Alwyn is Ordered to Eat His Words or Get Out
Watch Him Do It Gracefully
The Republican Leaders, etc.
He threw down his paper, and the hot blood sang in his ears. The
sickening thought was that it was true. If he did make the speech
demanded it would be like a dog obedient to his master's voice.
The cold sweat oozed on his face; throwing up the window, he drank in
the Spring breeze, and stared at the city he once had thought so
alluring. Somehow it looked like the swamp, only less beautiful; he
stretched his arms and his lips breathed--"Zora!"
He turned hastily to his desk and looked at the other piece of mail--a
single sealed note carefully written on heavy paper. He did not
recognize the handwriting. Then his mind flew off again. What would they
say if he failed to get the office? How they would silently hoot and
jeer at the upstart who suddenly climbed so high and fell. And Carrie
Wynn--poor Carrie, with her pride and position dragged down in his ruin:
how would she take it? He writhed in soul. And yet, to be a man; to say
calmly, "No"; to stand in that great audience and say, "My people first
and last"; to take Carrie's hand and together face the world and
struggle again to newer finer triumphs--all this would be very close to
attainment of the ideal. He found himself staring at the little letter.
Would she go? Would she, could she, lay aside her pride and cynicism,
her dainty ways and little extravagances? An odd fancy came to him:
perhaps the answer to the riddle lay sealed within the envelope he
fingered.
He opened it. Within lay four lines of writing--no more--no address, no
signature; simply the words:
_"It matters now how strait the gate,
How charged with punishment the scroll;
I am the master of my fate,
I am the captain of my soul."_
He stared at the lines. Eleven o'clock--twelve--one--chimed the
deep-voiced clock without, before Alwyn went to bed.
Miss Wynn had kept a vigil almost as long. She knew that Bles had
influential friends who had urged his preferment; it might be wise to
enlist them. Before she fell asleep she had determined to have a talk
with Mrs. Vanderpool. She had learned from Senator Smith that the lady
took special interest in Alwyn.
Mrs. Vanderpool heard Miss Wynn's story next day with some inward
dismay. Really the breadth and depth of intrigue in this city almost
frightened her as she walked deeper into the mire. She had promised Zora
that Bles should receive his reward on terms which would not wound his
manhood. It seemed an easy, almost an obvious thing, to promise at the
time. Yet here was this rather unusual young woman asking Mrs.
Vanderpool to use her influence in making Alwyn bow to the yoke. She
fenced for time.
"But I do not know Mr. Alwyn."
"I thought you did; you recommended him highly."
"I knew of him slightly in the South and I have watched his career
here."
"It would be too bad to have that career spoiled now."
"But is it necessary? Suppose he should defend the Education Bill."
"And criticise the party?" asked Miss Wynn. "It would take strong
influence to pull him through."
"And if that strong influence were found?" said Mrs. Vanderpool
thoughtfully.
"It would surely involve some other important concession to the South."
Mrs. Vanderpool looked up, and an interjection hovered on her lips. Was
it possible that the price of Alwyn's manhood would be her husband's
appointment to Paris? And if it were?
"I'll do what I can," she said graciously; "but I am afraid that will
not be much."
Miss Wynn hesitated. She had not succeeded even in guessing the source
of Mrs. Vanderpool's interest in Alwyn, and without that her appeal was
but blind groping. She stopped on her way to the door to admire a bronze
statuette and find time to think.
"You are interested in bronzes?" asked Mrs. Vanderpool.
"Oh, no; I'm far too poor. But I've dabbled a bit in sculpture."
"Indeed?" Mrs. Vanderpool revealed a mild interest, and Miss Wynn was
compelled to depart with little enlightenment.
On the way up town she concluded that there was but one chance of
success: she must write Alwyn's speech. With characteristic decision she
began her plans at once.
"What will you say in your speech?" she asked him that night as he rose
to go.
He looked at her and she wavered slightly under his black eyes. The
fight was becoming a little too desperate even for her steady nerves.
"You would not like me to act dishonestly, would you?" he asked.
"No," she involuntarily replied, regretting the word the moment she had
uttered it. He gave her one of his rare sweet smiles, and, rising,
before she realized his intent, he had kissed her hands and was gone.
She asked herself why she had been so foolish; and yet, somehow, sitting
there alone in the firelight, she felt glad for once that she had risen
above intrigue. Then she sighed and smiled, and began to plot anew.
Teerswell dropped in later and brought his friend, Stillings. They found
their hostess gay and entertaining.
Miss Wynn gathered books about her, and in the days of April and May she
and Alwyn read up on education. He marvelled at the subtlety of her
mind, and she at the relentlessness of his. They were very near each
other during these days, and yet there was ever something between them:
a vision to him of dark and pleading eyes that he constantly saw beside
her cool, keen glance. And he to her was always two men: one man above
men, whom she could respect but would not marry, and one man like all
men, whom she would marry but could not respect. His devotion to an
ideal which she thought so utterly unpractical, aroused keen curiosity
and admiration. She was sure he would fail in the end, and she wanted
him to fail; and somehow, somewhere back beyond herself, her better self
longed to find herself defeated; to see this mind stand firm on
principle, under circumstances where she believed men never stood. Deep
within her she discovered at times a passionate longing to believe in
somebody; yet she found herself bending every energy to pull this man
down to the level of time-servers, and even as she failed, feeling
something like contempt for his stubbornness.
The great day came. He had her notes, her suggestions, her hints, but
she had no intimation of what he would finally say.
"Will you come to hear me?" he asked.
"No," she murmured.
"That is best," he said, and then he added slowly, "I would not like you
ever to despise me."