IN WHICH OUR HERO STROLLS OUT WITH THE DEVIL TO LOOK AT THE HIGH
MOUNTAIN
The soup had come and gone; great platters of fried chicken had
disappeared, with incidental spinach and new peas and potatoes. A bowl
of lettuce splashed with a French dressing had been mowed down as the
grass, and the goodly company was surveying something less than an acre
of strawberry shortcake at the close of a rather hilarious dinner--a
spring dinner, to be exact. Rhoda Kollander was reciting with enthusiasm
an elaborate and impossible travesty of a recipe for strawberry
shortcake, which she had read somewhere, when the Doctor, in his
nankeens, putting his hands on the table cloth as one who was about to
deliver an oracle, ran his merry eyes down the table, gathering up the
Adamses and Mortons and Mayor Brotherton and Morty Sands; fastened his
glance upon the Van Dorns and cut in on the interminable shortcake
recipe rather ruthlessly thus in his gay falsetto:
"Tom, here--thinks he's pretty smart. And George Brotherton, Mayor of
all the Harveys, thinks he is a pretty smooth article; and the Honorable
Lady Satterthwaite here, she's got a Maryland notion that she has second
sight into the doings of her prince consort." He chuckled and grinned as
he beamed at his daughter: "And there is the princess imperial--she
thinks she's mighty knolledgeous about her father--but," he cocked his
head on one side, enjoying the suspense he was creating as he paused,
drawling his words, "I'm just going to show you how I've got 'em all
fooled."
He pulled from his pocket a long, official envelope, pulled from the
envelope an official document, and also a letter. He laid the official
document down before him and opened the letter.
"Kind o' seems to be signed by the Governor of the State," he drolled:
"And seems like the more I look at it the surer I am it's addressed to
Tom Van Dorn. I'm not much of an elocutionist and never could read at
sight, having come from Eendiany, and I guess Rhody here, she's kind of
elocutionary and I'll jest about ask her to read it to the ladies and
gentlemen!" He handed Mrs. Kollander the letter and passed the sealed
document to his son-in-law.
Mrs. Kollander read aloud:
"I take pleasure in handing you through the kindness of Senator James
Nesbit your appointment to fill the vacancy in your judicial district
created to-day by the resignation of Judge Arbuckle of your district to
fill a vacancy in the Supreme Court of this State created there by the
resignation of Justice Worrell."
Looking over his wife's shoulder and seeing the significance of the
letter, John Kollander threw back his head and began singing in his
roaring voice, "For we'll rally round the flag, boys, we'll rally once
again, shouting the battle cry of freedom," and the company at the table
clapped its hands. And while George Brotherton was bellowing,
"Well--say!" Judge Thomas Van Dorn kissed his wife and beamed his
satisfaction upon the company.
When the commotion had subsided the chuckling little man, all a-beam
with happiness, his pink, smooth face shining like a headlight,
explained thus:
"I jest thought these Maryland Satterthwaites and Schenectady Van Dorns
was a-gittin' too top-lofty, and I'd have to register one for the Grand
Duke of Griggsby's Station, to sort of put 'em in their place!" He was
happy; and his vernacular, which always was his pose under emotional
stress, was broad, as he went on: "So I says to myself, the Corn Belt
Railroad is mighty keen for a Supreme Court decision in the Missouri
River rate case, and I says, Worrell J., he's the boy to write it, but I
says to the Corn Belt folks, says I, 'It would shatter the respect of
the people for their courts if Worrell J. should stay on the bench after
writing the kind of a decision you want, so we'll just put him in your
law offices at twelve thousand per, which is three times what he is
getting now, and then one idear brought on another and here's Tom's
commission and three men and a railroad all made happy!" He threw back
his head and laughed silently as he finished, "and all the justices
concurring!" After the hubbub of congratulations had passed and the
guests had moved into the parlor of the Nesbit home, the little Doctor,
standing among them, regaled himself thus:
"Politics is jobs. Jobs is friends. Friends is politics. The reason why
the reformers don't get anywhere is that they have no friends in
politics. They regard the people as sticky and smelly and low. Bedelia
has that notion. But I love 'em! Love 'em and vote 'em!"
Amos Adams opened his mouth to protest, but the Doctor waved him into
silence. "I know your idear, Amos! But when the folks get tired of
politics that is jobs and want politics that is principles, I'll open as
fine a line of principles as ever was shown in this market!"
After the company had gone, Mrs. Nesbit faced her husband with a
peremptory: "Well--will you tell me why, Jim Nesbit?" And he sighed and
dropped into a chair.
"To save his self-respect! Self-respect grows on what it feeds on, my
dear, and I thought maybe if he was a judge"--he looked into the anxious
eyes of his wife and went on--"that might hold him!" He rested his head
on a hand and drew in a deep breath. "'Vanity, vanity,' saith the
Preacher--'all is vanity!' And I thought I'd hitch it to something that
might pull him out of the swamp! And I happened to know that he had a
sneaking notion of running for Judge this fall, so I thought I'd slip up
and help him."
He sighed again and his tone changed. "I did it primarily for Laura," he
said wearily, and: "Mother, we might as well face it."
Mrs. Nesbit looked intently at her husband in understanding silence and
asked: "Is it any one in particular, Jim--"
He hesitated, then exclaimed: "Oh, I may be wrong, but somehow I don't
like the air--the way that Mauling girl assumes authority at the office.
Why, she's made me wait in the outer office twice now--for nothing
except to show that she could!"
"Yes, Jim--but what good will this judgeship do? How will it solve
anything?" persisted the wife. The Doctor let his sigh precede his
words: "The office will make him realize that the eyes of the community
are on him, that he is in a way a marked man. And then the place will
keep him busy and spur on his ambition. And these things should help."
He looked tenderly into the worried face of his wife and smiled.
"Perhaps we're both wrong. We don't know. Tom's young and--" He ended
the sentence in a "Ho--ho--ho--hum!" and yawned and rose, leading the
way up stairs.
In the Van Dorn home a young wife was trying to define herself in the
new relation to the community in which the evening's news had placed
her. She had no idea of divorcing the judgeship from her life. She felt
that marriage was a full partnership and that the judgeship meant much
to her. She realized that as a judge's wife her life and her duties--and
she was eager always to acquire new duties--would be different from her
life and her duties as a lawyer's wife or a doctor's wife or a
merchant's wife, for example. For Laura Van Dorn was in the wife
business with a consuming ardor, and the whole universe was related to
her wifehood. To her marriage was the development of a two-phase soul
with but one will. As the young couple entered their home, the wife was
saying:
"Tom, isn't it fine to think of the good you can do--these poor folk in
the Valley don't really get justice. And they're your friends. They
always help you and father in the election, and now you can see that
they have their rights. Oh, I'm so glad--so glad father did it. That was
his way to show them how he really loves them."
The husband smiled, a husbandly and superior smile, and said absently,
"Oh, well, I presume they don't get much out of the courts, but they
should learn to keep away from litigation. It's a rich man's game
anyway!" He was thinking of the steps before him which might lead him to
a higher court and still higher. His ambition vaulted as he spoke.
"Laura, Father Jim wouldn't mind having a son-in-law on the United
States Supreme Court, and I believe we can work together and make it in
twenty years more!"
As the young wife saw the glow of ambition in his fine, mobile face she
stifled the altruistic yearnings, which she had come to feel made her
husband uncomfortable, and joined him as he gazed into the crystal ball
of the future and saw its glistening chimera.
Perhaps the preceding dialogue wherein Dr. James Nesbit, his wife, his
daughter and his son-in-law have spoken may indicate that politics as
the Doctor played it was an exceedingly personal chess game. We see him
here blithely taking from the people of his state, their rights to
justice and trading those rights cheerfully for his personal happiness
as it was represented in the possible reformation of his daughter's
husband. He thought it would work--this curious bartering of public
rights for private ends. He could not see that a man who could accept a
judgeship as it had come to Tom Van Dorn, in the nature of things could
not take out an essential self-respect which he had forfeited when he
took the place. The Doctor was as blind as Tom Van Dorn, as blind as his
times. Government was a personal matter in that day; public place was a
personal perquisite.
As for the reformation of Tom Van Dorn, for which all this juggling with
sacred things was done, he had no idea that his moral regeneration was
concerned in the deal, and never in all the years of his service did the
vaguest hint come to him that the outrage of justice had been
accomplished for his own soul's good.
The next morning Tom Van Dorn read of his appointment as Judge in the
morning papers, and he pranced twice the length of Market Street, up one
side and down the other, to let the populace congratulate him. Then with
a fat box of candy he went to his office, where he gave the candy and
certain other tokens of esteem to Miss Mauling, and at noon after the
partnership of Calvin & Van Dorn had been dissolved, with the
understanding that the young Judge was to keep his law books in Calvin's
office, and was to have a private office there--for certain intangible
considerations. Then after the business with Joseph Calvin was
concluded, the young Judge in his private office with his hands under
his coattails preened before Miss Mauling and talked from a shameless
soul of his greed for power! The girl before him gave him what he could
not get at home, an abject adoration, uncritical, unabashed,
unrestrained.
The young man whom the newly qualified Judge had inherited as court
stenographer was a sadly unemotional, rather methodical, old maid of a
person, and Tom Van Dorn could not open his soul to this youth, so he
was wont to stray back to the offices of Joseph Calvin to dictate his
instructions to juries, and to look over the books in his own library in
making up his decisions. The office came to be known as the Judge's
Chambers and the town cocked a gay and suspicious eye at the young
Judge. Mr. Calvin's practice doubled and trebled and Miss Mauling lost
small caste with the nobility and gentry. And as the summer deepened,
Dr. James Nesbit began to see that vanity does not build self-respect.
When the young Judge announced his candidacy for election to fill out
the two years' unexpired term of his predecessor, no one opposed Van
Dorn in his party convention; but the Doctor had little liking for the
young man's intimacy in the office of Joseph Calvin and less liking for
the scandal of that intimacy which arose when the rich litigants in the
Judge's court crowded into Calvin's office for counsel. The Doctor
wondered if he was squeamish about certain matters, merely because it
was his own son-in-law who was the subject of the disquieting gossip
connected with Calvin's practice in Van Dorn's court. Then there was the
other matter. The Doctor could notice that the town was having its
smile--not a malicious nor condemning smile, but a tolerant, amused
smile about Van Dorn and the Mauling girl; and the Doctor didn't like
that. It cut deeply into the Doctor's heart that as the town's smile
broadened, his daughter's face was growing perceptibly more serious. The
joy she had shown when first she told him of the baby's coming did not
illumine her face; and her laughter--her never failing well of
gayety--was in some way being sealed. The Doctor determined to talk with
Tom on the Good of the Order and to talk man-wise--without feeling of
course but without guile.
So one autumn afternoon when the Doctor heard the light, firm step of
the young man in the common hallway that led to their offices over the
Traders' Bank, the Doctor tuned himself up to the meeting and cheerily
called through his open door:
"Tom--Tom, you young scoundrel--come in here and let's talk it all
over."
The young man slipped a package into his pocket, and came lightly into
the office. He waved his hand gayly and called: "Well--well, pater
familias, what's on your chest to-day?" His slim figure was clad in
gray--a gray suit, gray shirt, gray tie, gray shoes and a crimson rose
bud in his coat lapel. As he slid into a chair and crossed his lean legs
the Doctor looked him over. The young Judge's corroding pride in his job
was written smartly all over his face and figure. "The fairest of ten
thousand, the bright and morning star, Tom," piped the Doctor. Then
added briskly, "I want to talk to you about Joe Calvin." The young man
lifted a surprised eyebrow. The Doctor pushed ahead as he pulled the
county bar docket from his desk and pointed to it. "Joe Calvin's
business has increased nearly fifty per cent. in less than six months!
And he has the money side of eighty per cent. of the cases in your
court!"
"Well--" replied Van Dorn in the mushy drawl that he used with juries,
"that's enough! Joe couldn't ask more." Then he added, eying the Doctor
closely, "Though I can't say that what you tell me startles me with its
suddenness."
"That's just my point," cried the Doctor in his high, shrill voice.
"That's just my point, Thomas," he repeated, "and here's where I come
in. I got you this job. I am standing for you before the district and I
am standing for you now for this election." The Doctor wagged his head
at the young man as he said, "But the truth is, Tom, I had some trouble
getting you the solid delegation."
"Ah?" questioned the suave young Judge.
"Yes, Tom--my own delegation," replied the Doctor. "You see, Tom, there
is a lot of me. There is the one they call Doc Jim; then there's Mrs.
Nesbit's husband and there's your father-in-law, and then there's Old
Linen Pants. The old man was for you from the jump. Doc Jim was for you
and Mrs. Nesbit's husband was willing to go with the majority of the
delegation, though he wasn't strong for you. But I'll tell you, Tom,"
piped the Doctor, "I did have the devil of a time ironing out the
troubles of your father-in-law."
The Doctor leaned forward and pointed a fat, stern finger at his
son-in-law. "Tom," the Doctor's voice was shrill and steely, "I don't
like your didos with Violet Mauling!" The face above the crimson flower
did not flinch.
"I don't suppose you're making love to her. But you have no business
fooling around Joe Calvin's office on general principles. Keep out, and
keep away from her." And then the Doctor's patience slipped and his
voice rose: "What do you want to give her the household bills for? Pay
'em yourself or let Laura send her checks!" The Doctor's tones were
harsh, and with the amiable cast off his face his graying blond
pompadour hair seemed to bristle militantly. The effect gave the Doctor
a fighting face as he barked, "You can't afford it. You must stop it.
It's no way to do. I didn't think it of you, Tom!"
After Van Dorn had touched his black wing of hair, his soft mustache and
the crimson flower on his coat, he had himself well in hand and had
planned his defense and counter attacks. He spoke softly:
"Now, Father Jim--I'm not--" he put a touch of feeling in the "not,"
"going to give up the Mauling girl. When I'm elected next month, I'm
going to make her my court stenographer!" He looked the Doctor squarely
in the face and paused for the explosion which came in an excited,
piping cry:
"Why, Tom, are you crazy! Take her all over the three counties of this
district with you? Why, boy--" But Judge Van Dorn continued evenly: "I
don't like a man stenographer. Men make me nervous and self-conscious,
and I can't give a man the best that's in me. And I propose to give my
best to this job--in justice to myself. And Violet Mauling knows my
ways. She doesn't interpose herself between me and my ideas, so I am
going to make her court stenographer next month right after the
election."
When the Doctor drew in a breath to speak, Van Dorn put out a hand,
checked the elder man and said blandly and smilingly, "And, Father Jim,
I'm going to be elected--I'm dead sure of election."
The Doctor thought he saw a glint of sheer malicious impudence in Van
Dorn's smile as he finished speaking: "And anyway, pater, we mustn't
quarrel right now--Just at this time, Laura--"
"You're a sly dog, now, ain't you! Ain't you a sly dog?" shrilled the
Doctor in sputtering rage. Then the blaze in his eyes faded and he cried
in despair: "Tom, Tom, isn't there any way I can put the fear of God
into you?"
Van Dorn realized that he had won the contest. So he forbore to strike
again.
"Doctor Jim, I'm afraid you can't jar me much with the fear of God. You
have a God that sneaks in the back door of matter as a kind of a divine
immanence that makes for progress and Joe Calvin in there has a God with
whiskers who sits on a throne and runs a sort of police court; but one's
as impossible as the other. I have no God at all," his chest swelled
magnificently, "and here's what happens":
He was talking against time and the Doctor realized it. But his scorn
was crusting over his anger and he listened as the young Judge amused
himself: "I've defended gamblers and thugs--and crooks, some rich, some
poor, mostly poor and mostly guilty. And Joe has been free attorney for
the law and order league and has given the church free advice and
entertained preachers when he wasn't hiding out from his wife. And he's
gone to conference and been a deacon and given to the Lord all his life.
And now that it's good business for him to have me elected, can he get a
vote out of all his God-and-morality crowd? Not a vote. And all I have
to do is to wiggle my finger and the whole crowd of thugs and blacklegs
and hoodlums and rich and poor line up for me--no matter how pious I
talk. I tell you, Father Jim--there's nothing in your God theory. It
doesn't work. My job is to get the best out of myself possible." But
this was harking back to Violet Mauling and the young Judge smiled with
bland impertinence as he finished, "The fittest survive, my dear pater,
and I propose to keep fit--to keep fit--and survive!"
The Doctor's anger cooled, but the pain still twinged his heart, the
pain that came as he saw clearly and surely that his daughter's life was
bound to the futile task of making bricks without straw. Deep in his
soul he knew the anguish before her and its vain, continual round of
fallen hopes. As the young Judge strutted up and down the Doctor's
office, the father in the elder man dominated him and a kind of
contemptuous pity seized him. Pity overcame rage, and the Doctor could
not even sputter at his son-in-law. "Fit and survive" kept repeating
themselves over in Dr. Nesbit's mind, and it was from a sad, hurt heart
that he spoke almost kindly: "Tom--Tom, my boy, don't be too sure of
yourself. You may keep fit and you may survive--but Tom, Tom--" the
Doctor looked steadily into the bold, black eyes before him and fancied
they were being held consciously from dropping and shifting as the
Doctor cried: "For God's sake, Tom, don't let up! Keep on fighting, son,
God or no God--you've got a devil--keep on fighting him!"
The olive cheeks flushed for a fleeting second. Van Dorn laughed an
irritated little laugh. "Well," he said, turning to the door, "be over
to-night?--or shall we come over? Anything good for dinner?"
A minute later he came swinging into his own office. He pulled a package
from his pocket. "Violet," he said, going up to her writing desk and
half sitting upon it, as he put the package before her, "here's the
candy."
He picked up her little round desk mirror, smiled at her in it, and
played rather idly about the desk for a foolish moment before going to
his own desk. He sat looking into the street, folding a sheet of blank
paper. When it became a wad he snapped it at the young woman. It hit her
round, beautiful neck and disappeared into her square-cut bodice.
"Get it out for you if you want it?" He laughed fatuously.
The girl flashed quick eyes at him, and said, "Oh, I don't know," and
went on with her work. He began to read, but in a few minutes laid his
book down.
"How'd you like to be a court stenographer?" The girl kept on writing.
"Honest now I mean it. If I win this election and get this job for the
two years of unexpired term, you'll be court stenographer--pays fifteen
hundred a year." The girl glanced quickly at him again, with fire in her
eyes, then looked conspicuously down at the keyboard of the writing
machine.
"I couldn't leave home," she said finally, as she pulled out a sheet of
paper. "It wouldn't be the thing--do you think so?"
He put his feet on the desk, showing his ankles of pride, and fingering
his mustache, smiling a squinty smile with his handsome, beady eyes as
he said: "Oh, I'd take care of you. You aren't afraid of me, are you?"
They both laughed. And the girl came over with a sheet of paper. "Here
is that Midland Valley letter. Will you sign it now?"
He managed to touch her hand as she handed him the sheet, and again to
touch her bare forearm as he handed it back after signing it. For which
he got two darts from her eyes.
A client came in. Joseph Calvin hurried in and out, a busy little rat of
a man who always wore shiny clothes that bagged at the knees and elbows.
George Brotherton crashed in through the office on city business, and so
the afternoon wore away. At the end of the day, Thomas Van Dorn and Miss
Mauling locked up the office and went down the hall and the stairs to
the street together. He released her arm as they came to the street, and
tipped his hat as she rounded the corner for home. He saw the white-clad
Doctor trudging up the low incline that led to Elm Street.
Dr. Nesbit was asking the question, Who are the fit? Who should survive?
His fingers had been pinched in the door of the young Judge's philosophy
and the Doctor was considering much that might be behind the door. He
wondered if it was the rich and the powerful who should survive. Or he
thought perhaps it is those who give themselves for others. There was
Captain Morton with his one talent, pottering up and down the town
talking all kinds of weather, and all kinds of rebuffs that he might
keep the girls in school and make them ready to serve society; yet
according to Tom's standards of success the Captain was unfit; and there
was George Brotherton, ignorant, but loyal, foolishly blind, of a tender
heart, yet compared with those who used his ignorance and played upon
his blindness (and the Doctor winced at his part in that game) Mr.
Brotherton was cast aside among the world's unfit; and so was Henry
Fenn, fighting with his devil like a soldier; and so was Dick Bowman
going into the mines for his family, sacrificing light and air and the
joy of a free life that the wife and children might be clad, housed and
fed and that they might enjoy something of the comforts of the great
civilization which his toil was helping to build up around them; yet in
his grime Dick was accounted exceedingly unfit. Dick only had a number
on the company's books and his number corresponded to a share of stock
and it was the business of the share of stock to get as much out of Dick
and give him back as little, and to take as much from society in passing
for coal as it could, and being without soul or conscience or feeling of
any kind, the share of stock put the automatic screws on Dick--as their
numbers corresponded. And for squeezing the sweat out of him the share
was accounted unusually fit, while poor Dick--why he was merely a number
on the books and was called a unit of labor. Then there was Daniel
Sands. He had spread his web all over the town. It ran in the pipes
under ground that brought water and gas, and the wires above ground,
that brought light and power and communication. The web found its way
into the earth--through deep cuts in the earth, worming along caverns
where it held men at work; then the web ran into foul dens where the
toilers were robbed of their health and strength and happiness and even
of the money the toilers toiled for, and the web brought it all back
slimey and stinking from unclean hands into the place where the spider
sat spinning. And there was his son and daughter; Mr. Sands had married
at least four estimable ladies with the plausible excuse that he was
doing it only to give his children a home. Mr. Sands had given his son a
home, to be sure; but his son had not taken a conscience from the
home--for who was there at home to give it? Not the estimable ladies who
had married Mr. Sands, for they had none or they would have been
somewhere else, to be sure; not Mr. Sands himself, for he was busy with
his web, and conscience rips such webs as his endways, and Daniel would
have none of that. And the servants who had reared the youth had no
conscience to give him; for it was made definite and certain in that
home that they were paid for what they did, so they did what they were
paid for, and bestowing consciences upon young gentlemen is no part of
the duty of the "help" in a home like that.
As for his daughter, Anne, again one of God's miracles was wrought.
There she was growing in the dead atmosphere of that home--where she had
known two mothers before she was ten and she saw with a child's shrewd
eyes that another was coming. Yet in some subsoil of the life about her
the roots of her life were finding a moral sense. Her hazel eyes were
questioning so curiously the old man who fathered her that he felt
uncomfortable when she was near him. Yet for all the money he had won
and all that money had made him, he was reckoned among the fit. Then
there was the fit Mr. Van Dorn and the fit Mr. Calvin. Mr. Calvin never
missed a Sunday in church, gave his tithe, and revered the law. He
adjusted his halo and sang feelingly in prayer meeting about his cross
and hoped ultimately for his crown as full and complete payment and
return, the same being the legal and just equivalent for said
hereinbefore named cross as aforesaid, and Mr. Calvin was counted among
the fit, and the Doctor smiled as he put him in the list. And Mr. Van
Dorn had confessed that he was among the fit and his fitness consisted
in getting everything that he could without being caught.
But these reflections were vain and unprofitable to Dr. Nesbit, and so
he turned himself to the consideration of the business in hand: namely,
to make his calling and reelection sure to the State Senate that
November. So he went over Greeley County behind his motherly sorrel
mare, visiting the people, telling them stories, prescribing for their
ailments, eating their fried chicken, cream gravy and mashed potatoes,
and putting to rout the forces of the loathed opposition who maintained
that the Doctor beat his wife, by sometimes showing said wife as exhibit
"A" without comment in those remote parts of the county where her proud
figure was unknown.
In November he was reelected, and there was a torchlight procession up
the aisle of elms and all the neighbors stood on the front porch,
including the Van Dorns and the Mortons and John Kollander in his blue
soldier clothes, carrying the flag into another county office, and the
Henry Fenns, while the Doctor addressed the multitude! And there was
cheering, whereupon Mr. Van Dorn, Judge pro tem and Judge-elect, made a
speech with eloquence and fire in it; John Kollander made his well-known
flag speech, and Captain Morton got some comfort out of the election of
Comrade Nesbit, who had stood where bullets were thickest and as a boy
had bared his breast to the foe to save his country, and drawing the
Doctor into the corner, filed early application to be made
sergeant-at-arms of the State Senate and was promised that or Something
Equally Good. The hungry friends of the new Senator so loaded him with
obligations that blessed night that he again sold his soul to the devil,
went in with the organization, got all the places for all his people,
and being something of an organizer himself, distributed the patronage
for half the State.
Ten days later--or perhaps it may have been two weeks later, at half
past five in the evening--the Judge-elect was sitting at his desk,
handsomely dressed in black--as befitting the dignity of his office. He
and his newly appointed court stenographer had returned the hour before
from an adjoining county where they had been holding court. The Judge
was alone, if one excepts the young woman at the typewriting desk,
before whom he was preening, as though she were a mere impersonal
mirror. During the hour the Judge had visited the tailor's and had
returned to his office wearing a new, long-tailed coat. His black silk
neck-scarf was resplendently new, his large, soft, black hat--of a type
much favored by statesmen in that day--was cocked at a frivolous angle,
showing the raven's wing of black hair upon his fine forehead. A black
silk watchguard crossed his black vest; his patent leather shoes shone
below his trim black silk socks, and he rubbed his smooth, olive cheek
with the yellow chrysanthemum upon his coat lapel.
"Gee, but you're swell," said Miss Mauling. "You look good enough to
eat."
"Might try a bite--if you feel that way about it," replied the Judge. He
put his hands in his pockets, tried them under his long coat tails,
buttoned the coat and thrust one hand between the buttons, put one hand
in a trousers' pocket, letting the other fall at his side, put both
hands behind him, and posed for a few minutes exchanging more or less
fervent glances with the girl. A step sounded in the hallway. The man
and woman obviously listened. It was a heavy tread; it was coming to the
office door. The man and woman slipped into Judge Van Dorn's private
office. When the outer door opened, and it was apparent that some one
was in the outer office, Miss Mauling appeared, note book in hand, quite
brisk and businesslike with a question in her good afternoon.
"Where's Van Dorn?" The visitor was tall, rawboned, and of that physical
cast known as lanky. His face was flinty, and his red hair was untrimmed
at the neck and ears.
"The Judge is engaged just now," smiled Miss Mauling. "Will you wait?"
She was careful not to ask him to sit. Grant Adams looked at the girl
with a fretful stare. He did not take off his hat, and he shook his head
toward Van Dorn's office door as he said brusquely, "Tell him to come
out. It's important." The square shoulders of the tall man gave a lunge
or hunch toward the door. "I tell you it's important."
Miss Mauling smiled. "But he can't come out just now. He's busy. Any
message I can give him?"
The man was excited, and his voice and manner showed his temper.
"Now, look here--I have no message; tell Van Dorn I want him quick."
"What name, please?" responded Miss Mauling, who knew that the visitor
knew she was playing.
"Grant Adams--tell him it's his business and not mine--except--"
But the girl had gone. It was several minutes before Tom Van Dorn moved
gracefully and elegantly into the room. "Ah," he began. Grant glared at
him.
"I've just driven down from Nesbit's with Kenyon, and Mrs. Nesbit says
to tell you Laura's there--came over this morning, and you're to come
just as quick as you can. They tried to get you on the 'phone, but you
weren't here. Do you understand? You're to come quick, and I've left my
horse out here for you. Kenyon and I'll catch a car home."
The pose with one hand in his trousers pocket and the other hanging
loosely suited the Judge-elect as he answered: "Is that all?" Then he
added, as his eyes went over the blue overalls: "I presume Mrs. Nesbit
advised you as to the reason for--for, well--for haste?"
Grant saw Van Dorn's eyes wander to the girl's for approval. "I shall
not need your horse, Adams," Van Dorn went on without waiting for a
reply to his question. Then again turning his eyes to the girl, he
asked: "Adams, anything I can do to repay your kindness?"
"No--" growled Adams, turning to go.
"Say, Adams," called Van Dorn, rubbing his hands and still smiling at
the girl, "you wouldn't take a cigar in--in anticipation of the happy--"
Adams whirled around. His big jaw muscles worked in knots before he
spoke; his blue eyes were set and raging. But he looked at the floor an
instant before crying:
"You go to hell!" And an instant later, the lank figure had left the
room, slamming the door after him. Grant heard the telephone bell
ringing, and heard the girl's voice answering it, then he went to the
doctor's office. As he was writing the words "At Home" on the slate on
the door, he could hear Miss Mauling at the telephone.
"Yes," and again, "Yes," and then, "Is there any message," and finally
she giggled, "All right, I'll call him." Then Grant stalked down the
stairs. The receiver was hanging down. The Doctor at the other end of
the wire could hear a man and a woman laughing. Van Dorn stepped to the
instrument and said: "Yes, Doctor."
Then, "What--well, you don't say!"
And still again, "Yes, he was just here this minute; shall I call him
back?" And before hanging up the receiver, he said, "Why, of course,
I'll come right out."
The Judge-elect turned gracefully around, smiling complacently: "Well,
Violet--it's your bet. It's a girl!"
The court stenographer poked a teasing forefinger at him and whittled it
with another in glee. Then, as if remembering something, she asked:
"How's your wife?"
Van Dorn's face was blank for an instant. "By George--that's so. I
forgot to ask." He started to pick up the telephone receiver, but
checked himself. He pulled his broad-brimmed hat over his eyes, and
started for the door, waving merrily and rubbing his chin with his
flower.
"Ta ta," he called as he saw the last of her flashing smile through the
closing door.
And thus into a world where only the fittest survive that day came Lila
Van Dorn,--the child of a mother's love.