“O damn you, damn you, damn you! You drab, you trollop, you slut—you foul thing!”
Later that night, when the guests had departed, and Andrew and Eugenia were about to go to their apartments, Richard Gorth suddenly and brutally turned upon them.
“You,” he said to his nephew, “you damnable blackguard! Why didn’t you tell me that you had married the woman you had done him out of? You told me nothing but that she was his cousin, you scoundrel and liar!” He choked, coughed, turned purple. “I can see it all now! I remember how you came mincing to me, saying how capital it would be to surprise your old ‘friendly enemy,’ introducing him unexpectedly to his cousin! Never at any time did you inform me that he didn’t know she was married to you, but you were quick enough to urge me not to betray your accursed simpering secret! Oh, it would be capital, it would!”
Andrew tried to smile and shrug. “It was impossible for me to know, uncle, that he would misunderstand this way. He was always an unreliable and unpredictable scamp. After all, he was married, himself. Why should it have mattered to him who Eugenia married, after he had jilted her? Did he expect her to sit in the chimney-corner the rest of her life and mourn after him?”
Richard Gorth stared at him, baffled. Andrew’s words were reasonable enough. But he shouted, turning an even brighter purple: “Oh, use your smooth words to me, you liar! There’s more to this than what meets the eye, I can tell you!”
He swung upon Eugenia. “And you, ma’am, it was a cruel jest to play upon your cousin! How could you look at his face, tonight, without shame?”
Eugenia did not answer him. But she lifted her head proudly and looked at him. The gray brilliance of her eyes was suffused with tears. She rose with haughty dignity and left the room. Richard Gorth watched her go, confounded. Yes, there was more to this than what met the eye.
Mrs. Gorth, in the background, tittered happily to herself.
CHAPTER 20
The spring night was warm and exhilarating. Mr. Wilkins had enjoyed the walk from the Gorth mansion to the residence of Miss Amanda Beardsley on West Fourteenth Street. Standing before the latter house, he looked up to the third floor, where a light still burned. He nodded his head with satisfaction, opened the front door with the key recently and amiably furnished him by Miss Beardsley in order that he might visit his young friends without the inconvenience of waiting for admission, and disturbing her own household at odd hours.
He climbed the stairs softly, like a fat cat, for his step was very light. He reached the door of the Turnbull apartments, saw a gush of light exuding out from under it into the dark corridor. He tapped gently, then opened the door.
His first impression was of complete confusion, though not an article of furniture had been disturbed and the polished floors gleamed in the light of a lamp on a distant table. The disorder apparently came from John Turnbull, who had been pacing wildly for hours up and down his severe gaunt living-room. He had torn off his coat and cravat, and was in his shirt-sleeves, which were rolled back revealing his strong brown arms. His neck, so like a corded column of brown marble, was also fully displayed. He had run his distracted hands so often through his hair that every thick black curl stood upright all over his big round skull in damp and vital springs.
Mr. Wilkins’ entry had evidently interrupted hours of frantic pacing, for John stopped abruptly in the very motion of walking. Seeing Mr. Wilkins, a look of the most frightful hatred and fury shot across his haggard and distraught face, and he uttered a hoarse and incoherent imprecation. Lilybelle was nowhere to be seen. Mr. Wilkins thought that he heard prolonged moaning from the other room.
If Mr. Wilkins was momentarily taken aback by the expression in John’s eyes and upon his face, he did not betray this. He, himself, had assumed an aspect of mournful solicitude, tempered by grave indignation.
He held out his hands, and said in a rich trembling voice: “My poor young friend! Wot I’ve suffered for you! And wot a dastardly plot to ’oomiliate you!”
Never was compassion more rosily expressed, never were bright tears so obvious in the opaque hazel eyes, never did a fat round mouth reveal so much righteous anger and grief, never did hands tremble so convincingly! Even John in his wretchedness and madness could see all this. The fury and hatred sank into sick dullness on his face, whose grayish cast deepened. Then once again it was alive with wild despair and loathing, and he raised his clenched fists.
“Why did you not tell me before I went to that place?” he cried, in a choked and suffocating voice. “I could kill you, you piggish swine, you pink mountebank and liar! Why didn’t you warn me? It was little enough to do!”
Mr. Wilkins’ countenance revealed nothing but sorrow and vicarious suffering. He shook his head a little, dropped it, sighed.
“You knew who she was! I’d told you!” panted John. “Yet, you hadn’t even the common decency to warn me!”
Mr. Wilkins lifted his head and gazed steadfastly at John, with such affection, such simple grief, such shock, that the young man’s voice dwindled into a breathless squeak.
“Mr. Turnbull, sir,” began Mr. Wilkins, sadly, “did you think it of me? You thought I knew, eh? That’s a bad and ungenerous thought, Mr. Turnbull. True it is that you told me the young female’s name, from the beginning, but never did I know it was one and the same as was married to Andrew Bollister. Not till tonight, sir, I swear it. ’Ow could I think a young female as ’ad given her word to you, before a certain night, sir, would up and marry your worst enemy? It ain’t in hooman nature, sir, it isn’t that. It’s a plot, sir, an unChristian plot.”
These words were so extraordinary, and Mr. Wilkins’ attitude so humble, so grief-stricken, so sincerely sympathetic and indignant, that John fell into desperate silence, clenching and unclenching his hands, his distraught face wrinkling and twisting. But his loud and torn breathing filled the room.
Mr. Wilkins cautiously laid his hat, gloves and cane on a chair, shaking his head dolefully meanwhile. Then he straightened bravely and regarded John with noble affection and determined courage.
“You’ll not condemn a bloke afore he’s heard, sir? It breaks my heart, indeed it does, that one as I’ve regarded as a son and a friend, and ’ose welfare’s so close to me thoughts, should jump to unworthy conclusions. If I’d known, if I’d ’ad an inklin’, sir, you’d never have gone to that ’ouse, or known nothin’ abaht that young female. I’d have protected you, just.
“It wasn’t five minutes afore you came, sir, that Mr. Gorth draws me aside, laughin’ a little, and says: ‘We’ve got a capital joke on Johnnie Turnbull, Bob! It’s his cousin as is the wife of my nevvy, the female as he was goin’ to marry before a better man whisked off with her. This will be amusing, Bob Wilkins!”’
John uttered a loud cry, and looked about him with a frenzied aspect, as though searching for a murderous weapon.
“And wot does I say, Mr. Turnbull?” continued Mr. Wilkins, advancing a step towards the delirious young man, but not removing himself too far from the door. “I says: ‘For God’s sake, Mr. Gorth, let’s warn the lad! Send out a messenger, a footman, to warn him orf before he sets foot in this door! It’s a ’orrible thing, Mr. Gorth, and I’ll not be accountable. I love that young feller like a son! I’ll not ’ave it, Mr. Gorth,’ I says. ‘It’s not to be thought of,’ I says. And wot does Mr. Gorth say, eh? He says: ‘O come now, Bob, let’s ’ave our joke! Andy insists on it. It won’t ’urt Johnnie, and will put his back up.’
“And then,” added Mr. Wilkins sombrely, “you comes in, sir, with your lady, looking like a princess and puttin’ all the other ladies in the shade so that they quite turned yellow. It was a beautiful sight, Mr. Turnbull, and it fair broke me heart. It was too late to warn you. I could only ’ope you would conduct yourself with genteel breeding, as you did. It was proud I was of you, Mr. Turnbull, under such circumstances. I understood, then, ’ow it was I’d cottoned to you from the very start. It fair made me proud.”
His voice shook;
he cleared his throat courageously; he choked again, and wiped his eyes unaffectedly. He faltered, as if struggling with gushes of tears:
“And to think ’ow I’ve served Mr. Gorth! You’ll pardon me, Mr. Turnbull, if I says me heart is breaking; me sensibilities allus rush to the surface when there’s been injustice done. ’E knew, Mr. Gorth, as you was like a son to me, and that I brooded over you like a blasted hen over a chick. And so, it’s a capital return ’e’s made to me, treating you as he did. And me rememberin’ ’ow loyal you’ve been to him, ’esitatin’ over givin’ me wot I needed! But in me heart I allus knew. That’s why I arsked, Mr. Turnbull; that’s why I insisted. Ye see, now?”
But John hardly listened. His features contorted sharply in a savage grin. “So, it was a capital joke, was it? It was a plot, was it?”
“That it was, sir! I can see it all now. It was done to both of us, to you and me. From the beginnin’, it was plotted.” He paused, then said resolutely, “So, wot’s to be done, Mr. Turnbull? I’m your man. You can allus rely on me to stand by your side and defend you. Only an hour ago I says to meself: ‘Bob Wilkins, you’ve done with Gorth. Him and you’s got nothin’ more in common. You’ve done with him, for good and all. It’s you and Mr. Turnbull, now, against the whole blasted world.’”
As if his passions, his rages and despairs had overcome him at last, John suddenly fumbled blindly for a chair, fell into it, leaned his elbows on his knees and bowed his head in his hands. Mr. Wilkins looked at him; the most gloating and malevolent light flashed across his cherubic countenance. It was gone. His former expression of studied and eloquent grief replaced it.
“You and me against the whole blasted world,” he repeated in a grave and sonorous voice. “Wot d’ye say, sir?”
But John did not answer. He sighed, over and and over. His hands clenched; he rubbed his fist grindingly against his forehead. At last he muttered in a stifled voice: “I can’t endure it! I can’t endure it, I tell you!”
“You won’t ’ave to endure it, sir!” said Mr. Wilkins, sturdily, now laying his hand with strong affection on the young man’s shoulder. “If you remember, I’d told you to stand it for three months longer. That was before I knew. Now, it’s done. You’ll not go back to that ruddy place. It’s me and you against the world. Let Mr. Gorth whistle for us; he’ll whistle his blasted throat dry. I’ve got somethin’ in mind for you, sir, and a good thing it is.”
He paused, then lowered his voice slyly, so that it had an insinuating and oily quality about it. He bent over John and whispered:
“There’s revenge, sir, as goes out with fists and stones and brickbats. Vulgar revenge, as isn’t liked by the police, and does no good, just makin’ a laughin’ stock out of a chap, or landin’ him in gaol on his ass. No good at all, sir. And there’s revenge as satisfies the cockles of his ’eart, and makes the other bloke gnaw his nails down to the quick, and ruins ’im. That’s wot I’ve got in mind.”
John lifted his head very slowly. He looked at Mr. Wilkins with haggard and sunken eyes, in which a black and virulent fire had begun to burn. Mr. Wilkins nodded with grim satisfaction and elation.
“That’s wot I’m after, Mr. Turnbull: a proper revenge, for both of us. We’ll ruin Gorth, that’s wot we’ll do. ’Ave I your ’and on it, sir? You and Bob Wilkins together?”
John gazed at the little fat hand extended to him in noble brotherhood, and he grimaced. “What can you do?” he asked, with profound and hating contempt, not taking the hand. But there was a note of hope in his tone.
Mr. Wilkins continued to extend his hand. He nodded again, with increasing exultation. “Leave it to Bib Wilkins, sir! I’m one as ’as ruined many a man who played a dirty game! There’s many a one, in Lunnun and New York, as is grinding his teeth over Mr. Wilkins, and wishin’ to God ’e’d never set eye on him or done him wrong. There’s many as is bitin’ the dust, now, this very hour, and regrettin’ he was ever born. These is not idle words, Mr. Turnbull. I knows as wot I’m talking abaht. Are you with me, to the end, sir?”
Despite his despair and agony, despite his contempt and incredulity, John was struck by these words. His head ached with a splitting pain; there was a wide and throbbing wound in his chest. But now, as ever, numbness was coming to his rescue, easing the sharper agony of his torment. His fixed expression relaxed a little into one of grim and dawning hope and hatred.
“You can really do all this?” he asked. He cleared his choked throat, and rubbed his pulsating forehead.
“You can be sure of that, sir!” exclaimed Mr. Wilkins, strongly, lifting his rejected hand in a gesture like one taking a solemn oath. “I’ve made men; I can break ’em. You’ll see! There’ll come a day when you’ll say to yourself: ‘That Bob Wilkins is no fool. He’s one as knows wot he’s talkin’ abaht, and no mistake.’ That’ll be the day when you’ll be gloating down at Mr. Gorth, bitin’ his fingers in the dust. And his precious silky nevvy with him, too!”
John sprang to his feet. He looked at Mr. Wilkins with ferocity, almost insane in its intentness.
“I believe you!” he said, in a pent low voice. “Damn you, I’ve got to believe you!”
He seized Mr. Wilkins’ hand, and shook it frenziedly. Mr. Wilkins winced but continued to smile bravely and with high exaltation.
“You’ll go to your bed, now, sir, and ye’ll sleep, rememberin’ we’ve got work to do. You’ll leave it to Bob Wilkins, ’ose never said an idle word. We’ve got our revenge to think abaht, our revenge on the Gorths and the Bollisters, and on females who’ve got no proper regard for the sensibilities of others. Eh?”
He reached up and laid his other hand on John’s tall shoulder. The young man was trembling violently. He was gazing over Mr. Wilkins’ head with a truly malign look, which destroyed, in one instant, all his youth and sanguine if uncontrolled generosity of heart.
“And now,” said Mr. Wilkins, softly, “we’ll ’ave that proper paper in your desk, eh, that you’ve not trusted Bob Wilkins with? That last patent, eh, as was goin’ to Appleton? The one you’ve ’esitated to intrust to Bob Wilkins, and argued abaht?”
CHAPTER 21
Not far from the warehouse of Richard Gorth, Cotton Exporter, was the much smaller and much more dilapidated and failing firm of Everett Livingston & Company. At one time this firm had been exceedingly flourishing, and in command of the cotton export trade of New York. But the founder, and his son, the present Everett Livingston, had been distinguished by a rigid honour in all their dealings, and so were no match for the new species of trader which had sprung up in the past twenty-five years. The present Everett had discovered that fair dealing, scrupulous honesty and integrity could not survive in this new world of robber barons and expedient opportunists. But he was an old man now, and could not employ the tactics of his competitors. The habits of honour and honesty were too much for him; he had fallen into their set pattern, however much, at odd and silent moments, he wished he might be able to extricate himself. He was old, and he was unmarried. But Mr. Wilkins knew that in him was that inexhaustible greed which lived in all other men, and which was much more vulnerable, at a good opportunity, to vicious and rascally suggestion than it was in men more familiar with these things. “Give me a man as ’as been honest and aboveboard all his damn life,” Mr. Wilkins would reflect, “and let him be down on his luck and starin’ the work’ouse in the face, and there’s nothin’ ’e’ll stop at, either for revenge or to ’elp ’imself.”
Though he’d had only slight dealings with Mr. Livingston before, and then only obliquely in the interests of Gorth, Mr. Wilkins knew all about the old gentleman. He knew him for a proud and bloodless old bachelor, suspicious, rigid, of excellent and courtly breeding, impeccable old family, and high and relentless integrity. Mr. Livingston was close to seventy now, with a long and aristocratic face, sunken and lean, the skin pale and crumpled, the nose long and sharp and patrician, the blue eyes cold and repellent and full of suspicion. His white hair was sparse, but well-brushed an
d gleaming. The lobes of his ears were transparent and delicate, as were his hands. He spoke in a quiet but firm voice, and nothing disturbed his punctilious courtesy and elegant composure. When he looked at one, it was with such piercing and forthright attention that a pettier rascality than Mr. Wilkins’ was immediately undone. His wardrobe was also distinguished by a refined elegance which all envied, and his walk and carriage were regal if somewhat stiff now.
Mr. Livingston was indeed a gentleman “of the old school,” polished, dignified and upright, without passions or uncertainties, but very embittered during these past few decades. He was much travelled and cosmopolitan, and of exceptional discernment and taste. He spoke several languages, having attended the best universities in Europe, and his library, in his small and impoverished but still elegant home on West Tenth Street, was perfection and discrimination themselves. He had two elderly servants, man and wife, who had been in his service for over forty years and knew his tastes. His little house was so polished, so charming, so perfectly appointed, that all who entered were forever entranced.
Each Sunday, the ancient carriage was brought out to his door, surmounted by the elderly manservant in a patched and much worn livery, and Mr. Livingston, sitting upright in the vehicle, was driven to the small Episcopal Church on Broadway. Many New Yorkers in the vicinity were familiar with the carriage and its occupants, but Mr. Livingston was never known to nod or recognize any one. He sat in his carriage, upright as if carved, his gloved hands resting on his ebony cane, his tall hat shining in the morning sun, his many-caped coat brushed to the threads, his boots gleaming, his manner all authority and unshaking and royal pride. He despised the newcomers to his city, in which he had been born, and his father and grandfather and great-grandfather before him. He was of such family that his forebears had condescended with disdain to General Washington, and had considered him an insufferable and radical upstart. They had been irreconcilable Tories, and Mr. Livingston still draped the portrait of George III with the British emblem on his library wall. He spoke of the Queen with royalist reverence, and despised the raucous democracy of the new Republic. Because of his attitude, he had few friends, which did not disturb him. He would never have admitted the Astors and the Vanderbilts into his home anyway, under any circumstances. They were not gentlefolk. The Livingstons had nothing in common with them, would never have. They were of the hoi polloi, and their new affectations of “family” and tradition and aristocracy always brought a pale and virulent gleam of disgust and amusement to Everett Livingston’s marble countenance. Otherwise, he ignored their existence.
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