By November John and his wife were on the way to Italy. There is
always a second honeymoon for those who have just passed the first
matrimonial Scylla and Charybdis; there is always a new courtship,
deeper and more understanding. Neither of them had surrendered a
particle of their affection for Warrington, but they agreed that it
would be easier for all concerned if there came a separation of
several months.
"You are all I have," said Warrington, when they bade him good-by. "I
shall be very lonely without you. If I lose the election I shall go to
Japan."
"There's always Patty and the mother," said John, smiling.
"Yes, there's always Patty and her mother. Good-by, and God bless you
both. You deserve all the happiness I can wish for you."
Warrington plunged into the campaign. It would keep him occupied.
Mrs. Bennington and Patty lived as usual, to all outward appearance.
But Patty was rarely seen in society. She took her long rides in the
afternoon now, always alone, brooding. Her young friends wondered,
questioned, then drifted away gradually. Poor little Patty! No one had
told her; the viper had not been shaken from her nest. Day after day
she waited for the blow to fall, for the tide of scandal to roll over
her and obliterate her. She was worldly enough to know that Mrs.
Franklyn-Haldene was not the kind of woman to keep such a scandal
under lock and key; others must know, Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene's
particular friends. So she avoided the possibility of meeting these
friends by declining all invitations of a formal character. Perhaps
after a time it would die of its own accord, to be recalled in after
years by another generation, as such things generally are. Patty
derived no comfort from the paragraph in the Sunday papers announcing
Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene's departure for Egypt, to remain for the
winter.
She kept in touch with all that Warrington did. The sense of shame she
had at first experienced in reading his speeches was gone. Her pride
no longer urged her to cast aside the paper, to read it, to fling it
into the flames. Sometimes she saw him on the way home from his
morning rides. It seemed to her that he did not sit as erectly as
formerly. Why should he? she asked herself bitterly. When the heart is
heavy it needs a confidante, but Patty, brave and loyal, denied
herself the luxury of her mother's arms. Tell her this frightful
story? Bow that proud, handsome head? No.
"It is very strange," mused her mother, one evening, "that Mr.
Warrington calls no more. I rather miss his cheerfulness, and John
thinks so much of him."
Patty shivered. "He is very busy, mother. Election is only three days
off, and doubtless he hasn't a minute to call his own."
Nor had he. Pulled this way and that, speaking every night, from one
end of the city to the other, he went over the same ground again and
again, with the same noise, the same fumes of tobacco and whisky and
kerosene, with his heart no longer behind his will. Yes, Warrington
was very busy. He was very unhappy, too. What did he care about the
making up of the slate? What was it to him that this man or that
wanted this or that berth? What were all these things? But he hid his
dissatisfaction admirably. His speeches lacked nothing.
Election day came round finally, and a rare and beautiful day it was.
The ghost of summer had returned to view her past victories. A west
wind had cleared the skies, the sun shone warm and grateful, the
golden leaves shivered and fluttered to the ground. Nature had lent a
hand to bring voting humanity to the polls. Some men are such good
citizens that they will vote in the rain. But warmth and sunshine
bring out the lazy, the indifferent, and the uninterested.
Warrington voted early in the morning, rode to the Country Club, made
an attempt to play golf over the partly frozen course, lounged round
till three in the afternoon, and then returned to town. There was not
a flutter in his heart. There was this truth, however, staring him in
the eyes: if he lost, he would become an indifferent citizen; if he
won, an in different mayor. He was not a man to falsify his accounts
for the inspection of his conscience.
The voting was heavy throughout the day. Crowds lingered round the
polls, which, in greater part, were in the rear of shops, in barns and
sheds. There was a good deal of repeating in some of the districts,
and a dozen arrests had been made. Neither party was free from this
taint of dishonest politics. But no one could prophesy what the final
results of the day would be.
Night came. It is the greatest spectacular night the American knows.
The noisy, good-natured crowds in the streets, the jostling,
snail-moving crowds; the illuminated canvas-sheets in front of the
newspaper offices; the blare of tin horns, the cries, the yells, the
hoots and hurrahs; the petty street fights; the stalled surface cars;
the swearing cabbies; the newsboys hawking their latest extras, men
carrying execrable posters of roosters. Hurrah! hurrah! A flash goes
over the canvas.
In the 4th District
Donnelly 608
Warrington. 302
A roar that rose and died suddenly, and a wailing of tin horns.
In Seven Districts
Warrington 1,262
Donnelly 1,196
Roars. It was, going to be close. Between times local advertisers used
the sheets, or there were pictures of presidents past and present,
crowned heads (always greeted with jeers), funny pictures, or returns
from other states.
In Nine Districts
Donnelly 1,821
Warrington 1,800
The crowds surged and billowed, and there was pandemonium.
The newspaper offices were having a busy time. This period proves the
man; he is a newspaper man or he is not. There was a continuous coming
and going of messengers, bringing in returns. The reporters and
editors were in their shirt-sleeves, most of them collarless. Figures,
figures, thousands of figures to sift and resift. A fire-bell rings.
No one looks up save the fire reporter, and he is up and away at once.
Filtering through the various noises is the maddening rattle of the
telegraph instruments. Great drifts of waste-paper litter the floors.
A sandwich man serves coffee and cigars, and there is an occasional
bottle of beer. Everybody is writing, writing.
McQuade and his cohorts haunted the city room of the Times. Things did
not look well at all. There were twelve more districts to hear from.
Donnelly seemed to be the coolest man in that office.
Warrington started home at nine. Up to this time he had been
indifferent, but it was impossible not to catch the spirit of this
night. Win or lose, however, he wanted to be alone. So he went home,
lighted the fire in his working-room, called his dog, and sat there
dreaming.
Down town the clamor was increasing. The great throngs round the
bulletins were gathering in force. Bonfires were flaring on corners.
In 15 Districts
Warrington 9,782
Donnelly 9,036
Close, terribly close. But those districts upon which the fight really
depended had not yet turned up. The big labor vote had not been
accounted for.
The Call had notified its readers that when the returns were all in
and the battle decided, it would blow a whistle. If Warrington was
elected, five blasts; if Donnelly, ten.
So Warrington waited, sunk in his chair, his legs sprawled, his chin
on his breast, and his eyes drawing phantoms in the burning wood fire.
... It was cruel that Patty could not know; and yet to leave John with
the belief that his sister knew nothing was a kindness, and only John
could convince Patty; and it was even a greater kindness to leave
Patty with the belief that John knew nothing. So there he stood;
friendship on the one side and love on the other. He recalled all the
charming ways Patty had, the color of her hair, the light music of her
laughter, the dancing shadows in her eyes, the transparent skin, the
springy step, and the vigor and life that were hers. And he had lost
her, not through any direct fault, but because he was known to have
been dissipated at one time; a shadow that would always be crossing
and recrossing his path. So long as he lived he would carry that
letter of hers, with its frank, girlish admiration.
So, he mused, those dissipations of his, which, after all, had touched
him but lightly--these had, like chickens, come home to roost! And how
these chickens had multiplied and grown! On the way home it seemed
that everybody had striven to fatten them up a bit and add
surreptitiously a chicken or two of his own. Oh, these meddlers, these
idle tongues! None of them would set to work to wrong anybody, to
wreck anybody's life. They would shrink in horror from the thought,
let alone the deed. Yet, they must talk, they must exchange the day's
news, they must have news that no one else had; and this competition
is the cause of half the misery on earth. What if they exaggerate a
little here and a little there? No harm is meant. Human nature, having
found its speech, must have something to talk about; that which it has
neither seen nor heard, it invents.
Who had written that letter to Patty? Some woman; man had not yet
acquired such finished cruelty. He could not understand its purpose,
well as he understood women. Who could possibly hate Patty, honest and
loyal as the day is long? McQuade's letters had their existence in
revenge. Patty had wronged no one; McQuade had.
"Well, Jove, old man, you and I may have to pack up on the morrow. If
we are licked, you and I'll go to Japan. That's a country we've always
been wanting to see."
Jove lifted his head, somewhat scarred, and gazed up at his master
with steadfast love in his red-brown eyes. A dog is better than a
horse, a horse is better than a cat, a cat is better than nothing. ...
Warrington sat up quickly, drawing in his legs. A whistle! He caught
his breath and counted. One--two--three--four--five--SIX! ...
Donnelly! He counted no more. Donnelly had won.
His valet found him asleep in the chair the next morning, before a
dead fire. It was cold in the room. The valet touched him, but
Warrington did not move. It was only when he was roughly shaken that
he opened his eyes. A single glance explained the situation. He jumped
to his feet, rubbing his eyes.
"Will you have the morning papers, sir?"
"What's the use?" Warrington shrugged indifferently.
"The majority was only six hundred and eighty-two, sir."
"Then we had them mightily scared for a time. Odd that the 'phone did
not wake me up."
"I took it off the hook, sir, at midnight. I knew it would disturb
you."
"Go down town and bring me up the sailing-lists and a few cabin-plans
for ships bound for Japan. I intend to start for that country just as
soon as I can dispose of the horses."
"Shall you need me, sir?"
"I couldn't get along without you, James."
"Thank you, sir. Breakfast is served, sir, if you wish it."
The telephone rang. The valet raised his eyebrows inquiringly.
"I'll answer it," said Warrington. "Who is it? Jordan? Oh! You can say
that I put up the best fight I knew how. ... No. Say nothing about the
influence of the strike. Let it stand as it is. ... My plans? You may
say that I shall sail in a few days for Japan. ... Oh, yes! This is my
home. I shall return in the spring. Change of scene, that's all.
Good-by."
The defeated candidate ate a respectable breakfast, after which he put
his affairs in order. Trunks were brought down from the store-room,
and cases and steamer-rolls. Warrington always traveled comfortably.
He left the packing in charge of the valet.
A ten-o'clock edition of the Telegraph was being hawked outside, but
Warrington had seen all he wanted of newspapers. By noon he had found
a purchaser for his stable. The old housekeeper and her husband were
to remain in care of the house. They were the only beings that loved
him, now that the aunt was gone. Heigh-ho!
He declined lunch. He answered no more calls on the telephone. When
Senator Henderson called the interview was pleasant but short.
"We'll try you again," said the senator genially.
"I'll think it over," replied Warrington.
"You'll win next time; you'll be stronger two years hence. You made a
great fight. Bennington lost the fight for you. If he hadn't been your
friend--"
"I had rather have John Bennington my friend than be president,"
laughing.
"There were six thousand-odd labor votes against you, and yet
Donnelly's majority was only six hundred and eighty-two. Hope you'll
enjoy your trip to Japan. But McQuade's back again!" discouraged.
"Senator, if he acts nasty in any way, go to him personally and tell
him that upon application at the bank you will open my deposit box.
He'll understand; he'll be as docile as a lamb. And thank all the boys
for their good work. I appreciate the honor that has been done me. To
have been a candidate is something."
By three o'clock Warrington found time to sit down at his desk to
write three letters. One was addressed to McQuade, another to John,
Hotel de la Syrene, Sorrento, Italy. The third he began after some
deliberation:
Patty: Presently I shall be on the way to Japan. I was going without a
word because I had given a promise to your brother John. But it is not
within human nature, at least mine, to leave without telling you again
that I love you better than life, and that I am innocent of the wrong
you were so ready to believe. Some day ask John; tell him that I have
broken my word; he will tell you how truth was made a lie. I realize
now that I ought to have stood my ground. I ought to have nailed the
lie then. But my proofs were not such as would do away with all
doubts. And besides, when I saw that you had believed without giving
me the benefit of a doubt, I was angry. And so I left you, refusing to
speak one way or the other. John will tell you. And if my cause is
still in your thought and you care to write, mail your letter to my
bankers. They will forward it. And if I should have the happiness to
be wanted, even if I am at the ends of the world, I shall come to you.
He did not sign it, but he read it over carefully. There was nothing
to cut, nothing to add. He folded it, then laid his head on his
extended arms. A door opened and closed, but his ear was dull. Then
everything became still. Scientists have not yet fully explained what
it is that discovers to us a presence in the room, a presence that we
have neither seen nor heard enter. So it was with Warrington. There
was no train of collected thought in his mind, nothing but stray
snatches of this day and of that the picture of a smile, a turn in the
road, the sound of a voice. And all at once he became conscious that
something was compelling him to raise his head. He did so slowly.
A woman was standing within a dozen feet of the desk.
"Patty!" he cried, leaping to his feet bewildered.
Patty did not move. Alas, she had left all her great bravery at the
threshold. What would he think of her?
"Patty!" he repeated. "You are here?"
"Yes." All the blood in her body seemed to congest in her throat.
"Are--is it true that you are going to Japan?" If he came a step
nearer she was positive that she would fall.
"Yes, Patty; it is as true as I love you. But let us not speak of
that," sadly.
"Yes, yes! Let us speak of it!" a wild despair in her voice and
gesture. "Let us speak of it, since I do nothing but think of it,
think of it, think of it! Oh! I am utterly shameless, but I can not
fight any longer. I have no longer any pride. I should despise you,
but I do not. I should hate you, but I can not ... No, no! Stay where
you are."
"Patty, do you love me?" There was a note in his voice as vibrant as
the second string of a cello.
"Yes."
"Do you still believe that I am a blackguard?"
"I care not what you are or what you have been; nothing, nothing. It
is only what you have been to me and what you still are. Something is
wrong; something is terribly wrong; I know not what it is. Surely God
would not let me love you as I do if you were not worthy."
"No," he replied gravely; "God would not do that."
The tears rolled down Patty's cheeks, but there was no sound.
"Here, Patty; read this letter which I was about to send you."
She accepted it dumbly. Then, through her tears there came wonder and
joy and sunshine. When she had done, he held out his hand for the
letter; but she smiled and shook her head.
"No, Richard; this is my first love-letter."
The End