cried. “I can’t imagine Sayler’s object in trying to deceive me--to
trick me into admitting to my family one of this new breed of
dangerous young demagogues who want to substitute anarchy and socialism
for the republic of the fathers.”
He glowered at George, sitting and staring into space, the look of
tragedy, of profound melancholy strong upon his homely, gaunt face. He
went on:
“You look like an intelligent man. How can you fly in the face of your
common-sense? To get office, to lift yourself, you are willing to rouse
the ignorant and the idle to hate and to assault the men whom God has
raised up to develop and to guard this country! I was poor myself, and
I was anxious to get up in the world. But I’d rather have thrust my
right hand into the fire than have lifted it against my country.”
George Helm heaved another long sigh, rose and regarded the old lumber
king sadly. Said he:
“I sha’n’t argue with you, sir. We’d only get into a wrangle. I simply
couldn’t allow you to misunderstand about me.”
“Why did you come here, at all?” demanded Clearwater. “Did Sayler fool
you, too? Has he been trying to make us both puppets in some political
game of his? Why should he wish to humiliate me by tricking me into
letting my daughter marry a demagogue?”
Helm flushed, but his voice was gentle as he replied:
“I think you’re unjust to Senator Sayler, sir. He knew that your
daughter and I loved each other. He likes both of us, and he knew you’d
put your daughter’s happiness above what he probably regards as simply
a difference of political opinion.”
“Anarchy and socialism aren’t political opinions,” retorted Clearwater.
“They’re criminal, sir, criminal. And I regard any one who holds the
ideas you profess--I regard him as a criminal. He _is_ a criminal--an
inciter of riot and murder and theft.”
“No doubt you are honest in your opinions, sir,” said George with quiet
dignity. “But I must request you not to insult me again. I shall detain
you only a moment.”
“I can’t conceive how you dared aspire to _my_ daughter. Did you think
_I_ would be impressed by your being a governor?”
Helm’s eyes twinkled humorously. “Hardly,” said he. “They say that you
own two or three governors. I know Sayler owns nearly a dozen. No,
Senator, I didn’t come to you as a public man but just as a chap who
loves your daughter and intends to do the best he knows how to make her
not regret having married him. You can see for yourself that I’m not
pretty to look at, and haven’t the graces of manner, or any of those
things to recommend me to a lady. I don’t know why she’s willing to
take me. So far as my side of it’s concerned, of course, as soon as I
saw _her_ I couldn’t help wanting her.”
Helm was so ingenuous and winning that in spite of himself Clearwater
was mollified somewhat. “I guess Sayler’s responsible for this,” said
he, with a grudging graciousness. “Well--we’ve found him out, and as
there’s no harm done we can laugh at him.”
“Come to think it over,” said George, “I shouldn’t be surprised if
Sayler didn’t have a notion in the back of his head that if he got me
married right I’d come round--fall into line and drop my principles.”
Clearwater nodded. “And no doubt you will. But _I_ shall not permit
_my_ daughter to be used for any such purpose.” Very graciously, after
the manner of the thoroughly virtuous, praising the feeble and halting
efforts of a young fellow man essaying the lower reaches of the path
of virtue: “I congratulate you on your honesty--on not trying the
unprincipled game of hiding your principles. I admire an honest man. It
must have cost you a struggle.”
“No,” said George, “I had nothing to lose by speaking out. You are the
courageous one, sir--for you might have lost your daughter--if I had
been over sensitive and had taken up your hot words.”
Senator Clearwater showed that he was at a loss to understand. Said he:
“At any rate, it’s all settled. I shall explain to my daughter. For I
must ask you not to try to see her again.”
Helm looked at him vaguely.
“It would only cause both you and her pain,” explained Clearwater.
“Yes, it will distress us both to disregard your advice,” said Helm.
“My advice?” inquired the puzzled Clearwater.
“You are advising against her marrying me, as I understand it,”
explained George. “Of course, we may be mistaken, but we can’t see it
that way.”
Clearwater was so astounded that his mouth fell open and gave him some
difficulty before it permitted him to say:
“Why--what in the _hell_ do you mean?”
“Now look here, Senator,” remonstrated Helm, “what’s the use of getting
excited? You don’t want to lose your daughter. It’s me you don’t like.
Well--you need never see me. I’ll go away when you visit our house,
and she’ll visit you whenever she wants to and leave me behind. Why
shouldn’t we get along peaceably? She’s your only child. She’s all
you’ve got. It’ll grieve her to know she’s going against your wishes.
Why not make her as easy as you can? I don’t expect you to pretend to
like me. But you can just kind of--pass me over. I’ll help.”
Clearwater, warned by a slight vertigo, had seated himself. Said he
slowly:
“Do you mean to say, sir, that you think _my_ daughter will marry you?”
“Oh, come now, Senator,” pleaded George, “you know how it was when you
went courting. Would your wife have given you up, because her father
and mother didn’t like you?”
“Enough of this,” said Clearwater quietly. He rose. “I wish you good
day, sir. I wish you to understand that you will not see my daughter
again--that she will not marry you--that if she did I’d cut her off
without a cent. As you”--with scathing contempt--“have no doubt heard,
she has some property of her own. It is very small--very small, sir.
And I have control of it until she is thirty--time enough to starve
her out and to spare, as she knows----”
“Senator,” interrupted George, “I hope you won’t say these things to
her. Do them if you think it right. I shall be glad if you do, as I
don’t want my wife beholden to anybody but me. Do them, Senator, but
don’t let on to her. She might feel that you didn’t love her. She
might--I hate to say it, sir--she might stop loving you herself, if she
thought you could put money before love.”
“I need no assistance in managing my family,” said Clearwater, in cold
fury. He bowed, “Good day, sir.”
Helm hesitated, then bowed with simple dignity and withdrew. Clearwater
watched at one of the windows until he saw him walking slowly out of
the grounds and down the street--tall and lean, awkwardly dressed. Said
Clearwater aloud with an angry sneer: “He looks as if he belonged at
the servants’ entrance.” The remark was not without justification, yet
Clearwater knew--and the knowledge enraged him--that there was in the
air of that figure, in the expression of that face, a quality, far
removed from the menial, or even the humble. And it was that quality
that made the arrogant and confident old man a little nervous as he
awaited the coming of the daughter for whom he had sent as soon as Helm
disappeared round the corner.
As Eleanor came in, radiant, expectant, she gave a quick glance round
and exclaimed:
“Why, papa, where’s George?”
To “papa” George had up to this time been simply what one man is
to another--simply a specimen of the male sex. In this case, not
a specimen likely to appeal strongly to the female sex, according
to Clearwater’s notion of female likes and dislikes in males. But
Eleanor’s look and tone put a sudden very different complexion on the
matter. Clearwater abruptly realized that his daughter--this lovely,
delicate creature of fine manners, speech and raiment--was in love
with the lanky, baggily-dressed fellow, half crank, half knave and
altogether detestable.
This discovery, thus all in an instant made real to the father, instead
of angering him, threw him into a panic. And out of panic, with its
chaos of fermenting emotions, any emotion is as likely to emerge as
any other. No one, in a panic, can predict whether he will emerge
furious and implacable or trembling and abject. The reason for the
panic was his adoration of his daughter. Rarely is there any greater
intimacy between father and daughter than friendly acquaintance. But
almost always there is a tenacious and worshipful admiration--which,
naturally, forbids the frankness of intimacy because each fears that
the delusion of the other would be impaired, if not destroyed, should
the truth of human weakness come out. The daughter adores the father as
the superior type of the superior sex; the father adores the daughter
as the embodiment of the female sex’s two awe-inspiring charms, beauty
and purity. Clearwater thought his daughter the most beautiful woman in
the world, and an angel for purity--certainly, such purity could have
no place in the mud-geyser of the world as he knew it. And he was now
in terror lest she, idealist, ignorant of the realities, should not
understand his attitude toward Helm. No doubt the fellow had talked his
theories to her--and they were just the sort of stuff that would appeal
to idealism and worldly-ignorance.
“Helm?” said Clearwater, almost as nervous as George had been with his
squeaking collar and his rustling handkerchief. “Helm? Oh--he’s gone.”
“But I told him to send for me as soon as you and he had finished.”
“We--that is, he----. Now, Eleanor, you must trust to my judgment about
men.”
Eleanor had an expression different from any he had seen before--in
her face, in any one’s face. “Father,” she said in a voice that made
him quail, though it was neither loud nor in any other obtrusive way
emotional, “what did you say to him?”
“He was insulting,” said Clearwater. “He insulted me. His presence was
an insult. His ideas are an insult to us both. Eleanor, he is one of
those men who go up and down the country denouncing me and men of my
sort--all the leading men of the country as robbers, and rousing the
passions of the poor and the ignorant against us.”
“You mean he’s a Democrat and you are a Republican,” said Eleanor
angrily. “But what do I care for that? I can’t fall in love with a man
because he’s a Republican, papa.”
“He’s not a Republican, nor a Democrat,” declared Clearwater. “There
are sane, sound men in both parties, and both are one when it comes to
questions like law and order, respect for the courts----”
“Father,” interrupted the girl, “_what_ did you say to George? Did you
send him away?”
“He is an anarchist, a socialist--a--a demagogue. He insulted me.
He----”
“_What_ did he say?” she again interrupted.
“As I’ve told you, he has attacked me--my sort of men--with lies and
filth. He has----”
“What did he say here--a while ago--in this room?”
Clearwater, thus cornered, dared not wander too far from the truth. “He
said plainly that he meant all he had said--that he had spoken less
than he thought. He refused to retract or modify. He was----”
“How like him!” cried Eleanor, with shining eyes. “Do you wonder that I
_love_ him, papa!”
Clearwater was taken completely aback. “_You_ approving insults to
_me_!” exclaimed he.
“You know you’d have despised him if he had weakened.”
“Eleanor, you don’t understand. This man’s conduct is criminal--is a
grave offense against society--is an insult to me--a menace to our
property----”
“Don’t try to scare me, papa,” laughed the girl. “You can’t. Maybe
I don’t understand his political principles. What do I care for
them? It’s a woman’s business to love and then to trust. I love him.
So--whatever he says goes with me, you foolish old papa.” And she
threw her arms round his neck and kissed him and mussed his carefully
arranged beard with her chin.
Clearwater had the shrewd man’s knowledge of human nature, was not
without insight into his daughter. It is a mistake to think that men
are fooled because they let themselves be cajoled; they are fooled,
usually, because they wish to be, because their vanity or their hope
or their affection gives their cajoler the aid without which he--or
she--would fail. Clearwater was well aware that Eleanor was artfully
dodging the real issue. But how does knowledge that his beloved
daughter is lovingly artful aid a loving father to corner her and bring
her to ways of sense and reason?
“Let my beard alone,” said Clearwater fretfully. But no one would have
been deceived; under the fretfulness there was the male, ashamed of his
weakness of affection for the female--but none the less weak.
Eleanor laughed and persisted in the mussing and mauling.
“You can’t wheedle me, miss,” declared he.
“Of course I can,” laughed she. “You told me I could have him.”
“I didn’t know what kind of man he was. Now that I know, I forbid it.”
She kissed him. “Then I’ll marry him, anyhow. I’ve simply _got_
to do it, papa. And--as Mr. Sayler says, if you were running for
vice-president, or anything, it would be a good thing to have a man
like George compelled to keep quiet.”
“He’d attack me just the same.”
“Then he’d do you good. People would simply think less of him for
coming out against his wife’s father.”
“I’ll not have such a character in my family,” cried Clearwater
desperately. He pushed his daughter away. “I can’t understand your
wanting him. After all the money that’s been spent on your education,
all the pains that’s been taken!”
“I should think _you’d_ look on my education as a tearing success,”
replied she. “It seems to have taught me to appreciate a man. But
the education isn’t responsible for that. It’s because I’m _your_
daughter. How could I help despising the men who couldn’t do anything
for themselves, who owe everything to others, who live like fleas on
a dog, papa--instead of being strong and rising up and up? Like you,
papa!”
“Never!” exclaimed Clearwater. “I never was a demagogue, an inciter
of class hatreds, a fermenter of envy--telling the shiftless and
thoughtless----”
She shook her finger laughingly. “Now, papa! Be careful! I’ve read some
of your early speeches--when you were running for Congress and starting
unions in the logging camps.”
The red, so difficult to bring to old cheeks, so slow to spread, crept
over his whole face. It is fortunate that his daughter did not know
the whole of the why of that red--the deep-hidden story of treason to
the people who had believed in him, of viler preceding treason to his
honester self.
“I was an ignorant fool in those days,” shuffled he. “And this fellow
isn’t. He’s intelligent and cunning.”
She was too wise to linger upon this dangerous ground of politics,
once she had scored. Away she sped, with a delightfully crafty, “I do
believe you think he’s after my money, father. I can see how you might
think so. And you’re right to convince yourself. Yes, I understand.
You’re putting him to the test. I’m glad of it.”
“What do you mean?” inquired the puzzled father.
She was laughing gayly. “Yes--I see it all. Go ahead, papa. Oppose all
you like. Make him feel that you will cut me off if I marry him. I
_know_ him. I know he doesn’t need that test. But I can’t blame you for
not trusting him. You see, you don’t love him--yet.”
Clearwater was dumfounded. To have his flank thus neatly turned! And
that, just as he was about to deliver the final and decisive blow--the
threat of cutting her off. He gathered himself together as best he
could, whipped up his anger and said:
“But I shall do that very thing.”
She looked at him with sudden, touchingly sweet incredulity. “Oh,
no--you couldn’t, papa. Not that I--not that we--want anything from you
but your love. But you couldn’t make a base thing like money a test of
the love between you and me.”
His eyes shifted. When a father seriously makes the threat to cut off
a son or a daughter, however great the reflection upon the father,
it is greater upon the son or daughter. Eleanor Clearwater had lived
under her father’s eye all the years of her life. He knew her--knew
her character--respected it, feared it, as baser character ever fears
finer. And stronger than his aversion to the George Helm sort of man,
stronger than his passion for autocratic rule, stronger even than his
reverence for his wealth, was--of necessity--his fear lest his daughter
should justly estimate him, should lose her delusion as to his true
nature.
Our conduct is less a measure of ourselves than of those about
us--those whose opinions we respect, those of whom we feel the need.
George Clearwater gave up the struggle. Eleanor had won, not because
her father doted upon her--for mere doting readily turns toward hate
when its object offends--but because he respected her. Said he:
“If you marry him, it’s without my consent. It’s against my wishes.”
His tone of gloomy resignation told her that she had won. She was
astonished; for from time to time there had been in his voice a note
that set her to quivering with alarm lest she should have to face
the alternative of breaking with him or with George Helm. And it
seemed to her that in choosing Helm she would show herself selfish,
unappreciative of all her father had done for her and would make her
love for him look a poor feeble unmasked pretense. Said she demurely:
“You’ll let us marry here?”
He made an angry gesture. “I don’t want a scandal.”
“You being rich,” she went on adroitly, “a story that you were snobbish
would be put out, if we married anywhere else.”
“I don’t care a damn what people think or say,” retorted he so
violently that she knew her shot had penetrated.
“But I do,” replied she. “I want you to be vice-president, and I’d hate
to be even indirectly the cause of anything that might interfere. You
remember, Mr. Sayler said my marrying George Helm would make you more
attractive as a candidate.”
“You weren’t thinking of marrying anyways soon!” cried he, angry and
alarmed.
“George wants us to be inaugurated together. He goes in the first of
January.”
Clearwater began to pace the room with quick, nervous steps. “That
means right away,” he said.
“Oh, no, papa. In about two weeks.”
He stopped before her. “And what’s to become of _me_?”
“Why, I’ll be with you almost as much as ever. We’ve always been
separated most of the time--your fault, not mine. And I’m not going to
take Aunt Louisa away from you.”
“You are a heartless girl!”
“Father, for several years you’ve been urging me to marry. I’ve heard
you tell dozens of people that you wanted to see your grandchildren.”
At the thought of _his_ grandchildren the children of George Helm,
Clearwater became purple and abruptly left the room. Also, he _had_
been urging Eleanor to marry.
About an hour later, as he was at the front door to motor to the
club, he met George Helm entering. He was so absorbed in the attempt
to conceal his anger and hatred behind a manner of stiff politeness
that he did not really look at Helm, therefore did not see Helm’s
frigid bow far more ominous than his own lack of cordiality. “Impudent
adventurer,” he muttered--when there was not a possibility of Helm’s
hearing any faint rumble of that carefully suppressed wrath. He cursed
his weakness of paternal affection, marveled at his unaccountable lack
of the courage to rise up and put down the whole abominable business.
At the club he took into his confidence old Senator Tingley, his bosom
friend and his partner in many a stealthy business adventure which
neither would have cared to have had visited by any ray of the sunlight
of publicity. Business aside--how often it is necessary to leave out of
account a man’s way of making his money!--business aside, Tingley was a
kindly old patriarch, as genial as wise. Said he:
“George, it’s the same old story.”
“He’s got her hypnotized,” said Clearwater.
“Don’t talk like a child,” replied Tingley. “Nature’s got her
hypnotized. You could have prevented this if you’d married her off
pretty soon after she got to the marriageable age. She’s simply obeying
nature that refuses to be put off any longer. We parents are damn fools
not to realize that our children, even our pure, innocent daughters,
are human.”
Clearwater did not see how to deny Tingley’s unromantic but
impressively simple and sensible explanation. However, he felt that he
owed it to his daughter’s innocence to say something in mitigation.
Said he:
“She seems to be in love with him.”
“And probably will be after they’re married. Certainly will be, if he
knows his business at all. He’ll have the inside track and it’ll be his
fault if he don’t convince her that he, the only man she ever knew, is
a wonder of a special creation. She’ll never suspect that all men are
pretty much the same.”
Clearwater winced before the frankness of his friend, too old to make
pretenses and too wise to believe them. Said he:
“Aaron, how can I break it up?”
“Well--in a nominating convention, if you want to beat a popular
candidate, you’ve got to have a man to beat him with. It’s the same
way in these heart matters. Find another man--one she’ll like better.”
Clearwater groaned. “These damned young nincompoops you find round in
society!” he cursed. “Really I can’t blame her for taking the first
fellow with jump and ginger.”
Old Tingley nodded. “The altar men--the fellows that’ll marry
young girls--do seem to be mighty poor pickings. At least here in
Washington--in ‘our set.’”
When Helm entered the presence of Eleanor his manner had lost its
frigidness and reserve but none of the gravity. She flung herself
into his arms, clung to him passionately with a complete giving up
of herself to her love for him. He held her, he caressed her gently,
he showed in every look and gesture how deeply he loved her. Yet--if
she had not been so intoxicated by her emotions, she would have felt,
would have seen that this peculiar young man not only was master of
her love but also was master of his own.
“I _knew_ you wouldn’t let anything come between us,” said she.
“George, how wonderful it is to love a man one simply couldn’t doubt.
Do you feel that way about me?”
“That’s why we’re engaged,” said he. “That’s why we’ve got to marry.”
“Father’ll get over this,” she assured him. Helm shook his head.
“No; he’ll be worse and worse--more against me. It can’t possibly be
otherwise. When you go with me, you leave him.”
“Let’s not talk about that!” cried she. “Since I’ve got to marry
you--the rest doesn’t matter.”
“But you’ve thought about it?” insisted he. “You realize what you’re
doing?”
She stopped his lips with her fingers.
He kissed her finger tips and put them aside--with the compelling look
of his eyes rather than with his gentle hand. He said:
“You understand you’re leaving your class and coming to mine--and that
the war between these two classes is going to be bitter and more bitter
until----”
“But that’s a long ways off. George,” she said abruptly, “let’s get
married at once--to-day--to-morrow--as soon as we can.”
“Why?”
“Don’t you wish it?”
He smiled tenderly. “I’m married to you already--for good and all.” He
held her tightly in his long arms that gave her such a sense of peace
and security. “For ever--and ay, Ellen.”
She was sobbing. “Oh--I’m so happy--so happy,” she murmured.
“But you must tell me why you want to marry at once.”
She did not answer.
“Is it because you are nervous about--about divided loyalty?”
She nodded, keeping her face hid.
“Then you do understand? You have thought?”
She nodded. “And I know you’ll do nothing but what you ought to do.”
“What I _have_ to do,” he replied. “I’m going to enforce the laws. I’m
going to ask for more laws of the kind that are for the benefit of the
whole people--and I’m going to get them.”
“You are going to attack--father?” she said, speaking as if she were
compelled.
“Probably you’ve heard of Voltaire’s dilemma?”
“No,” said she.
“Suppose there were a button before you, and by pressing it you
could have your heart’s dearest wish--wealth, fame, power, love,
happiness--but if you did press that button, instantly a human being
away off in China would fall dead. It might be an old man about to die
anyhow--or horribly diseased--or some dreadful criminal--or the mother
of some baby needing all her love and care--or the father and only
support of a family--or some girl like yourself, about to marry and be
happy. You would never know whom you had killed; but--some one would be
dead. Would you press the button or not?”
“Isn’t that terrible!” said she.