Carmel wondered how one went about it to obtain a private interview
with a Governor. She was still young enough and inexperienced enough
in life’s valuations to regard a man in that position as necessarily
above the ordinary run of men. His office invested him with a certain
glamour, a fictitious greatness. Governors, Senators, Presidents! Youth
invested them with a terrific dignity. It is somewhat difficult, even
for the wise and prudent, to see the man apart from his vestments;
to understand that there is, in reality, very slight difference
between human beings, and to approach those in authority with the sure
knowledge that, no matter how lofty their position, they have, at best,
but two arms and two legs, a fondness for mince pies, and a failing
for colds in the nose. Governors quarrel with their wives, and have
ingrowing toe nails. The forty-eight of them, heads of the several
states of the Union, remind one of the main street in a boom town--two
stories on the sidewalk, but a ramshackle shed in the rear....
No sooner did the dome of the Capitol appear through a break in the
wheels than Carmel began to dress herself mentally for the meeting. She
had a horrible fear she would become tongue-tied and thrust her thumb
in her mouth like an embarrassed little girl who has forgotten her
piece.... She glanced at her watch. It was five o’clock.
How late did Governors work at governing?... She directed her chauffeur
to drive to the Capitol, and there she alighted because she had no
idea what else to do. She climbed the imposing steps and entered the
building. It was a repellent sort of place; a mausoleum of assassinated
ambitions, and it chilled her. The corridors were all but deserted.
Leaning against a column adjacent to a brass cuspidor was an old man in
a uniform which might have been that of a prison guard, a janitor, or a
retired street car conductor. Carmel approached him.
“Where will I find the Governor?” she asked.
“Gawd knows,” said this official, and made a generous and accurate
contribution to the receptacle.
“Who does know?” Carmel asked, impatiently.
“I hain’t here to locate governors. I show folks through the buildin’,
and mostly they give me a quarter a head.”
“Well, show me to the Governor’s office and I’ll give you fifty cents a
head,” Carmel said.
He peered at her, took a last, regretful look at the cuspidor and
sighed. “’Tain’t wuth it,” he said, sententiously. “’Tain’t wuth fifty
cents to see no Governor I ever knowed, and I’ve come through the terms
of six.... Foller me.”
Grasping at straws, she questioned him. “What sort of man is the
Governor.”
“The kind that can git himself elected to office,” said her guide.
“Allus worked at it. Had his snoot in the trough since his fust vote.”
“Is it difficult to see him?”
“Depends on who you are.”
“Supposing you’re just nobody.”
“If ye hain’t got nothin’ to _give_, ye hain’t got nothin’ to git
nothin’ _with_.”
“You don’t seem to approve of him.”
“Him! Don’t think nothin’ about him. He’s jest the Governor. Be another
next year, and then another and another. He’s all right as Governors
go.”
“Can’t you tell me _anything_ about him?” she asked, desperately.
“He’s dark complected and takes a spoonful of bakin’ sody after each
meal,” said the guide. “There’s his office.... Said fifty cents, didn’t
ye?”
Thus fortified for her encounter, Carmel opened the door and found
herself in a large reception room where were two or three unoccupied
desks, and one at which a young man was seated. He looked up as she
entered, scowled, but as he comprehended her trim loveliness he
manipulated his face into a smirk and got to his feet.
“I wish to see the Governor,” she said.
“Have you an appointment?”
“No.”
He advanced with an ingratiating air. “Well, I might be able to fix it
for you....”
“Suppose you try at once,” she said, for his kind was well known
to her, as to any pretty girl. His chin dropped. “Take in my card,
please,” she said. The young man revised his estimate. She was pretty,
but she was _class_. Class, in his dictionary, meant anyone who could
not be approached by the likes of himself. She might even be important.
Sometimes women were important. They had rich or influential fathers
or husbands. At any rate, here was one it would be unsafe to approach
with blandishments. She was able to peg him neatly in the board as an
understrapper. He took her card and disappeared through an adjoining
door.
Presently he reappeared.
“His secretary will see you,” he said, and as she walked past him he
scowled again, and hated her for showing him his lack of importance in
the world.
The Governor’s secretary arose courteously as she entered. She
appraised him at once; recognized him for what he was, for the mark
was strong upon him--a newspaper man, rewarded for services by his
position. He was young, intelligent, sure of himself. She knew he would
have no awe of personages.
“Miss Lee?” he said, glancing at her card.
“I wish to see the Governor.”
“You have no appointment?”
“None. I drove from Gibeon on a matter of grave importance--almost of
life and death to our town. I must see him.”
“A pardon case?” he asked.
“No.”
“If you will state your business, I will see what can be done. The
Governor is very busy, of course, and cannot see everyone.”
“My business is private. I can tell it only to the Governor
himself--and I must see him.... I must see him.”
His face was not unfriendly as he regarded her for an instant. “The
Governor is not here. He has gone. However, if you will come back
at--say--ten o’clock to-morrow, I will see that you get a minute with
him.”
“I must see him now--to-night. To-morrow will not do.”
“I’m very sorry, but you can’t possibly see him. He is giving a dinner
in the Executive Mansion, and a ball this evening. You can see for
yourself.... He could not be disturbed. There are important guests. Our
Senator is here.”
She could see. The Governor’s day’s work was ended. His social day--an
important social day--was beginning, and in such circumstances it would
be impossible to penetrate to him.... She twisted her hands together
and bit her lip.... By this time Abner Fownes’s train would be arriving
in the city. _He_, doubtless, would have access to the Governor at any
time. Possibly he was to be a guest at the function.... If he were, if
he found the Governor’s ear, her mission would come to nothing.
“Is there no way--no way?” she asked.
“None, I am afraid.... But at ten to-morrow....”
“Thank you,” she said, heavily. Then, “Is it a large party?”
“Not a public function. Not small, but very exclusive. Our senior
Senator, you know, is very important socially.”
“I see,” said Carmel. “Thank you again.” She found herself again in
the outer office, and then in the corridor, making her way toward the
stairs. Near the door she saw again her guide, close to the copper
receptacle which seemed to have won his affection.
“See him?” he asked.
“No.”
“Didn’t calc’late ye would,” he said. “Seen him go home an hour ago.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Been poorer by half a dollar if I had,” he said, succinctly.
She was driven to the hotel, where she registered and was shown to her
room by a bell boy. No sooner had he closed the door and departed with
her gratuity in his hand than she threw herself down on the bed in very
girlish despair.... She had failed. Singularly enough, it was not the
failure itself which stung her; it was the fact that Evan Bartholomew
Pell would know of her failure.... She had failed _him_. This was an
incomprehensible state of affairs, and when she discovered it she was
shocked. What difference did it make what Evan Pell thought, or how he
regarded her failure. It was none of his business, anyhow. The paper
was hers, and he nothing but a poorly paid employee.... It was all very
well to tell this to herself, but the fact remained. She could not go
back to Gibeon and confess failure to Evan.
She sat erect, hands clenched. Her teeth pressed her lips. “A man would
see the Governor. He would manage it. I’ve a _right_ to see him. His
business is with affairs like mine, and not with dances.... I will see
him. I’ll make him see me!”
There was a way, because there is always a way to accomplish
everything.... Her thoughts came in fragmentary form, chaotic. Abner
Fownes was in the city, perhaps in this very hotel. She tried to
reason about him. What if he were a guest at the dinner.... That was a
possibility to consider, and she scrutinized it. No, she concluded, he
was not to be a dinner guest. Being a dinner guest of the Governor’s
was not a fact he could have kept secret. It would elevate him in
Gibeon’s eyes. He would never keep to himself a fact like that. Gibeon
would have been informed. It would have been informed days ago so that
Abner could have basked in this new glory!... But would he be at the
ball? That was not to be determined. In politics he was important, and,
ball or no ball, if he demanded an interview, the Governor would grant
it. And he would demand an interview. He had journeyed to the capital
in haste. This meant he had immediate need for Jenney’s appointment as
sheriff.... He would see the Governor to-night!
Carmel opened her bag and thanked God for the impulse which had
included her evening gown in her equipment. She laid it out on the
bed and smoothed it.... Presently she was taking a bath, refreshing
herself, and feeling very adventurous and almost happy. With
characteristic neglect of impediments and consequences, she had taken a
resolution--to be an uninvited guest at the Governor’s ball.
She telephoned for something to eat--to be sent to her room, for she
feared to go to the public dining room, lest she encounter Fownes.
At all costs Abner must be kept unaware of her presence. She was as
relieved as if full success were hers, and she dressed with animation
and pleasure. When she looked in the glass she could not help
reflecting that, if she were not an invited guest at the ball she would
not be a discredit to it.
It was difficult to wait. She paced up and down the room, planning,
discarding plans. She endeavored to foresee obstacles and to remove
them. She imagined, and enjoyed the imagining, dramatizing the whole
evening in advance. She endowed the Governor with the qualities history
gave to Abraham Lincoln--more especially in those episodes where he is
reported to have arisen from important affairs of state to listen to
the story of some wife or daughter whose loved one was to be executed
for sleeping on his post. Yet she did not even know what the Governor
looked like. His photographs--yes. She had seen his face, but it was
not familiar to her, nor whether he was tall or short, brawny or
slender.... The picture she painted made him big, broad of shoulder,
with a fine, high forehead, noble eyes, and a fatherly manner. Perhaps
he would address her as child, and, with courtesy, lead her to some
private spot where she would pour her story into his sympathetic ear.
He would be amazed, startled, confounded at the news of such a state of
affairs in the commonwealth he governed.... And he would act. He would
send her away from him with the precious appointment in her hand ...
and with lofty words of praise....
She watched the time. It seemed as if days passed instead of hours
before she telephoned down for her car. But when she issued from her
room to descend, her dreams melted into damp fog and she was terrified.
She feared to encounter Fownes at every step. Her heart almost stopped
beating as she imagined terrible incidents. Suppose she were stopped at
the door! Suppose, once inside, credentials should be demanded of her!
Suppose the Governor’s wife should approach with a horrible society
air and eye her scornfully and demand by what right she was there!
She might be the center of a scene, might be expelled from the place!
Almost she repented. Almost she returned to her room. But something
compelled her to go on.... The only courage is that which compels one
in spite of his terror.
The car was waiting. “The Executive Mansion,” she said, and sank back
in her place, quivering.
Presently, too soon, they drew up before the awning which stretched
from the Governor’s door to the street. A servant opened the car door
and she alighted. He bowed elaborately. Carmel took it for a good omen.
There was no questioning her of her right to be present.... A certain
security came of the knowledge that she looked as if she belonged in
this world.
She mounted the steps and was bowed into the hall. No question was
asked. Servants took charge of her and directed her. She mounted the
stairs, found herself in a room with a number of women, who glanced at
her indifferently. A maid took her wrap. In this security she lingered
as long as she could find excuse--putting off the moment when she
must descend.... An elderly woman was leaving the room, and Carmel,
quick to grasp opportunity, left in her wake, keeping close to her on
the stairs. Side by side they entered the ballroom--as if they were
together. Carmel regarded the elderly dame as her ticket of admission.
The orchestra was playing a fox trot; the room was vivid with color....
She paused, searching for the man she had come to see, but could not
discover him.... Summoning what assurance she could, she entered the
room and skirted it, her eyes on the dancers. She paused, looking for a
seat.
At the end, beyond the orchestra, was an alcove, and she moved toward
it, entered it. Here was an observation post. She turned to find a
chair from which she could watch the ballroom, and as she did so a man
entered from a door at the left. Her hands flew to her breast and she
choked back a scream.
She was face to face with Abner Fownes!