Involuntarily, Rufus pressed his brother’s shoulder. “Please don’t,” he said, and his voice was almost harsh.
They had almost reached the lower level on the grade to Portersville when Stephen, speaking with difficulty, and halting between sentences, told Rufus of the sale of his coal acreage to Purcell. “I had to do it; I needed the forty thousand dollars for the men. And the household expenses. And Joe Baynes had to have some to pay interest on the bonds he had pledged to Alex Peale in Philadelphia. And Tom Orville—he has such bad luck lately with his lumber mill. …”
Rufus heard this, aghast. He had counted on acquiring the coal for himself. For a moment he was enraged against this imbecile of a brother for depriving him. He said, and his words were heavy with hatred and anger, “Purcell! Forty thousand dollars! Robber! What a contemptible person. Why didn’t you come to me, Steve?”
Stephen regarded him with dim surprise. “But you don’t have forty thousand dollars, Rufus,” he said.
Rufus caught himself. He shook his head despondently. “Of course I didn’t. But I could have lent you some; we could have managed some way. But Steve! All that money for dogs who’ve been deriding and blaming you for weeks.”
“But how could they know?” asked Stephen weakly. “I never told them; it would have been wrong, in a way.”
“How much do Baynes and Orville owe you now?” asked Rufus, newly enraged.
Stephen hesitated. Then he said with apology, “Twentyseven thousand dollars—Joe Baynes; twelve thousand dollars—Tom. But they’ll pay it back some day, I’m sure.”
Thirty-nine thousand dollars! A fortune. Rufus felt as a man feels who has been cruelly robbed; he thought again of the coal acreage. That coal ought to have been developed for the Interstate Railroad Company. It would be bad news for the directors when they discovered that what they had intended to seize for the sake of the company now belonged solely to Jim Purcell. Now Rufus’s wrath turned against his brother. What a fool this was! How completely incompetent and prodigal!
The carriage rolled through the cobbled streets of Portersville, and approached the railroad yards. Now it was with sincerity alone that Rufus said, “I wish you weren’t determined to see the damage, Steve. It will only sicken you.”
But Stephen, with a tremendous effort, pulled himself forward so that he might see all, and see it clearly. He saw the blackened hulls of the roundhouses, the repair shops; he saw the ebony skeletons of freight cars. Ties had been scattered; in a few places rails had been pulled up. The rain and the wind howled together over the desolate ruins. Stephen hardly saw the ruins, however; he was looking with passionate intensity at the men working about the wreckage, grim-faced, gaunt, and shabby men shivering in the cold and dampness, their miserable clothing blowing about them. They worked in utter silence, not glancing at each other, not speaking. Stephen said, “Let us go on.” He sat back in his seat and closed his eyes. Men did not destroy the means of their livelihood wantonly; men respected their tools. They had been driven to this madness only by hopelessness and hunger.
The worst thing of all, thought Stephen, who felt that he was literally dying in this resurgence of agony, is that now there will be a wave of punitive legislation against labor. It will probably be decades before unions will be of any force or importance again. In the meantime the people will suffer recurrent depressions, hunger, unemployment, and despair, without any redress. They will smolder for many years, remembering.
Stephen’s brain seemed to light up with a dreadful clarity. And when the people remember, he said to himself, they will become as oppressive as the oppressors once were. There is never any charity in humanity, no reasonableness, no tolerance. They never say to each other: “Wrongs were committed against us. But revenge is no substitute for justice.”
“We are here now,” said Rufus, and he spoke gently. “Let me help you out.” Stephen opened his eyes. The carriage was standing before the Portersville National Bank building, and the door was open. Moving like an old and stricken man, Stephen allowed himself to be almost lifted from the carriage by the coachman and Rufus. Leaning on Rufus’s arm, he walked into the building. As he felt Rufus’s strength and solicitude, Stephen thought: If it were not for Rufus I think I would drop dead, here and now, and I would not care.
“Rest a little in your office,” said Rufus, helping his brother to remove his mufflers and coat and shawls and hat. Stephen sat down heavily, his breath hard and choking. He tried to smile at his brother who was watching him with unguarded compassion. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Rufus,” he said. “What do the directors want today?”
Rufus hung up Stephen’s coat, and said, without turning, “Nothing important.” He stood by the window and looked down at the wind-lashed park below, with its barren trees. The mountains were hid in mist.
“When I think what they have done,” stammered Stephen. He wiped his wet forehead with the back of his hand. “They weren’t starving, even if the dividends were being passed; our stockholders weren’t in need. …”
Rufus still stood at the window. “I know,” he replied.
“You stood with me,” Stephen went on. “Loyally.”
Rufus turned from the window, and all his color was gone. Stephen shook his head over and over. “It is the only thing that has sustained me—your loyalty, Rufus.”
Rufus said laboriously, “Let me help you into the board room.” He lifted his brother to his feet, but he kept his head averted. Together they walked in slow step down the hallway to the room where the directors awaited them.
They were all there. They looked up when they saw Stephen and Rufus, and then, involuntarily, they rose. Each man examined Stephen’s face, and then each man turned away, waited until Stephen was seated, then sat down. Jim Purcell’s expression was morose and glum, and he stared at his swinging boot. Then every man looked as one at Rufus deWitt.
“I am sure that we are all glad that Steve is well enough to be with us again,” he began smoothly. He waited, but no one answered him. Then Rufus said, in a louder and a harsher voice, “Well, let us get down to business! I—”
“Feelin’ the strain, eh, Rufe?” asked Purcell, and spat.
“I understand there are a few details,” said Stephen, in his dim and deathly voice. “You wished to talk with me about them?”
“Not exactly details, Stephen,” said Mr. Brownell. His aristocratic face was pale. “We have come to the conclusion that you aren’t the man for a rugged business like this. We know you have been seriously ill; so we’ll not take up too much of your time. What we have to say may sound cruel, but we believe it is for the best, not only our best but yours also. It is a hard thing to say; it must be said, and we regret it.”
“Though the Sunday school has now come to order, we can still dispense with the pieties,” said Purcell. “Come to the point, and let the man go.”
But no one spoke. Rufus sat in his chair, his leonine face dark and gloomy. Stephen turned to one man after another, in silence; then he asked, “What is it? I am afraid I do not understand.”
Purcell glanced about him contemptuously. “No one volunteerin’ as the ax-man? Want me to do it, you bein’ such nice kind gentlemen?” He received no answer. “You want me to be spokesman, eh? You haven’t the heart for it now?” He paused. “Look at him, boys. That’s what you did to him. Necessity, you said. He ain’t the man for us, you said. But now you sit there and turn your palms up and examine them, and scrutinize your fingernails. All right, then. I’ll give it to him, though it’s not my place. That’s his brother’s job.”
Stephen’s heart began to beat very fast, and the anguished pain which had struck him a few weeks ago raced through his chest and down his arm. His breath caught in his throat, and he clenched his weak hands in an effort to breathe. He said to Rufus feebly, “What is it? Tell me.”
Rufus was forced to look up, and he met Stephen’s dying eyes, and flinched. A deep silence fell in the room. Rufus opened and shut his mouth, an
d then abruptly turned away. Purcell watched him cynically. “Well, well,” he remarked. “You’re not so bad as I thought you, Red Rufe. Man like you shouldn’t be president, maybe?”
“President?” murmured Stephen. Gray sweat stood on his forehead.
“No one is going to crash in, first off; so I’ll start it,” said Purcell. He leaned toward Stephen. “It’s simple. They don’t want you as president any more, Steve. Think you aren’t fit for it. You gave Jay Regan twenty-five per cent of your stocks and bonds as collateral for a loan of two hundred thousand dollars. We went into that before. You can’t redeem the stocks and bonds; short-term loan, three months. The three months are up. Regan’s at liberty to sell the collateral on the open market now. Gunther and Gould and Vanderbilt want to buy it, and depress the Interstate stock. But they all had lots of meetin’s, those fellows, and Red Rufe, here. They kind of like him. In it with ’em.”
“Wait!” cried Rufus, and now he jumped to his feet, his face congested. “Damn you, you wanted him not to know—you told me—”
“Changed my mind,” replied Purcell. “He don’t need you any longer, Rufe. He’s got me. And he’ll find out, anyways, in a few minutes.”
Stephen’s mouth was open, and they could hear his rasping breath. He put his hand to his heart. Rufus looked at him, and all his features sharpened with pain. He did not sit down, but supported himself by pressing his fists against the table.
“Well, let’s go on,” said Purcell, grimly enjoying the expressions on the faces of all the men. “All the fellers in New York, in their meetin’s with Rufe, came to a very kind conclusion. They’re helpin’ Rufe buy your stock; they believe in him. Think they can use him in their manipulations when they take possession of other railroads, in a monopoly. Somethin’ tells me that Rufe is going to fool ’em, after all, and so we’re all in it with him, against the fellers in New York. But that’s our secret.
“And there’s the Chicago System. No funds in our treasury just now, with the Panic and strikes and all, to service the indebtedness to Chicago. But we’re all gettin’ together, and payin’ in proportion out of our own pockets, to keep the Chicago out of the claws of the New York boys. Except Rufe. That’s his game with New York. Sorrowful that the other directors worked behind his back. Gettin’ the New Yorkers to help him buy your stock, while we watch in the background seein’ that at the last minute we’ll be able to repay their loans to him. Outfoxin’ them. And Rufe’ll have your stock, and we’re behind him, and we’re goin’ to vote him in as president.”
Stephen was no longer breathing audibly. He had become very still. The sweat ran down his temples and cheeks like tears. A strange dignity stood on his face. When he spoke it was with quiet strength: “I think I understand. But first I wish to say that Mr. Regan assured me he would not sell my stocks and bonds, so long as I paid the interest, which I have been doing.” He was not looking at Rufus now, but only at Purcell.
“You have that ‘assurance’ in writing?” asked Mr. Brownell in a hushed voice.
“No, I have not. It was only his word.”
Purcell shrugged elaborately. “‘His word,’” he repeated.
Stephen was gathering all his last resources together. “I am sorry if you consider me unfit to be president of this company,” he said. “You will not, all of you, lend me the money to redeem my stocks and bonds?”
“Sorry, Steve,” said one of the directors. “Jim, here, has explained the whole situation. But don’t worry that the New York men will ever gain control of our company. It would be very hard for us to raise the money ourselves, as we have the Chicago System to consider, too. Rufus has managed very cleverly with Gunther and Gould and Regan and Vanderbilt. He’ll hold them off for a long time. You couldn’t have had our support. You haven’t been well for a long time, and—”
“And you believe me incapable of directing the affairs of our company?” asked Stephen.
Mr. Brownell sighed. “I am afraid—”
“And this has gone on for a long time?”
No one answered him. Then, in an ebbing voice, Stephen polled them, man by man. “You, Tim? You, George? You, Stratton? You, Jim? You, Edward? You, you?” One by one they nodded, carefully avoiding his eyes. And then only Rufus was left, Rufus staring fixedly at the table on which he leaned.
“And you, Rufus?” asked Stephen gently.
Slowly, as if forced, Rufus lifted his head. Stephen smiled at him compassionately. “No, don’t answer,” he said. “I understand. You never believed in me, after all. Rufus, it doesn’t matter. You see, I have had an idea, for over a year. … But there is something else which I must say. You have plotted against me, and you’ve ruined me, and you’ve wanted my house and everything that is mine. You thought that it should all be yours. But there is one thing I shall always remember: you have been kind to me. You haven’t willed it that way, but it happened. You began with treachery and hypocrisy; you ended it despising yourself, and with concern for me.” He reached across the table and laid his thin fingers on his brother’s arm. “I think perhaps you are right. I think you are a better man, for this business, than I.”
Rufus regarded his brother in silence, and white clefts of honest shame and suffering carved themselves about his nostrils. If only he wouldn’t smile at me, he thought.
Stephen’s eyes were brilliant with his compassion. “Yes,” he said, “a better man for this business. My father was wrong, and I knew it from the beginning.”
“No,” said Rufus, “he was right. I learned a lot from you, Steve. I learned how to be patient, and wait, and gather facts, and proceed on actualities and not on excited illusions.” He averted his head. “I am sorry.”
Stephen covered his eyes with his hand. “I wanted, from the first day, to give it all up to you. But something stopped me.” He removed his hand and gazed apologetically at his brother. “I—I can’t remember what stopped me. I suppose it is because I am very tired just now.”
The great hollow of pain in his chest became wider. A silvery mist floated before his vision; there was a clamorous ringing in his ears. Now there was no sensation in his arms and legs. He made one last and supreme effort. “There is an envelope in my desk, with a red seal. Would you bring it to me, please?”
Every man except Purcell immediately jumped to his feet as at the welcome offering of escape. But it was Rufus who reached the door first, and then the others merely stood about the room, not looking at each other. In a few moments Rufus returned and silently gave his brother the requested envelope. “A match, please,” said Stephen, and his voice was now so far lost that only Rufus heard him. The match was lighted, and Stephen, with an enormous effort, applied the flame to the envelope. He let it drop into a large tray on the table, and watched it burn. The red reflections ran over his sunken features and over the sweat that dripped from his forehead and temples. Then, when the papers were consumed, he smiled.
“Those were Joe Baynes’s and Tom Orville’s notes, for nearly forty thousand dollars,” he whispered. “Made out to me.”
Rufus moved away a step or two, appalled. “But Laura!” he exclaimed, horrified.
“Laura—has the trust funds,” said Stephen. He stared at Rufus mournfully. “And I have left the house to you, Rufus. You always wanted it. I made out a new will. …”
Jim Purcell, moving rapidly, came to the table, bent down and examined Stephen’s face. “A doctor,” he said roughly. “One of you damned fools go out and get a doctor!”
Four of the directors rushed from the room wildly, but Rufus remained, standing beside his brother. He muttered, over and over, “No. My God, no.” There were tears on his thick red lashes.
Purcell gently leaned Stephen back in his chair. He folded the numb hands in Stephen’s lap. He wiped the wet face with his own handkerchief. Then he peered up at Rufus. “Don’t worry,” he said in his loud, hoarse voice. “You’ll get over it. In the meantime, bring me a glass of water.”
When Rufus brought the water,
Purcell pressed the glass against Stephen’s ashy lips. But Stephen was beyond swallowing now. He opened his eyes slowly, and fixed them on Purcell speechlessly.
“Can you hear me, Steve?” asked Purcell, almost shouting. “Listen! That coal acreage—I’ll develop it. There’s fifty per cent for you, out of proceeds, or for your little girl. Hear me, Steve? Hear me?”
Stephen had no voice. But the death-filled eyes brightened for an instant, as with joy or wonder.
“I always meant it that way, you poor damn fool,” said Purcell, kneeling beside the dying man. “To keep it out of the hands of these here other fellers. Saved it for you. Hear me, Steve?”
There was no sound in the room. The remaining directors and Rufus stood in distracted misery near the table. Then, suddenly, the silence was broken by one deep sigh, and then another. Rufus put his hands to his ears.
Purcell stood up, rubbing his hands together. “I hope he heard what I said. Kind of like to hope that. One of you better go out and meet that doctor and tell him it’s too late.”
23
The moon glared down at the snow on the mountains and in the narrow valleys, and the snow billowed in great white dunes so that the landscape might have been a scene on the moon itself. An absolute silence had sucked away all sound; not the slightest wind blew nor did the frost crackle or a tree creak.