HAROUN AL RASCHID
Beth saw that her sister was awake; stooping forward, she kissed her
gently. "Don't be put out with me, dear," she said, "for what I'm going
to say."
"I will not," answered Judith. The hour, the warm bed, the firelight,
made her unusually gentle. "What is it, dear?"
"It is that dinner," answered Beth. "I wish to make sure you
understand--what people will think of it, I mean. Excuse me, Judith; I
see it more clearly than you can, as a third person, dear."
"Well," Judith asked, "what will people think?"
"Two things," Beth answered. "First, that you are trying to get Mr.
Ellis into society."
"I am willing they should think that."
"The second is," went on Beth slowly, "that the dinner, given here at
our house, and not at Mrs. Harmon's, as perhaps you could arrange to
have it----"
"Not with the Judge's consent," Judith interrupted.
"Or some one else's, then," said Beth. "Given by us, anyway, people
would think the dinner would mean----"
"Go on," directed Judith.
"That you and Mr. Ellis are engaged."
There was silence, in which the crackling of the fire, and the darting
of the shadows on the ceiling, were painfully noticeable to Judith. It
was true! People would think thus.
"Well?" asked Beth at length. Judith made no answer, and Beth, bending
down, snuggled her head against her sister's throat. "I hope," she
whispered, "that you can manage to give it up." Still Judith made no
sign; Beth only made it harder. "Judith, Judith!" Beth urged, gently
pressing her with her arms.
"I don't see," said Judith at last, speaking with difficulty, "how I can
give up the dinner."
Beth sat up quickly. "Truly?" she demanded, with the energy of
disappointment.
"Truly," answered Judith firmly.
"Good-night," said Beth abruptly. She rose and went away without a kiss.
Then Judith lay for a long time awake: the line of cleavage was
beginning. The choice was hard, hard!
But in the morning she wrote her invitations, after agreeing upon a date
with Mrs. Harmon, who leaped at the chance. Yet she showed only too
distinctly what people would think of the event.
"Haven't you," she inquired before Judith left, "haven't you something
to tell me, Judith?"
"Nothing," answered Judith shortly. "Good-bye."
She wrote her notes in her father's name, puzzling first over the
wording. It would be easy to trap people into coming, and when they
arrived they could find Ellis of the party. But that seemed not to be
fair; unconventionally she inserted in each note the words, "to meet Mr.
Stephen F. Ellis." When the notes were written she took them out and
dropped them quickly into the post-box, lest her courage should fail
her. Thus it was settled! The notes were to the Fennos, the Watsons, Mr.
and Miss Pease. Twenty-four hours, and the whole town would be
discussing her. Twenty-four hours brought Saturday; in the morning Mr.
Fenno came to the house.
He always interested her, for he meant power. Ellis, Pease, Fenno: such
was their rank in the town; but Judith felt, as she welcomed him, that
he was as a king about to abdicate, looking back on his reign with weary
eyes, and measuring by a standard of his own. He was one to whom others
were aggregations of forces--potentialities, not men. His heavy head
with its thick hair and deep eyes reminded her more than ever of an old
lion; the rumble of his voice gave force to his slightest word.
Judith told him she would send for Beth. "No, my dear," he said, "I am
glad Beth is not here. I came to see you." With some wonder she led him
into the parlour, where Mr. Fenno handed her a note and watched her
while she read it. It was the usual short formula: "Mr. and Mrs. William
Fenno regret that they cannot accept----," etc.
"I am sorry," said Judith as she folded up the paper.
"That is my wife's answer," explained Mr. Fenno. "I came to give you my
own in person." But then he gazed at her in silence until she became
restive under the scrutiny. "My dear Miss Judith," he said suddenly, "I
like you very much."
"Mr. Fenno," she returned, "you scarcely know me."
"I have watched you a great deal," he replied. "I like your spirit, your
rebellion against the stupid life we lead. Upon my word, I don't know
what business your father has with two such daughters; he doesn't
appreciate you, I'm sure. I'll change with him and welcome.--There,
don't be offended with me. I come to beg you to be moderate. Remember
that I speak to you with the voice of generations. Not even you can
afford to disregard the wisdom of the fathers."
"I do not wish to," she answered, puzzled.
"My wife," he said, "would write that note and let the matter pass. But
I want to thank you, first, for so frankly putting your purpose in your
invitation. 'To meet Mr. Ellis.' We might have come, indeed we should
have come, but for that. But we can't mix with him, Miss Judith."
"It seems to me," she returned, "that the wisdom of the fathers usually
means crystallisation, sir."
"My wife," he said, "is beyond crystallisation: she is dead. Of course
she goes through the form of living. She called you 'that young woman'
when she received the invitation, and wrote as you see, from the dead in
heaven to the dead in--limbo. But, my dear girl, did you ever hear of me
agreeing with my wife? Almost never! This time I did."
"Mr. Fenno----" began Judith.
"Let me go on," he begged. "Of course you understand what a declaration
you are offering to your friends; what a choice as well. I know your
opinion of us; we, Society, are irksome to you. Just as irksome to me, I
assure you; I hate my own life. And yet we are a force; in spite of all
appearances we are a force for good. Come, you and I are so far apart in
age that we cannot be angry with each other. Let me say my say, and when
we part let us smile and go our ways."
"Very well," she replied.
"Miss Judith," he said, "there has been an aristocracy in every
democracy that lived three generations. Ours is very old, somewhat dried
and formal, with a hard crust. Figureheads we are to a degree; rather
useless, perhaps. That is why such a girl as you is a blessing to us; a
few more years, and you can teach us many, many things. Stay with us;
you mustn't go off in the wrong direction."
She made no answer.
"This man Ellis," he pursued. "You cannot bring him in. Believe me, it
is impossible. You must choose between us."
"What if I make the choice?" she inquired.
"And choose against us? You would be sorry. My dear, what has blinded
your eyes? I know you admire his energy, his immense capacities. But
those are not everything. Ellis is not honest."
"Mr. Fenno!" she cried, starting.
"I have watched him," he went on steadily, "since first he came to town.
I know his methods. Where did he get his money?"
"Through ordinary business," she asserted.
"Until he became president of the street-railway," said Mr. Fenno with
emphasis, "Ellis never held a position, never did any business, never
appeared before the city clearly as concerned in any legitimate
undertaking. Since he built his house over here he has become
respectable--outwardly. But that house was built with public money."
"Never!" she cried indignantly.
"He has his own little Tammany here," Mr. Fenno said unmoved. "But he is
becoming too bold. He will wreck himself by the demands he is making for
the street-railway system."
"The public will be afraid of granting eminent domain; he expects that.
For the rest, what else is he showing than wise forethought?"
"For the rest," he rejoined, his deep voice emphasising harshly, "he is
but using the plans of George Mather, which came to him with the
railway."
"No!" she cried involuntarily. He made no answer, but looked at her
silently. "Mr. Fenno," she said, to cover her confusion, "this question
is progress against conservatism."
"So," he remarked, "we have arrived at a deadlock. Well, I expected it.
Good-bye, Miss Judith. I shall be interested in the result of this."
They parted formally, yet his last keen glance troubled her.
And what he had said! No one had ever accused Ellis before--not
directly. Whispers she had heard, of course, but such quiet confidence
as Mr. Fenno showed was new to her; it brought the question nearer home,
and seemed to command her to find out where Ellis got his money. For
some hours she was troubled, but at last, as one is prone to do before a
great question, Judith put it aside for a smaller one. Whom should she
ask in the Fennos' place? She decided that she would not venture again
with the older people, and choosing George Mather and Mary Carr, wrote
the notes to invite them. Then, late in the day, she found an answer to
Mr. Fenno's arguments.
Her father approved of Ellis: that was enough. The defense was specious,
almost cowardly, for Judith knew her father. But she regained her
self-control, supported herself anew by the argument of progressiveness
against conservatism, and arrived again at complete approval of Ellis.
She recalled their last talk, remembered his request, and decided she
would try to fulfill it. She had spent most of the day in the house; it
was growing dark, she needed exercise, and would go and watch, at a
certain crowded corner, the working of the transfer system. Once in the
cold air, her spirits rose, and she hurried down town. At length she
arrived where cars loaded to the fenders groaned slowly by, or stood and
blocked the traffic.
The streets were full, the sidewalks crowded with people hurrying
homeward. Judith liked the twilight, the bustle, and the lighted shops.
At the familiar corner she found many shoppers waiting for their cars,
and went and stood among them. She seemed to herself to be doing
something romantic, and (little as such considerations usually appealed
to her) was pleased to stand among the people like a queen in disguise,
to listen to their grievances, guilelessly expressed, and to bear the
complaints to the man who best knew what was needed. It was an
attractive picture which she painted of her own importance. But just as
she was congratulating herself on the deepening dusk, which made
features dim, an electric light sputtered out overhead and flooded the
place with its palpitating radiance.
An acquaintance immediately recognised and spoke to her. Scarcely had
she got rid of him than another, catching her eye, bowed and made toward
her. "This will never do," she thought, as she gave him the slip.
Accordingly, she went to a doorway where the shadow from the lamp was
deep. There she stood and watched, while cars came and went, while men
and women rushed and struggled to board them, or while others, moving
impatiently with cold and weariness, waited and fretted while they read
in vain the wording on each car. It was an active scene, a fascinating
one to Judith, until a small figure came and stood between her and the
others, aloof and watching, like herself. It was Ellis.
She was amused, and drew within her shelter lest he should see her: she
would tease him when next they should meet. Then she saw another man, a
fellow in rough working-clothes, watching Ellis from one side. Presently
the man advanced to him and spoke; Judith did not hear their words until
Ellis, turning, led the man away from the crowd until he stood within a
few yards of her.
"Now, what did you say?" demanded Ellis, halting.
"I've never been paid, you know I've never been paid, sir, for that
Chebasset job. Only fifty I've ever got; I was to have a hundred." The
man spoke in a whine; his voice was husky and in a degree familiar to
Judith; as the light fell strongly from overhead, his hat cast a deep
shadow on his face.
"That job failed," answered Ellis.
"I did my best," answered the man sullenly. Then he quickly changed his
manner; his voice became sharp, yet still it reminded Judith of tones
she once had heard. "Pay me!" he demanded. "Pay me, Mr. Ellis, or by God
I'll have something to say to your men on those cars that will make this
strike certain. If I tell them of Chebasset----"
"Wait!" and Ellis raised a hand. "How much truth is there in this talk
of a strike among my men?"
"A good deal," snarled the fellow. "It wouldn't take much to bring it
on."
"Thank you," said Ellis composedly. He put his hand in his pocket, drew
out a roll of bank bills, and gave some to the man. "I am much obliged
to you for the information."
"Fifty?" demanded the workman.
"Sixty," Ellis replied.
The man looked at Ellis, then at the notes; suddenly his bearing
altered, and he touched his hat. "Thank you," he mumbled, and walked
away. Ellis turned again to watch the cars.
Judith stood motionless; the talk meant nothing to her, except that it
showed her Ellis's resource and revealed the small ways, as well as the
great, in which he was called on to manage men. Nevertheless, she felt
uncomfortable, and when Ellis had moved away she prepared to slip off.
But before her path was entirely clear she saw Jim Wayne approach and
speak to Ellis. In Jim's appearance was that which struck her with
astonishment.
For he, usually so neat, was untidy; his coat was buttoned askew, and
from under his hat his hair strayed in disorder. He accosted Ellis
eagerly; she heard him say "Here you are" in a tone of relief, and began
speaking quickly. Judith took a step forward, preparing to go. But then
Ellis turned and led Jim near the doorway; Judith's chance to escape was
lost, yet she was on the point of revealing herself, when Jim's words
stayed her.
"You must! You must!" he was saying, in such a tone of actual demand
that Judith wondered and shrank back. Few persons dared to speak to
Ellis thus.
"Must?" repeated Ellis angrily. But then he laughed. "Wayne, you have no
claim on me."
"Who gave me the idea?" cried Jim. "Who told me what to do? You! But it
is gone--all gone!" The gesture with which he struck his hands together
revealed both horror and despair.
"Your wits as well," returned Ellis shortly. "If you want help from a
man, don't begin by insulting him."
"But something must be done at once!" cried Jim. "If Mather----"
"I understand that he went to Chebasset this morning," remarked Ellis as
if indifferently, yet he glanced sidewise upon the young man. "He
returned very much disturbed."
"There!" exclaimed Jim. "He has found it out!" Again he clenched his
hands with that gesture of despair. Judith felt that something was
hanging over him, over her, and in spite of herself drew deeper into the
shadow.
"Mather can be quieted," said Ellis, unperturbed. "Come, this is no
place for you to carry on like this. Meet me this evening."
"Where?"
"At--some one's house. Half-past nine."
"It must be earlier," returned Jim.
"Then come to the Blanchards; I mean to dine there."
"No," answered Jim, "I can't go there. But promise me to come away
early!"
"I will come when I choose," answered Ellis impatiently. Then he added:
"Go! I see Mather."
Jim turned and darted off, holding his head low. Ellis walked composedly
in the opposite direction; and to Judith, thus left alone, the sound of
the shuffling of the crowd, the rumbling of the electrics, the subdued
roar of the more distant traffic, rose suddenly into life. She moved
forward, saw that her escape was clear, and hurried away. At the next
corner she found a public carriage and directed the driver to take her
home.
The vehicle was closed; she let down a window and leaned to it for the
air. What were these matters she had overheard? The episode of the
workman passed from her mind, but what had Jim demanded of Ellis, what
had gone wrong, and where were they to meet? They were far more intimate
than she had supposed. And why had Jim avoided Mather? Weariness came
over Judith as she considered her own ignorance. These were the things
which men did by themselves; these were the signs of those business
troubles which women heard of but never met, the smirch and jostle of
down-town affairs. Such things happened daily--and Judith roused to a
feeling of envy. Little daily worries and cares--the men had too many of
them, doubtless, but she had far too few.
And now, as still she leaned by her window, she saw Mather. He was on a
corner, full in the glare of a street-light, and he seemed to be looking
among the passers as if in search of Jim. The carriage jolted slowly
across the cobbles and the tracks; then, blocked by vehicles in front,
it stopped almost at his side. Judith drew back, but still she watched
him. Tall, strong, somewhat anxious and overburdened, why could he not
be--different?
A woman stood by his side, or rather a girl with a woman's haggard eyes.
She was looking up sidewise into Mather's face, studying it with a
vixenish eagerness. She touched him on the arm, and he looked down at
her.
"Say," she said, "you're a good-lookin' feller."
He answered soberly. "Thank you."
"Isn't there some place," she asked, "where we could eat together?"
His hand went to his pocket. As he made the motion a figure, large,
noiseless, with gleaming buttons on a blue uniform, approached and stood
close behind: a policeman, watching curiously. Mather drew out a bank
note and offered it to the girl.
"With that," he asked, "can you be good for a few days?"
"W'at yer mean?" she demanded. But she snatched the money. "Ah, you're a
real swell, you are."
"Go home," he said. "Go home--Jenny."
"Jenny!" she exclaimed. "How'd yer know my name?" Then as if warned of
the presence behind she turned and saw the policeman, shrank, and fled.
The roundsman and Mather regarded each other.
"Did you know her, sir?" asked the man.
"Never saw her before," was the answer. "You don't read Rossetti, I
suppose, officer. Here comes my car."
He stepped from the curb to go behind Judith's carriage; at the same
moment the vehicle started with a jerk and went swiftly forward. For a
little longer it was involved in the city traffic, then it turned into
a quiet street and bowled onward quickly. Once more Judith leaned at
the window, glad of the cold air. She was oppressed; to-night life
seemed complicated, awful, even tragic.