevolence and hate. He could not have explained why, and was more than a little contemptuous of himself. But there it was. The young ass made a man’s gorge rise. On the other hand, Gregory felt a sudden certainty that the Kinsolving business in the hands of Barbour & Bouchard would be enormously successful. And he would share in that success. Already he was reaching a bank balance that he had never dreamt of in the most wistful moments. If Sessions Steel had helped Barbour & Bouchard, how much more had Barbour &
Bouchard helped Sessions Steel! The price of the Sessions stock had tripled in the last three years. But how ironical it was, how bitter, that he could not thwart Ernest without thwarting himself; he must choke on his hate to fill his pockets. He must agree, assist, when he would have given five years of his life to refuse. But he would not give profit.
He asked a few surly questions, and was both enraged and excited at the answers. Finally he said grudgingly: “Do not count too much on this. But, after deliberation I may decide to approve your notes. Of course, it’s a lot of damned nonsense. Gambling.” He bit off the end of a cheroot with delicate savagery. “I don’t know why I don’t throw you out. I’ll go over these papers and talk to John Baldwin about the matter, and let you know. Tomorrow.”
Having made his furious decision, his mood changed, became genial. His look of the elegant and fastidious satyr came back into his face. Again, he became affectionately paternal and chaffing.
“It is almost a week since you visited us,” he said. “Amy was remarking on it. Why not return with me? I shall be leaving very shortly.” Ernest, without a change in expression, calmly accepted. “And Ernest, I expect my brother, Nicholas, next week. It will be his first visit home in nearly two years, and I dare say he is returning now only because he is hoping to be re-elected in the fall. He has to do some campaigning, become just a rustic home boy again, for benefit of votes. You remember, you were in Philadelphia when he was here last, and he was much annoyed. This time, you two shall meet, I hope. He has expressed himself as delighted with the way things have progressed.”
“That is very civil of Senator Sessions,” said Ernest in his level voice, a voice so even and unemotional that Gregory’s sharp ear could not detect if there were the slightest satirical timbre in it. But he had an irately uneasy feeling that there had been. He shook his head, pretended to be serious. “I don’t know what Nicholas will say about this.”
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