Richard Gorth gave up in gloomy despair. “He knows I’ve got a million or two of my own, that the damned business means little to me now. He knows you’ve done well for yourself, too, Andy, in the business. Wiping out our firm wouldn’t break our hearts. It’s a rum affair.”
He added sullenly: “I liked the devil. We’d have gone far together. Yet, from the start, I can see that Wilkins never intended that. He got him in to steal my patents, the ones he stole for me. That was the plot. I didn’t think, when first I saw Turnbull, that he’d lend himself to such a nefarious business. It wasn’t in his character, and I’ve never made a mistake in judging men. It’s Wilkins, all over. But how did he get such power over Johnnie Turnbull? Blackmail? No, I don’t think so. It is still something else.”
He added: “I’ve seen him from a distance. He’s changed these years. He looks like a fiend. I’ve heard reports from all over. A savage and relentless brute. He’s ruined dozens. Now he engages in businesses I wouldn’t touch, not for a million pounds. I tell you, it wasn’t in his character. Something changed him. Now, don’t ascribe omnipotence to Wilkins, like an ass. He’s no Mephisto.”
“Johnnie looks as if he hates the whole damned world,” commented Andrew, idly.
The needle stopped in Eugenia’s suddenly cold fingers. Her pallor increased. Her eyes widened with a kind of still horror.
“I’ve no doubt of it,” said Mr. Gorth, gloomily. He lit a cigar, and glared at it. “But why? I’ve no love for my dear fellow creatures. But I wouldn’t drive myself mad hating ’em. The next thing you’ll say is that Johnnie is daft.”
“I’m sure of it,” replied Andrew, smoothly.
He wasn’t acting that night, thought Eugenia, the chill of her hands extending to her heart. He hated me, too. What extravagance. But extravagance or not, he hated me then, as he hated everybody else. He’s come back to me. Everything is the same. Why can’t he be sensible and adjust himself? Why does he hate so, and destroy himself in the hating?
Andrew was speaking to her with his usual quizzical fondness. She started, became aware that some time had passed, and John was no longer the object under discussion.
“I beg your pardon, Andrew, but I did not hear you,” she said.
“I merely asked, where is our offspring?”
“He is out with some young friends, at a dance given by Mrs. William Chadwick,” she answered. She glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantel. “Ten o’clock. He should be here shortly.”
Mrs. Gorth was critically examining Eugenia’s needlepoint. “You’ve taken some uneven stitches, Eugenia,” she said, with a delight quite out of proportion to the matter.
“I did indeed,” said Eugenia, tranquilly. “How very stupid of me.” With steady fingers she daintily ripped out the work.
“One must keep one’s mind on what one is doing,” observed Andrew, lounging back easily in his chair, and studying his wife with his usual malicious affection.
“It is a very intricate pattern,” said Eugenia, indifferently.
“Oh, not at all,” exclaimed Mrs. Gorth, with her malevolent grin. “I’ve done much more difficult pieces. It is a matter of skill and concentration. You younger women don’t have the patience, my dear. Everything is hasty, and done with. Have you examined the work on the chairs in my room? I’ve received many a compliment on them, from other ladies.”
Eugenia smiled courteously, but did not reply. Andrew, through his narrow eyes, studied her. What poise, what calm, what control! The little serene devil! But how he loved her! How long must he wait for her to awake from her folly? He had waited seventeen years. He had long and deadly patience. There was only one sickly brother now between him and the peerage. That brother had married, but had produced only one child, a miserable ailing girl. It was time to go back to England. He, Andrew, wished it intensely. But he would not go and take his family with him until Eugenia awoke from her long and obstinate trance, her self-delusion. He loved her too much. There must be no looking back for her when she returned with him. He had his own knowledge of her true sentiments. She must have that knowledge, also, before he could take her away.
Anthony Bollister appeared in the archway of the room, a tall youth, as tall as his father, and with his father’s graceful lean body and elegant manner, but with none of Andrew’s smiling indolence and inertia. His reddish sandy hair lay thickly about his narrow head, and his slate-gray eyes, so dark and penetrating, saluted them gravely. Andrew never looked at his son without silent gratitude for his comeliness. How his lone brother must envy him this young man, he who could produce only a miserable whimpering girl! There was no fault in him from his alert and quietly intelligent expression, to his firm if somewhat too hard and keen mouth and cleanly cut nose. It pleased Andrew, perversely, that there was no craftiness in his son, no weakness, no explosive violence or deviousness. There was much of Eugenia in this young man, much of her hard integrity and reasonable composure and thoughtfulness. Andrew loved his son very much. Between them there was a deep understandering, in which there was no delusion about the character of the other. But, there’ll come a day when we’ll clash, thought Andrew, more pleased than anything else by this reflection.
He was also delighted by the excellent and patrician manner in which the young man’s clothing draped about him. A good English tailor had made those fawn pantaloons, that long coat. His white shirt was exquisitely made, his full black cravat was tied expertly. Anthony was a gentleman, in the full meaning of the word, and again Andrew felt extreme gratitude. The young man had lived at the home of his uncle, Lord Brewster, during his years in England, and Andrew meditated with pleasure on his brother’s envy, his clumsy letters to Andrew in which he more than hinted at a future marriage between Anthony and his daughter, Melissa. That was a most desirable arrangement, thought Andrew. If Eric outlived him, Andrew, then the title would descend to Anthony’s son as next in succession. Yes, it was very desirable.
With these thoughts in mind, Andrew greeted his son with amiable fondness. Anthony kissed his mother’s cheek, bowed to Mrs. Gorth, greeted Mr. Gorth and then his father. His manners were perfection.
Eugenia asked him tranquilly how he had enjoyed the dance. Anthony replied politely. He seemed somewhat distrait, yet when his father spoke to him he turned courteously, and with attention.
“I have been discussing the matter with your mother, Tony,” said Andrew. “We think Oxford will be best in September. That doesn’t give you much time at home, does it? Unfortunately.”
Anthony’s wide thin mouth tightened. He replied with extreme quietness:
“I’d rather go to Harvard.”
Andrew was jolted out of his indolence, and sat upright in his chair. He frowned, his pale brows drawing together. “Nonsense. A crude American university, not fit for an English gentleman, and especially no gentleman who will probably be Lord Brewster some day. Where in the name of God did you get that absurd idea?”
Eugenia looked from her husband to her son composedly.
“Your father is quite right, Tony,” she said. “Harvard! Ridiculous. It is not what we planned.”
“Odious,” remarked Mrs. Gorth.
But Richard Gorth, who had been gloomily staring at the night through the windows, turned abruptly and stared at Anthony as if seeing him for the first time.
“I’d rather go to Harvard,” repeated Anthony, unmoved. But a sharp furrow appeared between his eyes. “I’m not interested in anything else. I shall stay here. I don’t intend to go to England to study any longer.” He looked at his father steadfastly. “You speak of me as an Englishman. You are mistaken, sir. I am an American.”
Andrew stared with great amazement. Then he burst out laughing, his thin face becoming scarlet with his mirth. As for Eugenia, she appeared coldly shocked and affronted.
“Tony, don’t be absurd,” she said.
“You are a puppy, sir,” said Andrew, wiping his forehead and nose delicately with his handkerchief. “What is this nonsen
se? I am sure you are quite aware that we intend to go to England, eventually, to live. That is our home. I never dreamed of becoming an American citizen. You know that. We have discussed it before.”
“Nevertheless,” said Anthony, in a clear hard voice, “I was born here. This is my country. I am an American. I knew we would come to this discussion. I am sorry it had to come so soon, but it is best, probably. I am not interested in a moldy title, and a drafty old castle, or any part of that dead heritage. I shall stay in America, where I belong, and take my part in my own country.”
His eyes remained on his father’s, indomitable and relentless.
Eugenia, in her annoyance, was about to speak, when Andrew lifted his hand. “I don’t know why I waste my time discussing this with you, Tony. How old are you? Not yet eighteen. You are still under my jurisdiction; the law recognizes your duty to obey. But, this is absurd! However, because I respect your dignity, and remember that you have always considered my own wishes first, I shall continue to discuss the matter with you.
“I am an Englishman, and will always be. Our home is in England, our roots, our duties, our privileges, our position. By accident, you were born in America. But you have had your higher education in England. You are the heir to an old and honourable title. It is my plan, or at least my hope, that some day you will marry your cousin, Melissa. You know her, and a moment’s reflection will convince you of the desirability of this marriage. She is fifteen now. In two years, perhaps, the marriage can take place.
“There is nothing here for us. We do not belong here. Your Uncle Richard and I have concluded that the firm with which I am casually connected is no longer important.”
At this, Mr. Gorth uttered an exclamation, but no one heard him. As for Anthony, his eyes became very narrow and intent. He had begun to smile faintly.
“I am sorry, father, but this doesn’t interest me in the slightest. A year ago I knew that my place was in America, and here I intend to stay.”
Andrew was seldom angry, but now he was enraged. He grasped the arms of his chair. “How dare you speak to me like this, you jackanapes! I was mistaken in your common sense. We shall discuss is no more. In September you go to Oxford. Before you have completed your studies, your mother and I will have joined you in England, and we will thereafter arrange your marriage to your cousin.”
“This is 1869, father,” said Anthony, calmly. “And, I am not a child. You can’t force me to do anything I don’t want to do. And I have no desire to comply with your wishes in this.”
Mrs. Gorth, delighted at the sight of perturbation, anxiety, anger and discord among those about her, glanced from one to the other with gloating and happy eyes. She was never more at peace than when in the presence of hatred and apprehension.
Anthony turned courteously to Mr. Gorth. “This must be embarrassing to you, uncle, and I beg your pardon if I have precipitated a discussion here in your house that can only be annoying to you. So, if you will excuse me—”
But Mr. Gorth said slowly, and with a penetrating look at the young man: “No, not at all. I’m very interested. I’d like to hear everything you have to say, Tony.”
Andrew said with venomous quiet: “You’ve forgotten one thing: I control everything until you are twenty-one. The money your grandmother left you will not come into your possession until then. You are entirely dependent on me, Tony. I’m not threatening you. I’m only pointing out things to you which you must be forced to consider.”
Then Eugenia spoke in her neutral but compelling voice, fixing her eyes formidably upon her son:
“Tony, you are making a complete fool of yourself. Suppose we end this silliness here and now. We won’t discuss it any longer. You may go to your room.”
Eugenia always believed it was her strength of character, her indomitable will to authority, which always cowed others. It never occurred to her that others retreated before her, were silent before her, because they possessed greater sensibilities than hers, and did not, out of sheer courtesy of heart and civilization, wish to cause her the embarrassment a defiance would inflict upon her. When others gave way before her, she was convinced it was because they were either weaklings or were overpowered by her greater force of character, virtue or intelligence.
Therefore, she was astonished and angered by the amused smile with which Anthony turned to her. He had never opposed her before, but now his dark gray eyes held hers without flinching.
“Mother,” he said, gently, “you’ve managed everything, and every one, before. In a delicate and ladylike fashion you’ve dominated every situation. With every success, you have become more and more insufferable. I’ve given way to you because I loved you, not because you cowed me. But I’m not a child now. I have my life to live, and I’m going to live it in accordance with my own convictions and desires.”
Andrew stared at his son, his narrow and colourless face darkening. Then, suddenly, he bit his lip, and glanced at his wife, who was regarding her son with icy fury and complete embarrassment.
“You are a tyrant, Mama dear,” continued Anthony, without malice. “And tyrants feed on the gentleness, submission and greater enlightenment of others. They become swollen, because they are uncivilized. I don’t want to hurt you. But you are completely uncivilized. You aren’t going to impose your barbarism any longer on me.”
Andrew was incredulous. Under his fury at his son he stole a long and gleaming blade of malevolent amusement at the discomfiture of his wife. Eugenia’s haughty face was a study. Her brilliant eyes flashed lightnings. But she was speechless. As for Mr. Gorth, he coughed once, violently, and studied the fire with deep intensity. Mrs. Gorth breathed loudly and deeply in her extreme joy. She stared, rapt, at Eugenia’s face, in which the blood was rising like a tide.
“You are an impudent rascal,” said Andrew, trying to keep the mirth out of his voice. “Later, you will apologize to your mother. But before you obey her, and go to your room, I want to ask you where you acquired your astounding and ridiculous chauvinism, this sudden devotion to America. Not in England, surely?”
“Yes,” said Anthony, steadfastly. “In England. Not only in England, but in all of Europe. I’ve spent months, as you know, in France, Prussia, Italy and Spain. And what I saw there opened my eyes to America.
“I was born here, but I’ve lived in an English household. I never really knew America. You sent me to England four years ago. I’ve been hedged about with English customs and English taboos. I never knew I was smothering. I know now. When I was away from America, I could see her clearly for the first time. And what I saw convinced me that she was my country, and that here was my people.”
He paused. His young face became grave and harder and full of resolution.
“I’ve heard the songs of every nation praising their land and their history and their people and kings. But who has sung the song of America? Who, eating her substance and enjoying her enlightenment, has paused long enough at his gorging and his grasping to know America, and say a prayer thanking God for her? Only a few, such a very few. But the others, gobbling and devouring, saw her only as a trough. The hundreds of thousands who are coming here now see her only a coffer to be emptied. Those who call themselves ‘Americans’ are no better. They only got here first, and have first place at the trough. And do you know what I’ve thought? I’ve thought that such ingratitude, such ugliness, such greed and stupidity ought to be punished!
“And then I knew that by punishment you can’t make men grateful or enlightened or good. You’ve got to educate them. You’ve got to pull them away from the trough and the gobbling long enough to shout in their ears that America means more than exploitation and gold. It means a chance at the real destiny of men. It means an opportunity to make the world into the kingdom of heaven. And I knew that this won’t be accomplished by describing America as a land where the streets are paved with gold. It can only be done by making Americans love America, as Europeans love their starveling, filthy and oppressed countries.
&nb
sp; “That’s what I want to do in my country: teach Americans to know, understand and love America, as she deserves to be known, understood and loved. If this isn’t done, then man’s last hope for liberty, peace, happiness and justice will fall when America falls. And surely she will fall if the song of America remains the song of greed.”
He paused. A profound silence filled the room. Andrew was smiling faintly, and examining his finger nails. Eugenia, haughty and affronted, looked at the floor, her lip curling. Mrs. Gorth, not understanding anything except that there was anger and discomfiture in this room, was still delighted. And Richard Gorth stared at Anthony with a fixed and inscrutable look.
Then Andrew said softly: “All this is very touching. Very. It quite moves me to the heart. You’ve got courage, Tony. But you’re also a dreaming fool with shining eyes. I hate fools. I’ve always hated them. It is very humiliating to me to know that my son is a fool. I thought better of you. I knew you had intelligence and reason, and I was proud. But it is devastating to me to hear you sing like a nightingale and prance like a dervish. Yes, Tony, you are a fool.”
He looked up now and regarded his son with that bland and evil look of his, derisive and mocking.
“Of course, you are young, Tony. You aren’t a realist. Yet. But I still have hopes that you will eventually become a realist. At the present time, you are a feckless imbecile.”
Then Gorth spoke, heavily: “You lie, Andrew. You know you lie. Tony isn’t feckless. He’s got courage. Courage. You know that. It takes courage to speak up to smooth liars like you, Andy. And smooth tyrants like you, ma’am,” and he bowed deeply to Eugenia. “It always takes courage to look decadence in the face and tell it what it is.”
Andrew slowly turned in his chair and gazed at his uncle. Eugenia, with a faint sound, rose and stood before Richard Gorth, trembling with outrage. But Mr. Gorth was not intimidated.