THE RETURN OF RAM JUNA
One gloomy evening in January Mr. Early sat alone. He had so many
tentacles spread out through the world of men and women that solitude
was unusual to him. Indeed it had often occurred to him, as an example
of the fallacy of ancient sayings, that there was nothing in that old
epigram about the loneliness of the great. The higher he had risen in
the scale of greatness the more insistently and persistently had the
world invaded his life, until even his appreciation of solitude had
atrophied.
This particular day had been a hard one. The problems of glass and rugs
were unusually complicated, and the interruptions to continuous thought
more numerous than usual. Moreover, without warning, like a meteor of
magnificent proportions, Swami Ram Juna, with many paraphernalia of
travel, had suddenly reappeared to ask for that once-proffered
hospitality. Not without state and courtesy could such a being be
welcomed; and courtesy takes time.
Finally, to discuss the matter of the outer cover for the next issue of
_The Aspirant_, a henchman invaded his privacy. Sebastian looked over a
pile of designs, and chose a flat but lurid young woman, in a
sphinx-like attitude against a background of purple trees. Then came the
more difficult question of an aphorism to be printed on the table
against which the lurid young woman leaned. It was the habit of _The
Aspirant_ to convey, even on its outside, wisdom to the world, and the
thinking up of smart young aphorisms is not always an easy task. Mr.
Early at length evolved: "It has been said of old: 'Know thyself.' I say
unto thee, 'Forget thyself. Know thy brother.'"
"That sounds fairly well," said Mr. Early wearily, and he dismissed the
henchman and settled himself in a particularly benevolent arm-chair, in
front of a cheerfully-roaring fire. The place was a remote room,
decorated not for public inspection but for comfort. Mr. Early was
tired. A certain new question had been waiting in the antechambers of
his mind, and to-night he determined to give it leisurely attention;
for of late it had several times been borne in him that he was getting
along in years and that if he did not intend to die a bachelor, it
behooved him to move swiftly. The thought had been quickened into
livelier vitality when, at a dinner a few nights before, he had watched
the face and studied the figure of Miss Madeline Elton.
She was certainly a rare creature. There was a verve, a magnetic quality
to her, that he hardly remembered before. Her beauty, her nobility, her
purity he felt to be the artistic attributes of womanhood. No, he not
only admired them, they charmed him.
"Yes," said Mr. Early. "By Jove, if she'd lift her little finger at me I
believe I'd make a fool of myself over her! And why shouldn't I? Why
shouldn't I let myself go? I've got everything else now. A woman of her
bigness likes a man who can do things and who controls other men. By
Heaven, I believe we were made for each other!"
Mr. Early grew so excited by the strength of his new passion that he
sprang to his feet and walked up and down to luxuriate in the idea.
Proportionately great was his annoyance when a knock invaded his
self-communion, and his man's face appeared at the door to tell him that
Mr. Murdock would like to speak with him. While he was yet opening his
mouth to anathematize Mr. Murdock, that gentleman entered, familiar and
cheerful.
The man who came in was, in his way, a force almost as great and as
worthy of regard as Mr. Sebastian Early himself--in fact no less a
personage than the power behind the throne of that uncrowned king,
William Barry. Though he did not sit on Olympian heights and play with
the thunderbolts of jobs and contracts, as Barry did, yet he had an
occasional way of interfering in the game, just as in Greek legend Fate
loomed large behind the back of Zeus.
Mr. James Murdock was a business genius who dipped into politics, not
for office nor yet for glory, but only for gain. Originally a partner of
Mr. Early's, when, just as some one else invented a better hook-and-eye,
their business was sold out, Murdock let his many-sidedness run riot in
a dozen directions. While Mr. Early's abilities led him to "get all
there was in it" out of the public on its imaginative side, Murdock
worked out his fortune in more practical necessities. St. Etienne was a
western city, full of growth and therefore full of needs. There were
miles and miles of asphalt to be laid; there were wooden sidewalks
crying out to be replaced by stone; there were lighting and watering and
park-making; and it was astonishing in how many companies, doing these
things, Mr. Murdock had a share, and how frequently his companies
secured the contracts for doing them. When rival contractors attempted
these public works, there were apt to be strikes and complications which
seldom occurred when Murdock had the job. Then all went smoothly and
merrily. And this shows how friendship rules the world. For Murdock was
the friend of Barry; and Barry was the friend of the strike-ordering
walking-delegates. If these three elements, representing the city
fathers, the contractors and the laborers, were all satisfied with the
way the city's work was being done, who remained to cavil? Certainly not
the citizens. St. Etienne's wheels moved almost without friction.
But Murdock went further than this. His was a fine instinct for
organization. He used Barry like a fat pawn, moved down to the king row,
until the boss alderman was able to look abroad on his noble army of
small officeholders and contractors, who could be trusted, not only to
vote as directed (for to vote is a simple and ineffectual thing), but
also to bring up their hundreds and thousands of well-trained dogs to
vote, and, if need be, to vote again, and then to see that the votes
were properly counted.
It was to Murdock's far-reaching mind that Barry was indebted for the
regulation of interests by which almost every man who served the city,
and particularly those who served it badly and expensively, was tied to
Barry by ties closer than those of brotherly love. Whether official,
contractor or working-man, they owed job or contract to the influence
that Barry seemed to exercise in the councils of the city. It was by
Murdock's advice that the better residence district was well-policed,
well-lighted, well-paved and generally contented with things as they
were. By Murdock's suggestion the city's interests were zealously
guarded in the discussions of the council.
When a committee of the Municipal Club visited that august body to
listen to a debate on a certain paving contract, they could not help
being impressed by the large knowledge of materials and methods
displayed by their representatives, and the unanimity with which they
agreed that a particular bid was, if not the cheapest, the most deeply
satisfying of those offered. What they could not know was the ingenuity
with which Murdock saved both the brain and the time of the council by
arranging its debate beforehand. But the committee did mention, among
themselves, the incongruity between the actual condition of St.
Etienne's streets and the wisdom of the Solons.
But, though Murdock's was the brain to originate and systematize schemes
of plunder for which Barry alone had been incapable, once in a while the
"boss" grew restive under dominion, in spite of the knowledge that, if
he should once break with the master mind, he would soon make some fatal
mistake and another would become the whole show. So, if the reign of
King Barry was for long temperate and orderly, it was because Murdock
impressed upon him that royal arrogance breeds discontent and finally
revolt, and that by big rake-offs, on the quiet, enough could be gained
to satisfy the ambition of a well-regulated man; and that while
plundering was done with decency, the reform-talk of the Municipal
Clubites would prove no more useful nor ornamental than a Christmas
card.
"Don't hog everything!" as Murdock sagely put it. "Let the other fellow
have the small end of the trough, and as long as he ain't hungry, he
won't squeal."
With equal sternness he repressed Billy's fancy for fast horses and Mrs.
Billy's taste for green velvet and diamonds.
"It don't look well on a salary of eighteen hundred," he said. "Just you
be contented with having things your own way without talking about it.
Throw all the dust you like, but don't let it be gold dust."
"You cut a pretty wide swath yourself," Billy growled.
"I ain't a alderman, serving the city for pure love and a small salary,"
grinned the other. "A contractor's got a right to make money."
"You make money out o' me," said Billy sourly. "You keep me under your
big fat ugly thumb. I guess I can run this business alone. I got all the
strings pretty well in my own hand."
"All right, Barry. I'll be sorry to be on the other side, but if you say
so, all right."
Barry swore a moment under his breath and changed the subject. So
matters went on, with Barry still subservient, but growing daily more
inclined to believe himself the autocrat he seemed, daily a little less
cautious, a little more fixed in his assurance that the officeholders,
the delegates and the saloon men constituted, in themselves, a
sufficient prop for his dominion, and that Murdock was a nuisance.
"Of course, it's to his interest to keep me under," he said to himself,
"and I dunno' whether I'm a fool to let him do it, or whether I'm a fool
to try to break away."
He began to try flyers on his own hook; he gathered many rake-offs of
which he said nothing to his mentor; he drank a little more and splurged
a little more and looked a little more like a bulldog and less like a
man. That the spirit of rebellion was growing up and that the pawn began
to take credit to itself for the position of power in which it was
placed, came gradually home to Mr. Murdock. It made him at first
annoyed, then anxious. So it was that the confidence bred from years of
business coöperation drove him this night to look up his old partner.
"Evening, Early," he said as the door closed behind him. "Beastly cold
night out. Wish you'd order me a little something hot to induce me to
stay by this comfortable fire of yours."
Mr. Early waved his hand toward a chair and settled himself without
ceremony. There was this comfort in Murdock: they had known each other
too long for pose, and, though the old hook-and-eye partnership was
dissolved, and Mr. Early had soared into the realms of Art, they were
still closely bound by common interests. So Sebastian met him with
cheerful resignation.
"Sit down, Jim," he said. "I don't mind a nip myself. What's up?"
"What's down, you'd better ask. Lord save us! What's that?" exclaimed
Mr. Murdock, as he caught sight of the lurid lady lying amid the litter
on the table.
"That's the cover of my next magazine. Never mind it. It's not in your
line."
"Well, I should say not," said the other with a slow grin. "I've been
pretty much vituperated for some of my business deals, but I never
sprung a thing like that on the public. 'Forget thyself!' That's good,
Early." He winked a wink that came more from the soul than from the eye.
"Oh, drop it, Jim," said Mr. Early, relapsing into the old vernacular.
"I'm sick of everything to-night. Here's your cocktail. Help yourself to
a cigar."
"You ought to get married, instead of sitting here with the blues all by
yourself. Tell you, a warm little wife is a nice thing to come home to."
"Thank you, Jim," said Mr. Early dryly.
They sank into silence, a comfortable silence, permeated with the
fragrance of tobacco, with warmth in the cardiac region, and with that
crackle of burning logs that satisfieth the soul. But occasionally Mr.
Early shot a sharp glance at his companion, and his study did not
reassure him. At last he spoke.
"Well, out with it, Jim. It's evident that you've something on your
mind."
"You're right, I have," said Murdock with sudden emphasis. "I don't know
whether you can help me, but it's second nature for me to try you. I'm
getting anxious about Barry and affairs connected with him."
"What about Barry? I thought you had him in your pocket."
"Oh, I've still got him in the pocket over my heart, and buttoned down
tight," said Mr. Murdock grimly. "It's because he belongs to me that I'm
looking out for him."
"Well," said Mr. Early, and he leaned forward nervously to poke the fire
that needed no poking.
"Well! In spite of me, Billy's getting restless. He's getting worse than
restless, and I'm afraid to think how he may break out. You know how he
loses his sense once in a while. Have you noticed how the _Star_ has
been running him of late?" Mr. Murdock slowly gathered force in stating
his grievances.
"Yes, I've noticed it," said Mr. Early.
"The _Star_ is the only paper I haven't got a strangle hold of--at least
so I thought. But some of the other dailies are butting in. Say they're
afraid not to. Of course, an occasional black eye is all in the day's
work. It rather helps things along. Billy expects it, and he isn't
thin-skinned. It doesn't make much difference as long as our own organs
print what they're told. But, say, this thing is going beyond a joke.
Billy has been really cut up over the way this coroner business is
getting home to the public. He says if there is going to be squirming,
he'll look out that there are other people squirming besides himself. I
suppose that's meant as a threat for me. You know there are things--even
affairs that you are interested in, Sebastian--that are all on the
square, you know, and perfectly right, but they take too much explaining
for the public ever to understand them."
"I know," said Mr. Early, still poking the fire.
"And do you know who is back of the whole rumpus?"
"Who?" demanded Mr. Early sharply, looking up.
"Primarily this infernal next-door neighbor of yours."
"Percival?"
"Percival. He's too much of a kid to put himself forward, but he's
really the whole thing. He's been sneaking around town for months,
picking up information. He has a confounded cheerful way of making
friends that has cut him out for the job of politics, if he would just
put himself on the right side. Of course he has no more idea of
practical politics than--" Mr. Murdock looked around for an object of
comparison and concluded lamely, "than that girl on your magazine cover.
And what do you think is the latest?"
"What?"
"He's stirred up that mare's nest of a dude club till they've taken to
sending a committee to attend every meeting of the council--which is
irritating."
"But not necessarily serious."
"Not in itself, though it's getting on Barry's nerves, as you people of
fashion say. To tell you the truth, I've had to make a concession to
Barry, just to keep him in order. I preferred him right on the council
where he is, but he's got a bee in his top-hat. He wants to run for
mayor. I suppose he wants to show people what a great man he really is.
I gave in to him on that point. Now here comes in the thing that made me
look you up. Barry has some sort of an acquaintance with this Percival
fellow, and when he proclaimed his intentions, Percival jumped on him
with a flat defiance--told him that he had proof of a disreputable
affair in Barry's career that would queer him with the whole community.
How your neighbor got hold of this thing, I'm jiggered if I can guess. I
thought I was the only man in the city that knew it, and it has been my
chief club to keep Barry in order. But however he got them, Percival's
facts were all square, and Barry collapsed. Now, these two patched up an
agreement. Barry promised to give up his candidacy for mayor, and stay
in his seat in the council, and Percival, on his part, agreed to keep
quiet."
"Well, that suits you all right."
"It would if it ended there, but what I started out to tell you is this:
the Municipal Club is beginning to take up city politics in earnest.
They are organizing systematically in every ward to be ready for a fight
for the council in next fall's election, and, to cap the climax, I was
told to-day that they had succeeded in getting Preston to run for mayor.
Now you know they could hardly have picked out a worse man, so far as we
are concerned. Preston is popular and strong, and he's perfectly
unapproachable. I'd as soon tackle the law of gravitation. It isn't even
pleasant for respectable citizens, like you and me, to come out publicly
against the whole movement. We can't afford to do it. Everything we do
has got to be done on the quiet."
"You needn't get so hot, Jim. It'll blow over. This kind of thing always
does. It's only spasmodic. You ought to know that."
"Well, it's taking a very inconvenient time for its spasms. It may
result in spasmodically losing Billy his seat in the council in
November. Nice thing if we didn't have a clear majority of aldermen next
winter, wouldn't it?" Mr. Murdock was becoming finely sarcastic in his
rage.
"I suppose it would be inconvenient," assented Mr. Early.
"Inconvenient!" growled Murdock. "Is that the strongest swear word you
can raise? Do you happen to remember that the lighting franchise expires
next fall? Now do we want it renewed, or do we not? Can we afford to
lose the biggest thing we've got? Do we want Billy to see it through, or
do we not?"
"We certainly do."
"Well, what do you propose to do about it?"
"I don't see that there is much to do except to sit pat, and let it blow
over."
"Suppose when it blew over it should be a cyclone and you and me in the
cellar? No siree, I'm no sitter-down. I'm a fighter, even when I fight
in secret. Damn this feller, Percival, and his gift for making friends
and stirring up enthusiasm for himself! I suspect he has ambitions. So
much the worse for him, if James Murdock is in the ring against him. Do
you know my inferences? I am sure he is not one of the invulnerables.
The fact that he made a concession to Barry gives him away. He didn't
need to. If Barry can work him by a little flattery and an appeal to
their shoddy friendship, he's not one of your out-and-out,
no-compromise, reform-or-die fellows. Say, Early, you know him well.
Can't you get at him?"
Mr. Early gave one of those roundabout motions that suggest a desire to
wriggle out of the whole matter, and answered slowly:
"I shouldn't wonder if the entire business petered out, anyway. It's
almost a year to the next election, and Percival is going to be married
in a few weeks to a pretty little girl, who would never stir a man's
ambitions to anything more than a smart carriage and pair. He's turned
idiotic about her, and let's hope he'll stay so. Just at present I don't
believe all the boodle and graft in the world would turn a hair on him.
Love and politics, my boy, are no more congenial than water and
oil--especially if the politics is rancid."
"We'll have to go into partnership with the lady to keep him down," said
Murdock with a grin. "I've formed more unlikely alliances than that in
my time. Why, good Lord! what's that?" he exclaimed for the second time
that night.
His eyes had fallen upon a tall white column at the back of the room,
and at his words the column moved forward and displayed the flowing
robes, the snowy white turban, the gleaming ruby of Ram Juna.
"Pardon my interruption," said the Hindu courteously. "I have been out.
I am but just returned. And I come to assure myself that all is well
with my admirable host."
"Ah, Murdock, this is my friend, the Swami. He's going to stay with me
while he writes a book. I've given him the west ell, off in the quiet of
the garden, you know," said Mr. Early.
"With kindness you give it. Obligation is mine," said the Swami, with a
deferential movement of his hands. "And I go at once to devote myself to
my greatest work. But now I have visited a lady, Mrs. Appleton, who has
great interest in me, and who desires to form what she calls a class. I
call it, rather, a circle of my friends."
"And what do you do with them?" asked Mr. Murdock, with the same bald
curiosity that one displays at the zoo before the performing seals.
"We increase the sum of nobility in the world," said the Swami softly.
"We sit together in long white robes, such as you see on me, and we pour
out love upon the universe."
"Oh!" said Mr. Murdock. He was too astonished to pursue his
investigations.
"It is a serene and blessed occupation," said the Swami.
"And do they--does the class pay for that?" Murdock recovered so far as
to ask.
"Pay? Not so!" said the Swami indignantly. "I ask of life no more than a
bare existence and that, a thousand times that, is mine, by the
benevolence of Mr. Early."
"They're devilish pretty women, some of 'em, though. You have that
reward," said Mr. Early jocularly.
The Swami cast on him a glance of cow-like anger, but Mr. Murdock went
on persistently: "And they don't give you any money at all?"
"For myself, no. Some, if it harmonize with their desires, make
contribution through me to the great temple in India, where the brothers
may assemble, a sacred spot among the lonely hills. Some give to that,
but not to me. But I must no longer interrupt. I have made my salute. I
go to my remote room."
With a reverential movement of the head, the white column moved away.
"Gee!" said Mr. Murdock. "Can you stand that kind of thing around all
the time?"
"Oh, I'm interested in all kinds of people," said Mr. Early. "And he's
the most inoffensive creature. I shall hardly see him. He intends to
lock himself up out there in his room most of the time. He meditates in
silence ten hours a day and comes forth to give a lecture that nobody
understands. He's going to be all the rage."
"And, of course, if he's the rage, you have him. I wish you'd make Billy
Barry the rage," said Murdock.
"It's all I can do to popularize myself," said Early whimsically. "I'll
think over the situation a bit, Jim, and see if I can see any way out
from under. Of course, Percival hasn't any record by which you can
discredit him and keep his mouth shut--at least not yet."
As Mr. Murdock took a last sip at the cocktail and made an unceremonious
exit, again Mr. Early settled himself for a period of repose, and again
he was interrupted.
"Pardon," said the deep voice of the Swami. "You sit alone. Is it
permitted that I repose here and join your meditations? For a few
moments? In silence, if you will?"
"I wish you'd pour out a little rest," said Early. "I'm tired."
"In spirit and in body," answered the Swami. "The rush of the wheel of
life, it exhausts. But I comprehend. I also am a man. The great world of
business has its necessities and its value. My outer nature shares in
it. Ah, you know not. You think of me only on one side of being. But,
like you, I have my sympathies with many things."
Mr. Early made no reply, but sank deeper into his chair. The two sat
long in silence. Sebastian looked at the fire and began to build up a
picture of Madeline's face. The Hindu was apparently lost to the
surrounding world, and yet he occasionally darted a glance of swift,
animal-like inquiry at his host.
"Neither do I like the young man Percival," he said placidly, and Mr.
Early started.
"It is your next neighbor, Percival, is it not, who annoys?" the Swami
inquired equably. "The youth who sneers when first I speak at your
house? In India, now, one may do many things that are here impossible.
Ah, but yes, you say, here you may do many things that are in India
impossible. So goes it. Still more. The same forces exist everywhere;
but we in India, we understand the forces that you, brilliant workers
with the superficial, you do not understand. I shall be glad to help
the benevolent Early, if at any time my services are of value. I know to
do many things besides to meditate."
Mr. Early stared in amazement at the unmoved face before him, a face
almost as round and mystifying as the syllable "Om", on which its
thoughts were supposed to be centered.
"And, remember, I, too, dislike the young man Percival," pursued the
Swami blandly.
Mr. Early's mind suddenly stiffened with horror.
"See here," he exclaimed, sitting up, "you understand Mr. Percival is no
enemy of mine. He is, in fact, a friend. You mustn't think you'd be
doing me a kindness by--ah--injuring him in any way."
"My understanding," said the Swami, still unmoved. "Fear no midnight
assassination, noble friend. That is petty--and dangerous. I am not
oblivious of the conventionalities. But the mind may be reached, as well
as the body. Percival may do as I--you--we--wish. The higher animal at
all times controls the lower. Perhaps, at some time, I may serve you.
But you weary. The body makes demands. I bid you good night."
He put out a great paw, and Mr. Early grasped it weakly, feeling that he
was in the position of one who has started an oil "gusher" and can not
control its flow. He might have to light it to get rid of it.
To his own room went Ram Juna, occasionally nodding his head in his
serene manner. He carefully locked behind him the door which connected
his wing with the rest of the house. A few moments he paused listening,
then he crossed his bedroom and the narrow passage that opened on the
garden and entered the little unused room beyond. Here all was dark,
inky dark, for the heavy shutters on the street side of the room were
closed and barred and the shades on the garden front were drawn,
shutting out what dim rays the departed sun had left the night. The
Swami apparently had no need of greater light, for, neglecting the
electric button near the door, he groped quietly about, struck a match
and lighted a single candle, with which he returned to the hallway and
opened the garden door, standing for a moment with the taper flickering
in the rush of cold air that poured in from outside. When he stepped
back and closed the door, there stood beside him another man,
clean-shaven, lean, sharp-nosed and ferret-eyed, whose footstep was
almost as light as that of the Swami himself. Neither of them spoke
until they reached the smaller room and the door was locked.
"You shiver, my friend," said Ram Juna. "The night is cold."
"Freezin', an' so'm I," said the other shortly. "You keep me waiting a
devil of a time."
"Business, oh my friend, business. Can I utter a word to the ears of
your nationality more convincing? I was necessitated to converse with my
host, the rich and amiable Early. Ah, the nature of humanity is
eternally interesting."
His companion grinned.
"Which means, being interpreted, you've got some lay, I suppose. What is
it!"
"Abruptness is to me foreign," said the Swami, waving his great hand
with its combination of fat palm and taper fingers. "It disturbs me.
Perhaps, some day, I shall need tell you. The amiable Early is as are
all mankind. On the one side he gropes among infinities. Do we not all
so? On the other side he is tied by this body of clay to the groveling
earth. Are we not all so? Am not even I myself?" The Swami turned
benevolently toward the other.
"You bet! And you can sling language about it!" said the man, and he
opened his rat's mouth and laughed without noise. Even Ram Juna's face
relaxed into its Buddha smile, calm, inscrutable, as the two gazed on
each other. Suddenly the younger drew himself together.
"Well, I ain't got no time to spare," he said. "Are they ready?"
"I, as well as you Americans, can be the votary of business," answered
Ram Juna. "The first principle of business is promptitude. My friend,
they are ready."
"Well, hand 'em over," said the little man. "Now my job begins; and I
guess it's as ticklish as yours. You may need the skill, but I need the
gall."
"The daring of the leopard when it leaps from the bush where it
crouches, the daring which is half cunning, eh, my friend?" said the
Swami comfortably. "Here, take the package and go thy way. There will be
more in the future. These I brought with me from India, and even the
eagle customs found them not. Many night-hours have I spent in preparing
them, and mine eyes have been robbed of sleep. It is no slight task to
produce a masterpiece."
"Well, you certainly are a dandy," said the man, examining the contents
of his package. "I never seen anything like it. And those big hands,
too."
"My hands obey the skill of my mind. And here, under the shadow of the
Early, I can work with purer courage. This is the perfection of a place.
It was the idea of genius to come here. Hold, let me examine the way
before thou goest."
"Aw, there won't be any body in the garden at this time o' night, and at
this time o' year."
"Nay, but it is the wise man who leaves no loophole for mistake," said
the Hindu, with practical caution.
He blew out the light and stepped in darkness to the entrance with the
air of one who would refresh his soul by gazing at the stars and wiping
out the trivialities of the day. After he had looked at the heavens, his
eyes fell with piercing swiftness upon the shadows of the garden, its
bushes, manlike or animal-like in the night.
It was as complete a piece of acting as though a large audience had been
there to see, but all thrown away on silence and solitude.
"Coast clear?" said a voice behind him.
"All is well," said the Swami. "Go forth to fortune."
The door closed softly, and Ram Juna sought the repose he had earned.