The Turnbulls

by Caldwell, Taylor;

  Mr. Livingston still did not speak. But his thin white nostrils dilated, and his glacial blue eyes widened.

  “It was only yesterday,” said Mr. Wilkins, his voice falling to a low whisper, “as I ’ad a talk with my good friend. Jay Regan, the great financier, a man as ’as an up-and-comin’ eye out on the world. ‘Wot of Livingston, Jay?’ I arsks him. ‘Wot’s Livingston doin’?’ And he says honestly, sir: ‘Livingston, eh? A fine firm. Too bad it ’asn’t done so well lately. Too bad no one’s come along with new patents, Bob. Stock used to sell at five dollars. Now it’s fifty cents. Too bad, Bob, with all its potentialities.’ You see, sir, I’m one as can be frank, too, and you’ll pardon this discussion of your affairs?”

  But Mr. Livingston’s old heart was trembling. He clenched his fine hands on the desk. A purple flush invaded his forehead.

  “I’ve got Livingston stock,” resumed Mr. Wilkins. “Would I ’ave bought it if I didn’t ’ave faith in it, sir? And wot it can be? Bob Wilkins isn’t one as buys at random, reckless like.”

  “Go on,” said Mr. Livingston in a stifled tone, as Mr. Wilkins paused.

  “I ’ad me talk with Regan,” continued Mr. Wilkins. “And I said certain things to ’im. I said: ‘Look here, Jay, if Livingston, now, with its reputation for doin’ straight and aboveboard business should come into possession of the finest and most revolutionary patents for printing cotton cloth, so we wouldn’t ’ave to send our cottons to England, and do business for ourselves, wot’d you say?’ And he said: ‘Why, damn you, Bob, you know damned well wot I’d say! I’d say, a hundred thousand dollars at once, damn you! About time, Bob Wilkins, that we stopped bein’ robbed by England in the business. England uses our cotton staples, prints the cloth with her damned fine patents, and then resells it to Ameriky, and other countries. Show me somethin’ as will enable us to compete with England, saving expenses, exporting, shipping, handling of raw material and finished products, and there’s no limit to wot you can arsk! Let me see, now, Bob,’ he continues, ‘Livingston’s got a little printin’ concern in New England. But no good patents. No wonder it lies idle, when it could be the biggest concern in Ameriky, perhaps in the world. It should be, damn you, Bob! I’m a patriot, Bob, and we’ve got to get the trade in Ameriky!’”

  Mr. Livingston stared, impassive. Then all at once he began to tremble. He turned as white as death, and a bluish tinge came over his face. He put his hand to his forehead, and it shook visibly.

  He whispered: “But, we haven’t the patents. The process. England has them, and we have no chance to get them for ourselves, or to improve upon them,” he added, quickly.

  Mr. Wilkins said, as if the other had not spoken: “There is a young gentleman I know, sir, who ’as patents, the best of ’em. Invented by himself. An Englishman, but sick of England and her ways. So, he brings the patents to Ameriky. Wot do I advise ’im? ‘There’s Gorth, Johnnie,’ I says, doubtfully. ‘I’ve done some business with Gorth. But I’m not certain of Gorth’s honesty. I’ll investigate.’ So, I does. Gorth’s all honey and promises and eagerness. Now, sir, I’m a chap as is trusting. I believes a man when he looks you in the eye and gives you his word. Trustin’, ain’t I, sir?” Mr. Wilkins permitted himself a twisted sad smile at his own expense, at his own naiveté, and shook his head drearily.

  Then he looked at Mr. Livingston with an affectation of triumphant sharpness. “I believes Gorth, with reservations, sir. A cute customer. I investigates. Then I sees he’s no man of honour. He interviews my man, and even hires him as his secretary. But all the while there’s a plot goin’ on to steal my man’s brains, and give ’im nothin’, and leave us both out in the cold. To steal his patents, sir, as he come by with his wits and his industry! ’Ow do I find out this plot? Well, sir, I ’ave me methods, and it’s too complicated to say. I’m not one as jumps to conclusions, and I have to be certain. Now I’m certain. I’ve took my man away from Gorth. ’E’s ready now, to do business with an honest and above-board concern, to dedicate himself to that concern. To make that concern the biggest in Ameriky, in the world, to emancipate Ameriky from English cotton mills, and bring prosperity to American mills, as is fittin’. Why, sir, with these patents there’s nothin’ can stop us!”

  Mr. Livingston, dazed, took some long minutes to digest all this. He could not rid himself of the feeling that he was in the midst of some fantasy, some golden dream. He stared at Mr. Wilkins blankly, his thin face slowly becoming suffused.

  He faltered, in a faint and grudging tone: “Has Mr. Gorth yet availed himself of these patents? If so—”

  “Would I be comin’ to you, sir, if ’e ’ad?” cried Mr. Wilkins indignantly. “Would I be arskin’ you to cross even such as Gorth, if ’e’d yet invested ’is money in it, and gone ahead with plans? No, not even if Gorth is a thief and a blackguard, usin’ my man’s brains dishonest! First come, first served, even if a man’s fit only for Old Bailey. That’s Bob Wilkins, sir! I can tell you that ’e ’asn’t gone ahead. I’ve thought he was dealin’ with England, sly like, for a good sum. Promisin’ not to compete, even if it means the ruin of American cotton industry by withholdin’ the processes. For a good sum. Several hundred thousand pounds, sir. I ’ave me methods of findin’ out such things.” He elaborately hesitated, sighed, bowed his head as if in shame, and murmured: “I trust you, sir. I confess now that Gorth sent me to England just to make such a deal.” He appeared suddenly frightened, and put his plump hand to his lips. “I ought not to ’ave confessed that to you, sir! You’ll not think better of me for it. You’ll say to yourself: ‘Bob Wilkins’s no better than Gorth, lendin’ his talents to such chicanery and unpatriotic double-dealin’.’”

  Mr. Livingston drew a deep and audible breath. He fixed his eyes sternly upon Mr. Wilkins. “A very unpatriotic and cruel thing to do, Mr. Wilkins,” he said, severely. “Especially when your young man had confided these processes to you. Offensive you may think it, Mr. Wilkins, but I cannot refrain from expressing my indignation at such dishonesty. Surely you could not betray America, and your young friend, like this?”

  Mr. Wilkins bowed his head humbly, and nodded slowly and despairingly. “There, sir, you’ve said it. I accepts my punishment. But, at the last moment I recoiled, sir. ‘No, Bob Wilkins,’ I said, ‘you’ve not to do this. You owes a debt to Ameriky, and them as trusts you. Never mind the money, Bob Wilkins,’ I says. So I comes back to Ameriky, hurried like, and takes my man away from Gorth.”

  There was a silence in the room, as Mr. Wilkins’ head fell lower and lower upon his breast in his complete and broken penitence. Mr. Livingston, now towering over the other in complete austerity and honourable indignation, gazed at him coldly. Mr. Wilkins’ confession, his visible remorse, his attitude of penitence, removed from Mr. Livingston’s not unastute mind the suspicion that there was something here that should be investigated. Men, he believed in his naiveté, do not openly confess themselves rascals and thieves and traitors if they have something nefarious in mind.

  Then he forgot all this in the sudden and almost fatal surge of joy and liberation and hope. His breath came sharp and painful. His heart roared, and his pale and bloodless face dampened. He struggled before he could speak in a restrained if halting voice:

  “Mr. Wilkins, you have suffered much for your treachery, I can see that. But you have tried to make amends. I hope you will let me help you. Bring your young man to me. I will interview him, at least. He knows something of the trade, besides the mere printing processes?”

  Mr. Wilkins lifted his head. His countenance shone with delight, with gratitude. He half rose from his chair.

  “Mr. Livingston, your words is balm to me! You forgive me! You understand the frailties in a man’s heart! You ’aven’t turned me, out, as I deserve. Bless you, sir, bless you! You’ve given me ’ope, and you’ll not regret it, sir. I swears it! ’Ere’s me ’and on it!”

  He thrust an extravagantly shaking hand in Mr. Livingston’s direction, and after a moment’s lofty and
severe delay, Mr. Livingston took it. Mr. Wilkins affected to be overcome. He clung to that hand. He fell back in his chair, still stretching it across the desk and he bowed his head again, heaving deep and broken sighs. Mr. Livingston felt himself in command of the situation, and deeply exalted and dazed.

  When Mr. Wilkins could collect himself, he said: “This young chap, sir. He knows the export trade from A to Z. ‘Wot about South Ameriky?’ he arsks me, shrewd like. ‘Wot are you doin’ about South Ameriky, Mr. Wilkins? Are you lettin’ England ’ave that trade, too, along with yours?’ I was ashamed to confess we are, sir. And now, I’ll bring ’im to you tomorrow, Mr. Livingston, and then we’ll ’ave business to do with Jay Regan.”

  They stood up, shaking hands again, with restrained enthusiasm.

  Mr. Livingston, swimming in his golden and imposing dream, was inclined to be magnanimous now. “You won’t regret your honesty, Mr. Wilkins, I can assure you. There will probably be much in this for you. That is the reward of humility and honour.’

  Mr. Wilkins smiled a strange and hidden smile, which he concealed by bowing his head.

  When the amiable “feller” had left, after effusive expressions of gratitude for Mr. Livingston’s noble understanding, Mr. Livingston slowly lowered himself into his chair and sat motionless for a long time, staring before him with his frozen blue eyes. At moments a long tremor would pass over him, as if he were seized with a kind of solemn but repressed excitement. Then, at other moments, an uneasy shade would pass over his face, pinching it as though he felt a strange and unfathomable chill from deep within himself. Finally, a long time later, when he stood up, age and grim desolation had left him. There was a stiff grace in his long thin body, a quicker elegance in his manners. He smiled.

  He was a scholar and a man of intuition, intellect and fine judgment, travelled and cultivated. It is only passing strange, however, that his seduction by Mr. Wilkins had been so easy, and so puerile, and that his own conduct had been as naive and shallow as an ignorant man’s, that a whole long life’s experience with men and affairs should have been nothing before Mr. Wilkins’ raw brash flattery and acting.

  Mr. Wilkins could have explained it quite airily, and truthfully.

  “I allus gives ’em wot they really wants,” he would have said, as he had said before, a thousand times. “Allus play on a bloke’s instincts, and you’ll never go wrong. Come to him with arguments for ’is mind and ’is reason and ’is conscience, and ’e’ll slip away from you like a bloody eel. But get at him through ’is blasted instincts—that’re allus right there under the surface of the finest snob—and you’ve got ’im! ’E’s yours for life.”

  For Mr. Wilkins had come upon the most profound truth in the world, hidden from the most loquacious and pretentious philosophers and students of men: that mankind has always been, and always will be, the slave of its primordial instincts.

  CHAPTER 22

  Mr. Wilkins, rosily incandescent with his thoughts, made his tranquil and jovial way to Wall Street, where he had an appointment with the financial baron, Jay Regan. As he was well known there, and adored by the host of secretaries and attendants who swarmed in the outer offices like secret police or Praetorians, he had no difficulty in being admitted to his old friend. In fact, he was escorted to the very door by a platoon of the Praetorians, who seemed to sound a flourish of trumpets to announce the arrival, and then appeared to present arms and lift banners. Once, Mr. Ernest Barbour, of Barbour-Bouchard, has asked Mr. Regan if he were afraid of assassination, and Mr. Regan had replied with a grin: “Of course I’m afraid of assassination.” And he had pointed to a black hole in the mahogany panelling behind his chair.

  To the casual eye, it would seem absurd that any one should desire to assassinate Mr. Regan, for he had a big genial countenance, apparently frank and zestful, with deceptively kind eyes like sparkling pinpoints under bushy brows. He was quite a giant of a man, over six foot tall and heavily paunched, and he was as bald as Mr. Wilkins, with a head even larger, and very round. Broad of beam, weighty but swift of movement, ever smiling under a white mustache streaked with sandy tints, ever-agreeable and secretly mirthful, he inspired confidence, respect and liking. Surely no one with such a booming laugh, and weighing well over two hundred fifty pounds, with such a warm handclasp and candid affectionate glance, could be the desperate and lethal villain he was reputed to be. So he impressed the casual observer, who did not see the savage expression of the mouth under the mustache, when it was not smiling, and did not notice the cruel small hands, like a woman’s, with the pale smooth nails.

  His office was vast and luxurious, and he had amazing if opulent taste. Old Masters hung on the panelled walls, Rembrandts and Rubens. He loved warmth, even on this fine spring day, and a great fireplace leapt with ruby light along one side of the room. The mighty windows were draped with rich gold velvet, tasselled and fringed, and upon a round gleaming table near by stood an ever-ready selection of liquors to please the most fastidious taste. In a carved silver box on the immense carved desk were orderly rows of the best Havana cigars, and all the chairs were soft and inviting and carved also.

  Mr. Regan greeted Mr. Wilkins with the most extraordinary amiability and evident pleasure. His tiny pinpoints of eyes began to sparkle with amusement. With his own hands he poured Mr. Wilkins a generous swig of whiskey, and presented the crystal glass to him with every indication of cordiality. They had done much business together in the past, snide but profitable business, and Mr. Regan had a profound respect for Mr. Wilkins’ judgment. There was no insincerity in his expressions of delight at this call. Mr. Wilkins never wasted his time on piddling affairs. His visit heralded prospects of profits, and Mr. Regan had the highest admiration for profits.

  “You haven’t been in to see me since you returned from England, Bob,” he said, throwing himself back in his gigantic chair and leisurely sipping his own potion. “What’ve you been up to, eh? I’ll wager it won’t bear the light of day, you scoundrel!” And with the utmost admiration and significance he winked broadly at his old friend. “Who’ve you been putting things up to, Lucifer?”

  Mr. Wilkins laughed gently, swirling the golden contents of his glass and watching the sparkling ripples with approval. He shook his head, modestly. “You does me an undeserved wrong, Mr. Regan, that you do. I’m a chap as must make his way alone in the world—for a fee. Why, right here in New York there’s those that swear by Bob Wilkins as they count their cash. I’m a benefactor, sir. A benefactor. I gives ’em wot they wants. Wot more can a bloke do? I can’t abide to see them as could do well by themselves—and Bob Wilkins—going to seed, bitin’ their nails, when a little suggestion here and there, a little cash, can smooth things out for them, like, and do good for themselves. Bob Wilkins don’t like to see talent goin’ to waste. It’s sinful.”

  “Yes, you’re a good substitute for prayer. I know that,” said Mr. Regan, with a faint grimace of enjoyment. “Well, what were you up to in England, if I may be crude enough to ask?”

  Mr. Wilkins smiled lovingly, as he contemplated his English activities. He looked at Mr. Regan archly. “Now then, does I ask you, Mr. Regan, wot you’ve been up to New York? Can’t a chap ’ave his secrets? I can tell you this, though: I’m none the poorer for that dash across the pond.”

  “Oh, I’m willing to concede that, Bob,” remarked Mr. Regan, grinning broadly now. He leaned towards a neat pile of papers on his desk. “And, in the meantime, you’ve not done so badly here, either. Let me see. Yes, that railroad stock you bought is doing quite nicely. Up ten points since you bought it. That means another seven thousand for you. And to think you had to persuade me to invest in a miserable little affair which I doubted could amount to something! And now, thanks to the astute penetration you had with regard to the parties, we’ve both done well. But who but you would know that they would hornswoggle the former owners so neatly, and get the railroad away from them? But, of course, you had your hand in that, too! I ought to remember your genius.�
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  “Could I see a railroad going to rack and ruin because the owners were fools?” asked Mr. Wilkins, virtuously. “Ameriky needs railroads, and needs enterprisin’ blood to expand ’em. I saw that. I’m a benefactor, as I said, sir. Ameriky owes a lot to Bob Wilkins.”

  “That she does!” said Mr. Regan, heartily, with another wink. “What would America be without the Bob Wilkinses? And now, here’s another thing. You’ve made ten thousand clear profit in that steel mill down in Nazareth. Not bad. And six thousand on those coal mines, since you persuaded old Carnegie to step down hard on those miners. Excellent, Mr. Wilkins! And all on your own, too.”

  “All on me own,” repeated Mr. Wilkins. “Who the devil’s goin’ to care for a chap except himself? If I don’t look after Bob Wilkins, who will? I never fancied bread and cheese in a garret.”

  Mr. Regan leaned back again in his chair to contemplate his old friend. There was amusement in his great expansive face, and cunning.

  “Well, Bob, what’re you up to now? This isn’t just a friendly visit. I know you better than that. Are you still helping Gorth to corner the cotton export trade, and expand his printing mills in New England? Did you steal those patents from England, as I suspect you did?”

  Mr. Wilkins piously lifted his eyes to the carved plaster ceiling of the room, as if calling upon heaven to protect him against this cynical accusation.

  “Mr. Regan, I thought you was a friend of mine. You know I allus operates above-board. Honest Bob Wilkins, my friends calls me. And just, too. I got the patents, yes. It’d be wrong of me to deny it. But I bought ’em, sir, with me own good money. Advanced by Mr. Gorth, I admits. The English ain’t above turnin’ an honest penny, either. Can’t blame ’em. But the patents is in me own name, sealed and registered, though Mr. Gorth don’t known that yet. Right down in Washington they are.”