Not far from the warehouse of Richard Gorth, Cotton Exporter, was the much smaller and much more dilapidated and failing firm of Everett Livingston & Company. At one time this firm had been exceedingly flourishing, and in command of the cotton export trade of New York. But the founder, and his son, the present Everett Livingston, had been distinguished by a rigid honour in all their dealings, and so were no match for the new species of trader which had sprung up in the past twenty-five years. The present Everett had discovered that fair dealing, scrupulous honesty and integrity could not survive in this new world of robber barons and expedient opportunists. But he was an old man now, and could not employ the tactics of his competitors. The habits of honour and honesty were too much for him; he had fallen into their set pattern, however much, at odd and silent moments, he wished he might be able to extricate himself. He was old, and he was unmarried. But Mr. Wilkins knew that in him was that inexhaustible greed which lived in all other men, and which was much more vulnerable, at a good opportunity, to vicious and rascally suggestion than it was in men more familiar with these things. “Give me a man as ’as been honest and aboveboard all his damn life,” Mr. Wilkins would reflect, “and let him be down on his luck and starin’ the work’ouse in the face, and there’s nothin’ ’e’ll stop at, either for revenge or to ’elp ’imself.”
Though he’d had only slight dealings with Mr. Livingston before, and then only obliquely in the interests of Gorth, Mr. Wilkins knew all about the old gentleman. He knew him for a proud and bloodless old bachelor, suspicious, rigid, of excellent and courtly breeding, impeccable old family, and high and relentless integrity. Mr. Livingston was close to seventy now, with a long and aristocratic face, sunken and lean, the skin pale and crumpled, the nose long and sharp and patrician, the blue eyes cold and repellent and full of suspicion. His white hair was sparse, but well-brushed and gleaming. The lobes of his ears were transparent and delicate, as were his hands. He spoke in a quiet but firm voice, and nothing disturbed his punctilious courtesy and elegant composure. When he looked at one, it was with such piercing and forthright attention that a pettier rascality than Mr. Wilkins’ was immediately undone. His wardrobe was also distinguished by a refined elegance which all envied, and his walk and carriage were regal if somewhat stiff now.
Mr. Livingston was indeed a gentleman “of the old school,” polished, dignified and upright, without passions or uncertainties, but very embittered during these past few decades. He was much travelled and cosmopolitan, and of exceptional discernment and taste. He spoke several languages, having attended the best universities in Europe, and his library, in his small and impoverished but still elegant home on West Tenth Street, was perfection and discrimination themselves. He had two elderly servants, man and wife, who had been in his service for over forty years and knew his tastes. His little house was so polished, so charming, so perfectly appointed, that all who entered were forever entranced.
Each Sunday, the ancient carriage was brought out to his door, surmounted by the elderly manservant in a patched and much worn livery, and Mr. Livingston, sitting upright in the vehicle, was driven to the small Episcopal Church on Broadway. Many New Yorkers in the vicinity were familiar with the carriage and its occupants, but Mr. Livingston was never known to nod or recognize any one. He sat in his carriage, upright as if carved, his gloved hands resting on his ebony cane, his tall hat shining in the morning sun, his many-caped coat brushed to the threads, his boots gleaming, his manner all authority and unshaking and royal pride. He despised the newcomers to his city, in which he had been born, and his father and grandfather and great-grandfather before him. He was of such family that his forebears had condescended with disdain to General Washington, and had considered him an insufferable and radical upstart. They had been irreconcilable Tories, and Mr. Livingston still draped the portrait of George III with the British emblem on his library wall. He spoke of the Queen with royalist reverence, and despised the raucous democracy of the new Republic. Because of his attitude, he had few friends, which did not disturb him. He would never have admitted the Astors and the Vanderbilts into his home anyway, under any circumstances. They were not gentlefolk. The Livingstons had nothing in common with them, would never have. They were of the hoi polloi, and their new affectations of “family” and tradition and aristocracy always brought a pale and virulent gleam of disgust and amusement to Everett Livingston’s marble countenance. Otherwise, he ignored their existence.
Years ago, on the strength of Mrs. Gorth’s forebears, Mr. Livingston had extended an invitation to dine to Mr. Gorth and his lady. He had also been impelled to this upon thorough if quiet investigation of Mr. Gorth’s antecedents. Now Mr. Livingston would not tolerate a man of poor antecedents and obscure background in his home, no matter how upright, brilliant or noble such a man was, no matter how successful or accomplished. He preferred the company of his peers even if those peers were of poor and vapid quality themselves, and distinguished by no graces of character or soul. However, despite the fact that Mr. Gorth and his lady were Mr. Livingston’s peers, or even “beyond” him, he could not endure them. This occasioned him much regret, and he turned with temporary relief to lesser gentlemen of his acquaintance who possessed finer and more lofty characters. But later he was very uneasy. Was it possible that he was becoming a democrat? This so horrified him that for six months or more he entertained nobody. He told himself sternly that he could not trust himself. That a Livingston could descend to entertain “nobodies” in preference to “somebodies” however contemptible, shook the whole foundation of his philosophy.
He despised trade, but as he was also possessed of a love for money, he told himself that he found something “earthy” in his firm. “Keeps a man’s feet on the ground to occupy him. Brings him closer to the heart of things,” he would say, with pallid sturdiness. He would have preferred, certainly, to have a private income far removed from the taint of “trade,” but this not being possible, he brought “trade” in to the pure environs of his code and so purged it of grossness. This feat of egotism was very admirable, and astonishing.
At the present time the business of Livingston had so deteriorated that it brought in less than six hundred pounds a year. (Mr. Livingston preferred to calculate his income in British pounds rather than in vulgar dollars, a fact which embarrassed or coarsely amused those with whom he had dealings. “He thinks it gives an air of gentility to the damned transaction,” one was guilty of saying.) Mr. Livingston had not been able to keep up with newer developments, with the new interlockings of the cotton trade with American manufacturers in New England, partly because of the rigidity of his mind which detested innovations, and partly because of his integrity.
There were those who fatuously declared that Mr. Livingston was possessed of a “genteel and patrician mind,” unaware of and indifferent to the steady decay of his firm, that trade was “beneath” him. Like all fatuous and sentimental people, they were entirely wrong in their fond diagnosis. Mr. Livingston was only too poignantly aware of the decline of Everett Livingston & Company, and as he had the cold voracity of temperament which is one attribute of the aristocratic soul, and its secret and glacial rapacity, he was now at the point where he would do anything (provided he could retain to himself the delusion of integrity) to recoup his declining fortunes.
Mr. Bob Wilkins, who knew everything, it seemed, also knew this. Mr. Livingston, heretofore invulnerable to suggestion, was now a “man for his money.” Mr. Wilkins’ nose had lately begun its premonitory twitchings in Mr. Livingston’s presence.
So it was, on this happy golden Spring morning that Mr. Wilkins alighted from his own carriage and entered Mr. Livingston’s presence. He had been careful to observe the formal amenities, and had ceremoniously asked for the pleasure of this interview. Mr. Livingston knew Mr. Wilkins very well, if only from repute, aside from their very rare meetings. He had despised and ignored him as a vulgarian, a “feller,” a panderer and servant to the less scrupulous and patrician. He had a vague idea as to the manner in which Mr. Wilkins served his patrons, for Mr. Livingston was no airy fool. Six months ago he would have ignored Mr. Wilkins’ request, astutely understanding that where Mr. Wilkins entered he brought with him corruption, a stench, dishonesty, skullduggery and unashamed larceny. Moreover, he would have been appalled at the presumption of the “feller” daring to assume that such as Mr. Livingston would permit him to enter the aseptic offices of the company. What insolence to presume that Mr. Livingston would give ear to any foul suggestions of his!
Now Mr. Livingston also knew that Mr. Wilkins did not bother with failures and potential failures, and that where he appeared there was the bright shimmer of possible gold, and the dazzling promise of unbelievable profits. Only two weeks ago Mr. Livingston had been inexorably faced with the probability of immediate bankruptcy. He had spent sleepless nights, contemplating the ignominy of such a thing occurring to Everett Livingston & Company. Why, this firm was rooted in the very history of New York, of America! It was not to be endured. It can be seen, then, that Mr. Livingston was in great if silent despair and shame previous to Mr. Wilkins’ respectful letter asking for an interview at the noble man’s pleasure.
He had sat immobile for hours, Mr. Wilkins’ letter before him. He had no definite idea as to what Mr. Wilkins would suggest, but he knew it would be nefarious, involving all sorts of criminal and snide activities, all unscrupulousness. His first automatic reaction was to toss the letter aside in contemptuous silence. But immediately after this thought he was seized with such hope that he became quite weak, and trembled violently. Help was at hand, even if it was shameful and loathsome help. He paid Mr. Wilkins the compliment of conceding that Mr. Wilkins would waste no time on those who could not be salvaged brilliantly. He, Mr. Everett Livingston, obviously could be saved then, and not in a small fashion, but in a spectacular one. Mr. Wilkins did not play for pennies.
Mr. Livingston, meditating on these things, had covered his royal face with his long white hands, so delicately veined with blue threads. He began to sigh, over and over, with restrained sounds. But a lifetime of integrity was not strong enough to withstand the hope of rescue, the hope of profits. Mr. Wilkins never made a mistake. He knew that every man had his price, and that not two men in a single generation were ever immune to rascality, theft, and even murder. The rosy Lucifer with the infantile countenance knew his humanity too well. A lesser man, i.e., a nobler man, might have become a bitter cynic about men. Mr. Wilkins merely used them.
Mr. Livingston, after a whole day’s desperate and agonized struggle with himself, had coldly if politely granted Mr. Wilkins this interview. Now, in his bare chill office, he awaited the arrival of the beaming saviour. He had never been of a warm and sanguine appearance. Today, he resembled a withered if imperial cadaver. He presented to Mr. Wilkins, as he entered bowing and sunnily dispensing his radiant smiles, the aspect of a severe and implacable judge. But Mr. Wilkins was not discomfited. He was even reassured. He knew the battle was already won. He had only to be discreet, with deference to Mr. Livingston’s sensibilities. (“Let a bloke tell his little lies to himself as ’e’s bein’ honest and aboveboard all the damn time, and you’ve got ’im in the palm of your hand,” he would say.)
One covert glance assured Mr. Wilkins that he had Mr. Livingston in the palm of his hand. There would be minor and dignified skirmishings of course, but such a clever chap as Mr. Wilkins would never present an opportunity for a serious argument, never give that latent integrity of Mr. Livingston’s chance to assert itself. Everything would be quite frank and righteous between them. Mr. Wilkins, aside from his main object, was delighted. He loved such byplay. It refreshed his Satanic enjoyment at the spectacle of mankind’s inherent virulence and hypocrisy.
Mr. Livingston inclined his head with haughty reserve in response to Mr. Wilkins’ affable greetings, his expression of pleasure that he had been admitted to Mr. Livingston’s august presence. This softened Mr. Livingston, brought him a mild relief. He gave a bleak and condescending smile, and indicated a chair.
Mr. Wilkins disposed himself in the chair indicated, with all decorum and stateliness, as befitting the occasion. If there was a preoccupied and serious air about him, that was well calculated, as was the wardrobe of smooth black broadcloth, severe white linen and black cravat. After the first sunny smile of greeting, he assumed an air of intense if funereal gravity, and looked at Mr. Livingston with respectful earnestness. All this was quite confusing to Mr. Livingston, who, on the few occasions when he had caught fleet glimpses of Mr. Wilkins, had designated him as a vulgar “feller,” and one who was not likely to cross his patrician path except obliquely. Yet, here sat the “feller” now, looking quite the gentleman for all his rotund build, wearing an expression of severe dignity and grave alertness. Mr. Livingston was more and more baffled. Had his first impressions been wrong?
“You are a busy gentleman, sir,” began Mr. Wilkins in a slow and unctuous voice, “and it is not my intention to consume too much of your time.” Mr. Livingston, in response, inclined his head in an august manner. Had he been a man of humour, he would have smiled wryly, for no sounds of busyness were evident about them, but rather a foglike and empty gloom, as if all had moved away but the owner. The desolation of prostrate failure was all about them, in the cold bare office, in the lack of activity in the almost empty warehouse, in the dull far booming of harbour whistles, even in the gray set austerity of Mr. Livingston’s countenance. Mr. Wilkins saw all this; he saw that only one sheet of foolscap lay on Mr. Livingston’s small polished desk, and that there were no crumpled papers in the wastebasket.
Mr. Wilkins cleared his throat. He appeared to be thinking sad and embarrassed thoughts, for he stared at the floor and sighed. Then he lifted his pink bald head bravely and looked at Mr. Livingston fully with an air of desperate candour.
“I can be frank, Mr. Livingston, sir? I can say my say, and no offense? I can be assured that what I speak shall not leave this room?” His voice was strong and resonant, with just a manly tremor perceptible.
A crease appeared between Mr. Livingston’s brows. He replied coldly: “I am not in the habit of betraying confidences, Mr. Wilkins. You can speak with all freedom.”
“It is hard for me to speak,” confessed Mr. Wilkins, looking aside as if sorely distressed and disheartened. “It is hard for me to tell one who is almost a stranger of the most dastardly plot and ingratitude it has ever been my ill luck to come up against. To no one else, sir, could I tell this story. But from the first I knew you as one who can be relied upon, and trusted, and can express himself with full indignation when somethin’ comes up as would turn a heart of stone to fire.”
The crease deepened between Mr. Livingston’s brows at this extraordinary confession. A less naive and egotistic man would have smiled irrepressibly and have said: “Come now, man, let’s halt this silly acting and get down to brass tacks.” But Mr. Livingston, like all aristocratic egotists and lovers of self, was fair game for such as Mr. Wilkins, for he had the narrow innocence of his kind, and their complete and abysmal ingenuousness.
He said, with dignity: “This is very extraordinary, Mr. Wilkins. Please be more explicit.” He added loftily: “If I can be of any assistance in righting a wrong, I am sure you need have no hesitation in confiding in me.”
At these measured words, Mr. Wilkins suddenly became all ardour, all roseate passion. Tears actually swam in his eyes. He grasped the head of his cane with both hands, vehemently. He seemed to be having difficulty with his breath, and it was evident that he was overcome, for a moment, too deeply for speech. Mr. Livingston concealed his curiosity, but he felt a sharp sense of excitement.
“Did I not tell this to myself?” cried Mr. Wilkins, in a broken voice. “Didn’t I say to myself just this morning: ‘Go to Mr. Livingston! Tell him your story, Bob! There’s a gentleman as will listen with sympathy and righteous indignation, out of his Christian charity and justice! Tell him ’ow you was betrayed, and your young friend with you, and ’ow there was some one plottin’ to lay you both low and steal the very whites of your eyes! Tell him, Bob Wilkins, and you’ll not regret it!’”
Mr. Livingston’s curiosity betrayed itself in the sudden icy gleam in his eyes, in the sudden rigidity of the line of his emaciated jaw. Nevertheless, he became suspicious, and wary.
“I trust any revelation of yours will not bring unpleasant results with it, Mr. Wilkins?” he asked, with cautious hauteur. “Nor is it betraying the confidence of some one else? I cannot be party to a situation which would have disagreeable consequences.”
Mr. Wilkins stared at him with such dignified wretchedness that Mr. Livingston became embarrassed. There was reproach in Mr. Wilkins’ swimming eyes.
“Mr. Livingston, sir,” said Mr. Wilkins, sadly, and in deep tones, “it is I as is the betrayed. O sir, wot ’as brought me to you? I do not know. But there’s somethin’, sir,” and now Mr. Wilkins tapped his oaken breast solemnly and with measured strokes, “as ’as brought me to you.” He implied that a mystic divinity or intuition had directed his steps to this office. He cast up his eyes for an instant with a look of profound piety. “If I’d stopped to figure it out, sir, in the light of cold reason, perhaps I’d not be here. But I’m one as goes by impulse, not questionin’. And I’ve never been wrong. ‘Allus go by your mysterious impulses, Bob Wilkins,’ I say to myself. And never ’as it led me astray, sir.”
Mr. Livingston compressed his lips. He was impatient. But he found nothing ludicrous in all this. His curiosity increased enormously.
“Well, then, Mr. Wilkins, suppose you tell me? As you have remarked yourself, I am a busy man.”
Mr. Wilkins inclined his head reverently in acknowledgment. “Don’t I know it, sir! Don’t I know that those as is noted for their honour and their integrity is always busy! Men you can trust! Rare in the world, Mr. Livingston, very rare. But there’s a just Heaven!” resumed Mr. Wilkins after a moment, with a kind of elated and pious exaltation and enthusiasm. “There’s a just Heaven! And when a chap does right, Heaven don’t forget! Blessings, Mr. Livingston, come upon him, good rich blessings! Fortun allus attends the just and the upright.”
Mr. Livingston’s experience had never followed exactly this line, but he had never disbelieved in the bounty of Heaven upon those who deserved it. Sometimes Heaven was negligent, but never consistently forgetful. He leaned towards Mr. Wilkins with involuntary interest.
“It’s yours to reject, sir,” continued Mr. Wilkins, in that same high and hurried voice of exaltation. “Yours to reject, and nothin’ else said outside this room. Yours to right a wrong and make a handsome thing of it, sir.”
Mr. Livingston controlled himself. He forced himself to lean back with dignity in his hard chair. He began to tap his desk with his white and slender fingers, and regarded Mr. Wilkins intently. A febrile flush crept under his crumpled and imperial cheeks.
Mr. Wilkins, apparently still carried away by his enthusiastic and simple passion, leaned across the desk towards the old gentleman. “Mr. Livingston,” he said, with shaking solemnity, “It’s yours to right a wrong. And sir, wot d’ye say to makin’ Everett Livingston and Company the world’s leadin’ cotton-print company?”
Mr. Livingston uttered a faint exclamation. Common sense returned to him. Angry and blasting confession sprang to his lips, repudiation of such impudent extravagance. For a blinding instant he saw Everett Livingston & Company for what it was, an obscure and dying little failure, surely beyond resurrection. Yet here was this insolent and ridiculous scoundrel suggesting the most impossible things.
“You aren’t, by chance, Mr. Wilkins, making game of me?” he asked, in his quiet and disdainful voice. He made a slight motion as if to rise. “Let us be frank, Mr. Wilkins. Perhaps my company hasn’t kept up with latest developments. We have preferred to pursue the old ways of integrity and close economy, detesting and suspecting the reckless extravagance and dangerous speculation of other companies. Because of our principles, our business has steadily declined. You are an astute man, Mr. Wilkins. You know all this very well. Yet, you speak quite wildly. Perhaps you have some dishonest scheme in mind. I can assure you now, sir, that I shall not countenance such a scheme.” He added, with gloomy frankness: “Too, I doubt if any scheme of yours could possibly resuscitate us.”
He was suddenly exhausted, and crushed. He sank back in his chair, dwindled and weak. He had never been so honest with himself before. Always, he had retained the delusion that though his company’s trade had declined ominously and steadily during the last decade or so, it still retained its place in the world of affairs and was widely famous and respected for its integrity and fair dealings. He had deluded himself even in the face of evidence. Now, he looked starkly at the truth and was undone.
There was nothing Mr. Wilkins feared more than honesty and disillusion. Let a man look too long at the truth, and he was no longer a man “for Mr. Wilkins’ money.” Now there was no hypocrisy in the real earnestness of his voice:
“Mr. Livingston, sir, we all fall on evil days. Especially in a world of rascals and thieves. But, shall we lie down and let ’em trample upon us? Shall we doubt the ultimate triumph of an indignant justice? Surely, sir, you do not deny that justice, in retaliation, often offers us an opportunity to recoup our fortunes and lay low our enemies?”
Mr. Livingston was silent. He was still crushed by his wretched look upon truth. But a faint bright hope began to dawn in him. Mr. Wilkins, who had begun to sweat, sighed in himself with relief.
He clasped his fat little hands on the desk, and leaned urgently towards Mr. Livingston. “You ’ave asked me to be frank, Mr. Livingston. Wot you’ve said is no news to me. I know the Market. I’ve got good friends down on Wall Street. Jay Regan? You knows of ’im, sir?”
Mr. Livingston still did not speak. But his thin white nostrils dilated, and his glacial blue eyes widened.
“It was only yesterday,” said Mr. Wilkins, his voice falling to a low whisper, “as I ’ad a talk with my good friend. Jay Regan, the great financier, a man as ’as an up-and-comin’ eye out on the world. ‘Wot of Livingston, Jay?’ I arsks him. ‘Wot’s Livingston doin’?’ And he says honestly, sir: ‘Livingston, eh? A fine firm. Too bad it ’asn’t done so well lately. Too bad no one’s come along with new patents, Bob. Stock used to sell at five dollars. Now it’s fifty cents. Too bad, Bob, with all its potentialities.’ You see, sir, I’m one as can be frank, too, and you’ll pardon this discussion of your affairs?”
But Mr. Livingston’s old heart was trembling. He clenched his fine hands on the desk. A purple flush invaded his forehead.
“I’ve got Livingston stock,” resumed Mr. Wilkins. “Would I ’ave bought it if I didn’t ’ave faith in it, sir? And wot it can be? Bob Wilkins isn’t one as buys at random, reckless like.”
“Go on,” said Mr. Livingston in a stifled tone, as Mr. Wilkins paused.
“I ’ad me talk with Regan,” continued Mr. Wilkins. “And I said certain things to ’im. I said: ‘Look here, Jay, if Livingston, now, with its reputation for doin’ straight and aboveboard business should come into possession of the finest and most revolutionary patents for printing cotton cloth, so we wouldn’t ’ave to send our cottons to England, and do business for ourselves, wot’d you say?’ And he said: ‘Why, damn you, Bob, you know damned well wot I’d say! I’d say, a hundred thousand dollars at once, damn you! About time, Bob Wilkins, that we stopped bein’ robbed by England in the business. England uses our cotton staples, prints the cloth with her damned fine patents, and then resells it to Ameriky, and other countries. Show me somethin’ as will enable us to compete with England, saving expenses, exporting, shipping, handling of raw material and finished products, and there’s no limit to wot you can arsk! Let me see, now, Bob,’ he continues, ‘Livingston’s got a little printin’ concern in New England. But no good patents. No wonder it lies idle, when it could be the biggest concern in Ameriky, perhaps in the world. It should be, damn you, Bob! I’m a patriot, Bob, and we’ve got to get the trade in Ameriky!’”
Mr. Livingston stared, impassive. Then all at once he began to tremble. He turned as white as death, and a bluish tinge came over his face. He put his hand to his forehead, and it shook visibly.
He whispered: “But, we haven’t the patents. The process. England has them, and we have no chance to get them for ourselves, or to improve upon them,” he added, quickly.
Mr. Wilkins said, as if the other had not spoken: “There is a young gentleman I know, sir, who ’as patents, the best of ’em. Invented by himself. An Englishman, but sick of England and her ways. So, he brings the patents to Ameriky. Wot do I advise ’im? ‘There’s Gorth, Johnnie,’ I says, doubtfully. ‘I’ve done some business with Gorth. But I’m not certain of Gorth’s honesty. I’ll investigate.’ So, I does. Gorth’s all honey and promises and eagerness. Now, sir, I’m a chap as is trusting. I believes a man when he looks you in the eye and gives you his word. Trustin’, ain’t I, sir?” Mr. Wilkins permitted himself a twisted sad smile at his own expense, at his own naiveté, and shook his head drearily.
Then he looked at Mr. Livingston with an affectation of triumphant sharpness. “I believes Gorth, with reservations, sir. A cute customer. I investigates. Then I sees he’s no man of honour. He interviews my man, and even hires him as his secretary. But all the while there’s a plot goin’ on to steal my man’s brains, and give ’im nothin’, and leave us both out in the cold. To steal his patents, sir, as he come by with his wits and his industry! ’Ow do I find out this plot? Well, sir, I ’ave me methods, and it’s too complicated to say. I’m not one as jumps to conclusions, and I have to be certain. Now I’m certain. I’ve took my man away from Gorth. ’E’s ready now, to do business with an honest and above-board concern, to dedicate himself to that concern. To make that concern the biggest in Ameriky, in the world, to emancipate Ameriky from English cotton mills, and bring prosperity to American mills, as is fittin’. Why, sir, with these patents there’s nothin’ can stop us!”
Mr. Livingston, dazed, took some long minutes to digest all this. He could not rid himself of the feeling that he was in the midst of some fantasy, some golden dream. He stared at Mr. Wilkins blankly, his thin face slowly becoming suffused.
He faltered, in a faint and grudging tone: “Has Mr. Gorth yet availed himself of these patents? If so—”
“Would I be comin’ to you, sir, if ’e ’ad?” cried Mr. Wilkins indignantly. “Would I be arskin’ you to cross even such as Gorth, if ’e’d yet invested ’is money in it, and gone ahead with plans? No, not even if Gorth is a thief and a blackguard, usin’ my man’s brains dishonest! First come, first served, even if a man’s fit only for Old Bailey. That’s Bob Wilkins, sir! I can tell you that ’e ’asn’t gone ahead. I’ve thought he was dealin’ with England, sly like, for a good sum. Promisin’ not to compete, even if it means the ruin of American cotton industry by withholdin’ the processes. For a good sum. Several hundred thousand pounds, sir. I ’ave me methods of findin’ out such things.” He elaborately hesitated, sighed, bowed his head as if in shame, and murmured: “I trust you, sir. I confess now that Gorth sent me to England just to make such a deal.” He appeared suddenly frightened, and put his plump hand to his lips. “I ought not to ’ave confessed that to you, sir! You’ll not think better of me for it. You’ll say to yourself: ‘Bob Wilkins’s no better than Gorth, lendin’ his talents to such chicanery and unpatriotic double-dealin’.’”
Mr. Livingston drew a deep and audible breath. He fixed his eyes sternly upon Mr. Wilkins. “A very unpatriotic and cruel thing to do, Mr. Wilkins,” he said, severely. “Especially when your young man had confided these processes to you. Offensive you may think it, Mr. Wilkins, but I cannot refrain from expressing my indignation at such dishonesty. Surely you could not betray America, and your young friend, like this?”
Mr. Wilkins bowed his head humbly, and nodded slowly and despairingly. “There, sir, you’ve said it. I accepts my punishment. But, at the last moment I recoiled, sir. ‘No, Bob Wilkins,’ I said, ‘you’ve not to do this. You owes a debt to Ameriky, and them as trusts you. Never mind the money, Bob Wilkins,’ I says. So I comes back to Ameriky, hurried like, and takes my man away from Gorth.”
There was a silence in the room, as Mr. Wilkins’ head fell lower and lower upon his breast in his complete and broken penitence. Mr. Livingston, now towering over the other in complete austerity and honourable indignation, gazed at him coldly. Mr. Wilkins’ confession, his visible remorse, his attitude of penitence, removed from Mr. Livingston’s not unastute mind the suspicion that there was something here that should be investigated. Men, he believed in his naiveté, do not openly confess themselves rascals and thieves and traitors if they have something nefarious in mind.
Then he forgot all this in the sudden and almost fatal surge of joy and liberation and hope. His breath came sharp and painful. His heart roared, and his pale and bloodless face dampened. He struggled before he could speak in a restrained if halting voice:
“Mr. Wilkins, you have suffered much for your treachery, I can see that. But you have tried to make amends. I hope you will let me help you. Bring your young man to me. I will interview him, at least. He knows something of the trade, besides the mere printing processes?”
Mr. Wilkins lifted his head. His countenance shone with delight, with gratitude. He half rose from his chair.
“Mr. Livingston, your words is balm to me! You forgive me! You understand the frailties in a man’s heart! You ’aven’t turned me, out, as I deserve. Bless you, sir, bless you! You’ve given me ’ope, and you’ll not regret it, sir. I swears it! ’Ere’s me ’and on it!”
He thrust an extravagantly shaking hand in Mr. Livingston’s direction, and after a moment’s lofty and severe delay, Mr. Livingston took it. Mr. Wilkins affected to be overcome. He clung to that hand. He fell back in his chair, still stretching it across the desk and he bowed his head again, heaving deep and broken sighs. Mr. Livingston felt himself in command of the situation, and deeply exalted and dazed.
When Mr. Wilkins could collect himself, he said: “This young chap, sir. He knows the export trade from A to Z. ‘Wot about South Ameriky?’ he arsks me, shrewd like. ‘Wot are you doin’ about South Ameriky, Mr. Wilkins? Are you lettin’ England ’ave that trade, too, along with yours?’ I was ashamed to confess we are, sir. And now, I’ll bring ’im to you tomorrow, Mr. Livingston, and then we’ll ’ave business to do with Jay Regan.”
They stood up, shaking hands again, with restrained enthusiasm.
Mr. Livingston, swimming in his golden and imposing dream, was inclined to be magnanimous now. “You won’t regret your honesty, Mr. Wilkins, I can assure you. There will probably be much in this for you. That is the reward of humility and honour.’
Mr. Wilkins smiled a strange and hidden smile, which he concealed by bowing his head.
When the amiable “feller” had left, after effusive expressions of gratitude for Mr. Livingston’s noble understanding, Mr. Livingston slowly lowered himself into his chair and sat motionless for a long time, staring before him with his frozen blue eyes. At moments a long tremor would pass over him, as if he were seized with a kind of solemn but repressed excitement. Then, at other moments, an uneasy shade would pass over his face, pinching it as though he felt a strange and unfathomable chill from deep within himself. Finally, a long time later, when he stood up, age and grim desolation had left him. There was a stiff grace in his long thin body, a quicker elegance in his manners. He smiled.
He was a scholar and a man of intuition, intellect and fine judgment, travelled and cultivated. It is only passing strange, however, that his seduction by Mr. Wilkins had been so easy, and so puerile, and that his own conduct had been as naive and shallow as an ignorant man’s, that a whole long life’s experience with men and affairs should have been nothing before Mr. Wilkins’ raw brash flattery and acting.
Mr. Wilkins could have explained it quite airily, and truthfully.
“I allus gives ’em wot they really wants,” he would have said, as he had said before, a thousand times. “Allus play on a bloke’s instincts, and you’ll never go wrong. Come to him with arguments for ’is mind and ’is reason and ’is conscience, and ’e’ll slip away from you like a bloody eel. But get at him through ’is blasted instincts—that’re allus right there under the surface of the finest snob—and you’ve got ’im! ’E’s yours for life.”
For Mr. Wilkins had come upon the most profound truth in the world, hidden from the most loquacious and pretentious philosophers and students of men: that mankind has always been, and always will be, the slave of its primordial instincts.