Years ago, on the strength of Mrs. Gorth’s forebears, Mr. Livingston had extended an invitation to dine to Mr. Gorth and his lady. He had also been impelled to this upon thorough if quiet investigation of Mr. Gorth’s antecedents. Now Mr. Livingston would not tolerate a man of poor antecedents and obscure background in his home, no matter how upright, brilliant or noble such a man was, no matter how successful or accomplished. He preferred the company of his peers even if those peers were of poor and vapid quality themselves, and distinguished by no graces of character or soul. However, despite the fact that Mr. Gorth and his lady were Mr. Livingston’s peers, or even “beyond” him, he could not endure them. This occasioned him much regret, and he turned with temporary relief to lesser gentlemen of his acquaintance who possessed finer and more lofty characters. But later he was very uneasy. Was it possible that he was becoming a democrat? This so horrified him that for six months or more he entertained nobody. He told himself sternly that he could not trust himself. That a Livingston could descend to entertain “nobodies” in preference to “somebodies” however contemptible, shook the whole foundation of his philosophy.
He despised trade, but as he was also possessed of a love for money, he told himself that he found something “earthy” in his firm. “Keeps a man’s feet on the ground to occupy him. Brings him closer to the heart of things,” he would say, with pallid sturdiness. He would have preferred, certainly, to have a private income far removed from the taint of “trade,” but this not being possible, he brought “trade” in to the pure environs of his code and so purged it of grossness. This feat of egotism was very admirable, and astonishing.
At the present time the business of Livingston had so deteriorated that it brought in less than six hundred pounds a year. (Mr. Livingston preferred to calculate his income in British pounds rather than in vulgar dollars, a fact which embarrassed or coarsely amused those with whom he had dealings. “He thinks it gives an air of gentility to the damned transaction,” one was guilty of saying.) Mr. Livingston had not been able to keep up with newer developments, with the new interlockings of the cotton trade with American manufacturers in New England, partly because of the rigidity of his mind which detested innovations, and partly because of his integrity.
There were those who fatuously declared that Mr. Livingston was possessed of a “genteel and patrician mind,” unaware of and indifferent to the steady decay of his firm, that trade was “beneath” him. Like all fatuous and sentimental people, they were entirely wrong in their fond diagnosis. Mr. Livingston was only too poignantly aware of the decline of Everett Livingston & Company, and as he had the cold voracity of temperament which is one attribute of the aristocratic soul, and its secret and glacial rapacity, he was now at the point where he would do anything (provided he could retain to himself the delusion of integrity) to recoup his declining fortunes.
Mr. Bob Wilkins, who knew everything, it seemed, also knew this. Mr. Livingston, heretofore invulnerable to suggestion, was now a “man for his money.” Mr. Wilkins’ nose had lately begun its premonitory twitchings in Mr. Livingston’s presence.
So it was, on this happy golden Spring morning that Mr. Wilkins alighted from his own carriage and entered Mr. Livingston’s presence. He had been careful to observe the formal amenities, and had ceremoniously asked for the pleasure of this interview. Mr. Livingston knew Mr. Wilkins very well, if only from repute, aside from their very rare meetings. He had despised and ignored him as a vulgarian, a “feller,” a panderer and servant to the less scrupulous and patrician. He had a vague idea as to the manner in which Mr. Wilkins served his patrons, for Mr. Livingston was no airy fool. Six months ago he would have ignored Mr. Wilkins’ request, astutely understanding that where Mr. Wilkins entered he brought with him corruption, a stench, dishonesty, skullduggery and unashamed larceny. Moreover, he would have been appalled at the presumption of the “feller” daring to assume that such as Mr. Livingston would permit him to enter the aseptic offices of the company. What insolence to presume that Mr. Livingston would give ear to any foul suggestions of his!
Now Mr. Livingston also knew that Mr. Wilkins did not bother with failures and potential failures, and that where he appeared there was the bright shimmer of possible gold, and the dazzling promise of unbelievable profits. Only two weeks ago Mr. Livingston had been inexorably faced with the probability of immediate bankruptcy. He had spent sleepless nights, contemplating the ignominy of such a thing occurring to Everett Livingston & Company. Why, this firm was rooted in the very history of New York, of America! It was not to be endured. It can be seen, then, that Mr. Livingston was in great if silent despair and shame previous to Mr. Wilkins’ respectful letter asking for an interview at the noble man’s pleasure.
He had sat immobile for hours, Mr. Wilkins’ letter before him. He had no definite idea as to what Mr. Wilkins would suggest, but he knew it would be nefarious, involving all sorts of criminal and snide activities, all unscrupulousness. His first automatic reaction was to toss the letter aside in contemptuous silence. But immediately after this thought he was seized with such hope that he became quite weak, and trembled violently. Help was at hand, even if it was shameful and loathsome help. He paid Mr. Wilkins the compliment of conceding that Mr. Wilkins would waste no time on those who could not be salvaged brilliantly. He, Mr. Everett Livingston, obviously could be saved then, and not in a small fashion, but in a spectacular one. Mr. Wilkins did not play for pennies.
Mr. Livingston, meditating on these things, had covered his royal face with his long white hands, so delicately veined with blue threads. He began to sigh, over and over, with restrained sounds. But a lifetime of integrity was not strong enough to withstand the hope of rescue, the hope of profits. Mr. Wilkins never made a mistake. He knew that every man had his price, and that not two men in a single generation were ever immune to rascality, theft, and even murder. The rosy Lucifer with the infantile countenance knew his humanity too well. A lesser man, i.e., a nobler man, might have become a bitter cynic about men. Mr. Wilkins merely used them.
Mr. Livingston, after a whole day’s desperate and agonized struggle with himself, had coldly if politely granted Mr. Wilkins this interview. Now, in his bare chill office, he awaited the arrival of the beaming saviour. He had never been of a warm and sanguine appearance. Today, he resembled a withered if imperial cadaver. He presented to Mr. Wilkins, as he entered bowing and sunnily dispensing his radiant smiles, the aspect of a severe and implacable judge. But Mr. Wilkins was not discomfited. He was even reassured. He knew the battle was already won. He had only to be discreet, with deference to Mr. Livingston’s sensibilities. (“Let a bloke tell his little lies to himself as ’e’s bein’ honest and aboveboard all the damn time, and you’ve got ’im in the palm of your hand,” he would say.)
One covert glance assured Mr. Wilkins that he had Mr. Livingston in the palm of his hand. There would be minor and dignified skirmishings of course, but such a clever chap as Mr. Wilkins would never present an opportunity for a serious argument, never give that latent integrity of Mr. Livingston’s chance to assert itself. Everything would be quite frank and righteous between them. Mr. Wilkins, aside from his main object, was delighted. He loved such byplay. It refreshed his Satanic enjoyment at the spectacle of mankind’s inherent virulence and hypocrisy.
Mr. Livingston inclined his head with haughty reserve in response to Mr. Wilkins’ affable greetings, his expression of pleasure that he had been admitted to Mr. Livingston’s august presence. This softened Mr. Livingston, brought him a mild relief. He gave a bleak and condescending smile, and indicated a chair.
Mr. Wilkins disposed himself in the chair indicated, with all decorum and stateliness, as befitting the occasion. If there was a preoccupied and serious air about him, that was well calculated, as was the wardrobe of smooth black broadcloth, severe white linen and black cravat. After the first sunny smile of greeting, he assumed an air of intense if funereal gravity, and looked at Mr. Livingston with respectful earnestn
ess. All this was quite confusing to Mr. Livingston, who, on the few occasions when he had caught fleet glimpses of Mr. Wilkins, had designated him as a vulgar “feller,” and one who was not likely to cross his patrician path except obliquely. Yet, here sat the “feller” now, looking quite the gentleman for all his rotund build, wearing an expression of severe dignity and grave alertness. Mr. Livingston was more and more baffled. Had his first impressions been wrong?
“You are a busy gentleman, sir,” began Mr. Wilkins in a slow and unctuous voice, “and it is not my intention to consume too much of your time.” Mr. Livingston, in response, inclined his head in an august manner. Had he been a man of humour, he would have smiled wryly, for no sounds of busyness were evident about them, but rather a foglike and empty gloom, as if all had moved away but the owner. The desolation of prostrate failure was all about them, in the cold bare office, in the lack of activity in the almost empty warehouse, in the dull far booming of harbour whistles, even in the gray set austerity of Mr. Livingston’s countenance. Mr. Wilkins saw all this; he saw that only one sheet of foolscap lay on Mr. Livingston’s small polished desk, and that there were no crumpled papers in the wastebasket.
Mr. Wilkins cleared his throat. He appeared to be thinking sad and embarrassed thoughts, for he stared at the floor and sighed. Then he lifted his pink bald head bravely and looked at Mr. Livingston fully with an air of desperate candour.
“I can be frank, Mr. Livingston, sir? I can say my say, and no offense? I can be assured that what I speak shall not leave this room?” His voice was strong and resonant, with just a manly tremor perceptible.
A crease appeared between Mr. Livingston’s brows. He replied coldly: “I am not in the habit of betraying confidences, Mr. Wilkins. You can speak with all freedom.”
“It is hard for me to speak,” confessed Mr. Wilkins, looking aside as if sorely distressed and disheartened. “It is hard for me to tell one who is almost a stranger of the most dastardly plot and ingratitude it has ever been my ill luck to come up against. To no one else, sir, could I tell this story. But from the first I knew you as one who can be relied upon, and trusted, and can express himself with full indignation when somethin’ comes up as would turn a heart of stone to fire.”
The crease deepened between Mr. Livingston’s brows at this extraordinary confession. A less naive and egotistic man would have smiled irrepressibly and have said: “Come now, man, let’s halt this silly acting and get down to brass tacks.” But Mr. Livingston, like all aristocratic egotists and lovers of self, was fair game for such as Mr. Wilkins, for he had the narrow innocence of his kind, and their complete and abysmal ingenuousness.
He said, with dignity: “This is very extraordinary, Mr. Wilkins. Please be more explicit.” He added loftily: “If I can be of any assistance in righting a wrong, I am sure you need have no hesitation in confiding in me.”
At these measured words, Mr. Wilkins suddenly became all ardour, all roseate passion. Tears actually swam in his eyes. He grasped the head of his cane with both hands, vehemently. He seemed to be having difficulty with his breath, and it was evident that he was overcome, for a moment, too deeply for speech. Mr. Livingston concealed his curiosity, but he felt a sharp sense of excitement.
“Did I not tell this to myself?” cried Mr. Wilkins, in a broken voice. “Didn’t I say to myself just this morning: ‘Go to Mr. Livingston! Tell him your story, Bob! There’s a gentleman as will listen with sympathy and righteous indignation, out of his Christian charity and justice! Tell him ’ow you was betrayed, and your young friend with you, and ’ow there was some one plottin’ to lay you both low and steal the very whites of your eyes! Tell him, Bob Wilkins, and you’ll not regret it!’”
Mr. Livingston’s curiosity betrayed itself in the sudden icy gleam in his eyes, in the sudden rigidity of the line of his emaciated jaw. Nevertheless, he became suspicious, and wary.
“I trust any revelation of yours will not bring unpleasant results with it, Mr. Wilkins?” he asked, with cautious hauteur. “Nor is it betraying the confidence of some one else? I cannot be party to a situation which would have disagreeable consequences.”
Mr. Wilkins stared at him with such dignified wretchedness that Mr. Livingston became embarrassed. There was reproach in Mr. Wilkins’ swimming eyes.
“Mr. Livingston, sir,” said Mr. Wilkins, sadly, and in deep tones, “it is I as is the betrayed. O sir, wot ’as brought me to you? I do not know. But there’s somethin’, sir,” and now Mr. Wilkins tapped his oaken breast solemnly and with measured strokes, “as ’as brought me to you.” He implied that a mystic divinity or intuition had directed his steps to this office. He cast up his eyes for an instant with a look of profound piety. “If I’d stopped to figure it out, sir, in the light of cold reason, perhaps I’d not be here. But I’m one as goes by impulse, not questionin’. And I’ve never been wrong. ‘Allus go by your mysterious impulses, Bob Wilkins,’ I say to myself. And never ’as it led me astray, sir.”
Mr. Livingston compressed his lips. He was impatient. But he found nothing ludicrous in all this. His curiosity increased enormously.
“Well, then, Mr. Wilkins, suppose you tell me? As you have remarked yourself, I am a busy man.”
Mr. Wilkins inclined his head reverently in acknowledgment. “Don’t I know it, sir! Don’t I know that those as is noted for their honour and their integrity is always busy! Men you can trust! Rare in the world, Mr. Livingston, very rare. But there’s a just Heaven!” resumed Mr. Wilkins after a moment, with a kind of elated and pious exaltation and enthusiasm. “There’s a just Heaven! And when a chap does right, Heaven don’t forget! Blessings, Mr. Livingston, come upon him, good rich blessings! Fortun allus attends the just and the upright.”
Mr. Livingston’s experience had never followed exactly this line, but he had never disbelieved in the bounty of Heaven upon those who deserved it. Sometimes Heaven was negligent, but never consistently forgetful. He leaned towards Mr. Wilkins with involuntary interest.
“It’s yours to reject, sir,” continued Mr. Wilkins, in that same high and hurried voice of exaltation. “Yours to reject, and nothin’ else said outside this room. Yours to right a wrong and make a handsome thing of it, sir.”
Mr. Livingston controlled himself. He forced himself to lean back with dignity in his hard chair. He began to tap his desk with his white and slender fingers, and regarded Mr. Wilkins intently. A febrile flush crept under his crumpled and imperial cheeks.
Mr. Wilkins, apparently still carried away by his enthusiastic and simple passion, leaned across the desk towards the old gentleman. “Mr. Livingston,” he said, with shaking solemnity, “It’s yours to right a wrong. And sir, wot d’ye say to makin’ Everett Livingston and Company the world’s leadin’ cotton-print company?”
Mr. Livingston uttered a faint exclamation. Common sense returned to him. Angry and blasting confession sprang to his lips, repudiation of such impudent extravagance. For a blinding instant he saw Everett Livingston & Company for what it was, an obscure and dying little failure, surely beyond resurrection. Yet here was this insolent and ridiculous scoundrel suggesting the most impossible things.
“You aren’t, by chance, Mr. Wilkins, making game of me?” he asked, in his quiet and disdainful voice. He made a slight motion as if to rise. “Let us be frank, Mr. Wilkins. Perhaps my company hasn’t kept up with latest developments. We have preferred to pursue the old ways of integrity and close economy, detesting and suspecting the reckless extravagance and dangerous speculation of other companies. Because of our principles, our business has steadily declined. You are an astute man, Mr. Wilkins. You know all this very well. Yet, you speak quite wildly. Perhaps you have some dishonest scheme in mind. I can assure you now, sir, that I shall not countenance such a scheme.” He added, with gloomy frankness: “Too, I doubt if any scheme of yours could possibly resuscitate us.”
He was suddenly exhausted, and crushed. He sank back in his chair, dwindled and weak. He had never been so honest with
himself before. Always, he had retained the delusion that though his company’s trade had declined ominously and steadily during the last decade or so, it still retained its place in the world of affairs and was widely famous and respected for its integrity and fair dealings. He had deluded himself even in the face of evidence. Now, he looked starkly at the truth and was undone.
There was nothing Mr. Wilkins feared more than honesty and disillusion. Let a man look too long at the truth, and he was no longer a man “for Mr. Wilkins’ money.” Now there was no hypocrisy in the real earnestness of his voice:
“Mr. Livingston, sir, we all fall on evil days. Especially in a world of rascals and thieves. But, shall we lie down and let ’em trample upon us? Shall we doubt the ultimate triumph of an indignant justice? Surely, sir, you do not deny that justice, in retaliation, often offers us an opportunity to recoup our fortunes and lay low our enemies?”
Mr. Livingston was silent. He was still crushed by his wretched look upon truth. But a faint bright hope began to dawn in him. Mr. Wilkins, who had begun to sweat, sighed in himself with relief.
He clasped his fat little hands on the desk, and leaned urgently towards Mr. Livingston. “You ’ave asked me to be frank, Mr. Livingston. Wot you’ve said is no news to me. I know the Market. I’ve got good friends down on Wall Street. Jay Regan? You knows of ’im, sir?”
The Turnbulls Page 27