CHAPTER XXXVII.THE OLDEST MEMBER.
THE following day, early in the afternoon, Lionel Derwent walked into the Columbian Club. It was a place that he did not usually frequent, though he had a stranger’s membership; but we have already learned that Derwent was most usually to be found in most unusual places. No one was in the morning-room but old Mr. Livingstone; he was sitting in his accustomed armchair by the window, a chair in which he had a right of property between the hours of three and five in the afternoon that all the club respected. Mr. Livingstone did not notice Derwent when he entered; perhaps because he was growing very old and his sight and hearing were defective. His eyes were fixed upon an empty chair in front of him and he seemed to be lost in thought. Derwent took up a newspaper and sat down in another corner of the room.
We are fond of saying in New York that life there moves so rapidly that the morning paper is already stale at three. Hence, have we no Homers; who sing some ten years’ action and take a lifetime for it. But to Derwent, the newspapers’ deeds were stale even in the doing: humanity at three o’clock waslike humanity at nine. Two young men entered, fresh and rosy, with camelias in their coats; they were of those who toil not, neither spin.
“Do you know, they say that Townley & Tamms have failed?”
“So I hear. Great ball, last night.”
“Ugh—I’m sleepy yet.”
Derwent looked back to his paper. Mr. Livingstone did not appear to have heard this colloquy, but was sitting idly as if dozing. In the financial column Derwent found, at last, a simple paragraph:
“Owing to the illness of Mr. Phineas Tamms and the temporary absence of the senior partner, the house of Townley & Tamms are reported as temporarily unable to meet their obligations. The rumor created much excitement at the close, and several thousand shares of Allegheny Central were sold for them under the rule. This is believed to account for the sudden weakness in that stock, which was particularly strong at the morning board. We are assured that the difficulty is but temporary; as the house is one of the strongest, as it is the oldest, on the street.”
De Witt came in, and nodded a word to Mr. Livingstone, but the old man did not hear him; and Derwent turned over his newspaper to the account of the great fire. This he read with some interest. “There is a rumor that the fire was incendiary,” it concluded; “the head watchman reports that he received a warning that some mischief was to be attempted; and shortly after midnight, getting word that a suspicious boat seemed to be attempting a landing at the riverfront, he left his post temporarily on a tour of observation; and it was during his absence that the fire broke out. Other than this there appears little ground for ascribing to the fire an incendiary origin; and no possible motive for such a crime can be suggested. The bulk of the property belongs to Mrs. T. Levison Gower, well known as a leader of fashion in our most exclusive circles.”
O sapient newspaper! Derwent turned to the first page, the bulk of which was filled by the great ball, where he read of the diamonds and the dresses, how Mrs. Wilton Hay wore a sleeveless satin and a rope of pearls; how Mrs. John Malgam had her corsage cuten cœur, and how well looked Mrs. Gower in a simple gown, cutdirectoire, and how well the footmen’s calves in white silk stockings. But just then some young men entered from down-town; and quite a group drew close about them.
“Is it all true about Townley?”
“Perfect smash, I hear——”
“No one knows where Tamms is——”
“Canada, they say——”
“Charlie Townley was there at the opening, but the fire finished him. A little Starbuck Oil was positively all they had.” The last speaker was Arthur Holyoke.
“They say that even he left the State to-night. Poor Charlie, I’m sorry for him,” said Killian Van Kull.
“There’s a warrant out for Tamms already,” said another. “Old Fechheimer got it.”
“He pledged a lot of Fechheimer’s bonds that he held in a syndicate, I was told,” said Jack Malgam.
“Here are the evening papers,” cried another, as a servant entered bearing a bundle of newspapers, which were quickly seized and devoured. For some minutes all was silence, save for an occasional ejaculation of surprise. Derwent continued to watch the club-room silently. Old Mr. Livingstone still sat in his chair, looking at the empty one over against him, which no one had taken.
“By Jove, it is worse than I thought,” cried Malgam, with that certain pleasure bad news gives one when it is impressive and not personal. “Look here—the liabilities are said to amount to ten millions; the assets at present prices would not bring half that sum. The family of Mr. Phineas Tamms profess entire ignorance as to his whereabouts; but telegrams from reliable sources report his arrival at Montreal this morning.”
“No other houses believed to be as yet involved in the failure.” This latter news was read by De Witt with an air of some relief.
“I don’t know about that,” added another. “They held property for a great many people, to my certain knowledge.”
“Tamms was to have been arrested to-night,” Malgam read. “It is believed that a warrant has also been sworn out for Mr. Townley Junior.—I wonder where he is?”
It was noticeable that no one of them had yet mentioned old Mr. Townley’s name. The company brokeup into little groups, each discussing the great failure; which were added to from time to time as new men came in with their quota of news. Even the Duval ball had ceased to be talked about; so soon is one man’s glory eclipsed by another man’s disgrace. But Lionel Derwent marked that not one kindly word was said for Tamms.
There was a slight sensation at the door of the room, as young Beverly White entered; for White was Remington’s partner, and had made much money in these last few days. Remington himself was not a member of the club; gossip had said that he could not get in, even though White had proposed him.
“Well, White, what news?” and the young men crowded round him.
“The news is that old Tamms has gone to smash, as I always said he would,” said White; and he sank into an easy chair and called for some soda-water with an air of languid indifference.
“Pshaw! we knew that before——”
“Why did you ask me, then?” said White. “If people will speculate with other people’s money——”
“Other people’s money?”
“Yes—other people’s money,” drawled out the young man, sneeringly. “Old Townley got his boxes full, and then used it.”
“Hush,” said several, pointing to Mr. Livingstone in the window. “I guess it’ll be some time before White gets his precious partner in here, after that remark,” said another.
Mr. Livingstone, too, had taken a paper, and beenporing over it; but something in this last speech seemed to reach his ear, and he looked up.
“Let’s ask the old boy,” said Malgam, in an undertone. “He must know more than all of us.”
“Have you heard this news, sir?” said Killian Van Kull. Mr. Livingstone nodded silently. “And is it as bad as they say?”
“Worse,” said the old gentleman, his voice quavering.
“But you cannot suppose that Mr. Townley knew anything of it?”
“It makes little difference whether he knew of it or not,” answered the old man. There was a printed list of the club’s members on the wall opposite him, and he was looking at it. Perhaps he was looking at the name of Charles Townley, whom he had played with as a boy.
“I knew that Tamms was a bad egg,” said De Witt, “but that Mr. Townley——”
“Charles Townley, sir, is no better than a scoundrel,” said Mr. Livingstone slowly. “He had all my wife’s money, and nearly all of mine—but DAMME, sir, do you suppose I care for the money? If Charles Townley were sitting here with me again—I would give him— If Charlie Townley were sitting here, I—” The old man’s voice grew weak, and he broke off in a sob.
The young men shifted about uneasily; and Derwent, in his corner, put up his newspaper before his face and tried to read.
Lucie Gower came in. He had just got home froma shooting trip down South. “Is Mr. Townley here?” said he. “I stopped at Wall Street on my way up-town; and they tell me that the officers have gone to arrest him.”
“No,” said someone. Then there was a long silence. Mr. Livingstone spoke again. “Charles Townley was the oldest member of this club. And I am the next; and was his oldest friend. And Charles Townley is a scoundrel.” The old man rose; and the younger men thought he was going out, and made way for him at the door. But he walked over to the printed list of members that was opposite him upon the wall. “Charles Townley—1839,” he muttered, as he found the place; and taking a pen that lay on the table beneath, he filled it with ink, and drew it, with a trembling hand, heavily across the name. Then he turned, and went to the door; while the younger men sat silent. There he stopped a moment. “We are gentlemen in this club. That is all.” And they heard his uncertain step across the hall.
All the men sat and looked at one another; but no one cared to speak. After some minutes a group gathered around Gower, and conversed in undertones. “It was the only thing to do,” said one. “He will never come here to see.”
“We could not have expelled the poor old gentleman,” said Van Kull.
“But is it really as bad as he says?”
“I have no doubt of it. Tamms has made a clean sweep. And the old gentleman must have given him access to his own trusts.”
“Poor old fellow! But what will Charlie do?”
“Oh, Charlie will fall on his legs. Wasn’t it plucky, the way he faced the market yesterday?”
“Damn Remington!”
“You forget he is my partner,” said Beverly White.
“Then damn you, too,” said Van Kull cavalierly. “But poor old Townley! I’m sorry——”
The speaker stopped, conscious of a sudden chill. For there was an opening in the crowd, and there stood Mr. Townley close behind him.
“Well, boys—bad times in the street, eh?” The old man’s voice piped a shrill treble, and there was something almost childish in his laugh. “Ah, the house of Charles Townley & Son has seen worse times than this. I remember when my father—in thirty-nine——”
There was dead silence in the room. Gower went up and tried to lead the old man away from the group of strangers.
“Ah, Gower, glad to see you——I’ve found a picture I think you’d like—you must come around to my house this evening—that is, if you’ve nothing else to do better than smoking with an old fellow like me. Eh! you young dogs! you young dogs! But why are you all so glum, my boys? Ah, you young fellows take things too earnest, nowadays.”
“There’s been a bad day in the stock-market,” said Beverly White. “I hope, sir, the reports of Mr. Tamms’s doings have been exaggerated?”
(“Shut up, confound you,” whispered Van Kull; but the other answered him with an ugly leer.)
“Mr. Tamms? ah, yes—clever fellow, Tamms. I like to help a young fellow along; he was in a tight place and I pulled him out. If you’d like a few hundred thousand I could let you have it—but they say Townley & Son have failed, you know. And Charlie told me something about my trusts—but that can’t be, can it? I never lost a dollar on my trusts. All gone—everything gone! Where’s Livingstone, my old friend Livingstone? His seat empty—why, he isn’t ill? Tell me, my boy, where’s Dick Livingstone?”
“He’s gone, sir,” said Gower.
“Gone? why gone? he always waits for me—there’s nothing wrong with Livingstone, I hope? Why, he’s a better man than I by most a year.”
“He’s lost much money, sir, they say—he said he couldn’t wait.”
“Lost? lost money? Oh, yes—all gone, gone—No, no—wait till my son Charlie gets down-town—he’s a bright boy; he’ll carry on the old house, and show you boys a wrinkle, eh?”
No man there ventured to speak; for his son Charlie had died, some time back in the fifties.
Suddenly Mr. Townley began to laugh. “Aha, Dick Livingstone, we’ll show the boys a turn or two—but where is he? Tamms—I know—my God—he’s a rascal—it’s gone, all gone.”
The old man tottered toward his seat in the window. It was just before the list of members; and all were silent in suspense. Would he see his name, where Livingstone had crossed it off? But suddenly afirm hand was laid on the old man’s elbow. “Come home with me, sir. I’ve got a carriage waiting.” It was Lionel Derwent.
“Ah, Mr. Derwent—glad to see you.” His wan face lighted up with pleasure; and he seemed to think he was talking again with Derwent in the office. “Yes, it’s a good stock—always was a good stock since Townley & Son managed it. Come home, you say? Yes, I think—I’m not quite well. Good-by, my boys.”
Derwent led his tottering steps to the door. He smiled vacantly, but leaned heavily on Derwent’s arm. No longer prey for Tamms, nor fitting object for a sheriff’s care, or other troubles of this world. They passed the silent group about the centre-table, which made way respectfully.
“Don’t forget the picture, Gower,” said he, as Derwent led him from the door.