Wilhelm’s smooth dark skin had become congested with color. “It could have been a friendly note. After all, whenever we are away she writes to all the family, as you know.”
“Of course,” said Jochen, smoothly. “But why did old Charlie burn it so carefully, then? Why was he so disturbed when I asked him what it was? He could just have said: ‘It’s from Phyllis.’ But he didn’t. We both looked at the ashes. Then when I sort of accused him, in a careful way, he became enraged. He jumped to his feet and said if I ‘tried’ anything he’d ‘smash me’!” Jochen jumped to his feet, himself, furious and flaming with the memory of that interview with Charles. Wilhelm watched him. He had been ready to discount much of Jochen’s story, but now that he saw the genuine rage of his brother, the hatred in his eyes, he accepted it all. This was no “play-acting.” It was the truth. Wilhelm closed his own eyes for a moment.
“‘Smash me’! ‘Drive me out’!” shouted Jochen. “That’s what he said when I asked him what the letter was. He knew I knew. And he threatened me. For a moment I thought the swine had lost his mind! I, the vice-president of the company, his brother! After all my work. God damn it, it was an innocent question, and if he hadn’t acted up so I’d not have thought a thing! But he was guilty, and he knew I knew he was guilty, and he was ready to murder me!”
“Why should he have been so careful about burning that letter?” asked Wilhelm. “You say you believe that Phyllis is innocent. Yet, if she had written him a letter which he found it necessary to burn, she isn’t innocent.”
“Oh, she must be!” wailed Isabel.
Jochen standing there with a red face and big clenched fist, narrowed his eyes. He said: “It’s you who’re insulting your wife now, Willie. Not we. We refuse to believe what you’re implying. Personally, I think Charlie’s been pestering Phyllis so much, and probably writing to her in Philadelphia begging her to come back, that she had to write him and tell him off. That’s what I think. That’s what any decent woman would do. Wouldn’t she?” he asked his wife.
“Indeed!” cried Isabel. “And I think that’s just what happened, and naturally, Charles couldn’t have her letter lying around, and so he destroyed it.”
“It’s the burning of the letter that I don’t understand. Why burn it? Why get in such a rage when I asked him about the ashes, innocently? Why fly up and threaten me when I hinted something? He didn’t even pretend to misunderstand me,” said Jochen.
Wilhelm was silent.
“If you don’t do something about it, I will!” Jochen was shouting again and pointing his finger at Wilhelm. “I’m not going to have these stories circulating around like they are now! There’s the family name to think of. It’s bad enough that he’s ruining the company with his old-fuddy ways, and refusing to listen to any of Brinkwell’s suggestions, which would make us really rich. He has to do this thing, and compromise Phyllis—”
Wilhelm stood up. If he didn’t get out into the cool air he’d faint, he thought. “I shall go home and think over all this. And then I’ll probably decide to talk to Charles, myself.”
His knees were uncertain. He put his hand on the back of his chair to steady himself. Phyllis. It was impossible to think of anything foul in connection with Phyllis. It was Charles, and Charles, only.
“Yes, talk to him,” said Jochen, jeeringly. “He’ll deny everything.” He saw Wilhelm’s face. “I’ll call your carriage,” he said.
“I walked. And I’ll walk back.”
“No, you’re in no condition.” Jochen put his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “I’ll take you home. It’s dark, now, and it’s too far.”
The carriage was closed and comfortable, but Wilhelm sat pulled together as if deadly cold, and did not speak. He heard Jochen as at a distance. “He’ll drag us all down—Brinkwell—fortune in it—now he’s got that idiot, Fred. He’s played with all of us—tricked us—you remember how he’s set one of us against another all the time, and laughed at us to himself—it’s about time we understood a few things—”
Wilhelm thought: No, Phyllis would never betray me, never. But she looks ill, has looked ill for a long time. What if she doesn’t care for me any longer? That would be something I couldn’t stand. Charles has been hounding her; yes, I can see it now, and she wouldn’t tell me of it, not wanting to hurt me. I mustn’t let myself believe for one moment that she cares about him. But why did she write him?
His head was aching; the violence and misery of his thoughts were too much for him. Everything he had, including himself, was nothing while he had to think of losing Phyllis. He moved and looked through the carriage windows. They were rolling up the mountain, steadily, and past clumps of pine trees, and spruces. Jochen’s voice was going on and on. I ought to have walked, thought Wilhelm. I can’t endure Jochen, I never could. I think I hate him now. I think, in a way, I hate him worse than I do Charles.
They finally reached Mountain Circle, and Wilhelm began to push the fur robes from his knees, when Jochen said in a low and excited voice: “Look! Isn’t that old Charlie’s red automobile out there, near your door?”
Wilhelm looked, and saw, and sat motionless.
“Did you call him and tell him you were home?” asked Jochen, urgently.
Wilhelm could only shake his head.
“He couldn’t have known. I wouldn’t have known if you hadn’t written me from Philadelphia, Willie, that you’d be in Andersburg this morning. Charlie didn’t know? Then, how did he find out?”
He waited, but Wilhelm was still motionless though the carriage was drawing up behind the automobile.
“He found out in some way. Maybe he called you, and when he heard you weren’t home he came up at once. That’s right! Of course, Phyllis would never have called him to come, under the circumstances.”
Wilhelm suddenly flung the robe from his knees, and without waiting for the coachman he opened the door, himself. Jochen lumbered rapidly after him. Wilhelm ran up the low white steps, Jochen following; Wilhelm did not wait for a maid to open the house door, but found his keys, inserted one.
He entered the hall, with Jochen, and there were Phyllis and Charles standing there before the fire, and facing them.
“Wilhelm!” cried Phyllis. “I’m so—” And then she saw her husband’s face, and saw Jochen behind him.
“Willie,” said Charles.
Charles looked at Wilhelm and then at Jochen and then at Wilhelm again. So, he commented to himself. He felt himself stiffening, bracing, and he moved one foot apart from the other so that he stood solidly like one expecting an assault. He pushed out his broad Wittmann chin, and he put his hands in his pockets.
Wilhelm quietly closed the door behind him. The four looked at each other, in silence. Then it came to Wilhelm, who had been about to speak, that the scene which was imminent would be beyond endurance, and too vulgar and base to be permitted. A maid, who had heard the door close, came, and Wilhelm and Jochen gave her their coats and hats. Phyllis stood close to Charles but her eyes were fixed pitifully and questioningly on her husband. It was at Jochen that Charles looked, with implacable hatred.
“Charles,” said Wilhelm. Phyllis took a step towards her husband. But he gently held up his hand against her. “No, Phyllis. I want to talk to Charles, alone. Alone,” he repeated, glancing at Jochen. “And I want you to stay here with Phyllis, until I’ve finished.”
Phyllis turned her eyes upon Jochen. “No,” she said. “I won’t stay with Jochen. If you won’t let me speak, Wilhelm, I’ll go to my room.” She moved away from the men and began to mount the white marble staircase, her head high, one hand holding up her purple skirts. They watched her go.
Then Wilhelm said to Charles: “Please come upstairs with me to the gallery. Then we’ll rejoin Jochen. You must not leave until we come down,” he said to his other brother. “This must be settled, and at once. It is only fair and just—to everyone concerned.”
“I’m willing,” said Jochen, with a grin. “I can wait. Take your time, Will
ie.” And he strolled away towards the music room.
Wilhelm and Charles went upstairs together without speaking. Once Charles’ foot slipped on the smooth marble, and he almost fell. Wilhelm waited courteously until he had caught himself, then they continued up to the gallery.
CHAPTER XXXV
The lamps in the gallery had been lighted. Wilhelm closed the door behind him and Charles before he saw that Phyllis was there, waiting, her hands clasped together. She came towards her husband and Charles.
“Phyllis,” said Wilhelm.
“Don’t send me away, dear,” she begged. “Let me stay. Charles and I have been talking about—things—for a long time tonight. I want to be here to help him—”
Wilhelm stood and looked at her. It was true, then. They wanted to tell him, together. He moved away, near to a group of pictures on the wall. He said: “No.”
“You’ve got to listen,” said Charles. “It’s desperately important.”
“You’ve been avoiding Charles so long,” pleaded Phyllis, her voice breaking. “It’s been too long. For all of us.”
Wilhelm leaned against the wall. Phyllis cried: “Oh, poor Wilhelm! You look so ill.”
“I’ll be as brief as I can,” said Charles. “I’m so damned tired of talking, and thinking, and waiting. You’ll have to hear me out, Willie. Then, do what you want to do. I’ll have done my best to make you understand.”
Wilhelm’s slight black shoulders pressed the wall; he dropped his head. It wasn’t possible to stand it; he couldn’t give up Phyllis. If everyone would only go away for a while he might be able to think more clearly, to fight down this pain.
Phyllis ran to him, and caught him by the arm. “You wouldn’t talk to Charles, before we went away, darling. Before that, he asked me for my help, in getting you alone. But then we went to Philadelphia. I wrote him from there and told him I’d call him immediately when we returned, so he could come up at once. And so, I called him this afternoon.”
Wilhelm moved his head slightly, and looked at his wife. “You called him, Phyllis?”
“Yes, yes!” she exclaimed, pressing his arm. “I told you. I kept my promise, which I had written to him from Philadelphia. I’m sorry it had to be so underhand, but when you hear what he has to say you’ll understand. I—”
“You wrote from Philadelphia?” repeated Wilhelm.
“Yes! Dear, do try to listen. I know you’re very tired, but you must listen. I had to write Charles, just as I had to call him today. And then you went out. Charles arrived shortly after you left. He was so sick with disappointment that he wanted to leave, but I kept him here in hopes you’d return shortly. And then you came back with Jochen!”
Charles came closer to his brother. “Yes, it had to be Joe, didn’t it? It had to be that liar and scoundrel. You couldn’t have called me, of course. I’m only the president of the company, to be conspired against behind my back, and libelled. I always thought you were with me, Willie. But Joe’s gotten to you at last, hasn’t he?”
“Oh, no,” said Phyllis, turning to Charles. “Wilhelm would never betray you or plot against you with Jochen. You must believe me, Charles. You can’t wrong Wilhelm that way.”
Charles said: “The time’s come when I can’t afford to be
Charles was puzzled. There was something going on here too ‘nice,’ Phyllis. Everything I have has got to be laid out on the table for Willie to see. I don’t know what Joe’s been saying to him, all these weeks, and now I don’t care. I’m going to give him facts. If he’s juvenile enough not to listen, then we’ll all go down to hell, together.”
Wilhelm could not speak. They waited for him, Phyllis almost crying. His shoulders slipped on the wall. Then he saw the deep concern of his wife and Charles for him, the affection in their eyes, and the dismayed glance they gave each other. They moved nearer to him, watching him anxiously.
“Oh, darling,” said Phyllis, and took her husband’s hand and held it tightly.
“Will you give me, say, ten minutes?” Charles asked. “Then I’ll go away and you can talk it all out cozily with Joe, and destroy everything I’ve worked for all my life.”
It was all a lie, thought Wilhelm. All a filthy lie. There was nothing to it, ever. Jochen’s brought me to this, and lied about my wife and my brother, and I’ve listened. What can I say to them? How can I even look at them?
His head swam with his passionate relief, and with his self-disgust, and his anger and humiliation. He pushed his shoulders away from the wall. He tried to speak, and then could only put his arm around Phyllis, and stand there.
Charles was puzzled. There was something going on here which he could not understand. A moment ago Willie had looked as if he was about to collapse. Now he was standing upright, holding Phyllis, and there was some color coming back into his cheeks. Charles said to Phyllis: “When you wrote me you didn’t say anything about Willie being ill or anything in Philadelphia.”
“He hasn’t been well since he had that influenza, Charles. I wrote you that, too.”
“Well,” said Charles, sighing. “Look here, sit down, Willie. Let’s all sit down. I’m not leaving here until I’ve had my say. Why didn’t you talk to me about it? Why did you have to hide? Because Joe was lying to you, and you believed it?”
“Yes, I believed him,” said Wilhelm. Now he could speak, and it was with enormous bitterness. “Never mind. Yes, let us sit down.”
There were some small chairs placed near the walls under the pictures. Phyllis sat beside her husband, and Charles perched on a chair and faced them. The gallery was cold; the lights were cold on the pictures. At the end of the room a bust of Socrates gravely stared down the long aisle.
“Before you begin,” said Wilhelm, “I’d like to ask you something, Charles. Jochen told me this afternoon you had threatened to ‘smash’ him and ‘drive’ him out of the company. Why?”
Charles laughed shortly. “Yes, I told him that, and I meant it. I still mean it. He’s not going to destroy what I’ve built up. No.”
“I see,” said Willie, thoughtfully. Phyllis’ hand was warm in his. She smiled at him with deep tenderness. “I see,” he repeated. Then he looked at Charles. “Go on. Tell me. Tell me as much as possible. You won’t tell me everything. I know, but do your discreet best.” And then he actually smiled.
They laughed a little, together. Charles said: “I’ve been talking to Phyllis about all this for months. I tried to talk to you, too, but you wouldn’t listen; that was the time you gave me the Picasso.”
“The first time you mentioned it was when we were in the woods that afternoon, last summer,” said Phyllis. “I was terribly frightened. You remember, Charles?”
“I remember,” said Charles. He had planted one hand on each spread knee, and sat there solidly, nodding.
“Go on,” said Wilhelm. “He’s waiting down there, and I have a few things to say to him. In private.”
So Charles began to talk, as he had talked to Phyllis that afternoon, and when he paused for a moment Phyllis quoted him to Wilhelm, and Charles nodded again. Wilhelm listened intently, holding his wife’s hand, and watching the lamplight in her earnest eyes.
Then Charles, gray with tiredness, stopped and mopped his face. He and Phyllis waited for Wilhelm to speak. But Wilhelm sat in silence.
“I’ve got Fred,” Charles repeated, when his brother remained silent. “For how long only God knows. You know Fred, Willie. He might bolt any day over to Joe again. In the meantime, he’s seeing Helen Hadden, and George and I are both working on her, and I think the poor devil’s in love with the girl. She seems to like him. If I can only keep him in hand for a while longer, and if I can be sure you’re with me, we’ll save our company. Even if Brinkwell does have his own machine-tool shops.”
“So, you think Brinkwell wants our patents?” said Wilhelm. “Yes, I see. And you’re determined, for perfectly good reasons of your own, not to let him have them. Naturally. You aren’t suspecting that if we comply with what h
e wants we’d soon be a Connington subsidiary, are you?”
Charles looked at him, and then he jumped to his feet with a savage exclamation. “What a damned fool I’ve been! Of course, that’s what would happen! That’s what’s behind it all! And I never saw it, never once! There it was, right before my eyes, and I never saw it!” He was stupefied.
Phyllis said to Wilhelm: “You see, now, how much Charles has needed you.”
Charles said, violently: “So, that’s what it is! You’re right, Phyllis, I’ve been spreading myself out, worrying about something I’ll never be able to help, and here was the company sliding down to hell behind my back!” He shouted at Wilhelm: “How could you have seen it at once, and I couldn’t?”
Wilhelm leaned back negligently in his chair. “My dear Charles, it’s obvious. Of course, it would take some little time, even if we leased or lent those patents to Brinkwell, but eventually there we’d be—a neat subsidiary of the Connington, Fred completely immobilized, myself impotent, and Jochen—Let us consider Jochen. The Wittmann Machine Tool Company is too small for our young brother. He has his eyes on something much bigger. What could that be? Assistant superintendent to Brinkwell, perhaps? Or—perhaps—general manager of our own shops. And you, Charles?”
Wilhelm held up his hand, and his ring flashed in the lamplight.
“Charles, please. Let’s be sensible. Let’s think this over quietly.”
Charles exclaimed: “It’s the humiliation of the thing that I can’t stand! ‘Be sensible,’ you say, and all the time he’s been plotting to ruin us!”
“He hasn’t been able to do it yet. And he never will,” said Wilhelm. “He’ll stoop to anything, believe me. I know it only too well. But now that we know, we can stop it. We must concentrate on keeping Friederich with us, though, as you said, it’s like holding a time bomb in your hand.”
For the first time in his life he felt securely strong, and even superior to Charles, who had not seen what was obvious. Poor Charles. Wilhelm felt his old affection for his brother return to him, deeper and warmer than ever. However, he held back an inclination to incite Charles to further rage with gentle ridicule, for he remembered what he had believed of him, and of Phyllis, only a little more than an hour ago. “I must talk to Jochen alone. Let us go downstairs. Please wait for me, Charles. When I’ve finished with Jochen I want you to join us.”