THE PRESIDENT TAKES A HAND
One evening late in January, Leigh entered Cardington's room with his
post-prandial pipe still burning.
"What do you say," he demanded, "to going down to the opera house to
hear the President of the United States speak? Here I 've been shut up
all day, and forgot what was going on till I picked up the paper just
now. I'm ripe for some excitement, the mood which in my undergraduate
days would have tempted me to go out and paint the town." He threw
himself into a chair, looked about with a sense of being at home, and
passed his fingers wearily through the disordered masses of his hair.
The other looked at him attentively. "You make a great mistake," he
remarked, "in allowing yourself to get out of condition. With a
reasonable regard to the laws of health, you could keep yourself
looking like the discus-thrower, thinly disguised in modern
habiliments." He spoke like an impersonal judge, who appreciates the
excellence of a type and wishes to see it maintained.
Leigh laughed with some bitterness. "You remember what the German
professor said to his American student when he wished to take a rest.
'Who ever heard of a real mathematician with any health?'"
"Ah, yes," Cardington returned, with a comprehending look in his eyes,
"but I 'm afraid you had too good a time down there in New York, and
that now you 're working too hard by way of penance. But in regard to
your suggestion, I am inclined to think favourably of it. Not that the
President _per se_ is an object of great interest to me. His mental
processes are tolerably familiar, and I don't feel particularly in need
of instruction concerning my duty toward God and my duty toward my
neighbour. Still, this is an occasion of more than usual interest, as
perhaps you are aware."
A change had come into the relationship of these two, or rather a
readjustment of the view of the younger man concerning the older,
dating from the time when Cardington had disposed so neatly of his
tentative wish to accompany him to Bermuda. He had returned from the
South alone about a fortnight before, quite uncommunicative in regard
to his trip, merely saying that the Wycliffes would come by a later
boat. The shadow of the woman in the case was undoubtedly between
them, and yet it could not be said that jealousy, in the ordinary sense
of the word, was operative as an estranging element. Leigh had too
much reason to know that neither of them had much chance of winning
her, and he thought he divined in Cardington not so much a lover's
interest as a friend's deep concern on her behalf and an unwillingness
to mention her name in casual conversation.
Upon the present occasion Leigh was impressed with his air of subdued
excitement, with a hint of tension and expectancy, as if something
untoward were about to happen; and as they took their way toward the
city together, the reason of this mood became apparent.
"Now, you know," he began, "great things were happening this afternoon,
and as I sometimes like to view history in the making, I went out to
see what I could see. I 'm afraid that our respected mayor is destined
to play a very inconspicuous rôle in this evening's entertainment. If
I am correctly informed, he is not to have a speaking part. As an
accidental mayor, pitchforked into his present position by Fortune in
one of her ironical moods, he is to be allowed merely a seat on the
platform, where he may be seen but not heard. But to go back to the
beginning. When it was learned that the President of the United States
intended to honour us with a visit and to stand and deliver a speech,
it occurred to a group of representative citizens that a professional
baseball player and street-car conductor was scarcely a fit person to
receive so distinguished a guest; so they very properly resolved that
his part in the exercises should be reduced to a minimum. To that end
a committee, including among others Mr. Bradford, Mr. Parr, and our
worthy alumnus, Mr. Cobbens, wrote a letter to Emmet in which they
suggested that his speech of welcome at the station be limited to
three, or at the most to five, minutes. They intimated also that after
the speech of welcome was concluded, Mr. Emmet need not concern himself
further in the entertainment of the President."
"I call that beastly snobbishness," said Leigh indignantly. "Whatever
the man's former position may have been, he is now the mayor and
entitled to all the honours of his office. On the same principle, the
swells of forty years ago might have refused to recognise Lincoln as
the President because he once split rails. And in fact they
practically did. He had to be dead before they began to think that his
rise in the world was a vindication of the equality of opportunity they
pretended to believe in."
"'Beastly' is perhaps the proper adjective under the circumstances,"
the other admitted, "but why should we lose sleep and shorten our days
with fruitless indignation because men of a certain kind act as men of
that kind always have acted? I prefer to look at the dramatic and
humorous side of it, having, perhaps unfortunately, reached the
speculative and acquiescent time of life. And the situation at the
station was not without its amusing aspect. Mr. Emmet's well-known
oratorical powers being thus curtailed, the President was delayed but a
few minutes and then conducted to a carriage and driven about the city,
attended by the honourable trio before mentioned. It is said by those
who were within earshot that the President inquired for his friend the
mayor, when he saw that he was to be deprived of his company. However
that may be, I myself saw our tribune of the people riding by himself
in solitary grandeur in the third carriage."
At the memory of Emmet's discomfiture he interrupted his story to
indulge in one of his silent laughs, an expression of mirth which, to
his listener's excited mind, seemed almost an inhuman exhibition of his
professed detachment from the passions about him. Perhaps, had he seen
the dapper Cobbens and the lethargic Parr escorting the unsuspicious
President to the carriage, and Emmet's expression as he found himself
shoved into the third place in the procession, he might have
appreciated his companion's sense of the ridiculous. But it was the
inward struggle, not the outward aspect, that stirred his emotions.
Emmet's most bitter strictures upon Cobbens and his kind were justified
by this incident, and he imagined the mayor's sensations when he found
himself out-generalled and humiliated. What would Felicity have felt,
had she been present to witness the scene? How it might have affected
her toward her husband, whether it would have aroused her to champion
him the more, or whether it would have moved her to scorn of his
stupidity in allowing himself to be put aside, Leigh could only guess;
but his own instinct was to make common cause with the man that was
wronged.
"And who appointed the committee," he inquired, "if Emmet had nothing
to do with it?"
"Why, they appointed themselves, without any more regard for the mayor
than if he had been a professor in St. George's Hall. Now perhaps you
begin to appreciate why I remarked that this was an occasion of more
than ordinary interest. Can we doubt that word has gone round among
the proletariat that their mayor has been insulted, and can we doubt
that they will be at the opera house in full force to express their
opinion of the committee? You see now my motive in coming. I am like
the man that went to the animal show in the hope of seeing the lion eat
the trainer. In other words, if the people are going to give us a
specimen of the psychology of the mob, I wish to be there to enjoy it.
Such a thing might help one to an appreciation of certain incidents in
Roman history, like the turmoils in the time of the Gracchi, and the
scene in the forum when Mark Antony played on the heartstrings of the
populace. Everything is grist that comes to our mill. Even a football
game is a modern rendition of a gladiatorial combat. Don't you think
so?"
When they reached the edge of the great throng that already filled the
street in front of the opera house, Cardington, instead of plunging
into it as his companion had anticipated, turned down an alley, like
one familiar with the locality, and led the way to the stage door. The
manoeuvre disclosed to Leigh the fact that his colleague had intended
all the time to come, and also his own good fortune in obtaining such a
guide.
"Pass right in, professor," one of the guard said, as soon as he caught
sight of Cardington's tall figure. "A friend of yours? All right.
Sergeant, these are two friends of mine."
They made their way behind the scenes and came down into the pit, where
a few people, similarly favoured, were slowly selecting their seats.
"What kind of a pull have you got with these fellows?" Leigh asked,
secretly amused at the surprise his companion had reserved for him.
"A prophet is not always without honour, even in his own country,"
Cardington returned evasively.
Apparently his vein of talk was worked out to the end, for he fell into
a profound silence as soon as he had taken his seat, his arms folded
and his head bent forward, like one oblivious of his surroundings.
Leigh, not sorry to be left to his own thoughts and observations,
listened to the roar of the increasing multitude in the corridor
without. He was struck by an absence of that good humour which usually
characterises such a gathering. From time to time the doors creaked
and bulged inward as the people surged against them, clamouring
menacingly for admittance. Each repetition of the forward movement was
followed by an accentuated babel of voices: women screaming that they
were being crushed and shrilly demanding more room, men protesting that
they themselves were powerless to resist the pressure from behind. It
was evident that Cardington had not miscalculated their animus, for
they hurled maledictions at the janitor, who stood waiting within, his
watch in his hand, wavering between fear for the stability of the bolts
and an unwillingness to disobey orders. Those already admitted
listened with increasing uneasiness, momentarily anticipating that the
doors would give way with a crash, and that they might see men and
women trampled under foot in an irresistible stampede.
Every electric light in the place was now turned on, disclosing the
bare tiers of seats, the stage filled with chairs, the great flags
looped on either side of the national shield, the speaker's table
surmounted by a glass and pitcher. Then the scene changed. The
janitor, struggling to open the doors, was thrown violently aside as
they swung back and launched the mob into the hall. A great roar
ascended to the roof; the nearer seats were submerged by the black
mass, which sent out thin streams between the rows, like an advancing
tide creeping shoreward between ledges of rock. Leigh and Cardington
rose to their feet and stood gazing at the spectacle. For the most
part the crowd was composed of labouring men, who looked as if they had
just come from the factory or the shop, but here and there could be
seen a glimpse of bright ribbon, or a feather, or the silk hat of a
pale-faced clerk. So rapid was the movement that the two spectators
were forced to resume their seats in a few minutes to forestall their
seizure.
It was eight o'clock, the time set for the appearance of the President,
when Mayor Emmet came from one of the wings, entirely alone, and took a
chair near the centre of the stage. He had not been invited to meet
the President at dinner, and while the great man and his entertainers
lingered over their cigars, the mayor appeared promptly in the opera
house, as if keeping a business engagement. No one who listened to the
welcome he received could doubt his personal popularity or the
intensity with which his constituents resented the slight he had
endured. At first he sat facing the tumult imperturbably, and then a
smile slowly mounted to his eyes, as he rose and bowed his
acknowledgements. Demands for a speech were shot out at him from
various parts of the pit, but he merely shook his head and indicated
his refusal by a familiar yet graceful gesture.
Cardington sat gazing at the solitary figure, muttering half
inarticulate strictures upon the demagogical spirit that had led the
man to make such an open bid for sympathy and vindication, but his
companion experienced very different emotions. There sat Felicity's
husband, handsome, self-contained, and effective. With a rueful
appreciation of a type that differed so much from his own, the
astronomer wondered whether she could resist him now, were she there to
witness his triumph. The difference in social station between her and
her husband seemed unimportant now. What he lacked was easy to acquire
compared with what he had already won; and his weakness for Lena
Harpster was, after all, much less serious than the moral delinquencies
of the men of Felicity's own class. For Warwick, like all rich cities,
was honeycombed with social scandals, and scarcely one of Emmet's
opponents would have been justified, if all were published, in casting
the first stone at him. Surely, Leigh reflected, she must know these
facts, for even he, a comparative stranger, had heard of them.
Was her pride so exacting that she demanded perfection in return for
her condescension? Would she make no allowances whatever? It seemed
to Leigh that such an attitude on her part would be inhuman. During
his visit to New York he had recovered his grip upon himself, for he
was not one to throw away his days like the petals of a discarded
flower because he had failed to win the woman he loved. Love, he
reminded himself bitterly, was not the main business of life. This
mood of renunciation gave him an almost impersonal appreciation of his
successful rival; but the tribute left him heartsick. Like all
personally ambitious men who have failed of popular applause, the
success of another filled him with momentary self-depreciation. To be
sure, this popular triumph of Emmet was fleeting and local, while he
himself meant yet to win a permanent, though restricted, fame. Of this
he had no doubt. The present scene stirred him to grim emulation.
To-morrow he would realise that shouting and the clapping of hands are
as transient as the wind in the trees; but to-night they were, after
all, something well worth winning.
Presently, as if a play previously rehearsed were being acted before
the eyes of the audience, the "prominent representatives" of the city
and state began to swarm out from the wings and fill the chairs.
Senators, judges, millionaires, popular preachers, all sunk to the dead
level of a supporting chorus, an impressive illustration of the
littleness of the locally great. To all those thousands of intent eyes
these were merely the background upon which, in another moment, was to
be projected the one figure of national importance.
And now he was standing before them, instantly recognisable, though his
appearance magically bettered expectation. The committee, virtuously
true to the course of action they had planned, had passed Emmet by
without a look, but the people surged to their feet and cheered, as
they saw the President pause and take their mayor by the hand. The two
stood in front of the passing chorus, apparently chatting like old
friends, and as the audience caught sight of the President's famous
smile, they laughed aloud. Even those who might later call the
President's action shrewd politics now felt that it was dictated by
unaffected humanity, and their carefully nursed attitude of criticism
melted for the time in the warmth of that solvent personality.
As the confusion began to subside, while the observed and the observers
resumed their seats, Leigh suddenly saw Bishop Wycliffe sitting beside
the local bishop of the Roman Catholic Church. The proximity of the
two men, the easy courtesy of their manner as they exchanged a
whispered remark and turned again to glance at the President, stirred
Cardington to comment.
"That's a touching picture of Christian charity," he murmured, with a
gleam of amusement in his eyes, "our Anglican and Latin ecclesiastical
princes side by side, forgetful of the Eve of St. Bartholomew and of
Henry VIII. I have n't the slightest doubt that they are more
conscious at this moment of those very things and of their respective
traditions than of the situation before them."
His companion, looking for the bishop's daughter, scarcely heard what
he said. He discovered her in a box at one side of the stage, in the
midst of her friends, and was not surprised at the studied unconcern of
her manner. She must have come prepared to play her part. It was her
beauty only that surprised him. His mental picture of her was pale
compared with the glowing reality, for she seemed to have brought with
her all the warmth and colour of the south. Though her eyes were
turned in Emmet's direction, the casual observer might naturally have
supposed that the President, sitting in the same line of vision, was
the object of her interest. Only Leigh, glancing from one to the
other, saw her falter slightly as she encountered her husband's fixed
and meaning look. There was a determination in his aspect that shook
ever her fortified resolve. The colour slowly mounted in his face, and
his cheek pulsed with emotion. As her gaze fluttered away, he turned
himself in his chair with a decisive motion, like one who bides his
time, and sat looking upon vacancy. He seemed to forget the scene
before him and his own position between the warring forces so
dramatically brought together.
The silence of expectancy that had fallen upon the house was pierced by
a low hissing sound, for Anthony Cobbens had risen to his feet and
advanced to the footlights to make the speech of introduction. As the
malignant greeting reached his ears, his face paled and his fingers
tightened on the rim of the silk hat which he held awkwardly in the
bend of his arm. The scene Cardington had anticipated was about to be
enacted. Upon Cobbens, as the mouthpiece of the committee, the fury of
the people now turned itself, a fury no less intense because restrained
to some extent by the presence of the President. Perhaps the
unfortunate spokesman had thought that this presence would save him
entirely, for his reception seemed to turn him to stone. As he waited
for the hissing to subside, he presented an appearance at once so
grotesque and pitiful that his bitterest enemy must needs have felt
some twinges of compassion. That tight-waisted and wide-skirted coat,
those faultless trousers, served only to give a waspish effect, and to
emphasize the insignificance of the figure they were meant to dignify.
He wore a solitary pink carnation, selected with solicitous care. His
thin face seemed to shrivel under the fierce rays of scorn
concentrating from thousands of eyes, and his large, bald crown began
to glisten with slow drops of sweat. Even his voice, when he was
permitted to speak, had lost its timbre and suggested the voice of a
somnambulist.
It was evident that he had prepared a long and elaborate address, for
presently in the monotonous mumble of his words familiar phrases began
to reach the ears of those who listened,--"when police commissioner of
New York"--"the Rough riders"--"San Juan Hill,"--but for once their
conjuring power was gone, and they were greeted in silence or drowned
in mocking catcalls. Not one in ten of his audience knew or cared what
he was saying; not one in a thousand was moved to pity for his plight.
The people had been visited with scorn that day through an insult to
their elected representative, and now they paid it back with interest.
The lion was eating his trainer, and licking his chops with grim
satisfaction. The spirit was that of class against class, bitter,
ugly, and revengeful.
Leigh's personal interest was supplemented by the curiosity of a
comparative stranger, who drinks in every detail of a situation typical
of the country in which he has come to dwell. He studied the various
faces on the platform attentively, and wondered whether Judge Swigart
were now convinced of the existence of the class feeling which he had
so blandly belittled in the joint debate; but the defeated candidate,
like the majority of his companions, had assumed a studied and
enigmatic expression. So great was the tension that no one ventured to
look at his neighbour. In a way they were all sharers in the
humiliation of Cobbens, and co-recipients of the people's scorn. He
saw Felicity and Mrs. Parr putting their heads together in whispered
comment. The bishop stirred uneasily and glanced with irritation at
the speaker's back, as if he would fain have bid him make an end. In a
moment of pardonable weakness the mayor's lips parted in the briefest
of smiles. Then he took out his handkerchief to conceal his emotion,
and having propped his chin upon the palm of his hand, he gazed
abstractedly at the floor.
The President, twitching in his chair, appeared well-nigh unable to
control his nervousness. He grasped the arms of his seat convulsively,
he polished his glasses, he screwed up his eyes, he smiled, he frowned.
Watching him with intense interest, Leigh entirely forgot the speaker.
He had not imagined the President's build so powerful. There was a
brute strength in the neck and shoulders that would have been no
inadequate endowment for a pugilist; yet this suggestion was offset by
an expression of which his pictures had given scarcely a hint. It was
not difficult to understand how his enthusiastic biographer had been
carried away by that probity and sweetness, so that he made both
himself and his hero ridiculous and aroused inextinguishable laughter
among the arbiters of good taste. The subject was one that tempted men
to violent opinions on one side or the other.
Meanwhile the speech continued, but now the listeners began to
appreciate a curious change in the temper of the speaker and of his
tormentors. At first he had stood before them like one hypnotised,
unable to save himself by shortening the oration he had prepared. By
little and little, however, the innate power of the man asserted
itself, malign and hateful as ever, but no less surely effective. His
eyes began to glisten, his voice gained in volume and steadiness. He
gradually made himself heard more continuously, until the hissing and
catcalls became less frequent, and finally ceased. After a struggle of
fifteen minutes, he finished strong. Like some ill-favoured terrier,
he had persisted in spite of odds, and had worried his great antagonist
into wondering submission.
When his figure disappeared from view, to be replaced by that of the
President, his supporters exchanged sidelong glances and meaning
smiles. They had chosen their champion well, a nasty fighter, to crack
the whip over the class from which he had risen.
It was now that the President increased to passionate devotion the
popularity his attitude thus far had won him. As he heard Emmet's name
combined with his own in the cheering, his face lightened up with his
extraordinary and spontaneous smile. He turned, and pulled Emmet to
his feet beside him; then he sat down and looked on with keen enjoyment
while the mayor bowed his thanks. It was some time before the
demonstration ceased and the people, satisfied and vindicated, settled
down to listen.
But the President evidently had a score of his own to settle, and a
snub to administer. He turned to the senior Senator who sat at the far
left of the stage and thanked him for his welcome to the State; then he
turned to Mayor Emmet and thanked him for his welcome to the city.
There was not one word of reply to the ill-starred Cobbens, not one
syllable in appreciation of the efforts of the committee. He had taken
his manuscript from his pocket and laid it on the table before the full
meaning of this omission dawned upon the audience, and then they broke
loose with an animus which made their previous demonstrations seem
comparatively mild. The President gathered his manuscript together,
raised his hand for silence, and began to read.
His speech was simple in content and devoid of imaginative passages;
his delivery was conspicuously defective; his voice, uneven in quality,
now low, now breaking into a shrill note, seemed to come forth only at
the bidding of a tremendous will. Every word appeared to necessitate
an effort and to be ground out between clenched teeth. Yet his
listeners hung on every word with breathless attention. His smile
broke forth, and they found it irresistible; he grew serious, and they
reflected his mood; he made a patriotic appeal, and the response was
instant. Without any of the arts of the orator, he swayed them as he
would. It was the triumph of personality over art. The ugly memories
of the recent scene faded away; local struggles were forgotten; Emmet
and Cobbens receded equally into the background, and only the country's
glory and interests filled the minds of the listeners.
During all this time the bishop's daughter sat as one rapt in a reverie
that had little connection with the emotions that swayed the crowded
house before her. Emmet made no further attempt to look at her, and to
do so would have necessitated a conspicuous movement and turning; but
the young mathematician gazed in her direction from time to time,
wondering at the nature of her thoughts, and hoping that their eyes
might meet. As often before, he noted that her expression in repose
suggested a profound sadness, as if her beauty had brought its heritage
of unrest. There is a type of beauty that suggests a setting of
fashion and clothes and jewelry; but Felicity's loveliness was of the
twilight kind, far removed from realism, setting the imagination free
with fancies of the mountains and the woods. To the man who loved her
and had seen her in just such a setting, the appeal was all the more
powerful. Even now the shadows of the trees seemed to lurk in her
eyes, in her hair, and in the exquisite curve of her lips. It was
difficult for him to realise that she was a fashionable woman, loving
the opportunities of her social life, for he saw her otherwise. Hers
was a face toward which men gravitated, not drawn by her beauty alone,
nor by the brilliancy of her mind, but by a sense of mystery beyond the
outward seeming.
The atmosphere which the President's speech had created outlasted the
effort itself, and remained warmly in the minds of the hearers. All
too soon they were reaching for their hats and coats and beginning to
realise that the great occasion was over. Soon the stage was bare, and
the receding tide in the pit had left large patches of empty seats.
The experience had wrought a wonderful transformation in Leigh.
Emmet's initial triumph and his claims were now forgotten. Had the
mayor been allowed to speak, he would doubtless have scored a hit, but
Cobbens had succeeded in reducing him to a mere pawn. The people had
thrust him forward on the board; Cobbens had neatly lifted him off and
usurped his square. The mayor's position had been far from heroic,
battered between contending forces and finally rescued by the
President's strong arm. Doubtless Cobbens had killed himself
politically, but he had won a certain kind of victory. Emmet was
already beaten when he failed to grasp the opportunity the President's
visit presented and allowed the committee to thrust him aside. No
amount of subsequent championing could restore him to a position of
dignity. His enemies had decided that he must not be allowed to
introduce the President, for they knew he would do it well. They had
brought the fury of the people down upon their heads, but they had
exhibited their chosen representative before them in a mute and
inglorious rôle. They had even succeeded in making him an object of
pity. The damage he had received in the imagination of his supporters
was incalculable, and while they burned with indignation, they
instinctively paid a treacherous tribute to Cobbens's amazing
cleverness and audacity.
Though no such tribute was paid the lawyer by Leigh, it was still true
that the turn of affairs forced Emmet from his consideration until,
instead of a star of the first magnitude, he became a mere point of
light, and finally disappeared. During the President's speech, he felt
that he had been holding secret communion with Felicity, and the
accumulated excitement of the evening worked in his thoughts an
unexpected license and daring. It was possible to allow Emmet's claims
when he was receiving the homage of the people alone, and she had not
yet appeared; but her presence had revived the old passionate torment
in his heart. Love returned triumphant, making light of all other
claims and considerations.
Upon some natures oratory, the successful swaying of the crowd, has the
same effect, irrespective of the tone and content of the speech, that
is produced by the harmony of a great orchestra, an effect of
exaltation and lawlessness. In the young mathematician this
responsiveness was a marked trait, at variance with another more coldly
intellectual quality. He began to feel that he ranged at will, freed
from artificial and unreal restraints. He, too, would do some great
thing. On that full wave of excitement he was carried beyond the dikes
which in cooler moments he had erected against himself.
When the audience arose to depart, he looked longingly in the direction
of the box in which Felicity sat. He would fain have leaped upon the
stage and have gone to her before she could escape him; he was burning
to speak to her, to hear her voice and touch her hand. But her
departure with her friends was little less than precipitate. It did
not now occur to her lover that she might wish to avoid her husband; as
far as he was concerned, she had no husband. He only appreciated his
own disappointment, and stood chafing before the stupid herd that
blocked his way to the street.
In this mood he cared not at all to discuss the events of the evening
with his companion; but Cardington was full of caustic comment.
"It was a great occasion," he mused. "We have seen what we came out to
see, and what more have we a right to demand? The dear people rampant,
the respected mayor quiescent, but biding his time, Cobbens couchant
but fanged, the President raised to a sublime apotheosis. It is always
a pleasure--is it not?--to witness transcendent ability, even if it be
in the line of practical politics. The perfection of each thing is
worth observing. These local politicians are fools compared with the
President, mere blundering tyros in the hands of a master of the
craft." His eyes began to gleam with merriment. "And, by the way,
that was a noble effort of Mr. Cobbens, 'apples of gold in pitchers of
silver.'"
His soliloquy lasted unbroken until they reached the street. To his
companion there was now no inspiration in the moonlight, no sweetness
in the unusual mildness of the air. His restless eyes searched in vain
the long line of carriages, but Felicity was nowhere to be seen. He
caught sight of the bishop driving off alone, and Cardington noticed
the direction of his glance.
"Ah," he said, "the bishop is doubtless about to betake himself to the
final reception to the President at the Warwick Club. Which reminds me
that the Bradford House is only a short walk from here."