Эптон Синклер - Oil!

So then Bunny walked the deck alone, and suffered exactly those torments of remorse which Vernon Roscoe had predicted for him. Oh, surely he could have been kinder, more patient with that good old man! Surely he could have tried harder to understand and to help! Now fate was taking him away, five or six hundred miles every day—and at any moment might snatch him to a distance beyond calculation. His father himself had felt it—Bunny went over what he had said, and realized that Dad had faced the thought of death, and had been giving his son such last advice as he could.

At first nothing but remorse. But then little by little the debate—the old, old dispute that had torn Bunny’s mind in half. Was it possible for men to go on doing what Dad had been doing in the conduct of his business? Could any civilization endure on the basis of such purchase of government? No, Bunny told himself; but then—he should have tried harder, more lovingly, and persuaded his father to stop it! But at what stage? Dad had been purchasing government ever since Bunny could remember, as a little boy. All the oil men purchased government, all big business men did it, either before or after election. And at what stage of life shall a boy say to his father, your way of life is wrong, and you must let me take charge of it?

There was no new thought that Bunny could think about all this; any more than in the case of Vee Tracy. Just the grief, and the ache of loneliness! Old things going; they kept going—and where did they go? It was a mystery that made you dizzy, at moments like this; you stood on the brink of a precipice and looked down into a gulf! The most incredible idea, that his father, who was so real, and had been for so long a part of his being—should suddenly disappear and cease to be! For the first time Bunny began to wonder, could Alyse be right about the spirits?

Another message in the evening. “Condition unchanged will keep you advised sympathy and affection.” These last words never failed in the messages; the next day, when Dad’s condition was the same and the crisis expected tomorrow; and then tomorrow, when Dad was sinking; and then, the morning after, when Alyse wired, “Your father’s spirit has passed from this world to the next but he will never cease to be with you he spoke of you at the last and promises that if you will communicate with a good medium in Angel City he will guide your life with love and affection as ever Alyse.” And then a message from Bertie: “I was with Dad at the end and he forgave me will you forgive me also.” When Bunny read that, he had to hurry to his stateroom, and lie there and cry like a little child. Yes, he would forgive her, so he wired in reply, and might whoever had made them forgive them all!

Bunny was alone in the roaring city of New York—six or seven millions of people, and not many known to him. There were reporters, of course—it made a “human interest” story, fate snatching one of the oil magnates away from the Senate inquisitors. The country was near the end of a bitter presidential campaign, and the smallest item about the oil scandal was of importance. Also Bunny had cablegrams and telegrams of sympathy—from Verne and Annabelle, from Paul and Ruth, from Rachel and her father and brothers; yes, and one from the Princess Marescu, signing herself, with old-time nearness, “Vee-Vee.”

He purchased his ticket home, by way of Washington, and on the train he read the back newspapers, with the day by day account of what happened to his boyhood dream of a great oil field: enormous oceans of flame rolling over the earth, turning night into day with the glare, turning day into night with thunder clouds of smoke; rivers of blazing oil rushing down the valleys, and a gale of wind sweeping the fire from one hill to the next. A dozen great storage tanks had gone, and the whole refinery, with all its tanks, and some three hundred derricks, licked up and devoured in that roaring furnace. It was the worst oil fire in California history, eight or ten million dollars loss.

In Washington was some one for Bunny to tell his troubles to—Dan Irving! They took a long walk, and the older man put his arm about Bunny and told him that he had done everything possible in a difficult situation. Dan could assure him that he didn’t have to think of his father as a bad man; Dan had made it his business to know, and could confirm Bunny’s judgment, American big business men all purchased government, they all justified the purchase of government. It was something that had shocked Dan in the beginning, but he had come to realize now that it was a system; without the purchase of government, American big business could not exist. You saw it written plain in the instinctive reaction of the whole business world to the oil scandals, the determination to damp them down, to make nothing of them, to indict and prosecute, not the criminals, but the exposers of the crime.

So they got to talking politics, which was the best thing for Bunny, to divert his mind and get him back to his job. Dan had been doing what he could in this presidential campaign, but he was sick with the sense of impotence. The whole capitalist publicity machine had been set to work on a new job, to glorify “Cautious Cal” to the American people—this pitiful little man, a fifth-rate country politician, a would-be store-keeper, he was the great strong silent statesman and the plain people’s hero! One thing, and one only, the business men expected of him, to cut down their income taxes; in everything else he would be a cipher. The newspaper men were disgusted by their job, but all were helpless, their papers at home would take only one kind of news. And here was poor Dan with his labor press service, a score or two of obscure papers, perhaps a hundred thousand circulation in all, and most of the time not enough money for the office rent.

“That’s what I want to talk to you about,” said Bunny. “Before I left France, Dad gave me a million dollars in Ross Consolidated stock. I don’t know what it’ll be worth since the fire, but Verne says there’s full insurance. I’m not going to touch the principal till I have time to think things over, but I’ll put a thousand dollars a month of the income into your work, if that will help.”

“Help? My God, Bunny, that’s more money than we’ve ever thought of! I’ve been trying to raise an extra hundred a month, so as to mail free copies where they would count.”

Said Bunny, “I’ll turn the money over to you with only one provision—that you’re to have two hundred a month salary. There’s no reason why you should run yourself into debt financing the radical movement.”

Dan laughed. “No reason, except that there wouldn’t be any radical movement if some didn’t do that. You’re the first really fat angel that has appeared in my sky.”

“Well, wait,” said Bunny, “till I find out just how fat I’m going to be. I’ve an idea my friend Vernon Roscoe will do what he can to keep me lean. He knows that whatever I get will go to making trouble for him.”

“My gosh!” said Dan. “Have you seen the things we’ve been sending out about Roscoe’s foreign concessions, and what the state department is doing to make him rich? That story would beat the Sunnyside lease, if we could get the Senate to investigate it!”

Chicago, and more messages for Bunny. He had cabled Dad’s secretary to ascertain if there was any will among Dad’s papers. The secretary replied that nothing had been found, and neither the widow nor the daughter knew of such document. They were proceeding to Paris after the funeral, and the secretary would cable if anything was found there.

So then to Angel City, and more cablegrams; the secretary advised that no will was among Mr. Ross’s papers in Paris, and Bertie cabled, “I believe that infamous woman has destroyed Dad’s will. Have you anything in Dad’s writing or hers?” From which Bunny made note that death-bed repentances do not last very long—at least not when it’s another person’s death-bed! Bunny had nothing from Dad, except the order for the Ross stock, and that wouldn’t bring much satisfaction to Bertie. He cabled to Alyse, at her Paris hotel, reminding her that his father had stated the terms of their marriage to be that she was to receive one million dollars from the estate, and no more, and asking her to confirm that agreement. The reply which he received was from a firm of American lawyers in Paris, advising him on behalf of their client, Mrs. Alyse Huntington Forsythe Olivier Ross, that she knew of no such agreement as he had mentioned in his cablegram, and that she would claim her full rights in the estate. Bunny smiled grimly as he read. A clash between Spiritualism and Socialism!