“He can’t hurt me, Gene,” answered Oliver, sadly. “No one can. But he can hurt you. He’ll forget that you’re Julie’s husband. He’s always instinctively distrusted you and detested you. You can’t deny that. He’ll realize he can’t injure me. You’ll be the only victim. He wouldn’t stop at anything. Of course, there is Julie’s trust fund. Would you like to live on that, and on what you’ve saved? All the rest of your life, Gene, and do you think that Julie would like to know that I am your brother? Julie’s never liked me, you know. In fact, I believe she hates me.”
“Yes,” said Eugene, as if they were discussing the most abstract of subjects. “All that you say is true.”
Oliver continued: “It’s no use, Gene. You can’t lift a hand against my father, or against me, without completely wrecking yourself. I have control over your future. And, as I told you a short time ago, the Northwest Lumber Company believed me when I told them you would be invaluable. They hope to gain your complete loyalty. I think they will. After all, they are not William Prescott. And there’ll be many opportunities for you, later, as you have doubtless been thinking, yourself. The Northwest Lumber Company always advances its able men, and you’ll be one of their best.”
Eugene considered all this with detachment. Once or twice he nodded. He said finally: “I suppose I owe you something. You could have demolished me entirely, couldn’t you?”
“Yes. But that would have been stupid. I don’t like to ‘demolish’ anything, and I’m not spiteful. Even you aren’t, though you are a cruel man. You’ve wanted to kill my father, or cause him to suffer enormously. Because of your own father. I can understand that.”
Eugene asked with faint interest: “What do you intend to do about Tom, after Mr. Prescott dies still believing the lie these gentlemen are going to tell him? Not, I admit, that I care about what happens to Tom.”
“We are going to elect him second vice-president,” said Oliver. Eugene smiled with cold enjoyment. “Excellent,” he murmured. “In that position, he can’t do much mischief.”
“I suppose it is superfluous to ask,” said Oliver, “but I’d like to be sure. Tom doesn’t have any idea that his father has already forfeited his stock to Mr. Jay Regan, does he?”
Eugene’s faded brows lifted in contempt. “It is indeed superfluous. It is also a stupid question. If Tom had known—and you can be sure I did everything I could to prevent him from knowing—he’d have tried long before this to buy back that stock with the Blake money. It was most necessary for me to keep that knowledge from him. His father, naturally, never told him. He had too much pride, and wanted his son’s ‘respect’ too much. Then, when Tom had married Mary Blake, it was too late to buy back the stock.”
Oliver sighed. “Well, your job now, Gene, is to keep Tom quiet, to keep him persuaded that you’ll both have to wait a little longer. You’ll have to invent some reason.”
Eugene gave him a bland look. “Are you threatening me?”
“Naturally,” answered Oliver.
Eugene lifted his head in a small but expressive gesture. “You can be certain of one thing, and that is I am not a fool. As you informed me a little earlier, I’ve been using Tom, for my own purposes. I can go on using him, though in a somewhat altered way. I’ll keep him quiet until his father dies. Of course, he is going to be slightly furious when he is robbed of the chance of confronting his father with the announcement that he is a better man than Mr. Prescott, after all, and that he has been unanimously elected president of the Company while his father is still alive. For the reason that his father is a failure.”
CHAPTER LVIII
Oliver Prescott was in conference with Mr. Meredith when a clerk entered with a card for him. “I’m very busy just now,” he said. Then he glanced at the card. He looked at Mr. Meredith without expression. “Eugene Arnold,” he said, and stood up. He told the clerk to send Mr. Arnold into his own offices, and went there himself.
Eugene was waiting for him in the pleasant office, into which the July sunshine streamed warmly. One of the things which had always impressed Oliver with reluctant admiration was Eugene’s calm self-possession under all circumstances, his balance and judiciousness. He wondered, a trifle drily, whether he was not more impressed by them since he had discovered that he, too had all these in some measure and, in a certain sense, from the same source. Nothing, thought Oliver, could put Eugene out of countenance. He accepted a cigarette from his brother, allowed Eugene to light it. If anyone was in the least strained, it was not, it annoyed him to admit, Eugene. He wondered what had brought the older man here to see him, and he was immediately on his guard.
Apparently Eugene felt this, for he smiled.
“We haven’t seen much of you for the past couple of months,” he said. “In fact, I haven’t seen you at all—since April.”
“I’ve been in Washington a great deal,” replied Oliver. “And whenever we have visited Father and Mother, you and Julie have been out.”
Eugene’s smile became less tight. “Strange, isn’t it?” he murmured.
Oliver could feel himself coloring. “Barbara has seen her sister,” he said, coldly.
Eugene inclined his head. “Lawyers seem to work at night a great deal,” he remarked casually. “Mrs. Prescott often remarks that you visit Mr. Prescott frequently during the day.”
“Yes,” said Oliver.
“The Old Man is failing. Sad, isn’t it?” said Eugene.
There was something out of tune here, reflected Oliver. It was not like the meticulous Eugene to use Tom’s vulgar phrase “the Old Man.” Oliver must have betrayed his vexation, for Eugene added: “You’re wondering why I am here. Believe me, it is just a friendly visit. Unless you are very busy?” he added.
He is goading me, thought Oliver. He was about to say, very abruptly, that he was indeed busy, when he became aware that Eugene was watching him with close curiosity and with not so secret amusement.
“I’m not too busy,” he said, rather curtly. “But I am surprised. You did say ‘friendly visit,’ didn’t you?”
“Yes, and I meant it. It’s almost five, anyway. I was passing, and I thought I’d drop in to see you.”
“Go on; be friendly,” said Oliver. He could not help smiling a bit.
Eugene turned his head a little; the sunlight made his pale eyes glint. “I never thanked you, I am afraid.”
“Don’t thank me. The Northwest Lumber Company is our client, and I did the best for them as such in recommending that they continue to have you act as the general manager of the Prescott Lumber Company.”
“With a large increase in salary when the merger takes place,” Eugene added. He looked at Oliver directly, and his amusement was no longer even slightly concealed. “Come now, you know very well that they could have replaced me, and would have done so, at a word from you. They have very fine men in their organization.” He waited. Oliver said nothing. “It couldn’t have been because of any—shall we say—family feeling?”
Oliver said: “Because Julie is my wife’s sister? No.”
Eugene actually laughed. ‘“No,”’ he repeated. “You don’t like Julie, and the dislike is heartily returned. Incidentally, Julie doesn’t know as yet, about the approaching merger.”
Oliver’s hand began to tap on the top of his desk. Eugene saw that impatient and annoyed motion. Oliver saw him looking, and held his hand still. Eugene leaned back in his chair, and spoke meditatively: “You wouldn’t be the lawyer you are if you were fundamentally sentimental, and if you weren’t also a realist. Good lawyers never fool themselves. You don’t. At least, not most of the time.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Gene,” said Oliver.
“Oh, yes, you do. You know that if you didn’t have me kicked out it was because I’m your brother.”
Oliver looked away.
“Sentimental?” said Eugene, softly. “No, not exactly. Brothers have been known to outbest each other, to hate each other, even to kill each other. Brother
ly love, in the closest sense, is quite a rarity, especially if one brother has more money than the other.”
“What are you getting at?” asked Oliver, sternly.
Eugene said: “If a brother of mine stood in my way, I’d knock him down. So would you, in a certain sense. And, in that sense, you did, though your reasons, I know, were really quite virtuous.
“You see, both you and I grew up believing we had no one. I don’t count my mother as anyone, because she didn’t like me, and I am afraid I didn’t like her, either. We were both lonely—you and I. We had no brothers and no sisters. After my mother died, and in spite of our mutual sentiments towards each other, I became even more lonely. I’d never cared for anyone except my father, and he died when I was only twelve.”
Oliver waited for Eugene to continue, but he did not go on. Oliver said: “I still don’t know what you’re getting at.”
“Don’t you? I thought good lawyers were very acute. I’ll put it more simply. There’s a streak of sentimentality in everybody. If I’d grown up with a brother I’d probably hate him by now, in the normal fashion. But not having had one that I knew of, I’d often enjoy a little self-pity. As you did.”
Oliver was about to deny this angrily, and then he said to himself: That’s true.
“You were an adopted son, and you had sisters and brothers, under the law. But you were lonely; you were left out. As I was, too. We both worked alone. We both lived alone. We had no one. I think you found that out very vividly when you married Barbie—even from the woman you call ‘Mother’.”
Oliver’s face darkened. Eugene nodded, satisfied. “You see? You haven’t forgotten. You are what is known as a ‘good’ man, and so you’ve forgiven. But you haven’t forgotten.”
“This isn’t getting us anywhere,” said Oliver.
“I don’t know about that, Oliver. Anyway, I wanted to thank you for instructing that pink old rascal of a Bassett to let me see copies of the documents you have.”
“You didn’t come here today to suggest that we become good and affectionate brothers, did you?”
Eugene laughed again. “Not as baldly as all that. But I’ll admit that I’m not sorry, now, that you’re my brother. If you were such a one as Tom Prescott, I’d be damned sorry.” He waited for Oliver to comment, but the younger man merely stared at him with narrowed eyes.
It became evident to Oliver that Eugene was enjoying himself, but his voice was quite grave when he said: “I’ve always been ambitious. I’ll go on being ambitious. Just as you will, too. You know, without my telling you, that I’ve not only been ambitious but that I’ve had another motive in trying to get control of the Prescott Lumber Company.”
“I know. You like neatness. And you wanted your revenge, didn’t you, Gene?” Oliver looked away. “You didn’t get it, but that didn’t seem to disturb you too much. I’ve got to admit I’ve admired you for that. You didn’t ‘avenge’ your father, if you’ll permit a little theatricalism.”
“No. But you did,” said Eugene.
Oliver jerked his head back.
Eugene said, gently: “It was accomplished, after all—by a son of my father. As you have said, I like neatness.”
Oliver stood up. Eugene stayed in his chair. Again, his eyes were glinting.
“We don’t like the Prescotts, do we? We married two of them, yet even if we are—attached—to these two, we have no respect for the Prescotts, have we? We know what the whole family is; we know what the sons are. You’re looking forward, Oliver, to the day when we can both tell Tom Prescott what’s happened to him. He’s ambitious, too. You are going to enjoy that day, aren’t you? Just as I am.”
“Yes, but not for the same reason! I’m going to enjoy it because of what he tried to do to his father.” Oliver’s voice was contemptuous. “It happens that I—”
“‘Love’ Mr. Prescott?” finished Eugene. “But you’re human, too. You have your resentments. You’ll do what you intend to do to Tom, even though he’s Mr. Prescott’s son. And the reason’s not entirely virtuous.”
He stood up, also.
“And now I’ll tell you something else: You’ve always pitied Mr. Prescott. Don’t you know there is an element of egotism in pity? We sympathize to some extent, with those we consider our equals or our superiors, but we don’t ‘pity’ them.
“I never pitied William Prescott. For I knew him for what he was, which you never did. I knew he was a genius; you didn’t, did you? I admired him, you didn’t. Even remembering his infernal obsession about his children, I can still admire him for what he was. He was a great man.”
They looked at each other fixedly.
Oliver said: “There are values beyond your understanding. We may use the same words, but we mean different things.”
“Perhaps. You’re a lawyer, Oliver, and you ought to know. But it’s still true that you never knew William Prescott; that you only pitied, that you never admired him. None of his family did. I think he’s beginning to understand that now. It’s a terrible thought for a man to have when he’s dying.”
He picked up his hat. “Good evening,” he said.
CHAPTER LIX
Even though, for the past three weeks, William had been ordered to remain in bed, he would not permit a nurse in the house to take care of him, nor would he follow his doctor’s orders. Each afternoon, unassisted, panting and sweating with weakness, he would force himself out of bed, and go to a chair by the window, where he would sit, trying to subdue by will-power alone the agonizing pound of his heart. He would not admit to himself that he was gravely ill, that he was most certainly dying. Once in the chair, he would look out over the pleasant July gardens, the grass and trees, and, very slowly, he would be able to catch his breath. Sometimes he fell asleep, sitting there, and Ursula would find him so. But she never permitted him to guess that she had seen him, and would only reenter when she was sure he had awakened and had laboriously returned to bed.
Then she would come in, quite casually, to discover that he had shaved and washed himself and had changed his night-shirt. She would ask him how he was; he would reply impatiently. Sometimes, while speaking, he would pause a moment, anxiously listening to his own voice, suspecting a dwindled note, a faint gasp between words. Then he would make his voice stronger, and more brusque. That damned Banks! If he, William, wasn’t ill by now, this bed-squatting would surely make him so! He’d give himself a day or two more, to get back his strength, and then he wouldn’t permit himself the luxury of lying here like an invalid but would return to the office immediately.
It was that heavy cold he had had in the spring. Sometimes you couldn’t shake off such things readily. They lingered, sapping your strength. William would cough quite convincingly. Ursula never made the mistake of adjusting his pillows, the sheet, or the light silken shawl which covered him. She would sit down at a little distance in the great ponderous room, and nod her head, knowing that her husband was watching her closely. She would keep her face casual, and agree with him, while all the time her anguished mind kept crying to itself: No! You can’t die, my darling! I won’t let you go.
She would bring him the evening paper. She would watch while he struggled to a sitting position, and not let him suspect that it was almost more than she could bear to see his shrunken pallor, the beads of sweat on his forehead, the livid tint of his face. She would pretend not to hear his hurried breathing. She would only sit there, an aging woman full of sorrow and despair, while he glanced through the paper and muttered to himself about some fresh enormity on the part of “that rascal, Roosevelt.” After a while she would order tea for them both. She had hoped, in the beginning, that he would talk to her then. But, though he drank the tea, he would continue to look through the paper, frowning. Silence would fill the room, except for the rustling of the trees outside, the distant whirr of a lawn-mower, the voice of a gardener, the singing of birds. The sun would send into the room broader and broader rays of rose and gold, until finally they would reach a large painting
on the wall opposite the bed. Then William would put down his paper and, forgetting that Ursula sat there at all, would look steadily and smilingly at the painting. Some of the light would seem to be reflected in his eyes.
It was a painting of an old monk, standing in a garden of brilliant sun and flowers, with terraces of olive and orange and lemon trees rising behind him. His habit was tucked up in his rope girdle; his thick brown legs were bare, as were his arms. He stood in a very glow of flame and radiance, so that his dark face shone and his black eyes seemed to sparkle vividly. The intensity of color about him appeared to emanate from him, as if he were the sun, itself, and all this incandescence part of his substance and flesh. He was a living presence in this room, a presence of warmth and fire and vitality, his full mouth vivacious, his bald head glistening. He gave the impression that he was about to laugh, or to speak, for one of his hands was lifted, expressively, and one shoulder half-raised in an eloquent shrug. He was, it was evident, a gardener, yet there was a passion and mobility about that old sturdy body, and in the lines of those massive arms and legs, and in the huge curve of his belly.
The painting had been set in an ancient Venetian gold frame, elaborate and intricate. At the bottom was a small golden plate: “Fra Leonardo.” In the corner of the painting itself were very small black letters: “Matthew Prescott.”
William would look at the painting for a long time. It was as if he drew strength from that smiling painted strength, life from that colored flesh, hope from those black eyes. He would sigh a little. He would say aloud, but to himself: “Fra Leonardo. A monk.” Then, after a moment or two: “My son.” The last words were almost indistinct; they trembled slightly.
Ursula would think of the daily and frantic cables she was sending to Matthew, and of the silence which had followed all but the first two. She would think of those cables of Matthew’s in reply, of the four repeated words of them: “I can’t go back.” Bitterness would overcome her, tears would rush from her eyes, and she would get up and go from the room. She knew that William never noticed her going. He would look only at the painting, until the closing dusk blurred it out.
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