"You must not come." Had Cynthia made the prohibition strong enough?
Ought she not to have said, "If you do come, I will not see you?" Her
knowledge of the motives of the men and women in the greater world was
largely confined to that which she had gathered from novels--not trashy
novels, but those by standard authors of English life. And many another
girl of nineteen has taken a novel for a guide when she has been suddenly
confronted with the first great problem outside of her experience.
Somebody has declared that there are only seven plots in the world. There
are many parallels in English literature to Cynthia's position,--so far
as she was able to define that position,--the wealthy young peer, the
parson's or physician's daughter, and the worldly, inexorable parents who
had other plans.
Cynthia was, of course, foolish. She would not look ahead, yet there was
the mirage in the sky when she allowed herself to dream. It can
truthfully be said that she was not in love with Bob Worthington. She
felt, rather than knew, that if love came to her the feeling she had for
Jethro Bass--strong though that was--would be as nothing to it. The girl
felt the intensity of her nature, and shrank from it when her thoughts
ran that way, for it frightened her.
"Mrs. Merrill" she said, a few days later, when she found herself alone
with that lady, "you once told me you would have no objection if a friend
came to see me here."
"None whatever, my dear," answered Mrs. Merrill. "I have asked you to
have your friends here."
Mrs. Merrill knew that a young man had called on Cynthia. The girls had
discussed the event excitedly, had teased Cynthia about it; they had
discovered, moreover, that the young man had not been a tiller of the
soil or a clerk in a country store. Ellen, with the enthusiasm of her
race, had painted him in glowing colors--but she had neglected to read
the name on his card.
"Bob Worthington came to see me last week, and he wants to come again. He
lives in Brampton," Cynthia explained, "and is at Harvard College."
Mrs. Merrill was decidedly surprised. She went on with her sewing,
however, and did not betray the fact. She knew of Dudley Worthington as
one of the richest and most important men in his state; she had heard her
husband speak of him often; but she had never meddled with politics and
railroad affairs.
"By all means let him come, Cynthia," she replied.
When Mr. Merrill got home that evening she spoke of the matter to him.
"Cynthia is a strange character," she said. "Sometimes I can't understand
her--she seems so much older than our girls, Stephen. Think of her
keeping this to herself for four days!"
Mr. Merrill laughed, but he went off to a little writing room he had and
sat for a long time looking into the glowing coals. Then he laughed
again. Mr. Merrill was a philosopher. After all, he could not forbid
Dudley Worthington's son coming to his house, nor did he wish to.
That same evening Cynthia wrote a letter and posted it. She found it a
very difficult letter to write, and almost as difficult to drop into the
mail-box. She reflected that the holidays were close at hand, and then he
would go to Brampton and forget, even as he had forgotten before. And she
determined when Wednesday afternoon came around that she would take a
long walk in the direction of Brookline. Cynthia loved these walks, for
she sadly missed the country air,--and they had kept the color in her
cheeks and the courage in her heart that winter. She had amazed the
Merrill girls by the distances she covered, and on more than one occasion
she had trudged many miles to a spot from which there was a view of Blue
Hills. They reminded her faintly of Coniston.
Who can speak or write with any certainty of the feminine character, or
declare what unexpected twists perversity and curiosity may give to it?
Wednesday afternoon came, and Cynthia did not go to Brookline. She put on
her coat, and took it off again. Would he dare to come in the face of the
mandate he had received? If he did come, she wouldn't see him. Ellen had
received her orders.
At four o'clock the doorbell rang, and shortly thereafter Ellen appeared,
simpering and apologetic enough, with a card. She had taken the trouble
to read it this time. Cynthia was angry, or thought she was, and her
cheeks were very red.
"I told you to excuse me, Ellen. Why did you let him in?"
"Miss Cynthia, darlin'," said Ellen, "if it was made of flint I was,
wouldn't he bring the tears out of me with his wheedlin' an' coaxin'? An'
him such a fine young gintleman! And whin he took to commandin' like,
sure I couldn't say no to him at all at all. 'Take the card to her,
Ellen,' he says--didn't he know me name!--'an' if she says she won't see
me, thin I won't trouble her more.' Thim were his words, Miss."
There he was before the fire, his feet slightly apart and his hands in
his pockets, waiting for her. She got a glimpse of him standing thus, as
she came down the stairs. It was not the attitude of a culprit. Nor did
he bear the faintest resemblance to a culprit as he came up to her in the
doorway. The chief recollection she carried away of that moment was that
his teeth were very white and even when he smiled. He had the impudence
to smile. He had the impudence to seize one of her hands in his, and to
hold aloft a sheet of paper in the other.
"What does this mean?" said he.
"What do you thick it means?" retorted Cynthia, with dignity.
"A summons to stay away," said Bob, thereby more or less accurately
describing it. "What would you have thought of me if I had not come?"
Cynthia was not prepared for any such question as this. She had meant to
ask the questions herself. But she never lacked for words to protect
herself.
"I'll tell you what I think of you for coming, Bob, for insisting upon
seeing me as you did," she said, remembering with shame Ellen's account
of that proceeding. "It was very unkind and very thoughtless of you."
"Unkind?" Thus she succeeded in putting him on the defensive.
"Yes, unkind, because I know it is best for you not to come to see me,
and you know it, and yet you will not help me when I try to do what is
right. I shall be blamed for these visits," she said. The young ladies in
the novels always were. But it was a serious matter for poor Cynthia, and
her voice trembled a little. Her troubles seemed very real.
"Who will blame you?" asked Bob, though he knew well enough. Then he
added, seeing that she did not answer: "I don't at all agree with you
that it is best for me not to see you. I know of nobody in the world it
does me more good to see than yourself. Let's sit down and talk it all
over," he said, for she still remained standing uncompromisingly by the
door.
The suspicion of a smile came over Cynthia's face. She remembered how
Ellen had been wheedled. Her instinct told her that now was the time to
make a stand or never.
"It wouldn't do any good, Bob," she replied, shaking her head; "we talked
it all over last week."
"Not at all," said he, "we only touched upon a few points last week. We
ought to thrash it out. Various aspects of the matter have occurred to me
which I ought to call to your attention."
He could not avoid this bantering tone, but she saw that he was very much
in earnest too. He realized the necessity of winning; likewise, and he
had got in and meant to stay.
"I don't want to argue," said Cynthia. "I've thought it all out."
"So have I," said Bob. "I haven't thought of anything else, to speak of.
And by the way," he declared, shaking the envelope, "I never got a colder
and more formal letter in my life. You must have taken it from one of
Miss Sadler's copy books."
"I'm sorry I haven't been able to equal the warmth of your other
correspondents," said Cynthia, smiling at the mention of Miss Sadler.
"You've got a good many degrees yet to go," he replied.
"I have no idea of doing so," said Cynthia.
If Cynthia had lured him there, and had carefully thought out a plan of
fanning his admiration into a flame, she could not have done better than
to stand obstinately by the door. Nothing appeals to a man like
resistance--resistance for a principle appealed to Bob, although he did
not care a fig about that particular principle. In his former dealings
with young women--and they had not been few--the son of Dudley
Worthington had encountered no resistance worth the mentioning. He looked
at the girl before him, and his blood leaped at the thought of a conquest
over her. She was often demure, but behind that demureness was firmness:
she was mistress of herself, and yet possessed a marvellous vitality.
"And now," said Cynthia, "don't you think you had better go?"
Go! He laughed outright. Never! He would sit down under that fortress,
and some day he meant to scale the walls. Like John Paul Jones, he had
not yet begun to fight. But he did not sit down just yet, because Cynthia
remained standing.
"I'm here now," he said, "what's the good of going away? I might as well
stay the rest of the afternoon."
"You will find a photograph album on the table," said Cynthia, "with
pictures of all the Merrill family and their friends and relations."
In spite of the threat this remark conveyed, he could not help laughing
at it. Mrs. Merrill in her sitting room heard the laugh, and felt that
she would like Bob Worthington.
"It's a heavy album, Cynthia," he said; "perhaps you would hold up one
side of it."
It was Cynthia's turn to laugh. She could not decide whether he were a
man or a boy. Sometimes, she had to admit, he was very much of a man.
"Where are you going?" he cried.
"Upstairs, of course," she answered.
This was really alarming. But fate thrust a final weapon into his hands.
"All right," said he, "I'll look at the album. What time does Mr. Merrill
get home?"
"About six," answered Cynthia. "Why?"
"When he comes," said Bob, "I shall put on my most disconsolate
expression. He'll ask me what I'm doing, and I'll tell him you went
upstairs at half-past four and haven't come down. He'll sympathize, I'll
bet anything."
Whether Bob were really capable of doing this, Cynthia could not tell.
She believed he was. Perhaps she really did not intend to go upstairs
just then. To his intense relief she seated herself on a straight-backed
chair near the door, although she had the air of being about to get up
again at any minute. It was not a surrender, not at all--but a parley, at
least.
"I really want to talk to you seriously, Bob," she said, and her voice
was serious. "I like you very much--I always have--and I want you to
listen seriously. All of us have friends. Some people--you, for
instance--have a great many. We have but one father." Her voice failed a
little at the word. "No friend can ever be the same to you as your
father, and no friendship can make up what his displeasure will cost you.
I do not mean to say that I shan't always be your friend, for I shall
be."
Young men seldom arrive at maturity by gradual steps--something sets them
thinking, a week passes, and suddenly the world has a different aspect.
Bob had thought much of his father during that week, and had considered
their relationship very carefully. He had a few precious memories of his
mother before she had been laid to rest under that hideous and
pretentious monument in the Brampton hill cemetery. How unlike her was
that monument! Even as a young boy, when on occasions he had wandered
into the cemetery, he used to stand before it with a lump in his throat
and bitter resentment in his heart, and once he had shaken his fist at
it. He had grown up out of sympathy with his father, but he had never
until now began to analyze the reasons for it. His father had given him
everything except that communion of which Cynthia spoke so feelingly. Mr.
Worthington had acted according to his lights: of all the people in the
world he thought first of his son. But his thoughts and care had been
alone of what the son would be to the world: how that son would carry on
the wealth and greatness of Isaac D. Worthington.
Bob had known this before, but it had had no such significance for him
then as now. He was by no means lacking in shrewdness, and as he had
grown older he had perceived clearly enough Mr. Worthington's reasons for
throwing him socially with the Duncans. Mr. Worthington had never been a
plain-spoken man, but he had as much as told his son that it was decreed
that he should marry the heiress of the state. There were other plans
connected with this. Mr. Worthington meant that his son should eventually
own the state itself, for he saw that the man who controlled the highways
of a state could snap his fingers at governor and council and legislature
and judiciary: could, indeed, do more--could own them even more
completely than Jethro Bass now owned them, and without effort. The
dividends would do the work: would canvass the counties and persuade this
man and that with sufficient eloquence. By such tokens it will be seen
that Isaac D. Worthington is destined to become great, though the
greatness will be akin to that possessed by those gentlemen who in past
ages had built castles across the highway between Venice and the North
Sea. All this was in store for Bob Worthington, if he could only be
brought to see it. These things would be given him, if he would but
confine his worship to the god of wealth.
We are running ahead, however, of Bob's reflections in Mr. Merrill's
parlor in Mount Vernon Street, and the ceremony of showing him the cities
of his world from Brampton hill was yet to be gone through. Bob knew his
father's plans only in a general way, but in the past week he had come to
know his father with a fair amount of thoroughness. If Isaac D.
Worthington had but chosen a worldly wife, he might have had a more
worldly son. As it was, Bob's thoughts were a little bitter when Cynthia
spoke of his father, and he tried to think instead what his mother would
have him do. He could not, indeed, speak of Mr. Worthington's
shortcomings as he understood them, but he answered Cynthia vigorously
enough--even if his words were not as serious as she desired.
"I tell you I am old enough to judge for myself, Cynthia," said he, "and
I intend to judge for myself. I don't pretend to be a paragon of virtue,
but I have a kind of a conscience which tells me when I am doing wrong,
if I listen to it. I have not always listened to it. It tells me I'm
doing right now, and I mean to listen to it."
Cynthia could not but think there was very little self-denial attached to
this. Men are not given largely to self-denial.
"It is easy enough to listen to your conscience when you think it impels
you to do that which you want to do, Bob," she answered, laughing at his
argument in spite of herself.
"Are you wicked?" he demanded abruptly.
"Why, no, I don't think I am," said Cynthia, taken aback. But she
corrected herself swiftly, perceiving his bent. "I should be doing wrong
to let you come here."
He ignored the qualification.
"Are you vain and frivolous?"
She remembered that she had looked in the glass before she had come down
to him, and bit her lip.
"Are you given over to idle pursuits, to leading young men from their
occupations and duties?"
"If you've come here to recite the Blue Laws," said she, laughing again,
"I have something better to do than to listen to them."
"Cynthia," he cried, "I'll tell you what you are. I'll draw your
character for you, and then, if you can give me one good reason why I
should not associate with you, I'll go away and never come back."
"That's all very well," said Cynthia, "but suppose I don't admit your
qualifications for drawing my character. And I don't admit them, not for
a minute."
"I will draw it," said he, standing up in front of her. "Oh, confound
it!"
This exclamation, astonishing and out of place as it was, was caused by a
ring at the doorbell. The ring was followed by a whispering and giggling
in the hall, and then by the entrance of the Misses Merrill into the
parlor. Curiosity had been too strong for them. Susan was human, and here
was the opportunity for a little revenge. In justice to her, she meant
the revenge to be very slight.
"Well, Cynthia, you should have come to the concert," she said; "it was
fine, wasn't it, Jane? Is this Mr. Worthington? How do you do. I'm Miss
Susan Merrill, and this is Miss Jane Merrill." Susan only intended to
stay a minute, but how was Bob to know that? She was tempted into staying
longer. Bob lighted the gas, and she inspected him and approved. Her
approval increased when he began to talk to her in his bantering way, as
if he had known her always. Then, when she was fully intending to go, he
rose to take his leave.
"I'm awfully glad to have met you at last," he said to Susan, "I've heard
so much about you." His leave-taking of Jane was less effusive, and then
he turned to Cynthia and took her hand. "I'm going to Brampton on
Friday," he said, "for the holidays. I wish you were going."
"We couldn't think of letting her go, Mr. Worthington," cried Susan, for
the thought of the hills had made Cynthia incapable of answering. "We're
only to have her for one short winter, you know."
"Yes, I know," said Mr. Worthington, gravely. "I'll see old Ephraim, and
tell him you're well, and what a marvel of learning, you've become.
And--and I'll go to Coniston if that will please you."
"Oh, no, Bob, you mustn't do anything of the kind," answered Cynthia,
trying to keep back the tears. "I--I write to Uncle Jethro very often.
Good-by. I hope you will enjoy your holidays."
"I'm coming to see you the minute I get back and tell you all about
everybody," said he.
How was she to forbid him to come before Susan and Jane! She could only
be silent.
"Do come, Mr. Worthington," said Susan, warmly, wondering at Cynthia's
coldness and, indeed, misinterpreting it. "I am sure she will be glad to
see you. And we shall always make you welcome, at any rate."
As soon as he was out of the door, Susan became very repentant, and
slipped her hand about Cynthia's waist.
"We shouldn't have come in at all if we had known he would go so soon,
indeed we shouldn't, Cynthia." And seeing that Cynthia was still silent,
she added: "I wouldn't do such a mean thing, Cynthia, I really wouldn't.
Won't you believe me and forgive me?"
Cynthia scarcely heard her at first. She was thinking of Coniston
mountain, and how the sun had just set behind it. The mountain would be
ultramarine against the white fields, and the snow on the hill pastures
to the east stained red as with wine. What would she not have given to be
going back to-morrow--yes, with Bob. She confessed--though startled by
the very boldness of the thought--that she would like to be going there
with Bob. Susan's appeal brought her back to Boston and the gas-lit
parlor.
"Forgive you, Susan! There's nothing to forgive. I wanted him to go."
"You wanted him to go?" repeated Susan, amazed. She may be pardoned if
she did not believe this, but a glance at Cynthia's face scarcely left a
room for doubt. "Cynthia Wetherell, you're the strangest girl I've ever
known in all my life. If I had a--a friend" (Susan had another word on
her tongue) "if I had such a friend as Mr. Worthington, I shouldn't be in
a hurry to let him leave me. Of course," she added, "I shouldn't let him
know it."
Cynthia's heart was very heavy during the next few days, heavier by far
than her friends in Mount Vernon Street imagined. They had grown to love
her almost as one of themselves, and because of the sympathy which comes
of such love they guessed that her thoughts would be turning homeward at
Christmastide. At school she had listened, perforce, to the festival
plans of thirty girls of her own age; to accounts of the probable
presents they were to receive, the cost of some of which would support a
family in Coniston for several months; to arrangements for visits, during
which there were to be theatre-parties and dances and other gaieties.
Cynthia could not help wondering, as she listened in silence to this
talk, whether Uncle Jethro had done wisely in sending her to Miss
Sadler's; whether she would not have been far happier if she had never
known about such things.
Then came the last day of school, which began with leave-takings and
embraces. There were not many who embraced Cynthia, though, had she known
it, this was largely her own fault. Poor Cynthia! how was she to know it?
Many more of them than she imagined would have liked to embrace her had
they believed that the embrace would be returned. Secretly they had grown
to admire this strange, dark girl, who was too proud to bend for the good
opinion of any one--even of Miss Sally Broke. Once during the term
Cynthia had held some of them--in the hollow of her hand, and had
incurred the severe displeasure of Miss Sadler by refusing to tell what
she knew of certain mischief-makers.
Now, Miss Sadler was going about among them in the school parlor saying
good-by, sending particular remembrance to such of the fathers and
mothers as she thought worthy of that honor; kissing some, shaking, hands
with all. It was then that a dramatic incident occurred--dramatic for a
girls' school, at least. Cynthia deliberately turned her back on Miss
Sadler and looked out of the window. The chatter in the room was hushed,
and for a moment a dangerous wrath flamed in Miss Sadler's eyes. Then she
passed on with a smile, to send most particular messages to the mother of
Miss Isabel Burrage.
Some few moments afterward Cynthia felt a touch on her arm, and turned to
find herself confronted by Miss Sally Broke. Unfortunately there is not
much room for Miss Broke in this story, although she may appear in
another one yet to be written. She was extremely good-looking, with real
golden hair and mischievous blue eyes. She was, in brief, the leader of
Miss Sadler's school.
"Cynthia," she said, "I was rude to you when you first came here, and I'm
sorry for it. I want to beg your pardon." And she held out her hand.
There was a moment's suspense for those watching to see if Cynthia would
take it. She did take it.
"I'm sorry, too," said Cynthia, simply, "I couldn't see what I'd done to
offend you. Perhaps you'll explain now."
Miss Broke blushed violently, and for an instant looked decidedly
uncomfortable. Then she burst into laughter,--merry, irresistible
laughter that carried all before it.
"I was a snob, that's all," said she, "just a plain, low down snob. You
don't understand what that means, because you're not one." (Cynthia did
understand, ) "But I like you, and I want you to be my friend. Perhaps
when I get to know you better, you will come home with me sometime for a
visit."
Go home with her for a visit to that house in Washington Square with the
picture gallery!
"I want to say that I'd give my head to have been able to turn my back on
Miss Sadler as you did," continued Miss Broke; "if you ever want a
friend, remember Sally Broke."
Some of Cynthia's trouble, at least, was mitigated by this episode; and
Miss Broke having led the way, Miss Broke's followers came shyly, one by
one, with proffers of friendship. To the good-hearted Merrill girls the
walk home that day was a kind of a triumphal march, a victory over Miss
Sadler and a vindication of their friend. Mrs. Merrill, when she heard of
it, could not find it in her heart to reprove Cynthia. Miss Sadler had
got her just deserts. But Miss Sadler was not a person who was likely to
forget such an incident. Indeed, Mrs. Merrill half expected to receive a
note before the holidays ended that Cynthia's presence was no longer
desired at the school. No such note came, however.
If one had to be away from home on Christmas, there could surely be no
better place to spend that day than in the Merrill household. Cynthia
remembers still, when that blessed season comes around, how each member
of the family vied with the others to make her happy; how they showered
presents on her, and how they strove to include her in the laughter and
jokes at the big family dinner. Mr. Merrill's brother was there with his
wife, and Mrs. Merrill's aunt and her husband, and two broods of cousins.
It may be well to mention that the Merrill relations, like Sally Broke,
had overcome their dislike for Cynthia.
There were eatables from Coniston on that board. A turkey sent by Jethro
for which, Mr. Merrill declared, the table would have to be strengthened;
a saddle of venison--Lem Hallowell having shot a deer on the mountain two
Sundays before; and mince-meat made by Amanda Hatch herself. Other
presents had come to Cynthia from the hills: a gorgeous copy of Mr.
Longfellow's poems from Cousin Ephraim, and a gold locket from Uncle
Jethro. This locket was the precise counterpart (had she but known it) of
a silver one bought at Mr. Judson's shop many years before, though the
inscription "Cynthy, from Uncle Jethro," was within. Into the other side
exactly fitted that daguerreotype of her mother which her father had
given her when he died. The locket had a gold chain with a clasp, and
Cynthia wore it hidden beneath her gown-too intimate a possession to be
shown.
There was still another and very mysterious present, this being a huge
box of roses, addressed to Miss Cynthia Wetherell, which was delivered on
Christmas morning. If there had been a card, Susan Merrill would
certainly have found it. There was no card. There was much pretended
speculation on the part of the Merrill girls as to the sender, sly
reference to Cynthia's heightened color, and several attempts to pin on
her dress a bunch of the flowers, and Susan declared that one of them
would look stunning in her hair. They were put on the dining-room table
in the centre of the wreath of holly, and under the mistletoe which hung
from the chandelier. Whether Cynthia surreptitiously stole one has never
been discovered.
So Christmas came and went: not altogether unhappily, deferring for a day
at least the knotty problems of life. Although Cynthia accepted the
present of the roses with such magnificent unconcern, and would not make
so much as a guess as to who sent them, Mr. Robert Worthington was
frequently in her thoughts. He had declared his intention of coming to
Mount Vernon Street as soon as the holidays ended, and had been cordially
invited by Susan to do so. Cynthia took the trouble to procure a Harvard
catalogue from the library, and discovered that he had many holidays yet
to spend. She determined to write another letter, which he would find in
his rooms when he returned. Just what terrible prohibitory terms she was
to employ in that letter Cynthia could not decide in a moment, nor yet in
a day, or a week. She went so far as to make several drafts, some of
which she destroyed for the fault of leniency, and others for that of
severity. What was she to say to him? She had expended her arguments to
no avail. She could wound him, indeed, and at length made up her mind
that this was the only resource left her, although she would thereby
wound herself more deeply. When she had arrived at this decision, there
remained still more than a week in which to compose the letter.
On the morning after New Year's, when the family were assembled around
the breakfast table, Mrs. Merrill remarked that her husband was
neglecting a custom which had been his for many years.
"Didn't the newspaper come, Stephen?" she asked.
Mr. Merrill had read it.
"Read it!" repeated his wife, in surprise, "you haven't been down long
enough to read a column."
"It was full of trash," said Mr. Merrill, lightly, and began on his usual
jokes with the girls. But Mrs. Merrill was troubled. She thought his
jokes not as hearty as they were wont to be, and disquieting surmises of
business worries filled her mind. The fact that he beckoned her into his
writing room as soon as breakfast was over did not tend to allay her
suspicions. He closed and locked the door after her, and taking the paper
from a drawer in his desk bade her read a certain article in it.
The article was an arraignment of Jethro Bass--and a terrible arraignment
indeed. Step by step it traced his career from the beginning, showing
first of all how he had debauched his own town of Coniston; how,
enlarging on the same methods, he had gradually extended his grip over
the county and finally over the state; how he had bought and sold men for
his own power and profit, deceived those who had trusted in him,
corrupted governors and legislators, congressmen and senators, and even
justices of the courts: how he had trafficked ruthlessly in the
enterprises of the people. Instance upon instance was given, and men of
high prominence from whom he had received bribes were named, not the
least important of these being the Honorable Alva Hopkins of Gosport.
Mrs. Merrill looked up from the paper in dismay.
"It's copied from the Newcastle Guardian," she said, for lack of
immediate power to comment. "Isn't the Guardian the chief paper in that
state?"
"Yes, Worthington's bought it, and he instigated the article, of course.
I've been afraid of this for a long time, Carry," said Mr. Merrill,
pacing up and down. "There's a bigger fight than they've ever had coming
on up there, and this is the first gun. Worthington, with Duncan behind
him, is trying to get possession of and consolidate all the railroads in
the western part of that state. If he succeeds, it will mean the end of
Jethro's power. But he won't succeed."
"Stephen," said his wife, "do you mean to say that Jethro Bass will try
to defeat this consolidation simply to keep his power?"
"Well, my dear," answered Mr. Merrill, still pacing, "two wrongs don't
make a right, I admit. I've known these things a long time, and I've
thought about them a good deal. But I've had to run along with the tide,
or give place to another man who would; and--and starve."
Mrs. Merrill's eyes slowly filled with tears.
"Stephen," she began, "do you mean to say--?" There she stopped, utterly
unable to speak. He ceased his pacing and sat down beside her and took
her hand.
"Yes, my dear, I mean to say I've submitted to these things. God knows
whether I've been right or wrong, but I have. I've often thought I'd be
happier if I resigned my office as president of my road and became a
clerk in a store. I don't attempt to excuse myself, Carry, but my sin has
been in holding on to my post. As long as I remain president I have to
cope with things as I find them."
Mr. Merrill spoke thickly, for the sight of his wife's tears wrung his
heart.
"Stephen," she said, "when we were first married and you were a district
superintendent, you used to tell me everything."
Stephen Merrill was a man, and a good man, as men go. How was he to tell
her the degrees by which he had been led into his present situation? How
was he to explain that these degrees had been so gradual that his
conscience had had but a passing wrench here and there? Politics being
what they were, progress and protection had to be obtained in accordance
with them, and there was a duty to the holders of bonds and stocks.
His wife had a question on her lips, a question for which she had to
summon all her courage. She chose that form for it which would hurt him
least.
"Mr. Worthington is going to try to change these things?"
Mr. Merrill roused himself at the words, and his eyes flashed. He became
a different man.
"Change them!" he cried bitterly, "change them for the worse, if he can.
He will try to wrest the power from Jethro Bass. I don't defend him. I
don't defend myself. But I like Jethro Bass. I won't deny it. He's human,
and I like him, and whatever they say about him I know that he's been a
true friend to me. And I tell you as I hope for happiness here and
hereafter, that if Worthington succeeds in what he is trying to do, if
the railroads win in this fight, there will be no mercy for the people of
that state. I'm a railroad man myself, though I have no interest in this
affair. My turn may come later. Will come later, I suppose. Isaac D.
Worthington has a very little heart or soul or mercy himself; but the
corporation which he means to set up will have none at all. It will grind
the people and debase them and clog their progress a hundred times more
than Jethro Bass has done. Mark my words, Carry. I'm running ahead of the
times a little, but I can see it all as clearly as if it existed now."
Mrs. Merrill went about her duties that morning with a heavy heart, and
more than once she paused to wipe away a tear that would have fallen on
the linen she was sorting. At eleven o'clock the doorbell rang, and Ellen
appeared at the entrance to the linen closet with a card in her hand.
Mrs. Merrill looked at it with a, flurry of surprise. It read:--
MISS LUCRETIA PENNIMAN
The Woman's Hour