because she was consumed with the idea that she must claim her country
now or lose it forever, she got up and started for the picture. It was
a long, long way to go, and dreadful things were in between--people who
would bump against her, hot, uneven streets, horses that might run over
her--but she must make the journey. She must make it because the things
that she lived on were slipping from her--and she was choking--sinking
down--and all alone.
Step by step, never knowing just how her foot was going to make the next
step, sick with the fear that people were going to run into her--the
streets going up and down, the buildings round and round, she did
go; holding to the window casings for the last few steps--each step
a terrible chasm which she was never sure she was going to be able to
cross--she was there at last. And in the window as she stood there,
swayingly, was a dark, blurred thing which might have been anything at
all. She tried to remember why she had come. What _was_ it--? And then
she was sinking down into an abyss.
That the hemorrhage came then, that the old man came out and found her
and tenderly took her in, that he had her taken where she should have
been taken long before, that the doctors said it was too late, and that
soon their verdict was confirmed--those are the facts which would seem
to tell the rest of the story. But deep down beneath facts rests truth,
and the truth is that this is a story with the happiest kind of a happy
ending. What facts would call the breeze from an electric fan was in
truth the gracious breath of the pines. And when the nurse said “She's
going,” she was indeed going, but to a land of great spaces and benign
breezes, a land of deep shadows and rushing waters. For a most wondrous
thing had happened. She had called to the mountain, and the mountain had
heard her voice; and because it was so mighty and so everlasting it drew
her to itself, across high brick walls and past millions of hurrying,
noisy people--oh, a most triumphant flight! And the mountain said--“I
give you this whole great land. It is yours because you have loved it so
well. Hills and valleys and rivers and forests and lakes--it is all for
you.” Yes, the nurse was quite right; she was going: going for a long
sweet sleep beneath trees of many shadows, beside clear waters which had
come from distant snows--really going “Out There.”
X
THE PREPOSTEROUS MOTIVE
The Governor was sitting alone in his private office with an open letter
in his hand. He was devoutly and gloomily wishing that some other man
was just then in his shoes. The Governor had not devoted a large portion
of his life to nursing a desire of that nature, for he was a man in
whose soul the flame of self-satisfaction glowed cheeringly; but just
now there were reasons, and he deemed them ample, for deploring that he
had been made chief executive of his native State.
Had he chosen to take you into his confidence--a thing the Governor
would assuredly choose not to do--he would have told you there were
greater things in the world than the governorship of that State. He
might have suggested a seat in the Senate of the United States as one
of those things. It was of the United States Senate his Excellency
was thinking as he sat there alone moodily deploring the gubernatorial
shoes.
The senior Senator was going to die. He differed therein from his
fellows in that he was going to die soon, almost immediately. He had
reached the tottering years even at the time of his reelection, and it
had never been supposed that his life would outstretch his term. He had
been sent back, not for another six years of service, but to hold out
the leader of the Boxers, as they called themselves--the younger and
unorthodox element of the party in the State, an element growing to
dangerous proportions. It was only by returning the aged Senator, whom
they held it would be brutal to turn down after a life of service to
the party, that the “machine” won the memorable fight of the previous
winter.
From the viewpoint of the machine, the Governor was the senior Senator's
logical successor. Had it not been for the heavy inroads of the Boxers,
his Excellency would even then have been sitting in the Senate Chamber
at Washington. It had not been considered safe to nominate the Governor.
Had his supporters conceded that the time was at hand for a change,
there would have been a general clamour for the leader of the
Boxers--Huntington, undeniably the popular man of the State. And so
they concocted a beautiful sentiment about “rounding out the veteran's
career,” and letting him “die with his boots on”; and through the
omnipotence of sentiment, they won.
Down in his heart the venerable Senator was not seeking to die with his
boots on. He would have preferred sitting in a large chair before the
fire and reading quietly of what other men were doing in the Senate of
the United States. But they told him he must sacrifice that wish, for
if he retired he would be succeeded by a dangerous man. And the old man,
believing them, had gone dutifully back into the arena.
Now it seemed that a power outside man's control was declaring against
the well-laid plans of the machine. As the machine saw things, the time
was not ripe for the senior Senator to die. He had just entered upon his
new term, and the Governor himself had but lately stepped into a second
term. They had assumed that the Senator would live on for at least two
years, but now they heard that he was likely to die almost at once.
His Excellency could not very well name himself for the vacancy, and it
seemed dangerous just then to risk a call of the Assembly. They dared
not let the Governor appoint a weaker man, even if he would consent
to do so, for they would need the best they had to put up against the
leader of the Boxers. With the Governor, they believed they could win,
but the question of appointing him had suddenly become a knotty one.
The Governor himself was bowed with chagrin. He saw now that he had
erred in taking a second term, and he was not the man to enjoy reviewing
his mistakes. As he sat there reading and rereading the letter which
told him that the work of the senior Senator was almost done, he said to
himself that it was easy enough to wrestle with men, but a harder thing
to try one's mettle with fate. He spent a gloomy and unprofitable day.
Late in the afternoon a telegram reached the executive office. Styles
was coming to town that night, and wanted to see the Governor at the
hotel. Things always cleared when Styles came to town; and so, though
still unable to foresee the outcome, he brightened at once.
Styles was a railroad man, and rich. People to whom certain things were
a sealed book said that it was nice of Mr. Styles to take an interest in
politics when he had so many other things on his mind, and that he must
be a very public-spirited man. That he took an interest in politics,
no one familiar with the affairs of the State would deny. The orthodox
papers painted him as a public benefactor, but the Boxers arrayed him
with hoofs and horns.
The Governor and Mr. Styles were warm friends. It was said that their
friendship dated from mere boyhood, and that the way the two men had
held together through all the vicissitudes of life was touching and
beautiful--at least, so some people observed. There were others whose
eyebrows went up when the Governor and Mr. Styles were mentioned in
their Damon and Pythias capacity.
That night, in the public benefactor's room at the hotel, the Governor
and his old friend had a long talk. When twelve o'clock came they were
still talking; more than that, the Governor was excitedly pacing the
floor.
“I tell you, Styles,” he expostulated, “I don't like it! It doesn't put
me in a good light. It's too apparent, and I'll suffer for it, sure as
fate. Mark my words, we'll all suffer for it!”
Mr. Styles was sitting in an easy attitude before the table. The public
benefactor never paced the floor; it did not seem necessary. He smoked
in silence for a minute; then raised himself a little in his chair.
“Well, have you anything better to offer?”
“No, I haven't,” replied the Governor, tartly; “but it seems to me you
ought to have.”
Styles sank back in his chair and for several minutes more devoted
himself to the art of smoking. There were times when this philanthropic
dabbler in politics was irritating.
“I think,” he began presently, “that you exaggerate the unpleasant
features of the situation. It will cause talk, of course; but isn't it
worth it? You say it's unheard of; maybe, but so is the situation, and
wasn't there something in the copy-books about meeting new situations
with new methods? If you have anything better to offer, produce it; if
not, we've got to go ahead with this. And really, I don't see that it's
so bad. You have to go South to look after your cotton plantation; you
find now that it's going to take more time than you feel you should
take from the State; you can't afford to give it up; consequently, you
withdraw in favor of the Lieutenant-Governor. We all protest, but you
say Berriman is a good man, and the State won't suffer, and you simply
can't afford to go on. Well, we can keep the Senator's condition pretty
quiet here; and after all, he's sturdy, and may live on to the close
of the year. After due deliberation Berriman appoints you. A little
talk?--Yes. But it's worth a little talk. It seems to me the thing works
out very smoothly.”
When Tom Styles leaned back in his chair and declared a thing worked
out very smoothly, that thing was quite likely to go. In three days the
Governor went South. When he returned, the newspaper men were startled
by the announcement that business considerations which he could not
afford to overlook demanded his withdrawal from office. Previous to this
time the Lieutenant-Governor and Mr. Styles had met and the result of
their meeting was not made a matter of public record.
As the Governor had anticipated, many things were said. Inquiries were
made into the venerable Senator's condition--which, the orthodox
papers declared, was but another example of the indecency of the
Boxer journals. The Governor went to his cotton plantation. The
Lieutenant-Governor went into office, and was pronounced a worthy
successor to a good executive. The venerable Senator continued to live.
As Mr. Styles had predicted, the gossip soon quieted into a friendly
hope that the Governor would realise large sums with his cotton.
It was late in the fall when the senior Senator finally succumbed. The
day the papers printed the story of his death, they printed speculative
editorials on his probable successor. When the bereaved family commented
with bitterness on this ill-concealed haste, they were told that it was
politics--enterprise--life.
The old man's remains lay in state in the rotunda of the State Capitol,
and the building was draped in mourning. Many came and looked upon the
quiet face; but far more numerous than those who gathered at his bier
to weep were those who assembled in secluded corners to speculate on the
wearing of his toga. It was politics--enterprise--life.
Mr. Styles told the Lieutenant-Governor to be deliberate. There was no
need of an immediate appointment, he said. And so for a time things went
on about the State-house much as usual, save that the absorbing topic
was the senatorial situation, and that every one was watching the new
chief executive. The retired Governor now spent part of his time in the
South, and part at home. The cotton plantation was not demanding all his
attention, after all.
It could not be claimed that John Berriman had ever done any great
thing. He was not on record as having ever risen grandly to an occasion;
but there may have been something in the fact that an occasion
admitting of a grand rising had never presented itself. Before he became
Lieutenant-Governor, he had served inoffensively in the State Senate for
two terms. No one had ever worked very hard for Senator Berriman's vote.
He had been put in by the machine, and it had always been assumed that
he was machine property.
Berriman himself had never given the matter of his place in the human
drama much thought. He had an idea that it was proper for him to vote
with his friends, and he always did it. Had he been called a tool, he
would have been much ruffled; he merely trusted to the infallibility of
the party.
The Boxers did not approach him now concerning the appointment of
Huntington. That, of course, was a fixed matter, and they were not young
and foolish enough to attempt to change it.
One day the Governor received a telegram from Styles suggesting that
he “adjust that matter” immediately. He thought of announcing the
appointment that very night, but the newspaper men had all left the
building, and as he had promised that they should know of it as soon as
it was made, he concluded to wait until the next morning.
Governor Berriman had a brother in town that week, attending a meeting
of the State Agricultural Society. Hiram Berriman had a large farm in
the southern part of the State. He knew but little of political methods,
and had primitive ideas about honesty. There had always been a strong
tie between the brothers, despite the fact that Hiram was fifteen years
the Governor's senior. They talked of many things that night, and the
hour was growing late. They were about to retire when the Governor
remarked, a little sleepily:
“Well, to-morrow morning I announce the senatorial appointment.”
“You do, eh?” returned the farmer.
“Yes, there's no need of waiting any longer, and it's getting on to the
time the State wants two senators in Washington.”
“Well, I suppose, John,” Hiram said, turning a serious face to his
brother, “that you've thought the matter all over, and are sure you are
right?”
The Governor threw back his head with a scoffing laugh.
“I guess it didn't require much thought on my part,” he answered
carelessly.
“I don't see how you figure that out,” contended Hiram warmly. “You're
Governor of the State, and your own boss, ain't you?”
It was the first time in all his life that anyone had squarely
confronted John Berriman with the question whether or not he was his own
boss, and for some reason it went deep into his soul, and rankled there.
“Now see here, Hiram,” he said at length, “there's no use of your
putting on airs and pretending you don't understand this thing. You know
well enough it was all fixed before I went in.” The other man looked at
him in bewilderment, and the Governor continued brusquely: “The party
knew the Senator was going to die, and so the Governor pulled out and I
went in just so the thing could be done decently when the time came.”
The old farmer was scratching his head.
“That's it, eh? They got wind the Senator was goin' to die, and so the
Governor told that lie about having to go South just so he could step
into the dead man's shoes, eh?”
“That's the situation--if you want to put it that way.”
“And now you're going to appoint the Governor?”
“Of course I am; I couldn't do anything else if I wanted to.”
“Why not?”
“Why, look here, Hiram, haven't you any idea of political obligation?
It's expected of me.”
“Oh, it is, eh? Did you promise to appoint the Governor?”
“Why, I don't know that I exactly made any promises, but that doesn't
make a particle of difference. The understanding was that the Governor
was to pull out and I was to go in and appoint him. It's a matter of
honour;” and Governor Berriman drew himself up with pride.
The farmer turned a troubled face to the fire.
“I suppose, then,” he said finally, “that you all think the Governor
is the best man we have for the United States Senate. I take it that in
appointing him, John, you feel sure he will guard the interests of the
people before everything else, and that the people--I mean the working
people of this State--will always be safe in his hands; do you?”
“Oh, Lord, no, Hiram!” exclaimed the Governor irritably. “I don't think
that at all!”
Hiram Berriman's brown face warmed to a dull red.
“You don't?” he cried. “You mean to sit there, John Berriman, and tell
me that you don't think the man you're going to put in the United States
Senate will be an honest man? What do you mean by saying you're going to
put a dishonest man in there to make laws for the people, to watch over
them and protect them? If you don't think he's a good man, if you don't
think he's the best man the State has”--the old farmer was pounding the
table heavily with his huge fist--“if you don't think that, in God's
name, _why do you appoint him_?”
“I wish I could make you understand, Hiram,” said the Governor in an
injured voice, “that it's not for me to say.”
“Why ain't it for you to say? Why ain't it, I want to know? Who's
running you, your own conscience or some gang of men that's trying to
steal from the State? Good God, I wish I had never lived to see the day
a brother of mine put a thief in the United States Senate to bamboozle
the honest, hard-working people of this State!”
“Hold on, please--that's a little too strong!” flamed the Governor.
“It ain't too strong. If a Senator ain't an honest man, he's a
thief; and if he ain't lookin' after the welfare of the people, he's
bamboozlin' them, and that's all there is about it. I don't know much
about politics, but I ain't lived my life without learning a little
about right and wrong, and it's a sorry day we've come to, John
Berriman, if right and wrong don't enter into the makin' of a Senator!”
The Governor could think of no fitting response, so he held his peace.
This seemed to quiet the irate farmer, and he surveyed his brother
intently, and not unkindly.
“You're in a position now, John,” he said, and there was a kind of
homely eloquence in his serious voice, “to be a friend to the people.
It ain't many of us ever get the chance of doin' a great thing. We work
along, and we do the best we can with what comes our way, but most of
us don't get the chance to do a thing that's goin' to help thousands
of people, and that the whole country's goin' to say was a move for the
right. You want to think of that, and when you're thinkin' so much about
honour, you don't want to clean forget about honesty. Don't you stick
to any foolish notions about bein' faithful to the party; it ain't the
party that needs helpin'. No matter how you got where you are, you're
Governor of the State right now, John, and your first duty is to the
people of this State, not to Tom Styles or anybody else. Just you
remember that when you're namin' your Senator in the morning.”
It was long before the Governor retired. He sat there by the fireplace
until after the fire had died down, and he was too absorbed to grow
cold. He thought of many things. Like the man who had preceded him in
office, he wished that some one else was just then encumbered with the
gubernatorial shoes.
The next morning there was a heavy feeling in his head which he thought
a walk in the bracing air might dispel, so he started on foot for the
Statehouse. A light snow was on the ground, and there was something
reassuring in the crispness of the morning. It would make a slave feel
like a free man to drink in such air, he was thinking. Snatches of
his brother's outburst of the night before kept breaking into his
consciousness but curiously enough they did not greatly disturb him. He
concluded that it was wonderful what a walk in the bracing air could do.
From the foot of the hill he looked up at the State-house, for the first
time in his experience seeing and thinking about it--not simply taking
it for granted. There seemed a nobility about it--in the building
itself, and back of that in what it stood for.
As he walked through the corridor to his office he was greeted with
cheerful, respectful salutations. His mood let him give the greetings a
value they did not have and from that rose a sense of having the trust
and goodwill of his fellows.
But upon reaching his desk he found another telegram from Styles. It
was imperatively worded and as he read it the briskness and satisfaction
went from his bearing. He walked to the window and stood there
looking down at the city, and, as it had been in looking ahead at
the State-house, he now looked out over the city really seeing and
understanding it, not merely taking it for granted. He found himself
wondering if many of the people in that city--in that State--looked to
their Governor with the old-fashioned trust his brother had shown. His
eyes dimmed; he was thinking of the satisfaction it would afford his
children, if--long after he had gone--they could tell how a great chance
had once come into their father's life, and how he had proved himself a
man.
“Will you sign these now, Governor?” asked a voice behind him.
It was his secretary, a man who knew the affairs of the State well, and
whom every one seemed to respect.
“Mr. Haines,” he said abruptly, “who do you think is the best man we
have for the United States Senate?”
The secretary stepped back, dumfounded; amazed that the question should
be put to him, startled at that strange way of putting it. Then he told
himself he must be discreet. Like many of the people at the State-house,
in his heart Haines was a Boxer.
“Why, I presume,” he ventured, “that the Governor is looked upon as the
logical candidate, isn't he?”
“I'm not talking about logical candidates. I want to know who you think
is the man who would most conscientiously and creditably represent this
State in the Senate of the United States.”
It was so simply spoken that the secretary found himself answering it as
simply. “If you put it that way, Governor, Mr. Huntington is the man, of
course.”
“You think most of the people feel that way?”
“I know they do.”
“You believe if it were a matter of popular vote, Huntington would be
the new Senator?”
“There can be no doubt of that, Governor. I think they all have to admit
that. Huntington is the man the people want.”
“That's all, Mr. Haines. I merely wondered what you thought about it.”
Soon after that Governor Berriman rang for a messenger boy and sent a
telegram. Then he settled quietly down to routine work. It was about
eleven when one of the newspaper men came in.
“Good-morning, Governor,” he said briskly “how's everything to-day?”
“All right, Mr. Markham. I have nothing to tell you to-day, except that
I've made the senatorial appointment.”
“Oh,” laughed the reporter excitedly, “that's all, is it?”
“Yes,” replied the Governor, smiling too; “that's all!”
The reporter looked at the clock. “I'll just catch the noon edition,” he
said, “if I telephone right away.”
He was moving to the other room when the Governor called to him.
“See here, it seems to me you're a strange newspaper man!”
“How so?”
“Why, I tell you I've made a senatorial appointment--a matter of some
slight importance--and you rush off never asking whom I've appointed.”
The reporter gave a forced laugh. He wished the Governor would not
detain him with a joke now when every second counted.
“That's right,” he said, with strained pleasantness. “Well, who's the
man?”
The Governor raised his head. “Huntington,” he said quietly, and resumed
his work.
“What?” gasped the reporter. “What?”
Then he stopped in embarrassment, as if ashamed of being so easily taken
in. “Guess you're trying to jolly me a little, aren't you, Governor?”
“Jolly you, Mr. Markham? I'm not given to 'jollying' newspaper
reporters. Here's a copy of the telegram I sent this morning, if you
are still sceptical. Really, I don't see why you think it so impossible.
Don't you consider Mr. Huntington a fit man for the place?”
But for the minute the reporter seemed unable to speak. “May I ask,” he
fumbled at last, “why you did it?”
“I had but one motive, Mr. Markham. I thought the matter over and it
seemed to me the people should have the man they wanted. I am with them
in believing Huntington the best man for the place.” He said it simply,
and went quietly back to his work.
For many a long day politicians and papers continued the search for “the
motive.” Styles and his crowd saw it as a simple matter of selling out;
they knew, of course, that it could be nothing else. After their first
rage had subsided, and they saw there was nothing they could do, they
wondered, sneeringly, why he did not “fix up a better story.” That was a
little _too_ simple-minded. Did he think people were fools? And even the
men who profited by the situation puzzled their brains for weeks trying
to understand it. There was something behind it, of course.
XI
HIS AMERICA
He hated to see the reporter go. With the closing of that door it seemed
certain that there was no putting it off any longer.
But even when the man's footsteps were at last sounding on the stairway,
he still clung to him.