DEUTSCHTUM moves slowly, because it moves methodically. No general
and open manifestation against The Guardian had followed the Lusitania
editorial. None retaliated for the attack on the “Surrender Bill.” But,
little by little, there became apparent a guerrilla warfare upon the
paper. Manufacturers of certain products widely circulated in the State,
particularly beers and soft drinks, began to withdraw or decrease their
advertising. In every instance it was noteworthy that these concerns
bore German names. Furthermore, small and casual advertisers of Teutonic
cast of name and mind--For Sale, Want Ads, and the general line of
“classified”--switched from The Guardian to the more amenable Record.
Despite all this The Guardian made a clear and pretty profit in the busy
year of 1915. Ups and downs marked the course of its circulation, but
the general tendency was upward. The Retailers’ Association had given
over any hopes of a successful drive against its advertising rates.
Indeed, the best they could look for was that there would not be another
increase. Success, however, had entailed special expenses. A new press
had been installed. The working force was increased. An active and
discontented element in the press-room, led by Milliken, had compelled
an expensive readjustment of the wage scale, and the combative Socialist
was already lining up his men for another raid. Thus Jeremy had found it
expedient to renew from time to time the twenty-thousand-dollar note at
the Drovers’ Bank. No difficulties had been made over the renewals. Nor
was the owner of the paper much concerned with the matter. From the
time that his property-had turned Prosperity Corner into Easy Street,
to adopt Andrew Galpin’s term, Jeremy had been content to leave the
business and financial details to the general manager and Verrall,
reserving himself for editorial problems. Even Verrall, of the
twittering nervous system, was now ready to admit that the paper was
winning and would soon be an established property, if Jeremy would
tactfully refrain from further and gratuitous depredations against
Teutonic sensibilities. Verrall did not appreciate, to the full, the
unforgiving tenacity of Deutschtum.
Fortunately for Jeremy Robson, the campaign for the State offices of
Centralia, in the fall of 1915, took precedence over everything else
in the public mind. The reelection of Governor Embree on the
anti-corporation issue was all but conceded. But it was not the issue
that insured him victory. The solid German vote did that. Orders had
gone forth to the German-language press that Governor Embree, even
where special conditions made it impracticable to support him, must
be recognized as an authority on international complications and a
statesman of national caliber. For Embree’s reelection meant that he
would be next in line for the Senate vacancy, three years hence, and
Deutschtum needed sympathetic souls, such as it deemed Martin Embree
to be, in the high places of government. The real fight of the old-line
crowd was for control of the State Legislature. For this they were quite
ready to sacrifice their gubernatorial candidate, one Tellersen, a stock
war-horse of the political stables. A safe representation in either
legislative house would mean that Embree’s pet corporation measure,
aimed specially at the P.-U. and its branches, but affecting all
railroads in the State, was scotched. It might even mean that the
Blanket Franchise Bill could be put through. As a further safeguard to
corporate interests, the P.-U. intended to put forward, later, its own
legal adviser for a place on the Court of Appeals bench.
The campaign drew the Governor and Jeremy Robson closer together than
they had been since the Lusitania editorial. Where no vital matter
of principle was involved, The Guardian was quite willing to keep
off German toes. On his side, the campaigning Governor consented to
emphasize Americanism while still maintaining his attitude of sympathy
for the sentiments of the German-Americans. Embree won by a large
majority, the German districts giving him a preponderance of votes
which gravely troubled Jeremy when the figures were analyzed. But on the
legislative side it was conceded that only the brilliant campaign of The
Guardian in Fenchester and The Journal in Bellair had averted a signal
defeat. Widespread “trading” of the German-American vote had favored the
P.-U. plans. So close was the result that, when the figures were all in,
no man could say which side had won. Taking both houses together there
were at least ten indeterminate votes. Plainly the battle for control
of the State would be fought out in the spring session between the
corporation interests, locally represented by Montrose Clark and Judge
Selden Dana, and the radicals led by Governor Embree. Through that
winter Jeremy, scenting the lesser battle from afar, cried “Ha-ha!”
editorially with frequency and fervor, relegating the greater cause to
the background for the time. Herein he was honest enough, as well as
politic. He believed that the action and course of the United States
was in abeyance until the people should have opportunity of making
themselves heard in the presidential decision of the coming year.
Hence he was content to wait, always providing that no major issue
imperatively called for an expression of policy. For a time, too,
Germany seemed more inclined to respect the dictates of humanity.
Locally, Jeremy found the atmosphere clearing. The Governor’s triumphant
reëlection had pleased and appeased the Germans, and they were inclined
to accord a certain measure of credit to The Guardian. Jeremy was
sensible of an improved temper in many members of the Deutscher Club
as he met them casually. But Blasius was still out of the paper;
Stock-muller as well. And Emil Bausch, when he encountered Jeremy on
the street, became absorbed in the contemplation of the Beautiful as
exemplified in cloud-shapes.
Virtuously unconscious of any backsliding or suspicion thereof, Jeremy
was surprised at being made the target of a direct attack by Miss
Letitia Pritchard, whom he was passing with a bow on Bank Street one
March day of 1916, when she held him up with a lowered umbrella.
“Mr. Robson, have you gone over?” she inquired, her eyes snapping fire
into the query.
Naturally, Jeremy asked what she meant.
“I’ve been taking The Guardian again ever since the Lusitania editorial,
because I just had to have an American newspaper in the house. Are you
still that?”
“Do you doubt it?”
“Could anybody help but doubt it!” challenged the vigorous lady.
“Politics, politics, politics! Nothing but stupid politics! Don’t you
know the greatest war in history is coming closer to us every day?”
“I hope not closer to us.”
“A fool’s hope! Do you know your Bible, Mr. Robson?”
“Not as well as I ought.”
“Better read it more. Those writers were n’t afraid to speak their minds
in a good cause.”
At the ugly adjective Jeremy flushed.
“But that’s beside the matter,” she pursued, twinkling at him suddenly.
“I came across a quotation that the Deutscher Club ought to send you,
suitably illuminated. Isaiah, 14, 8; the last sentence. Look it up.”
“I will,” promised the editor.
“And you can come and tell me how well it fits,” she threw back at him
over her departing shoulder.
Important telegrams claimed Jeremy’s attention on his return. Having
disposed of them, his mind reverted to Miss Pritchard’s suggestion for a
Deutscher Club quotation for him.
‘“Buddy,” he said to the industrious Mr. Higman, “look up the fourteenth
chapter of Isaiah, copy the last sentence of the eighth verse and bring
it to me.”
Protesting under his breath that this was no time for Sunday-School
exercises, Buddy interrupted the composition of a Social Jotting, and
set about the errand. When he returned there was a pleased expression
upon his face. He presented his chief with a slip of paper thus
inscribed:
“Since thou art laid down, no feller is come up against us.”
“What’s this, Buddy?” demanded the chief sternly. “I said the Bible.”
“That’s where I got it,” returned the appreciative Buddy. “Some of those
old guys could sure sling the up-to-date stuff.”
“Bring me the Old Testament.” Jeremy looked up the text and, to his
surprise, verified the exact words. But when he saw the context he
laughed. And that evening he made one of his rare calls.
“Isaiah is no prophet so far as The Guardian is concerned,” he declared
to Miss Pritchard. “And the style of that sting rings familiar. Where
did you get it?”
“It was written on the margin of an old Guardian.”
Jeremy raised questioning eyes to her face. Miss Pritchard nodded.
“Yes,” she said. “She was back in Berne when that was sent.”
“All right?” Jeremy was conscious that his voice was less _insouciant_
than he could have wished.
“Quite. She will go back to Germany after the war, I suppose.”
“Will you give her a message for me?”
“If you wish.”
The dry, slightly hesitant tone meant, “If you _will_ be so foolish.”
“Tell her for The Guardian,” said Jem, “that this feller has n’t laid
down. Tell her that he won’t lay down”--he paused, and then completed
the paraphrase--“though Hell from beneath is moved for him to meet him
at his coming.”
“Put that on your editorial page,” said Miss Pritchard, with a thrill in
her voice. “I’d like Marcia to see it there.”
“Perhaps I will when the day comes,” he answered and took his leave.
It was the first message that he had sent to Marcia Ames since they had
parted at the door of the Pritchard mansion nearly four years before.
Every sense of her, every thought of her, was as vivid, unblurred,
untainted by time as if she had gone from him yesterday: “the loveliness
that wanes not, the Love that ne’er can wane.” Now, even by so tenuous a
thread as his impersonal message for The Guardian, he held to her again.
And in his heart sang something lesser but sweeter than hope.