X.
This was not my first visit to the state capital. Indeed, some of that
recondite knowledge, in which I took a pride, had been gained on the
occasions of my previous visits. Rising and dressing early, I beheld
out of the car window the broad, shallow river glinting in the morning
sunlight, the dome of the state house against the blue of the sky.
Even at that early hour groups of the gentlemen who made our laws were
scattered about the lobby of the Potts House, standing or seated within
easy reach of the gaily coloured cuspidors that protected the marble
floor: heavy-jawed workers from the cities mingled with moon-faced but
astute countrymen who manipulated votes amongst farms and villages; fat
or cadaverous, Irish, German or American, all bore in common a certain
indefinable stamp. Having eaten my breakfast in a large dining-room
that resounded with the clatter of dishes, I directed my steps to
the apartment occupied from year to year by Colonel Paul Barney,
generalissimo of the Railroad on the legislative battlefield,--a
position that demanded a certain uniqueness of genius.
“How do you do, sir,” he said, in a guarded but courteous tone as he
opened the door. I entered to confront a group of three or four figures,
silent and rather hostile, seated in a haze of tobacco smoke around a
marble-topped table. On it reposed a Bible, attached to a chain.
“You probably don't remember me, Colonel,” I said. “My name is Pared,
and I'm associated with the firm of Watling, Fowndes, and Ripon.”
His air of marginality,--heightened by a grey moustache and goatee a la
Napoleon Third,--vanished instantly; he became hospitable, ingratiating.
“Why--why certainly, you were down heah with Mr. Fowndes two years ago.”
The Colonel spoke with a slight Southern accent. “To be sure, sir. I've
had the honour of meeting your father. Mr. Norris, of North Haven, meet
Mr. Paret--one of our rising lawyers...” I shook hands with them all
and sat down. Opening his long coat, Colonel Varney revealed two rows of
cigars, suggesting cartridges in a belt. These he proceeded to hand
out as he talked. “I'm glad to see you here, Mr. Paret. You must stay
awhile, and become acquainted with the men who--ahem--are shaping the
destinies of a great state. It would give me pleasure to escort you
about.”
I thanked him. I had learned enough to realize how important are
the amenities in politics and business. The Colonel did most of the
conversing; he could not have filled with efficiency and ease the
important post that was his had it not been for the endless fund of
humorous anecdotes at his disposal. One by one the visitors left, each
assuring me of his personal regard: the Colonel closed the door, softly,
turning the key in the lock; there was a sly look in his black eyes as
he took a chair in proximity to mine.
“Well, Mr. Paret,” he asked softly, “what's up?”
Without further ado I handed him Mr. Gorse's letter, and another Mr.
Watling had given me for him, which contained a copy of the bill. He
read these, laid them on the table, glancing at me again, stroking his
goatee the while. He chuckled.
“By gum!” he exclaimed. “I take off my hat to Theodore Watling, always
did.” He became contemplative. “It can be done, Mr. Paret, but it's
going to take some careful driving, sir, some reaching out and flicking
'em when they r'ar and buck. Paul Varney's never been stumped yet.
Just as soon as this is introduced we'll have Gates and Armstrong down
here--they're the Ribblevale attorneys, aren't they? I thought so,--and
the best legal talent they can hire. And they'll round up all the
disgruntled fellows, you know,--that ain't friendly to the Railroad.
We've got to do it quick, Mr. Paret. Gorse gave you a letter to the
Governor, didn't he?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Well, come along. I'll pass the word around among the boys, just to let
'em know what to expect.” His eyes glittered again. “I've been
following this Ribblevale business,” he added, “and I understand Leonard
Dickinson's all ready to reorganize that company, when the time comes.
He ought to let me in for a little, on the ground floor.”
I did not venture to make any promises for Mr. Dickinson.
“I reckon it's just as well if you were to meet me at the Governor's
office,” the Colonel added reflectively, and the hint was not lost on
me. “It's better not to let 'em find out any sooner than they have to
where this thing comes from,--you understand.” He looked at his watch.
“How would nine o'clock do? I'll be there, with Trulease, when you
come,--by accident, you understand. Of course he'll be reasonable, but
when they get to be governors they have little notions, you know, and
you've got to indulge 'em, flatter 'em a little. It doesn't hurt, for
when they get their backs up it only makes more trouble.”
He put on a soft, black felt hat, and departed noiselessly...
At nine o'clock I arrived at the State House and was ushered into a
great square room overlooking the park. The Governor was seated at a
desk under an elaborate chandelier, and sure enough, Colonel Varney was
there beside him; making barely perceptible signals.
“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Paret,” said Mr.
Trulease. “Your name is a familiar one in your city, sir. And I gather
from your card that you are associated with my good friend, Theodore
Watling.”
I acknowledged it. I was not a little impressed by the perfect blend of
cordiality, democratic simplicity and impressiveness Mr. Trulease had
achieved. For he had managed, in the course of a long political career,
to combine in exact proportions these elements which, in the public
mind, should up the personality of a chief executive. Momentarily
he overcame the feeling of superiority with which I had entered his
presence; neutralized the sense I had of being associated now with the
higher powers which had put him where he was. For I knew all about his
“record.”
“You're acquainted with Colonel Varney?” he inquired.
“Yes, Governor, I've met the Colonel,” I said.
“Well, I suppose your firm is getting its share of business these days,”
Mr. Trulease observed. I acknowledged it was, and after discussing for a
few moments the remarkable growth of my native city the Governor tapped
on his desk and inquired what he could do for me. I produced the letter
from the attorney for the Railroad. The Governor read it gravely.
“Ah,” he said, “from Mr. Gorse.” A copy of the proposed bill was
enclosed, and the Governor read that also, hemmed and hawed a little,
turned and handed it to Colonel Varney, who was sitting with a detached
air, smoking contemplatively, a vacant expression on his face. “What do
you think of this, Colonel?”
Whereupon the Colonel tore himself away from his reflections.
“What's that, Governor?”
“Mr. Gorse has called my attention to what seems to him a flaw in our
statutes, an inability to obtain testimony from corporations whose books
are elsewhere, and who may thus evade, he says, to a certain extent, the
sovereign will of our state.”
The Colonel took the paper with an admirable air of surprise, adjusted
his glasses, and became absorbed in reading, clearing his throat once or
twice and emitting an exclamation.
“Well, if you ask me, Governor,” he said, at length, “all I can say is
that I am astonished somebody didn't think of this simple remedy before
now. Many times, sir, have I seen justice defeated because we had no
such legislation as this.”
He handed it back. The Governor studied it once more, and coughed.
“Does the penalty,” he inquired, “seem to you a little severe?”
“No, sir,” replied the Colonel, emphatically. “Perhaps it is because I
am anxious, as a citizen, to see an evil abated. I have had an intimate
knowledge of legislation, sir, for more than twenty years in this
state, and in all that time I do not remember to have seen a bill more
concisely drawn, or better calculated to accomplish the ends of justice.
Indeed, I often wondered why this very penalty was not imposed. Foreign
magistrates are notoriously indifferent as to affairs in another state
than their own. Rather than go into the hands of a receiver I venture to
say that hereafter, if this bill is made a law, the necessary testimony
will be forthcoming.”
The Governor read the bill through again.
“If it is introduced, Colonel,” he said, “the legislature and the people
of the state ought to have it made clear to them that its aim is
to remedy an injustice. A misunderstanding on this point would be
unfortunate.”
“Most unfortunate, Governor.”
“And of course,” added the Governor, now addressing me, “it would be
improper for me to indicate what course I shall pursue in regard to it
if it should come to me for my signature. Yet I may go so far as to say
that the defect it seeks to remedy seems to me a real one. Come in and
see me, Mr. Paret, when you are in town, and give my cordial regards to
Mr. Watling.”
So gravely had the farce been carried on that I almost laughed, despite
the fact that the matter in question was a serious one for me. The
Governor held out his hand, and I accepted my dismissal.
I had not gone fifty steps in the corridor before I heard the Colonel's
voice in my ear.
“We had to give him a little rope to go through with his act,” he
whispered confidentially. “But he'll sign it all right. And now, if
you'll excuse me, Mr. Paret, I'll lay a few mines. See you at the hotel,
sir.”
Thus he indicated, delicately, that it would be better for me to keep
out of sight. On my way to the Potts House the bizarre elements in
the situation struck me again with considerable force. It seemed so
ridiculous, so puerile to have to go through with this political farce
in order that a natural economic evolution might be achieved. Without
doubt the development of certain industries had reached a stage
where the units in competition had become too small, when a greater
concentration of capital was necessary. Curiously enough, in this mental
argument of justification, I left out all consideration of the size of
the probable profits to Mr. Scherer and his friends. Profits and brains
went together. And, since the Almighty did not limit the latter, why
should man attempt to limit the former? We were playing for high but
justifiable stakes; and I resented the comedy which an hypocritical
insistence on the forms of democracy compelled us to go through. It
seemed unworthy of men who controlled the destinies of state and nation.
The point of view, however, was consoling. As the day wore on I sat
in the Colonel's room, admiring the skill with which he conducted the
campaign: a green country lawyer had been got to introduce the bill, it
had been expedited to the Committee on the Judiciary, which would have
an executive session immediately after dinner. I had ventured to inquire
about the hearings.
“There won't be any hearings, sir,” the Colonel assured me. “We own that
committee from top to bottom.”
Indeed, by four o'clock in the afternoon the message came that the
committee had agreed to recommend the bill.
Shortly after that the first flurry occurred. There came a knock at the
door, followed by the entrance of a stocky Irish American of about forty
years of age, whose black hair was plastered over his forehead. His
sea-blue eyes had a stormy look.
“Hello, Jim,” said the Colonel. “I was just wondering where you were.”
“Sure, you must have been!” replied the gentleman sarcastically.
But the Colonel's geniality was unruffled.
“Mr. Maker,” he said, “you ought to know Mr. Paret. Mr. Maker is the
representative from Ward Five of your city, and we can always count on
him to do the right thing, even if he is a Democrat. How about it, Jim?”
Mr. Maker relighted the stump of his cigar.
“Take a fresh one, Jim,” said the Colonel, opening a bureau drawer.
Mr. Maker took two.
“Say, Colonel,” he demanded, “what's this bill that went into the
judiciary this morning?”
“What bill?” asked the Colonel, blandly.
“So you think I ain't on?” Mr. Maker inquired.
The Colonel laughed.
“Where have you been, Jim?”
“I've been up to the city, seem' my wife--that's where I've been.”
The Colonel smiled, as at a harmless fiction.
“Well, if you weren't here, I don't see what right you've got to
complain. I never leave my good Democratic friends on the outside, do
I?”
“That's all right,” replied Mr. Maker, doggedly, “I'm on, I'm here now,
and that bill in the Judiciary doesn't pass without me. I guess I can
stop it, too. How about a thousand apiece for five of us boys?”
“You're pretty good at a joke, Jim,” remarked the Colonel, stroking his
goatee.
“Maybe you're looking for a little publicity in this here game,”
retorted Mr. Maker, darkly. “Say, Colonel, ain't we always treated the
Railroad on the level?”
“Jim,” asked the Colonel, gently, “didn't I always take care of you?”
He had laid his hand on the shoulder of Mr. Maker, who appeared slightly
mollified, and glanced at a massive silver watch.
“Well, I'll be dropping in about eight o'clock,” was his significant
reply, as he took his leave.
“I guess we'll have to grease the wheels a little,” the Colonel remarked
to me, and gazed at the ceiling....
The telegram apropos of the Ward Five leader was by no means the only
cipher message I sent back during my stay. I had not needed to be told
that the matter in hand would cost money, but Mr. Watling's parting
instruction to me had been to take the Colonel's advice as to specific
sums, and obtain confirmation from Fowndes. Nor was it any surprise to
me to find Democrats on intimate terms with such a stout Republican
as the Colonel. Some statesman is said to have declared that he knew
neither Easterners nor Westerners, Northerners nor Southerners, but
only Americans; so Colonel Varney recognized neither Democrats nor
Republicans; in our legislature party divisions were sunk in a greater
loyalty to the Railroad.
At the Colonel's suggestion I had laid in a liberal supply of cigars
and whiskey. The scene in his room that evening suggested a session of
a sublimated grand lodge of some secret order, such were the mysterious
comings and goings, knocks and suspenses. One after another the
“important” men duly appeared and were introduced, the Colonel supplying
the light touch.
“Why, cuss me if it isn't Billy! Mr. Paret, I want you to shake hands
with Mr. Donovan, the floor leader of the 'opposition,' sir. Mr. Donovan
has had the habit of coming up here for a friendly chat ever since he
first came down to the legislature. How long is it, Billy?”
“I guess it's nigh on to fifteen years, Colonel.”
“Fifteen years!” echoed the Colonel, “and he's so good a Democrat it
hasn't changed his politics a particle.”
Mr. Donovan grinned in appreciation of this thrust, helped himself
liberally from the bottle on the mantel, and took a seat on the bed. We
had a “friendly chat.”
Thus I made the acquaintance also of the Hon. Joseph Mecklin, Speaker
of the House, who unbent in the most flattering way on learning my
identity.
“Mr. Paret's here on that little matter, representing Watling, Fowndes
and Ripon,” the Colonel explained. And it appeared that Mr. Mecklin
knew all about the “little matter,” and that the mention of the firm
of Watling, Fowndes and Ripon had a magical effect in these parts. The
President of the Senate, the Hon. Lafe Giddings, went so far as to say
that he hoped before long to see Mr. Watling in Washington. By no means
the least among our callers was the Hon. Fitch Truesdale, editor of the
St. Helen's Messenger, whose editorials were of the trite effectiveness
that is taken widely for wisdom, and were assiduously copied every week
by other state papers and labeled “Mr. Truesdale's Common Sense.” At
countless firesides in our state he was known as the spokesman of the
plain man, who was blissfully ignorant of the fact that Mr. Truesdale
was owned body and carcass by Mr. Cyrus Ridden, the principal
manufacturer of St. Helen's and a director in several subsidiary lines
of the Railroad. In the legislature, the Hon. Fitch's function was that
of the moderate counsellor and bellwether for new members, hence nothing
could have been more fitting than the choice of that gentleman for the
honour of moving, on the morrow, that Bill No. 709 ought to pass.
Mr. Truesdale reluctantly consented to accept a small “loan” that would
help to pay the mortgage on his new press....
When the last of the gathering had departed, about one o'clock in the
morning, I had added considerably to my experience, gained a pretty
accurate idea of who was who in the legislature and politics of the
state, and established relationships--as the Colonel reminded me--likely
to prove valuable in the future. It seemed only gracious to congratulate
him on his management of the affair,--so far. He appeared pleased, and
squeezed my hand.
“Well, sir, it did require a little delicacy of touch. And if I do
say it myself, it hasn't been botched,” he admitted. “There ain't an
outsider, as far as I can learn, who has caught on to the nigger in
the wood-pile. That's the great thing, to keep 'em ignorant as long as
possible. You understand. They yell bloody murder when they do find out,
but generally it's too late, if a bill's been handled right.”
I found myself speculating as to who the “outsiders” might be. No
Ribblevale attorneys were on the spot as yet,--of that I was satisfied.
In the absence of these, who were the opposition? It seemed to me as
though I had interviewed that day every man in the legislature.
I was very tired. But when I got into bed, it was impossible to sleep.
My eyes smarted from the tobacco smoke; and the events of the day,
in disorderly manner, kept running through my head. The tide of
my exhilaration had ebbed, and I found myself struggling against a
revulsion caused, apparently, by the contemplation of Colonel Varney and
his associates; the instruments, in brief, by which our triumph over our
opponents was to be effected. And that same idea which, when launched
amidst the surroundings of the Boyne Club, had seemed so brilliant, now
took on an aspect of tawdriness. Another thought intruded itself,--that
of Mr. Pugh, the president of the Ribblevale Company. My father had
known him, and some years before I had traveled halfway across the state
in his company; his kindliness had impressed me. He had spent a large
part of his business life, I knew, in building up the Ribblevale, and
now it was to be wrested from him; he was to be set aside, perhaps
forced to start all over again when old age was coming on! In vain I
accused myself of sentimentality, and summoned all my arguments to prove
that in commerce efficiency must be the only test. The image of Mr. Pugh
would not down.
I got up and turned on the light, and took refuge in a novel I had in
my bag. Presently I grew calmer. I had chosen. I had succeeded. And now
that I had my finger at last on the nerve of power, it was no time to
weaken.
It was half-past six when I awoke and went to the window, relieved to
find that the sun had scattered my morbid fancies with the darkness;
and I speculated, as I dressed, whether the thing called conscience
were not, after all, a matter of nerves. I went downstairs through the
tobacco-stale atmosphere of the lobby into the fresh air and sparkly
sunlight of the mild February morning, and leaving the business district
I reached the residence portion of the little town. The front steps of
some of the comfortable houses were being swept by industrious servant
girls, and out of the chimneys twisted, fantastically, rich blue smoke;
the bare branches of the trees were silver-grey against the sky; gaining
at last an old-fashioned, wooden bridge, I stood for awhile gazing at
the river, over the shallows of which the spendthrift hand of nature had
flung a shower of diamonds. And I reflected that the world was for the
strong, for him who dared reach out his hand and take what it
offered. It was not money we coveted, we Americans, but power, the
self-expression conferred by power. A single experience such as I had
had the night before would since to convince any sane man that democracy
was a failure, that the world-old principle of aristocracy would assert
itself, that the attempt of our ancestors to curtail political power had
merely resulted in the growth of another and greater economic power that
bade fair to be limitless. As I walked slowly back into town I felt a
reluctance to return to the noisy hotel, and finding myself in front of
a little restaurant on a side street, I entered it. There was but one
other customer in the place, and he was seated on the far side of the
counter, with a newspaper in front of him; and while I was ordering my
breakfast I was vaguely aware that the newspaper had dropped, and that
he was looking at me. In the slight interval that elapsed before my
brain could register his identity I experienced a distinct shock of
resentment; a sense of the reintrusion of an antagonistic value at a
moment when it was most unwelcome....
The man had risen and was coming around the counter. He was Hermann
Krebs.
“Paret!” I heard him say.
“You here?” I exclaimed.
He did not seem to notice the lack of cordiality in my tone. He appeared
so genuinely glad to see me again that I instantly became rather ashamed
of my ill nature.
“Yes, I'm here--in the legislature,” he informed me.
“A Solon!”
“Exactly.” He smiled. “And you?” he inquired.
“Oh, I'm only a spectator. Down here for a day or two.”
He was still lanky, his clothes gave no evidence of an increased
prosperity, but his complexion was good, his skin had cleared. I was
more than ever baked by a resolute good humour, a simplicity that was
not innocence, a whimsical touch seemingly indicative of a state of mind
that refused to take too seriously certain things on which I set store.
What right had he to be contented with life?
“Well, I too am only a spectator here,” he laughed. “I'm neither fish,
flesh nor fowl, nor good red herring.”
“You were going into the law, weren't you?” I asked. “I remember you
said something about it that day we met at Beverly Farms.”
“Yes, I managed it, after all. Then I went back home to Elkington to try
to make a living.”
“But somehow I have never thought of you as being likely to develop
political aspirations, Krebs,” I said.
“I should say not! he exclaimed.
“Yet here you are, launched upon a political career! How did it happen?”
“Oh, I'm not worrying about the career,” he assured me. “I got here by
accident, and I'm afraid it won't happen again in a hurry. You see, the
hands in those big mills we have in Elkington sprang a surprise on the
machine, and the first thing I knew I was nominated for the legislature.
A committee came to my boarding-house and told me, and there was the
deuce to pay, right off. The Railroad politicians turned in and worked
for the Democratic candidate, of course, and the Hutchinses, who own the
mills, tried through emissaries to intimidate their operatives.”
“And then?” I asked.
“Well,--I'm here,” he said.
“Wouldn't you be accomplishing more,” I inquired, “if you hadn't
antagonized the Hutchinses?”
“It depends upon what you mean by accomplishment,” he answered, so
mildly that I felt more rued than ever.
“Well, from what you say, I suppose you're going in for reform, that
these workmen up at Elkington are not satisfied with their conditions
and imagine you can help to better them. Now, provided the conditions
are not as good as they might be, how are you going to improve them if
you find yourself isolated here, as you say?”
“In other words, I should cooperate with Colonel Varney and other
disinterested philanthropists,” he supplied, and I realized that I was
losing my temper.
“Well, what can you do?” I inquired defiantly.
“I can find out what's going on,” he said. “I have already learned
something, by the way.”
“And then?” I asked, wondering whether the implication were personal.
“Then I can help--disseminate the knowledge. I may be wrong, but I
have an idea that when the people of this country learn how their
legislatures are conducted they will want to change things.”
“That's right!” echoed the waiter, who had come up with my
griddle-cakes. “And you're the man to tell 'em, Mr. Krebs.”
“It will need several thousand of us to do that, I'm afraid,” said
Krebs, returning his smile.
My distaste for the situation became more acute, but I felt that I was
thrown on the defensive. I could not retreat, now.
“I think you are wrong,” I declared, when the waiter had departed to
attend to another customer. “The people the great majority of them, at
least are indifferent, they don't want to be bothered with politics.
There will always be labour agitation, of course,--the more wages those
fellows get, the more they want. We pay the highest wages in the world
to-day, and the standard of living is higher in this country than
anywhere else. They'd ruin our prosperity, if we'd let 'em.”
“How about the thousands of families who don't earn enough to live
decently even in times of prosperity?” inquired Krebs.
“It's hard, I'll admit, but the inefficient and the shiftless are bound
to suffer, no matter what form of government you adopt.”
“You talk about standards of living,--I could show you some examples of
standards to make your heart sick,” he said. “What you don't realize,
perhaps, is that low standards help to increase the inefficient of whom
you complain.”
He smiled rather sadly. “The prosperity you are advocating,” he added,
after a moment, “is a mere fiction, it is gorging the few at the expense
of the many. And what is being done in this country is to store up an
explosive gas that some day will blow your superstructure to atoms if
you don't wake up in time.”
“Isn't that a rather one-sided view, too?” I suggested.
“I've no doubt it may appear so, but take the proceedings in this
legislature. I've no doubt you know something about them, and that you
would maintain they are justified on account of the indifference of the
public, and of other reasons, but I can cite an instance that is simply
legalized thieving.” For the first time a note of indignation crept into
Krebs's voice. “Last night I discovered by a mere accident, in talking
to a man who came in on a late train, that a bill introduced yesterday,
which is being rushed through the Judiciary Committee of the House--an
apparently innocent little bill--will enable, if it becomes a law, the
Boyne Iron Works, of your city, to take possession of the Ribblevale
Steel Company, lock, stock, and barrel. And I am told it was conceived
by a lawyer who claims to be a respectable member of his profession, and
who has extraordinary ability, Theodore Watling.”
Krebs put his hand in his pocket and drew out a paper. “Here's a copy
of it,--House Bill 709.” His expression suddenly changed. “Perhaps Mr.
Watling is a friend of yours.”
“I'm with his firm,” I replied....
Krebs's fingers closed over the paper, crumpling it.
“Oh, then, you know about this,” he said. He was putting the paper back
into his pocket when I took it from him. But my adroitness, so carefully
schooled, seemed momentarily to have deserted me. What should I say? It
was necessary to decide quickly.
“Don't you take rather a--prejudiced view of this, Krebs?” I said. “Upon
my word, I can't see why you should accept a rumour running around the
lobbies that Mr. Watling drafted this bill for a particular purpose.”
He was silent. But his eyes did not leave my face.
“Why should any sensible man, a member of the legislature, take stock in
that kind of gossip?” I insisted. “Why not judge this bill by its face,
without heeding a cock and bull story as to how it may have originated?
It is a good bill, or a bad bill? Let's see what it says.”
I read it.
“So far as I can see, it is legislation which we ought to have had long
ago, and tends to compel a publicity in corporation affairs that is much
needed, to put a stop to practices which every decent citizen deplores.”
He drew the paper out of my hand.
“You needn't go on, Paret,” he told me. “It's no use.”
“Well, I'm sorry we don't agree,” I said, and got up. I left him
twisting the paper in his fingers.
Beside the clerk's desk in the Potts House, relating one of his
anecdotes, I spied Colonel Varney, and managed presently to draw him
upstairs to his room. “What's the matter?” he asked.
“Do you know a man named Krebs in the House?” I said.
“From Elkington? Why, that's the man the Hutchinses let slip
through,--the Hutchinses, who own the mills over there. The agitators
put up a job on them.” The Colonel was no longer the genial and social
purveyor of anecdotes. He had become tense, alert, suspicious. “What's
he up to?”
“He's found out about this bill,” I replied.
“How?”
“I don't know. But someone told him that it originated in our office,
and that we were going to use it in our suit against the Ribblevale.”
I related the circumstances of my running across Krebs, speaking of
having known him at Harvard. Colonel Varney uttered an oath, and strode
across to the window, where he stood looking down into the street from
between the lace curtains.
“We'll have to attend to him, right off,” he said.
I was surprised to find myself resenting the imputation, and deeply.
“I'm afraid he's one of those who can't be 'attended to,'” I answered.
“You mean that he's in the employ of the Ribblevale people?” the Colonel
inquired.
“I don't mean anything of the kind,” I retorted, with more heat,
perhaps, than I realized. The Colonel looked at me queerly.
“That's all right, Mr. Paret. Of course I don't want to question your
judgment, sir. And you say he's a friend of yours.”
“I said I knew him at college.”
“But you will pardon me,” the Colonel went on, “when I tell you that
I've had some experience with that breed, and I have yet to see one of
'em you couldn't come to terms with in some way--in some way,” he added,
significantly. I did not pause to reflect that the Colonel's attitude,
from his point of view (yes, and from mine,--had I not adopted it?)
was the logical one. In that philosophy every man had his price, or
his weakness. Yet, such is the inconsistency of human nature, I was now
unable to contemplate this attitude with calmness.
“Mr. Krebs is a lawyer. Has he accepted a pass from the Railroad?” I
demanded, knowing the custom of that corporation of conferring this
delicate favour on the promising young talent in my profession.
“I reckon he's never had the chance,” said Mr. Varney.
“Well, has he taken a pass as a member of the legislature?”
“No,--I remember looking that up when he first came down. Sent that
back, if I recall the matter correctly.” Colonel Varney went to a desk
in the corner of the room, unlocked it, drew forth a black book, and
running his fingers through the pages stopped at the letter K. “Yes,
sent back his legislative pass, but I've known 'em to do that when they
were holding out for something more. There must be somebody who can get
close to him.”
The Colonel ruminated awhile. Then he strode to the door and called out
to the group of men who were always lounging in the hall.
“Tell Alf Young I want to see him, Fred.”
I waited, by no means free from uneasiness and anxiety, from a certain
lack of self-respect that was unfamiliar. Mr. Young, the Colonel
explained, was a legal light in Galesburg, near Elkington,--the Railroad
lawyer there. And when at last Mr. Young appeared he proved to be an
oily gentleman of about forty, inclining to stoutness, with one of those
“blue,” shaven faces.
“Want me, Colonel?” he inquired blithely, when the door had closed
behind him; and added obsequiously, when introduced to me, “Glad to meet
you, Mr. Paret. My regards to Mr. Watling, when you go back.
“Alf,” demanded the Colonel, “what do you know of this fellow Krebs?”
Mr. Young laughed. Krebs was “nutty,” he declared--that was all there
was to it.
“Won't he--listen to reason?”
“It's been tried, Colonel. Say, he wouldn't know a hundred-dollar bill
if you showed him one.”
“What does he want?”
“Oh, something,--that's sure, they all want something.” Mr. Young
shrugged his shoulder expressively, and by a skillful manipulation
of his lips shifted his cigar from one side of his mouth to the other
without raising his hands. “But it ain't money. I guess he's got a
notion that later on the labour unions'll send him to the United States
Senate some day. He's no slouch, either, when it comes to law. I can
tell you that.”
“No--no flaw in his--record?” Colonel Varney's agate eyes sought those
of Mr. Young, meaningly.
“That's been tried, too,” declared the Galesburg attorney. “Say, you can
believe it or not, but we've never dug anything up so far. He's been too
slick for us, I guess.”
“Well,” exclaimed the Colonel, at length, “let him squeal and be d--d!
He can't do any more than make a noise. Only I hoped we'd be able to
grease this thing along and slide it through the Senate this afternoon,
before they got wind of it.”
“He'll squeal, all right, until you smother him,” Mr. Young observed.
“We'll smother him some day!” replied the Colonel, savagely.
Mr. Young laughed.
But as I made my way toward the State House I was conscious of a feeling
of relief. I had no sooner gained a front seat in the gallery of the
House of Representatives when the members rose, the Senate marched
gravely in, the Speaker stopped jesting with the Chaplain, and over the
Chaplain's face came suddenly an agonized expression. Folding his hands
across his stomach he began to call on God with terrific fervour, in an
intense and resounding voice. I was struck suddenly by the irony of it
all. Why have a legislature when Colonel Paul Varney was so efficient!
The legislature was a mere sop to democratic prejudice, to pray over
it heightened the travesty. Suppose there were a God after all? not
necessarily the magnified monarch to whom these pseudo-democrats prayed,
but an Intelligent Force that makes for righteousness. How did He, or
It, like to be trifled with in this way? And, if He existed, would not
His disgust be immeasurable as He contemplated that unctuous figure in
the “Prince Albert” coat, who pretended to represent Him?
As the routine business began I searched for Krebs, to find him
presently at a desk beside a window in the rear of the hall making notes
on a paper; there was, confessedly, little satisfaction in the thought
that the man whose gaunt features I contemplated was merely one of those
impractical idealists who beat themselves to pieces against the forces
that sway the world and must forever sway it. I should be compelled to
admit that he represented something unique in that assembly if he had
the courage to get up and oppose House Bill 709. I watched him narrowly;
the suggestion intruded itself--perhaps he had been “seen,” as the
Colonel expressed it. I repudiated it. I grew impatient, feverish; the
monotonous reading of the clerk was interrupted now and then by the
sharp tones of the Speaker assigning his various measures to this or
that committee, “unless objection is offered,” while the members moved
about and murmured among themselves; Krebs had stopped making notes; he
was looking out of the window. At last, without any change of emphasis
in his droning voice, the clerk announced the recommendation of the
Committee on Judiciary that House Bill 709 ought to pass.
Down in front a man had risen from his seat--the felicitous Mr.
Truesdale. Glancing around at his fellow-members he then began to
explain in the impressive but conversational tone of one whose counsels
are in the habit of being listened to, that this was merely a little
measure to remedy a flaw in the statutes. Mr. Truesdale believed in
corporations when corporations were good, and this bill was calculated
to make them good, to put an end to jugglery and concealment. Our great
state, he said, should be in the forefront of such wise legislation,
which made for justice and a proper publicity; but the bill in question
was of greater interest to lawyers than to laymen, a committee composed
largely of lawyers had recommended it unanimously, and he was sure that
no opposition would develop in the House. In order not to take up their
time he asked: therefore, that it be immediately put on its second and
third reading and allowed to pass.
He sat down, and I looked at Krebs. Could he, could any man, any lawyer,
have the presumption to question such an obviously desirable measure,
to arraign the united judgment of the committee's legal talent? Such
was the note Mr. Truesdale so admirably struck. As though fascinated,
I continued to gaze at Krebs. I hated him, I desired to see him
humiliated, and yet amazingly I found myself wishing with almost equal
vehemence that he would be true to himself. He was rising,--slowly,
timidly, I thought, his hand clutching his desk lid, his voice sounding
wholly inadequate as he addressed the Speaker. The Speaker hesitated,
his tone palpably supercilious.
“The gentleman from--from Elkington, Mr. Krebs.”
There was a craning of necks, a staring, a tittering. I burned with
vicarious shame as Krebs stood there awkwardly, his hand still holding
the desk. There were cries of “louder” when he began; some picked up
their newspapers, while others started conversations. The Speaker rapped
with his gavel, and I failed to hear the opening words. Krebs paused,
and began again. His speech did not, at first, flow easily.
“Mr. Speaker, I rise to protest against this bill, which in my opinion
is not so innocent as the gentleman from St. Helen's would have the
House believe. It is on a par, indeed, with other legislation that in
past years has been engineered through this legislature under the guise
of beneficent law. No, not on a par. It is the most arrogant, the most
monstrous example of special legislation of them all. And while I do not
expect to be able to delay its passage much longer than the time I shall
be on my feet--”
“Then why not sit down?” came a voice, just audible.
As he turned swiftly toward the offender his profile had an eagle-like
effect that startled me, seemingly realizing a new quality in the man.
It was as though he had needed just the stimulus of that interruption to
electrify and transform him. His awkwardness disappeared; and if he
was a little bombastic, a little “young,” he spoke with the fire of
conviction.
“Because,” he cried, “because I should lose my self-respect for life if
I sat here and permitted the political organization of a railroad, the
members of which are here under the guise of servants of the people, to
cow me into silence. And if it be treason to mention the name of that
Railroad in connection with its political tyranny, then make the most of
it.” He let go of the desk, and tapped the copy of the bill. “What are
the facts? The Boyne Iron Works, under the presidency of Adolf Scherer,
has been engaged in litigation with the Ribblevale Steel Company for
some years: and this bill is intended to put into the hands of the
attorneys for Mr. Scherer certain information that will enable him to
get possession of the property. Gentlemen, that is what 'legal practice'
has descended to in the hands of respectable lawyers. This device
originated with the resourceful Mr. Theodore Watling, and if it had
not had the approval of Mr. Miller Gorse, it would never have got any
farther than the judiciary committee. It was confided to the skillful
care of Colonel Paul Varney to be steered through this legislature,
as hundreds of other measures have been steered through,--without
unnecessary noise. It may be asked why the Railroad should bother itself
by lending its political organization to private corporations? I will
tell you. Because corporations like the Boyne corporation are a part of
a network of interests, these corporations aid the Railroad to maintain
its monopoly, and in return receive rebates.”
Krebs had raised his voice as the murmurs became louder. At this point
a sharp-faced lawyer from Belfast got to his feet and objected that the
gentleman from Elkington was wasting the time of the House, indulging
in hearsay. His remarks were not germane, etc. The Speaker rapped
again, with a fine show of impartiality, and cautioned the member from
Elkington.
“Very well,” replied Krebs. “I have said what I wanted to say on that
score, and I know it to be the truth. And if this House does not find it
germane, the day is coming when its constituents will.”
Whereupon he entered into a discussion of the bill, dissecting it with
more calmness, with an ability that must have commanded, even from
some hostile minds, an unwilling respect. The penalty, he said, was
outrageous, hitherto unheard of in law,--putting a corporation in the
hands of a receiver, at the mercy of those who coveted it, because
one of its officers refused, or was unable, to testify. He might be in
China, in Timbuctoo when the summons was delivered at his last or usual
place of abode. Here was an enormity, an exercise of tyrannical power
exceeding all bounds, a travesty on popular government.... He ended by
pointing out the significance of the fact that the committee had given
no hearings; by declaring that if the bill became a law, it would
inevitably react upon the heads of those who were responsible for it.
He sat down, and there was a flutter of applause from the scattered
audience in the gallery.
“By God, that's the only man in the whole place!”
I was aware, for the first time, of a neighbour at my side,--a solid,
red-faced man, evidently a farmer. His trousers were tucked into his
boots, and his gnarled and powerful hands, ingrained with dirt, clutched
the arms of the seat as he leaned forward.
“Didn't he just naturally lambaste 'em?” he cried excitedly. “They'll
down him, I guess,--but say, he's right. A man would lose his
self-respect if he didn't let out his mind at them hoss thieves,
wouldn't he? What's that fellow's name?”
I told him.
“Krebs,” he repeated. “I want to remember that. Durned if I don't shake
hands with him.”
His excitement astonished me. Would the public feel like that, if they
only knew?... The Speaker's gavel had come down like a pistol shot.
One “war-hoss”--as my neighbour called them--after another proceeded to
crush the member from Elkington. It was, indeed, very skillfully done,
and yet it was a process from which I did not derive, somehow, much
pleasure. Colonel Varney's army had been magnificently trained to meet
just this kind of situation: some employed ridicule, others declared, in
impassioned tones, that the good name of their state had been wantonly
assailed, and pointed fervently to portraits on the walls of patriots
of the past,--sentiments that drew applause from the fickle gallery. One
gentleman observed that the obsession of a “railroad machine” was a sure
symptom of a certain kind of insanity, of which the first speaker had
given many other evidences. The farmer at my side remained staunch.
“They can't fool me,” he said angrily, “I know 'em. Do you see that
fellow gettin' up to talk now? Well, I could tell you a few things about
him, all right. He comes from Glasgow, and his name's Letchworth. He's
done more harm in his life than all the criminals he's kept out of
prison,--belongs to one of the old families down there, too.”
I had, indeed, remarked Letchworth's face, which seemed to me peculiarly
evil, its lividity enhanced by a shock of grey hair. His method was
withering sarcasm, and he was clearly unable to control his animus....
No champion appeared to support Krebs, who sat pale and tense while this
denunciation of him was going on. Finally he got the floor. His voice
trembled a little, whether with passion, excitement, or nervousness it
was impossible to say. But he contented himself with a brief defiance.
If the bill passed, he declared, the men who voted for it, the men who
were behind it, would ultimately be driven from political life by an
indignant public. He had a higher opinion of the voters of the state
than those who accused him of slandering it, than those who sat silent
and had not lifted their voices against this crime.
When the bill was put to a vote he demanded a roll call. Ten members
besides himself were recorded against House Bill No. 709!
In spite of this overwhelming triumph my feelings were not wholly
those of satisfaction when I returned to the hotel and listened to the
exultations and denunciations of such politicians as Letchworth, Young,
and Colonel Varney. Perhaps an image suggesting Hermann Krebs as some
splendid animal at bay, dragged down by the hounds, is too strong:
he had been ingloriously crushed, and defeat, even for the sake of
conviction, was not an inspiring spectacle.... As the chase swept
on over his prostrate figure I rapidly regained poise and a sense of
proportion; a “master of life” could not permit himself to be tossed
about by sentimentality; and gradually I grew ashamed of my bad quarter
of an hour in the gallery of the House, and of the effect of it--which
lingered awhile--as of a weakness suddenly revealed, which must at all
costs be overcome. I began to see something dramatic and sensational in
Krebs's performance....
The Ribblevale Steel Company was the real quarry, after all. And such
had been the expedition, the skill and secrecy, with which our affair
was conducted, that before the Ribblevale lawyers could arrive, alarmed
and breathless, the bill had passed the House, and their only real
chance of halting it had been lost. For the Railroad controlled the
House, not by owning the individuals composing it, but through the
leaders who dominated it,--men like Letchworth and Truesdale. These,
and Colonel Varney, had seen to it that men who had any parliamentary
ability had been attended to; all save Krebs, who had proved a surprise.
There were indeed certain members who, although they had railroad passes
in their pockets (which were regarded as just perquisites,--the
Railroad being so rich!), would have opposed the bill if they had
felt sufficiently sure of themselves to cope with such veterans as
Letchworth. Many of these had allowed themselves to be won over or cowed
by the oratory which had crushed Krebs.
Nor did the Ribblevale people--be it recorded--scruple to fight fire
with fire. Their existence, of course, was at stake, and there was no
public to appeal to. A part of the legal army that rushed to the aid of
our adversaries spent the afternoon and most of the night organizing
all those who could be induced by one means or another to reverse their
sentiments, and in searching for the few who had grievances against
the existing power. The following morning a motion was introduced to
reconsider; and in the debate that followed, Krebs, still defiant, took
an active part. But the resolution required a two-thirds vote, and was
lost.
When the battle was shifted to the Senate it was as good as lost. The
Judiciary Committee of the august body did indeed condescend to give
hearings, at which the Ribblevale lawyers exhausted their energy and
ingenuity without result with only two dissenting votes the bill
was calmly passed. In vain was the Governor besieged, entreated,
threatened,--it was said; Mr. Trulease had informed protesters--so
Colonel Varney gleefully reported--that he had “become fully convinced
of the inherent justice of the measure.” On Saturday morning he signed
it, and it became a law....
Colonel Varney, as he accompanied me to the train, did not conceal his
jubilation.
“Perhaps I ought not to say it, Mr. Paret, but it couldn't have been
done neater. That's the art in these little affairs, to get 'em runnin'
fast, to get momentum on 'em before the other party wakes up, and then
he can't stop 'em.” As he shook hands in farewell he added, with more
gravity: “We'll see each other often, sir, I guess. My very best regards
to Mr. Watling.”
Needless to say, I had not confided to him the part I had played in
originating House Bill No. 709, now a law of the state. But as the train
rolled on through the sunny winter landscape a sense of well-being,
of importance and power began to steal through me. I was victoriously
bearing home my first scalp,--one which was by no means to be
despised.... It was not until we reached Rossiter, about five o'clock,
that I was able to get the evening newspapers. Such was the perfection
of the organization of which I might now call myself an integral part
that the “best” publications contained only the barest mention,--and
that in the legislative news,--of the signing of the bill. I read
with complacency and even with amusement the flaring headlines I had
anticipated in Mr. Lawler's 'Pilot.'
“The Governor Signs It!”
“Special legislation, forced through by the Railroad Lobby, which will
drive honest corporations from this state.”
“Ribblevale Steel Company the Victim.”
It was common talk in the capital, the article went on to say, that
Theodore Watling himself had drawn up the measure.... Perusing the
editorial page my eye fell on the name, Krebs. One member of the
legislature above all deserved the gratitude of the people of the
state,--the member from Elkington. “An unknown man, elected in spite of
the opposition of the machine, he had dared to raise his voice against
this iniquity,” etc., etc.
We had won. That was the essential thing. And my legal experience
had taught me that victory counts; defeat is soon forgotten. Even the
discontented, half-baked and heterogeneous element from which the Pilot
got its circulation had short memories.
XI.
The next morning, which was Sunday, I went to Mr. Watling's house in,
Fillmore Street--a new residence at that time, being admired as the
dernier cri in architecture. It had a mediaeval look, queer dormers in
a steep roof of red tiles, leaded windows buried deep in walls of rough
stone. Emerging from the recessed vestibule on a level with the street
were the Watling twins, aglow with health, dressed in identical costumes
of blue. They had made their bow to society that winter.
“Why, here's Hugh!” said Frances. “Doesn't he look pleased with
himself?”
“He's come to take us to church,” said Janet.
“Oh, he's much too important,” said Frances. “He's made a killing of
some sort,--haven't you, Hugh?”...
I rang the bell and stood watching them as they departed, reflecting
that I was thirty-two years of age and unmarried. Mr. Watling,
surrounded with newspapers and seated before his library fire, glanced
up at me with a welcoming smile: how had I borne the legislative baptism
of fire? Such, I knew, was its implication.
“Everything went through according to schedule, eh? Well, I congratulate
you, Hugh,” he said.
“Oh, I didn't have much to do with it,” I answered, smiling back at him.
“I kept out of sight.”
“That's an art in itself.”
“I had an opportunity, at close range, to study the methods of our
lawmakers.”
“They're not particularly edifying,” Mr. Watling replied. “But they
seem, unfortunately, to be necessary.”
Such had been my own thought.
“Who is this man Krebs?” he inquired suddenly. “And why didn't Varney
get hold of him and make him listen to reason?”
“I'm afraid it wouldn't have been any use,” I replied. “He was in my
class at Harvard. I knew him--slightly. He worked his way through, and
had a pretty hard time of it. I imagine it affected his ideas.”
“What is he, a Socialist?”
“Something of the sort.” In Theodore Watling's vigorous, sanity-exhaling
presence Krebs's act appeared fantastic, ridiculous. “He has queer
notions about a new kind of democracy which he says is coming. I think
he is the kind of man who would be willing to die for it.”
“What, in these days!” Mr. Watling looked at me incredulously. “If
that's so, we must keep an eye on him, a sincere fanatic is a good deal
more dangerous than a reformer who wants something. There are such men,”
he added, “but they are rare. How was the Governor, Trulease?” he asked
suddenly. “Tractable?”
“Behaved like a lamb, although he insisted upon going through with his
little humbug,” I said.
Mr. Watling laughed. “They always do,” he observed, “and waste a lot of
valuable time. You'll find some light cigars in the corner, Hugh.”
I sat down beside him and we spent the morning going over the details
of the Ribblevale suit, Mr. Watling delegating to me certain matters
connected with it of a kind with which I had not hitherto been
entrusted; and he spoke again, before I left, of his intention of
taking me into the firm as soon as the affair could be arranged. Walking
homeward, with my mind intent upon things to come, I met my mother at
the corner of Lyme Street coming from church. Her face lighted up at
sight of me.
“Have you been working to-day, Hugh?” she asked.
I explained that I had spent the morning with Mr. Watling.
“I'll tell you a secret, mother. I'm going to be taken into the firm.”
“Oh, my dear, I'm so glad!” she exclaimed. “I often think, if only your
father were alive, how happy he would be, and how proud of you. I wish
he could know. Perhaps he does know.”
Theodore Watling had once said to me that the man who can best keep
his own counsel is the best counsel for other men to keep. I did not go
about boasting of the part I had played in originating the now famous
Bill No. 709, the passage of which had brought about the capitulation of
the Ribblevale Steel Company to our clients. But Ralph Hambleton knew of
it, of course.
“That was a pretty good thing you pulled off, Hughie,” he said. “I
didn't think you had it in you.”
It was rank patronage, of course, yet I was secretly pleased. As the
years went on I was thrown more and more with him, though in boyhood
there had been between us no bond of sympathy. About this time he was
beginning to increase very considerably the Hambleton fortune, and a
little later I became counsel for the Crescent Gas and Electric Company,
in which he had shrewdly gained a controlling interest. Even toward the
colossal game of modern finance his attitude was characteristically
that of the dilettante, of the amateur; he played it, as it were,
contemptuously, even as he had played poker at Harvard, with a cynical
audacity that had a peculiarly disturbing effect upon his companions. He
bluffed, he raised the limit in spite of protests, and when he lost one
always had the feeling that he would ultimately get his money back twice
over. At the conferences in the Boyne Club, which he often attended, his
manner toward Mr. Dickinson and Mr. Scherer and even toward Miller Gorse
was frequently one of thinly veiled amusement at their seriousness.
I often wondered that they did not resent it. But he was a privileged
person.
His cousin, Ham Durrett, whose inheritance was even greater than Ralph's
had been, had also become a privileged person whose comings and goings
and more reputable doings were often recorded in the newspapers. Ham
had attained to what Gene Hollister aptly but inadvertently called
“notoriety”: as Ralph wittily remarked, Ham gave to polo and women that
which might have gone into high finance. He spent much of his time in
the East; his conduct there and at home would once have created a black
scandal in our community, but we were gradually leaving our Calvinism
behind us and growing more tolerant: we were ready to Forgive much to
wealth especially if it was inherited. Hostesses lamented the fact that
Ham was “wild,” but they asked him to dinners and dances to meet their
daughters.
If some moralist better educated and more far-seeing than Perry
Blackwood (for Perry had become a moralist) had told these hostesses
that Hambleton Durrett was a victim of our new civilization, they would
have raised their eyebrows. They deplored while they coveted. If Ham had
been told he was a victim of any sort, he would have laughed.
He enjoyed life; he was genial and jovial, both lavish and
parsimonious,--this latter characteristic being the curious survival of
the trait of the ancestors to which he owed his millions. He was growing
even heavier, and decidedly red in the face.
Perry used to take Ralph to task for not saving Ham from his iniquities,
and Ralph would reply that Ham was going to the devil anyway, and not
even the devil himself could stop him.
“You can stop him, and you know it,” Perry retorted indignantly.
“What do you want me to do with him?” asked Ralph. “Convert him to the
saintly life I lead?”
This was a poser.
“That's a fact,” sand Perry, “you're no better than he is.”
“I don't know what you mean by 'better,'” retorted Ralph, grinning. “I'm
wiser, that's all.” (We had been talking about the ethics of business
when Perry had switched off to Ham.) “I believe, at least, in restraint
of trade. Ham doesn't believe in restraint of any kind.”
When, therefore, the news suddenly began to be circulated in the Boyne
Club that Ham was showing a tendency to straighten up, surprise and
incredulity were genuine. He was drinking less,--much less; and it was
said that he had severed certain ties that need not again be definitely
mentioned. The theory of religious regeneration not being tenable, it
was naturally supposed that he had fallen in love; the identity of
the unknown lady becoming a fruitful subject of speculation among
the feminine portion of society. The announcement of the marriage of
Hambleton Durrett would be news of the first magnitude, to be
absorbed eagerly by the many who had not the honour of his
acquaintance,--comparable only to that of a devastating flood or a
murder mystery or a change in the tariff.
Being absorbed in affairs that seemed more important, the subject did
not interest me greatly. But one cold Sunday afternoon, as I made my
way, in answer to her invitation, to see Nancy Willett, I found myself
wondering idly whether she might not be by way of making a shrewd guess
as to the object of Hambleton's affections. It was well known that he
had entertained a hopeless infatuation for her; and some were inclined
to attribute his later lapses to her lack of response. He still called
on her, and her lectures, which she delivered like a great aunt with
a recondite knowledge of the world, he took meekly. But even she had
seemed powerless to alter his habits....
Powell Street, that happy hunting-ground of my youth, had changed its
character, become contracted and unfamiliar, sooty. The McAlerys and
other older families who had not decayed with the neighbourhood were
rapidly deserting it, moving out to the new residence district known
as “the Heights.” I came to the Willett House. That, too, had an air of
shabbiness,--of well-tended shabbiness, to be sure; the stone steps had
been scrupulously scrubbed, but one of them was cracked clear across,
and the silver on the polished name-plate was wearing off; even the act
of pulling the knob of a door-bell was becoming obsolete, so used had
we grown to pushing porcelain buttons in bright, new vestibules. As I
waited for my summons to be answered it struck me as remarkable that
neither Nancy nor her father had been contaminated by the shabbiness
that surrounded them.
She had managed rather marvellously to redeem one room from the
old-fashioned severity of the rest of the house, the library behind
the big “parlour.” It was Nancy's room, eloquent of her daintiness and
taste, of her essential modernity and luxuriousness; and that evening,
as I was ushered into it, this quality of luxuriousness, of being
able to shut out the disagreeable aspects of life that surrounded
and threatened her, particularly impressed me. She had not lacked
opportunities to escape. I wondered uneasily as I waited why she had
not embraced them. I strayed about the room. A coal fire burned in the
grate, the red-shaded lamps gave a subdued but cheerful light; some
impulse led me to cross over to the windows and draw aside the heavy
hangings. Dusk was gathering over that garden, bleak and frozen now,
where we had romped together as children. How queer the place seemed!
How shrivelled! Once it had had the wide range of a park. There, still
weathering the elements, was the old-fashioned latticed summer-house,
but the fruit-trees that I recalled as clouds of pink and white were
gone.... A touch of poignancy was in these memories. I dropped the
curtain, and turned to confront Nancy, who had entered noiselessly.
“Well, Hugh, were you dreaming?” she said.
“Not exactly,” I replied, embarrassed. “I was looking at the garden.”
“The soot has ruined it. My life seems to be one continual struggle
against the soot,--the blacks, as the English call them. It's a more
expressive term. They are like an army, you know, overwhelming in their
relentless invasion. Well, do sit down. It is nice of you to come.
You'll have some tea, won't you?”
The maid had brought in the tray. Afternoon tea was still rather a new
custom with us, more of a ceremony than a meal; and as Nancy handed
me my cup and the thinnest of slices of bread and butter I found the
intimacy of the situation a little disquieting. Her manner was indeed
intimate, and yet it had the odd and disturbing effect of making her
seem more remote. As she chatted I answered her perfunctorily, while all
the time I was asking myself why I had ceased to desire her, whether
the old longing for her might not return--was not even now returning? I
might indeed go far afield to find a wife so suited to me as Nancy. She
had beauty, distinction, and position. She was a woman of whom any man
might be proud....
“I haven't congratulated you yet, Hugh,” she said suddenly, “now that
you are a partner of Mr. Watling's. I hear on all sides that you are on
the high road to a great success.”
“Of course I'm glad to be in the firm,” I admitted.
It was a new tack for Nancy, rather a disquieting one, this discussion
of my affairs, which she had so long avoided or ignored. “You are
getting what you have always wanted, aren't you?”
I wondered in some trepidation whether by that word “always” she was
making a deliberate reference to the past.
“Always?” I repeated, rather fatuously.
“Nearly always, ever since you have been a man.”
I was incapable of taking advantage of the opening, if it were one. She
was baffling.
“A man likes to succeed in his profession, of course,” I said.
“And you made up your mind to succeed more deliberately than most men. I
needn't ask you if you are satisfied, Hugh. Success seems to agree with
you,--although I imagine you will never be satisfied.”
“Why do you say that?” I demanded.
“I haven't known you all your life for nothing. I think I know you much
better than you know yourself.”
“You haven't acted as if you did,” I exclaimed.
She smiled.
“Have you been interested in what I thought about you?” she asked.
“That isn't quite fair, Nancy,” I protested. “You haven't given me much
evidence that you did think about me.”
“Have I received much encouragement to do so?” she inquired.
“But you haven't seemed to invite--you've kept me at arm's length.”
“Oh, don't fence!” she cried, rather sharply.
I had become agitated, but her next words gave me a shock that was
momentarily paralyzing.
“I asked you to come here to-day, Hugh, because I wished you to know
that I have made up my mind to marry Hambleton Durrett.”
“Hambleton Durrett!” I echoed stupidly. “Hambleton Durrett!”
“Why not?”
“Have you--have you accepted him?”
“No. But I mean to do so.”
“You--you love him?”
“I don't see what right you have to ask.”
“But you just said that you invited me here to talk frankly.”
“No, I don't love him.”
“Then why, in heaven's name, are you going to marry him?”
She lay back in her chair, regarding me, her lips slightly parted. All
at once the full flavour of her, the superfine quality was revealed
after years of blindness.--Nor can I describe the sudden rebellion, the
revulsion that I experienced. Hambleton Durrett! It was an outrage,
a sacrilege! I got up, and put my hand on the mantel. Nancy remained
motionless, inert, her head lying back against the chair. Could it be
that she were enjoying my discomfiture? There is no need to confess that
I knew next to nothing of women; had I been less excited, I might have
made the discovery that I still regarded them sentimentally. Certain
romantic axioms concerning them, garnered from Victorian literature,
passed current in my mind for wisdom; and one of these declared that
they were prone to remain true to an early love. Did Nancy still care
for me? The query, coming as it did on top of my emotion, brought with
it a strange and overwhelming perplexity. Did I really care for her? The
many years during which I had practised the habit of caution began
to exert an inhibiting pressure. Here was a situation, an opportunity
suddenly thrust upon me which might never return, and which I was
utterly unprepared to meet. Would I be happy with Nancy, after all? Her
expression was still enigmatic.
“Why shouldn't I marry him?” she demanded.
“Because he's not good enough for you.”
“Good!” she exclaimed, and laughed. “He loves me. He wants me without
reservation or calculation.” There was a sting in this. “And is he any
worse,” she asked slowly, “than many others who might be mentioned?”
“No,” I agreed. I did not intend to be led into the thankless and
disagreeable position of condemning Hambleton Durrett. “But why have you
waited all these years if you did not mean to marry a man of ability, a
man who has made something of himself?”
“A man like you, Hugh?” she said gently.
I flushed.
“That isn't quite fair, Nancy.”
“What are you working for?” she suddenly inquired, straightening up.
“What any man works for, I suppose.”
“Ah, there you have hit it,--what any man works for in our world.
Power,--personal power. You want to be somebody,--isn't that it? Not the
noblest ambition, you'll have to admit,--not the kind of thing we used
to dream about, when we did dream. Well, when we find we can't realize
our dreams, we take the next best thing. And I fail to see why you
should blame me for taking it when you yourself have taken it. Hambleton
Durrett can give it to me. He'll accept me on my own terms, he won't
interfere with me, I shan't be disillusionized,--and I shall have a
position which I could not hope to have if I remained unmarried, a very
marked position as Hambleton Durrett's wife. I am thirty, you know.”
Her frankness appalled me.
“The trouble with you, Hugh, is that you still deceive yourself. You
throw a glamour over things. You want to keep your cake and eat it too.
“I don't see why you say that. And marriage especially--”
She took me up.
“Marriage! What other career is open to a woman? Unless she is married,
and married well, according to the money standard you men have set up,
she is nobody. We can't all be Florence Nightingales, and I am unable
to imagine myself a Julia Ward Howe or a Harriet Beecher Stowe. What is
left? Nothing but marriage. I'm hard and cynical, you will say, but I
have thought, and I'm not afraid, as I have told you, to look things in
the face. There are very few women, I think, who would not take the real
thing if they had the chance before it were too late, who wouldn't be
willing to do their own cooking in order to get it.”
She fell silent suddenly. I began to pace the room.
“For God's sake, don't do this, Nancy!” I begged.
But she continued to stare into the fire, as though she had not heard
me.
“If you had made up your mind to do it, why did you tell me?” I asked.
“Sentiment, I suppose. I am paying a tribute to what I once was, to what
you once were,” she said. “A--a sort of good-bye to sentiment.”
“Nancy!” I said hoarsely.
She shook her head.
“No, Hugh. Surely you can't misjudge me so!” she answered reproachfully.
“Do you think I should have sent for you if I had meant--that!”
“No, no, I didn't think so. But why not? You--you cared once, and you
tell me plainly you don't love him. It was all a terrible mistake. We
were meant for each other.”
“I did love you then,” she said. “You never knew how much. And there is
nothing I wouldn't give to bring it all back again. But I can't. It's
gone. You're gone, and I'm gone. I mean what we were. Oh, why did you
change?”
“It was you who changed,” I declared, bewildered.
“Couldn't you see--can't you see now what you did? But perhaps you
couldn't help it. Perhaps it was just you, after all.”
“What I did?”
“Why couldn't you have held fast to your faith? If you had, you would
have known what it was I adored in you. Oh, I don't mind telling you
now, it was just that faith, Hugh, that faith you had in life, that
faith you had in me. You weren't cynical and calculating, like Ralph
Hambleton, you had imagination. I--I dreamed, too. And do you remember
the time when you made the boat, and we went to Logan's Pond, and you
sank in her?”
“And you stayed,” I went on, “when all the others ran away? You ran down
the hill like a whirlwind.”
She laughed.
“And then you came here one day, to a party, and said you were going to
Harvard, and quarrelled with me.”
“Why did you doubt met” I asked agitatedly. “Why didn't you let me see
that you still cared?”
“Because that wasn't you, Hugh, that wasn't your real self. Do you
suppose it mattered to me whether you went to Harvard with the others?
Oh, I was foolish too, I know. I shouldn't have said what I did. But
what is the use of regrets?” she exclaimed. “We've both run after the
practical gods, and the others have hidden their faces from us. It may
be that we are not to blame, either of us, that the practical gods are
too strong. We've learned to love and worship them, and now we can't do
without them.”
“We can try, Nancy,” I pleaded.
“No,” she answered in a low voice, “that's the difference between you
and me. I know myself better than you know yourself, and I know you
better.” She smiled again. “Unless we could have it all back again, I
shouldn't want any of it. You do not love me--”
I started once more to protest.
“No, no, don't say it!” she cried.
“You may think you do, just this moment, but it's only because--you've
been moved. And what you believe you want isn't me, it's what I was. But
I'm not that any more,--I'm simply recalling that, don't you see? And
even then you wouldn't wish me, now, as I was. That sounds involved,
but you must understand. You want a woman who will be wrapped up in your
career, Hugh, and yet who will not share it,--who will devote herself
body and soul to what you have become. A woman whom you can shape. And
you won't really love her, but only just so much of her as may become
the incarnation of you. Well, I'm not that kind of woman. I might have
been, had you been different. I'm not at all sure. Certainly I'm not
that kind now, even though I know in my heart that the sort of career
you have made for yourself, and that I intend to make for myself is all
dross. But now I can't do without it.”
“And yet you are going to marry Hambleton Durrett!” I said.
She understood me, although I regretted my words at once.
“Yes, I am going to marry him.” There was a shade of bitterness, of
defiance in her voice. “Surely you are not offering me the--the other
thing, now. Oh, Hugh!”
“I am willing to abandon it all, Nancy.”
“No,” she said, “you're not, and I'm not. What you can't see and won't
see is that it has become part of you. Oh, you are successful, you will
be more and more successful. And you think I should be somebody, as your
wife, Hugh, more perhaps, eventually, than I shall be as Hambleton's.
But I should be nobody, too. I couldn't stand it now, my dear. You must
realize that as soon as you have time to think it over. We shall be
friends.”
The sudden gentleness in her voice pierced me through and through. She
held out her hand. Something in her grasp spoke of a resolution which
could not be shaken.
“And besides,” she added sadly, “I don't love you any more, Hugh. I'm
mourning for something that's gone. I wanted to have just this one talk
with you. But we shan't mention it again,--we'll close the book.”...
At that I fled out of the house, and at first the thought of her as
another man's wife, as Hambleton Durrett's wife, was seemingly not to
be borne. It was incredible! “We'll close the book.” I found myself
repeating the phrase; and it seemed then as though something within me
I had believed dead--something that formerly had been all of me--had
revived again to throb with pain.
It is not surprising that the acuteness of my suffering was of short
duration, though I remember certain sharp twinges when the announcement
of the engagement burst on the city. There was much controversy over the
question as to whether or not Ham Durrett's reform would be permanent;
but most people were willing to give him the benefit of the doubt; it
was time he settled down and took the position in the community that was
to be expected of one of his name; and as for Nancy, it was generally
agreed that she had done well for herself. She was not made for
poverty--and who so well as she was fitted for the social leadership of
our community?
They were married in Trinity Church in the month of May, and I was one
of Ham's attendants. Ralph was “best man.” For the last time the old
Willett mansion in Powell Street wore the gala air of former days;
carpets were spread over the sidewalk, and red and white awnings; rooms
were filled with flowers and flung open to hundreds of guests. I
found the wedding something of an ordeal. I do not like to dwell upon
it--especially upon that moment when I came to congratulate Nancy as she
stood beside Ham at the end of the long parlour. She seemed to have no
regrets. I don't know what I expected of her--certainly not tears and
tragedy. She seemed taller than ever, and very beautiful in her veil and
white satin gown and the diamonds Ham had given her; very much mistress
of herself, quite a contrast to Ham, who made no secret of his elation.
She smiled when I wished her happiness.
“We'll be home in the autumn, Hugh, and expect to see a great deal of
you,” she said.
As I paused in a corner of the room my eye fell upon Nancy's father.
McAlery Willett's elation seemed even greater than Ham's. With a
gardenia in his frock-coat and a glass of champagne in his hand he went
from group to group; and his familiar laughter, which once had seemed
so full of merriment and fun, gave me to-day a somewhat scandalized
feeling. I heard Ralph's voice, and turned to discover him standing
beside me, his long legs thrust slightly apart, his hands in his
pockets, overlooking the scene with typical, semi-contemptuous
amusement.
“This lets old McAlery out, anyway,” he said.
“What do you mean?” I demanded.
“One or two little notes of his will be cancelled, sooner or
later--that's all.”
For a moment I was unable to speak.
“And do you think that she--that Nancy found out--?” I stammered.
“Well, I'd be willing to take that end of the bet,” he replied. “Why
the deuce should she marry Ham? You ought to know her well enough to
understand how she'd feel if she discovered some of McAlery's financial
coups? Of course it's not a thing I talk about, you understand. Are you
going to the Club?”
“No, I'm going home,” I said. I was aware of his somewhat compassionate
smile as I left him....
XII.
One November day nearly two years after my admission as junior member of
the firm of Watling, Fowndes and Ripon seven gentlemen met at luncheon
in the Boyne Club; Mr. Barbour, President of the Railroad, Mr. Scherer,
of the Boyne Iron Works and other corporations, Mr. Leonard Dickinson,
of the Corn National Bank, Mr. Halsey, a prominent banker from the other
great city of the state, Mr. Grunewald, Chairman of the Republican State
Committee, and Mr. Frederick Grierson, who had become a very important
man in our community. At four o'clock they emerged from the club:
citizens in Boyne Street who saw them chatting amicably on the steps
little suspected that in the last three hours these gentlemen had chosen
and practically elected the man who was to succeed Mr. Wade as United
States Senator in Washington. Those were the days in which great affairs
were simply and efficiently handled. No democratic nonsense about
leaving the choice to an electorate that did not know what it wanted.
The man chosen to fill this high position was Theodore Watling. He said
he would think about the matter.
In the nation at large, through the defection of certain Northern states
neither so conservative nor fortunate as ours, the Democratic party was
in power, which naturally implies financial depression. There was no
question about our ability to send a Republican Senator; the choice in
the Boyne Club was final; but before the legislature should ratify it,
a year or so hence, it were just as well that the people of the state
should be convinced that they desired Mr. Watling more than any other
man; and surely enough, in a little while such a conviction sprang
up spontaneously. In offices and restaurants and hotels, men began to
suggest to each other what a fine thing it would be if Theodore Watling
might be persuaded to accept the toga; at the banks, when customers
called to renew their notes and tight money was discussed and Democrats
excoriated, it was generally agreed that the obvious thing to do was
to get a safe man in the Senate. From the very first, Watling sentiment
stirred like spring sap after a hard winter.
The country newspapers, watered by providential rains, began to put
forth tender little editorial shoots, which Mr. Judah B. Tallant
presently collected and presented in a charming bouquet in the Morning
Era. “The Voice of the State Press;” thus was the column headed; and the
remarks of the Hon. Fitch Truesdale, of the St. Helen's Messenger, were
given a special prominence. Mr. Truesdale was the first, in his section,
to be inspired by the happy thought that the one man preeminently fitted
to represent the state in the present crisis, when her great industries
had been crippled by Democratic folly, was Mr. Theodore Watling. The
Rossiter Banner, the Elkington Star, the Belfast Recorder, and I know
not how many others simultaneously began to sing Mr. Watling's praises.
“Not since the troublous times of the Civil War,” declared the Morning
Era, “had the demand for any man been so unanimous.” As a proof of it,
there were the country newspapers, “which reflected the sober opinion of
the firesides of the common people.”
There are certain industrious gentlemen to whom little credit is given,
and who, unlike the average citizen who reserves his enthusiasm for
election time, are patriotic enough to labour for their country's good
all the year round. When in town, it was their habit to pay a friendly
call on the Counsel for the Railroad, Mr. Miller Gorse, in the Corn
Bank Building. He was never too busy to converse with them; or, it
might better be said, to listen to them converse. Let some legally
and politically ambitious young man observe Mr. Gorse's method. Did he
inquire what the party worker thought of Mr. Watling for the Senate? Not
at all! But before the party worker left he was telling Mr. Gorse that
public sentiment demanded Mr. Watling. After leaving Mr. Gorse they
wended their way to the Durrett Building and handed their cards over
the rail of the offices of Watling, Fowndes and Ripon. Mr. Watling shook
hands with scores of them, and they departed, well satisfied with the
flavour of his cigars and intoxicated by his personality. He had a
marvellous way of cutting short an interview without giving offence.
Some of them he turned over to Mr. Paret, whom he particularly desired
they should know. Thus Mr. Paret acquired many valuable additions to his
acquaintance, cultivated a memory for names and faces that was to stand
him in good stead; and kept, besides, an indexed note-book into which he
put various bits of interesting information concerning each. Though
not immediately lucrative, it was all, no doubt, part of a lawyer's
education.
During the summer and the following winter Colonel Paul Varney came
often to town and spent much of his time in Mr. Paret's office smoking
Mr. Watling's cigars and discussing the coming campaign, in which he
took a whole-souled interest.
“Say, Hugh, this is goin' slick!” he would exclaim, his eyes glittering
like round buttons of jet. “I never saw a campaign where they fell in
the way they're doing now. If it was anybody else but Theodore Watling,
it would scare me. You ought to have been in Jim Broadhurst's campaign,”
he added, referring to the junior senator, “they wouldn't wood up at
all, they was just listless. But Gorse and Barbour and the rest wanted
him, and we had to put him over. I reckon he is useful down there in
Washington, but say, do you know what he always reminded me of? One
of those mud-turtles I used to play with as a boy up in Columbia
County,--shuts up tight soon as he sees you coming. Now Theodore Watling
ain't like that, any way of speaking. We can get up some enthusiasm
for a man of his sort. He's liberal and big. He's made his pile, and he
don't begrudge some of it to the fellows who do the work. Mark my words,
when you see a man who wants a big office cheap, look out for him.”
This, and much more wisdom I imbibed while assenting to my chief's
greatness. For Mr. Varney was right,--one could feel enthusiasm for
Theodore Watling; and my growing intimacy with him, the sense that I
was having a part in his career, a share in his success, became for the
moment the passion of my life. As the campaign progressed I gave more
and more time to it, and made frequent trips of a confidential nature
to the different counties of the state. The whole of my being was
energized. The national fever had thoroughly pervaded my blood--the
national fever to win. Prosperity--writ large--demanded it, and Theodore
Watling personified, incarnated the cause. I had neither the time nor
the desire to philosophize on this national fever, which animated all
my associates: animated, I might say, the nation, which was beginning to
get into a fever about games. If I remember rightly, it was about
this time that golf was introduced, tennis had become a commonplace,
professional baseball was in full swing; Ham Durrett had even organized
a local polo team.... The man who failed to win something tangible
in sport or law or business or politics was counted out. Such was the
spirit of America, in the closing years of the nineteenth century.
And yet, when one has said this, one has failed to express the national
Geist in all its subtlety. In brief, the great American sport was not so
much to win the game as to beat it; the evasion of rules challenged
our ingenuity; and having won, we set about devising methods whereby it
would be less and less possible for us winners to lose in the future. No
better illustration of this tendency could be given than the development
which had recently taken place in the field of our city politics,
hitherto the battle-ground of Irish politicians who had fought one
another for supremacy. Individualism had been rampant, competition
the custom; you bought an alderman, or a boss who owned four or five
aldermen, and then you never could be sure you were to get what you
wanted, or that the aldermen and the bosses would “stay bought.” But
now a genius had appeared, an American genius who had arisen swiftly
and almost silently, who appealed to the imagination, and whose name was
often mentioned in a whisper,--the Hon. Judd Jason, sometimes known as
the Spider, who organized the City Hall and capitalized it; an ultimate
and logical effect--if one had considered it--of the Manchester school
of economics. Enlightened self-interest, stripped of sentiment, ends
on Judd Jasons. He ran the city even as Mr. Sherrill ran his department
store; you paid your price. It was very convenient. Being a genius, Mr.
Jason did not wholly break with tradition, but retained those elements
of the old muddled system that had their value, chartering steamboats
for outings on the river, giving colossal picnics in Lowry Park. The
poor and the wanderer and the criminal (of the male sex at least) were
cared for. But he was not loved, as the rough-and-tumble Irishmen had
been loved; he did not make himself common; he was surrounded by an aura
of mystery which I confess had not failed of effect on me. Once, and
only once during my legal apprenticeship, he had been pointed out to
me on the street, where he rarely ventured. His appearance was not
impressive....
Mr. Jason could not, of course, prevent Mr. Watling's election, even
did he so desire, but he did command the allegiance of several city
candidates--both democratic and republican--for the state legislature,
who had as yet failed to announce their preferences for United States
Senator. It was important that Mr. Watling's vote should be large, as
indicative of a public reaction and repudiation of Democratic national
folly. This matter among others was the subject of discussion one
July morning when the Republican State Chairman was in the city; Mr.
Grunewald expressed anxiety over Mr. Jason's continued silence. It was
expedient that somebody should “see” the boss.
“Why not Paret?” suggested Leonard Dickinson. Mr. Watling was not
present at this conference. “Paret seems to be running Watling's
campaign, anyway.”
It was settled that I should be the emissary. With lively sensations of
curiosity and excitement, tempered by a certain anxiety as to my
ability to match wits with the Spider, I made my way to his “lair”
over Monahan's saloon, situated in a district that was anything but
respectable. The saloon, on the ground floor, had two apartments; the
bar-room proper where Mike Monahan, chamberlain of the establishment,
was wont to stand, red faced and smiling, to greet the courtiers, big
and little, the party workers, the district leaders, the hangers-on
ready to be hired, the city officials, the police judges,--yes, and
the dignified members of state courts whose elections depended on Mr.
Jason's favour: even Judge Bering, whose acquaintance I had made the day
I had come, as a law student, to Mr. Watling's office, unbent from time
to time sufficiently to call there for a small glass of rye and water,
and to relate, with his owl-like gravity, an anecdote to the “boys.” The
saloon represented Democracy, so dear to the American public. Here
all were welcome, even the light-fingered gentlemen who enjoyed the
privilege of police protection; and who sometimes, through fortuitous
circumstances, were hauled before the very magistrates with whom
they had rubbed elbows on the polished rail. Behind the bar-room, and
separated from it by swinging doors only the elite ventured to thrust
apart, was an audience chamber whither Mr. Jason occasionally descended.
Anecdote and political reminiscence gave place here to matters of high
policy.
I had several times come to the saloon in the days of my apprenticeship
in search of some judge or official, and once I had run down here
the city auditor himself. Mike Monahan, whose affair it was to
know everyone, recognized me. It was part of his business, also, to
understand that I was now a member of the firm of Watling, Fowndes and
Ripon.
“Good morning to you, Mr. Paret,” he said suavely. We held a colloquy
in undertones over the bar, eyed by the two or three customers who were
present. Mr. Monahan disappeared, but presently returned to whisper:
“Sure, he'll see you,” to lead the way through the swinging doors and up
a dark stairway. I came suddenly on a room in the greatest disorder, its
tables and chairs piled high with newspapers and letters, its windows
streaked with soot. From an open door on its farther side issued a
voice.
“Is that you, Mr. Paret? Come in here.”
It was little less than a command.
“Heard of you, Mr. Paret. Glad to know you. Sit down, won't you?”
The inner room was almost dark. I made out a bed in the corner, and
propped up in the bed a man; but for the moment I was most aware of a
pair of eyes that flared up when the man spoke, and died down again
when he became silent. They reminded me of those insects which in my
childhood days we called “lightning bugs.” Mr. Jason gave me a hand
like a woman's. I expressed my pleasure at meeting him, and took a chair
beside the bed.
“I believe you're a partner of Theodore Watling's now aren't you? Smart
man, Watling.”
“He'll make a good senator,” I replied, accepting the opening.
“You think he'll get elected--do you?” Mr. Jason inquired.
I laughed.
“Well, there isn't much doubt about that, I imagine.”
“Don't know--don't know. Seen some dead-sure things go wrong in my
time.”
“What's going to defeat him?” I asked pleasantly.
“I don't say anything,” Mr. Jason replied. “But I've known funny things
to happen--never does to be dead sure.”
“Oh, well, we're as sure as it's humanly possible to be,” I declared.
The eyes continued to fascinate me, they had a peculiar, disquieting
effect. Now they died down, and it was as if the man's very presence had
gone out, as though I had been left alone; and I found it exceedingly
difficult, under the circumstances, to continue to address him. Suddenly
he flared up again.
“Watling send you over here?” he demanded.
“No. As a matter of fact, he's out of town. Some of Mr. Watling's
friends, Mr. Grunewald and Mr. Dickinson, Mr. Gorse and others,
suggested that I see you, Mr. Jason.”
There came a grunt from the bed.
“Mr. Watling has always valued your friendship and support,” I said.
“What makes him think he ain't going to get it?”
“He hasn't a doubt of it,” I went on diplomatically. “But we felt--and
I felt personally, that we ought to be in touch with you, to work along
with you, to keep informed how things are going in the city.”
“What things?”
“Well--there are one or two representatives, friends of yours, who
haven't come out for Mr. Watling. We aren't worrying, we know you'll do
the right thing, but we feel that it would have a good deal of influence
in some other parts of the state if they declared themselves. And then
you know as well as I do that this isn't a year when any of us
can afford to recognize too closely party lines; the Democratic
administration has brought on a panic, the business men in that party
are down on it, and it ought to be rebuked. And we feel, too, that some
of the city's Democrats ought to be loyal to Mr. Watling,--not that we
expect them to vote for him in caucus, but when it comes to the joint
ballot--”
“Who?” demanded Mr. Jason.
“Senator Dowse and Jim Maher, for instance,” I suggested.
“Jim voted for Bill 709 all right--didn't he?” said Mr. Jason abruptly.
“That's just it,” I put in boldly. “We'd like to induce him to come in
with us this time. But we feel that--the inducement would better come
through you.”
I thought Mr. Jason smiled. By this time I had grown accustomed to
the darkness, the face and figure of the man in the bed had become
discernible. Power, I remember thinking, chooses odd houses for itself.
Here was no overbearing, full-blooded ward ruffian brimming with
vitality, but a thin, sallow little man in a cotton night-shirt, with
iron-grey hair and a wiry moustache; he might have been an overworked
clerk behind a dry-goods counter; and yet somehow, now that I had talked
to him, I realized that he never could have been. Those extraordinary
eyes of his, when they were functioning, marked his individuality as
unique. It were almost too dramatic to say that he required darkness to
make his effect, but so it seemed. I should never forget him. He had in
truth been well named the Spider.
“Of course we haven't tried to get in touch with them. We are leaving
them to you,” I added.
“Paret,” he said suddenly, “I don't care a damn about Grunewald--never
did. I'd turn him down for ten cents. But you can tell Theodore Watling
for me, and Dickinson, that I guess the 'inducement' can be fixed.”
I felt a certain relief that the interview had come to an end, that the
moment had arrived for amenities. To my surprise, Mr. Jason anticipated
me.
“I've been interested in you, Mr. Paret,” he observed. “Know who you
are, of course, knew you were in Watling's office. Then some of the boys
spoke about you when you were down at the legislature on that Ribblevale
matter. Guess you had more to do with that bill than came out in the
newspapers--eh?”
I was taken off my guard.
“Oh, that's talk,” I said.
“All right, it's talk, then? But I guess you and I will have some more
talk after a while,--after Theodore Watling gets to be United States
Senator. Give him my regards, and--and come in when I can do anything
for you, Mr. Paret.”
Thanking him, I groped my way downstairs and let myself out by a side
door Monahan had shown me into an alleyway, thus avoiding the saloon.
As I walked slowly back to the office, seeking the shade of the awnings,
the figure in the darkened room took on a sinister aspect that troubled
me....
The autumn arrived, the campaign was on with a whoop, and I had my first
taste of “stump” politics. The acrid smell of red fire brings it back
to me. It was a medley of railroad travel, of committees provided with
badges--and cigars, of open carriages slowly drawn between lines of
bewildered citizens, of Lincoln clubs and other clubs marching in
serried ranks, uniformed and helmeted, stalwarts carrying torches and
banners. And then there were the draughty opera-houses with the sylvan
scenery pushed back and plush chairs and sofas pushed forward; with
an ominous table, a pitcher of water on it and a glass, near the
footlights. The houses were packed with more bewildered citizens. What a
wonderful study of mob-psychology it would have offered! Men who had not
thought of the grand old Republican party for two years, and who had not
cared much about it when they had entered the dooms, after an hour or so
went mad with fervour. The Hon. Joseph Mecklin, ex-Speaker of the
House, with whom I traveled on occasions, had a speech referring to the
martyred President, ending with an appeal to the revolutionary fathers
who followed Washington with bleeding feet. The Hon. Joseph possessed
that most valuable of political gifts, presence; and when with quivering
voice he finished his peroration, citizens wept with him. What it all
had to do with the tariff was not quite clear. Yet nobody seemed to miss
the connection.
We were all of us most concerned, of course, about the working-man
and his dinner pail,--whom the Democrats had wantonly thrown out of
employment for the sake of a doctrinaire theory. They had put him in
competition with the serf of Europe. Such was the subject-matter of my
own modest addresses in this, my maiden campaign. I had the sense to
see myself in perspective; to recognize that not for me, a dignified and
substantial lawyer of affairs, were the rhetorical flights of the Hon.
Joseph Mecklin. I spoke with a certain restraint. Not too dryly, I hope.
But I sought to curb my sentiments, my indignation, at the manner in
which the working-man had been treated; to appeal to the common sense
rather than to the passions of my audiences. Here were the statistics!
(drawn, by the way, from the Republican Campaign book). Unscrupulous
demagogues--Democratic, of course--had sought to twist and evade them.
Let this terrible record of lack of employment and misery be compared
with the prosperity under Republican rule.
“One of the most effective speakers in this campaign for the restoration
of Prosperity,” said the Rossiter Banner, “is Mr. Hugh Paret, of
the firm of Watling, Fowndes and Ripon. Mr. Paret's speech at the
Opera-House last evening made a most favourable impression. Mr. Paret
deals with facts. And his thoughtful analysis of the situation into
which the Democratic party has brought this country should convince any
sane-minded voter that the time has come for a change.”