His smile became broader. He arose with his lazy grace, which was pronounced despite the bulk of his handsome body. “Well, apparently you’re right. No use both of us going. I’ll run over to his house this evening, and see what the old devil wants.”
Rufus still studied the papers in his hand. He frowned in concentration. He spoke in an abstracted tone: “Yes. You go, Pat.” Then he dropped the papers, and sighed. “But he asked both of us, didn’t he? So, I presume I ought to go, too.”
Patrick smiled so broadly that his big white teeth glittered in the autumn sunshine that streamed through the windows.
“As if you’d let me go alone,” he said, in his rich and affectionate voice. He touched his forehead in a mocking salute, and strolled gracefully out of the office, returning to his own. Rufus looked after him with a deadly expression in his eyes. His fingers resumed their devil’s tattoo on the desk, and now that he was alone he made no further pretense of being absorbed in the reports of the Blue Crescent Line. The air about him seemed to congeal, to become static with its own intensity, as he stared fixedly at the door through which Patrick had disappeared.
That night the two worthy young men strolled amiably together to Mr. Bob Wilkins’ pleasant little house. They did not mention that sunny gentleman, nor his probable conversation with them. They commented, rather, on the condition of John Turnbull.
“There’s no doubt he’s desperately ill,” said Patrick. “It’s my opinion he’s going mad. Have you noticed his eyes lately? Like balls of fire, sunk deep in his skull. He scarcely touches his plate at dinner. But how he can drink! I’m an Irishman, but he could put me under the table any night. And what a confounded temper he’s developing. He runs from maudlin to furious, to wild accusations of everybody, to threats, then to cajolings. Dr. Conway is seriously disturbed, Lavinia says.”
“He’s neglecting the business, too,” replied Rufus. “It’s practically all in our hands now.”
“Not that we object,” commented Patrick, lightly.
Rufus shook his head. “I’m not so sure of that, Pat. It’s too much responsibility. We’re hamstrung when it comes to decisions. But he’ll give us no authority. There’s a cunning streak in the Old Man. You’d think he’d have more trust in us.”
“Wouldn’t you, though?” replied Patrick, with a grin.
“I object to your tone,” said Rufus, with injured severity. “It’s true that I am first vice-president, and you are secretary and treasurer. But they’re empty titles, at the best. Look at what the enterprises have lost this past year. It’s appalling, really it is. Now, had we the proper authority, instead of resounding titles, that could have been prevented. It’s infuriating for us to have to stand by and watch the decay of the enterprises solely because the Old Man keeps the final decisions in his own hands. Have you seen the pile of papers on his desk? Vital decisions, needing his signatures. The dust gathers thicker on them every day.”
He continued, with a note of thin irony: “It’s an impossible situation! I’ve long thought of resigning and going in with my father. I’m not a child. If Turnbull continues to distrust me, I shall throw up everything.”
Like hell you will, thought Patrick, mirthfully. But he matched Rufus’ tone with a serious one of his own: “You are quite right, of course. After all, the enterprises will eventually fall into our hands, when he dies. It is only his cursed egotism and suspicion of everybody and his desire to keep everything under his own thumb which prevent him from letting us take the whole load of responsibility. Now, I’ve got some mighty fine ideas of my own, but I won’t advance them unless there is something in it for me.”
“Have you indeed?” said Rufus, with friendly interest. “We’re in this together, Pat. Let’s have a little talk tomorrow.”
Patrick could hardly restrain his laughter. But he replied in an ingenuous voice: “I may tell you, at that. I’m sure you will consider them remarkable.”
Rufus was not in the least demonstrative, but now he linked his arm in Patrick’s in the most confidential manner imaginable. Patrick felt a faint thrill of disgust, for all his amusement. This sly sinewy fox, this dexterous doubler, this poisonous twisting bastard! Now, he, Patrick, had no objection to opportunism, to exigency, to exploitation. These were all necessary to business. A man had to compete with a world of wolves, and Patrick Brogan was quite a hardy wolf himself. But he liked to meet fellow wolves on an open battlefield, to tear and rend in equal and exhilarating combat, with loud howls of exultation and joy. But Rufus, he reflected, was not like this. He preferred the stealthy and lethal approach, the fawning and grinning, the soft touch, the gentle treacherous word. A foul yellow hypocrite. It was loathsome to Patrick Brogan to pretend sweet friendship the while the knife was inserted.
It enraged him that Rufus was John’s favourite, and for no other reason than that Rufus deferred to the sick man, treated him with exquisite respect, listened to him with rapt and serious attention, gave way before him courteously. But Patrick’s harsh sense of humour, ribald smiles, combative temperament, sudden furies and quick rages, and, moreover, his race and religion, did not endear him to John. Patrick’s only advantage over Rufus was his ability to make John laugh. In truth, the only time John laughed these strange and darkly confused days of his, was when Patrick induced him to do so. Even that was rare. John’s silences were becoming blacker and more dangerous as the months passed, and sometimes he appeared quite beside himself. Patrick’s gay blandishments were met with increasing resistance and with red and sombre looks. But Rufus soothed him, placated and eased him.
The man’s a fool, thought Patrick, with hot disgust and rage. If he had the wit of an imbecile he’d know what Rufe is up to, and how the fox hates him. Now, I don’t hate him. I pity him. He’s been a fine figure of a man but he’s full of holes and fissures now. I could be his friend. But I’m prevented from that by the plottings of this suave and yellow thief, this gentlemanly bastard.
He shrugged in the darkness, as he walked beside his brother-in-law, and his handsome merry face, so coarse and thick, blackened with disgust.
I’ve got to keep my end up, he thought, much as it makes me want to puke. I’ve got to he ruthless, and ruthlessness sits badly on an Irishman. We prefer a bout with the shilallah, and then shake hands all around and have a drink. He knew he had the full and robust capacity for wickedness and plotting. But he knew, simply, that he was not evil.
They came to Mr. Wilkins’ house, the windows streaming with yellow light, the white door gleaming in the light of the street-lamps, the brass knocker shining like gold. They were admitted by the ancient crone of a housekeeper, and conducted into the pleasant living room where Mr. Wilkins awaited them near the fire. Everything was in simple and beguiling chintzes, and all exposed wood was polished to extreme brightness. On a table near Mr. Wilkins reposed decanters of whiskey and bottles of soda. He rose when his young guests entered, beaming upon them with delighted affability, and extending both his fat rosy hands to them.
“Excellent! Excellent!” he exclaimed. “It does me old heart good to see young faces abaht! That it does. It was kind of you young chaps to visit an old codger like me.”
He implied, in every tone and gesture and radiant expression, that the gentlemen had paid an unexpected call upon him, for which he was artlessly grateful. He flurried about them, drawing comfortable chairs to the fire, adjusting lamps for better light, dashing whiskey and soda into glittering crystal glasses. The bright gay curtains were now drawn over the windows. Mr. Wilkins bustled with exclamations of delight and pleasure and hospitality. The fire danced in its grate. Everything was excessively cosy.
Mr. Wilkins seated himself on the edge of a blue wingchair and rested his hands on his fat knees. His large bald head, so pink and still so unwrinkled, shone in the lamplight with moisture. His face was crimson with his recent exertions. There was scarcely a line on its genial and cherubic expanse. He regarded his guests with fond excitement and paternal affection. Patrick m
omentarily expected him to clap his hands together in an excess of childish ecstasy at this call upon him by his dear young friends. The hazel eyes, so glassy, so protuberant, and so opaque, were luminous with the sweetest and brightest of expressions. His plump thighs strained against the sleekness of his brown broadcloth pantaloons; across his round belly the thick links of his gold watch-chain were quite agitated. Over the stiff linen of his high collar three rosy moist chins spilled, the first deeply dimpled. He was in his middle sixties now, yet he appeared ageless.
He refilled his guests’ glasses, and talked happily of inconsequential things. With deep interest, he inquired as to the health of the gentlemen’s ladies, and listened to their replies as if they were of momentous importance. He expressed his artless delight that Rufus was soon to become a father, and winked at that young man archly, wagging one index finger as if Rufus had accomplished something unusual and delicious, but just slightly naughty. When Patrick expressed his own hopes, Mr. Wilkins could hardly contain himself for rapture. He clapped his hands over and over, rolling his eyes, and then slapping his hands vigorously on his knees, rocking himself back and forth on the edge of his chair, to the imminent danger of finding himself on the floor.
Then his face sobered dramatically, and with a kind of tragedy. He brought out a large white kerchief, and mopped his brow and eyes. From behind the thick folds his voice came, deep and sombre:
“Ah, I shouldn’t be envious, that I shouldn’t. It’s not in me to complain against the decrees of Providence. Wot’s to be will be, ’as always been my motto. Not that it don’t pain this old heart of mine, and set me to wonderin’ just what Providence ’ad in mind for me to do, to replace wife and little ones in me arms.”
Patrick turned a ribald grimace upon Rufus, who replied with one of his sedate and expressionless winks.
Mr. Wilkins removed the handkerchief, replaced it, with heavy sighs, in his pocket, then assumed a brave and shining expression of renunciation and resigned sweetness. He straightened himself in his chair, like a gallant old soldier who has told himself that he must not bewail his fate, and then turns his face nobly and with fortitude to the arid future. It was extremely touching.
Then, he allowed his expression to become sad and thoughtful again. He passed his hand over his eyes, then left it there, shading those orbs as if what he was about to say pained him beyond endurance.
“Gentlemen, you must wonder why I’ve sent for you, and wot I’ve got to say. You must understand that it’s a painful task, just. Not wot I’d ’oped would ’ave to happen. But one must face one’s duty, is my motto. Allus face duty, brave like and unflinchin’.”
Patrick again exchanged a quick look with Rufus, who idly turned his glass in hs prehensile fingers.
“Gentlemen,” resumed Mr. Wilkins, in a louder voice with a note of desperation, “I’m not one to shirk. Not Bob Wilkins. But I’m an old man now. Tired and worn like. Weary in the shafts. I’ve done me work, and all I wants now is peace and contentment. It’s little enough for a life of struggle, you’ll agree with me. But it seems like it’s not to be.”
The young men eyed him with alert respect and commendable attention. But Mr. Wilkins kept his eyes dolorously hidden. His fat rotund body slumped in the chair. He seemed overcome with exhaustion and sorrow.
“It’s ’ard,” sighed Mr. Wilkins, “’ard to see the efforts of a lifetime come to nothing. Labourin’ in the vineyard in the hot sun, and then seeing the wine poured out just when a chap’s old lips reaches for it. That’s Bob Wilkins, today.”
“Surely not, sir,” said Patrick, in a tone of rich and concerned sympathy. “It’s not as bad as that.”
Mr. Wilkins looked at him with simple and dignified despair. “It is, indeed, Mr. Brogan. I’m not one as complains unjustly. You’ll grant me, gentlemen, that I’ve been Mr. Turnbull’s benefactor, his friend, his power behind the throne, if I may be allowed to say it.”
His Nemesis more likely, thought Patrick, with some grimness.
But he nodded gravely, as did Rufus.
“Wot I’ve done for that gentleman!” exclaimed Mr. Wilkins, rolling his eyes and throwing up his hands in eloquent despair. “No word can tell. I lifted him from nothing. I put him in the way of making his fortun. Now, it’s not that he’s ungrateful. Don’t misquote me or misunderstand me. That would be unfair like. But, I’ve got a proper pride, gentlemen. I’m one as likes to see the edifice he’s built stand up against all the storms of fate and bad fortun. Too, bein’ human, I like the satisfaction of just deserts. No one can deny that I’ve got just deserts comin’ to me.
“And then, just as I thinks me weary old bones can rest, wot happens? Mr. Turnbull goes into a decline. He becomes ill. Not just ill in body, you see. But ill in his mind. Things begin to go to pot. I ’ad an income from his firm and his subsidiaries that brought me in a tidy fifty thousand a year, clear. But wot’ve I got last year? A bare ten thousand. And things goin’ steadily from bad to worse. This year, I don’t expect five thousand. Gentlemen, I ask you, is that fair after a lifetime of devotion and service to Mr. Turnbull?”
The young men were silent. But they fixed their eyes sharply upon Mr. Wilkins.
“You don’t condemn me, gentlemen?” pleaded Mr. Wilkins, with great pathos, and extending his hands to them. “There may be old panic in me. But I was never one as shut his eyes to facts. I know my business affairs. I’ve talked to Mr. Jay Regan. He tells me things are very serious indeed.”
“We know that only too well,” said Rufus, quietly. “In fact, Patrick and I have discussed the matter thoroughly. But, what can we do? Mr. Turnbull keeps all power and authority in his own hands. We have titles, but they are empty ones. He reserves all decisions to himself, signs all matters of importance. Perhaps, Mr. Wilkins, you have something to suggest? If fame speaks rightly, you aren’t the kind to sit back and watch ruin overcome you. You aren’t without resources.” And he smiled intimately at Mr. Wilkins.
Patrick satup slowly but alertly. He looked from Rufus to Mr. Wilkins. There was a sharp blue light in his small and cunning eyes.
And now Mr. Wilkins was silent. He smiled sweetly and sadly. But in his own eyes there was a brilliant point deep within their hazel recesses. The air grew tense. The young men expected some observation from Mr. Wilkins that would immeasurably excite them.
But Mr. Wilkins slowly allowed his expression to become heavy with sympathy and indignation as he regarded them.
“I’ve talked to Johnnie, serious like, as an old friend. ‘Johnnie,’ I’ve said, ‘those lads of yours are fine young chaps. Trust ’em. Let ’em take over. Relieve you of burdens. After all, they are your nateral heirs. You can’t deny that. You’ve worked ’ard. You’re in your forties. Men as works as ’ard as you’ve done deserves rest. Retire. Before things go to ruin. Trust the lads.’ And wot do you think he answered, roaring like, a lion: “I’ll ’ave no part in their foolishness! The business’s mine. I’ll keep me ’and on the rudder until I drop. That’s my final word.’” He paused, and gazed at Patrick and Rufus in final despair.
Now neither Patrick nor Rufus believed a single word of this. But they pretended that they did, and shook their heads sombrely. They felt a thrill of excitement rush over them.
He knows we know he’s lying, thought Patrick. Damn it, why all this play-acting, this skirmishing? Let him come to the damn point.
“So,” ended Mr. Wilkins, “wot was I to do? I’ve racked my brains. Finally, it come to me. It’s the only thing I can do. I’ve got to take you lads into my confidence, and suggest things. Or, we’re all done in.”
What the hell is he up to? thought Patrick, knitting his thick black brows. He’s got millions tucked away. He can’t really be upset about his picayune fifty thousand a year. He’s got something else up his sleeve. I think I see part of it. He wants to ruin the Old Man. Why?
Rufus was speaking. “Mr. Wilkins, talk to us freely. We’re with you.” And he glanced at Patrick soberly. But the eye tu
rned nearest to Patrick winked again.
Mr. Wilkins looked down. He slowly pressed the palms of his hands together. He spoke in a low voice:
“This is breakin’ me ’art, gentlemen. But it’s no time for personal feelin’s. You’ll grant me that.”
He drew a deep breath, and looked at the young men with stern resolution.
“First of all, Johnnie’s very close to our ’arts. His welfare touches us. We can’t look at him, the way he is these days, without pangs. Can we? He’s got to get away. He’s got to take a journey. Out of New York. To quiet spots, on ships. For a long time. Your ladies, gentlemen, as is lovin’ daughters to Johnnie, can persuade him. He is breakin’ their ’arts. They can’t sleep of nights, worryin’ about him. Wot’ll they do without their dear Papa, if he dies off and leaves ’em alone in the world? ’Aven’t they always adored him like? He’s got to go away for a time, for their sakes. They demands it.”
“Lavinia,” said Rufus, in a deep and worried tone, “has spoken of this often, to me. She is very grieved. It isn’t the best thing in the world for a lady in her condition to worry so excessively about any one. I shall surely speak to Lavinia.”
“And I,” said Patrick, “shall speak to Louisa. She, too, is very concerned.” He could not look at Rufus, or he would have burst out into ribald laughter.
Mr. Wilkins was beaming again, his eyes suffused tenderly. “Ah, I can see what good ’arts and understandin’ you gentlemen have! You’ll do this for Johnnie. He’ll come back, right as rain. He won’t get ill again. You’ll have taken on all the responsibility.”
Again, there was a sudden pregnant silence in the warm and pleasant room. Rufus and Patrick sat as still as statues. But there were streaks of rough red on Rufus’ sallow cheekbones. Patrick’s eyes were so narrowed that they could not be seen.
“But how?” asked Rufus, very softly, at last. His lean veined hands clenched on the arms of his chair.
Mr. Wilkins regarded him fixedly. “Easy enough,” he said. He was smiling now. And now he was a fat and rotund and very evil Buddha, smiling out from the recesses of his dark and devious mind.
The Turnbulls Page 51
