Man to black Misfortune beckons
When upon himself he reckons,
Marshals Faith among his assets,
Blinks his nature's many facets.
This dull gem is an ascetic,
Bloodless, pulseless, apathetic:
Shift the light--a trifling matter--
Fra Anselmo turns a satyr!
--_The Kaleidoscope_.
Airily, Mr. Brassfield preceded his clerk down the stairway, and out
into the street. There, something in the air--the balm of advancing
spring; a faint chill, the Parthian shot of retreating winter; some
psychic apprehension of the rising sap; the slight northing of the sun;
or some subconscious clutch at knowledge of minute alterations in the
landscape--apprised Mr. Brassfield's strangely circumscribed mind of
the maladjustment with time resulting from the reign of Amidon. But
however bewildered Florian's mentality might become at such things, it
was different with Brassfield. The plane of consciousness in which he
had so long moved, with a memory running back five years and there
ending in a blank wall of nescience, had made him cunning and
shifty--necessarily so. The struggle for existence had had its
inevitable effect--the faculty paralyzed had been compensated for by
the development of others. So he was not at all at a loss now, when
this little hiatus in time struck on his mind in the form of a
suspicion. He turned to Alderson with a smile.
"Do you remember what date this is, my boy?" he inquired.
Alderson named the date. Brassfield nodded, as if he were pleased to
find Alderson correct in his exercises.
"Of course you know what we've arranged for to-day, don't you?" he went
on.
"The deferred annual meeting of the Construction Company?" asked
Alderson. "If that's it, it's all attended to. I took the proxies to
Mr. Smith yesterday."
"Good!" was Brassfield's hearty response. "You'll do for an animated
'office tickler' if you continue to improve. You used to forget all
these things."
They had now come to a certain turning, down which Brassfield gazed, to
a place where the highway was torn up and excavated. A center line of
bowed backs, fringed by flying dirt. Indicated that the work was still
in progress.
"You may go on to the office," said Brassfield, "and I'll be up
immediately. I'm going down to see Barney Conlon a moment."
He walked down among the men, nodding to the busy ones, and stopping
for a handshake or a joke with others.
"Hello, Barney," he shouted to the man who seemed to be in charge.
"How long are you going to keep people jumping sideways to prevent
themselves from being buried alive? You old Fenian!"
Conlon looked at him for a moment with an air of distinct disfavor.
"Look out there!" he shouted to a teamster who was unloading pipe.
"D'ye want to kill the min in the trinch? Ah, is thot you, Mr.
Brassfield?"
"What's left of me," replied Brassfield, quickly aware of the coolness
of the reception--the politician's sensitiveness to danger. "By the
way, Conlon, can't you come up to the office soon? I've got some
specifications I want you to see. Pipe-line. Can you do that sort of
work?"
"Do it!" gushed Conlon, thawing. "Do it! Ah, Mr. Brassfield, d'ye ask
me thot, whin ye mind 'twas me thot done the Rogers job!"
"Oh, yes, I remember now, you did have that," said Brassfield. "Well,
that was fairly well done. Come up and figure with me, and I believe
we can make a deal."
"Thank ye kindly, Mr. Brassfield," said Conlon, all his obsequiousness
returning. "Thank ye! Annything new in politics, Mr. Brassfield?"
"I don't know a thing," said Brassfield. "I'm so busy with other
things, you know----"
"It'll be a great honor," said Conlon, "or so I should take it, to be
the mare of the city, an' the master of the fine new house an' all
that'll be in it, all this same spring!"
"Yes, Conlon, yes--but as to the office--I don't know about that."
"They can't bate you," asseverated Conlon promptly.
"Oh, I don't know," demurred Brassfield. "You can't always tell."
"We're wid ye, to a man," asserted Conlon unhesitatingly, growing
warmer. "The common people are wid ye!"
"I'm glad to hear that," said Brassfield, "very glad. But business
first; and this pipe-line is business. Of course, if the people demand
it----"
"They will!"
"--why, I may---- I'll see, Conlon. Anyhow, I appreciate your
friendship. Come up and see me."
And the candidate for mayor walked away, wondering how he could have
offended Conlon, and rejoiced that he had "fixed" him in time.
"Where's the telegram?" he asked, as he entered his private office.
"Why, Stevens might have attended to this. Where's Mr. Stevens? Miss
Strong, send Mr. Stevens in!"
"Mr. Stevens!" gasped Miss Strong. "Mr. Stevens--why----"
"Oh, I mean where does he live now? I heard he was moving. And by
sending him in, I mean, if you happen to meet him," hastily amended Mr.
Brassfield, noting some error. "I want to see him. And show me his
account, please; and kindly ring for a boy to take this message."
The books showed the discharge of Mr. Stevens, and the closing of his
account. Brassfield frowned over it, but resumed his smile at Miss
Strong's re-entrance.
"Let's see," said he. "What have we for this afternoon? These
unanswered--Why, Miss Strong, these must be attended to at once!
Please take some letters for me."
He had dropped into his rut. For an hour or more Miss Strong's fingers
flew as she noted down his dictation, and at the end of that time the
letters were answered, and the communications which had so perplexed
Amidon were filed away among other things done. The office force
breathed freely once more, with the freedom of returning efficiency in
management.
The man who had brought this relief to his employees now looked at his
watch, rose, went out, and walking briskly down the main street,
nodding to an acquaintance here, and speaking to another there, made
his way out among the homes of the town.
Here his brisk walk gradually slowed down to a saunter. He was
strolling toward the house with the white columns. Suddenly coming
into view, as she turned a corner and walked on before him, appeared a
young lady. Not much ability in the detective line would be necessary
for the recognition of her by any of this girl's acquaintances, within
any ordinary range of vision. If there were no certain revelation in
the short, smartly-attired, quick-moving figure, there could be no
mistake concerning the vividly brilliant hair, which glowed under the
saucily-turned fabric of felt, feathers and velvet which crowned it,
like a brilliant cloud display over a red sunset. Mr. Brassfield
seemed to recognize her, for he quickened his pace so as to overtake
her before she could come to a gateway, into which her glance and
movements indicated that she was about to turn. He walked up by her
side, and manifested to her his presence by falling into step and
lightly pinching her shapely elbow.
"How-de-do, Daisy-daise!" said he, with the utmost assurance. "When
did you bring the town the blessing of your presence?"
The lady gave a little scream.
"'Gene Brassfield!" she ejaculated; and then, with a little quivering
emphasis, "You! How you frightened me!"
"I know, I know!" replied Brassfield, peeping under the big hat into
her eyes. "Almost scared to death, as is quite proper. But, to my
question: how long, how long hast been here?"
"Oh, several days--before you came back. Aunty wanted me to be here
when her sister, my Aunt Hunter from Hazelhurst--that's up in
Wisconsin--visits her. There's to be a reception. Of course you'll be
there, and----"
"Of course," responded Brassfield. "Did I ever absent myself from any
social affair in which your charming aunt, Mrs. Pumphrey, is
interested? Nay, nay; but don't dodge. Why this throw-down? Why
didn't you let me know----"
"'Gene," said the girl, "you can't deceive me. I'm ashamed that I
wrote the note, and your telling a fib about getting it won't make it
any better. But it was wicked of you not to answer. I only wanted you
to come to me and--and talk it all over, and say good-by for ever. It
wasn't necessary to----"
"I have never received any note," said Brassfield, totally unconscious
of the missive which Amidon had promptly waste-basketed. "What was it?"
"Really? Didn't you?" she queried, pouting her red lips most kissably.
"A little note, unsigned, with some--some verses? No? Then I'll
forgive you--for that. But--go on, 'Gene, up to the house yonder--go
on!"
"You oughtn't to be permitted to run at large," said he, "with that
hat, and those lips. I wonder if any one's looking?"
"You mustn't talk that way," she said, "nor look at me like that! Go
on, or I shall cry--or something quite as bad! Or, maybe you'll come
in? Billy Cox is in there waiting for me, and watching, I dare say."
"Some other time," replied Brassfield, "I shall be delighted. But Miss
Waldron has just been driven out into the street, and if she comes this
way, I must exhibit myself to her, and maybe she'll pick me up. She's
turning this way---- Billy, eh? Happy Billy; nice boy, too, since he
stopped drinking. By-by, Daisy-daise!"
Elizabeth came driving down the road, and walking up it came Aaron,
sable messenger of the anxious Madame le Claire, who had enlisted Aaron
in her service to bring Brassfield again within her magic realm. He
reached the object of his search before the carriage passed, and
delivered a note.
"Tell Madame le Claire," said Brassfield, whose ideas with reference to
that person must have been very hazy, "that such an invitation is a
command. I'll be with her immediately."
He stood smiling, hat in hand, at the crossing, as Elizabeth drove by.
She halted, and looked questioningly at him. This smile, this
confident aspect--all these were so different from his recent bearing
that she was surprised, and not more than half pleased. The element of
assurance in his attitude toward the other girl was not seen in his
treatment of Elizabeth, to whom it would have been offensive. Perhaps
the cunning of the consciously abnormal intellect was the cause of
this; or it may have been some emanation of dignity from the woman
herself acting on a mind in a state chronically hypnotic. Be the cause
what it may, to Elizabeth, with all his confidence and ardor, he was
most deferential and correct in manners, and, to her, these manners had
undergone no change. Confidently, as if no shadow had ever come over
their relations, he put his foot upon the step of the carriage.
"Won't you give me a lift," said he, "and put me down at my home?"
She made room for him with scarcely more than a word. "To the
Bellevale House," said she to the coachman.
Brassfield looked at her, so grave, so _distinguee_, so coolly sweet,
and forgot apparently that there was any one else in the world. He
slipped his hand under the lap-robe, and gave hers a gentle pressure.
"Dearest!" he half-whispered, caring very little whether he was
overheard or not.
She returned the caress by the slightest possible compression, and put
her hand outside the robe. Whether the one action was incited by a
desire to avoid complete unresponsiveness, and from a sense of duty
only, the other left undecided.
The circumscribed mind of Brassfield which, with the intensity of
observation rendered necessary and inevitable by its narrow field, had
noted, as he stepped out in the street, the intangible shifting of
relations in his surroundings incident to the mere passage of time in
the few days of his obliteration, now felt, as a blind man feels the
mountain in his approach, or as the steersman in a Newfoundland fog
apprehends the nearing of the iceberg, some subtle alteration in the
attitude toward him of the young woman by his side. Instantly he was
on guard and keenly alert.
"This is a case," said he, "of the prophet coming to the mountain. I
was on my way to you, and lo, I met you coming my way--let me hope
coming to me--after seeing me!"
"The mountain is at liberty to draw his own conclusions," said Miss
Waldron. "One may be reasonably charged with the design of meeting
every one in Bellevale when one goes out."
"The mountain, then," said he, "must be content with its place as a
portion of the landscape--happy if it pleases the prophet's eye."
"The prophet did not foresee--but let's have mercy on the poor hunted
figure. I was about to say that your occupation--or preoccupation--as
I drove down the street brought to my attention a new phase of our
scenery--a brilliant one. Is this the girl I used to know as Daisy
Scarlett?"
"It must be," said Brassfield, "and it surprises me that you speak of
knowing her as of the past. How does it happen?"
"The exile of school," she answered, "and the fact that her visits to
Bellevale have not been during such vacations as the girls would let me
spend with Auntie. It's my loss--I have lived too tame a life."
"I, too; let's take the trail for sensations."
"Let me begin with a mild one," said Elizabeth. "Estelle writes me
that she has been away from New York for the past month. So you are
not a convicted criminal, at least."
Brassfield scanned her face to get the revelation of every turn of
expression, as an aid to this mysterious reference to Estelle as
related to his visit to New York.
"That's good," said he promptly, and with marvelous luck, "even a
verdict of 'not proven' is a glad surprise on returning from New York.
By the way, Bessie dear, won't you drive over by that gang of men? The
foreman seems to want to speak to me."
Entirely oblivious of this dexterous turn, Miss Waldron complied, and
drew up to the place where Barney Conlon's gang still labored in the
trench.
"What is it, Conlon?" asked Brassfield.
"I was wonderin', sir," said Conlon, hat in hand, "if I could see you
at your office in a half-hour or so. I'd not ask it, sir, if it wasn't
important. It's about the business you was speakin' to me about this
marnin'."
"Ah, yes: the pipe-line," said Brassfield. "Be at the office in half
an hour, Conlon. Drive to the top of the hill, William. So goes our
search for new thrills--road runs slap into pipe-lines and business,
dearie."
"Well, we mustn't find fault with it for that," said she. "I've wanted
to say to you--since the other evening--that I can see widening vistas
showing oceans of good things I never reckoned on in the least. And
when I get unreasonable and generally brutal and abusive, I am not
really and fundamentally so any more than I am now!"
"I know, dearest; I know, Bessie. And, now, don't give yourself a
minute's uneasiness about anything that took place. I apologize for
everything out of the proper which I said----"
"Which you _said_?"
"Yes--yes! You were quite right, and I never loved you more than
then--except now. Let's not allude to it again, but just go on as
before."
"Not quite as before," said she. "I'll not ask you why you kept back
so many of your--your _my_--qualities from me--_must_ you get down here
at this old counting-room?--and I'll only ask you two questions--cramp
the carriage a little more, William! One is, where can I get a copy of
the first edition of Child's _Scottish Ballads_--wasn't that the name
of the 'Dark Tower' book?"
"You may search me, Bessie," said he, standing by the curb in front of
his office. "Don't think I ever heard of it."
"Oh, Eugene!" cried Elizabeth, "don't take that attitude again! But
bring it up to me when you come to begin our readings in _Pippa
Passes_!"
"Ah! Now you are joking! Good-by, Bess. Unless I'm run over between
now and eight-thirty, you may look for me. By-by!"
Not quite so fortunate, this last five minutes of conversation. But
all unaware of that fact, Brassfield went back into the private office,
and found Conlon awaiting him. Brassfield opened a drawer and drew out
a roll of drawings and typewritten specifications.
"Now as to this contract, Conlon----" he began.
"Ixcuse me, Misther Brassfield," interrupted Conlon, "but the contract
may wait: some things won't. What's the matther with Edgington?"
"Edgington? The matter? What do you mean?"
Conlon leaned over the shelf of the roll-top desk, and pressed upon a
paper-weight with his knobby thumb.
"Thin ye don't know," said he impressively, "that he's out pluggin' up
a dale to bate you an' nominate McCorkle!"
Brassfield faced him smilingly.
"Oh, that notion of Edgington's!" said he. "That amounts to nothing!
If you and my other strong friends stay by me, there's nothing to fear.
I'm glad you know of that little whim of Edgington's. But about this
contract. Now, I usually look after these things myself, and do them
by days' work. But if I am forced to take this office of mayor, I
sha'n't be able to do this--won't have the time; and I'll want you to
do it. Perhaps I'd better give you a check on account now--say on the
terms of the Rogers' job? All right, there's five hundred. That
settles the contract. Now with that off our minds, let's talk of the
political situation. You can see that, being forced into this, I don't
want to be skinned. Now, what can you do, Conlon?"
"Do?" said Conlon. "Ask anny of the byes that've got things in the
past! Wait till the carkuses an' ye'll see. But mind, Misther
Brassfield, don't be too unconscious. Edgington an' McCorkle, startin'
in on the run the day of carkuses, may have good cards. Watch thim!"