Let Love Come Last

by Taylor Caldwell

  “Not to be countenanced—impudent,” murmured Mr. Bassett. Then he saw Oliver. His round face instantly turned malevolent. He stared at Oliver, and there was rage glittering behind his spectacles. He began to say something, then stopped. He began again: “Is it necessary, Mr. Scott, that Oliver Prescott be present? I have no personal objection to Mr.—Prescott, but under the circumstances—”

  Mr. Meredith said tranquilly: “Mr. Prescott is our junior partner. In a few moments he will address this meeting and inform you gentlemen of certain other facts.”

  “He is—” Mr. Bassett started to say, then once again halted.

  Oliver’s quiet voice completed the sentence: “Mr. Scott, Mr. Meredith and Mr. Owens are already aware, Mr. Bassett, of a certain conversation I had with you a long time ago. I have not ‘betrayed’ you, as you seem to think, for there was nothing, really, to betray. In a little while, you’ll all know how the facts of my own case can be used in behalf of all of us, and of the Prescott Lumber Company.”

  His three old partners gave Oliver a benevolent smile. Mr. Owens touched his arm lightly. He spoke: “Gentlemen—Mr. Bassett, we have the highest regard and affection for young Mr. Prescott. We regard him as a son. We beg all of you to treat him as if he were. Later, you will understand.”

  Now the attention of the officers and directors of the Prescott Lumber Company was turned incredulously upon Oliver. He met the combined assault of their eyes without embarrassment, returned it calmly. If he felt contempt for them, he did not show it.

  But Ezra Bassett could not control himself. He turned to his fellow officers and directors and said, slowly and loudly: “Gentlemen, I am in possession of certain facts of my own. Something’s smelling very bad in here just now. I ought to have told you of it before, I presume. Nothing legally prevented me. I am not a lawyer.” Now he shot Oliver a look of the purest malignancy. “I ought to have told you that this—that Oliver Prescott is the illegitimate son of Chauncey Arnold. He is Gene Arnold’s half-brother.”

  Again, an astounded silence fell upon the room. Mr. Bassett’s friends stared unbelievingly at Oliver, who remained composed. They blinked their eyes at him; they strained forward to see him more clearly. He folded his arms across his chest, crossed his knees. One or two of them took off their glasses, polished them with white handkerchiefs, put them on again, and resumed their piercing scrutiny of the young man.

  Mr. Bassett chuckled. “I have all the evidence, and so has he. He can’t deny it.”

  The old lawyers smoked their cigars tranquilly; they exchanged the slightest of smiles.

  Oliver said: “I don’t propose to deny it, Mr. Bassett. I propose to use it, as you once suggested that you and I might use it.”

  Mr. Leslie broke into a loud guffaw and struck his knee with his clenched fist. “God!” he exclaimed. “What a scandal this is going to be! It’ll shake Andersburg from east to west!”

  Mr. Meredith waited until the disturbance had subsided. He said with serene sternness: “Gentlemen, I assure you that if you attempt to injure Mr. Prescott, you’ll regret the day. For you see, gentlemen, my associates and I summoned you here in all mercy, and only after long pleading on the part of Oliver. He wants to save the Prescott Lumber Company. It is in our hands to destroy it. He wants to save it because of Mr. William Prescott. However, should you, beyond these doors, communicate to anyone one word of a certain unfortunate circumstance, then I say with all sincerity that I hope you have, beyond your holdings in the Prescott Lumber Company, private fortunes sufficient to sustain you for the rest of your lives.

  “What do you mean, sir?” stammered Judge Muehller.

  Mr. Meredith shrugged. “I propose that Mr. Prescott now address you. You will, I am sure, hear him out in silence and in courtesy.”

  Almost squeaking under the shock of what he had heard, Senator Whiscomb said: “I refuse—I don’t intend—I don’t know what this is all about!” Frantically, he looked from one old man to the other, a long stare of terrified dismay. “This is too much for a man my age to have to listen to—Chauncey Arnold’s son! The Company. What is all this?”

  Mr. Owens addressed Mr. Bassett: “Plotters always make the very serious mistake of believing that they alone plot. Personally, I dislike that word—‘plot’. Our firm, sir, has never engaged in anything nefarious. We have never attempted to blackmail—”

  “Blackmail!” stuttered Mr. Bassett.

  “Blackmail is what I said, sir,” replied Mr. Owens, with cold severity. “What else would you call your attack upon our junior partner? Or would you prefer to call it malice, or hatred, or simply plain cruelty? What had you to gain? You thought you could injure him, debase him in our estimation, hold him up to ridicule in the sight of this city?

  You have heard Mr. Meredith’s warning. We, too, are old men. We are fast losing our patience. In spite of our affection and regard for young Mr. Prescott and our promise that, for the sake of Mr. William Prescott, we’ll assist him in the saving of your Company, we shall, if we hear any further attack from any of you upon our junior associate, be compelled to ask you to leave immediately, and to take the consequences.”

  Dr. Banks and the others listened in dazed incredulity.

  Again, Mr. Scott looked at the paper in his hand. “Be sure, gentlemen, that the Northwest Lumber Company would not have written me of their desire to enter the Western and Eastern lumber markets, and would not have suggested that they wished to absorb the Prescott Lumber Company, had they not had reason to believe that it is possible to do so. I might remind you of a certain passage in this letter: ‘We have, as our objective in this, the avoidance of the increasing danger of competition, and the elimination of smaller competitors, thus stabilizing control of the lumber business in general in the important areas.’ I need not remind you, gentlemen, that the Northwest Lumber Company is the largest lumber company in this country. It is ‘big business’, gentlemen. The Prescott Lumber Company was once ‘big business’, also. It is not so, now. And we have it in our power to eliminate it entirely, instead of permitting it to become a subsidiary of the Northwest Lumber Company.”

  “A subsidiary!” exclaimed Judge Muehller, freshly appalled.

  Mr. Scott smiled gently. “But I am infringing upon Mr. Prescott’s own territory. Oliver, will you now address these gentlemen?”

  Oliver stood up without haste.

  “Gentlemen, Mr. Scott has not told you the date of the letter from the Northwest Lumber Company. It is dated six months ago.” He paused. “Since that date this firm has been in communication with them.”

  He waited. No one spoke. No one averted his head. The fire crackled and the gas-lights flickered a little.

  “At the very beginning, I want to say this,” went on Oliver. “I want to save the Prescott Lumber Company, and for only one reason: for the sake of my foster father. He is dying. He may die tomorrow, as Dr. Banks can tell you: he might live another six months. Longer than that, I believe, he cannot live. Dr. Banks, may we ask your professional opinion?”

  Dr. Banks bridled. He turned to his friends. But they only returned his look questioningly. He coughed. “A physician should never be called upon to give his opinion to anyone save his patient, or his patient’s family. His opinion is sacred.”

  Oliver smiled. “Under the law, I am a member of Mr. Prescott’s family.”

  Dr. Banks pretended to reflect upon this. He was extremely frightened. Angrily, he said: “Very well. I am violating no confidences, I presume, when I say that Bill cannot live more than six months. Of course, that is only my opinion. I won’t bore you with the recitation of certain symptoms which have—ah, disturbed—me, but I can give it as my opinion that Bill Prescott will not see the year out.”

  Mr. Leslie said brutishly, shifting his bulk in his chair: “You’re almighty concerned with this, aren’t you, Mr. Oliver Prescott?”

  “I am,” replied Oliver. “I am concerned to the point where I’ll do anything to save this Company, in order that my
adoptive father may die in peace. But if I’m to save it, you’ll have to help me, though, under any other circumstances, you’d refuse. You can’t refuse. For, you see, your refusal would mean your ruin.”

  Again, he studied them. “You are all old men, very old men. Still, you want money. Your minds are so fixed upon your money that you have forgotten two very vital things: Eugene Arnold, and Tom Prescott. You have forgotten that Tom Prescott is married to Mary Blake, and that behind Tom and Mary are the Blake millions.”

  No one answered him. The old lawyers smiled.

  “Temporarily, at least, you might forget Tom, except in connection with Eugene Arnold. But Eugene Arnold you must not forget. You must not forget that he hates my foster father. You must not forget the very evident fact that he wants the Prescott Lumber Company for himself, and that he intends to have it.”

  “A lie!” cried Mr. Jenkins, speaking for the first time.

  Oliver smiled again. “Mr. Bassett,” he said, “won’t agree with you, will you, Mr. Bassett?”

  Mr. Bassett flushed crimson. His friends as one man turned to him. Sweat had burst out upon the old man’s face. He said, regarding Oliver with hatred: “No, I don’t agree with Jenkins.” He took out his handkerchief and rubbed his damp forehead. “It’s only an idea of mine, perhaps, but I’ve been watching Eugene Arnold. It came to me years ago that he wanted the Company. I think it came eventually to all of us. But he can’t have it. There’s no way he can have it!” he added, shrilly.

  “Yes, there is,” said Oliver, composedly. “There are the Blake millions, and Mr. Blake is very fond of Tom. You see, Eugene has for years been playing a fine game. He’s convinced Tom that he is his friend, that his sole desire is to see Tom president of the Company, and that he is working with Tom to that end. He is using Tom. It is possible that he’d even allow Tom to become president. The pleasure of torturing my father, the humiliation of my father, and the sight of his agony at discovering that his son had betrayed him, might be too delicious a dish for Eugene Arnold to reject.

  “But with Tom as president, should Eugene permit Tom to become president, there would always be Eugene Arnold behind him. I happen to know that he has an alternative, however. He would permit Tom to be president only if that alternative did not mature. It won’t, gentlemen. But Eugene doesn’t know that, not yet.

  “Gentlemen, as I go on speaking, you must not, for an instant, let Gene out of your minds. If there is a villain in this piece, it is Gene Arnold.”

  “Your brother,” said Judge Muehller in a gently dreaming voice.

  Oliver repeated: “My brother.”

  He drew a deep breath. “I might say, at this time, that my father, on the occasion of his learning, two months ago, that Tom would be a father in less than seven months, has already assigned ten percent of his holdings to Tom.” He added, in a low tone: “That was Gene’s suggestion to Tom, when Tom told him that his father had asked him what he would like in celebration of the news.”

  The Senator exclaimed: “How do you know all this? How do you know all these things?”

  Oliver was silent for a few moments. He then said: “About five months ago I had to tell my mother a few things. She thinks only of my father. I had to persuade her of the plot which is developing against her husband. I had the facts by then, and she finally believed me. And so, she told me. She told me all she knew, and all she suspected. Because she was terrified.”

  “A woman’s suspicions are never to be relied upon,” said the judge.

  “Perhaps not—always. I verified these. But I am ahead of myself. I want to go into the background of this whole thing with you. You will see, then, that I know everything.”

  “Rather a preposterous statement, for a man who is exclusively a lawyer,” remarked Dr. Banks with inimical softness. He waved his hand: “Pardon the interruption, dear Oliver. Pray continue, and enlighten us, especially about the lumber business.”

  Oliver studied him for a moment. “I may be a lawyer, sir, but I undertook, as an extra-curricular activity, the study of the lumber businessness. I thought, more than five years ago, I might have need of the information. I wasn’t mistaken.

  “You see,” he continued, “I never trusted Eugene Arnold. You may call it intuition; you may call it a certain—understanding. I knew that the Prescott Lumber Company, and Mr. Prescott, were in danger. Men like Eugene Arnold never forget. And, so that I could follow Eugene further, it was necessary, first of all, that I become familiar with the lumber business.

  “I don’t have to recall to you gentlemen what has been happening in America since Mr. Roosevelt became President of the United States—”

  He was interrupted by a raucous interjection by Mr. Leslie: “Roosevelt! That swine! Too bad he wasn’t shot, instead of McKinley! He’s a destroyer of free enterprise, that’s what he is, the enemy of American prosperity, which is the result of big business. Look what he did to the Northern Securities Company! Interfering rascal! Anarchist! No wonder we have labor troubles.” He glared at Oliver. “I suppose you intend to give us, as the background for some muddled plot you have in mind, a discourse on the fine qualities of Roosevelt, who is wrecking free enterprise.”

  Oliver smiled. “No, Mr. Leslie, I don’t. I don’t intend to talk about big business. I might remark that if anyone here is at all muddled, it isn’t me. You see, it was the protection of small businesses like the Prescott Lumber Company which became the concern of the President. The Northwest Lumber Company is big business, for it intends, as you can see from its letter to us, to ‘eliminate competitors.’ But Mr. Roosevelt is inclined to look on the Northwest Lumber Company with some kindness, for it has promised to aid him in his determination to conserve our forests, which are in real danger of being destroyed. Selfishly, or with real sincerity, it has entered, with the President, into a plan for the conservation of our natural resources. It is going to coöperate with him in the North American Conservation Conference, to be held within a year or two. Again, for some reason, probably financial, it has even succeeded in interesting Mr. Jay Regan and his associates, who are normally against conservation of any kind. I’ll come to that later, however.

  “Mr. Prescott was once strongly in favor of the conservation of our lumber resources. In that, I think he was a pioneer. But I don’t have to tell you what happened to Mr. Prescott a few years ago. I’d like to believe that you gentlemen,” and here Oliver’s face hardened, “are guilty of the change in my father’s attitude towards the conservation of forests. But you aren’t guilty of that, though you didn’t object, of course, to my father’s abandonment of that sensible and patriotic idea.”

  He paused, and looked aside for a moment. “Well. You all know the change. My father became reckless. He was obsessed by the idea of providing large estates and trust funds for his children. It became a phobia with him. Everything else was forgotten. So, recklessly, in order to make money very fast, money which was deposited in the untouchable trust funds set up for his four children, he decided to throw out conservation.

  “So obsessed did my father become with his plan to make his children financially invulnerable that he sacrificed everything. He lost his boldness in enterprise. He lost initiative, invention. Finally, large portions of his salary were also thrown into the trust funds.”

  Now he looked piercingly at each of the six directors and officers. “It is just a thought of mine, but I’m sure you are aware that Mr. Prescott has very little money of his own left. Yes,” he added, with quiet bitterness, “I’m sure you are. Just as I’m sure that Gene Arnold has kept you informed.”

  “Look here!” blustered Mr. Jenkins. “You can’t throw assumptions around like that, insulting assumptions.”

  Oliver turned his attention upon him with the utmost acuteness. He nodded. “Perhaps, you, Mr. Jenkins, and one or two others, aren’t aware that—some—of you know these things. Am I right, gentlemen?” he asked, looking directly at Mr. Bassett, Judge Muehller and Dr. Banks.

  Mr. J
enkins, Mr. Leslie and Senator Whiscomb, mouths open, eyes widened, swung upon the doctor, the judge and the banker. These last, attacked with such suddenness, shrank.

  “Eh!” said Mr. Leslie, vindictively. “Is something going on here we haven’t heard about? What is this about you and Gene Arnold—Bassett? Banks? Muehller?”

  Oliver interrupted smoothly: “Gentlemen, it is possible that this is just imagination on my part. After all, you are all officers and associates, aren’t you? You wouldn’t plot against your friends, would you? Just for money?”

  Dr. Banks, wounded and outraged, broke out in a loud sonorous voice, as he faced Mr. Jenkins, Mr. Leslie and the Senator: “Of course not. Intolerable even to suggest it. We’re friends together, aren’t we?”

  “Are we?” said Mr. Jenkins, his wizened face screwed together cunningly.

  “We are, indeed,” said Mr. Bassett, the second to recover from the staggering attack.

  Oliver interposed: “I’ve been mistaken, then. Please forgive me. Shall I go on?”

  The doctor, the banker and the judge, still sweating with fear, looked at him hatingly, but with new wariness and respect. The others, with quiet savageness, divided their attention between Oliver and their friends. Scott, Meredith and Owens, though they smiled pleasantly and happily in the background, were temporarily forgotten.

  “So,” said Oliver, satisfied that his coup would serve to mitigate hostility from Mr. Bassett, Dr. Banks and Judge Muehller, “we have this situation where my father has brought the Prescott Lumber Company to a very dangerous pass. It isn’t expanding. It is shrinking; it is about to dwindle into a sixth-rate company. It isn’t your fault. It is the fault of my father’s obsession. He knows he is ill; he’s known that a long while. He is marking time, and has been doing so for years, just to build up those trust funds. Gentlemen, how are your dividends?” he asked abruptly.

  Mr. Leslie said sullenly: “You know so much, you ought to know what they are. Rotten. But you can’t blame Prescott for that,” he said, angrily. “It’s that Roosevelt, and the panic he’s started, with his interference with business, and his coddling of labor, and his fight with Wall Street.”