ANOTHER MAN'S SHOES.
As he laid aside his outer garments, Horace felt the joy of the
exhausted sailor, entering port after a dangerous voyage. He was in
another man's shoes; would they fit him? He accepted the new house and
the new mother with scarcely a comment. Mrs. Anne Dillon knew him only
as a respectable young man of wealth, whom misfortune had driven into
hiding. His name and his history she might never learn. So Monsignor had
arranged it. In return for a mother's care and name she was to receive a
handsome income. A slim and well-fashioned woman, dignified, severe of
feature, her light hair and fair complexion took away ten from her fifty
years; a brisk manner and a low voice matched her sharp blue eyes and
calm face; her speech had a slight brogue; fate had ordained that an
Endicott should be Irish in his new environment. As she flew about
getting ready a little supper, he dozed in the rocker, thinking of that
dear mother who had illumined his youth like a vision, beautiful,
refined, ever delightful; then of old Martha, rough, plain, and sad, but
with the spirit and wit of the true mother, to cherish the sorrowful. In
love for the child these mothers were all alike. He felt at home, and
admired the quickness and skill with which Anne Dillon took up her new
office. He noted everything, even his own shifting emotions. This was
one phase of the melancholy change in him: the man he had cast off
rarely saw more than pleased him, but the new Arthur Dillon had an alert
eye for trifles.
"Son dear," said his mother, when they sat down to tea, "we'll have the
evenin' to ourselves, because I didn't tell a soul what time you were
comin', though of course they all knew it, for I couldn't keep back such
good news; that after all of us thinkin' you dead, you should turn out
to be alive an' well, thank God. So we can spend the evenin' decidin'
jist what to do an' say to-morrow. The first thing in the mornin' Louis
Everard will be over to see you. Since he heard of your comin', he's
been jist wild, for he was your favorite; you taught him to swim, an' to
play ball, an' to skate, an' carried him around with you, though he's
six years younger than you. He's goin' to be a priest in time with the
blessin' o' God. Then his mother an' sister, perhaps Sister Mary
Magdalen, too; an' your uncle Dan Dillon, on your father's side, he's
the only relative you have. My folks are all dead. He's a senator, an' a
leader in Tammany Hall, an' he'll be proud of you. You were very fond of
him, because he was a prize-fighter in his day, though I never thought
much of that, an' was glad when he left the business for politics."
"And how am I to know all these people, mother?"
"You've come home sick," she said placidly, "an' you'll stay in bed for
the next week, or a month if you like. As each one comes I'll let you
know jist who they are. You needn't talk any more than you like, an' any
mistakes will be excused, you've been away so long, an' come home so
sick."
They smiled frankly at each other, and after tea she showed him his
room, a plain chamber with sacred pictures on the walls and a photograph
of Arthur Dillon over the bureau.
"Jist as you left it ten years ago," she said with a sob. "An' your
picture as you looked a month before you went away."
The portrait showed a good-looking and pugnacious boy of sixteen,
dark-haired and large-eyed like himself; but the likeness between the
new and the old Arthur was not striking; yet any one who wished or
thought to find a resemblance might have succeeded. As to disposition,
Horace Endicott would not have deserted his mother under any temptation.
"What sort of a boy was--was I at that age, mother?"
"The best in the world," she answered mildly but promptly, feeling the
doubt in the question. "An' no one was able to understan' why you ran
away as you did. I wonder now my heart didn't break over it. The
neighbors jist adored you: the best dancer an' singer, the gayest boy in
the parish, an' the Monsignor thought there was no other like you."
"I have forgotten how to sing an' dance, mother. I think these
accomplishments can be easily learned again. Does the Monsignor still
hold his interest in me?"
"More than ever, I think, but he's a quiet man that says little when he
means a good deal."
At nine o'clock an old woman came in with an evening paper, and gave a
cry of joy at sight of him. Having been instructed between the opening
of the outer door and the woman's appearance, Arthur took the old lady
in his arms and kissed her. She was the servant of the house, more
companion than servant, wrinkled like an autumn leaf that has felt the
heat, but blithe and active.
"So you knew me, Judy, in spite of the whiskers and the long absence?"
"Knew you, is it?" cried Judy, laughing, and crying, and talking at
once, in a way quite wonderful to one who had never witnessed this feat.
"An' why shouldn't I know you? Didn't I hould ye in me own two arrums
the night you were born? An' was there a day afther that I didn't have
something to do wid ye? Oh, ye little spalpeen, to give us all the
fright ye did, runnin' away to Californy. Now if ye had run away to
Ireland, there'd be some sinse in it. Musha thin, but it was fond o'
goold ye wor, an' ye hardly sixteen. I hope ye brought a pile of it back
wid ye."
She rattled on in her joy until weariness took them all at the same
moment, and they withdrew to bed. He was awakened in the morning by a
cautious whispering in the room outside his door.
"Pon me sowl," Judy was saying angrily, "ye take it like anny ould
Yankee. Ye're as dull as if 'twas his body on'y, an' not body an' sowl
together, that kem home to ye. Jist like ould Mrs. Wilcox the night her
son died, sittin' in her room, an' crowshayin' away, whin a dacint woman
'ud be howlin' wid sorra like a banshee."
"To tell the truth," Anne replied, "I can't quite forgive him for the
way he left me, an' it's so long since I saw him, Judy, an' he's so thin
an' miserable lookin', that I feel as if he was only a fairy child."
"Mother, you're talking too loud to your neighbors," he cried out then
in a cheery and familiar voice, for he saw at once the necessity of
removing the very natural constraint indicated by his mother's words;
and there was a sudden cry from the women, Judy flying to the kitchen
while Anne came to his door.
"It's true the walls have ears," she said with a kindly smile. "But you
and I, son, will have to make many's the explanation of that kind before
you are well settled in your old home."
He arose for breakfast with the satisfaction of having enjoyed a perfect
sleep, and with a delightful interest in what the day had in store for
him. Judy bantered and petted him. His mother carried him over difficult
allusions in her speech. The sun looked in on him pleasantly, he took a
sniff of air from a brickish garden, saw the brown walls of the
cathedral not far away, and then went back to bed. A sudden and
overpowering weakness came upon him which made the bed agreeable. Here
he was to receive such friends as would call upon him that day. Anne
Dillon looked somewhat anxious over the ordeal, and his own interest
grew sharper each moment, until the street-door at last opened with
decision, and his mother whispered quickly:
"Louis Everard! Make much of him."
She went out to check the brisk and excited student who wished to enter
with a shout, warning him that the returned wanderer was a sick man.
There was silence for a moment, and then the young fellow appeared in
the doorway.
"Will you have a fit if I come any nearer?" he said roguishly.
In the soft, clear light from the window Arthur saw a slim, manly
figure, a lovable face lighted by keen blue eyes, a white and frank
forehead crowned by light hair, and an expression of face that won him
on the instant. This was his chum, whom he had loved, and trained, and
tyrannized over long ago. For the first time since his sorrow he felt
the inrushing need of love's sympathy, and with tear-dimmed eyes he
mutely held out his arms. Louis flew into the proffered embrace, and
kissed him twice with the ardor of a boy. The affectionate touch of his
lips quite unmanned Arthur, who was silent while the young fellow sat on
the side of the bed with one arm about him, and began to ply him with
questions.
"Tell me first of all," he said, "how you had the heart to do it, to run
away from so many that loved the ground you walked on. I cried my eyes
out night after night ... and your poor mother ... and indeed all of us
... how could you do it? What had we done?"
"Drop it," said Arthur. "At that time I could have done anything. It was
pure thoughtlessness, regretted many a time since. I did it, and there's
the end of it, except that I am suffering now and must suffer more for
the folly."
"One thing, remember," said Louis, "you must let them all see that your
heart is in the right place. I'm not going to tell you all that was said
about you. But you must let every one see that you are as good as when
you left us."
"That would be too little, dear heart. Any man that has been through my
experiences and did not show himself ten times better than ever he was
before, ought to stay in the desert."
"That sounds like you," said Louis, gently pulling his beard.
"Tell me, partner," said Arthur lightly, "would you recognize me with
whiskers?"
"Never. There is nothing about you that reminds me of that boy who ran
away. Just think, it's ten years, and how we all change in ten years.
But say, what adventures you must have had! I've got to hear the whole
story, mind, from the first chapter to the last. You are to come over to
the house two nights in a week, to the old room, you remember, and
unfold the secrets of ten years. Haven't you had a lot of them?"
"A car-load, and of every kind. In the mines and forests, on the desert,
lost in the mountains, hunting and fishing and prospecting; not to
mention love adventures of the tenderest sort. I feel pleasant to think
of telling you my latest adventures in the old room, where I used to
curl you up with fright----"
"Over stories of witches and fairies," cried Louis, "when I would crawl
up your back as we lay in bed, and shiver while I begged you to go on.
And the room is just the same, for all the new things have the old
pattern. I felt you would come back some day with a bag of real stories
to be told in the same dear old place."
"Real enough surely," said Arthur with a deep sigh, "and I hope they may
not tire you in the telling. Mother ... tells me that you are going to
be a priest. Is that true?"
"As far as I can see now, yes. But one is never certain."
"Then I hope you will be one of the Monsignor's stamp. That man is
surely a man of God."
"Not a doubt of it," said Louis, taking his hat to go.
"One thing," said Arthur as he took his hand and detained him. He was
hungry for loving intimacy with this fine lad, and stammered in his
words. "We are to be the same ... brothers ... that we were long ago!"
"That's for you to say, old man," replied Louis, who was pleased and
even flattered, and petted Arthur's hands. "I always had to do as you
said, and was glad to be your slave. I have been the faithful one all
these years. It is your turn now."
After that Arthur cared little who came to see him. He was no longer
alone. This youth loved him with the love of fidelity and gratitude, to
which he had no claim except by adoption from Mrs. Anne Dillon; but it
warmed his heart and cheered his spirit so much that he did not discuss
with himself the propriety of owning and enjoying it. He looked with
delight on Louis' mother when she came later in the day, and welcomed
him as a mother would a dear son. A nun accompanied her, whose costume
gave him great surprise and some irritation. She was a frank-faced but
homely woman, who wore her religious habit with distinction. Arthur felt
as if he were in a chapel while she sat by him and studied his face. His
mother did the talking for him, compared his features with the portrait
on the wall, and recalled the mischievous pranks of his wild boyhood,
indirectly giving him much information as to his former relationships
with the visitors. Mrs. Everard had been fond of him, and Sister Mary
Magdalen had prepared him for his first communion. This fact the nun
emphasized by whispering to him as she was about to leave:
"I hope you have not neglected your religious duties?"
"Monsignor will tell you," he said with an amused smile. He found no
great difficulty in dealing with the visitors that came and went during
the first week. Thanks to his mother's tactful management no hitches
occurred more serious than the real Arthur Dillon might have encountered
after a long absence. The sick man learned very speedily how high his
uncle stood in the city, for the last polite inquiry of each visitor was
whether the Senator had called to welcome his nephew. In the narrow
world of the Endicotts the average mind had not strength enough to
conceive of a personality which embraced in itself a prize-fighter and a
state senator. The terms were contradictory. True, Nero had been actor
and gladiator, and the inference was just that an American might achieve
equal distinction; but the Endicott mind refused to consider such an
inference. Arthur Dillon no longer found anything absurd or impossible.
The surprises of his new position charmed him. Three months earlier and
the wildest libeller could not have accused him of an uncle lower in
rank than a governor of the state. Sonorous names, senator and
gladiator, brimful of the ferocity and dignity of old Rome! near as they
had been in the days of Caesar, one would have thought the march of
civilization might have widened the interval. Here was a rogue's march
indeed! Judy gave the Senator a remarkable character.
"The Senator, is it?" said she when asked for an opinion. "Divil a finer
man from here to himself! There isn't a sowl in the city that doesn't
bless his name. He's a great man bekase he was born so. He began life
with his two fishts, thumpin' other boys wid the gloves, as they call
'em. Thin he wint to the war, an' began fightin' wid powdher an' guns,
so they med him a colonel. Thin he kem home an' wint fightin' the boss
o' the town, so they med him a senator. It was all fightin' wid him, an'
they say he's at it yet, though he luks so pleasant all the time, he
must find it healthy. I don't suppose thim he's fightin' wid finds it as
agreeable. Somewan must git the batin', ye know. There's jist the differ
betune men. I've been usin' me fists all me life, beltin' the washboord,
an' I'm nowhere yet. An' Tommy Kilbride the baker, he's been poundin' at
the dough for thirty years, an' he's no better off than I am. But me
noble Dan Dillon that began wid punchin' the heads of his neighbors, see
where he is to-day. But he's worthy of it, an' I'd be the last to
begrudge him his luck."
In the Endicott circle the appearance of a senator as great as Sumner
had not been an event to flutter the heart, though the honor was
unquestioned; but never in his life had the young man felt a keener
interest than in the visit of his new uncle. He came at last, a
splendid figure, too ample in outline and too rich in color for the
simple room. The first impression he made was that of the man. The
powerful and subtle essence of the man breathed from him. His face and
figure had that boldness of line and depth of color which rightly belong
to the well-bred peasant. He was well dressed, and handsome, with eyes
as soft and bright as a Spaniard's. Arthur was overcome with delight. In
Louis he had found sympathy and love, and in the Senator he felt sure
that he would find ideal strength and ideal manhood, things for the weak
to lean upon. The young patrician seized his uncle's hand and pressed it
hard between his own. At this affectionate greeting the Senator's voice
failed him, and he had difficulty in keeping back his tears.
"If your father were only here now, God rest his soul this day," he
said. "How he loved you. Often an' often he said to me that his
happiness would be complete if he lived to see you a man. He died, but I
live to see it, an' to welcome you back to your own. The Dillons are
dying out. You're the only one of our family with the family name.
What's the use o' tellin' you how glad we are that Californy didn't
swallow you up forever."
Arthur thanked him fervently, and complimented him on his political
honors. The Senator beamed with the delight of a man who finds the value
of honors in the joy which they give his friends.
"Yes, I've mounted, Artie, an' I came by everything I have honest.
You'll not be ashamed of me, boy, when you see where I stand outside.
But there's one thing about politics very hard, the enemy don't spare
you. If you were to believe all that's said of me by opponents I'm
afraid you wouldn't shake hands with me in public."
"I suppose they bring up the prize-fighting," said Arthur. "You ought to
have told them that no one need be ashamed to do what many a Roman
emperor did."
"Ah," cried the Senator, "there's where a man feels the loss of an
education. I never knew the emperors did any ring business. What a
sockdologer it would have been to compare myself with the Roman
emperors."
"Then you've done with fighting, uncle?"
There was regret in his tone, for he felt the situation would have been
improved if the Senator were still before the public as a gladiator.
"I see you ain't lost none o' your old time deviltry, Artie," he replied
good-naturedly. "I gave that up long ago, an' lots o' things with it.
But givin' up has nothin' to do with politics, an' regular all my sins
are retailed in the papers. But one thing they can never say: that I was
a liar or a thief. An' they can't say that I ever broke my word, or
broke faith with the people that elected me, or did anything that was
not becoming in a senator. I respect that position an' the honor for all
they're worth."
"And they can never say," added Arthur, "that you were afraid of any man
on earth, or that you ever hurt the helpless, or ever deserted a friend
or a soul that was in need."
The Senator flushed at the unexpected praise and the sincerity of the
tone. He was anxious to justify himself even before this sinner, because
his dead brother and his sister-in-law had been too severe on his former
occupations to recognize the virtues which Arthur complimented.
"Whatever I have been," said the Senator, pressing the hand which still
held his, "I was never less than a square man."
"That's easy to believe, uncle, and I'll willingly punch the head of the
first man that denies it."
"Same old spirit," said the delighted Senator. "Why, you little rogue,
d'ye remember when you used to go round gettin' all the pictures o' me
in me fightin' days, an' makin' your dear mother mad by threatenin' to
go into the ring yourself? Why; you had your own fightin' gear, gloves
an' clubs an' all that, an' you trained young Everard in the business,
till his old ... his father put a head ... put a stop to it."
"Fine boy, that Louis, but I never thought he'd turn to the Church."
"He never had any thin' else in him," said the Senator earnestly. "It
was born in him as fightin' an' general wildness was born in you an' me.
Look into his face an' you'll see it. Fine? The boy hasn't his like in
the city or the land. I'll back him for any sum--I'll stand to it that
he'll be archbishop some day."
"Which I'll never be," said Arthur with a grin.
"Every man in his place, Artie. I've brought you yours, if you want to
take it. How would politics in New York suit you?"
"I'm ripe for anything with fun in it."
"Then you won't find fault, Artie, if I ask how things stood with
you--you see it's this way, Artie----"
"Now, hold on, old man," said Arthur. "If you are going to get
embarrassed in trying to do something for me, then I withdraw. Speak
right out what you have to say, and leave me to make any reply that
suits me."
"Then, if you'll pardon me, did you leave things in Californy straight
an' square, so that nothin' could be said about you in the papers as to
your record?"
"Straight as a die, uncle."
"An' would you take the position of secretary to the chief an' so get
acquainted with everything an' everybody?"
"On the spot, and thank you, if you can wait till I am able to move
about decently."
"Then it's done, an' I'm the proudest man in the state to see another
Dillon enterin'----"
"The ring," said Arthur.
"No, the arena of politics," corrected the Senator. "An' I can tell from
your talk that you have education an' sand. In time we'll make you mayor
of the town."
When he was going after a most affectionate conversation with his nephew
the Senator made a polite suggestion to Mrs. Dillon.
"His friends an' my friends an' the friends of his father, an' the rank
an' file generally want to see an' to hear this young man, just as the
matter stands. Still more will they wish to give him the right hand of
fellowship when they learn that he is about to enter on a political
career. Now, why not save time and trouble by just giving a reception
some day about the end of the month, invite the whole ga--the whole
multitude, do the thing handsome, an' wind it up forever?"
The Senator had an evident dread of his sister-in-law, and spoke to her
with senatorial dignity. She meekly accepted his suggestion, and humbly
attended him to the door. His good sense had cleared the situation.
Preparation for a reception would set a current going in the quiet
house, and relieve the awkwardness of the new relationships; and it
would save time in the business of renewing old acquaintance. They took
up the work eagerly. The old house had to be refitted for the occasion,
his mother had to replenish a scanty wardrobe, and he had to dress
himself in the fashion proper to Arthur Dillon. Anne's taste was good,
inclined to rich but simple coloring, and he helped her in the selection
of materials, insisting on expenditures which awed and delighted her.
Judy Haskell came in for her share of raiment, and carried out some
dread designs on her own person with conviction. It was pure pleasure to
help these simple souls who loved him.
After a three weeks' stay in the house he went about the city at his
ease, and busied himself with the study and practise of his new
personality. In secret, even from Louis who spent much of his leisure
with him, he began to acquire the well-known accomplishments of the real
Arthur Dillon, who had sung and danced his way into the hearts of his
friends, who had been a wit for a boy, bubbling over with good spirits,
an athlete, a manager of amateur minstrels, a precocious gallant among
the girls, a fighter ever ready to defend the weak, a tireless leader in
any enterprise, and of a bright mind, but indifferent to study. The part
was difficult for him to play, since his nature was staidness itself
beside the spontaneity and variety of Arthur Dillon: but his spirits
rose in the effort, some feeling within responded to the dash and daring
of this lost boy, so much loved and so deeply mourned.
Louis helped him in preparing his wardrobe, very unlike anything an
Endicott had ever worn. Lacking the elegance and correctness of earlier
days, and of a different character, it was in itself a disguise. He wore
his hair long and thick in the Byronic fashion, and a curly beard
shadowed his lower face. Standing at the glass on the afternoon of the
reception he felt confident that Horace Endicott had fairly disappeared
beneath the new man Dillon. His figure had filled out slightly, and had
lost its mournful stoop; his face was no longer wolfish in its leanness,
and his color had returned, though melancholy eyes marked by deep
circles still betrayed the sick heart. Yet the figure in the glass
looked as unlike Horace Endicott as Louis Everard. He compared it with
the accurate portrait sent out by his pursuers through the press. Only
the day before had the story of his mysterious disappearance been made
public. For months they had sought him quietly but vainly. It was a
sign of their despair that the journals should have his story, his
portrait, and a reward for his discovery.
No man sees his face as others see it, but the difference between the
printed portrait and the reflection of Arthur Dillon in the mirror was
so startling that he felt humbled and pained, and had to remind himself
that this was the unlikeness he so desired. The plump and muscular
figure of Horace Endicott, dressed perfectly, posed affectively,
expressed the self-confidence of the aristocrat. His smooth face was
insolent with happiness and prosperity, with that spirit called the
pride of life. But for what he knew of this man, he could have laughed
at his self-sufficiency. The mirror gave back a shrunken, sickly figure,
somewhat concealed by new garments, and the eyes betrayed a poor soul,
cracked and seamed by grief and wrong; no longer Horace Endicott, broken
by sickness of mind and heart, and disguised by circumstance, but
another man entirely. What a mill is sorrow, thus to grind up an
Endicott and from the dust remold a Dillon! The young aristocrat, plump,
insolent, shallow, and self-poised, looked commonplace in his pride
beside this broken man, who had walked through the abyss of hell, and
nevertheless saved his soul.
He discovered as he gazed alternately on portrait and mirror that a
singular feeling had taken hold of him. Horace Endicott all at once
seemed remote, like a close friend swallowed and obliterated years ago
by the sea; while within himself, whoever he might be, some one seemed
struggling for release, or expression, or dominion. He interpreted it
promptly. Outwardly, he was living the life of Arthur Dillon, and
inwardly that Arthur was making war on Horace Endicott, taking
possession as an enemy seizes a stubborn land, reaching out for those
remote citadels wherein the essence of personality resides. He did not
object. He was rather pleased, though he shivered with a not unwelcome
dread.
The reception turned out a marvelous affair for him who had always been
bored by such ceremonies. His mother, resplendent in a silk dress of
changeable hue, seemed to walk on air. Mrs. Everard and her daughter
Mona assisted Anne in receiving the guests. The elder women he knew were
Irish peasants, who in childhood had run barefoot to school on a
breakfast of oatmeal porridge, and had since done their own washing and
baking for a time. Only a practised eye could have distinguished them
from their sisters born in the purple. Mona was a beauty, who earned her
own living as a teacher, and had the little virtues of the profession
well marked; truly a daughter of the gods, tall for a woman, with a
mocking face all sparkle and bloom, small eyes that flashed like gems, a
sharp tongue, and a head of silken hair, now known as the Titian red,
but at that time despised by all except artists and herself. She was a
witch, an enchantress, who thought no man as good as her brother, and
showed other men only the regard which irritates them. And Arthur loved
her and her mother because they belonged to Louis.
"I don't know how you'll like the arrangements," Louis said to him, when
all things were ready. "This is not a society affair. It's an affair of
the clan. The Dillons and their friends have a right to attend. So you
must be prepared for hodcarriers as well as aristocrats."
At three o'clock the house and the garden were thrown open to the stream
of guests. Arthur gazed in wonder. First came old men and women of all
conditions, laborers, servants, small shopkeepers, who had known his
father and been neighbors and clients for years. Dressed in their best,
and joyful over his return to life and home and friends, they wrung his
hands, wept over him, and blessed him until their warm delight and
sincerity nearly overcame him, who had never known the deep love of the
humble for the head of the clan. The Senator was their benefactor, their
bulwark and their glory; but Arthur was the heir, the hope of the
promising future. They went through the ceremony of felicitation and
congratulation, chatted for a while, and then took their leave as calmly
and properly as the dames and gallants of a court; and one and all bowed
to the earth with moist and delighted eyes before the Everards.
"How like a queen she looks," they said of the mother.
"The blessin' o' God on him," they said of Louis, "for priest is written
all over him, an' how could he help it wid such a mother."
"She's fit for a king," they said of Mona. "Wirra, an' to think she'd
look at a plain man like Doyle Grahame."
But of Anne Dillon and her son they said nothing, so much were they
overcome by surprise at the splendor of the mother and the son, and the
beauty of the old house made over new. After dark the Senator arrived,
which was the signal for a change in the character of the guests.
"You'll get the aristocracy now, the high Irish," said Louis.
Arthur recognized it by its airs, its superciliousness, and several
other bad qualities. It was a budding aristocracy at the ugliest moment
of its development; city officials and their families, lawyers,
merchants, physicians, journalists, clever and green and bibulous, who
ran in with a grin and ran out with a witticism, out of respect for the
chief, and who were abashed and surprised at the superior insolence of
the returned Dillon. Reminded of the story that he had returned a
wealthy man, many of them lingered. With these visitors however came the
pillars of Irish society, solid men and dignified women, whom the
Senator introduced as they passed. There were three emphatic moments
which impressed Arthur Dillon. A hush fell upon the chattering crowd one
instant, and people made way for Monsignor O'Donnell, who looked very
gorgeous to Arthur in his purple-trimmed soutane, and purple cloak
falling over his broad shoulders. The politicians bent low, the flippant
grew serious, the faithful few became reverent. A successful leader was
passing, and they struggled to touch his garments. Arthur's heart
swelled at the silent tribute, for he loved this man.
"His little finger," said the Senator in a whisper, "is worth more to
them than my whole body."
A second time this wave of feeling invaded the crowd, when a
strong-faced, quiet-mannered man entered the room, and paid his respects
to the Dillons. Again the lane was made, and hearts fluttered and many
hands were outstretched in greeting to the political leader, Hon. John
Sullivan, the head of Tammany, the passing idol of the hour, to whom
Arthur was soon to be private secretary. He would have left at once but
that the Senator whispered something in his ear; and presently the two
went into the hall to receive the third personage of the evening, and
came back with him, deeply impressed by the honor of his presence. He
was a short, stocky man, of a military bearing, with a face so strongly
marked as to indicate a certain ferocity of temperament; his deep and
sparkling eyes had eyebrows aslant after the fashion of Mephisto; the
expression a little cynical, all determination, but at that moment
good-natured. The assembly fell into an ecstasy at the sight and the
touch of their hero, for no one failed to recognize the dashing General
Sheridan. They needed only a slight excuse to fall at his feet and adore
him.
Arthur was impressed indeed, but his mother had fallen into a state of
heavenly trance over the greatness which had honored their festival. She
recovered only when the celebrities had departed and the stream of
guests had come to an end. Then came a dance in the garden for the young
people, and the school-friends of Arthur Dillon made demands upon him
for the entertainment of which his boyhood had given such promise; so he
sang his songs with nerve and success, and danced strange dances with
graceful foot, until the common voice declared that he had changed only
in appearance, which was natural, and had kept the promise of his
boyhood for gayety of spirits, sweet singing, and fine dancing.
"I feel more than ever to-night," said Louis at parting, "that all of
you has come home."
Reviewing the events of the day in his own room after midnight, he felt
like an actor whose first appearance has been a success. None of the
guests seemed to have any doubt of his personality, or to feel any
surprise at his appearance. For them Arthur Dillon had come home again
after an adventurous life, and changes were accepted as the natural
result of growth. They took him to their heart without question. He was
loved. What Horace Endicott could not command with all his wealth, the
love of his own kin, a poor, broken adventurer, Arthur Dillon, enjoyed
in plenty. Well, thank God for the good fortune which followed so
unexpectedly his exit from the past. He had a secure place in tender
hearts for the first time since father and mother died. What is life
without love and loving? What are love and loving without God? He could
say again, as on the shore of the little pool, I believe in God
forever.