For probating Honey's will he asked leave to come and consult Mr.
Ansley. An appointment was made for an evening when that gentleman was
to be at home.
Tom, who had some gift for character, was beginning to understand
him. Understanding him, it seemed to him that he understood all that
old Boston which had once been a national institution, a force in the
country's history, and now, like a man retired from business, sat
resting on its hill.
Old Boston was more significant, however, than a man retired from
business, in that it was to a great degree a man retired from the
pushing of ideals. Generous once with the hot generosity of youth,
keen to throw itself into the fight against wrongs, ready to be
slaughtered in the van rather than compromise on principles, old
Boston had now reached the age of mellowness. It had grown weary in
well-doing. It had done enough. Contending with national evils had
proved to be futile. National evils had grown too big, too many, too
insurgent. Better make the best of life as your people mean to live
it. Keep quiet; take it easy; save money; let the country gang its own
gait. A big turbulent country, with no more respect for old Boston
than for the prophet Jeremiah, it wallowed in prosperous vulgarity.
Let it wallow! With solid investments in cotton and copper old Boston
could save its own soul. It withdrew from its country; it withdrew
from its state; it withdrew from its own city. Where its ancestors
had made the laws and administered them, it became, like those proud
old groups of Spaniards still to be found in California, a remnant of
a former time, making no further stand against the invader. With a
little art, a little literature, a little music, a little education, a
little religion, a little mild beneficence, and a great deal of astute
financial and professional ability, it could pass its time and keep its
high-mindedness intact.
To Tom's summing up this was Philip Ansley. He was able,
public-spirited, and generous; but he was disillusioned. The United
States of his forefathers, of which he kept the ideal in his soul, had
turned into such a hodgepodge of mankind, that he had neither hope
nor sentiment with regard to it. In his heart he believed that its
governments were in the hands of what he called a bunch of crooks.
With congresses, state legislatures, and civic councils elected by
what to him were hordes of ignoramuses, with laws dictated by cranks
and fanatics, with the old-time liberties stampeded by the tyranny of
majorities lacking a sense of responsibility, he deemed it prudent to
follow the line of least resistance and give himself to making money.
Apart from casting his vote for the Republican ticket on election days,
he left city, state, and country to the demagogues and looters. He was
sorry to do this, yet with the world as it was, he saw no help for it.
But he served as director on the boards of a good many companies; he
was an Overseer of Harvard, a trustee of the Museum of Fine Arts,
the treasurer of several hospitals, a subscriber to every important
philanthropic fund. His club was the Somerset; his church was Trinity.
For old Boston these two facts when taken together placed him in that
sacred shrine which in England consecrates dowager duchesses.
When Tom was shown up he found his host in the room where two years
earlier they had talked over the place as chauffeur, but he was no
longer awed by it. Neither was he awed by finding Ansley wearing a
dinner-jacket simply because it was evening. The conventions and
amenities of civilized life were becoming a matter of course to him.
"How d'ye do? Come in. Sit down. What's the weather like outside? Still
pretty cold for April, isn't it?"
Though he offered his hand only from his armchair, where he sat reading
the evening paper, he offered it. It was also a tribute to Tom's
progress that he was asked to take a seat. A still further sign of
his having reached a position remotely on a footing of equality with
the Ansleys was an invitation to help himself from a silver box of
cigarettes.
Having respectfully declined this honor, as Ansley himself was not
smoking, he stated his errand. If Mr. Ansley would introduce him to
some young inexpensive lawyer, who would tell him what to do in the
probating of Honey's will....
The business was soon settled. In possession of Ansley's card with a
scribbled line on it, Tom rose to take his leave. Ansley rose also,
but moved toward the fireplace, where a few sticks were smoldering, as
if he had something more to say.
"Wait a minute. Sit down again. Have a cigarette."
As Ansley himself lighted a cigar, Tom took a cigarette from the silver
box, and leaned against the back of the big chair from which he had
just risen. Once more he was struck by the resemblance between the
shrewd close-lipped face, dropping into its meditative cast, and the
lampshade just below it, parchment with a touch of rose, and an inner
light. Ansley puffed for a minute or two pensively.
"You've no family, I believe. You haven't got the complications of a
lot of relatives."