From boyhood, it had been Marcus Wilkeson's fortune (or the reverse) to attract confidence, and to be sought out for advice. And it had most generally happened that he was requested to bestow the last valuable article in cases where inexperience absolutely disqualified him from giving it.
He had found, however, that, when people ask for advice, they expect to receive it, although they reserve to themselves the right, and, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, exercise the privilege, of rejecting it.
But Marcus had gathered, from the old gentleman's story, that the error of his dealings with the rebellious son lay in his constantly seeking advice from everybody, and taking it, too, instead of adopting some firm, consistent, and independent course of his own toward that unfilial monster. Furthermore, Marcus knew that the son was already beyond the reach of reform. For the future peace of his venerable friend, and for the good of society, he could have conscientiously recommended two things:
First, the immediate hanging of Myndert Van Quintem, jr. Second, his imprisonment for life in a penitentiary warranted to be strong enough to hold him.
Neither of these courses being practicable until that young man had entitled himself to the benefit of one or the other of them in the legitimate way, Marcus Wilkeson had nothing to offer, and so he told the old gentleman.
Mr. Van Quintem was disappointed. He looked up wistfully, and said:
"Can't you suggest something?"
Thus appealed to, Marcus angled in the deep waters of his mind, and fished up this inadequate idea:
"Let him travel a couple of years in Europe."
"I have proposed it," returned the old gentleman, "but he won't, unless I give him five thousand dollars, and an unlimited letter of credit. This I refused. Besides, to tell the truth, I do not wish to exile the boy, but to reform him at home."
Marcus was too polite to say bluntly that that was impossible; so he cast in his line again at random, and drew out this worthless suggestion:
"Stop all his pocket money, and tell him plainly that you will disinherit him unless he reforms."
"My dear sir," replied the old gentleman, "that might do with some sons, but not with mine. He would obtain money by theft, or even a worse crime, and bring disgrace upon my gray hairs. He might go even farther--for he has threatened it, as I told you--and murder me in revenge. Besides, he is on short allowance now. I give him only thirty dollars a week--less than a quarter of what he used to receive from me. Much as his conduct deserves punishment, I could not reduce him to beggary, you know."
This useless discussion was cut short by the precipitate entrance of the subject of it. Mr. Van Quintem was greatly surprised at the sudden apparition, and his face exhibited signs first of astonishment, then of indignation, then of pleasure, in quick succession. But before his erring son Had advanced halfway toward the father's chair, the father turned his head slightly away, as if not daring to trust himself to an interview.
The son took one sharp survey of Marcus, and then slipped his right hand insinuatingly in that of his father, which hung over an arm of the easy chair. Mr. Van Quintem turned his face farther away, but Marcus observed that his fingers closed upon the hand which lay within them.
"Are you quite well, my dear father?" asked the son, in a low, hollow voice, not meant to be overheard by the visitor.
"I am, thanks to God, and the doctor, and my niece," said the father, stealing a side look at his son.
"And no thanks to me, I know that. I feared, my dear father, after what had occurred, that you could not bear the sight of me. Therefore I kept away from your bedside."
"That is a lame excuse, Myndert," replied the father. He spoke in a voice intended to be audible to Marcus Wilkeson.
A gleam in the son's sunken eyes, and a new pallor on his bloated cheeks, indicated his displeasure at the turn which this conversation was taking. He withdrew his hand, and said, in a deep whisper:
"I did not think you would quarrel with me, when I called to congratulate you on your recovery."
Mr. Van Quintem wavered a moment. Then, looking at the calm face of Marcus Wilkeson, as if to gather strength from it, he replied:
"My son, such language is not respectful to your father. You know, as God knows, that I have been too indulgent with you."
The son coolly twirled the ends of his mustache--which protruded from each side of his mouth like the antennae of a catfish--and gazed impudently in his father's face. Then he turned about, and bestowed another scornful, analyzing look on the tranquil Marcus.
"That is a friend of mine, Myndert, and I have no secrets from him. Mr. Wilkeson--my son."
Marcus politely rose, and offered his hand to the young man, who accepted it reluctantly.
"I have seen you before, I believe," said he. "Across the way, eh?"
"I dare say," was the reply. "I sometimes sit at the window, reading."
Myndert then abruptly faced his fatherland Marcus resumed his chair.
"Since you have no secrets from this gentleman," said the son, "allow me to ask if you could conveniently spare five hundred dollars this morning?"
The old gentleman hesitated; then reassured himself by an observation of Marcus Wilkeson's face, and said:
"No, my son; I can no longer encourage this extravagance. Where is your last monthly allowance?"
"Gone, of course," answered the son, in a loud and insolent tone. "Do you expect to keep me on miserable driblets like that?"
"Thirty dollars a week, and board and lodging, are enough for any reasonable young man, Myndert. I cannot give you more."
The son glared on his father and Marcus Wilkeson (holding the latter chiefly responsible for the refusal) with amazement.
"Since you are obstinate, then, make it three hundred." The son had often been able to obtain half or two thirds of what he originally asked, as a compromise.
Again the old gentleman wavered; and it was not until he had looked Marcus Wilkeson straight in the eye, that he answered, striking the arm of the chair with his thin white hand:
"Not one cent!"
The tumid cheeks assumed a sicklier white, and the small, offensive eyes sparkled with a fiercer fury, as the son replied:
"Very well, sir. Be as stingy as you please. Take the advice of your new friend here, and cut off my beggarly monthly allowance, too. But remember, I must have money, and I will have it!"
Had Marcus Wilkeson not been present, the father might have been brought to terms by this vague but dreadful threat. But now he shook his head, as an intimation that nothing could move him.
"You have taken your own course, sir," continued the son, through his closed teeth. "I shall take mine. Don't forget my last words. As for you, sir," turning to Marcus Wilkeson, "we shall probably meet again."
Marcus urbanely responded that nothing could give him greater pleasure. The son, darting a last malignant look at his father, whose face was happily averted, strode out of the room, slamming the door, and afterward the street door, with increased emphasis.
When he had gone, the father said to his visitor, feebly:
"Have I done right?"
"Precisely. Your conduct was firm, prudent, and will have a good effect."
"I hope so--I hope so. But don't you think, now, I was a little too severe--to begin with, I mean? I fear that my son will be driven to crime; and that would kill me."
"I regard his threats as only empty words," replied Marcus. He has found them useful heretofore, and he tries them now. Having learned that they do not longer frighten you, he will never employ them again. That is one point gained. If he is really bad enough to commit a crime for money, your misjudged kindness will not prevent him, but will rather encourage his evil disposition."
"There is truth in what you say," replied the old gentleman, faintly; "but I--I--fear."
The protracted conversation, and the suppressed agony of the past few minutes, were too much for the old gentleman to bear on his first day of convalescence. He suddenly turned very pale, and his head drooped. Marcus threw open a window, and held the cordial to his lips. As Marcus was applying this restorative, without any perceptible benefit, the door opened, and Mrs. Frump ran in, red in the face, and quite out of breath.
"Excuse me, sir. I am Mrs. Frump, Mr. Van Quintem's niece."
"I am Mr. Wilkeson, a friend of Mr. Van Quintem," said Marcus, hastily introducing himself; "and I am glad you are come."
"Yes, I see. Fainted away. Revive in a moment. Fresh air. Cordial, Quite right. Now a little water on his forehead."
Mrs. Frump made her sentences short, to accommodate her breath.
As she passed a cool sponge across the patient's brow, she said:
"I knew it would be so. He has been here. I saw him round the corner. Looking pale and mad."
"You are right, madam. He has been here."
Mrs. Frump's pleasant little eyes shone with unnatural anger, and there was a presage of wrathful words in her quivering lips. Mrs. Frump was desperately trying to keep back certain private opinions that she had long entertained, but proved unequal to the effort. She burst out with:
"He's an undutiful son, sir. A monster, sir. And he's killing his poor father. He's--"
"Ah! what?" said Mr. Van Quintem, opening his eyes, and looking wildly around, like one who wakes from a horrible dream.
"It's I. Your niece--Gusty," replied Mrs. Frump, changing her assumed harsh tones into her natural soft ones "And I think you had better go to bed. Please take hold, Mr. Wilkeson, and assist him to the next room." She added, in a whisper, "Don't talk with him any more to-day."
Mr. Wilkeson nodded, raised his eyebrows to signify that he appreciated the advice, and proceeded at once to aid Mrs. Frump in her benevolent task. The old gentleman had considerably revived by this time.
"You are right, my dear Gusty," said he, looking fondly at his niece. "You are always right. And you are right, too, sir," he added, turning to Marcus. "Ah, if I had known such a good adviser years ago."
Marcus, remembering Mrs. Frump's injunction, made no answer to this remark.
When the old gentleman had been led tottering into the adjacent parlor, which was fitted up as his bedroom, and placed comfortably on a high prop of pillows, Marcus drew out his watch, made an amiable pretence of very important business down town, and bade his venerable friend "good-by."
"I had hoped you could stay longer; for I feel that you are a true friend, and I can confide my sorrows to you," murmured the old gentleman, taking his guest fondly by the hand.
But Marcus, fortified by another significant look from Mrs. Frump, declared that business was imperative, and he must go. He would call to-morrow, without fail, and hoped to find his friend as cheerful as a cricket. The old gentleman smiled at the absurdity of that hope, and said he should depend on seeing him to-morrow.
So, shaking hands warmly with Mr. Van Quintem, and bowing most respectfully to Mrs. Frump, Marcus took his departure, and meditated, as he walked slowly home, on the strange occurrences of the day.