"Ah yes; Shelby's, of course. So many things here are Shelby's. You must
be very proud of Mr. Shelby. Is he there, perhaps?"
"That's him, standing on the upper porch there, waving his hat,"
Pettibone mumbled.
The President waved his hat at Shelby.
"And the handsome lady is his wife, perhaps?"
"Yes, that's Mrs. Shelby," mumbled Spate. "She was Miss Carew. Used to
teach school here."
Phoebe Shelby was clinging to her husband's side. There were tears in
her eyes and her hands squeezed mute messages upon his arm, for she knew
that his many-wounded heart was now more bitterly hurt than in all his
knowledge of Wakefield. He was a prisoner in disgrace gazing through the
bars at a festival.
He never knew that the President suggested stopping a moment to
congratulate him, and that it was his own old taskmaster Spate who
ventured to say that the President could meet him later. Spate could
rise to an emergency; the other committeemen thanked him with their
eyes.
As the carriage left the border of the Shelby place the President turned
his head to stare, for it was beautiful, ambitiously beautiful. And
something in the silent attitude of the owner and his wife struck a
deeper note in the noisy, gaudy welcome of the other citizens.
"Tell me about this Mr. Shelby," said the President.
Looks were exchanged among the committee. All disliked the task, but
finally Spate broke the silence.
"Well, Mr. President, Shelby is a kind of eccentric man. Some folks say
he's cracked. Used to drive a delivery-wagon for me. Ran away and tried
his hand at nearly everything. Finally, him and his two brothers
invented a kind of washing-powder. It was like a lot of others, but they
knew how to push it. Borrowed money to advertise it big. Got it started
till they couldn't have stopped it if they'd tried. Shelby decided to
come back here and establish a branch factory. That tall chimney is it.
No smoke comin' out of it to-day. He gave all the hands a holiday in
your honor, Mr. President."
The President said: "Well, that's mighty nice of him. So he's come back
to beautify his old home, eh? That's splendid--a fine spirit. Too many
of us, I'm afraid, forget the old places when ambition carries us away
into new scenes. Mr. Shelby must be very popular here."
There was a silence. Mr. Pettibone was too honest, or too something, to
let the matter pass.
"Well, I can't say as to that, Mr. President. Shelby's queer. He's very
pushing. You can't drive people more 'n so fast. Shelby is awful fussy.
Now, that trolley line--he put that in, but we didn't need it."
"Not but what Wakefield is enterprising," Spate added, anxiously.
Pettibone nodded and went on: "People used to think the old bobtailed
horse-car--excuse my language--wasn't much, but the trolley-cars are a
long way from perfect. Service ain't so very good. People don't ride on
'em much, because they don't run often enough."
The President started to say, "Perhaps they can't run oftener because
people don't ride on 'em enough," but something counseled him to
silence, and Pettibone continued:
"Same way with the electric light. People that had gas hated to change.
He made it cheap, but it's a long way from perfect. He put in an
independent telephone. The old one wasn't much good and it was
expensive. Now we can have telephones at half the old price. But result
is, you've got to have two, or you might just as well not have one.
Everybody you want to talk to is always on the other line."
The President nodded. He understood the ancient war between the simple
life and the strenuous. He wished he had left the subject unopened, but
Pettibone had warmed to the theme.
"Shelby built an opery-house and brought some first-class troupes here.
But this is a religious town, and people don't go much to shows. In the
first place, we don't believe in 'em; in the second place, we've been
bit by bad shows so often. So his opery-house costs more 'n it takes in.
"Then he laid out the Pastime Park--tried to get up games and things;
but the vacant lots always were good enough for baseball. He tried to
get people to go out in the country and play golf, too; but it was too
much like following the plow. Folks here like to sit on their porches
when they're tired.
"He brought an automobile to town--scared most of the horses to death.
Our women folks got afraid to drive because the most reliable old nags
tried to climb trees whenever Shelby came honking along. He built two or
three monuments to famous citizens, but that made the families of other
famous citizens jealous.
"He built that big home of his, but it only makes our wives envious.
It's so far out that the society ladies can't call much. Besides, they
feel uneasy with all that glory.
"Mrs. Shelby has a man in a dress-suit to open the door. The rest of
us--our wives answer the door-bell themselves. Our folks are kind of
afraid to invite Mr. and Mrs. Shelby to their parties for fear they'll
criticize; so Mrs. Shelby feels as if she was deserted.
"She thinks her husband is mistreated, too; but--well, Shelby's
eccentric. He says we're ungrateful. Maybe we are, but we like to do
things our own way. Shelby tried to get us to help boost the town, as he
calls it. He offered us stock in his ventures, but we've got taken in so
often that--well, once bit is twice shy, you know, Mr. President. So
Wakefield stands just about where she did before Shelby came here."
"Not but what Wakefield is enterprising," Mr. Spate repeated.
The President's curiosity overcame his policy. He asked one more
question:
"But if you citizens didn't help Mr. Shelby, how did he manage all
these--improvements, if I may use the word?"
"Did it all by his lonesome, Mr. President. His income was immense. But
he cut into it something terrible. His brothers in the East began to row
at the way he poured it out. When he began to draw in advance they were
goin' to have him declared incompetent. Even his brothers say he's
cracked. Recently they've drawn in on him. Won't let him spend his own
money."
A gruesome tone came from among Spate's spectacles and whiskers:
"He won't last long. Health's giving out. His wife told my wife, the
other day, he don't sleep nights. That's a bad sign. His pride is set on
keepin' everything going, though, and nothing can hold him. He wants the
street-cars to run regular, and the telephone to answer quick, even if
the town don't support 'em. He's cracked--there's nothing to it."
Amasa Harbury, of the Building and Loan Association, leaned close and
spoke in a confidential voice:
"He's got mortgages on 'most everything, Mr. President. He's borrowed on
all his securities up to the hilt. Only yesterday I had to refuse him a
second mortgage on his house. He stormed around about how much he'd put
into it. I told him it didn't count how much you put into a hole, it was
how much you could get out. You can imagine how much that palace of his
would bring in this town on a foreclosure sale--about as much as a white
elephant in a china-shop."
"Not but what Wakefield is enterprising," insisted Spate.
The lust for gossip had been aroused and Pettibone threw discretion to
the winds.
"Shelby was hopping mad because we left him off the committee of
welcome, but we thought we'd better stick to our own crowd of
represent'ive citizens. Shelby don't really belong to Wakefield,
anyway. Still, if you want to meet him, it can be arranged."
"Oh no," said the President. "Don't trouble."
And he was politic--or politician--enough to avoid the subject
thenceforward. But he could not get Shelby out of his mind that night as
his car whizzed on its way. To be called crazy and eccentric and to be
suspected, feared, resisted by the very people he longed to
lead--Presidents are not unaware of that ache of unrequited affection.
The same evening Shelby and Phoebe Shelby looked out on their park.
The crowds that had used it as a vantage-ground for the pageant had all
vanished, leaving behind a litter of rubbish, firecrackers, cigar stubs,
broken shrubs, gouged terraces. Not one of them had asked permission,
had murmured an apology or a word of thanks.
For the first time Phoebe Shelby noted that her husband did not take
new determination from rebuff. His resolution no longer made a
springboard of resistance. He seemed to lean on her a little.