“Out, out, all of you! With just the shirts on your backs. Back to the gutter, where you started from! I’ve got everything. Look at it, everything! And what have you? Nothing. Bloody beggars. Get out!”
Ernest listened, drinking it in, smiling. He was white with exhaustion. But he had won. Again. He turned to his father. Joseph listened, unbelieving, to this vicious and savage tirade, to this self-exposure of his brother. And gradually, as he listened, his slender and handsome face hardened and tightened, became thin and almost cruel. His white lips were a slit, without mercy. Only Martin stared at George compassionately, his mouth moving as he silently implored his uncle to be still. He, too, besides Armand, saw what was happening, saw what Ernest was doing.
“You see, Pa,” said Ernest mildly, after George had panted into silence. “You see what he is.” He regarded George steadfastly. “You’ve said your say. Now, I’ll say mine. And you’d better listen, very, very carefully.
“You tell us to get out. We will. We’re glad to. We wouldn’t stay, after tonight.
“But, we are going with our brains. You haven’t eaten them, though you tried to. For, my dear uncle, you see: we patented our brains!
“Didn’t you ever hear of patents? I’ll send you a little book on them in the morning. You’ll understand then. Oh, you do understand? I thought you did. That makes things easier all around, for all of us. Well! We’ve got patents, for our gunpowder, our guns, our cannon, our explosives. For everything. And what have you got? Nothing. Nothing but the bare walls of your factory.
“And Armand’s got twelve thousand in that, and Pa’s got something, too. So, all in all, it appears that you have very little, and it is we who have everything. Of course, it was a slight mistake on your part, but I can see by your face that you understand now.”
He paused. George looked from one to the other, his head lowered, his eyes wild and hunted. “You dogs,” he whimpered, strangled. “You dogs.”
No one spoke for a little while. George sat down slowly and heavily, as though his whole body ached intolerably after crushing blows; he sat with his knees astraddle, his head bent forward on his bull-neck, his eyes suffused with blood and exhausted fury, his fists clenched on his knees. There was no shame in his attitude, no attempt to flee to cover, to defend, to explain. He could no longer curse. There was about him the malignancy, the savagery, the brutal lust for vengeance, of some cornered and powerful beast. He looked upon his brother and his nephews, upon Armand Bouchard, with monstrous loathing and detestation and bitter rage. Martin felt shame for his uncle and compassion; he was also distressedly puzzled: he had seen so many people like this, who, cornered in shameful proceedings and guilt, felt neither guilt nor shame but only rage and hate for their uncoverers. He wanted his uncle to show remorse; he felt instinctively that should he do so Joseph even at this moment might champion him a little, might saw him from the ruin to which Ernest was inexorably pushing him.
Martin glanced at his father’s averted face, at Armand, still unmoved, at Ernest, possessed and implacable. He wanted to say something, to strike a sound into that petrifaction of sound; he felt that every moment he did not speak pushed his uncle down beyond recall. But he could not speak: something emanated from his brother that held all dangerous interruption in a sort of commanded enchantment, that held even unruly emotion pointed in the direction of his purpose. He held everyone inert, unmoving, dissolved of will to do anything irrelevant and merciful.
Finally George spoke, not in a beaten voice, but in a hoarse one of hate and contempt:
“All right. All right. You have me. I could say a lot, but I’m not going to. There’s no use trying to talk to bloody bounders like you. What are you going to do? What can you do?”
Everyone relaxed with a faint sound like sighing. Ernest sat down purposeful and relentless. He addressed his uncle coolly and calmly, as though a casual discussion were under way.
“You have fifteen thousand dollars in this shop. Besides that, you have allowed yourself a salary of nearly two thousand dollars a year. And in addition to that salary your larcenies have amounted to eight thousand to ten thousand dollars. I haven’t finished my checking yet, but I will have all the figures tomorrow.
“We are willing to return to you your fifteen thousand dollars over a period of three years, and two thousand dollars extra thrown in for sentimental reasons.” He smiled faintly.
George broke. His face swelled to alarming proportions, became purple. Suddenly tears brimmed into his starting and reddened eyes. His thick lips shook.
“My God!” he whispered, looking from one to the other, now, as a man looks upon his executioners. “Seventeen thousand dollars! It’s all my work, all my effort, all the years I nearly starved and worked to the bone—. Everything I ever had. I—I planned this for years. It’s all I ever had. Everything I built up—.” His voice tightened, dwindled. He sobbed sharply, only once, then covered his face with his thick and trembling hands.
Had he mentioned his wife and daughter, Ernest would have despised him completely, might even have withdrawn the “sentimental reasons.” But George was sincere; he was utterly undone, utterly broken. Joseph could not endure it. His white face became gray, and twitched. He glanced, not at Armand or Ernest, but at Martin. And Martin looked back at him, distraught with pity. Reinforced by his son’s expression, Joseph spoke up in a sickening silence:
“Look here, that’s too bad. Seventeen thousand dollars. That’s not enough. Seventeen thousand dollars, yes. But say a percentage of the stock. A percentage of the stock,” he repeated, turning to Ernest almost imploringly.
“No,” said Ernest lightly.
Joseph whipped himself into one of his sudden and volatile rages.
“Damn you!” he shouted. “Who are you anyway, you whipper-snapper, with your sneakings and pointings and your airs? God, I’m not saying you haven’t done us all a big service, finding out about—about the losses. But after all, you’re not God Almighty. There’s others here with things to say. And I say—.”
He stopped abruptly, tense though he was with fury. For Armand, small and brown and potent, had stood up with his pipe in his hand, and was regarding them all with his small bright eyes, which were calm and intent and a trifle ironical.
“You are correct, my Joseph,” he said in his sharp, accented voice. “Truly correct. There are indeed others here with things to say. And I am one of them.
“This is not an hour for sentimentality. This is the time for reason and logic. You have heard it in the voice of your estimable son. But, you have not heard it with your mind. I must repeat it myself.
“Ernest has given you all a small outline of the whole matter. You may have the details and figures whenever you so desire. And I say now, I, who hold several of the patents and twelve thousand dollars in our Company, that it must be as he says: this man must go.” And without looking at George, he pointed the stem of his pipe at him, meanwhile fixing his gaze intently on Joseph. Joseph, nonplussed, faintly blustering, turned scarlet with impotence.
“I was not in favor at all of the seventeen thousand dollars,” continued Armand easily and softly. “That is a lot of money—for a thief. He has betrayed all of us. Were he not your brother, my Joseph, but a mere partner in business, I am certain that you would join with us in turning him over to justice in the hands of the police. For what he has done there is a penalty of some ten to twenty years. The law does not look kindly on larceny.
“However, Ernest and I have decided to be kind, to refund to this man, this betrayer of his brother and his nephews and his friend, his original investment and two thousand dollars extra. But there is a condition that Ernest did not mention, but which I will now take the liberty of saying: For this consideration, and also for the consideration of not prosecuting him as a thief, he must leave this country, and this within fifteen days. Otherwise, we withdraw our offer, and prosecute.”
“Curse you!” screamed Joseph. “This man is my brother!”
“Do not,” implored Armand in a pained voice, “insult my intelligence any longer, Joseph. I am not a patient man.
“I detest coercion. I left my beloved country because I would not submit to coercion. But, in the name of reason, and your own interest, I must coerce you. If this man does not agree to our terms, I not only withdraw from the Company, but I seek a warrant for his arrest immediately.”
Joseph was silent for a long time. He looked from Armand’s imperturbable face to Ernest’s cold and implacable one. Then he said bitterly to his son: “I don’t understand this. You are my flesh and blood.” A faint flicker passed over Ernest’s face. Joseph waited, but Ernest did not speak. The father sighed and continued: “They say blood is thicker than water. Not in your case, Ernest. You seem to hate everything that shares blood with you. You hate your brother, Martin; you dislike your sisters. Perhaps, some day, you’ll hate me, too. Some day,” he said, in a raised and slightly hysterical voice, “you’ll do this to me, as you did it to him.”
“You are a fool,” interrupted Armand serenely.
Joseph turned to his brother, “Look ’ee, Georgie,” he said in a gentle and cajoling voice such as one uses to a child one considers too severely punished: “I’ve got three thousand dollars put by. It’s yours. You can have it. Why, twenty thousand dollars, four thousand pounds, is a fortune, man! Buck up. Go back to old England, and enjoy yourself. It’s a fortune!”
“That three thousand dollars is also mine,” said Ernest. “I object to my money being turned over to a thief. I refuse to allow it.”
Joseph grimaced at him contemptuously. “I have you there, my fine lad! You are not yet twenty-one. What is yours is mine. You are not a man yet.”
Ernest, taken unawares, glared with sudden whiteness upon his father. And again Armand interposed, smoothly: “I, too, refuse to allow it. I know I have no authority over your son, my Joseph, but I understand justice. This son of yours has worked beyond the strength of other young men for this money. You shall not defraud him. No, you shall not.” He turned to Ernest, whose lips, very pale, were amazingly trembling. “If you are robbed, mon petit, come to old Armand and we shall put this rascal behind the bars.”
He picked up his shabby and somewhat grotesque hat. It was too big, apparently, for his wizened body, though his head filled it. He put it on; he was a gnome under a giant’s hat. His black hair stuck in oily long strands about his brown, seamed cheeks; his black eyes glittered under the brim. Despite the hat, despite the too-large clothing, the big boots, he looked like a jaunty elf. He made the stupefied company an elaborate bow.
“With all regret, I must leave you. I hope you will not be too hasty, nor too sentimental, my Joseph. I have said my say. I do not change the mind. You will express my regrets to Madam Barbour, my good Monsieur, that I cannot remain even to say good night to her.”
And he went out, serene, wizened and small. A moment later Ernest picked up his hat from a carved walnut table, and without glancing at his brother or his father or his uncle, he followed Armand. He found the little Frenchman sauntering easily down the flagged avenue between the naked elms. The bright yellow moon was caught in their branches, was criss-crossed by their black twigs into diamonds and triangles. The air was very cold and still. Ernest walked in silence beside his friend, unable to speak, and Armand hummed to himself.
Finally Armand said, as casually as though discussing the night:
“You have done well, my young friend. Very well. But be careful that some day you do not do too well.”
CHAPTER XII
Within forty-eight hours the whole story, liberally garnished, was told over all of Newtown, and a great part of Oldtown, that part that was interested. It was very mysterious, for certainly none of the Barbours talked, least of all George and Daisy, who were crushed under the fall of their fortunes and the family dishonor. Nevertheless, the story got about like fire burning in brush. Somehow, little was said of Joseph’s and Armand’s part in the affair; everything was Ernest. Men like Ernest are little loved in a world that prefers simplicity and ease, and chooses conservative paths that are not full of exigencies and immediacy and ambition. His very presence made the easy uneasy, the languid conscious of their futile languor, the inadequate aware of their inadequacy. He made the philosophy of both the simple and the complex mere cowardice, mere excuses for incompetence. Worst of all he made the stupid less complacent, less proud of their stupidity. In all the town he had but three friends: his father, Armand and Eugene Bouchard. Of Armand, the astute, Ernest was not too sure.
Therefore, the story did not endow him with a halo of virtue. Eventually even a number of the intelligent, who had despised George Barbour, came to believe that Ernest had actually robbed his uncle, cornered him in a false position, beaten him out of his property and his rights. They hated him with renewed strength, for they feared him, but their reluctant and secret respect for him grew.
When Gregory Sessions heard the story, he called in John Baldwin and told him. The men smiled slyly and grimly at each other. Gregory shook his head, his smile becoming broader. “We were not mistaken in the young man, eh, John? It was a good thing? He will go far. We might as well go with him, especially as he has invited us.”
Within a short time the town had another story to electrify it. The Sessions Steel Company had “gone in” with the upstart Barbour & Bouchard. The new rifles and pistols, sleek and black and polished to the envy of those who did not possess them, had tiny letters cast upon them: “B&B. Made of Sessions Steel.” The words were an accolade.
It was not long thereafter that the foundry was enlarged and twenty more men, in addition to the regular fifteen, were put on. New machinery, strange and outlandish-looking, was shipped in from Pittsburgh. It made a prodigious noise, and the men declared that it was “better’n human.” A new wharf was built near the old one, and sometimes the flatboats stood in line waiting for the cargo of boxes and barrels that were trundled out from the foundry. Barbour & Bouchard now owned the largest “works” in Windsor. Neat advertisements of their products were inserted in large city newspapers, and publications that found their way into the remotest country regions carried dignified engravings and measured eulogies of the new rifles and the “improved” gunpowder. Ernest wrote the advertisements himself; he was almost a pioneer in this art. He conceived a brilliant idea, probably the first of its kind: to every private purchaser by mail of the Golden Quality Hunting Rifle there was forwarded “free, without charge or cost,” the choice of a silver-plated watch or “an elegant mantel clock which chimes the hour musically.” He had negotiated for the purchase of these articles when he accidentally read in a Philadelphia newspaper of the bankruptcy of a manufacturer of them. The success of his venture was astounding. However, after he had secured sufficient funds to allow of additional machinery, he abandoned the premiums. He used undignified means to an end; but the end secured, the dignity was resumed.
One day in that year, he received a visit from an extraordinarily swarthy but elegant gentleman, who had something vaguely Spanish in his features, which were, however, of an odd mahogany shade. Ernest had appropriated to himself George’s office, and he handled all visitors, all solicitors, salesmen and private purchasers. Upon the entry of his visitor, this swarthy and elegant gentleman, he became alert. He closed the door behind the gentleman with unusual courtesy, bowed him to a seat, and carefully closed the window, though the spring air was warm. He kept a special tin box of good cigars for callers of the highest grade and elegance, and instinctively he produced this box and laid it upon his desk. The gentleman, having seated himself, sat rigidly with an almost military dignity, though his clothing was of the finest broadcloth and his cravat of hand-brocaded silk. He had laid his hat upon the desk and it glimmered sleekly. A perfume, delicate and subtle, wafted from his kerchief as he daintily blew his nose, yet this did not offend Ernest, nor did the hands, golden and effeminate though they were, and loaded with flashing rings, outrage his sense of pro
priety. He merely waited gravely and attentively for the caller to speak, fixing his gaze on the still youthful face, the brilliant and swimming black eyes and the glittering white teeth.
The gentleman laid his card on the desk before Ernest. “Señor Emanuel Cardonova,” was printed upon it in the finest hand-printing, full of curlicues and flourishes. Ernest read it, looked up attentively. The visitor smiled, and there was something so charming in that smile that Ernest smiled back, quickly.
“What can I do for you, sir,” he asked. He had hesitated before the “sir,” then had decided not to risk the pronunciation of “Señor,” in view of the peculiar little wavy mark above the “n.”
“I can speak, I presume, in the greatest secrecy, in confidence?” asked Señor Cardonova in a voice like liquid gold, rich and soft. His words were heavily accented, as though covered with velvet.
“I can assure you,” said Ernest weightily, “that anything you wish to say will not travel beyond these doors.” And he regarded the other man with a firm and resolute eye.
Señor Cardonova smiled just a little, but there was that in the smile which made Ernest’s cheek flush ever so slightly. The visitor leaned toward him.
“I have no choice but to trust you, Señor Barbour,” he said gently. “It is possible for you to betray me, either now or—later. I have no redress.” He paused, smiled more charmingly. “Perhaps,” he added. The swimming light in his eye crystallized, became a shining coldness. “Therefore, Señor, I am at your mercy. You have but to accept, or to reject. If you accept, you will profit richly. If you reject, we part like honorable men, with mutual expression of regard, and forget we have met.”
“Suppose,” suggested Ernest quietly, “that we come to the point.”