Victor laid his hand on Davy's arm. "Get it straight, Davy," he said.
"You can't help us. We don't need you. It's you that needs us. We'll
make an honest man of you--instead of a trimming politician, trying to
say or to do something more or less honest once in a while and winking
at or abetting crookedness most of the time."
"I've done nothing, and I'll do nothing, to be ashamed of," protested
Hull.
"You are not ashamed of the way your movement is financed?"
Davy moved uncomfortably. "The money's ours now," said he. "They gave
it unconditionally."
But he could not meet Victor's eyes. Victor said: "They paid a
hundred thousand dollars for a judgeship and for a blanket mortgage on
your party. And if you should win, you'd find you could do little
showy things that were of no value, but nothing that would seriously
disturb a single leech sucking the blood of this community."
"I don't agree with you," said Davy. He roused himself into anger--his
only remaining refuge. "Your prejudices blind you to all the
means--the PRACTICAL means--of doing good, Dorn. I've listened
patiently to you because I respect your sincerity. But I'm not going
to waste my life in mere criticism. I'm going to DO something."
An expression of profound sadness came into Victor's face. "Don't
decide now," he said. "Think it over. Remember what I've told you
about what we'll be compelled to do if you launch this party."
Hull was tempted to burst out violently. Was not this swollen-headed
upstart trying to intimidate him by threats? But his strong instinct
for prudence persuaded him to conceal his resentment. "Why the devil
should you attack US?" he demanded.
"Surely we're nearer your kind of thing than the old parties--and we,
too, are against them--their rotten machines."
"We purpose to keep the issue clear in this town," replied Victor.
"So, we can't allow a party to grow up that PRETENDS to be just as good
as ours but is really a cover behind which the old parties we've been
battering to pieces can reorganize."
"That is, you'll tolerate in this market no brand of honest politics
but your own?"
"If you wish to put it that way," replied Victor coolly.
"I suppose you'd rather see Kelly or House win?"
"We'll see that House does win," replied Victor. "When we have shot
your movement full of holes and sunk it, House will put up a straight
Democratic ticket, and it will win."
"And House means Kelly--and Kelly means corruption rampant."
"And corruption rampant means further and much needed education in the
school of hard experience for the voters," said Dorn. "And the more
education, the larger our party and the quicker its triumph."
Hull laughed angrily. "Talk about low self-seeking! Talk about rotten
practical politics!"
But Dorn held his good humor of the man who has the power and knows it.
"Think it over, Davy," counseled he. "You'll see you've got to come
with us or join Kelly. For your own sake I'd like to see you with us.
For the party's sake you'd better be with Kelly, for you're not really
a workingman, and our fellows would be uneasy about you for a long
time. You see, we've had experience of rich young men whose hearts
beat for the wrongs of the working class--and that experience has not
been fortunate."
"Before you definitely decide to break with the decent element of the
better class, Victor, I want YOU to think it over," said Davy. "We--I,
myself--have befriended you more than once. But for a few of us who
still have hope that demagoguery will die of itself, your paper would
have been suppressed long ago."
Victor laughed. "I wish they would suppress it," said he. "The result
would give the 'better element' in this town a very bad quarter of an
hour, at least." He rose. "We've both said all we've got to say to
each other. I see I've done no good. I feared it would be so." He
was looking into Hull's eyes--into his very soul. "When we meet again,
you will probably be my open and bitter enemy. It's a pity. It makes
me sad. Good-by, and--do think it over, Davy."
Dorn moved rapidly away. Hull looked after him in surprise. At first
blush he was astonished that Dorn should care so much about him as this
curious interview and his emotion at its end indicated. But on
reflecting his astonishment disappeared, and he took the view that Dorn
was simply impressed by his personality and by his ability--was perhaps
craftily trying to disarm him and to destroy his political movement
which was threatening to destroy the Workingmen's League. "A very
shrewd chap is Dorn," thought Davy--why do we always generously concede
at least acumen to those we suspect of having a good opinion of us?--"A
VERY shrewd chap. It's unfortunate he's cursed with that miserable
envy of those better born and better off than he is."
Davy spent the early evening at the University Club, where he was an
important figure. Later on he went to a dance at Mrs. Venable's--and
there he was indeed a lion, as an unmarried man with money cannot but
be in a company of ladies--for money to a lady is what soil and sun and
rain are to a flower--is that without which she must cease to exist.
But still later, when he was alone in bed--perhaps with the supper he
ate at Mrs. Venable's not sitting as lightly as comfort required--the
things Victor Dorn had said came trailing drearily through his mind.
What kind of an article would Dorn print? Those facts about the
campaign fund certainly would look badly in cold type--especially if
Dorn had the proofs. And Hugo Galland-- Beyond question the mere list
of the corporations in which Hugo was director or large stockholder
would make him absurd as a judge, sitting in that district. And Hugo
the son-in-law of the most offensive capitalist in that section of the
State! And the deal with House, endorsed by Kelly--how nasty that
would look, IF Victor had the proofs. IF Victor had the proofs. But
had he?
"I MUST have a talk with Kelly," said Davy, aloud.
The words startled him--not his voice suddenly sounding in the profound
stillness of his bedroom, but the words themselves. It was his first
admission to himself of the vicious truth he had known from the outset
and had been pretending to himself that he did not know--the truth that
his reform movement was a fraud contrived by Dick Kelly to further the
interests of the company of financiers and the gang of
politico-criminal thugs who owned the party machinery. It is a nice
question whether a man is ever allowed to go in HONEST self-deception
decisively far along a wrong road. However this may be, certain it is
that David Hull, reformer, was not so allowed. And he was glad of the
darkness that hid him at least physically from himself as he strove to
convince himself that, if he was doing wrong, it was from the highest
motives and for the noblest purposes and would result in the public
good--and not merely in fame and office for David Hull.
The struggle ended as struggles usually end in the famous arena of
moral sham battles called conscience; and toward the middle of the
following morning Davy, at peace with himself and prepared to make any
sacrifice of personal squeamishness or moral idealism for the sake of
the public good, sought out Dick Kelly.
Kelly's original headquarters had, of course, been the doggery in and
through which he had established himself as a political power. As his
power grew and his relations with more respectable elements of society
extended he shifted to a saloon and beer garden kept by a reputable
German and frequented by all kinds of people--a place where his friends
of the avowedly criminal class and his newer friends of the class that
does nothing legally criminal, except in emergencies, would feel
equally at ease. He retained ownership of the doggery, but took his
name down and put up that of his barkeeper. When he won his first big
political fight and took charge of the public affairs of Remsen City
and made an arrangement with Joe House where--under Remsen City,
whenever it wearied or sickened of Kelly, could take instead Kelly
disguised as Joe House--when he thus became a full blown boss he
established a secondary headquarters in addition to that at Herrmann's
Garden. Every morning at ten o'clock he took his stand in the main
corridor of the City Hall, really a thoroughfare and short cut for the
busiest part of town. With a cigar in his mouth he stood there for an
hour or so, holding court, making appointments, attending to all sorts
of political business.
Presently his importance and his ideas of etiquette expanded to such an
extent that he had to establish the Blaine Club. Joe House's Tilden
Club was established two years later, in imitation of Kelly. If you
had very private and important business with Kelly--business of the
kind of which the public must get no inkling, you made--preferably by
telephone--an appointment to meet him in his real estate offices in the
Hastings Building--a suite with entrances and exits into three
separated corridors. If you wished to see him about ordinary matters
and were a person who could "confer" with Kelly without its causing
talk you met him at the Blaine Club. If you wished to cultivate him,
to pay court to him, you saw him at Herrmann's--or in the general rooms
of the club. If you were a busy man and had time only to exchange
greetings with him--to "keep in touch"--you passed through the City
Hall now and then at his hour. Some bosses soon grow too proud for the
vulgar democracy of such a public stand; but Kelly, partly through
shrewdness, partly through inclination, clung to the City Hall stand
and encouraged the humblest citizens to seek him there and tell him the
news or ask his aid or his advice.
It was at the City Hall that Davy Hull sought him, and found him.
Twice he walked briskly to the boss; the third time he went by slowly.
Kelly, who saw everything, had known from the first glance at Hull's
grave, anxious face, that the young leader of the "holy boys" was there
to see him. But he ignored Davy until Davy addressed him directly.
"Howdy, Mr. Hull!" said he, observing the young man with eyes that
twinkled cynically. "What's the good word?"
"I want to have a little talk with you," Davy blurted out. "Where could
I see you?"
"Here I am," said Kelly. "Talk away."
"Couldn't I see you at some--some place where we'd not be interrupted?
I saw Victor Dorn yesterday, and he said some things that I think you
ought to know about."
"I do know about 'em," replied Kelly.
"Are you sure? I mean his threats to--to----"
As Davy paused in an embarrassed search for a word that would not hurt
his own but recently soothed conscience, Kelly laughed. "To expose you
holy boys?" inquired he. "To upset the nice moral campaign you and Joe
House have laid out? Yes, I know all about Mr. Victor Dorn. But--Joe
House is the man you want to see. You boys are trying to do me
up--trying to break up the party. You can't expect ME to help you.
I've got great respect for you personally, Mr. Hull. Your father--he
was a fine old Republican wheel-horse. He stood by the party through
thick and thin--and the party stood by him. So, I respect his
son--personally. But politically--that's another matter. Politically I
respect straight organization men of either party, but I've got no use
for amateurs and reformers. So--go to Joe House." All this in perfect
good humor, and in a tone of banter that might have ruffled a man with
a keener sense of humor than Davy's.
Davy was red to his eyes, not because Kelly was laughing at him, but
because he stood convicted of such a stupid political blunder as coming
direct to Kelly when obviously he should have gone to Kelly's secret
partner. "Dorn means to attack us all--Republicans, Democrats and
Citizens' Alliance," stammered Davy, trying to justify himself.
Kelly shifted his cigar and shrugged his shoulders.
"Don't worry about his attacks on me--on US," said he. "We're used to
being attacked. We haven't got no reputation for superior virtue to
lose."
"But he says he can prove that our whole campaign is simply a deal
between you and House and me to fool the people and elect a bad judge."
"So I've heard," said Kelly. "But what of it? You know it ain't so."
"No, I don't, Mr. Kelly," replied Hull, desperately. "On the contrary,
I think it is so. And I may add I think we are justified in making
such a deal, when that's the only way to save the community from Victor
Dorn and his crowd of--of anarchists."
Kelly looked at him silently with amused eyes.
"House can't do anything," pursued Davy. "Maybe YOU can. So I came
straight to you."
"I'm glad you're getting a little political sense, my boy," said Kelly.
"Perhaps you're beginning to see that a politician has got to be
practical--that it's the organizations that keeps this city from being
the prey to Victor Dorns."
"I see that," said Davy. "I'm willing to admit that I've misjudged
you, Mr. Kelly--that the better classes owe you a heavy debt--and that
you are one of the men we've got to rely on chiefly to stem the tide of
anarchy that's rising--the attack on the propertied classes--the
intelligent classes."
"I see your eyes are being opened, my boy," said Kelly in a kindly tone
that showed how deeply he appreciated this unexpected recognition of
his own notion of his mission. "You young silk stocking fellows up at
the University Club, and the Lincoln and the Jefferson, have been
indulging in a lot of loose talk against the fellows that do the hard
work in politics--the fellows that helped your fathers to make fortunes
and that are helping you boys to keep 'em. If I didn't have a pretty
level head on me, I'd take my hands off and give Dorn and his gang a
chance at you. I tell you, when you fool with that reform nonsense, you
play with fire in a powder mill."
"But I--I had an idea that you wanted me to go ahead," said Davy.
"Not the way you started last spring," replied Kelly. "Not the way
you'd 'a gone if I hadn't taken hold. I've been saving you in spite of
yourselves. Thanks to me, your party's on a sound, conservative basis
and won't do any harm and may do some good in teaching a lesson to
those of our boys that've been going a little too far. It ain't good
for an organization to win always."
"Victor Dorn seemed to be sure--absolutely sure," said Hull. "And he's
pretty shrewd at politics--isn't he?"
"Don't worry about him, I tell you," replied Kelly.
The sudden hardening of his voice and of his never notably soft face
was tribute stronger than any words to Dorn's ability as a politician,
to his power as an antagonist. Davy felt a sinister intent--and he
knew that Dick Kelly had risen because he would stop at nothing. He
was as eager to get away from the boss as the boss was to be rid of
him. The intrusion of a henchman, to whom Kelly had no doubt signaled,
gave him the excuse. As soon as he had turned from the City Hall into
Morton Street he slackened to as slow a walk as his length of leg would
permit. Moving along, absorbed in uncomfortable thoughts, he startled
violently when he heard Selma Gordon's voice:
"How d'you do, Mr. Hull? I was hoping I'd see you to-day."
She was standing before him--the same fascinating embodiment of life
and health and untamed energy; the direct, honest glance.
"I want to talk to you," she went on, "and I can't, walking beside you.
You're far too tall. Come into the park and we'll sit on that bench
under the big maple."
He had mechanically lifted his hat, but he had not spoken. He did not
find words until they were seated side by side, and then all he could
say was:
"I'm very glad to see you again--very glad, indeed."
In fact, he was the reverse of glad, for he was afraid of her, afraid
of himself when under the spell of her presence. He who prided himself
on his self-control, he could not account for the effect this girl had
upon him. As he sat there beside her the impulse Jane Hastings had so
adroitly checked came surging back. He had believed, had hoped it was
gone for good and all. He found that in its mysterious hiding place it
had been gaining strength. Quite clearly he saw how absurd was the
idea of making this girl his wife--he tall and she not much above the
bend of his elbow; he conventional, and she the incarnation of
passionate revolt against the restraints of class and form and custom
which he not only conformed to but religiously believed in. And she
set stirring in him all kinds of vague, wild longings to run amuck
socially and politically--longings that, if indulged, would ruin him
for any career worthy of the name.
He stood up. "I must go--I really must," he said, confusedly.
She laid her small, strong hand on his arm--a natural, friendly gesture
with her, and giving no suggestion of familiarity. Even as she was
saying, "Please--only a moment," he dropped back to the seat.
"Well--what is it?" he said abruptly, his gaze resolutely away from her
face.
"Victor was telling me this morning about his talk with you," she said
in her rapid, energetic way. "He was depressed because he had failed.
But I felt sure--I feel sure--that he hasn't. In our talk the other
day, Mr. Hull, I got a clear idea of your character. A woman
understands better. And I know that, after Victor told you the plain
truth about the situation, you couldn't go on."
David looked round rather wildly, swallowed hard several times, said
hoarsely: "I won't, if you'll marry me."
But for a slight change of expression or of color Davy would have
thought she had not heard--or perhaps that he had imagined he was
uttering the words that forced themselves to his lips in spite of his
efforts to suppress them. For she went on in the same impetuous,
friendly way:
"It seemed to me that you have an instinct for the right that's unusual
in men of your class. At least, I think it's unusual. I confess I've
not known any man of your class except you--and I know you very
slightly. It was I that persuaded Victor to go to you. He believes
that a man's class feeling controls him--makes his moral sense--compels
his actions. But I thought you were an exception--and he yielded after
I urged him a while."
"I don't know WHAT I am," said Hull gloomily. "I think I want to do
right. But--what is right? Not theoretical right, but the practical,
workable thing?"
"That's true," conceded Selma. "We can't always be certain what's
right. But can't we always know what's wrong? And, Mr. Hull, it is
wrong--altogether wrong--and YOU know it's wrong--to lend your name and
your influence and your reputation to that crowd. They'd let you do a
little good--why? To make their professions of reform seem plausible.
To fool the people into trusting them again. And under cover of the
little good you were showily doing, how much mischief they'd do! If
you'll go back over the history of this town--of any town--of any
country--you'll find that most of the wicked things--the things that
pile the burdens on the shoulders of the poor--the masses--most of the
wicked things have been done under cover of just such men as you, used
as figureheads."
"But I want to build up a new party--a party of honest men, honestly
led," said Davy.
"Led by your sort of young men? I mean young men of your class. Led by
young lawyers and merchants and young fellows living on inherited
incomes? Don't you see that's impossible," cried Selma. "They are all
living off the labor of others. Their whole idea of life is exploiting
the masses--is reaping where they have not sown or reaping not only
what they've sown but also what others have sown--for they couldn't buy
luxury and all the so-called refinements of life for themselves and
their idle families merely with what they themselves could earn. How
can you build up a really HONEST party with such men? They may mean
well. They no doubt are honest, up to a certain point. But they will
side with their class, in every crisis. And their class is the
exploiting class."
"I don't agree with you," said Davy. "You are not fair to us."
"How!" demanded Selma.
"I couldn't argue with you," replied Hull. "All I'll say is that
you've seen only the one side--only the side of the working class."
"That toils without ceasing--its men, its women, its children--" said
the girl with heaving bosom and flashing eyes--"only to have most of
what it earns filched away from it by your class to waste in foolish
luxury!"
"And whose fault is that?" pleaded Hull.
"The fault of my class," replied she. "Their ignorance, their
stupidity--yes, and their foolish cunning that overreaches itself. For
they tolerate the abuses of the present system because each man--at
least, each man of the ones who think themselves 'smart'--imagines that
the day is coming when he can escape from the working class and gain
the ranks of the despoilers."
"And you ask ME to come into the party of those people!" scoffed Davy.
"Yes, Mr. Hull," said she--and until then he had not appreciated how
lovely her voice was. "Yes--that is the party for you--for all honest,
sincere men who want to have their own respect through and through. To
teach those people--to lead them right--to be truthful and just with
them--that is the life worth while."
"But they won't learn. They won't be led right. They are as
ungrateful as they are foolish. If they weren't, men like me trying to
make a decent career wouldn't have to compromise with the Kellys and
the Houses and their masters. What are Kelly and House but leaders of
your class? And they lead ten to Victor Dorn's one. Why, any day
Dorn's followers may turn on him--and you know it."
"And what of that?" cried Selma. "He's not working to be their leader,
but to do what he thinks is right, regardless of consequences. Why is
he a happy man, as happiness goes? Why has he gone on his way steadily
all these years, never minding setbacks and failures and defeats and
dangers? I needn't tell you why."
"No," said Hull, powerfully moved by her earnestness. "I understand."
"The finest sentence that ever fell from human lips," Selma went on,
"was 'Father, forgive them; they know not what they do.' Forgive
them--forgive us all--for when we go astray it is because we are in the
dark. And I want you to come with us, Mr. Hull, and help to make it a
little less dark. At least, you will then be looking toward the
light--and every one turned in that direction counts."
After a long pause, Hull said:
"Miss Gordon, may I ask you a very personal question?"
"Yes," said she.
"Are you in love with Victor Dorn?"
Selma laughed merrily. "Jane Hastings had that same curiosity," said
she. "I'll answer you as I answered her--though she didn't ask me
quite so directly. No, I am not in love with him. We are too busy to
bother about those things. We have too much to do to think about
ourselves."
"Then--there is no reason why I should not ask you to be my wife--why I
should not hope--and try?"
She looked at him with a peculiar smile. "Yes, there is a very good
reason. I do not love you, and I shall not love you. I shall not have
time for that sort of thing."
"Don't you believe in love?"
"I don't believe in much else," said she. "But--not the kind of love
you offer me."
"How do you know?" cried he. "I have not told you yet how I feel
toward you. I have not----"
"Oh, yes, you have," interrupted she. "This is the second--no, the
third time you have seen me. So, the love you offer me can only be of
a kind it is not in the least flattering to a woman to inspire. You
needn't apologize," she went on, laughingly. "I've no doubt you mean
well. You simply don't understand me--my sort of woman."
"It's you that don't understand, Selma," cried he. "You don't realize
how wonderful you are--how much you reveal of yourself at once. I was
all but engaged to another woman when I saw you. I've been fighting
against my love for you--fighting against the truth that suddenly came
to me that you were the only woman I had ever seen who appealed to and
aroused and made strong all that is brave and honest in me. Selma, I
need you. I am not infatuated. I am clearer-headed than I ever was in
my life. I need you. You can make a man of me."
She was regarding him with a friendly and even tender sympathy. "I
understand now," she said. "I thought it was simply the ordinary
outburst of passion. But I see that it was the result of your struggle
with yourself about which road to take in making a career."
If she had not been absorbed in developing her theory she might have
seen that Davy was not altogether satisfied with this analysis of his
feelings. But he deemed it wise to hold his peace.
"You do need some one--some woman," she went on. "And I am anxious to
help you all I can. I couldn't help you by marrying you. To me
marriage means----" She checked herself abruptly. "No matter. I can
help you, I think, as a friend. But if you wish to marry, you should
take some one in your own class--some one who's in sympathy with you.
Then you and she could work it out together--could help each other.
You see, I don't need you--and there's nothing in one-sided
marriages.... No, you couldn't give me anything I need, so far as I
can see."
"I believe that's true," said Davy miserably.
She reflected, then continued: "But there's Jane Hastings. Why not
marry her? She is having the same sort of struggle with herself. You
and she could help each other. And you're, both of you, fine
characters. I like each of you for exactly the same reasons....
Yes--Jane needs you, and you need her." She looked at him with her
sweet, frank smile like a breeze straight from the sweep of a vast
plateau. "Why, it's so obvious that I wonder you and she haven't
become engaged long ago. You ARE fond of her, aren't you?"
"Oh, Selma," cried Davy, "I LOVE you. I want YOU."
She shook her head with a quaint, fascinating expression of
positiveness. "Now, my friend," said she, "drop that fancy. It isn't
sensible. And it threatens to become silly." Her smile suddenly
expanded into a laugh. "The idea of you and me married--of ME married
to YOU! I'd drive you crazy. No, I shouldn't stay long enough for
that. I'd be of on the wings of the wind to the other end of the earth
as soon as you tried to put a halter on me."
He did not join in her laugh. She rose. "You will think again before
you go in with those people--won't you, David?" she said, sober and
earnest.
"I don't care what becomes of me," he said boyishly.
"But _I_ do," she said. "I want to see you the man you can be."
"Then--marry me," he cried.
Her eyes looked gentle friendship; her passionate lips curled in scorn.
"I might marry the sort of man you could be," she said, "but I never
could marry a man so weak that, without me to bolster him up, he'd
become a stool-pigeon."
And she turned and walked away.