Gregory raised an eyebrow politely but cynically. That doesn’t surprise me, he seemed to think. Nevertheless, he regarded Ernest through the smoke with a well-bred interest.
“The Sessions Steel Company,” he said gently, “is always at your service. Barbour-Bouchard, isn’t it? A really interesting small firm. It has been my intention to call there soon. I have heard your guns and pistols are singularly fine. I am not a man for firearms, myself, but I have heard reports. Anything I can do—.”
“Our gunpowder is still better than our firearms,” said Ernest, as if Gregory had not spoken. The faint tinge deepened in his pale cheeks, yet otherwise he showed no agitation. “We haven’t developed that fully, due to my Uncle George’s—well, carefulness. He started with the firearms, but now we are hoping to develop the gunpowder and a steel bore cannon, breech-loading.
“But I wanted to ask your permission: the Sessions name is famous all over the civilized world for the finest steel. It is like the sterling mark on silver. You have said yourself that our firearms are singularly fine. I now ask your permission to print in small letters on our firearms the legend: ‘Made of Sessions Steel.’ You will be doing us a tremendous favor, for which we shall always be grateful.”
There was a long and pregnant pause. The factory was like deep and throbbing drums through the still air; the sunlight fell into the dusty room, fell over Gregory’s head, lay in planes on his carved face like a patina of gold. But Ernest’s eyes held Gregory’s eyes unswervingly for those endless and fateful moments, held them, commanded them, understood them, allied them with him. Gregory rested his thin long chin negligently on his clasped fingers; he did not move, betrayed no surprise, no wonder, nor, in fact, any emotion whatsoever. He might have been regarding space, for all his expression, instead of a rigid stocky young man in plain and decent clothing, possessing the most rigid and resolute face he had ever seen.
The silence became so prolonged that John Baldwin, who had been listening with unusual curiosity outside the door, ventured to open it a crack and peep in. He saw nothing but his employer and young Barbour sitting there, gazing at each other like basilisks, as if trying to outstare each other.
Then of a sudden Gregory coughed delicately, and in that cough was a chilly amused sound, as if he had finally seen and understood everything.
“It is I who ought to be grateful,” he said gallantly. “You may tell your Uncle, Mr. George Barbour, that I give my full and complete consent to the use of the Sessions name on your firearms. I trust we shall add lustre to each other, as I am sure we must do.”
And now he smiled fully into Ernest’s face, and Ernest smiled back. When the young man smiled so, there was a singularly radiant quality in his expression, like sun on ice.
“However,” continued Gregory softly, ever so softly, “you are no fool, and you know I am no old fool, whatever you thought before you came here. But that was not the real reason, the use of our name, that brought you here. You knew well, damn well, if I may say so, sir, that any firm would be pleased at having its name used on an article of merit. You knew I would give my permission, that if you had written me a simple letter, I would have given my permission.
“And I know that I would underestimate you if I believed that that was the reason you came here. And now, would you mind telling me why you did come?”
Ernest touched his mouth with his hand so that it was partly concealed behind his fingers. He regarded Gregory in silence.
“Of course,” said Gregory, smiling his thin, wide smile, “I can see you are very young. In years. But, as I informed you before, I am no fool. I judge no man by his years. I’ve seen fools in the White House and sages in cradles. Years are nothing. So, I will say nothing about your years except to remark that your Uncle George would not have the vision that I have.
“I saw that gentleman once, only once. But, as I said, he would fix his attention on your years. And the fact that you are his brother’s son. So I know well, so very well, that he would not have the audacity even to think of what you have asked me. The idea is yours. And, remembering everything, I can see you have many ideas. I can guess many of them.
“I have only one thing to caution you about: you are not the kind to make mistakes, nor will you be precipitate—however, do not underestimate any one. I hardly think you are likely to do so, but you might. Never eat apples when they are green. But, pshaw, you know all that.” He paused. “I am interested. If you have anything to tell me, to ask me, you can be assured of my entire ability to keep the matter confidential.” His nostrils dilated a little, and his eyebrows lifted sardonically.
Ernest still kept silent for a long moment. It was not that he was hesitating; Gregory could see that. He was merely marshalling his words into the simplest and most graphic pattern, so that he could speak without confusion. He was not surprised at what might have been considered Gregory’s precipitation, his waving aside of formalities and cautiousnesses. His own character, sharp and incisive, brought out these latent characteristics in others. Finally he dropped his hand, and began to speak quietly, and with respect-compelling dignity.
“You are right, Mr. Sessions, sir. I came here for several reasons. I think I can tell you all of them.
“First of all, I wanted to see you. I wanted to talk to you. I had to see the ground. Of course, I know all about the Sessions Company. That goes without saying. But I wanted to see you. I am satisfied.” (At this, Gregory put his hand swiftly to his mouth to smooth out a delighted and involuntary smile.) Ernest leaned toward him slightly, coloring again.
“I know you think what I am saying is presumptuous. But it isn’t. Some day, sir, you will realize that it isn’t. In looking over the ground here I wanted to see if it would be a proper place to advance some of my ideas. If you had been otherwise than what you are, not receiving me courteously and civilly, and not understanding everything, I would have said nothing.
“The time isn’t ripe yet for what I have in mind. I am young, I know that. And you are right about my uncle’s opinion of my age. However, it isn’t youth that stands in my way—my father’s way—but the fact that we have little money of our own. My father, who is a great man, is a lesser partner of my uncle’s. My uncle is a cheat: I have allowed him to go on cheating us, because it would injure my father too much to know—yet. But my younger brother, Martin, is our clerk, and he has shown me. I always suspected it.
“It isn’t only the cheating. But my uncle isn’t interested in what we want to do. He hasn’t allowed us to exploit our gunpowder fully. The gunpowder, as I said, is far more important than the firearms. My father and I have ideas for explosives such as the world hasn’t seen to this day. They can’t be developed without money; the gunpowder can’t be exploited rightly without money. Neither can it be done while my uncle is part of our firm. We’ve got to get him out. We’ll get him out. He doesn’t know that we have patented our newest rifles and our gunpowder. I don’t suppose he ever heard of patents. We can get him out. However, he’s got fifteen thousand dollars in the business, and has the land in his name.”
“Ah,” murmured Gregory negligently. He began to make marks on a paper with his quill pen; he wanted to escape those resolute eyes for a few moments. What the devil! he thought. Am I mad to be listening to this schoolboy chatter? But, by God, is it chatter? I must be dreaming! What does this young devil want? I know damn well what he wants! The impudence! The effrontery! I ought to kick him out, wasting my time like this. He looked up at Ernest with a bland smile at the corners of his mouth. “Go on,” he urged gently. He heard himself telling his niece, Amy, of this conversation, saw her lovely, compassionate smile and pretty eyes. Poor girl, she had had so little pleasure in her life that it pleased him to bring her small and lively tales like gay little flowers.
“I will bring you copies of our patents,” Ernest went on. Behind Gregory’s smile he saw his faint annoyance, his adult incredulity and amusement. His own face paled, became almost white, and there were bluis
h lines about his mouth. “You will then see the value of what we have got. I will bring my father. No doubt you think it odd that I have not brought him now, but I must prepare him—.”
“For your plan to kick out your Uncle George,” interrupted Gregory; his long white teeth glimmered between his spread lips.
“Exactly,” replied Ernest, inclining his head without a smile. “He is dead weight on our machinery and our plans. We must get rid of him. But we need money, and prestige. Your money,” he said quietly, leaning toward Gregory again, “and your prestige.”
He saw the flare of ridicule and amused anger in Gregory’s pupils. He clenched his sweating hands, though his face remained calm. Even the astute Gregory did not guess the furious pounding of the boy’s heart.
“Your money—and your prestige,” repeated Ernest, and now there was something in his voice that made Gregory feel confused and nightmarish, and again, that he was dreaming this whole absurd interview. “Again, you may call me presumptuous and silly, impudent and ridiculous. But you know you will be lying. I am none of these. My father and I have two thousand dollars in this firm. Armand Bouchard has twelve thousand. And the patent on double breech-loading. That is something I induced him to get, just six months ago. I have told Armand about my plans; in fact, he suggested something himself. But he is a Frenchman, and very cautious. He did not believe that you would even see me today, that you would even listen.
“But he promised me, if things went well between you and me today, that he would pull out from my Uncle George and go with us. He has everything to gain. So, all we need is twenty thousand dollars, fifteen thousand to buy out my uncle’s share, and five thousand payment on the land. Uncle George paid three thousand on it. We will offer him five.”
He stopped, for Gregory had burst out into a loud roar of brutal laughter. He laughed inordinately, throwing his long thin body back in his chair, tossing his head, slapping his gaunt thighs. His face turned crimson; tears stood in his eyes. In his laughter was a contemptuous and malignant sound. “O my God!” he gasped. “O my God! My God!” He shook his head, wiped his eyes with a silken and perfumed kerchief, roared again.
A lesser young man would have risen then with immense dignity and pride, and would have left the room at once. But Ernest did not do this. Gregory’s laughter was insulting, but Ernest could overlook such irrelevances as the insult and the laughter. And to him they were indeed irrelevant. So he merely waited, very pale, it is true, but entirely composed and tight-lipped
Gregory’s laughter ceased as abruptly as it had begun, for there had been no real mirth in it, only contempt and impatient anger and ridicule. So now he leaned forward toward Ernest, and the glare in his bright sharp eyes was formidable. But his voice was very soft.
“And is that all, if I may ask—twenty thousand dollars? A mere trifle.” You young dog, he added under his breath. “And what security could you offer me for this small sum?”
“Thirty-three and one-third percent of our stock,” replied Ernest, through white lips. “You know our product. You will see our patents. I am being generous, for I am desperate. I can’t drive hard bargains, yet; you need money to do that. You cannot lose, even if we fail. Property values are increasing all the time. Within ten years the land our factory stands upon will be worth twenty thousand dollars alone, if not more. It runs to Shipman Road, and the railroad will have to cross it.
“I have not come to you without preparation. I have here in my possession two letters, one from the White Gunpowder Company of New York, and the other from the Courtney Explosive Company of Virginia. They both offer us ten thousand dollars outright for our rifle and cannon patents, and five thousand dollars for our gunpowder patent.”
Without ostentation, he laid the two letters quietly on the desk before Gregory. All the mirth had suddenly disappeared from the older man’s face, leaving it startled and of a somewhat greenish pallor. He stared at Ernest piercingly, caught his lower lip between his teeth. Then he read the letters. He leaned back in his chair, fixedly regarded a spot somewhat to the left of Ernest’s ear for a long time. Then still so regarding this spot he asked colorlessly:
“And if your Uncle George will not withdraw?”
Ernest smiled, relaxed. He felt exhausted, but still resolute. He had won! He could feel cold sweat trickling along his spine, and was surprised, by the ache in his muscles, to discover that he had been tense and trembling. There was, too, a faint sickness in the pit of his stomach, and a burning behind his eyes. He had won, but at a cost that even he did not know, and would not know for years.
“He will withdraw,” he said in a low and deadly voice. “You see, he is nothing without us. If we are compelled to get out, we will take our patents and our gunpowder. He will have nothing. So, he will take the better part—what we shall offer.”
“You young dog,” said Gregory, but now he said it aloud. He smiled, but he still did not look directly at Ernest. He seemed a little breathless, and moistened his lips. There was suddenly about him an air of febrile avidity, of one who has seen visions of almost unbelievable things and because of this has been unbearably agitated.
Unnoticed, John Baldwin had crept into the room, and had heard half of this extraordinary interview. It was enough for him. Now he stood by Gregory’s elbow, a brown elongated gnome of a man, staring at Ernest.
Ernest stood up. He smiled again, somewhat rigidly. Gregory turned his eyes upon him, and there was a startled expression in them, partly thoughtful and disturbed. Only his mouth remained mechanically cynical.
“Mr. Sessions, sir,” said Ernest, “I hope you will consider the matter very carefully. I will bring our patent papers tomorrow. In the meantime, I will draw up our necessary papers and present them for your signature.
“There is but one other thing: your brother, Senator Nicholas Sessions. He is in a position in Washington to help us secure Army contracts.
“I am sure our association will be a profitable one for both of us. I have the honor, sir, to bid you good day.”
He bowed neatly and stiffly, like an automaton, and without hurry, and still with that immense dignity, he went out of the room.
After he had gone, Gregory Sessions and John Baldwin stared mutely into each other’s eyes for a prolonged moment.
CHAPTER X
It was twilight when Ernest reached Garrison Road. He deliberately slowed his pace, in order to arrive at the Bouchard house after Armand. He found it hard to walk slowly, for his thoughts were like the keen clicking of a rapid machine. There was no confusion in them; part fitted into part, plan into plan. He had taken a gigantic step; he had more to take. He formulated all these steps incisively, without apprehension, as he walked. He recognized many difficulties, but he felt instinctively that difficulties must inevitably fall before will and design. They might annoy, but they could never seriously delay.
Armand had just come home when Ernest arrived. The little Frenchman lit a pipe calmly, after one look at Ernest’s face. His glance had taken in everything. Madam Bouchard glowered involuntarily at the young man, but her husband’s praises during the past few years had softened her a little toward Ernest. She had gathered, in her simple mind, the idea that the fortunes of Barbour and Bouchard lay with Ernest, and she could force herself to be amiable to one who would make her fortune. Therefore, after her first instinctive scowl, which Ernest did not notice, she became very cordial, boomed out an invitation to supper, which Ernest unexpectedly accepted, absentmindedly, as if he had accepted in order not to engage in any argument. Raoul and Eugene had returned with their father. Raoul lounged indolently in the chimney corner, affectionately teasing his mother and audibly sniffing the bubbling pots. In the firelight his slim dark head was the head of a faun, with its upward slanting eyebrows and gay and brilliant eyes. He looked like a courtier, romantic and daring, thought Ernest with disgust. Eugene, whom he trusted and liked, was absorbed in the task of taking apart a new type of pistol which a rival concern was making, and as h
e delicately removed each part he commented aloud, though no one listened. He glanced up as Ernest approached the fire, and his usually slightly lowering but handsome face lightened eagerly, and with affection. Jacques, still a frail, beautiful-faced saint at twenty, sat in the other chimney corner, reading. He smiled faintly at Ernest, trying to conceal his involuntary dislike and distrust. Armand sat before the fire, and as he had removed his boots and stretched his feet toward the warmth, the air was pungent with the odor of his sweat, which mingled with the more agreeable smell of brown onion soup and ragout of mutton which were cooking in black iron pots on the fire.
Mama Bouchard, huger than ever, if a little gray, boomed and muttered over her pots, affected to crack Raoul over the head with her ladle, kept glancing absorbedly at Jacques, and stumbled over the swarm of kittens that rolled and scrambled on the hot hearth.
Ernest did not like the Bouchard household. He thought it hot and disorderly and smelly and too noisy. The members seemed to enjoy pointless living, liked to joke boisterously with each other, tease each other, to take an inordinate interest in food and wines and irrelevant comfort. Ernest, who spent his evenings reading everything he could about explosives, firearms, finance, stock markets, commodities, and the history of rival concerns, also concise histories of modern wars and warfare, could not understand how anyone could waste the short hours of life in merely enjoying it. This, to him, seemed the only blasphemy. Therefore, it annoyed him again, as it had done a thousand times, to be received nonchalantly and easily by the Bouchard household, as if he had possibly come for mere desire for their company, for mere pleasure and talk! Only Armand understood.
“Be seated, Ernest,” he said gently. Ernest stood, hesitating, looking about him. He distrusted Raoul; he had good reason for that. He could not tell Armand anything with Raoul present. But if he excluded Raoul, even Ernest, who was never polite except when necessary, would have to exclude Eugene. He did not want to do this, for he liked the other youth, and recognized his intelligence; Eugene, too, frequently had clever ideas. But there was no help for it. At the risk of offending Eugene he could not risk any treachery from Raoul. Of course, once Armand was committed to any plan, Raoul would say nothing, but while it was all still in the air Ernest dared not trust him. So he said to Armand in his monotonous and unemotional voice: “I would like to talk to you alone for a few minutes, Armand.”