Train Number Three, the Western Flyer, was late, as Kent had
predicted--just how late the operator could not tell; and pending the
chalking-up of its arriving time on the bulletin board, the two men sat on
an empty baggage truck and smoked in companionable silence.
While they waited, Loring's thoughts were busy with many things, friendly
solicitude for the exile serving as the point of departure. He knew what a
handfast friend might know: how Kent had finished his postgraduate course
in the law and had succeeded to his father's small practice in the New
Hampshire county town where he was born and bred. Also, he knew how Kent's
friends, college friends who knew his gifts and ability, had deprecated
the burial; and he himself had been curious enough to pay Kent a visit to
spy out the reason why. On their first evening together in the stuffy
little law office which had been his father's, Kent had made a clean
breast of it: there was a young woman in the case, and a promise passed
before Kent had gone to college. She was a farmer's daughter, with no
notion for a change of environment; wherefore she had determined Kent's
career and the scene of it, laying its lines in the narrow field of her
own choosing.
Later, as Loring knew, the sentimental anchor had dragged until it was
hopelessly off holding-ground. The young woman had laid the blame at the
door of the university, had given Kent a bad half-year of fault-finding
and recrimination, and had finally made an end of the matter by bestowing
her dowry of hillside acres on the son of a neighboring farmer.
Thereafter Kent had stagnated quietly, living with simple rigor the life
he had marked out for himself; thankful at heart, Loring had suspected,
for the timely intervention of the farmer's son, but holding himself well
in hand against a repetition of the sentimental offense. All this until
the opening of the summer hotel at the foot of Old Croydon, and the coming
of Elinor Brentwood.
No one knew just how much Miss Brentwood had to do with the long-delayed
awakening of David Kent; but in Loring's forecastings she enjoyed the full
benefit of the doubt. From tramping the hills alone, or whipping the
streams for brook trout, David had taken to spending his afternoons with
lover-like regularity at the Croydon Inn; and at the end of the season had
electrified the sleepy home town by declaring his intention to go West and
grow up with the country.
In Loring's setting-forth of the awakening, the motive was not far to
seek. Miss Brentwood was ambitious, and if her interest in Kent had been
only casual she would not have been likely to point him to the wider
battle-field. Again, apart from his modest patrimony, Kent had only his
profession. The Brentwoods were not rich, as riches are measured in
millions; but they lived in their own house in the Back Bay wilderness,
moved in Boston's older substantial circle, and, in a world where success,
economic or other, is in some sort the touchstone, were many social planes
above a country lawyer.
Loring knew Kent's fierce poverty-pride--none better. Hence, he was at no
loss to account for the exile's flight afield, or for his unhopeful
present attitude. Meaning to win trophies to lay at Miss Brentwood's feet,
the present stage of the rough joust with Fortune found him unhorsed,
unweaponed and rolling in the dust of the lists.
Loring chewed his cigar reflectively, wishing his companion would open the
way to free speech on the subject presumably nearest his heart. He had a
word of comfort, negative comfort, to offer, but it might not be said
until Kent should give him leave by taking the initiative. Kent broke
silence at last, but the prompting was nothing more pertinent than the
chalking-up of the delayed train's time.
"An hour and twenty minutes: that means any time after nine o'clock. I'm
honestly sorry for you, Grantham--sorry for any one that has to stay in
this charnel-house of a town ten minutes after he's through. What will you
do with yourself?"
Loring got up, looked at his watch, and made a suggestion, hoping that
Kent would fall in with it.
"I don't know. Shall we go back to your rooms and sit a while?"
The exile's eyes gloomed suddenly.
"Not unless you insist on it. We should get back among the relics and I
should bore you. I'm not the man you used to know, Grantham."
"No?" said Loring. "I sha'n't be hypocritical enough to contradict you.
Nevertheless, you are my host. It is for you to say what you will do with
me until train time."
"We can kill an hour at the rally, if you like. You have seen the street
parade and heard the band play: it is only fair that you should see the
menagerie on exhibition."
Loring found his match-box and made a fresh light for his cigar.
"It's pretty evident that you and 'next-Governor' Bucks are on opposite
sides of the political fence," he observed.
"We are. I should think a good bit less of myself than I do--and that's
needless--if I trained in his company."
"Yet you will give him a chance to make a partizan of me? Well, come
along. Politics are not down on my western programme, but I'm here to see
all the new things."
The Gaston Opera House was a survival of the flush times, and barring a
certain tawdriness from disuse and neglect, and a rather garish effect
which marched evenly with the brick-and-terra-cotta fronts in Texas Street
and the American-Tudor cottages of the suburbs, it was a creditable relic.
The auditorium was well filled in pit, dress-circle and gallery when Kent
and his guest edged their way through the standing committee in the foyer;
but by dint of careful searching they succeeded in finding two seats well
around to the left, with a balcony pillar to separate them from their
nearest neighbors.
Since the public side of American politics varies little with the
variation of latitude or longitude, the man from the East found himself at
once in homely and remindful surroundings. There was the customary draping
of flags under the proscenium arch and across the set-piece villa of the
background. In the semicircle of chairs arched from wing to wing sat the
local and visiting political lights; men of all trades, these, some of
them a little shamefaced and ill at ease by reason of their unwonted
conspicuity; all of them listening with a carefully assumed air of
strained attention to the speaker of the moment.
Also, there was the characteristic ante-election audience, typical of all
America--the thing most truly typical in a land where national types are
sought for microscopically: wheel-horses who came at the party call; men
who came in the temporary upblaze of enthusiastic patriotism, which is
lighted with the opening of the campaign, and which goes out like a candle
in a gust of wind the day after the election; men who came to applaud
blindly, and a few who came to cavil and deride. Loring oriented himself
in a leisurely eye-sweep, and so came by easy gradations to the speaker.
Measured by the standard of fitness for his office of prolocutor the man
standing beside the stage-properties speaker's desk was worthy a second
glance. He was dark, undersized, trimly built; with a Vandyke beard
clipped closely enough to show the lines of a bull-dog jaw, and eyes that
had the gift, priceless to the public speaker, of seeming to hold every
onlooking eye in the audience. Unlike his backers in the awkward
semicircle, he wore a professional long coat; and the hands that marked
his smoothly flowing sentences were slim and shapely.
"Who is he?" asked Loring, in an aside to Kent.
"Stephen Hawk, the ex-district attorney: boomer, pettifogger, promoter--a
charter member of the Gaston wolf-pack. A man who would persuade you into
believing in the impeccability of Satan in one breath, and knife you in
the back for a ten-dollar bill in the next," was the rejoinder.
Loring nodded, and again became a listener. Hawk's speech was merely
introductory, and it was nearing its peroration.
"Fellow citizens, this occasion is as auspicious as it is significant.
When the people rise in their might to say to tyranny in whatsoever form
it oppresses them, 'Thus far and no farther shalt thou go,' the night is
far spent and the light is breaking in the east.
"Since the day when we first began to wrest with compelling hands the
natural riches from the soil of this our adoptive State, political
trickery in high places, backed by the puissant might of alien
corporations, has ground us into the dust.
"But now the time of our deliverance is at hand. Great movements give
birth to great leaders; and in this, our holy crusade against oppression
and tyranny, the crisis has bred the man. Ladies and gentlemen, I have the
pleasure of presenting to you the speaker of the evening: our friend and
fellow citizen the Honorable Jasper G. Bucks, by the grace of God, and
your suffrages, the next governor of the State."
In the storm of applause that burst upon the dramatic peroration of the
ex-district attorney, a man rose from the center of the stage semicircle
and lumbered heavily forward to the footlights. Loring's first emotion was
of surprise, tempered with pity. The crisis-born leader, heralded by such
a flourish of rhetorical trumpets, was a giant in size; but with his huge
figure, unshapely and ill-clad, all promise of greatness seemed to pause.
His face, broad-featured, colorless, and beardless as a boy's, was either
a blank or an impenetrable mask. There was no convincement in the
lack-luster gaze of the small, porcine eyes; no eloquence in the harsh,
nasal tones of the untrained voice, or in the ponderous and awkward
wavings of the beam-like arms. None the less, before he had uttered a
dozen halting sentences he was carrying the audience with him step by
step; moving the great concourse of listeners with his commonplace periods
as a mellifluous Hawk could never hope to move it.
Loring saw the miracle in the throes of its outworking; saw and felt it in
his own proper person, and sought in vain to account for it. Was there
some subtile magnetism in this great hulk of a man that made itself felt
in spite of its hamperings? Or was it merely that the people, weary of
empty rhetoric and unkept promises, were ripe to welcome and to follow any
man whose apparent earnestness and sincerity atoned for all his lacks?
Explain it as he might, Loring soon assured himself that the Honorable
Jasper G. Bucks was laying hold of the sentiment of the audience as though
it were a thing tangible to be grasped by the huge hands. Unlike Hawk,
whose speech flamed easily into denunciation when it touched on the alien
corporations, he counseled moderation and lawful reprisals. Land
syndicates, railroads, foreign capital in whatever employment, were prime
necessities in any new and growing commonwealth. The province of the
people was not to wreck the ship, but to guide it. And the remedy for all
ills lay in controlling legislation, faithfully and rigidly enforced.
"My friends: I'm only a plain, hard-handed farmer, as those of you who are
my fellow townsmen can testify. But I've seen what you've seen, and I've
suffered what you've suffered. Year after year we send our representatives
to the legislature, and what comes of it? Why, these corporations, looking
only to their own interests, as they're in duty bound to do, buys 'em if
they can. You can't blame 'em for that; it's business--their business. But
it is our business, as citizens of this great commonwealth, to prevent it.
We have good laws on our statute books, but we need more of 'em; laws for
control, with plain, honest men at the capital, in the judiciary, in every
root and branch of the executive, to enforce 'em. With such laws, and such
men to see that they are executed, there wouldn't be any more extortion,
any more raising of the rates of transportation on the produce of our
ranches and farms merely because the eastern market for that particular
product happened to jump a few cents on the dollar.
"No, my friends; plain, hard-handed farmer though I be, I can see what
will follow an honest election of the people, by the people, and for the
people. The State can be--it ought to be--sovereign within its own
boundaries. If we rise up as one man next Tuesday and put a ticket into
the ballot-box that says we are going to make it so, and keep it so,
you'll see a new commodity tariff put into effect on the Western Pacific
Railroad the day after."
The speaker paused, and into the little gap of silence barked a voice from
the gallery.
"That's what you say. But supposin' they don't do it?"
Loring was gazing steadfastly at the blank, heavy face, so utterly devoid
of the enthusiasm the man was evoking in others. For one flitting instant
he thought he saw behind the mask. The immobile face, the awkward
gestures, the slipshod English became suddenly transparent, revealing the
real man; a man of titanic strength, of tremendous possibilities for good
or evil. Loring put up his glasses and looked again; but the figure of the
flash-light inner vision had vanished, and the speaker was answering his
objector as calmly as though the house held only the single critic to be
set right.
"I'm always glad to hear a man speak right out in meeting," he said,
dropping still deeper into the colloquialisms. "Supposing the corporations
don't see the handwriting on the wall--won't see it, you say? Then, my
friend, it will become the manifest duty of the legislature and the
executive to make 'em see it: always lawfully, you understand; always with
a just and equitable respect for the rights of property in which our free
and glorious institutions are founded, but with level-handed justice, and
without fear or favor."
A thunderous uproar of applause clamored on the heels of the answer, and
the Honorable Jasper mopped his face with a colored handkerchief and took
a swallow of water from the glass on the desk.
"Mind you, my friends, I'm not saying we are not going to find plenty of
stumps and roots and a tough sod in this furrow we are going to plow. It's
only the fool or the ignoramus who underrates the strength of his
opponent. It is going to be just plain, honest justice and the will of the
people against the money of the Harrimans and the Goulds and the
Vanderbilts and all the rest of 'em. But the law is mighty, and it will
prevail. Give us an honest legislature to make such laws, and an executive
strong enough to enforce 'em, and the sovereign State will stand out
glorious and triumphant as a monument against oppression.
"When that time comes--and it's a-coming, my friends--the corporations and
the syndicates will read the handwriting on the wall; don't you be afraid
of that. If they should be a little grain thick-headed and sort o' blind
at first, as old King Belshazzar was, it may be that the sovereign State
will have to give 'em an object-lesson--lawfully, always lawfully, you
understand. But when they see, through the medium of such an object-lesson
or otherwise, as the case may be, that we mean business; when they see
that we, the people of this great and growing commonwealth, mean to assert
our rights to live and move and have our being, to have fair, even-handed
justice meted out to ourselves, our wives and our little children, they'll
come down and quit watering their stock with the sweat of our brows; and
that hold-up motto of theirs, 'All the tariff the traffic will stand,'
will be no more known in Israel!"
Again the clamor of applause rose like fine dust on the throng-heated air,
and Kent looked at his watch.
"It is time we were going," he said; adding: "I guess you have had enough
of it, haven't you?"
Loring was silent for the better part of the way back to the railway
station. When he spoke it was in answer to a delayed question of Kent's.
"What do I think of him? I don't know, David; and that's the plain truth.
He is not the man he appears to be as he stands there haranguing that
crowd. That is a pose, and an exceedingly skilful one. He is not
altogether apparent to me; but he strikes me as being a man of immense
possibilities--whether for good or evil, I can't say."
"You needn't draw another breath of uncertainty on that score," was the
curt rejoinder. "He is a demagogue, pure and unadulterated."
Loring did not attempt to refute the charge.
"Are he and his party likely to win?" he asked.
"God knows," said Kent. "We have had so many lightning transformations in
politics in the State that nothing is impossible."
"I'd like to know," was Loring's comment. "It might make some difference
to me, personally."
"To you?" said Kent, inquiringly. "That reminds me: I haven't given you a
chance to say ten words about yourself."
"The chance hasn't been lacking. But my business out here is--well, it
isn't exactly a Star Chamber matter, but I'm under promise in a way not to
talk about it until I have had a conference with our people at the
capital. I'll write you about it in a few days."
They were ascending the steps at the end of the passenger platform again,
and Loring broke away from the political and personal entanglement to give
Kent one more opportunity to hear his word of negative comfort.
"We dug up the field of recollection pretty thoroughly in our after-dinner
séance in your rooms, David, but I noticed there was one corner of it you
left undisturbed. Was there any good reason?"
Kent made no show of misunderstanding.
"There was the excellent reason which must have been apparent to you
before you had been an hour in Gaston. I've made my shot, and missed."
Loring entered the breach with his shield held well to the fore. He was
the last man in the world to assault a friend's confidence recklessly.
"I thought a good while ago, and I still think, that you are making a
mountain out of a mole-hill, David. Elinor Brentwood is a true woman in
every inch of her. She is as much above caring for false notions of caste
as you ought to be."
"I know her nobility: which is all the more reason why I shouldn't take
advantage of it. We may scoff at the social inequalities as much as we
please, but we can't laugh them out of court. As between a young woman who
is an heiress in her own right, and a briefless lawyer, there are
differences which a decent man is bound to efface. And I haven't been
able."
"Does Miss Brentwood know?"
"She knows nothing at all. I was unwilling to entangle her, even with a
confidence."
"The more fool you," said Loring, bluntly. "You call yourself a lawyer,
and you have not yet learned one of the first principles of common
justice, which is that a woman has some rights which even a besotted lover
is bound to respect. You made love to her that summer at Croydon; you
needn't deny it. And at the end of things you walk off to make your
fortune without committing yourself; without knowing, or apparently
caring, what your stiff-necked poverty-pride may cost her in years of
uncertainty. You deserve to lose her."
Kent's smile was a fair measure of his unhopeful mood.
"You can't well lose what you have never had. I'm not such an ass as to
believe that she cared greatly."
"How do you know? Not by anything you ever gave her a chance to say, I'll
dare swear. I've a bit of qualified good news for you, but the spirit is
moving me mightily to hold my tongue."
"Tell me," said Kent, his indifference vanishing in the turning of a leaf.
"Well, to begin with, Miss Brentwood is still unmarried, though the
gossips say she doesn't lack plenty of eligible offers."
"Half of that I knew; the other half I took for granted. Go on."
"Her mother, under the advice of the chief of the clan Brentwood, has been
making a lot of bad investments for herself and her two daughters: in
other words, she has been making ducks and drakes of the Brentwood
fortune."
Kent was as deeply moved as if the loss had been his own, and said as
much, craving more of the particulars.
"I can't give them. But I may say that the blame lies at your door,
David."
"At my door? How do you arrive at that?"
"By the shortest possible route. If you had done your duty by Elinor in
the Croydon summer, Mrs. Brentwood would have had a bright young attorney
for a son-in-law and adviser, and the bad investments would not have been
made."
Kent's laugh was entirely devoid of mirth.
"Don't trample on a man when he's down. I was neither a prophet nor the
son of a prophet. But how bad is the smash? Surely you know that?"
"No, I don't. Bradford was telling me about it the day I left Boston. He
gave me to understand that the principal family holding at present is in
the stock of a certain western railway."
"Did he happen to know the name of the stock?" asked Kent, moistening his
lips.
"He did. Fate flirts with you two in the usual fashion. Mrs. Brentwood's
little fortune--and by consequence, Elinor's and Penelope's--is tied up in
the stock of the company whose platform we are occupying at the present
moment--the Western Pacific."
Kent let slip a hard word directed at ill-advisers in general, and Loring
took his cue from the malediction.
"You swear pretty feelingly, David. Isn't our property as good a thing as
we of the Boston end have been cracking it up to be?"
"You know better about the financial part of it than I do. But--well, you
are fresh from this anarchistic conclave at the Opera House. You can
imagine what the stock of the Western Pacific, or of any other foreign
corporation doing business in this State, will be worth in six months
after Bucks and his crowd get into the saddle."
"You speak as if the result of the election were a foregone conclusion. I
hope it isn't. But we were talking more particularly of Miss Brentwood,
and your personal responsibilities." The belated train was whistling for
the lower yard, and Loring was determined to say all that was in his mind.
"Yes; go on. I'm anxious to hear--more anxious than I seem to be,
perhaps."
"Well, she is coming West, after a bit. She, and her sister and the
mother. Mrs. Brentwood's asthma is worse, and the wise men have ordered
her to the interior. I thought you'd like to know."
"Is she--are they coming this way?" asked Kent.
The train was in, and the porter had fetched Loring's hand-bag from the
check-stand. The guest paused with one foot on the step of the
sleeping-car.
"If I were you, David, I'd write and ask; I should, by Jove. It would be a
tremendously cheeky thing to do, of course, having such a slight
acquaintance with her as you have; but I'll be hanged if I shouldn't
chance it. And in the mean time, if I don't go back East next week, you'll
hear from me. When you do, or if you do, take a day off and run up to the
capital. I shall need you. Good-by."
Kent watched the train pull out; stood looking after it until the two red
eyes of the rear signals had disappeared in the dusty darkness of the
illimitable plain. Then he went to his rooms, to the one which was called
by courtesy his office, and without allowing himself time for a nice
balancing of the pros and cons, squared himself at the desk to write a
letter.