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diff --git a/7368-0.txt b/7368-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..290d0e5 --- /dev/null +++ b/7368-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,6890 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Lifted Masks, by Susan Glaspell + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Lifted Masks + Stories + +Author: Susan Glaspell + + +Release Date: January, 2005 [EBook #7368] +This file was first posted on April 21, 2003 +Last Updated: March 15, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LIFTED MASKS *** + + + + +Produced by Suzanne L. Shell, Charles Franks and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team + + + + + + + + + +LIFTED MASKS + +STORIES + +By Susan Glaspell + +1912 + + +TO + +THE MEMORY OF MY FRIEND + +JENNIE PRESTON + + + +CONTENTS + + +I “ONE OF THOSE IMPOSSIBLE AMERICANS” + +II THE PLEA + +III FOR LOVE OF THE HILLS + +IV FRECKLES M'GRATH + +V FROM A TO Z + +VI THE MAN OF FLESH AND BLOOD + +VII HOW THE PRINCE SAW AMERICA + +VIII THE LAST SIXTY MINUTES + +IX “OUT THERE” + +X THE PREPOSTEROUS MOTIVE + +XI HIS AMERICA + +XII THE ANARCHIST: HIS DOG + +XIII AT TWILIGHT + + + + +LIFTED MASKS + + + + +I + +“ONE OF THOSE IMPOSSIBLE AMERICANS” + + +“N'avez-vous pas--” she was bravely demanding of the clerk when she saw +that the bulky American who was standing there helplessly dangling +two flaming red silk stockings which a copiously coiffured young woman +assured him were _bien chic_ was edging nearer her. She was never +so conscious of the truly American quality of her French as when +a countryman was at hand. The French themselves had an air of “How +marvellously you speak!” but fellow Americans listened superciliously +in an “I can do better than that myself” manner which quite untied +the Gallic twist in one's tongue. And so, feeling her French was being +compared, not with mere French itself, but with an arrogant new American +brand thereof, she moved a little around the corner of the counter and +began again in lower voice: + +“_Mais, n'avez_--” + +“Say, Young Lady,” a voice which adequately represented the figure broke +in, “_you_, aren't French, are you?” + +She looked up with what was designed for a haughty stare. But what is a +haughty stare to do in the face of a broad grin? And because it was such +a long time since a grin like that had been grinned at her it happened +that the stare gave way to a dimple, and the dimple to a laughing: “Is +it so bad as that?” + +“Oh, not your French,” he assured her. “You talk it just like the rest +of them. In fact, I should say, if anything--a little more so. But do +you know,”--confidentially--“I can just spot an American girl every +time!” + +“How?” she could not resist asking, and the modest black hose she +was thinking of purchasing dangled against his gorgeous red ones in +friendliest fashion. + +“Well, Sir--I don't know. I don't think it can be the +clothes,”--judicially surveying her. + +“The clothes,” murmured Virginia, “were bought in Paris.” + +“Well, you've got _me_. Maybe it's the way you wear 'em. Maybe +it's 'cause you look as if you used to play tag with your brother. +Something--anyhow--gives a fellow that 'By jove there's an American +girl!' feeling when he sees you coming round the corner.” + +“But why--?” + +“Lord--don't begin on _why_. You can say _why_ to anything. Why don't +the French talk English? Why didn't they lay Paris out at right angles? +Now look here, Young Lady, for that matter--_why_ can't you help me +buy some presents for my wife? There'd be nothing wrong about it,” he +hastened to assure her, “because my wife's a mighty fine woman.” + +The very small American looked at the very large one. Now Virginia was a +well brought up young woman. Her conversations with strange men had been +confined to such things as, “Will you please tell me the nearest way +to--?” but preposterously enough--she could not for the life of her +have told why--frowning upon this huge American--fat was the literal +word--who stood there with puckered-up face swinging the flaming hose +would seem in the same shameful class with snubbing the little boy who +confidently asked her what kind of ribbon to buy for his mother. + +“Was it for your wife you were thinking of buying these red stockings?” + she ventured. + +“Sure. What do you think of 'em? Look as if they came from Paris all +right, don't they?” + +“Oh, they look as though they came from Paris, all right,” Virginia +repeated, a bit grimly. “But do you know”--this quite as to that little +boy who might be buying the ribbon--“American women don't always +care for all the things that look as if they came from Paris. Is your +wife--does she care especially for red stockings?” + +“Don't believe she ever had a pair in her life. That's why I thought it +might please her.” + +Virginia looked down and away. There were times when dimples made things +hard for one. + +Then she said, with gentle gravity: “There are quite a number of women +in America who don't care much for red stockings. It would seem too bad, +wouldn't it, if after you got these clear home your wife should turn out +to be one of those people? Now, I think these grey stockings are lovely. +I'm sure any woman would love them. She could wear them with grey suede +slippers and they would be so soft and pretty.” + +“Um--not very lively looking, are they? You see I want something to +cheer her up. She--well she's not been very well lately and I thought +something--oh something with a lot of _dash_ in it, you know, would just +fill the bill. But look here. We'll take both. Sure--that's the way out +of it. If she don't like the red, she'll like the grey, and if she don't +like the--You like the grey ones, don't you? Then here”--picking up two +pairs of the handsomely embroidered grey stockings and handing them to +the clerk--“One,” holding up his thumb to denote one--“me,”--a vigorous +pounding of the chest signifying me. “One”--holding up his forefinger +and pointing to the girl--“mademoiselle.” + +“Oh no--no--no!” cried Virginia, her face instantly the colour of the +condemned stockings. Then, standing straight: “Certainly _not_.” + +“No? Just as you say,” he replied good humouredly. “Like to have you +have 'em. Seems as if strangers in a strange land oughtn't to stand on +ceremony.” + +The clerk was bending forward holding up the stockings alluringly. +“_Pour mademoiselle, n'est-ce-pas_?” + +“_Mais--non!_” pronounced Virginia, with emphasis. + +There followed an untranslatable gesture. “How droll!” shoulder and +outstretched hands were saying. “If the kind gentleman _wishes_ to give +mademoiselle the _joli bas_--!” + +His face had puckered up again. Then suddenly it unpuckered. “Tell you +what you might do,” he solved it. “Just take 'em along and send them to +your mother. Now your mother might be real glad to have 'em.” + +Virginia stared. And then an awful thing happened. What she was thinking +about was the letter she could send with the stockings. “Mother dear,” + she would write, “as I stood at the counter buying myself some stockings +to-day along came a nice man--a stranger to me, but very kind and +jolly--and gave me--” + +There it was that the awful thing happened. Her dimple was showing--and +at thought of its showing she could not keep it from showing! And how +could she explain why it was showing without its going on showing? And +how--? + +But at that moment her gaze fell upon the clerk, who had taken +the dimple as signal to begin putting the stockings in a box. The +Frenchwoman's eyebrows soon put that dimple in its proper place. “And +so the _petite Americaine_ was not too--oh, not _too_--” those French +eyebrows were saying. + +All in an instant Virginia was something quite different from a little +girl with a dimple. “You are very kind,” she was saying, and her mother +herself could have done it no better, “but I am sure our little joke had +gone quite far enough. I bid you good-morning”. And with that she +walked regally over to the glove counter, leaving red and grey and black +hosiery to their own destinies. + +“I loathe them when their eyebrows go up,” she fumed. “Now _his_ weren't +going up--not even in his mind.” + +She could not keep from worrying about him. “They'll just 'do' him,” she +was sure. “And then laugh at him in the bargain. A man like that has no +_business_ to be let loose in a store all by himself.” + +And sure enough, a half hour later she came upon him up in the dress +department. Three of them had gathered round to “do” him. They were +making rapid headway, their smiling deference scantily concealing their +amused contempt. The spectacle infuriated Virginia. “They just think +they can _work_ us!” she stormed. “They think we're _easy_. I suppose +they think he's a _fool_. I just wish they could get him in a business +deal! I just wish--!” + +“I can assure you, sir,” the English-speaking manager of the department +was saying, “that this garment is a wonderful value. We are able to let +you have it at so absurdly low a figure because--” + +Virginia did not catch why it was they were able to let him have it at +so absurdly low a figure, but she did see him wipe his brow and look +helplessly around. “Poor _thing_,” she murmured, almost tenderly, “he +doesn't know what to do. He just _does_ need somebody to look after +him.” She stood there looking at his back. He had a back a good deal +like the back of her chum's father at home. Indeed there were various +things about him suggested “home.” Did one want one's own jeered at? One +might see crudities one's self, but was one going to have supercilious +outsiders coughing those sham coughs behind their hypocritical hands? + +“For seven hundred francs,” she heard the suave voice saying. + +_Seven hundred francs_! Virginia's national pride, or, more accurately, +her national rage, was lashed into action. It was with very red +cheeks that the small American stepped stormily to the rescue of her +countryman. + +“Seven hundred francs for _that_?” she jeered, right in the face of the +enraged manager and stiffening clerks. “Seven hundred francs--indeed! +Last year's model--a hideous colour, and “--picking it up, running it +through her fingers and tossing it contemptuously aside--“abominable +stuff!” + +“Gee, but I'm grateful to you!” he breathed, again wiping his brow. “You +know, I was a little leery of it myself.” + +The manager, quivering with rage and glaring uglily, stepped up to +Virginia. “May I ask--?” + +But the fat man stepped in between--he was well qualified for +that position. “Cut it out, partner. The young lady's a friend of +_mine_--see? She's looking out for me--not you. I don't want your stuff, +anyway.” And taking Virginia serenely by the arm he walked away. + +“This was no place to buy dresses,” said she crossly. + +“Well, I wish I knew where the places _were_ to buy things,” he replied, +humbly, forlornly. + +“Well, what do you want to buy?” demanded she, still crossly. + +“Why, I want to buy some nice things for my wife. Something the real +thing from Paris, you know. I came over from London on purpose. But +Lord,”--again wiping his brow--“a fellow doesn't know where to _go_.” + +“Oh well,” sighed Virginia, long-sufferingly, “I see I'll just have to +take you. There doesn't seem any way out of it. It's evident you can't +go _alone_. _Seven hundred francs_!” + +“I suppose it was too much,” he conceded meekly. “I tell you I _will_ +be grateful if you'll just stay by me a little while. I never felt so up +against it in all my life.” + +“Now, a very nice thing to take one's wife from Paris,” began Virginia +didactically, when they reached the sidewalk, “is lace.” + +“L--ace? Um! Y--es, I suppose lace is all right. Still it never struck +me there was anything so very _lively_ looking about lace.” + +“'Lively looking' is not the final word in wearing apparel,” pronounced +Virginia in teacher-to-pupil manner. “Lace is always in good taste, +never goes out of style, and all women care for it. I will take you to +one of the lace shops.” + +“Very well,” acquiesced he, truly chastened. “Here, let's get in this +cab.” + +Virginia rode across the Seine looking like one pondering the destinies +of nations. Her companion turned several times to address her, but it +would have been as easy for a soldier to slap a general on the back. +Finally she turned to him. + +“Now when we get there,” she instructed, “don't seem at all interested +in things. Act--oh, bored, you know, and seeming to want to get me away. +And when they tell the price, no matter what they say, just--well +sort of groan and hold your head and act as though you are absolutely +overcome at the thought of such an outrage.” + +“U--m. You have to do that here to get--lace?” + +“You have to do that here to get _anything_---at the price you should +get it. You, and people who go shopping the way you do, bring discredit +upon the entire American nation.” + +“That so? Sorry. Never meant to do that. All right, Young Lady, I'll do +the best I can. Never did act that way, but suppose I can, if the rest +of them do.” + +“Groan and hold my head,” she heard him murmuring as they entered the +shop. + +He proved an apt pupil. It may indeed be set down that his aptitude was +their undoing. They had no sooner entered the shop than he pulled out +his watch and uttered an exclamation of horror at the sight of the time. +Virginia could scarcely look at the lace, so insistently did he keep +waving the watch before her. His contempt for everything shown was open +and emphatic. It was also articulate. Virginia grew nervous, seeing the +real red showing through in the Frenchwoman's cheeks. And when the price +was at last named--a price which made Virginia jubilant--there burst +upon her outraged ears something between a jeer and a howl of rage, the +whole of it terrifyingly done in the form of a groan; she looked at +her companion to see him holding up his hands and wobbling his head as +though it had been suddenly loosened from his spine, cast one look at +the Frenchwoman--then fled, followed by her groaning compatriot. + +“I didn't mean you to act like _that_!” she stormed. + +“Why, I did just what you told me to! Seemed to me I was following +directions to the letter. Don't think for a minute _I'm_ going to bring +discredit on the American nation! Not a bad scheme--taking out my watch +that way, was it?” + +“Oh, beautiful _scheme_. I presume you notice, however, that we have no +lace.” + +They walked half a block in silence. “Now I'll take you to another +shop,” she then volunteered, in a turning the other cheek fashion, “and +here please do nothing at all. Please just--sit.” + +“Sort of as if I was feeble-minded, eh?” + +“Oh, don't _try_ to look feeble-minded,” she begged, alarmed at seeming +to suggest any more parts; “just sit there--as if you were thinking of +something very far away.” + +“Say, Young Lady, look here; this is very nice, being put on to the +tricks of the trade, but the money end of it isn't cutting much ice, +and isn't there any way you can just _buy_ things--the way you do in +Cincinnati? Can't you get their stuff without making a comic opera out +of it?” + +“No, you can't,” spoke relentless Virginia; “not unless you want them to +laugh and say 'Aren't Americans fools?' the minute the door is shut.” + +“Fools--eh? I'll show them a thing or two!” + +“Oh, please show them nothing here! Please just--sit.” + +While employing her wiles to get for three hundred and fifty francs +a yoke and scarf aggregating four hundred, she chanced to look at her +American friend. Then she walked rapidly to the rear of the shop, +buried her face in her handkerchief, and seemed making heroic efforts +to sneeze. Once more he was following directions to the letter. Chin +resting on hands, hands resting on stick, the huge American had taken +on the beatific expression of a seventeen-year-old girl thinking of +something “very far away.” Virginia was long in mastering the sneeze. + +On the sidewalk she presented him with the package of lace and also with +what she regarded the proper thing in the way of farewell speech. She +supposed it _was_ hard for a man to go shopping alone; she could see how +hard it would be for her own father; indeed it was seeing how difficult +it would be for her father had impelled her to go with him, a stranger. +She trusted his wife would like the lace; she thought it very nice, and +a bargain. She was glad to have been of service to a fellow countryman +who seemed in so difficult a position. + +But he did not look as impressed as one to whom a farewell speech was +being made should look. In fact, he did not seem to be hearing it. Once +more, and in earnest this time, he appeared to be thinking of something +very far away. Then all at once he came back, and it was in anything but +a far-away voice he began, briskly: “Now look here, Young Lady, I don't +doubt but this lace is great stuff. You say so, and I haven't seen man, +woman or child on this side of the Atlantic knows as much as you do. +I'm mighty grateful for the lace--don't you forget that, but just the +same--well, now I'll tell you. I have a very special reason for wanting +something a little livelier than lace. Something that seems to have +Paris written on it in red letters--see? Now, where do you get the +kind of hats you see some folks wearing, and where do you get the +dresses--well, it's hard to describe 'em, but the kind they have in +pictures marked 'Breezes from Paris'? You see--_S-ay!_--_what_ do you +think of _that?_” + +“That” was in a window across the street. It was an opera cloak. He +walked toward it, Virginia following. “Now _there_,” he turned to her, +his large round face all aglow, “is what I want.” + +It was yellow; it was long; it was billowy; it was insistently and +recklessly regal. + +“That's the ticket!” he gloated. + +“Of course,” began Virginia, “I don't know anything about it. I am in a +very strange position, not knowing what your wife likes or--or has. This +is the kind of thing everything has to go _with_ or one wouldn't--one +couldn't--” + +“Sure! Good idea. We'll just get everything to go with it.” + +“It's the sort of thing one doesn't see worn much outside of Paris--or +New York. If one is--now my mother wouldn't care for that coat at all.” + Virginia took no little pride in that tactful finish. + +“Can't sidetrack me!” he beamed. “I _want_ it. Very thing I'm after, +Young Lady.” + +“Well, of course you will have no difficulty in buying the coat without +me,” said she, as a dignified version of “I wash my hands of you.” “You +can do here as you said you wished to do, simply go in and pay what they +ask. There would be no use trying to get it cheap. They would know that +anyone who wanted it would”--she wanted to say “have more money than +they knew what to do with,” but contented herself with, “be able to pay +for it.” + +But when she had finished she looked at him; at first she thought she +wanted to laugh, and then it seemed that wasn't what she wanted to +do after all. It was like saying to a small boy who was one beam over +finding a tin horn: “Oh well, take the horn if you want to, but you +can't haul your little red waggon while you're blowing the horn.” There +seemed something peculiarly inhuman about taking the waggon just when he +had found the horn. Now if the waggon were broken, then to take away +the horn would leave the luxury of grief. But let not shadows fall upon +joyful moments. + +With the full ardour of her femininity she entered into the purchasing +of the yellow opera cloak. They paid for that decorative garment the sum +of two thousand five hundred francs. It seemed it was embroidered, and +the lining was--anyway, they paid it. + +And they took it with them. He was going to “take no chances on losing +it.” He was leaving Paris that night and held that during his stay +he had been none too impressed with either Parisian speed or Parisian +veracity. + +Then they bought some “Breezes from Paris,” a dress that would “go with” + the coat. It was violet velvet, and contributed to the sense of doing +one's uttermost; and hats--“the kind you see some folks wearing.” One +was the rainbow done into flowers, and the other the kind of black hat +to outdo any rainbow. “If you could just give me some idea what type +your wife is,” Virginia was saying, from beneath the willow plumes. “Now +you see this hat quite overpowers me. Do you think it will overpower +her?” + +“Guess not. Anyway, if it don't look right on her head she may enjoy +having it around to look at.” + +Virginia stared out at him. The _oddest_ man! As if a hat were any good +at all if it didn't look right on one's head! + +Upon investigation--though yielding to his taste she was still vigilant +as to his interests--Virginia discovered a flaw in one of the plumes. +The sylph in the trailing gown held volubly that it did not _fait rien_; +the man with the open purse said he couldn't see that it figured much, +but the small American held firm. That must be replaced by a perfect +plume or they would not take the hat. And when she saw who was in +command the sylph as volubly acquiesced that _naturellement_ it must be +_tout a fait_ perfect. She would send out and get one that would be oh! +so, so, _so_ perfect. It would take half an hour. + +“Tell you what we'll do,” Virginia's friend proposed, opera cloak +tight under one arm, velvet gown as tight under the other, “I'm +tired--hungry--thirsty; feel like a ham sandwich--and something. I'm +playing you out, too. Let's go out and get a bite and come back for the +so, so, _so_ perfect hat.” + +She hesitated. But he had the door open, and if he stood holding it that +way much longer he was bound to drop the violet velvet gown. She did not +want him to drop the velvet gown and furthermore, she _would_ like a cup +of tea. There came into her mind a fortifying thought about the relative +deaths of sheep and lambs. If to be killed for the sheep were indeed no +worse than being killed for the lamb, and if a cup of tea went with the +sheep and nothing at all with the lamb--? + +So she agreed. “There's a nice little tea-shop right round the corner. +We girls often go there.” + +“Tea? Like tea? All right, then”--and he started manfully on. + +But as she entered the tea-shop she was filled with keen sense of +the desirableness of being slain for the lesser animal. For, cosily +installed in their favourite corner, were “the girls.” + +Virginia had explained to these friends some three hours before that she +could not go with them that afternoon as she must attend a musicale some +friends of her mother's were giving. Being friends of her mother's, she +expatiated, she would have to go. + +Recollecting this, also for the first time remembering the musicale, she +bowed with the _hauteur_ of self-consciousness. + +Right there her friend contributed to the tragedy of a sheep's death by +dropping the yellow opera cloak. While he was stooping to pick it up the +violet velvet gown slid backward and Virginia had to steady it until +he could regain position. The staring in the corner gave way to +tittering--and no dying sheep had ever held its head more haughtily. + +The death of this particular sheep proved long and painful. The legs +of Virginia's friend and the legs of the tea-table did not seem well +adapted to each other. He towered like a human mountain over the dainty +thing, twisting now this way and now that. It seemed Providence--or +at least so much of it as was represented by the management of that +shop--had never meant fat people to drink tea. The table was rendered +further out of proportion by having a large box piled on either side of +it. + +Expansively, and not softly, he discoursed of these things. What did +they think a fellow was to do with his _knees_? Didn't they sell tea +enough to afford any decent chairs? Did all these women pretend to +really _like_ tea? + +Virginia's sense of humour rallied somewhat as she viewed him eating +the sandwiches. Once she had called them doll-baby sandwiches; now that +seemed literal: tea-cups, _petit gateau_, the whole service gave the +fancy of his sitting down to a tea-party given by a little girl for her +dollies. + +But after a time he fell silent, looking around the room. And when he +broke that pause his voice was different. + +“These women here, all dressed so fine, nothing to do but sit around and +eat this folderol, _they_ have it easy--don't they?” + +The bitterness in it, and a faint note of wistfulness, puzzled her. +Certainly _he_ had money. + +“And the husbands of these women,” he went on; “lots of 'em, I suppose, +didn't always have so much. Maybe some of these women helped out in the +early days when things weren't so easy. Wonder if the men ever think how +lucky they are to be able to get it back at 'em?” + +She grew more bewildered. Wasn't he “getting it back?” The money he had +been spending that day! + +“Young Lady,” he said abruptly, “you must think I'm a queer one.” + +She murmured feeble protest. + +“Yes, you must. Must wonder what I want with all this stuff, don't you?” + +“Why, it's for your wife, isn't it?” she asked, startled. + +“Oh yes, but you must wonder. You're a shrewd one, Young Lady; judging +the thing by me, you must wonder.” + +Virginia was glad she was not compelled to state her theory. Loud and +common and impossible were terms which had presented themselves, terms +which she had fought with kind and good-natured and generous. Their +purchases she had decided were to be used, not for a knock, but as a +crashing pound at the door of the society of his town. For her part, +Virginia hoped the door would come down. + +“And if you knew that probably this stuff would never be worn at all, +that ten to one it would never do anything more than lie round on +chairs--then you _would_ think I was queer, wouldn't you?” + +She was forced to admit that that would seem rather strange. + +“Young Lady, I believe I'll tell you about it. Never do talk about it +to hardly anybody, but I feel as if you and I were pretty well +acquainted--we've been through so much together.” + +She smiled at him warmly; there was something so real about him when he +talked that way. + +But his look then frightened her. It seemed for an instant as though he +would brush the tiny table aside and seize some invisible thing by the +throat. Then he said, cutting off each word short: “Young Lady, what +do you think of this? I'm worth more 'an a million dollars--and my wife +gets up at five o'clock every morning to do washing and scrubbing.” + +“Oh, it's not that she _has_ to,” he answered her look, “but she +_thinks_ she has to. See? Once we were poor. For twenty years we were +poor as dirt. Then she did have to do things like that. Then I struck +it. Or rather, it struck me. Oil. Oil on a bit of land I had. I had just +sense enough to make the most of it; one thing led to another--well, +you're not interested in that end of it. But the fact is that now we're +rich. Now she could have all the things that these women have--Lord +A'mighty she could lay abed every day till noon if she wanted to! +But--you see?--it _got_ her--those hard, lonely, grinding years _took_ +her. She's”--he shrunk from the terrible word and faltered out--“her +mind's not--” + +There was a sobbing little flutter in Virginia's throat. In a dim way +she was glad to see that the girls were going. She _could_ not have them +laughing at him--now. + +“Well, you can about figure out how it makes me feel,” he continued, +and looking into his face now it was as though the spirit redeemed the +flesh. “You're smart. You can see it without my callin' your attention +to it. Last time I went to see her I had just made fifty thousand on a +deal. And I found her down on her knees thinking she was scrubbing the +floor!” + +Unconsciously Virginia's hand went out, following the rush of sympathy +and understanding. “But can't they--restrain her?” she murmured. + +“Makes her worse. Says she's got it to do--frets her to think she's not +getting it done.” + +“But isn't there some _way_?” she whispered. “Some way to make her +_know_?” + +He pointed to the large boxes. “That,” he said simply, “is the meaning +of those. It's been seven years--but I keep on trying.” + +She was silent, the tears too close for words. And she had thought it +cheap ambition!--vulgar aspiration--silly show--vanity! + +“Suppose you thought I was a queer one, talking about lively looking +things. But you see now? Thought it might attract her attention, thought +something real gorgeous like this might impress money on her. Though I +don't know,”--he seemed to grow weary as he told it; “I got her a lot of +diamonds, thinking they might interest her, and she thought she'd stolen +'em, and they had to take them away.” + +Still the girl did not speak. Her hand was shading her eyes. + +“But there's nothing like trying. Nothing like keeping right on trying. +And anyhow--a fellow likes to think he's taking his wife something from +Paris.” + +They passed before her in their heartbreaking folly, their tragic +uselessness, their lovable absurdity and stinging irony--those +things they had bought that afternoon: an _opera cloak_--a _velvet +dress_--_those hats_--_red silk stockings_. + +The mockery of them wrung her heart. Right there in the tea-shop +Virginia was softly crying. + +“Oh, now that's too bad,” he expostulated clumsily. “Why, look here, +Young Lady, I didn't mean you to take it so hard.” + +When she had recovered herself he told her much of the story. And the +thing which revealed him--glorified him--was less the grief he gave +to it than the way he saw it. “It's the cursed unfairness of it,” + he concluded. “When you consider it's all because she did those +things--when you think of her bein' bound to 'em for life just because +she was _too faithful doin' 'em_--when you think that now--when I could +give her everything these women have got!--she's got to go right on +worrying about baking the bread and washing the dishes--did it for me +when I was poor--and now with me rich she can't get _out_ of it--and +I _can't reach_ her--oh, it's _rotten!_ I tell you it's _rotten!_ +Sometimes I can just hear my money _laugh_ at me! Sometimes I get to +going round and round in a circle about it till it seems I'm going crazy +myself.” + +“I think you are a--a noble man,” choked Virginia. + +That disconcerted him. “Oh Lord--don't think that. No, Young Lady, don't +try to make any plaster saint out of _me_. My life goes on. I've got to +eat, drink and be merry. I'm built that way. But just the same my heart +on the inside's pretty sore, Young Lady. I want to tell you that the +whole inside of my heart is _sore as a boil_!” + +They were returning for the hats. Suddenly Virginia stopped, and it +was a soft-eyed and gentle Virginia who turned to him after the pause. +“There are lovely things to be bought in Paris for women who aren't +well. Such soft, lovely things to wear in your room. Not but what I +think these other things are all right. As you say, they may--interest +her. But they aren't things she can use just now, and wouldn't you like +her to have some of those soft lovely things she could actually wear? +They might help most of all. To wake in the morning and find herself in +something so beautiful--” + +“Where do you get 'em?” he demanded promptly. + +And so they went to one of those shops which have, more than all the +others, enshrined Paris in feminine hearts. And never was lingerie +selected with more loving care than that which Virginia picked out that +afternoon. A tear fell on one particularly lovely _robe de nuit_--so +soothingly soft, so caressingly luxurious, it seemed that surely it +might help bring release from the bondage of those crushing years. + +As they were leaving they were given two packages. “Just the kimona +thing you liked,” he said, “and a trinket or two. Now that we're such +good friends, you won't feel like you did this morning.” + +“And if I don't want them myself, I might send them to my mother,” + Virginia replied, a quiver in her laugh at her own little joke. + +He had put her in her cab; he had tried to tell her how much he thanked +her; they had said good-bye and the _cocher_ had cracked his whip when +he came running after her. “Why, Young Lady,” he called out, “we don't +know each other's _names_.” + +She laughed and gave hers. “Mine's William P. Johnson,” he said. “Part +French and part Italian. But now look here, Young Lady--or I mean, Miss +Clayton. A fellow at the hotel was telling me something last night that +made me _sick_. He said American girls sometimes got awfully up against +it here. He said one actually starved last year. Now, I don't like that +kind of business. Look here, Young Lady, I want you to promise that if +you--you or any of your gang--get up against it you'll cable William P. +Johnson, of Cincinnati, Ohio.” + +The twilight grey had stolen upon Paris. And there was a mist which the +street lights only penetrated a little way--as sometimes one's knowledge +of life may only penetrate life a very little way. Her cab stopped by a +blockade, she watched the burly back of William P. Johnson disappearing +into the mist. The red box which held the yellow opera cloak she could +see longer than all else. + +“You never can tell,” murmured Virginia. “It just goes to show that you +never can tell.” + +And whatever it was you never could tell had brought to Virginia's +girlish face the tender knowingness of the face of a woman. + + + + +II + +THE PLEA + + +Senator Harrison concluded his argument and sat down. There was no +applause, but he had expected none. Senator Dorman was already saying +“Mr. President?” and there was a stir in the crowded galleries, and an +anticipatory moving of chairs among the Senators. In the press gallery +the reporters bunched together their scattered papers and inspected +their pencil-points with earnestness. Dorman was the best speaker of +the Senate, and he was on the popular side of it. It would be the great +speech of the session, and the prospect was cheering after a deluge of +railroad and insurance bills. + +“I want to tell you,” he began, “why I have worked for this resolution +recommending the pardon of Alfred Williams. It is one of the great laws +of the universe that every living thing be given a chance. In the case +before us that law has been violated. This does not resolve itself into +a question of second chances. The boy of whom we are speaking has never +had his first.” + +Senator Harrison swung his chair half-way around and looked out at the +green things which were again coming into their own on the State-house +grounds. He knew--in substance--what Senator Dorman would say without +hearing it, and he was a little tired of the whole affair. He hoped that +one way or other they would finish it up that night, and go ahead with +something else. He had done what he could, and now the responsibility +was with the rest of them. He thought they were shouldering a great deal +to advocate the pardon in the face of the united opposition of Johnson +County, where the crime had been committed. It seemed a community +should be the best judge of its own crimes, and that was what he, as the +Senator from Johnson, had tried to impress upon them. + +He knew that his argument against the boy had been a strong one. He +rather liked the attitude in which he stood. It seemed as if he were +the incarnation of outraged justice attempting to hold its own at the +floodgates of emotion. He liked to think he was looking far beyond the +present and the specific and acting as guardian of the future--and the +whole. In summing it up that night the reporters would tell in highly +wrought fashion of the moving appeal made by Senator Dorman, and then +they would speak dispassionately of the logical argument of the leader +of the opposition. There was more satisfaction to self in logic than +in mere eloquence. He was even a little proud of his unpopularity. It +seemed sacrificial. + +He wondered why it was Senator Dorman had thrown himself into it so +whole-heartedly. All during the session the Senator from Maxwell had +neglected personal interests in behalf of this boy, who was nothing to +him in the world. He supposed it was as a sociological and psychological +experiment. Senator Dorman had promised the Governor to assume +guardianship of the boy if he were let out. The Senator from Johnson +inferred that as a student of social science his eloquent colleague +wanted to see what he could make of him. To suppose the interest merely +personal and sympathetic would seem discreditable. + +“I need not dwell upon the story,” the Senator from Maxwell was saying, +“for you all are familiar with it already. It is said to have been the +most awful crime ever committed in the State. I grant you that it was, +and then I ask you to look for a minute into the conditions leading up +to it. + +“When the boy was born, his mother was instituting divorce proceedings +against his father. She obtained the divorce, and remarried when Alfred +was three months old. From the time he was a mere baby she taught him +to hate his father. Everything that went wrong with him she told him was +his father's fault. His first vivid impression was that his father was +responsible for all the wrong of the universe. + +“For seven years that went on, and then his mother died. His stepfather +did not want him. He was going to Missouri, and the boy would be a +useless expense and a bother. He made no attempt to find a home for him; +he did not even explain--he merely went away and left him. At the age of +seven the boy was turned out on the world, after having been taught one +thing--to hate his father. He stayed a few days in the barren house, +and then new tenants came and closed the doors against him. It may have +occurred to him as a little strange that he had been sent into a world +where there was no place for him. + +“When he asked the neighbours for shelter, they told him to go to his +own father and not bother strangers. He said he did not know where his +father was. They told him, and he started to walk--a distance of fifty +miles. I ask you to bear in mind, gentlemen, that he was only seven +years of age. It is the age when the average boy is beginning the third +reader, and when he is shooting marbles and spinning tops. + +“When he reached his father's house he was told at once that he was not +wanted there. The man had remarried, there were other children, and +he had no place for Alfred. He turned him away; but the neighbours +protested, and he was compelled to take him back. For four years he +lived in this home, to which he had come unbidden, and where he was +never made welcome. + +“The whole family rebelled against him. The father satisfied his +resentment against the boy's dead mother by beating her son, by +encouraging his wife to abuse him, and inspiring the other children to +despise him. It seems impossible such conditions should exist. The only +proof of their possibility lies in the fact of their existence. + +“I need not go into the details of the crime. He had been beaten by his +father that evening after a quarrel with his stepmother about spilling +the milk. He went, as usual, to his bed in the barn; but the hay was +suffocating, his head ached, and he could not sleep. He arose in the +middle of the night, went to the house, and killed both his father and +stepmother. + +“I shall not pretend to say what thoughts surged through the boy's brain +as he lay there in the stifling hay with the hot blood pounding against +his temples. I shall not pretend to say whether he was sane or insane as +he walked to the house for the perpetration of the awful crime. I do not +even affirm it would not have happened had there been some human being +there to lay a cooling hand on his hot forehead, and say a few soothing, +loving words to take the sting from the loneliness, and ease the +suffering. I ask you to consider only one thing: he was eleven years old +at the time, and he had no friend in all the world. He knew nothing of +sympathy; he knew only injustice.” + +Senator Harrison was still looking out at the budding things on the +State-house grounds, but in a vague way he was following the story. He +knew when the Senator from Maxwell completed the recital of facts and +entered upon his plea. He was conscious that it was stronger than he had +anticipated--more logic and less empty exhortation. He was telling of +the boy's life in reformatory and penitentiary since the commission +of the crime,--of how he had expanded under kindness, of his mental +attainments, the letters he could write, the books he had read, the +hopes he cherished. In the twelve years he had spent there he had been +known to do no unkind nor mean thing; he responded to affection--craved +it. It was not the record of a degenerate, the Senator from Maxwell was +saying. + +A great many things were passing through the mind of the Senator from +Johnson. He was trying to think who it was that wrote that book, “Put +Yourself in His Place.” He had read it once, and it bothered him to +forget names. Then he was wondering why it was the philosophers had +not more to say about the incongruity of people who had never had any +trouble of their own sitting in judgment upon people who had known +nothing but trouble. He was thinking also that abstract rules did not +always fit smoothly over concrete cases, and that it was hard to make +life a matter of rules, anyway. + +Next he was wondering how it would have been with the boy Alfred +Williams if he had been born in Charles Harrison's place; and then he +was working it out the other way and wondering how it would have been +with Charles Harrison had he been born in Alfred Williams's place. +He wondered whether the idea of murder would have grown in Alfred +Williams's heart had he been born to the things to which Charles +Harrison was born, and whether it would have come within the range of +possibility for Charles Harrison to murder his father if he had been +born to Alfred Williams's lot. Putting it that way, it was hard to +estimate how much of it was the boy himself, and how much the place the +world had prepared for him. And if it was the place prepared for him +more than the boy, why was the fault not more with the preparers of the +place than with the occupant of it? The whole thing was very confusing. + +“This page,” the Senator from Maxwell was saying, lifting the little +fellow to the desk, “is just eleven years of age, and he is within three +pounds of Alfred Williams's weight when he committed the murder. I ask +you, gentlemen, if this little fellow should be guilty of a like crime +to-night, to what extent would you, in reading of it in the morning, +charge him with the moral discernment which is the first condition of +moral responsibility? If Alfred Williams's story were this boy's story, +would you deplore that there had been no one to check the childish +passion, or would you say it was the inborn instinct of the murderer? +And suppose again this were Alfred Williams at the age of eleven, would +you not be willing to look into the future and say if he spent twelve +years in penitentiary and reformatory, in which time he developed the +qualities of useful and honourable citizenship, that the ends of justice +would then have been met, and the time at hand for the world to begin +the payment of her debt?” + +Senator Harrison's eyes were fixed upon the page standing on the +opposite desk. Eleven was a younger age than he had supposed. As he +looked back upon it and recalled himself when eleven years of age--his +irresponsibility, his dependence--he was unwilling to say what would +have happened if the world had turned upon him as it had upon Alfred +Williams. At eleven his greatest grievance was that the boys at school +called him “yellow-top.” He remembered throwing a rock at one of them +for doing it. He wondered if it was criminal instinct prompted the +throwing of the rock. He wondered how high the percentage of children's +crimes would go were it not for countermanding influences. It seemed the +great difference between Alfred Williams and a number of other children +of eleven had been the absence of the countermanding influence. + +There came to him of a sudden a new and moving thought. Alfred Williams +had been cheated of his boyhood. The chances were he had never gone +swimming, nor to a ball game, or maybe never to a circus. It might even +be that he had never owned a dog. The Senator from Maxwell was right +when he said the boy had never been given his chance, had been defrauded +of that which has been a boy's heritage since the world itself was +young. + +And the later years--how were they making it up to him? He recalled +what to him was the most awful thing he had ever heard about the State +penitentiary: they never saw the sun rise down there, and they never saw +it set. They saw it at its meridian, when it climbed above the stockade, +but as it rose into the day, and as it sank into the night, it was +denied them. And there, at the penitentiary, they could not even look up +at the stars. It had been years since Alfred Williams raised his face +to God's heaven and knew he was part of it all. The voices of the night +could not penetrate the little cell in the heart of the mammoth stone +building where he spent his evenings over those masterpieces with which, +they said, he was more familiar than the average member of the Senate. +When he read those things Victor Hugo said of the vastness of the night, +he could only look around at the walls that enclosed him and try to +reach back over the twelve years for some satisfying conception of what +night really was. + +The Senator from Johnson shuddered: they had taken from a living +creature the things of life, and all because in the crucial hour there +had been no one to say a staying word. Man had cheated him of the things +that were man's, and then shut him away from the world that was God's. +They had made for him a life barren of compensations. + +There swept over the Senator a great feeling of self-pity. As +representative of Johnson County, it was he who must deny this boy the +whole great world without, the people who wanted to help him, and what +the Senator from Maxwell called “his chance.” If Johnson County carried +the day, there would be something unpleasant for him to consider all the +remainder of his life. As he grew to be an older man he would think of +it more and more--what the boy would have done for himself in the world +if the Senator from Johnson had not been more logical and more powerful +than the Senator from Maxwell. + +Senator Dorman was nearing the end of his argument. “In spite of the +undying prejudice of the people of Johnson County,” he was saying, “I +can stand before you today and say that after an unsparing investigation +of this case I do not believe I am asking you to do anything in +violation of justice when I beg of you to give this boy his chance.” + +It was going to a vote at once, and the Senator from Johnson County +looked out at the budding things and wondered whether the boy down +at the penitentiary knew the Senate was considering his case that +afternoon. It was without vanity he wondered whether what he had been +trained to think of as an all-wise providence would not have preferred +that Johnson County be represented that session by a less able man. + +A great hush fell over the Chamber, for ayes and noes followed almost in +alternation. After a long minute of waiting the secretary called, in a +tense voice: + +“Ayes, 30; Noes, 32.” + +The Senator from Johnson had proven too faithful a servant of his +constituents. The boy in the penitentiary was denied his chance. + +The usual things happened: some women in the galleries, who had boys +at home, cried aloud; the reporters were fighting for occupancy of the +telephone booths, and most of the Senators began the perusal of the +previous day's Journal with elaborate interest. Senator Dorman indulged +in none of these feints. A full look at his face just then told how much +of his soul had gone into the fight for the boy's chance, and the +look about his eyes was a little hard on the theory of psychological +experiment. + +Senator Harrison was looking out at the budding trees, but his face too +had grown strange, and he seemed to be looking miles beyond and years +ahead. It seemed that he himself was surrendering the voices of the +night, and the comings and goings of the sun. He would never look at +them--feel them--again without remembering he was keeping one of his +fellow creatures away from them. He wondered at his own presumption +in denying any living thing participation in the universe. And all the +while there were before him visions of the boy who sat in the cramped +cell with the volume of a favourite poet before him, trying to think how +it would seem to be out under the stars. + +The stillness in the Senate-Chamber was breaking; they were going ahead +with something else. It seemed to the Senator from Johnson that sun, +moon, and stars were wailing out protest for the boy who wanted to know +them better. And yet it was not sun, moon, and stars so much as the +unused swimming hole and the uncaught fish, the unattended ball game, +the never-seen circus, and, above all, the unowned dog, that brought +Senator Harrison to his feet. + +They looked at him in astonishment, their faces seeming to say it would +have been in better taste for him to have remained seated just then. + +“Mr. President,” he said, pulling at his collar and looking straight +ahead, “I rise to move a reconsideration.” + +There was a gasp, a moment of supreme quiet, and then a mighty burst +of applause. To men of all parties and factions there came a single +thought. Johnson was the leading county of its Congressional district. +There was an election that fall, and Harrison was in the race. Those +eight words meant to a surety he would not go to Washington, for the +Senator from Maxwell had chosen the right word when he referred to the +prejudice of Johnson County on the Williams case as “undying.” The +world throbs with such things at the moment of their doing--even though +condemning them later, and the part of the world then packed within the +Senate-Chamber shared the universal disposition. + +The noise astonished Senator Harrison, and he looked around with +something like resentment. When the tumult at last subsided, and he saw +that he was expected to make a speech, he grew very red, and grasped his +chair desperately. + +The reporters were back in their places, leaning nervously forward. +This was Senator Harrison's chance to say something worth putting into a +panel by itself with black lines around it--and they were sure he would +do it. + +But he did not. He stood there like a schoolboy who had forgotten his +piece--growing more and more red. “I--I think,” he finally jerked out, +“that some of us have been mistaken. I'm in favour now of--of giving him +his chance.” + +They waited for him to proceed, but after a helpless look around the +Chamber he sat down. The president of the Senate waited several minutes +for him to rise again, but he at last turned his chair around and +looked out at the green things on the State-house grounds, and there +was nothing to do but go ahead with the second calling of the roll. This +time it stood 50 to 12 in favour of the boy. + +A motion to adjourn immediately followed--no one wanted to do anything +more that afternoon. They all wanted to say things to the Senator from +Johnson; but his face had grown cold, and as they were usually afraid of +him, anyhow, they kept away. All but Senator Dorman--it meant too much +with him. “Do you mind my telling you,” he said, tensely, “that it was +as fine a thing as I have ever known a man to do?” + +The Senator from Johnson moved impatiently. “You think it 'fine,'” he +asked, almost resentfully, “to be a coward?” + +“Coward?” cried the other man. “Well, that's scarcely the word. It +was--heroic!” + +“Oh no,” said Senator Harrison, and he spoke wearily, “it was a clear +case of cowardice. You see,” he laughed, “I was afraid it might haunt me +when I am seventy.” + +Senator Dorman started eagerly to speak, but the other man stopped him +and passed on. He was seeing it as his constituency would see it, and +it humiliated him. They would say he had not the courage of his +convictions, that he was afraid of the unpopularity, that his judgment +had fallen victim to the eloquence of the Senator from Maxwell. + +But when he left the building and came out into the softness of the +April afternoon it began to seem different. After all, it was not he +alone who leaned to the softer side. There were the trees--they were +permitted another chance to bud; there were the birds--they were allowed +another chance to sing; there was the earth--to it was given another +chance to yield. There stole over him a tranquil sense of unison with +Life. + + + + +III + +FOR LOVE OF THE HILLS + + +“Sure you're done with it?” + +“Oh, yes,” replied the girl, the suggestion of a smile on her face, and +in her voice the suggestion of a tear. “Yes; I was just going.” + +But she did not go. She turned instead to the end of the alcove and sat +down before a table placed by the window. Leaning her elbows upon it she +looked about her through a blur of tears. + +Seen through her own eyes of longing, it seemed that almost all of the +people whom she could see standing before the files of the daily papers +were homesick. The reading-room had been a strange study to her during +those weeks spent in fruitless search for the work she wanted to do, and +it had likewise proved a strange comfort. When tired and disconsolate +and utterly sick at heart there was always one thing she could do--she +could go down to the library and look at the paper from home. It was not +that she wanted the actual news of Denver. She did not care in any vital +way what the city officials were doing, what buildings were going up, or +who was leaving town. She was only indifferently interested in the fires +and the murders. She wanted the comforting companionship of that paper +from home. + +It seemed there were many to whom the papers offered that same sympathy, +companionship, whatever it might be. More than anything else it perhaps +gave to them--the searchers, drifters--a sense of anchorage. She would +not soon forget the day she herself had stumbled in there and found the +home paper. Chicago had given her nothing but rebuffs that day, and in +desperation, just because she must go somewhere, and did not want to go +back to her boarding-place, she had hunted out the city library. It was +when walking listlessly about in the big reading-room it had occurred to +her that perhaps she could find the paper from home; and after that when +things were their worst, when her throat grew tight and her eyes dim, +she could always comfort herself by saying: “After a while I'll run down +and look at the paper.” + +But to-night it had failed her. It was not the paper from home to-night; +it was just a newspaper. It did not inspire the belief that things would +be better to-morrow, that it must all come right soon. It left her as +she had come---heavy with the consciousness that in her purse was eleven +dollars, and that that was every cent she had in the whole world. + +It was hard to hold back the tears as she dwelt upon the fact that it +was very little she had asked of Chicago. She had asked only a chance to +do the work for which she was trained, in order that she might go to the +art classes at night. She had read in the papers of that mighty young +city of the Middle West--the heart of the continent--of its brawn and +its brain and its grit. She had supposed that Chicago, of all places, +would appreciate what she wanted to do. The day she drew her hard-earned +one hundred dollars from the bank in Denver--how the sun had shone that +day in Denver, how clear the sky had been, and how bracing the air!--she +had quite taken it for granted that her future was assured. And now, +after tasting for three weeks the cruelty of indifference, she looked +back to those visions with a hard little smile. + +She rose to go, and in so doing her eyes fell upon the queer little +woman to whom she had yielded her place before the Denver paper. +Submerged as she had been in her own desolation she had given no heed +to the small figure which came slipping along beside her beyond the bare +thought that she was queer-looking. But as her eyes rested upon her now +there was something about the woman which held her. + +She was a strange little figure. An old-fashioned shawl was pinned +tightly about her shoulders, and she was wearing a queer, rusty little +bonnet. Her hair was rolled up in a small knot at the back of her head. +She did not look as though she belonged in Chicago. And then, as the +girl stood there looking at her, she saw the thin shoulders quiver, and +after a minute the head that was wearing the rusty bonnet went down into +the folds of the Denver paper. + +The girl's own eyes filled, and she turned to go. It seemed she could +scarcely bear her own unhappiness that day, without coming close to the +heartache of another. But when she reached the end of the alcove she +glanced back, and the sight of that shabby, bent figure, all alone +before the Denver paper, was not to be withstood. + +“I am from Colorado, too,” she said softly, laying a hand upon the bent +shoulders. + +The woman looked up at that and took the girl's hand in both of her +thin, trembling ones. It was a wan and a troubled face she lifted, and +there was something about the eyes which would not seem to have been +left there by tears alone. + +“And do you have a pining for the mountains?” she whispered, with a +timid eagerness. “Do you have a feeling that you want to see the sun +go down behind them tonight and that you want to see the darkness come +stealing up to the tops?” + +The girl half turned away, but she pressed the woman's hand tightly in +hers. “I know what you mean,” she murmured. + +“I wanted to see it so bad,” continued the woman, tremulously, “that +something just drove me here to this paper. I knowed it was here because +my nephew's wife brought me here one day and we come across it. We took +this paper at home for more 'an twenty years. That's why I come. 'Twas +the closest I could get.” + +“I know what you mean,” said the girl again, unsteadily. + +“And it's the closest I will ever get!” sobbed the woman. + +“Oh, don't say that,” protested the girl, brushing away her own tears, +and trying to smile; “you'll go back home some day.” + +The woman shook her head. “And if I should,” she said, “even if I +should, 'twill be too late.” + +“But it couldn't be too late,” insisted the girl. “The mountains, you +know, will be there forever.” + +“The mountains will be there forever,” repeated the woman, musingly; +“yes, but not for me to see.” There was a pause. “You see,”--she said it +quietly--“I'm going blind.” + +The girl took a quick step backward, then stretched out two impulsive +hands. “Oh, no, no you're not! Why--the doctors, you know, they do +everything now.” + +The woman shook her head. “That's what I thought when I come here. +That's why I come. But I saw the biggest doctor of them all today--they +all say he's the best there is--and he said right out 'twas no use to do +anything. He said 'twas--hopeless.” + +Her voice broke on that word. “You see,” she hurried on, “I wouldn't +care so much, seems like I wouldn't care 't all, if I could get there +first! If I could see the sun go down behind them just one night! If I +could see the black shadows come slippin' over 'em just once! And then, +if just one morning--just once!--I could get up and see the sunlight +come a streamin'--oh, you know how it looks! You know what 'tis I want +to see!” + +“Yes; but why can't you? Why not? You won't go--your eyesight will last +until you get back home, won't it?” + +“But I can't go back home; not now.” + +“Why not?” demanded the girl. “Why can't you go home?” + +“Why, there ain't no money, my dear,” she explained, patiently. “It's a +long way off--Colorado is, and there ain't no money. Now, George--George +is my brother-in-law--he got me the money to come; but you see it took +it all to come here, and to pay them doctors with. And George--he ain't +rich, and it pinched him hard for me to come--he says I'll have to wait +until he gets money laid up again, and--well he can't tell just when 't +will be. He'll send it soon as he gets it,” she hastened to add. + +“But what are you going to do in the meantime? It would cost less to get +you home than to keep you here.” + +“No, I stay with my nephew here. He's willin' I should stay with him +till I get my money to go home.” + +“Yes, but this nephew, can't he get you the money? Doesn't he know,” she +insisted, heatedly, “what it means to you?” + +“He's got five children, and not much laid up. And then, he never seen +the mountains. He doesn't know what I mean when I try to tell him about +gettin' there in time. Why, he says there's many a one living back in +the mountains would like to be livin' here. He don't understand--my +nephew don't,” she added, apologetically. + +“Well, _someone_ ought to understand!” broke from the girl. “I +understand! But--” she did her best to make it a laugh--“eleven dollars +is every cent I've got in the world!” + +“Don't!” implored the woman, as the girl gave up trying to control the +tears. “Now, don't you be botherin'. I didn't mean to make you feel so +bad. My nephew says I ain't reasonable, and maybe I ain't.” + +The girl raised her head. “But you _are_ reasonable. I tell you, you +_are_ reasonable!” + +“I must be going back,” said the woman, uncertainly. “I'm just making +you feel bad, and it won't do no good. And then they may be stirred up +about me. Emma--Emma's my nephew's wife--left me at the doctor's office +'cause she had some trading to do, and she was to come back there for +me. And then, as I was sittin' there, the pinin' came over me so strong +it seemed I just must get up and start! And”---she smiled wanly---“this +was far as I got.” + +“Come over and sit down by this table,” said the girl, impulsively, “and +tell me a little about your home back in the mountains. Wouldn't you +like to?” + +The woman nodded gratefully. “Seems most like getting back to them to +find someone that knows about them,” she said, after they had drawn +their chairs up to the table and were sitting there side by side. + +The girl put her rounded hand over on the thin, withered one. “Tell me +about it,” she said again. + +“Maybe it wouldn't be much interesting to you, my dear. It's just a +common life--mine is. You see, William and I--William was my husband--we +went to Georgetown before it really was any town at all. Years and years +before the railroad went through, we was there. Was you ever there?” she +asked wistfully. + +“Oh, very often,” replied the girl. “I love every inch of that country!” + +A tear stole down the woman's face. “It's most like being home to find +someone that knows about it,” she whispered. + +“Yes, William and I went there when 'twas all new country,” she went +on, after a pause. “We worked hard, and we laid up a little money. Then, +three years ago, William took sick. He was sick for a year, and we had +to live up most of what we'd saved. That's why I ain't got none now. It +ain't that William didn't provide.” + +The girl nodded. + +“We seen some hard days. But we was always harmonious--William and +I was. And William had a great fondness for the mountains. The night +before he died he made them take him over by the window and he looked +out and watched the darkness come stealin' over the daylight--you know +how it does in them mountains. 'Mother,' he said to me--his voice was +that low I could no more 'an hear what he said--'I'll never see another +sun go down, but I'm thankful I seen this one.'” + +She was crying outright now, and the girl did not try to stop her. + +“And that's the reason I love the mountains,” she whispered at last. “It +ain't just that they're grand and wonderful to look at. It ain't just +the things them tourists sees to talk about. But the mountains has +always been like a comfortin' friend to me. John and Sarah is buried +there--John and Sarah is my two children that died of fever. And then +William is there--like I just told you. And the mountains was a comfort +to me in all those times of trouble. They're like an old friend. Seems +like they're the best friend I've got on earth.” + +“I know what you mean,” said the girl, brokenly. “I know all about it.” + +“And you don't think I'm just notional,” she asked wistfully, “in pinin' +to get back while--whilst I can look at them?” + +The girl held the old hand tightly in hers with a clasp more responsive +than words. + +“It ain't but I'd know they was there. I could feel they was there all +right, but”--her voice sank with the horror of it--“I'm 'fraid I might +forget just how they look!” + +“Oh, but you won't,” the girl assured her. “You'll remember just how +they look.” + +“I'm scared of it. I'm scared there might be something I'd forget. And +so I just torment myself thinkin'--'Now do I remember this? Can I +see just how that looks?' That's the way I got to thinkin' up in the +doctor's office, when he told me there was nothing to do, and I was so +worked up it seemed I must get up and start!” + +“You must try not to worry about it,” murmured the girl. “You'll +remember.” + +“Well, maybe so. Maybe I will. But that's why I want just one more look. +If I could look once more I'd remember it forever. You see I'd look to +remember it, and I would. And do you know--seems like I wouldn't mind +going blind so much then? When I'd sit facin' them I'd just say to +myself: 'Now I know just how they look. I'm seeing them just as if I had +my eyes!' The doctor says my sight'll just kind of slip away, and when I +look my last look, when it gets dimmer and dimmer to me, I want the last +thing I see to be them mountains where William and me worked and was +so happy! Seems like I can't bear it to have my sight slip away here +in Chicago, where there's nothing I want to look at! And then to have a +little left--to have just a little left!--and to know I could see if I +was there to look--and to know that when I get there 'twill be--Oh, I'll +be rebellious-like here--and I'd be contented there! I don't want to be +complainin'--I don't want to!--but when I've only got a little left I +want it--oh, I want it for them things I want to see!” + +“You will see them,” insisted the girl passionately. “I'm not going to +believe the world can be so hideous as that!” + +“Well, maybe so,” said the woman, rising. “But I don't know where 'twill +come from,” she added doubtfully. + +She took her back to the doctor's office and left her in the care of the +stolid Emma. “Seems most like I'd been back home,” she said in parting; +and the girl promised to come and see her and talk with her about the +mountains. The woman thought that talking about them would help her to +remember just how they looked. + +And then the girl returned to the library. She did not know why she +did so. In truth she scarcely knew she was going there until she found +herself sitting before that same secluded table at which she and the +woman had sat a little while before. For a long time she sat there with +her head in her hands, tears falling upon a pad of yellow paper on the +table before her. + +Finally she dried her eyes, opened her purse, and counted her money. It +seemed that out of her great desire, out of her great new need, there +must be more than she had thought. But there was not, and she folded +her hands upon the two five-dollar bills and the one silver dollar and +looked hopelessly about the big room. + +She had forgotten her own disappointments, her own loneliness. She was +oblivious to everything in the world now save what seemed the absolute +necessity of getting the woman back to the mountains while she had eyes +to see them. + +But what could she do? Again she counted the money. She could make +herself, some way or other, get along without one of the five-dollar +bills, but five dollars would not take one very close to the mountains. +It was at that moment that she saw a man standing before the Denver +paper, and noticed that another man was waiting to take his place. The +one who was reading had a dinner pail in his hand. The clothes of the +other told that he, too, was of the world's workers. It was clear to the +girl that the man at the file was reading the paper from home; and the +man who was ready to take his place looked as if waiting for something +less impersonal than the news of the day. + +The idea came upon her with such suddenness, so full born, that it made +her gasp. They--the people who came to read the Denver paper, the people +who loved the mountains and were far from them, the people who were +themselves homesick and full of longing--were the people to understand. + +It took her but a minute to act. She put the silver dollar and one +five-dollar bill back in her purse. She clutched the other bill in +her left hand, picked up a pencil, and began to write. She headed the +petition: “To all who know and love the mountains,” and she told the +story with the simpleness of one speaking from the heart, and the +directness of one who speaks to those sure to understand. “And so I +found her here by the Denver paper,” she said, after she had stated +the tragic facts, “because it was the closest she could come to the +mountains. Her heart is not breaking because she is going blind. It is +breaking because she may never again look with seeing eyes upon those +great hills which rise up about her home. We must do it for her simply +because we would wish that, under like circumstances, someone would do +it for us. She belongs to us because we understand. + +“If you can only give fifty cents, please do not hold it back because +it seems but little. Fifty cents will take her twenty miles nearer +home--twenty miles closer to the things upon which she longs that her +last seeing glance may fall.” + +After she had written it she rose, and, the five-dollar bill in one +hand, the sheets of yellow paper in the other, walked down the long room +to the desk at which one of the librarians sat. The girl's cheeks were +very red, her eyes shining as she poured out the story. They mingled +their tears, for the girl at the desk was herself young and far from +home, and then they walked back to the Denver paper and pinned the +sheets of yellow paper just above the file. At the bottom of the +petition the librarian wrote: “Leave your money at the desk in this +room. It will be properly attended to.” The girl from Colorado then +turned over her five-dollar bill and passed out into the gathering +night. + +Her heart was brimming with joy. “I can get a cheaper boarding place,” + she told herself, as she joined the home-going crowds, “and until +something else turns up I'll just look around and see if I can't get a +place in a store.” + + * * * * * + +One by one they had gathered around while the woman was telling the +story. “And so, if you don't mind,” she said, in conclusion, “I'd like +to have you put in a little piece that I got to Denver safe, so's they +can see it. They was all so worked up about when I'd get here. Would +that cost much?” she asked timidly. + +“Not a cent,” said the city editor, his voice gruff with the attempt to +keep it steady. + +“You might say, if it wouldn't take too much room, that I was much +pleased with the prospect of getting home before sundown to-night.” + +“You needn't worry but what we'll say it all,” he assured her. “We'll +say a great deal more than you have any idea of.” + +“I'm very thankful to you,” she said, as she rose to go. + +They sat there for a moment in silence. “When one considers,” someone +began, “that they were people who were pushed too close even to +subscribe to a daily paper--” + +“When one considers,” said the city editor, “that the girl who started +it had just eleven dollars to her name--” And then he, too, stopped +abruptly and there was another long moment of silence. + +After that he looked around at the reporters. “Well, it's too bad you +can't all have it, when it's so big a chance, but I guess it falls +logically to Raymond. And in writing it, just remember, Raymond, that +the biggest stories are not written about wars, or about politics, or +even murders. The biggest stories are written about the things which +draw human beings closer together. And the chance to write them doesn't +come every day, or every year, or every lifetime. And I'll tell you, +boys, all of you, when it seems sometimes that the milk of human +kindness has all turned sour, just think back to the little story you +heard this afternoon.” + + * * * * * + +Slowly the sun slipped down behind the mountains; slowly the long +purple shadows deepened to black; and with the coming of the night there +settled over the everlasting hills, and over the soul of one who had +returned to them, that satisfying calm that men call peace. + + + + +IV + +FRECKLES M'GRATH + + +Many visitors to the State-house made the mistake of looking upon the +Governor as the most important personage in the building. They would +walk up and down the corridors, hoping for a glimpse of some of the +leading officials, when all the while Freckles McGrath, the real +character of the Capitol, and by all odds the most illustrious person in +it, was at once accessible and affable. + +Freckles McGrath was the elevator boy. In the official register his +name had gone down as William, but that was a mere concession to +the constituents to whom the official register was sent out. In the +newspapers--and he appeared with frequency in the newspapers--he was +always “Freckles,” and every one from the Governor down gave him that +title, the appropriateness of which was stamped a hundred fold upon his +shrewd, jolly Irish face. + +Like every one else on the State pay-roll, Freckles was keyed high +during this first week of the new session. It was a reform Legislature, +and so imbued was it with the idea of reforming that there was grave +danger of its forcing reformation upon everything in sight. It happened +that the Governor was of the same faction of the party as that dominant +in the Legislature; reform breathed through every nook and crevice of +the great building. + +But high above all else in importance towered the Kelley Bill. From +the very opening of the session there was scarcely a day when some of +Freckles' passengers did not in hushed whispers mention the Kelley Bill. +From what he could pick up about the building, and what he read in the +newspapers, Freckles put together a few ideas as to what the Kelley Bill +really was. It was a great reform measure, and it was going to show the +railroads that they did not own the State. The railroads were going to +have to pay more taxes, and they were making an awful fuss about it; but +if the Kelley Bill could be put through it would be a great victory for +reform, and would make the Governor “solid” in the State. + +Freckles McGrath was strong for reform. That was partly because the +snatches of speeches he heard in the Legislature were more thrilling +when for reform than when against it; it was partly because he adored +the Governor, and in no small part because he despised Mr. Ludlow. + +Mr. Ludlow was a lobbyist. Some of the members of the Legislature +were Mr. Ludlow's property--or at least so Freckles inferred from +conversation overheard at his post. There had been a great deal of talk +that session about Mr. Ludlow's methods. + +Freckles himself was no snob. Although he had heard Mr. Ludlow called +disgraceful, and although he firmly believed he was disgraceful, he did +not consider that any reason for not speaking to him. And so when Mr. +Ludlow got in all alone one morning, and the occasion seemed to demand +recognition of some sort, Freckles had chirped: “Good-morning!” + +But the man, possibly deep in something else, simply knit together +his brows and gave no sign of having heard. After that, Henry Ludlow, +lobbyist, and Freckles McGrath, elevator boy, were enemies. + +A little before noon, one day near the end of the session, a member of +the Senate and a member of the House rode down together in the elevator. + +“There's no use waiting any longer,” the Senator was saying as they got +in. “We're as strong now as we're going to be. It's a matter of Stacy's +vote, and that's a matter of who sees him last.” + +Freckles widened out his ears and gauged the elevator for very slow +running. Stacy had been written up in the papers as a wabbler on the +Kelley Bill. + +“He's all right now,” pursued the Senator, “but there's every chance +that Ludlow will see him before he casts his vote this afternoon, and +then--oh, I don't know!” and with a weary little flourish of his hands +the Senator stepped off. + +Freckles McGrath sat wrapped in deep thought. The Kelley Bill was coming +up in the Senate that afternoon. If Senator Stacy voted for it, it would +pass. If he voted against it, it would fail. He would vote for it if he +didn't see Mr. Ludlow; he wouldn't vote for it if he did. That was the +situation, and the Governor's whole future, Freckles felt, was at stake. + +The bell rang sharply, and he was vaguely conscious then that it had +been ringing before. In the next half-hour he was very busy taking down +the members of the Legislature. Strangely enough, Senator Stacy and the +Governor went down the same trip, and Freckles beamed with approbation +when, he saw them walk out of the building together. + +Stacy was one of the first of the senators to return. Freckles sized him +up keenly as he stepped into the elevator, and decided that he was still +firm. But there was a look about Senator Stacy's mouth which suggested +that there was no use in being too sure of him. Freckles considered the +advisability of bursting forth and telling him how much better it would +be to stick with the reform fellows; but just as the boy got his courage +screwed up to speaking point, Senator Stacy got off. + +About ten minutes later Freckles had the elevator on the ground floor, +and was sitting there reading a paper, when he heard a step that made +him prick up his ears. The next minute Mr. Ludlow turned the corner. He +was immaculately dressed, as usual, and his iron-grey moustache seemed +to stand out just a little more pompously than ever. There was a +sneering look in his eyes as he stepped into the car. It seemed to be +saying: “They thought they could beat me, did they? Oh, they're easy, +they are!” + +Freckles McGrath slammed the door of the cage and started the car up. He +did not know what he was going to do, but he had an idea that he did +not want any other passenger. When half way between the basement and the +first floor, he stopped the elevator. He must have time to think. If +he took that man up to the Senate Chamber, he would simply strike +the death-blow to reform! And so he knelt and pretended to be fixing +something, and he thought fast and hard. + +“Something broke?” asked an anxious voice. + +Freckles looked around into Mr. Ludlow's face, and he saw that the +eminent lobbyist was nervous. + +“Yes,” he said calmly. “It's acting queer. Something's all out of +whack.” + +“Well, drop it to the basement and let me out,” said Mr. Ludlow sharply. + +“Can't drop it,” responded Freckles. “She's stuck.” + +Mr. Ludlow came and looked things over, but his knowledge did not extend +to the mechanism of elevators. + +“Better call someone to come and take us out,” he said nervously. + +Freckles straightened himself up. A glitter had come into his small grey +eyes, and red spots were burning in his freckled cheeks. + +“I think she'll run now,” he said. + +And she did run. Never in all its history had that State-house elevator +run as it ran then. It rushed past the first and second floors like +a thing let loose, with an utter abandonment that caused the blood to +forsake the eminent lobbyist's face. + +“Stop it, boy!” he cried in alarm. + +“Can't!” responded Freckles, his voice thick with terror. “Running +away!” he gasped. + +“Will it--fall?” whispered the lobbyist. + +“I--I think so!” blubbered Freckles. + +The central portion of the State-house was very high. Above that part +of the building which was in use there was a long stretch leading to +the tower. The shaft had been built clear up, though practically unused. +Past floors used for store-rooms, past floors used for nothing at +all, they went--the man's face white, the boy wailing out incoherent +supplications. And then, within ten feet of the top of the shaft, and +within a foot of the top floor of the building, the elevator came to +a rickety stop. It wabbled back and forth; it did strange and terrible +things. + +“She's falling!” panted Freckles. “Climb!” + +And Henry Ludlow climbed. He got the door open, and he clambered up. No +sooner had the man's feet touched the solid floor than Freckles reached +up and slammed the door of the cage. Why he did that he was not sure at +the time. Later he felt that something had warned him not to give his +prisoner's voice a full sweep down the shaft. + +Henry Ludlow was far from dull. As he saw the quick but even descent of +the car, he knew that he had been tricked. He would have been more than +human had there not burst from him furious and threatening words. But +what was the use? The car was going down--down--down, and there he was, +perhaps hundreds of feet above any one else in the building--alone, +tricked, beaten! + +Of course he tried the door at the head of the winding stairway, knowing +full well that it would be locked. They always kept it locked; he had +heard one of the janitors asking for the keys to take a party up just +a few days before. Perhaps he could get out on top of the building and +make signals of distress. But the door leading outside was locked also. +There he was--helpless. And below--well, below they were passing the +Kelley Bill! + +He rattled the grating of the elevator shaft. He made strange, loud +noises, knowing all the while he could not make himself heard. And then +at last, alone in the State-house attic, Henry Ludlow, eminent lobbyist, +sat down on a box and nursed his fury. + +Below, Freckles McGrath, the youngest champion of reform in the +building, was putting on a bold front. He laughed and he talked and he +whistled. He took people up and down with as much nonchalance as if he +did not know that up at the top of that shaft angry eyes were +straining themselves for a glimpse of the car, and terrible curses were +descending, literally, upon his stubby red head. + +It was a great afternoon at the State-house. Every one thronged to the +doors of the Senate Chamber, where they were putting through the Kelley +Bill. The speeches made in behalf of the measure were brief. The great +thing now was not to make speeches; it was to reach “S” on roll-call +before a man with iron-grey hair and an iron-grey moustache could come +in and say something to the fair-haired member with the weak mouth who +sat near the rear of the chamber. + +Freckles was called away just as it went to a vote. When he came back +Senator Kelley was standing out in the corridor, and a great crowd of +men were standing around slapping him on the back. The Governor himself +was standing on the steps of the Senate Chamber; his eyes were bright, +and he was smiling. + +Freckles turned his car back to the basement. He wanted to be all +alone for a minute, to dwell in solitude upon the fact that it was he, +Freckles McGrath, who had won this great victory for reform. It was he, +Freckles McGrath, who had assured the Governor's future. Why, perhaps he +had that afternoon made for himself a name which would be handed down in +the histories! + +Freckles was a kind little boy, and he knew that an elegant gentleman +could not find the attic any too pleasant a place in which to spend the +afternoon, go he decided to go up and get Mr. Ludlow. It took courage; +but he had won his victory and this was no time for faltering. + +There was something gruesome about the long ascent. He thought of +stories he had read of lonely turrets in which men were beheaded, and +otherwise made away with. It seemed he would never come to the top, and +when at last he did it was to find two of the most awful-looking eyes +he had ever seen--eyes that looked as though furies were going to escape +from them--peering down upon him. + +The sight of that car, moving smoothly and securely up to the top, and +the sight of that audacious little boy with the freckled face and the +bat-like eyes, that little boy who had played his game so well, who had +wrought such havoc, was too much for Henry Ludlow's self-control. Words +such as he had never used before, such as he would not have supposed +himself capable of using, burst from him. But Freckles stood calmly +gazing up at the infuriated lobbyist, and just as Mr. Ludlow was saying, +“I'll beat your head open, you little brat!” he calmly reversed the +handle and sent the car skimming smoothly to realms below. He was +followed by an angry yell, and then by a loud request to return, but he +heeded them not, and for some time longer the car made its usual rounds +between the basement and the legislative chambers. + +In just an hour Freckles tried it again. He sent the car to within three +feet of the attic floor, and then peered through the grating, his +face tied in a knot of interrogation. The eminent lobbyist stood there +gulping down wrath and pride, knowing well enough what was expected of +him. + +“Oh--all right,” he muttered at last, and with that much of an +understanding Freckles sent the car up, opened the door, and Henry +Ludlow stepped in. + +No word was spoken between them until the light from the floor upon +which the Senate Chamber was situated came in view. Then Freckles turned +with a polite inquiry as to where the gentleman wished to get off. + +“You may take me down to the office of the Governor,” said Mr. Ludlow +stonily, meaningly. + +“Sure,” said Freckles cheerfully. “Guess you'll find the Governor in his +office now. He's been in the Senate most of the afternoon, watching 'em +pass that Kelley Bill.” + +Mr. Ludlow's lips drew in tightly. He squared his shoulders, and his +silence was tremendous. + +In just fifteen minutes Freckles was sent for from the executive office. + +“I demand his discharge!” Mr. Ludlow was saying as the elevator boy +entered. + +“It happens you're not running this building,” the Governor returned +with a good deal of acidity. “Though of course,” he added with dignity, +“the matter will be carefully investigated.” + +The Governor was one great chuckle inside, and his heart was full of +admiration and gratitude; but would Freckles be equal to bluffing it +through? Would the boy have the finesse, the nice subtlety, the real +master hand, the situation demanded? If not, then--imp of salvation +though he was--in the interest of reform, Freckles would have to go. + +It was a very innocent looking boy who stood before him and looked +inquiringly into his face. + +“William,” began the Governor--Freckles was pained at first, and then +remembered that officially he was William--“this gentleman has made a +very serious charge against you.” + +Freckles looked at Mr. Ludlow in a hurt way, and waited for the Governor +to proceed. + +“He says,” went on the chief executive, “that you deliberately took him +to the top of the building and wilfully left him there a prisoner all +afternoon. Did you do that?” + +“Oh, sir,” burst forth Freckles, “I did the very best I could to save +his life! I was willing to sacrifice mine for him. I--” + +“You little liar!” broke in Ludlow. + +The Governor held up his hand. “You had your chance. Let him have his.” + +“You see, Governor,” began Freckles, as if anxious to set right a great +wrong which had been done him, “the car is acting bad. The engineer said +only this morning it needed a going over. When it took that awful shoot, +I lost control of it. Maybe I'm to be discharged for losing control of +it, but not”--Freckles sniffled pathetically---“but not for anything +like what he says I done. Why Governor,” he went on, ramming his +knuckles into his eyes, “I ain't got nothing against him! What'd I take +him to the attic for?” + +“Of course not for money,” sneered Mr. Ludlow. + +The Governor turned on him sharply. “When you can bring any proof of +that, I'll be ready to hear it. Until you can, you'd better leave it out +of the question.” + +“Strange it should have happened this very afternoon,” put in the +eminent lobbyist. + +The Governor looked at him with open countenance. “You were especially +interested in something this afternoon? I thought you told me you had no +vital interest here this session.” + +There was nothing to be said. Mr. Ludlow said nothing. + +“Now, William,” pursued the Governor, fearful in his heart that this +would be Freckles' undoing, “why did you close the door of the shaft +before you started down?” + +“Well, you see, sir,” began Freckles, still tremulously, “I'm so used to +closin' doors. Closin' doors has become a kind of second nature with me. +I've been told about it so many times. And up there, though I thought I +was losin' my life, still I didn't neglect my duty.” + +The Governor put his hand to his mouth and coughed. + +“And why,” he went on, more secure now, for a boy who could get out +of that could get out of anything, “why was it you didn't make some +immediate effort to get Mr. Ludlow down? Why didn't you notify someone, +or do something about it?” + +“Why, I supposed, of course, he walked down by the stairs,” cried +Freckles. “I never dreamed he'd want to trust the elevator after the way +she had acted.” + +“The door was locked,” snarled the eminent lobbyist. + +“Well, now, you see, I didn't know that,” explained Freckles +expansively. “Late in the afternoon I took a run up just to test +the car--and there you were! I never was so surprised in my life. I +supposed, of course, sir, that you'd spent the afternoon in the Senate, +along with everybody else.” + +Once more the Governor put his hand to his mouth. + +“Your case will come before the executive council at its next meeting, +William. And if anything like this should happen again, you will be +discharged on the spot.” Freckles bowed. “You may go now.” + +When he was almost at the door the Governor called to him. + +“Don't you think, William,” he said--the Governor felt that he and +Freckles could afford to be generous--“that you should apologise to the +gentleman for the really grave inconvenience to which you have been the +means of subjecting him?” + +Freckles' little grey eyes grew steely. He looked at Henry Ludlow, and +there was an ominous silence. Then light broke over his face. “On behalf +of the elevator,” he said, “I apologise.” + +And a third time the Governor's hand was raised to his mouth. + +The next week Freckles was wearing a signet ring; long and audibly had +he sighed for a ring of such kind and proportions. He was at some pains +in explaining to everyone to whom he showed it that it had been sent him +by “a friend up home.” + + + + +V + +FROM A TO Z + + +Thus had another ideal tumbled to the rubbish heap! She seemed to be +breathing the dust which the newly fallen had stirred up among +its longer dead fellows. Certainly she was breathing the dust from +somewhere. + +During her senior year at the university, when people would ask: “And +what are you going to do when you leave school, Miss Willard?” she would +respond with anything that came to hand, secretly hugging to her mind +that idea of getting a position in a publishing house. Her conception of +her publishing house was finished about the same time as her class-day +gown. She was to have a roll-top desk--probably of mahogany--and a big +chair which whirled round like that in the office of the under-graduate +dean. She was to have a little office all by herself, opening on +a bigger office--the little one marked “Private.” There were to be +beautiful rugs--the general effect not unlike the library at the +University Club--books and pictures and cultivated gentlemen who spoke +often of Greek tragedies and the Renaissance. She was a little uncertain +as to her duties, but had a general idea about getting down between nine +and ten, reading the morning paper, cutting the latest magazine, and +then “writing something.” + +Commencement was now four months past, and one of her professors had +indeed secured for her a position in a Chicago “publishing house.” This +was her first morning and she was standing at the window looking down +into Dearborn Street while the man who was to have her in charge was +fixing a place for her to sit. + +That the publishing house should be on Dearborn Street had been her +first blow, for she had long located her publishing house on that +beautiful stretch of Michigan Avenue which overlooked the lake. But +the real insult was that this publishing house, instead of having a +building, or at least a floor, all to itself, simply had a place +penned off in a bleak, dirty building such as one who had done work in +sociological research instinctively associated with a box factory. And +the thing which fairly trailed her visions in the dust was that the +partition penning them off did not extend to the ceiling, and the +adjoining room being occupied by a patent medicine company, she was face +to face with glaring endorsements of Dr. Bunting's Famous Kidney and +Bladder Cure. Taken all in all there seemed little chance for Greek +tragedies or the Renaissance. + +The man who was “running things”--she buried her phraseology with her +dreams--wore a skull cap, and his moustache dragged down below his chin. +Just at present he was engaged in noisily pulling a most unliterary pine +table from a dark corner to a place near the window. That accomplished, +an ostentatious hunt ensued, resulting in the triumphant flourish of +a feather duster. Several knocks at the table, and the dust of many +months--perhaps likewise of many dreams--ascended to a resting place +on the endorsement of Dr. Bunting's Kidney and Bladder Cure. He next +produced a short, straight-backed chair which she recognised as brother +to the one which used to stand behind their kitchen stove. He gave it a +shake, thus delicately indicating that she was receiving special favours +in this matter of an able-bodied chair, and then announced with brisk +satisfaction: “So! Now we are ready to begin.” She murmured a “Thank +you,” seated herself and her buried hopes in this chair which did not +whirl round, and leaned her arms upon a table which did not even dream +in mahogany. + +In the _other_ publishing house, one pushed buttons and uniformed +menials appeared--noiselessly, quickly and deferentially. At this +moment a boy with sandy hair brushed straight back in a manner +either statesmanlike or clownlike--things were too involved to know +which--shuffled in with an armful of yellow paper which he flopped down +on the pine table. After a minute he returned with a warbled “Take Me +Back to New York Town” and a paste-pot. And upon his third appearance he +was practising gymnastics with a huge pair of shears, which he finally +presented, grinningly. + +There was a long pause, broken only by the sonorous voice of Dr. Bunting +upbraiding someone for not having billed out that stuff to Apple Grove, +and then the sandy-haired boy appeared bearing a large dictionary, +followed by the man in the skull cap behind a dictionary of equal +unwieldiness. These were set down on either side of the yellow paper, +and he who was filling the position of cultivated gentleman pulled up a +chair, briskly. + +“Has Professor Lee explained to you the nature of our work?” he wanted +to know. + +“No,” she replied, half grimly, a little humourously, and not far from +tearfully, “he didn't--explain.” + +“Then it is my pleasure to inform you,” he began, blinking at her +importantly, “that we are engaged here in the making of a dictionary.” + +“A _dic--?_” but she swallowed the gasp in the laugh coming up to meet +it, and of their union was born a saving cough. + +“Quite an overpowering thought, is it not?” he agreed pleasantly. “Now +you see you have before you the two dictionaries you will use most, and +over in that case you will find other references. The main thing”--his +voice sank to an impressive whisper--“is _not_ to infringe the +copyright. The publisher was in yesterday and made a little talk to the +force, and he said that any one who handed in a piece of copy infringing +the copyright simply employed that means of writing his own resignation. +Neat way of putting it, was it not?” + +“Yes, _wasn't_ it--neat?” she agreed, wildly. + +She was conscious of a man's having stepped in behind her and taken a +seat at the table next hers. She heard him opening his dictionaries and +getting out his paper. Then the man in the skull cap had risen and +was saying genially: “Well, here is a piece of old Webster, your first +'take'--no copyright on this, you see, but you must modernise +and expand. Don't miss any of the good words in either of these +dictionaries. Here you have dictionaries, copy-paper, paste, and +Professor Lee assures me you have brains--all the necessary ingredients +for successful lexicography. We are to have some rules printed +to-morrow, and in the meantime I trust I've made myself clear. The main +thing”--he bent down and spoke it solemnly--“is _not_ to infringe the +copyright.” With a cheerful nod he was gone, and she heard him saying to +the man at the next table: “Mr. Clifford, I shall have to ask you to be +more careful about getting in promptly at eight.” + +She removed the cover from her paste-pot and dabbled a little on a piece +of paper. Then she tried the unwieldy shears on another piece of paper. +She then opened one of her dictionaries and read studiously for fifteen +minutes. That accomplished, she opened the other dictionary and pursued +it for twelve minutes. Then she took the column of “old Webster,” which +had been handed her pasted on a piece of yellow paper, and set about +attempting to commit it to memory. She looked up to be met with the +statement that Mrs. Marjory Van Luce De Vane, after spending years under +the so-called best surgeons of the country, had been cured in six +weeks by Dr. Bunting's Famous Kidney and Bladder Cure. She pushed the +dictionaries petulantly from her, and leaning her very red cheek +upon her hand, her hazel eyes blurred with tears of perplexity and +resentment, her mouth drawn in pathetic little lines of uncertainty, +looked over at the sprawling warehouse on the opposite side of Dearborn +Street. She was just considering the direct manner of writing one's +resignation--not knowing how to infringe the copyright--when a voice +said: “I beg pardon, but I wonder if I can help you any?” + +She had never heard a voice like that before. Or, _had_ she heard +it?--and where? She looked at him, a long, startled gaze. Something made +her think of the voice the prince used to have in long-ago dreams. She +looked into a face that was dark and thin and--different. Two very +dark eyes were looking at her kindly, and a mouth which was a baffling +combination of things to be loved and things to be deplored was +twitching a little, as though it would like to join the eyes in a smile, +if it dared. + +Because he saw both how funny and how hard it was, she liked him. It +would have been quite different had he seen either one without the +other. + +“You can tell me how _not_ to infringe the copyright,” she laughed. “I'm +not sure that I know what a copyright is.” + +He laughed--a laugh which belonged with his voice. “Mr. Littletree isn't +as lucid as he thinks he is. I've been here a week or so, and picked up +a few things you might like to know.” + +He pulled his chair closer to her table then and gave her a lesson in +the making of copy. Edna Willard was never one-half so attractive as +when absorbed in a thing which someone was showing her how to do. Her +hazel eyes would widen and glisten with the joy of comprehending; her +cheeks would flush a deeper pink with the coming of new light, her mouth +would part in a child-like way it had forgotten to outgrow, her head +would nod gleefully in token that she understood, and she had a way +of pulling at her wavy hair and making it more wavy than it had been +before. The man at the next table was a long time in explaining the +making of a dictionary. He spoke in low tones, often looking at the +figure of the man in the skull cap, who was sitting with his back to +them, looking over copy. Once she cried, excitedly: “Oh--I _see_!” and +he warned, “S--h!” explaining, “Let him think you got it all from him. +It will give you a better stand-in.” She nodded, appreciatively, and +felt very well acquainted with this kind man whose voice made her think +of something--called to something--she did not just know what. + +After that she became so absorbed in lexicography that when the men +began putting away their things it was hard to realise that the morning +had gone. It was a new and difficult game, the evasion of the copyright +furnishing the stimulus of a hazard. + +The man at the next table had been watching her with an amused +admiration. Her child-like absorption, the way every emotion from +perplexity to satisfaction expressed itself in the poise of her head and +the pucker of her face, took him back over years emotionally barren to +the time when he too had those easily stirred enthusiasms of youth. For +the man at the next table was far from young now. His mouth had never +quite parted with boyishness, but there was more white than black in his +hair, and the lines about his mouth told that time, as well as forces +more aging than time, had laid heavy hand upon him. But when he looked +at the girl and told her with a smile that it was time to stop work, +it was a smile and a voice to defy the most tell-tale face in all the +world. + +During her luncheon, as she watched the strange people coming and going, +she did much wondering. She wondered why it was that so many of the men +at the dictionary place were very old men; she wondered if it would be a +good dictionary--one that would be used in the schools; she wondered if +Dr. Bunting had made a great deal of money, and most of all she wondered +about the man at the next table whose voice was like--like a dream which +she did not know that she had dreamed. + +When she had returned to the straggling old building, had stumbled down +the narrow, dark hall and opened the door of the big bleak room, she saw +that the man at the next table was the only one who had returned from +luncheon. Something in his profile made her stand there very still. He +had not heard her come in, and he was looking straight ahead, eyes +half closed, mouth set--no unsurrendered boyishness there now. Wholly +unconsciously she took an impulsive step forward. But she stopped, for +she saw, and felt without really understanding, that it was not just +the moment's pain, but the revealed pain of years. Just then he began +to cough, and it seemed the cough, too, was more than of the moment. And +then he turned and saw her, and smiled, and the smile changed all. + +As the afternoon wore on the man stopped working and turning a little in +his chair sat there covertly watching the girl. She was just typically +girl. It was written that she had spent her days in the happy ways of +healthful girlhood. He supposed that a great many young fellows had +fallen in love with her--nice, clean young fellows, the kind she would +naturally meet. And then his eyes closed for a minute and he put up his +hand and brushed back his hair; there was weariness, weariness weary of +itself, in the gesture. He looked about the room and scanned the faces +of the men, most of them older than he, many of them men whose histories +were well known to him. They were the usual hangers on about newspaper +offices; men who, for one reason or other--age, dissipation, antiquated +methods--had been pitched over, men for whom such work as this came as +a godsend. They were the men of yesterday--men whom the world had rushed +past. She was the only one there, this girl who would probably sit here +beside him for many months, with whom the future had anything to do. +Youth!--Goodness!--Joy!--Hope!--strange things to bring to a place +like this. And as if their alienism disturbed him, he moved restlessly, +almost resentfully, bit his lips nervously, moistened them, and began +putting away his things. + +As the girl was starting home along Dearborn Street a few minutes later, +she chanced to look in a window. She saw that it was a saloon, but +before she could turn away she saw a man with a white face--white with +the peculiar whiteness of a dark face, standing before the bar drinking +from a small glass. She stood still, arrested by a look such as she had +never seen before: a panting human soul sobbingly fluttering down into +something from which it had spent all its force in trying to rise. +When she recalled herself and passed on, a mist which she could neither +account for nor banish was dimming the clear hazel of her eyes. + +The next day was a hard one at the dictionary place. She told herself +it was because the novelty of it was wearing away, because her fingers +ached, because it tired her back to sit in that horrid chair. She did +not admit of any connection between her flagging interest and the fact +that the place at the next table was vacant. + +The following day he was still absent. She assumed that it was +nervousness occasioned by her queer surroundings made her look around +whenever she heard a step behind her. Where was he? Where had that look +carried him? If he were in trouble, was there no one to help him? + +The third day she did an unpremeditated thing. The man in the skull cap +had been showing her something about the copy. As he was leaving, she +asked: “Is the man who sits at the next table coming back?” + +“Oh yes,” he replied grimly, “he'll be back.” + +“Because,” she went on, “if he wasn't, I thought I would take his +shears. These hurt my fingers.” + +He made the exchange for her--and after that things went better. + +He did return late the next morning. After he had taken his place +he looked over at her and smiled. He looked sick and shaken--as if +something that knew no mercy had taken hold of him and wrung body and +soul. + +“You have been ill?” she asked, with timid solicitude. + +“Oh no,” he replied, rather shortly. + +He was quiet all that day, but the next day they talked about the work, +laughed together over funny definitions they found. She felt that he +could tell many interesting things about himself, if he cared to. + +As the days went on he did tell some of those things--out of the way +places where he had worked, queer people whom he had known. It seemed +that words came to him as gifts, came freely, happily, pleased, perhaps, +to be borne by so sympathetic a voice. And there was another thing about +him. He seemed always to know just what she was trying to say; he never +missed the unexpressed. That made it easy to say things to him; there +seemed a certain at-homeness between his thought and hers. She accounted +for her interest in him by telling herself she had never known any one +like that before. Now Harold, the boy whom she knew best out at +the university, why one had to _say_ things to Harold to make him +understand! And Harold never left one wondering--wondering what he had +meant by that smile, what he had been going to say when he started to +say something and stopped, wondering what it was about his face that one +could not understand. Harold never could claim as his the hour after +he had left her, and was one ever close to anyone with whom one did not +spend some of the hours of absence? She began to see that hours spent +together when apart were the most intimate hours of all. + +And as Harold did not make one wonder, so he did not make one worry. +Never in all her life had there been a lump in her throat when she +thought of Harold. There was often a lump in her throat when the man at +the next table was coughing. + +One day, she had been there about two months, she said something to him +about it. It was hard; it seemed forcing one's way into a room that had +never been opened to one--there were several doors he kept closed. + +“Mr. Clifford,” she turned to him impetuously as they were putting away +their things that night, “will you mind if I say something to you?” + +He was covering his paste-pot. He looked up at her strangely. The +closed door seemed to open a little way. “I can't conceive of 'minding' +anything you might say to me, Miss Noah,”--he had called her Miss Noah +ever since she, by mistake, had one day called him Mr. Webster. + +“You see,” she hurried on, very timid, now that the door had opened a +little, “you have been so good to me. Because you have been so good to +me it seems that I have some right to--to--” + +His head was resting upon his hand, and he leaned a little closer as +though listening for something he wanted to hear. + +“I had a cousin who had a cough like yours,”--brave now that she could +not go back--“and he went down to New Mexico and stayed for a year, and +when he came back--when he came back he was as well as any of us. It +seems so foolish not to”--her voice broke, now that it had so valiantly +carried it--“not to--” + +He looked at her, and that was all. But she was never wholly the same +again after that look. It enveloped her being in a something which left +her richer--different. It was a look to light the dark place between two +human souls. It seemed for the moment that words would follow it, but +as if feeling their helplessness--perhaps needlessness--they sank back +unuttered, and at the last he got up, abruptly, and walked away. + +One night, while waiting for the elevator, she heard two of the men +talking about him. When she went out on the street it was with head +high, cheeks hot. For nothing is so hard to hear as that which one has +half known, and evaded. One never denies so hotly as in denying to one's +self what one fears is true, and one never resents so bitterly as in +resenting that which one cannot say one has the right to resent. + +That night she lay in her bed with wide open eyes, going over and over +the things they had said. “_Cure?_”--one of them had scoffed, after +telling how brilliant he had been before he “went to pieces”--“why all +the cures on earth couldn't help him! He can go just so far, and then +he can no more stop himself--oh, about as much as an ant could stop a +prairie fire!” + +She finally turned over on her pillow and sobbed; and she wondered +why--wondered, yet knew. + +But it resulted in the flowering of her tenderness for him. Interest +mounted to defiance. It ended in blind, passionate desire to “make it +up” to him. And again he was so different from Harold; Harold did not +impress himself upon one by upsetting all one's preconceived ideas. + +She felt now that she understood better--understood the closed doors. He +was--she could think of no better word than sensitive. + +And that is why, several mornings later, she very courageously--for +it did take courage--threw this little note over on his desk--they +had formed a habit of writing notes to each other, sometimes about the +words, sometimes about other things. + +“IN-VI-TA-TION, _n._ That which Miss Noah extends to Mr. Webster for +Friday evening, December second, at the house where she lives--hasn't +she already told him where that is? It is the wish of Miss Noah to +present Mr. Webster to various other Miss Noahs, all of whom are +desirous of making his acquaintance.” + +She was absurdly nervous at luncheon that day, and kept telling herself +with severity not to act like a high-school girl. He was late in +returning that noon, and though there seemed a new something in his +voice when he asked if he hadn't better sharpen her pencils, he said +nothing about her new definition of invitation. It was almost five +o'clock when he threw this over on her desk: + +“AP-PRE-CI-A-TION, _n._ That sentiment inspired in Mr. Webster by the +kind invitation of Miss Noah for Friday evening. + +“RE-GRET, _n._ That which Mr. Webster experiences because, for reasons +into which he cannot go in detail, it is impossible for him to accept +Miss Noah's invitation. + +“RE-SENT-MENT, _n._ That which is inspired in Mr. Webster by the +insinuation that there are other Miss Noahs in the world.” + +Then below he had written: “Three hours later. Miss Noah, the world is +queer. Some day you may find out--though I hope you never will--that it +is frequently the things we most want to do that we must leave undone. +Miss Noah, won't you go on bringing me as much of yourself as you can +to Dearborn Street, and try not to think much about my not being able +to know the Miss Noah of Hyde Park? And little Miss Noah--I thank you. +There aren't words enough in this old book of ours to tell you how +much--or why.” + +That night he hurried away with never a joke about how many words she +had written that day. She did not look up as he stood there putting on +his coat. + +It was spring now, and the dictionary staff had begun on W. + +They had written of Joy, of Hope and Life and Love, and many other +things. Life seemed pressing just behind some of those definitions, +pressing the harder, perhaps, because it could not break through the +surface. + +For it did not break through; it flooded just beneath. + +How did she know that he cared for her? She could not possibly have +told. Perhaps the nearest to actual proof she could bring was that he +always saw that her overshoes were put in a warm place. And when one +came down to facts, the putting of a girl's rubbers near the radiator +did not necessarily mean love. + +Perhaps then it was because there was no proof of it that she was most +sure. For some of the most sure things in the world are things which +cannot be proved. + +It was only that they worked together and were friends; that they +laughed together over funny definitions they found, that he was kind to +her, and that they seemed remarkably close together. + +That is as far as facts can take it. + +And just there--it begins. + +For the force which rushes beneath the facts of life, caring nothing for +conditions, not asking what one desires or what one thinks best, caring +as little about a past as about a future--save its own future--the force +which can laugh at man's institutions and batter over in one sweep what +he likes to call his wisdom, was sweeping them on. And because it could +get no other recognition it forced its way into the moments when he +asked her for an eraser, when she wanted to know how to spell a word. +He could not so much as ask her if she needed more copy-paper without +seeming to be lavishing upon her all the love of all the ages. + +And so the winter had worn on, and there was really nothing whatever to +tell about it. + +She was quiet this morning, and kept her head bent low over her work. +For she had estimated the number of pages there were between W and Z. +Soon they would be at Z;--and then? Then? Shyly she turned and looked +at him; he too was bent over his work. When she came in she had said +something about its being spring, and that there must be wild flowers in +the woods. Since then he had not looked up. + +Suddenly it came to her--tenderly, hotly, fearfully yet bravely, that it +was she who must meet Z. She looked at him again, covertly. And she +felt that she understood. It was the lines in his face made it clearest. +Years, and things blacker, less easily surmounted than years--oh yes, +that too she faced fearlessly--were piled in between. She knew now that +it was she--not he--who could push them aside. + +It was all very unmaidenly, of course; but maidenly is a word love and +life and desire may crowd from the page. + +Perhaps she would not have thrown it after all--the little note she had +written--had it not been that when she went over for more copy-paper she +stood for a minute looking out the window. Even on Dearborn Street the +seductiveness of spring was in the air. Spring, and all that spring +meant, filled her. + +Because, way beyond the voice of Dr. Bunting she heard the songs of +far-away birds, and because beneath the rumble of a printing press she +could get the babble of a brook, because Z was near and life was strong, +the woman vanquished the girl, and she threw this over to his desk: + +“CHAFING-DISH, n. That out of which Miss Noah asks Mr. Webster to eat +his Sunday night lunch tomorrow. All the other Miss Noahs are going to +be away, and if Mr. Webster does not come, Miss Noah will be all alone. +Miss Noah does not like to be lonely.” + +She ate no lunch that day; she only drank a cup of coffee and walked +around. + +He did not come back that afternoon. It passed from one to two, from two +to three, and then very slowly from three to four, and still he had not +come. + +He too was walking about. He had walked down to the lake and was +standing there looking out across it. + +Why not?--he was saying to himself--fiercely, doggedly. Over and over +again--Well, _why_ not? + +A hundred nights, alone in his room, he had gone over it. Had not life +used him hard enough to give him a little now?--longing had pleaded. +And now there was a new voice--more prevailing voice--the voice of her +happiness. His face softened to an almost maternal tenderness as he +listened to that voice. + +Too worn to fight any longer, he gave himself up to it, and sat there +dreaming. They were dreams of joy rushing in after lonely years, dreams +of stepping into the sunlight after long days in fog and cold, dreams +of a woman before a fireplace--her arms about him, her cheer and her +tenderness, her comradeship and her passion--all his to take! Ah, dreams +which even thoughts must not touch--so wonderful and sacred they were. + +A long time he sat there, dreaming dreams and seeing visions. The force +that rules the race was telling him that the one crime was the denial +of happiness--his happiness, her happiness; and when at last his fight +seemed but a puerile fight against forces worlds mightier than he, he +rose, and as one who sees a great light, started back toward Dearborn +Street. + +On the way he began to cough. The coughing was violent, and he stepped +into a doorway to gain breath. And after he had gone in there he +realised that it was the building of Chicago's greatest newspaper. + +He had been city editor of that paper once. Facts, the things he knew +about himself, talked to him then. There was no answer. + +It left him weak and dizzy and crazy for a drink. He walked on slowly, +unsteadily, his white face set. For he had vowed that if it took the +last nerve in his body there should be no more of that until after they +had finished with Z. He knew himself too well to vow more. He was not +even sure of that. + +He did not turn in where he wanted to go, but resistance took the last +bit of force that was in him. He was trembling like a sick man when he +stepped into the elevator. + +She was just leaving. She was in the little cloak room putting on her +things. She was all alone in there. + +He stepped in. He pushed the door shut, and stood there leaning against +it, looking at her, saying nothing. + +“Oh--you are ill?” she gasped, and laid a frightened hand upon him. + +The touch crazed him. All resistance gone, he swept her into his arms; +he held her fiercely, and between sobs kissed her again and again. He +could not let her go. He frightened her. He hurt her. And he did not +care--he did not know. + +Then he held her off and looked at her. And as he looked into her eyes, +passion melted to tenderness. It was she now--not he; love--not +hunger. Holding her face in his two hands, looking at her as if getting +something to take away, his white lips murmured words too inarticulate +for her to hear. And then again he put his arms around her--all +differently. Reverently, sobbingly, he kissed her hair. And then he was +gone. + +He did not come out that Sunday afternoon, but Harold dropped in +instead, and talked of some athletic affairs over at the university. She +wondered why she did not go crazy in listening to him, and yet she could +answer intelligently. It was queer--what one _could_ do. + +They had come at last to Z. There would be no more work upon the +dictionary after that day. And it was raining--raining as in Chicago +alone it knows how to rain. + +They wrote no notes to each other now. It had been different since that +day. They made small effort to cover their raw souls with the mantle of +commonplace words. + +Both of them had tried to stay away that last day. But both were in +their usual places. + +The day wore on eventlessly. Those men with whom she had worked, the +men of yesterday, who had been kind to her, came up at various times for +little farewell chats. The man in the skull cap told her that she had +done excellent work. She was surprised at the ease with which she could +make decent reply, thinking again that it was queer--what one could do. + +He was moving. She saw him lay some sheets of yellow paper on the desk +in front. He had finished with his “take.” There would not be another to +give him. He would go now. + +He came back to his desk. She could hear him putting away his things. +And then for a long time there was no sound. She knew that he was just +sitting there in his chair. + +Then she heard him get up. She heard him push his chair up to the table, +and then for a minute he stood there. She wanted to turn toward him; she +wanted to say something--do something. But she had no power. + +She saw him lay an envelope upon her desk. She heard him walking away. +She knew, numbly, that his footsteps were not steady. She knew that he +had stopped; she was sure that he was looking back. But still she had no +power. + +And then she heard him go. + +Even then she went on with her work; she finished her “take” and +laid down her pencil. It was finished now--and he had gone. +Finished?--_Gone?_ She was tearing open the envelope of the letter. + +This was what she read: + +“Little dictionary sprite, sunshine vender, and girl to be loved, if I +were a free man I would say to you--Come, little one, and let us learn +of love. Let us learn of it, not as one learns from dictionaries, but +let us learn from the morning glow and the evening shades. But Miss +Noah, maker of dictionaries and creeper into hearts, the bound must not +call to the free. They might fittingly have used my name as one of the +synonyms under that word Failure, but I trust not under Coward. + +“And now, you funny little Miss Noah from the University of Chicago, +don't I know that your heart is blazing forth the assurance that +you don't _care_ for any of those things--the world, people, common +sense--that you want just love? They made a grand failure of you out at +your university; they taught you philosophy and they taught you Greek, +and they've left you just as much the woman as women were five thousand +years ago. Oh, I know all about you--you little girl whose hair tried +so hard to be red. Your soul touched mine as we sat there writing +words--words--words, the very words in which men try to tell things, and +can't--and I know all about what you would do. But you shall not do +it. Dear little copy maker, would a man standing out on the end of a +slippery plank have any right to cry to someone on the shore--'Come out +here on this plank with me?' If he loved the someone on the shore, +would he not say instead--'Don't get on this plank?' Me get off the +plank--come with you to the shore--you are saying? But you see, dear, +you only know slippery planks as viewed from the shore--God grant you +may never know them any other way! + +“It was you, was it not, who wrote our definition of happiness? Yes, I +remember the day you did it. You were so interested; your cheeks grew so +very red, and you pulled and pulled at your wavy hair. You said it was +such an important definition. And so it is, Miss Noah, quite the most +important of all. And on the page of life, Miss Noah, may happiness be +written large and unblurred for you. It is because I cannot help you +write it that I turn away. I want at least to leave the page unspoiled. + +“I carry a picture of you. I shall carry it always. You are sitting +before a fireplace, and I think of that fireplace as symbolising the +warmth and care and tenderness and the safety that will surround you. +And sometimes as you sit there let a thought of me come for just a +minute, Miss Noah--not long enough nor deep enough to bring you any +pain. But only think--I brought him happiness after he believed all +happiness had gone. He was so grateful for that light which came after +he thought the darkness had settled down. It will light his way to the +end. + +“We've come to Z, and it's good-bye. There is one thing I can give you +without hurting you,--the hope, the prayer, that life may be very, very +good to you.” + +The sheets of paper fell from her hands. She sat staring out into +Dearborn Street. She began to see. After all, he had not understood her. +Perhaps men never understood women; certainly he had not understood +her. What he did not know was that she was willing to _pay_ for her +happiness--_pay_--pay any price that might be exacted. And anyway--she +had no choice. Strange that he could not see that! Strange that he could +not see the irony and cruelty of bidding her good-bye and then telling +her to be happy! + +It simplified itself to such an extent that she _grew_ very calm. It +would be easy to find him, easy to make him see--for it was so very +simple--and then.... + +She turned in her copy. She said good-bye quietly, naturally, rode down +in the lumbering old elevator and started out into the now drenching +rain toward the elevated trains which would take her to the West Side; +it was so fortunate that she had heard him telling one day where he +lived. + +When she reached the station she saw that more people were coming down +the stairs than were going up. They were saying things about the trains, +but she did not heed them. But at the top of the stairs a man in uniform +said: “Blockade, Miss. You'll have to take the surface cars.” + +She was sorry, for it would delay her, and there was not a minute to +lose. She was dismayed, upon reaching the surface cars, to find she +could not get near them; the rain, the blockade on the “L” had caused +a great crowd to congregate there. She waited a long time, getting more +and more wet, but it was impossible to get near the cars. She thought +of a cab, but could see none, they too having all been pressed into +service. + +She determined, desperately, to start and walk. Soon she would surely +get either a cab or a car. And so she started, staunchly, though she was +wet through now, and trembling with cold and nervousness. + +As she hurried through the driving rain she faced things fearlessly. Oh +yes, she understood--everything. But if he were not well--should he not +have her with him? If he had that thing to fight, did he not need her +help? What did men think women were like? Did he think she was one to +sit down and reason out what would be advantageous? Better a little +while with him on a slippery plank than forever safe and desolate upon +the shore! + +She never questioned her going; were not life and love too great to be +lost through that which could be so easily put right? + +The buildings were reeling, the streets moving up and down--that +awful rain, she thought, was making her dizzy. Labouriously she walked +on--more slowly, less steadily, a pain in her side, that awful reeling +in her head. + +Carriages returning to the city were passing her, but she had not +strength to call to them, and it seemed if she walked to the curbing she +would fall. She was not thinking so clearly now. The thing which took +all of her force was the lifting of her feet and the putting them +down in the right place. Her throat seemed to be closing up--and her +side--and her head.... + +Someone had her by the arm. Then someone was speaking her name; speaking +it in surprise--consternation--alarm. + +It was Harold. + +It was all vague then. She knew that she was in a carriage, and +that Harold was talking to her kindly. “You're taking me there?” she +murmured. + +“Yes--yes, Edna, everything's all right,” he replied soothingly. + +“Everything's all right,” she repeated, in a whisper, and leaned her +head back against the cushions. + +They stopped after a while, and Harold was standing at the open door +of the cab with something steaming hot which he told her to drink. “You +need it,” he said decisively, and thinking it would help her to tell it, +she drank it down. + +The world was a little more defined after that, and she saw things which +puzzled her. “Why, it looks like the city,” she whispered, her throat +too sore now to speak aloud. + +“Why sure,” he replied banteringly; “don't you know we have to go +through the city to get out to the South Side?” + +“Oh, but you see,” she cried, holding her throat, “but you see, it's the +_other_ way!” + +“Not to-night,” he insisted; “the place for you to-night is home. I'm +taking you where you belong.” + +She reached over wildly, trying to open the door, but he held her back; +she began to cry, and he talked to her, gently but unbendingly. “But you +don't _understand!_” she whispered, passionately. “I've _got_ to go!” + +“Not to-night,” he said again, and something in the way he said it made +her finally huddle back in the corner of the carriage. + +Block after block, mile after mile, they rode on in silence. She felt +overpowered. And with submission she knew that it was Z. For the +whole city was piled in between. Great buildings were in between, and +thousands of men running to and fro on the streets; man, and all man +had builded up, were in between. And then Harold--Harold who had always +seemed to count for so little, had come and taken her away. + +Dully, wretchedly--knowing that her heart would ache far worse to-morrow +than it did to-night--she wondered about things. Did things like rain +and street-cars and wet feet and a sore throat determine life? Was it +that way with other people, too? Did other people have barriers--whole +cities full of them--piled in between? And then did the Harolds come and +take them where they said they belonged? Were there not _some_ people +strong enough to go where they wanted to go? + + + + +VI + +THE MAN OF FLESH AND BLOOD + + +The elements without were not in harmony with the spirit which it was +desired should be engendered within. By music, by gay decorations, +by speeches from prominent men, the board in charge of the boys' +reformatory was striving to throw about this dedication of the new +building an atmosphere of cheerfulness and good-will--an atmosphere +vibrant with the kindness and generosity which emanated from the State, +and the thankfulness and loyalty which it was felt should emanate from +the boys. + +Outside the world was sobbing. Some young trees which had been planted +along the driveway of the reformatory grounds, and which were expected +to grow up in the way they should go, were rocking back and forth in +passionate insurrection. Fallen leaves were being spit viciously through +the air. It was a sullen-looking landscape which Philip Grayson, he who +was to be the last speaker of the afternoon, saw stretching itself down +the hill, across the little valley, and up another little hill of that +rolling prairie state. In his ears was the death wail of the summer. +It seemed the spirit of out-of-doors was sending itself up in mournful, +hopeless cries. + +The speaker who had been delivering himself of pedantic encouragement +about the open arms with which the world stood ready to receive the most +degraded one, would that degraded one but come to the world in proper +spirit, sat down amid perfunctory applause led by the officers +and attendants of the institution, and the boys rose to sing. The +brightening of their faces told that their work as performers was more +to their liking than their position as auditors. They threw back their +heads and waited with well-disciplined eagerness for the signal to +begin. Then, with the strength and native music there are in some three +hundred boys' throats, there rolled out the words of the song of the +State. + +There were lips which opened only because they must, but as a whole +they sang with the same heartiness, the same joy in singing, that he +had heard a crowd of public-school boys put into the song only the week +before. When the last word had died away it seemed to Philip Grayson +that the sigh of the world without was giving voice to the sigh of the +world within as the well-behaved crowd of boys sat down to resume their +duties as auditors. + +And then one of the most important of the professors from the State +University was telling them about the kindness of the State: the State +had provided for them this beautiful home; it gave them comfortable +clothing and nutritious food; it furnished that fine gymnasium in which +to train their bodies, books and teachers to train their minds; +it provided those fitted to train their souls, to work against the +unfortunate tendencies--the professor stumbled a little there--which had +led to their coming. The State gave liberally, gladly, and in return it +asked but one thing: that they come out into the world and make useful, +upright citizens, citizens of which any State might be proud. Was that +asking too much? the professor from the State University was saying. + +The sobbing of the world without was growing more intense. Many pairs of +eyes from among the auditors were straying out to where the summer +lay dying. Did they know--those boys whom the State classed as +unfortunates--that out of this death there would come again life? Or did +they see but the darkness--the decay--of to-day? + +The professor from the State University was putting the case very +fairly. There were no flaws--seemingly--to be picked in his logic. The +State had been kind; the boys were obligated to good citizenship. +But the coldness!--comfortlessness!--of it all. The open arms of the +world!--how mocking in its abstractness. What did it mean? Did it mean +that they--the men who uttered the phrase so easily--would be willing to +give these boys aid, friendship when they came out into the world? What +would they say, those boys whose ears were filled with high-sounding, +non-committal phrases, if some man were to stand before them and say, +“And so, fellows, when you get away from this place, and are ready to +get your start in the world, just come around to my office and I'll help +you get a job?” At thought of it there came from Philip Grayson a queer, +partly audible laugh, which caused those nearest him to look his way in +surprise. + +But he was all unconscious of their looks of inquiry, absorbed in the +thoughts that crowded upon him. How far away the world--his kind of +people--must seem to these boys of the State Reform School. The speeches +they had heard, the training that had been given them, had taught +them--unconsciously perhaps, but surely--to divide the world into two +great classes: the lucky and the unlucky, those who made speeches +and those who must listen, the so-called good and the so-called bad; +perhaps--he smiled a little at his own cynicism--those who were caught +and those who were not. + +There came to him these words of a poet of whom he used to be fond: + + In men whom men pronounce as ill, + I find so much of goodness still; + In men whom men pronounce divine, + I find so much of sin and blot; + I hesitate to draw the line + Between the two, when God has not. + +When God has not! He turned and looked out at the sullen sky, +returning--as most men do at times--to that conception of his childhood +that somewhere beyond the clouds was God. God! Did God care for the boys +of the State Reformatory? Was that poet of the western mountains right +when he said that God was not a drawer of lines, but a seer of the good +that was in the so-called bad, and of the bad in the so-called good, and +a lover of them both? + +If that was God, it was not the God the boys of the reformatory had been +taught to know. They had been told that God would forgive the +wicked, but it had been made clear to them--if not in words, in +implications--that it was they who were the wicked. And the so-called +godly men, men of such exemplary character as had been chosen to address +them that afternoon, had so much of the spirit of God that they, too, +were willing to forgive, be tolerant, and--he looked out at the bending +trees with a smile--disburse generalities about the open arms of the +world. + +What would they think--those three hundred speech-tired boys--if some +man who had been held before them as exemplary were to rise and lay bare +his own life--its weaknesses, its faults, perhaps its crimes--and tell +them there was weakness and there was strength in every human being, and +that the world-old struggle of life was to overcome one's weakness with +one's strength. + +The idea took strange hold on him. It seemed the method of the world--at +any rate it had been the method of that afternoon--for the men who stood +before their fellows with clean hands to plant themselves on the far +side of a chasm of conventions, or narrow self-esteem, or easily won +virtue, and cry to those beings who struggled on the other side of that +chasm--to those human beings whose souls had never gone to school: “Look +at us! Our hands are clean, our hearts are pure. See how beautiful it +is to be good! Come ye, poor sinners, and be good also.” And the poor +sinners, the untaught, birthmarked human souls, would look over at the +self-acclaimed goodness they could see far across the chasm, and even +though attracted to it (which, he grimly reflected, would not seem +likely) the thing that was left with them was a sense of the width of +the chasm. + +He had a sense of needless waste, of unnecessary blight. He looked down +at those three hundred faces and it was as if looking at human waste; +and it was human stupidity, human complacency and cowardice kept those +human beings human drift. + +With what a smug self-satisfaction--under the mask of benevolence--the +speakers of that afternoon had flaunted their virtue--their position! +How condescendingly they had spoken of the home which we, the good, +prepare for you, the bad, and what namby-pambyness there was, after all, +in that sentiment which all of them had voiced--and now you must pay us +back by being good! + +Oh for a man of flesh and blood to stand up and tell how he himself had +failed and suffered! For a man who could bridge that chasm with strong, +broad, human understanding and human sympathies--a man who would stand +among them pulse-beat to pulse-beat and cry out, “I know! I understand! +I fought it and I'll help you fight it too!” + +The sound of his own name broke the spell that was upon him. He looked +to the centre of the stage and saw that the professor from the State +University had seated himself and that the superintendent of +the institution was occupying the place of the speaker. And the +superintendent was saying: + +“We may esteem ourselves especially fortunate in having him with us this +afternoon. He is one of the great men of the State, one of the men +who by high living, by integrity and industry, has raised himself to a +position of great honour among his fellow men. A great party--may I say +the greatest of all parties?--has shown its unbounded confidence in him +by giving him the nomination for the governorship of the State. No man +in the State is held in higher esteem to-day than he. And so it is with +special pleasure that I introduce to you that man of the future--Philip +Grayson.” + +The superintendent sat down then, and he himself--Philip Grayson--was +standing in the place where the other speakers had stood. It was with +a rush which almost swept away his outward show of calm that it came to +him that he--candidate for the governorship--was well fitted to be +that man of flesh and blood for whom he had sighed. That he himself was +within grasp of an opportunity to get beneath the jackets and into the +very hearts and souls of those boys, and make them feel that a man of +sins and virtues, of weaknesses and strength, a man who had had much to +conquer, and for whom the fight would never be finally won, was standing +before them stripped of his coat of conventions and platitudes, and in +nakedness of soul and sincerity of heart was talking to them as a man +who understood. + +Almost with the inception of the idea was born the consciousness of what +it might cost. And as in answer to the silent, blunt question, Is it +worth it? there looked up at him three hundred pairs of eyes--eyes +behind which there was good as well as bad, eyes which had burned with +the fatal rush of passion, and had burned, too, with the hot tears of +remorse--eyes which had opened on a hostile world. + +And then the eyes of Philip Grayson could not see the eyes which were +before him, and he put up his hand to break the mist--little caring +what the men upon the platform would think of him, little thinking what +effect the words which were crowding into his heart would have upon his +candidacy. But one thing was vital to him now: to bring upon that ugly +chasm the levelling forces of a common humanity, and to make those boys +who were of his clay feel that a being who had fallen and risen again, +a fellow being for whom life would always mean a falling and a rising +again, was standing before them, and--not as the embodiment of a distant +goodness, not as a pattern, but as one among them, verily as man to +man--was telling them a few things which his own life had taught him +were true. + +It was his very consecration which made it hard to begin. He was fearful +of estranging them in the beginning, of putting between them and him +that very thing he was determined there should not be. + +“I have a strange feeling,” he said, with a winning little smile, “that +if I were to open my heart to-day, just open it clear up the way I'd +like to if I could, that you boys would look into it, and then jump back +in a scared kind of way and cry, 'Why--that's me!' You would be a little +surprised--wouldn't you?--if you could look back and see the kind of boy +I was, and find I was much the kind of boy you are? + +“Do you know what I think? I think hypocrisy is the worst thing in the +world. I think it's worse than stealing, or lying, or any of the other +bad things you can name. And do you know where I think lots of the +hypocrisy comes from? I think it comes from the so-called self-made +men--from the real good men, the men who say 'I haven't got one bad +thing charged up to my account.' + +“Now the men out campaigning for me call me a self-made man. Your +superintendent just now spoke of my integrity, of the confidence reposed +in me, and all that. But do you know what is the honest truth? If I am +any kind of a man worth mentioning, if I am deserving of any honour, any +confidence, it is not because I was born with my heart filled with good +and beautiful things, for I was not. It is because I was born with much +in my heart that we call the bad, and because, after that bad had grown +stronger and stronger through the years it was unchecked, and after it +had brought me the great shock, the great sorrow of my life, I began +then, when older than you boys are now, to see a little of that great +truth which you can put briefly in these words: 'There is good and there +is bad in every human heart, and it is the struggle of life to conquer +the bad with the good.' What I am trying to say is, that if I am worthy +any one's confidence to-day, it is because, having seen that truth, I +have been able, through never ceasing trying, through slow conquering, +to crowd out some of the bad and make room for a little of the good. + +“You see,” he went on, three hundred pairs of eyes hard upon him now, +“some of us are born to a harder struggle than others. There are people +who would object to my saying that to you, even if I believed it. They +would say you would make the fact of being born with much against which +to struggle an excuse for being bad. But look here a minute; if you were +born with a body not as strong as other boys' bodies, if you couldn't +run as far, or jump as high, you wouldn't be eternally saying, 'I can't +be expected to do much; I wasn't born right.' Not a bit of it! You'd +make it your business to get as strong as you could, and you wouldn't +make any parade of the fact that you weren't as strong as you should be. +We don't like people who whine, whether it's about weak bodies or weak +souls. + +“I've been sitting here this afternoon wondering what to say to you +boys. I had intended telling some funny stories about things which +happened to me when I was a boy. But for some reason a serious mood has +come over me, and I don't feel just like those stories now. I haven't +been thinking of the funny side of life in the last half-hour. I've been +thinking of how much suffering I've endured since the days when I, too, +was a boy.” + +He paused then; and when he went on his voice tested to the utmost the +silence of the room: “There is lots of sorrow in this old world. Maybe +I'm on the wrong track, but as I see it to-day human beings are making +a much harder thing of their existence than there is any need of. There +are millions and millions of them, and year after year, generation after +generation, they fight over the same old battles, live through the same +old sorrows. Doesn't it seem all wrong that after the battle has been +fought a million times it can't be made a little easier for those who +still have it before them? + +“If a farmer had gone over a bad road, and the next day saw another +farmer about to start over the same road, wouldn't he send him back? +Doesn't it seem too bad that in things which concern one's whole life +people can't be as decent as they are about things which involve only an +inconvenience? Doesn't it seem that when we human beings have so much in +common we might stand together a little better? I'll tell you what's the +matter. Most of the people of this world are coated round and round with +self-esteem, and they're afraid to admit any understanding of the things +which aren't good. Suppose the farmer had thought it a disgrace to admit +he had been over that road, and so had said: 'From what I have read in +books, and from what I have learned in a general way, I fancy that road +isn't good.' Would the other farmer have gone back? I rather think he +would have said he'd take his chances. But you see the farmer said +he _knew_; and how did he know? Why, because he'd been over the road +himself.” + +As he paused again, looking at them, he saw it all with a clarifying +simplicity. He himself knew life for a fine and beautiful thing. He had +won for himself some of the satisfactions of understanding, certain rare +delights of the open spirit. He wanted to free the spirits of these +boys to whom he talked; wanted to show them that spirits could free +themselves, indicate to them that self-control and self-development +carried one to pleasures which sordid self-indulgences had no power to +bestow. It was a question of getting the most from life. It was a matter +of happiness. + +It was thus he began, slowly, the telling of his life's story: + +“I was born with strange, wild passions in my heart. I don't know where +they came from; I only know they were there. I resented authority. If +someone who had a right to dictate to me said, 'Philip, do this,' then +Philip would immediately begin to think how much he would rather do the +other thing. And,” he smiled a little, and some of the boys smiled with +him in anticipation, “it was the other thing which Philip usually did. + +“I didn't go to a reform school, for the very good reason that there +wasn't any in the State where I lived.” Some of he boys smiled again, +and he could hear the nervous coughing of one of the party managers +sitting close to him. “I was what you would call a very bad boy. I +didn't mind any one. I was defiant--insolent. I did bad things +just because I knew they were bad, and--and I took a great deal of +satisfaction out of it.” + +The sighing of the world without was the only sound which vibrated +through the room. “I say,” he went on, “that I got a form of +satisfaction from it. I did not say I got happiness; there is a vast +difference between a kind of momentary satisfaction and that thing--that +most precious of all things--which we call happiness. Indeed, I was very +far from happy. I had hours when I was so morose and miserable that I +hated the whole world. And do you know what I thought? I thought there +was no one in all the world who had the same kind of things surging up +in his heart that I did. I thought there was no one else with whom it +was as easy to be bad, or as hard to be good. I thought that no one +understood. I thought that I was all alone. + +“Did you ever feel like that? Did you ever feel that no one else knew +anything about such feelings as you had? Did you ever feel that here was +you, and there was the rest of the world, and that the rest of the world +didn't know anything about you, and was just generally down on you? Now +that's the very thing I want to talk away from you to-day. You're not +the only one. We're all made of the same kind of stuff, and there's none +of us made of stuff that's flawless. We all have a fight; some an easy +one, and some a big one, and if you have formed the idea that there is +a kind of dividing-line in the world, and that on the one side is the +good, and on the other side the bad, why, all I can say is that you have +a wrong notion of things. + +“Well, I grew up to be a man, and because I hadn't fought against any of +the stormy things in my heart they kept growing stronger and stronger. I +did lots of wild, ugly things, things of which I am bitterly ashamed. +I went to another place, and I fell in with the kind of fellows you can +imagine I felt at home with. I had been told when I was a boy that it +was wrong to drink and gamble. I think that was the chief reason I took +to drink and gambling.” + +There was another cough, more pronounced this time, from the party +manager, and the superintendent was twisting uneasily in his seat. +It was the strangest speech that had ever been delivered at the boys' +reformatory. The boys were leaning forward--self-forgetful, intent. “One +night I was playing cards with a crowd of my friends, and one of the +men, the best friend I had, said something that made me mad. There was a +revolver right there which one of the men had been showing us. Some kind +of a demon got hold of me, and without so much as a thought I picked up +that revolver and fired at my friend.” + +The party manager gave way to an exclamation of horror, and the +superintendent half rose from his seat. But before any one could say +a word Philip Grayson continued, looking at the half-frightened faces +before him: “I suppose you wonder why I am not in the penitentiary. I +had been drinking, and I missed my aim; and I was with friends, and it +was hushed up.” + +He rested his hand upon the table, and looked out at the sullen +landscape. His voice was not steady as he went on: “It's not an easy +thing to talk about, boys. I never talked about it to any one before in +all my life. I'm not telling it now just to entertain you or to create +a sensation. I'm telling it,” his voice grew tense in its earnestness, +“because I believe that this world could be made a better and a sweeter +place if those who have lived and suffered would not be afraid to reach +out their hands and cry: 'I know that road--it's bad! I steered off to a +better place, and I'll help you steer off, too.'” + +There was not one of the three hundred pairs of eyes but was riveted +upon the speaker's colourless face. The masks of sullenness and defiance +had fallen from them. They were listening now--not because they must, +but because into their hungry and thirsty souls was being poured the +very sustenance for which--unknowingly--they had yearned. + +“We sometimes hear people say,” resumed the candidate for Governor, +“that they have lived through hell. If by that they mean they've lived +through the deepest torments the human heart can know, then I can say +that I, too, have lived through hell. What I suffered after I went home +that night no one in this world will ever know. Words couldn't tell it; +it's not the kind of thing words can come anywhere near. My whole life +spread itself out before me; it was not a pleasant thing to look at. But +at last, boys, out of the depths of my darkness, I began to get a little +light. I began to get some understanding of the battle which it falls +to the lot of some of us human beings to wage. There was good in me, +you see, or I wouldn't have cared like that, and it came to me then, all +alone that terrible night, that it is the good which lies buried away +somewhere in our hearts must fight out the bad. And so--all alone, +boys--I began the battle of trying to get command of my own life. And do +you know--this is the truth--it was with the beginning of that battle I +got my first taste of happiness. There is no finer feeling in this world +than the sense of coming into mastery of one's self. It is like opening +a door that has shut you in. Oh, you don't do it all in a minute. This +is no miracle I'm talking about. It's a fight. But it's a fight that can +be won. It's a fight that's gloriously worth the winning. I'm not saying +to you, 'Be good and you'll succeed.' Maybe you won't succeed. Life +as we've arranged it for ourselves makes success a pretty tough +proposition. But that doesn't alter the fact that it pays to be a decent +sort. You and I know about how much happiness there is in the other kind +of thing. And there is happiness in feeling you're doing what you can to +develop what's in you. Success or failure, it brings a sense of having +done your part,--that bully sense of having put up the best fight you +could.” + +He leaned upon the table then, as though very weary. “I don't know, I am +sure, what the people of my State will think of all this. Perhaps they +won't want a man for their Governor who once tried to kill another man. +But,” he looked around at them with that smile of his which got straight +to men's hearts, “there's only one of me, and there are three hundred +of you, and how do I know but that in telling you of that stretch of bad +road ahead I've made a dozen Governors this very afternoon!” + +He looked from row to row of them, trying to think of some last word +which would leave them with a sense of his sincerity. What he did say +was: “And so, boys, when you get away from here, and go out into the +world to get your start, if you find the arms of that world aren't quite +as wide open as you were told they would be, if there seems no place +where you can get a hold, and you are saying to yourself, 'It's no +use--I'll not try,' before you give up just remember there was one man +who said he knew all about it, and give that one man a chance to show +he meant what he said. So look me up, if luck goes all against you, and +maybe I can give you a little lift.” He took a backward step, as though +to resume his seat, and then he said, with a dry little smile which took +any suggestion of heroics from what had gone before, “If I'm not at the +State-house, you'll find my name in the directory of the city where your +programme tells you I live.” + +He sat down, and for a moment there was silence. Then, full-souled, +heart-given, came the applause. It was not led by the attendants this +time; it was the attendants who rose at last to stop it. And when the +clapping of the hands had ceased, many of those hands were raised to +eyes which had long been dry. + +The exercises were drawn to a speedy close, and he found the party +manager standing by his side. “It was very grand,” he sneered, “very +high-sounding and heroic, but I suppose you know,” jerking his hand +angrily toward a table where a reporter for the leading paper of the +opposition was writing, “that you've given them the winning card.” + +As he replied, in far-off tone, “I hope so,” the candidate for Governor +was looking, not at the reporter who was sending out a new cry for +the opposition, but into those faces aglow with the light of new +understanding and new-born hopes. He stood there watching them filing +out into the corridor, craning their necks to throw him a last look, +and as he turned then and looked from the window it was to see that +the storm had sobbed itself away, and that along the driveway of the +reformatory grounds the young trees--unbroken and unhurt--were rearing +their heads in the way they should go. + + + + +VII + +HOW THE PRINCE SAW AMERICA + + +They began work at seven-thirty, and at ten minutes past eight every +hammer stopped. In the Senate Chamber and in the House, on the stairways +and in the corridors, in every office from the Governor's to the +custodian's they laid down their implements and rose to their feet. A +long whistle had sounded through the building. There was magic in its +note. + +“What's the matter with you fellows?” asked the attorney-general, +swinging around in his chair. + +“Strike,” declared one of the men, with becoming brevity. + +“Strike of what?” + +“Carpet-Tackers' Union Number One,” replied the man, kindly gathering up +a few tacks. + +“Never heard of it.” + +“Organised last night,” said the carpet-tacker, putting on his coat. + +“Well I'll--” he paused expressively, then inquired: “What's your game?” + +“Well, you see, boss, this executive council that runs the State-house +has refused our demands.” + +“What are your demands?” + +“Double pay.” + +“Double pay! Now how do you figure it out that you ought to have double +pay?” + +“Rush work. You see we were under oath, or pretty near that, to get +every carpet in the State-house down by four o'clock this afternoon. Now +you know yourself that rush work is hard on the nerves. Did you ever get +rush work done at a laundry and not pay more for it? We was anxious as +anybody to get the Capitol in shape for the big show this afternoon. But +there's reason in all things.” + +“Yes,” agreed his auditor, “there is.” + +The man looked at him a little doubtfully. “Our president--we elected +Johnny McGuire president last night--went to the Governor this morning +with our demands.” + +The Governor's fellow official smiled--he knew the Governor pretty well. +“And he turned you down?” + +The striker nodded. “But there's an election next fall; maybe the +turning down will be turned around.” + +“Maybe so--you never can tell. I don't know just what power +Carpet-Tackers' Union Number One will wield, but the Governor's pretty +solid, you know, with Labour as a whole.” + +That was true, and went home. The striker rubbed his foot uncertainly +across the floor, and took courage from its splinters. “Well, there's +one thing sure. When Prince Ludwig and his train-load of big guns show +up at four o'clock this afternoon they'll find bare floors, and pretty +bum bare floors, on deck at this place.” + +The attorney-general rubbed his own foot across the splintered, +miserable boards. “They are pretty bum,” he reflected. “I wonder,” he +added, as the man was half-way out of the door, “what Prince Ludwig will +think of the American working-man when he arrives this afternoon?” + +“Just about as much,” retorted the not-to-be-downed carpet-tacker, “as +he does about American generosity. And he may think a few things,” he +added weightily, “about American independence.” + +“Oh, he's sure to do that,” agreed the attorney-general. + +He joined the crowd in the corridor. They were swarming out from all +the offices, all talking of the one thing. “It was a straight case of +hold-up,” declared the Governor's secretary. “They supposed they had us +on the hip. They were getting extra money as it was, but you see they +just figured it out we'd pay anything rather than have these wretched +floors for the reception this afternoon. They thought the Governor would +argue the question, and then give in, or, at any rate, compromise. They +never intended for one minute that the Prince should find bare floors +here. And I rather think,” he concluded, “that they feel a little done +up about it themselves.” + +“What's the situation?” asked a stranger within the gates. + +“It's like this,” a newspaper reporter told him; “about a month ago +there was a fire here and the walls and carpets were pretty well knocked +out with smoke and water. The carpets were mean old things anyway, +so they voted new ones. And I want to tell you”--he swelled with +pride--“that the new ones are beauties. The place'll look great when we +get 'em down. Well, you know Prince Ludwig and his crowd cross the State +on their way to the coast, and of course they were invited to stop. Last +week Billy Patton--he's running the whole show--declined the invitation +on account of lack of time, and then yesterday comes a telegram saying +the Prince himself insisted on stopping. You know he's keen about Indian +dope--and we've got Indian traditions to burn. So Mr. Bill Patton had to +make over his schedule to please the Prince, and of course we were all +pretty tickled about it, for more reasons than one. The telegram didn't +come until five o'clock yesterday afternoon, but you know what a hummer +the Governor is when he gets a start. He made up his mind this building +should be put in shape within twenty-four hours. They engaged a whole +lot of fellows to work on the carpets to-day. Then what did they do but +get together last night--well, you know the rest. Pretty bum-looking old +shack just now, isn't it?” and the reporter looked around ruefully. + +It was approaching the hour for the legislature to convene, and the +members who were beginning to saunter in swelled the crowd--and the +indignation--in the rotunda. + +The Governor, meanwhile, had been trying to get other men, but +Carpet-Tackers' Union Number One had looked well to that. The biggest +furniture dealer in the city was afraid of the plumbers. “Pipes burst +last night,” he said, “and they may not do a thing for us if we get +mixed up in this. Sorry--but I can't let my customers get pneumonia.” + +Another furniture man was afraid of the teamsters. For one reason or +another no one was disposed to respond to the Macedonian cry, and when +the Governor at last gave it up and walked out into the rotunda he was +about as disturbed as he permitted himself to get. “It's the idea of +lying down,” he said. “I'd do anything--anything!--if I could only think +what to do.” + +A popular young member of the House overheard the remark. “By George, +Governor,” he burst forth, after a minute's deep study--“say--by Jove, I +say, let's do it ourselves!” + +They all laughed, but the Governor's laugh stopped suddenly, and he +looked hard at the young man. + +“Why not?” the young legislator went on. “It's a big job, but there are +a lot of us. We've all put down carpets at home; what are we afraid to +tackle it here for?” + +Again the others laughed, but the Governor did not. “Say, Weston,” he +said, “I'd give a lot--I tell you I'd give a lot--if we just could!” + +“Leave it to me!”--and he was lost in the crowd. + +The Governor's eyes followed him. He had always liked Harry Weston. He +was the very sort to inspire people to do things. The Governor smiled +knowingly as he noted the men Weston was approaching, and his different +manner with the various ones. And then he had mounted a few steps of the +stairway, and was standing there facing the crowd. + +“Now look here,” he began, after silence had been obtained, “this isn't +a very formal meeting, but it's a mighty important one. It's a clear +case of Carpet-Tackers' Union against the State. What I want to know +is--Is the State going to lie down?” + +There were loud cries of “No!”--“Well, I should say not!” + +“Well, then, see here. The Governor's tried for other men and can't get +them. Now the next thing I want to know is--What's the matter with us?” + +They didn't get it for a minute, and then everybody laughed. + +“It's no joke! You've all put down carpets at home; what's the use of +pretending you don't know how to do it? Oh yes--I know, bigger +building, and all that, but there are more of us, and the principle of +carpet-tacking is the same, big building or little one. Now my scheme +is this--Every fellow his own carpet-tacker! The Governor's office +puts down the Governor's carpet; the Secretary's office puts down the +Secretary's carpet; the Senate puts down the Senate carpet--and we'll +look after our little patch in the House!” + +“But you've got more fellows than anybody else,” cried a member of the +Senate. + +“Right you are, and we'll have an over-flow meeting in the corridors +and stairways. The House, as usual, stands ready to do her part,”--that +brought a laugh for the Senators, and from them. + +“Now get it out of your heads this is a joke. The carpets are here; the +building is full of able-bodied men; the Prince is coming at four--by +his own request, and the proposition is just this: Are we going to +receive him in a barn or in a palace? Let's hear what Senator Arnold +thinks about it.” + +That was a good way of getting away from the idea of its being a joke. +Senator Arnold was past seventy. Slowly he extended his right arm and +tested his muscle. “Not very much,” he said, “but enough to drive a tack +or two.” That brought applause and they drew closer together, and the +atmosphere warmed perceptibly. “I've fought for the State in more ways +than one,”--Senator Arnold was a distinguished veteran of the Civil +War--“and if I can serve her now by tacking down carpets, then it's +tacking down carpets I'm ready to go at. Just count on me for what +little I'm worth.” + +Someone started the cry for the Governor. “Prince Ludwig is being +entertained all over the country in the most lavish manner,” he began, +with his characteristic directness in stating a situation. “By his own +request he is to visit our Capitol this afternoon. I must say that I, +for one, want to be in shape for him. I don't like to tell him that we +had a labour complication and couldn't get the carpets down. Speaking +for myself, it is a great pleasure to inform you that the carpet in +the Governor's office will be in proper shape by four o'clock this +afternoon.” + +That settled it. Finally Harry Weston made himself heard sufficiently +to suggest that when the House and Senate met at nine o'clock motions to +adjourn be entertained. “And as to the rest of you fellows,” he cried, +“I don't see what's to hinder your getting busy right now!” + +There were Republicans and there were Democrats; there were friends +and there were enemies; there were good, bad and--no, there were no +indifferent. An unprecedented harmony of thought, a millennium-like +unity of action was born out of that sturdy cry--Every man his own +carpet-tacker! The Secretary of State always claimed that he drove the +first tack, but during the remainder of his life the Superintendent of +Public Instruction also contended hotly for that honour. The rivalry +as to who would do the best job, and get it done most quickly, became +intense. Early in the day Harry Weston made the rounds of the building +and announced a fine of one-hundred dollars for every wrinkle. There +were pounded fingers and there were broken backs, but slowly, steadily +and good-naturedly the State-house carpet was going down. It was a good +deal bigger job than they had anticipated, but that only added zest +to the undertaking. The news of how the State officials were employing +themselves had spread throughout the city, and guards were stationed at +every door to keep out people whose presence would work more harm than +good. All assistance from women was courteously refused. “This is solemn +business,” said the Governor, in response to a telephone from some of +the fair sex, “and the introduction of the feminine element might throw +about it a social atmosphere which would result in loss of time. And +then some of the boys might feel called upon to put on their collars and +coats.” + +Stretch--stretch--stretch, and tack--tack--tack, all morning long it +went on, for the State-house was large--oh, very large. There should +have been a Boswell there to get the good things, for the novelty of the +situation inspired wit even in minds where wit had never glowed before. +Choice bits which at other times would fairly have gone on official +record were now passed almost unnoticed, so great was the surfeit. +Instead of men going out to lunch, lunch came in to them. Bridget +Haggerty, who by reason of her long connection with the boarding-house +across the street was a sort of unofficial official of the State, came +over and made the coffee and sandwiches, all the while calling down +blessings on the head of every mother's son of them, and announcing in +loud, firm tones that while all five of her boys belonged to the union +she'd be after tellin' them what she thought of this day's work! + +It was a United States Senator who did the awful trick, and, to be fair, +the Senator did not think of it as an awful trick at all. He came over +there in the middle of the morning to see the Governor, and in a few +hurried words--it was no day for conversation--was told what was going +on. It was while standing out in the corridor watching the perspiring +dignitaries that the idea of his duty came to him, and one reason he was +sure he was right was the way in which it came to him in the light of +a duty. Here was America in undress uniform! Here was--not a thing +arranged for show, but absolutely the thing itself! Prince Ludwig had +come with a sincere desire to see America. Every one knew that he was +not seeing it at all. He would go back with memories of bands and flags +and people all dressed up standing before him making polite speeches. +But would he carry back one small whiff of the spirit of the country? +Again Senator Bruner looked about him. The Speaker of the House was +just beginning laying the stair carpet; a judge of the Supreme Court +was contending hotly for a better hammer. “It's an insult to expect any +decent man to drive tacks with a hammer like this,” he was saying. +Here were men--real, live men, men with individuality, spirit. When +the Prince had come so far, wasn't it too bad that he should not see +anything but uniforms and cut glass and dress suits and other externals +and non-essentials? Senator Bruner was a kind man; he was a good fellow; +he was hospitable--patriotic. He decided now in favour of the Prince. + +He had to hurry about it, for it was almost twelve then. One of +the vice-presidents of the road lived there, and he was taken into +confidence, and proved an able and eager ally. They located the special +train bearing the Prince and ordered it stopped at the next station. +The stop was made that Senator Patton might receive a long telegram +from Senator Bruner. “I figure it like this,” the Senator told the +vice-president. “They get to Boden at a quarter of one and were going +to stop there an hour. Then they were going to stop a little while at +Creyville. I've told Patton the situation, and that if he wants to do +the right thing by the prince he'll cut out those stops and rush right +through here. That will bring him in--well, they could make it at a +quarter of two. I've told him I'd square it with Boden and Creyville. +Oh, he'll do it all right.” + +And even as he said so came the reply from Patton: “Too good to miss. +Will rush through. Arrive before two. Have carriage at Water Street.” + +“That's great!” cried the Senator. “Trust Billy Patton for falling +in with a good thing. And he's right about missing the station crowd. +Patton can always go you one better,” he admitted, grinningly. + +They had luncheon together, and they were a good deal more like +sophomores in college than like a United States Senator and a big +railroad man. “You don't think there's any danger of their getting +through too soon?” McVeigh kept asking, anxiously. + +“Not a bit,” the Senator assured him. “They can't possibly make it +before three. We'll come in just in time for the final skirmish. It's +going to be a jolly rush at the last.” + +They laid their plans with skill worthy of their training. The State +library building was across from the Capitol, and they were connected +by tunnel. “I never saw before,” said the Senator, “what that tunnel +was for, but I see now what a great thing it is. We'll get him in at +the west door of the library--we can drive right up to it, you know, and +then we walk him through the tunnel. That's a stone floor”--the Senator +was chuckling with every sentence--“so I guess they won't be carpeting +it. There's a little stairway running up from the tunnel---and say, we +must telephone over and arrange about those keys. There'll be a good +deal of climbing, but the Prince is a good fellow, and won't mind. It +wouldn't be safe to try the elevator, for Harry Weston would be in it +taking somebody a bundle of tacks. The third floor is nothing but store +rooms; we'll not be disturbed up there, and we can look right down the +rotunda and see the whole show. Of course we'll be discovered in time; +some one is sure to look up and see us, but we'll fix it so they won't +see us before we've had our fun, and it strikes me, McVeigh, that for +two old fellows like you and me we've put the thing through in pretty +neat shape.” + +It was a very small and unpretentious party which stepped from the +special at Water Street a little before two. The Prince was wearing +a long coat and an automobile cap and did not suggest anything at +all formidable or unusual. “You've saved the country,” Senator Patton +whispered in an aside. “He was getting bored. Never saw a fellow jolly +up so in my life. Guess he was just spoiling for some fun. Said it would +be really worth while to see somebody who wasn't looking for him.” + +Senator Bruner beamed. “That's just the point. He's caught my idea +exactly.” + +It went without a hitch. “I feel,” said the Prince, as they were +hurrying him through the tunnel, “that I am a little boy who has run +away from school. Only I have a terrible fear that at any minute some +band may begin to play, and somebody may think of making a speech.” + +They gave this son of a royal house a seat on a dry-goods box, so placed +that he could command a good view, and yet be fairly secure. The final +skirmish was on in earnest. Two State Senators--coatless, tieless, +collarless, their faces dirty, their hair rumpled, were finishing the +stair carpet. The chairman of the appropriations committee in the House +was doing the stretching in a still uncarpeted bit of the corridor, and +a member who had recently denounced the appropriations committee as a +disgrace to the State was presiding at the hammer. They were doing most +exquisitely harmonious team work. A railroad and anti-railroad member +who fought every time they came within speaking distance of one another +were now in an earnest and very chummy conference relative to a large +wrinkle which had just been discovered on the first landing. Many men +were standing around holding their backs, and many others were deeply +absorbed in nursing their fingers. The doors of the offices were all +open, and there was a general hauling in of furniture and hanging of +pictures. Clumsy but well-meaning fingers were doing their best with +“finishing touches.” The Prince grew so excited about it all that they +had to keep urging him not to take too many chances of being seen. + +“And I'll tell you,” Senator Bruner was saying, “it isn't only because +I knew it would be funny that I wanted you to see it; but--well, you see +America isn't the real America when she has on her best clothes and is +trying to show off. You haven't seen anybody who hasn't prepared for +your coming, and that means you haven't seen them as they are at all. +Now here we are. This is us! You see that fellow hanging a picture down +there? He's president of the First National Bank. Came over a little +while ago, got next to the situation, and stayed to help. And--say, this +is good! Notice that red-headed fellow just getting up from his knees? +Well, he's president of the teamsters' union--figured so big in a strike +here last year. I call that pretty rich! He's the fellow they are all +so afraid of, but I guess he liked the idea of the boys doing it +themselves, and just sneaked in and helped.--There's the Governor. He's +a fine fellow. He wouldn't be held up by anybody--not even to get ready +for a Prince, but he's worked like a Trojan all day to make things come +his way. Yes sir--this is the sure-enough thing. Here you have the +boys off dress parade. Not that we run away from our dignity every day, +but--see what I mean?” + +“I see,” replied the Prince, and he looked as though he really did. + +“You know--say, dodge there! Move back! No--too late. The Governor's +caught us. Look at him!” + +The Governor's eyes had turned upward, and he had seen. He put his hands +on his back--he couldn't look up without doing that--and gave a long, +steady stare. First, Senator Bruner waved; then Senator Patton waved; +then Mr. McVeigh waved; and then the Prince waved. Other people were +beginning to look up. “They're all on,” laughed Patton, “let's go down.” + +At first they were disposed to think it pretty shabby treatment. “We +worked all day to get in shape,” grumbled Harry Weston, “and then you go +ring the curtain up on us before it's time for our show to begin.” + +But the Prince made them feel right about it. He had such a good time +that they were forced to concede the move had been a success. And he +said to the Governor as he was leaving: “I see that the only way to see +America is to see it when America is not seeing you.” + + + + +VIII + +THE LAST SIXTY MINUTES + + +“Nine--ten--” The old clock paused as if in dramatic appreciation of +the situation, and then slowly, weightily, it gave the final stroke, +“Eleven!” + +The Governor swung his chair half-way round and looked the timepiece +full in the face. Already the seconds had begun ticking off the last +hour of his official life. On the stroke of twelve another man would be +Governor of the State. He sat there watching the movement of the minute +hand. + +The sound of voices, some jovial, some argumentative, was borne to +him through the open transom. People were beginning to gather in +the corridors, and he could hear the usual disputes about tickets of +admission to the inaugural. + +His secretary came in just then with some letters. “Could you see +Whitefield now?” he asked. “He's waiting out here for you.” + +The old man looked up wearily. “Oh, put him off, Charlie. Tell him you +can talk to him about whatever it is he wants to know.” + +The secretary had his hand on the knob, when the Governor added, “And, +Charlie, keep everybody out, if you can. I'm--I've got a few private +matters to go over.” + +The younger man nodded and opened the door. He half closed it behind +him, and then turned to say, “Except Francis. You'll want to see him if +he comes in, won't you?” + +He frowned and moved impatiently as he answered, curtly: “Oh, yes.” + +Francis! Of course it never occurred to any of them that he could close +the door on Francis. He drummed nervously on his desk, then suddenly +reached down and, opening one of the drawers, tossed back a few things +and drew out a newspaper. He unfolded this and spread it out on the +desk. Running across the page was the big black line, “Real Governors +of Some Western States,” and just below, the first of the series, +and played up as the most glaring example of nominal and real in +governorship, was a sketch of Harvey Francis. + +He sat there looking at it, knowing full well that it would not +contribute to his peace of mind. It did not make for placidity of spirit +to be told at the end of things that he had, as a matter of fact, never +been anybody at all. And the bitterest part of it was that, looking back +on it now, getting it from the viewpoint of one stepping from it, he +could see just how true was the statement: “Harvey Francis has been +the real Governor of the State; John Morrison his mouthpiece and +figurehead.” + +He walked to the window and looked out over the January landscape. It +may have been the snowy hills, as well as the thoughts weighing him +down, that carried him back across the years to one snowy afternoon when +he stood up in a little red schoolhouse and delivered an oration on “The +Responsibilities of Statesmanship.” He smiled as the title came back to +him, and yet--what had become of the spirit of that seventeen-year-old +boy? He had meant it all then; he could remember the thrill with which +he stood there that afternoon long before and poured out his sentiments +regarding the sacredness of public trusts. What was it had kept him, +when his chance came, from working out in his life the things he had so +fervently poured into his schoolboy oration? + +Someone was tapping at the door. It was an easy, confident tap, and +there was a good deal of reflex action in the Governor's “Come in.” + +“Indulging in a little meditation?” + +The Governor frowned at the way Francis said it, and the latter went on, +easily: “Just came from a row with Dorman. Everybody is holding him up +for tickets, and he--poor young fool--looks as though he wanted to jump +in the river. Takes things tremendously to heart--Dorman does.” + +He lighted a cigar, smiling quietly over that youthful quality of +Dorman's. “Well,” he went on, leaning back in his chair and looking +about the room, “I thought I'd look in on you for a minute. You see +I'll not have the _entree_ to the Governor's office by afternoon.” He +laughed, the easy, good-humoured laugh of one too sophisticated to spend +emotion uselessly. + +It was he who fell into meditation then, and the Governor sat looking at +him; a paragraph from the newspaper came back to him: “Harvey Francis +is the most dangerous type of boss politician. His is not the crude and +vulgar method that asks a man what his vote is worth. He deals gently +and tenderly with consciences. He knows how to get a man without fatally +injuring that man's self-respect.” + +The Governor's own experience bore out the summary. When elected to +office as State Senator he had cherished old-fashioned ideas of serving +his constituents and doing his duty. But the very first week Francis +had asked one of those little favours of him, and, wishing to show his +appreciation of support given him in his election, he had granted it. +Then various courtesies were shown him; he was let in on a “deal,” and +almost before he realised it, it seemed definitely understood that he +was a “Francis man.” + +Francis roused himself and murmured: “Fools!--amateurs.” + +“Leyman?” ventured the Governor. + +“Leyman and all of his crowd!” + +“And yet,” the Governor could not resist, “in another hour this same +fool will be Governor of the State. The fool seems to have won.” + +Francis rose, impatiently. “For the moment. It won't be lasting. In any +profession, fools and amateurs may win single victories. They can't keep +it up. They don't know _how_. Oh, no,” he insisted, cheerfully, “Leyman +will never be re-elected. Fact is, I'm counting on this contract +business we've saved up for him getting in good work.” He was moving +toward the door. “Well,” he concluded, with a curious little laugh, “see +you upstairs.” + +The Governor looked at the clock. It pointed now to twenty-five minutes +past eleven. The last hour was going fast. In a very short time he must +join the party in the anteroom of the House. But weariness had come over +him. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. + +He was close upon seventy, and to-day looked even older than his years. +It was not a vicious face, but it was not a strong one. People who +wanted to say nice things of the Governor called him pleasant or genial +or kindly. Even the men in the appointive offices did not venture to say +he had much force. + +He felt it to-day as he never had before. He had left no mark; he had +done nothing, stood for nothing. Never once had his personality made +itself felt. He had signed the documents; Harvey Francis had always +“suggested”--the term was that man's own--the course to be pursued. And +the “suggestions” had ever dictated the policy that would throw the most +of influence or money to that splendidly organised machine that Francis +controlled. + +With an effort he shook himself free from his cheerless retrospect. +There was a thing or two he wanted to get from his desk, and his time +was growing very short. He found what he wanted, and then, just as he +was about to close the drawer, his eye fell on a large yellow envelope. + +He closed the drawer; but only to reopen it, take out the envelope and +remove the documents it contained; and then one by one he spread them +out before him on the desk. + +He sat there looking down at them, wondering whether a man had ever +stepped into office with as many pitfalls laid for him. During the last +month they had been busy about the old State-house setting traps for the +new Governor. The “machine” was especially jubilant over those contracts +the Governor now had spread out before him. The convict labour question +was being fought out in the State just then--organised labour demanding +its repeal; country taxpayers insisting that it be maintained. Under +the system the penitentiary had become self-supporting. In November the +contracts had come up for renewal; but on the request of Harvey Francis +the matter had been put off from time to time, and still remained open. +Just the week before, Francis had put it to the Governor something like +this: + +“Don't sign those contracts. We can give some reason for holding them +off, and save them up for Leyman. Then we can see that the question is +agitated, and whatever he does about it is going to prove a bad thing +for him. If he doesn't sign, he's in bad with the country fellows, the +men who elected him. Don't you see? At the end of his administration the +penitentiary, under you self-sustaining, will have cost them a pretty +penny. We've got him right square!” + +The clock was close to twenty minutes of twelve, and he concluded that +he would go out and join some of his friends he could hear in the other +room. It would never do for him to go upstairs with a long, serious +face. He had had his day, and now Leyman was to have his, and if the new +Governor did better than the old one, then so much the better for the +State. As for the contracts, Leyman surely must understand that there +was a good deal of rough sailing on political waters. + +But it was not easy to leave the room. Walking to the window he again +stood there looking out across the snow, and once more he went back now +at the end of things to that day in the little red schoolhouse which +stood out as the beginning. + +He was called back from that dreaming by the sight of three men coming +up the hill. He smiled faintly in anticipation of the things Francis and +the rest of them would say about the new Governor's arriving on foot. +Leyman had requested that the inaugural parade be done away with--but +one would suppose he would at least dignify the occasion by arriving in +a carriage. Francis would see that the opposing papers handled it as a +grand-stand play to the country constituents. + +And then, forgetful of Francis, and of the approaching ceremony, the old +man stood there by the window watching the young man who was coming +up to take his place. How firmly the new Governor walked! With what +confidence he looked ahead at the State-house. The Governor--not +considering the inconsistency therein--felt a thrill of real pride in +thought of the State's possessing a man like that. + +Standing though he did for the things pitted against him, down in his +heart John Morrison had all along cherished a strong admiration for +that young man who, as District Attorney of the State's metropolis, +had aroused the whole country by his fearlessness and unquestionable +sincerity. Many a day he had sat in that same office reading what the +young District Attorney was doing in the city close by--the fight he was +making almost single-handed against corruption, how he was striking in +the high places fast and hard as in the low, the opposition, threats, +and time after time there had been that same secret thrill at thought of +there being a man like that. And when the people of the State, convinced +that here was one man who would serve _them_, began urging the District +Attorney for chief executive, Governor Morrison, linked with the +opposing forces, doing all he could to bring about Leyman's defeat, +never lost that secret feeling for the young man, who, unbacked by any +organisation, struck blow after blow at the machine that had so long +dominated the State, winning in the end that almost incomprehensible +victory. + +The new Governor had passed from sight, and a moment later his voice +came to the ear of the lonely man in the executive office. Some friends +had stopped him just outside the Governor's door with a laughing “Here's +hoping you'll do as much for us in the new office as you did in the +old,” and the new Governor replied, buoyantly: “Oh, but I'm going to do +a great deal more!” + +The man within the office smiled a little wistfully and with a sigh +sat down before his desk. The clock now pointed to thirteen minutes of +twelve; they would be asking for him upstairs. There were some scraps of +paper on his desk and he threw them into the waste-basket, murmuring: “I +can at least give him a clean desk.” + +He pushed his chair back sharply. A clean desk! The phrase opened to +deeper meanings.... Why not clean it up in earnest? Why not give him a +square deal--a real chance? Why not _sign the contracts_? + +Again he looked at the clock--not yet ten minutes of twelve. For +ten minutes more he was Governor of the State! Ten minutes of real +governorship! Might it not make up a little, both to his own soul and to +the world, for the years he had weakly served as another man's puppet? +The consciousness that he could do it, that it was not within the power +of any man to stop him, was intoxicating. Why not break the chains now +at the last, and just before the end taste the joy of freedom? + +He took up his pen and reached for the inkwell. With trembling, excited +fingers he unfolded the contracts. He dipped his pen into the ink; he +even brought it down on the paper; and then the tension broke. He sank +back in his chair, a frightened, broken old man. + +“Oh, no,” he whispered; “no, not now. It's--” his head went lower and +lower until at last it rested on the desk--“too late.” + +When he raised his head and grew more steady, it was only to see the +soundness of his conclusion. He had not the right now in the final +hour to buy for himself a little of glory. It would only be a form of +self-indulgence. They would call it, and perhaps rightly, hush money +to his conscience. They would say he went back on them only when he was +through with them. Oh, no, there would be no more strength in it than +in the average deathbed repentance. He would at least step out with +consistency. + +He folded the contracts and put them back into the envelope. The minute +hand now pointed to seven minutes to twelve. Some one was tapping at +the door, and the secretary appeared to say they were waiting for him +upstairs. He replied that he would be there in a minute, hoping that his +voice did not sound as strange to the other man as it had to himself. + +Slowly he walked to the door leading into the corridor. This, then, was +indeed the end; this the final stepping down from office! After years of +what they called public service, he was leaving it all now with a sense +of defeat and humiliation. A lump was in the old man's throat; his +eyes were blurred. “But you, Frank Leyman,” he whispered passionately, +turning as if for comfort to the other man, “it will be different with +you! They'll not get you--not you!” + +It lifted him then as a great wave--this passionate exultation that here +was one man whom corruption could not claim as her own. Here was one +human soul not to be had for a price! There flitted before him again a +picture of that seventeen-year-old boy in the little red schoolhouse, +and close upon it came the picture of this other young man against whom +all powers of corruption had been turned in vain. With the one it +had been the emotional luxury of a sentiment, a thing from life's +actualities apart; with the other it was a force that dominated all +things else, a force over which circumstances and design could not +prevail. “I know all about it,” he was saying. “I know about it all! I +know how easy it is to fall! I know how fine it is to stand!” + +His sense of disappointment in his own empty, besmirched career was +almost submerged then as he projected himself on into the career of +this other man who within the hour would come there in his stead. How +glorious was his opportunity, how limitless his possibilities, and how +great to his own soul the satisfaction the years would bring of having +done his best! + +It had all changed now. That passionate longing to vindicate himself, +add one thing honourable and fine to his own record, had altogether left +him, and with the new mood came new insight and what had been an impulse +centred to a purpose. + +It pointed to three minutes to twelve as he walked over to his desk, +unfolded the contracts, and one by one affixed his signature. In a dim +way he was conscious of how the interpretation of his first motive would +be put upon it, how they would call him traitor and coward; but that +mattered little. The very fact that the man for whom he was doing +it would never see it as it was brought him no pang. And when he had +carefully blotted the papers, affixed the seal and put them away, there +was in his heart the clean, sweet joy of a child because he had been +able to do this for a man in whom he believed. + +The band was playing the opening strains as he closed the door behind +him and started upstairs. + + + + +IX + +“OUT THERE” + + +The old man held the picture up before him and surveyed it with admiring +but disapproving eye. “No one that comes along this way'll have the +price for it,” he grumbled. “It'll just set here 'till doomsday.” + +It did seem that the picture failed to fit in with the rest of the shop. +A persuasive young fellow who claimed he was closing out his stock let +the old man have it for what he called a song. It was only a little +out-of-the-way store which subsisted chiefly on the framing of pictures. +The old man looked around at his views of the city, his pictures of cats +and dogs and gorgeous young women, his flaming bits of landscape. “Don't +belong in here,” he fumed, “any more 'an I belong in Congress.” + +And yet the old man was secretly proud of his acquisition. He seemed all +at once to be lifted from his realm of petty tradesman to that of patron +of art. There was a hidden dignity in his scowling as he shuffled about +pondering the least ridiculous place for the picture. + +It is not fair to the picture to try repainting it in words, for words +reduce it to a lithograph. It was a bit of a pine forest, through which +there exuberantly rushed an unspoiled little mountain stream. Chromos +and works of art may deal with kindred subjects. There is just that one +difference of dealing with them differently. “It ain't what you _see_, +so much as what you can guess is there,” was the thought it brought to +the old man who was dusting it. “Now this frame ain't three feet long, +but it wouldn't surprise me a bit if that timber kept right on for a +hundred miles. I kind of suspect it's on a mountain--looks cool enough +in there to be on a mountain. Wish I was there. Bet they never see no +such days as we do in Chicago. Looks as though a man might call his soul +his own--out there.” + +He began removing some views of Lincoln Park and some corpulent Cupids +in order to make room in the window for the new picture. When he went +outside to look at it he shook his head severely and hastened in to take +away some ardent young men and women, some fruit and flowers and fish +which he had left thinking they might “set it off.” It was evident that +the new picture did not need to be “set off.” “And anyway,” he told +himself, in vindication of entrusting all his goods to one bottom, “I +might as well take them out, for the new one makes them look so kind of +sick that no one would have them, anyhow.” Then he went back to mounting +views with the serenity of one who stands for the finer things. + +His clamorous little clock pointed to a quarter of six when he finally +came back to the front of the store. It was time to begin closing up +for the night, but for the minute he stood there watching the crowd +of workers coming from the business district not far away over to the +boarding-house region, a little to the west. He watched them as they +came by in twos and threes and fours: noisy people and worn-out people, +people hilarious and people sullen, the gaiety and the weariness, the +acceptance and the rebellion of humanity--he saw it pass. “As if any of +_them_ could buy it,” he pronounced severely, adding, contemptuously, +“or wanted to.” + +The girl was coming along by herself. He watched her as she crossed to +his side of the street, thinking it was too bad for a poor girl to be +as tired as that. She was dressed like many of the rest of them, and +yet she looked different--like the picture and the chromo. She turned an +indifferent glance toward the window, and then suddenly she stood there +very still, and everything about her seemed to change. “For all the +world,” he told himself afterward, “as if she'd found a long-lost +friend, and was 'fraid to speak for fear it was too good to be true.” + +She did seem afraid to speak--afraid to believe. For a minute she stood +there right in the middle of the sidewalk, staring at the picture. And +when she came toward the window it was less as if coming than as if +drawn. What she really seemed to want to do was to edge away; yet she +came closer, as close as she could, her eyes never leaving the picture, +and then fear, or awe, or whatever it was made her look so queer +gave way to wonder--that wondering which is ready to open the door to +delight. She looked up and down the street as one rubbing one's eyes to +make sure of a thing, and then it all gave way to a joy which lighted +her pale little face like--“Well, like nothing I ever saw before,” was +all the old man could say of it. “Why, she'd never know if the whole +fire department was to run right up here on the sidewalk,” he gloated. +Just then she drew herself up for a long breath. “See?” he chuckled, +delightedly. “She knows it has a smell!” She looked toward the door, +but shook her head. “Knows she can't pay the price,” he interpreted her. +Then, she stepped back and looked at the number above the door. “Coming +again,” he made of that; “ain't going to run no chances of losing the +place.” And then for a long time she stood there before the picture, so +deeply and so strangely quiet that he could not translate her. “I can't +just get the run of it,” was his bewildered conclusion. “I don't see why +it should make anybody act like that.” And yet he must have understood +more than he knew, for suddenly he was seeing her through a blur of +tears. + +As he began shutting up for the night he was so excited about the way +she looked when she finally turned away that it never occurred to him to +be depressed about her inability to pay the price. + +He kept thinking of her, wondering about her, during the next day. At +a little before six he took up his station near the front window. +Once more the current of workers flowed by. “I'm an old fool,” he told +himself, irritated at the wait; “as if it makes any difference whether +she comes or not--when she can't buy it, anyhow. She's just as big a +fool as I am--liking it when she can't have it, only I'm the biggest +fool of all--caring whether she likes it or not.” But just then the +girl passed quickly by a crowd of girls who were ahead of her and came +hurrying across the street. She was walking fast, and looked excited and +anxious. “Afraid it might be gone,” he said--adding, grimly: “Needn't +worry much about that.” + +She came up to the picture as some people would enter a church. And yet +the joy which flooded her face is not well known to churches. “I'll tell +you what it's like”--the old man's thoughts stumbling right into the +heart of it--“it's like someone that's been wandering round in a desert +country all of a sudden coming on a spring. She's _thirsty_--she's +drinking it in--she can't get enough of it. It's--it's the water of life +to her!” And then, ashamed of saying a thing that sounded as if it were +out of a poem, he shook his shoulders roughly as if to shake off a piece +of sentiment unbecoming his age and sex. + +He went to the door and watched her as she passed away. “I'll bet she'd +never tip the scale to one hundred pounds,” he decided. “Looks like a +good wind could blow her away.” She stooped a little and just as she +passed from sight he saw that she was coughing. + +Then the old man made what he prided himself was a great deduction. +“She's been there, and she wants to go back. This kind of takes her back +for a minute, and when she gets the breath of it she ain't so homesick.” + +All through those July days he watched each night for the frail-looking +little girl who liked the picture of the pines. She would always come +hurrying across the street in the same eager way, an eagerness close +to the feverish. But the tenseness would always relax as she saw the +picture. “She never looks quite so wilted down when she goes away as +she does when she comes,” the old man saw. “Upon my soul, I believe she +really _goes_ there. It's--oh, Lord”--irritated at getting beyond his +depth--“_I_ don't know!” + +He never called it anything now but “Her Picture.” One day at just ten +minutes of six he took it out of the window. “Seems kind of mean,” he +admitted, “but I just want to find out how much she does think of it.” + +And when he found out he told himself that of all the mean men God had +ever let live, he was the meanest. The girl came along in the usual +hurried, anxious fashion. And when she saw the empty window he thought +for a minute she was going to sink right down there on the sidewalk. +Everything about her seemed to give way--as if something from which she +had been drawing had been taken from her. The luminousness gone from +her face, there were cruel revelations. “Blast my _soul!_” the old man +muttered angrily, not far from tearfully. She looked up and down the +noisy, dirty, parched street, then back to the empty window. For a +minute she just stood there--that was the worst minute of all. And +then--accepting--she turned and walked slowly away, walked as the +too-weary and the too-often disappointed walk. + +It was with not wholly steady hand that the old man hastened to replace +the picture, all the while telling himself what he thought of himself: +more low-down than the cat who plays with the mouse, meaner than the +man who'd take the bone from the dog, less to be loved than the man who +would kick over the child's play-house, only to be compared with the +brute who would snatch the cup of water from the dying--such were the +verdicts he pronounced. He thought perhaps she would come back, and +stayed there until almost seven, waiting for her, though pretending +it was necessary that he take down and then put up again the front +curtains. All the next day he was restless and irritable. As if to make +up to the girl for the contemptible trick he had played he spent a whole +hour that afternoon arranging a tapestry background for the picture. +“She'll think,” he told himself, “that this was why it was out, and +won't be worried about its being gone again. This will just be a little +sign to her that it's here to stay.” + +He began his watch that night at half-past five. After fifteen minutes +the thought came to him that she might be so disheartened she would go +home by another street. He became so gloomily certain she would do this +that he was jubilant when he finally saw her coming along on the other +side--coming purposelessly, shorn of that eagerness which had always +been able, for the moment, to vanquish the tiredness. But when she came +to the place where she always crossed the street she only stood there an +instant and then, a little more slowly, a little more droopingly, walked +on. She had given up! She was not coming over! + +But she did come. After she had gone a few steps she hesitated again and +this time started across the street. “That's right,” approved the old +man, “never give up the ship!” + +She passed the store as if she were not going to look in; she seemed +trying not to look, but her head turned--and she saw the picture. First +her body seemed to stiffen, and then something--he couldn't make out +whether or not it was a sob--shook her, and as she came toward the +picture on her white, tired face were the tears. + +“Don't you worry,” he murmured affectionately to her retreating form, +“it won't never be gone again.” + +The very next week he was put to the test. The kind of lady who did +not often pass along that street entered the shop and asked to see the +picture in the window. He looked at her suspiciously. Then he frowned at +her, as he stood there, fumbling. _Her_ picture! What would she think? +What would she do? Then a crafty smile stole over his face and he walked +to the window and got the picture. “The price of this picture, madame,” + he said, haughtily, “is forty dollars,”--adding to himself, “That'll fix +her.” + +But the lady made no comment, and stood there holding the picture up +before her. “I will take it,” she said, quietly. + +He stared at her stupidly. Forty dollars! Then it must be that the +picture was better than the young man had known. “Will you wrap it, +please?” she asked. “I will take it with me.” + +He turned to the back of the store. Forty dollars!--he kept repeating +it in dazed fashion. And they had raised the rent on him, and the +papers said coal would be high that winter--those facts seemed to have +something to do with forty dollars. _Forty dollars!_--it was hammering +at him, overwhelmed him, too big a sum to contend with. With long, grim +stroke he tore off the wrapping paper; stoically he began folding it. +But something was the matter. The paper would not go on right. Three +times he took it off, and each time he could not help looking down at +the picture of the pines. And each time the forest seemed to open a +little farther; each time it seemed bigger--bigger even than forty +dollars; it seemed as if it _knew things_--things more important than +even coal and rent. And then the strangest thing of all happened: the +forest faded away into its own shadowy distances, and in its place was +a noisy, crowded, sun-baked street, and across the street was eagerly +hurrying an anxious little girl, a frail little wisp of a girl who +probably should not be crossing hot, noisy streets at all--then a +light in tired eyes, a smile upon a worn face, relief as from a +cooling breeze--and _anyway_, suddenly furious at the lady, furious at +himself--“he'd be gol-_darned_ if it wasn't _her_ picture!” + +He walked firmly back to the front of the store. + +“I forgot at first,” he said, brusquely, “that this picture belongs to +someone else.” + +The lady looked at him in astonishment. “I do not understand,” she said. + +“There's nothing to understand,” he fairly shouted, “except that it +belongs to someone else!” + +She turned away, but came back to him. “I will give you fifty dollars +for it,” she said, in her quiet way. + +“Madame,” he thundered at her, “you can stand there and offer me five +hundred dollars, and I'm here to tell you that this picture is not for +sale. Do you _hear_?” + +“I certainly do,” replied the lady, and walked from the store. + +He was a long time in cooling off. “I tell you,” he stormed to a +very blue Lake Michigan he was putting into a frame, “it's hers--it's +_hern_--and anybody that comes along here with any nonsense is just +going to hear from _me_!” + +In the days which followed he often thought to go out and speak to her, +but perhaps the old man had a restraining sense of values. He planned +some day to go out and tell her the picture was hers, but that seemed +a silly thing to tell her, for surely she knew it anyway. He worried a +good deal about her cough, which seemed to be getting worse, and he had +it all figured out that when cold weather came he would have her come in +where it was warm, and take her look in there. He felt that he knew +all about her, and though he did not know her name, though he had never +heard her speak one word, in some ways he felt closer to her than to any +one else in the world. + +Yet if the old man had known just how it was with the girl it is +altogether unlikely that he would have understood. It would have +mystified and disappointed him had he known that she had never seen a +pine forest or a mountain in her life. Indeed there was a great deal +about the little girl which the old man, together with almost all the +rest of the world, would not have understood. + +Not that the surface facts about her were either incomprehensible or +interesting. The tale of her existence would sound much like that of +a hundred other girls in the same city. Inquiry about her would have +developed the facts that she did typewriting for a land company, that +she did not seem to have any people, and lived at a big boarding-house. +At the boarding-house they would have told you that she was a nice +little thing, quiet as a mouse, and that it was too bad she had to work, +for she seemed more than half sick. There the story would have rested, +and the real things about her would not have been touched. + +She worked for the Chicago branch of a big Northwestern land company. +They dealt in the lands of Idaho, Montana, Oregon and Washington. The +things she sat at her typewriter and wrote were of the wonders of that +great country: the great timber lands, the valleys and hills, towering +mountain peaks and rushing rivers. She typewrote “literature” telling +how there was a chance for every man out there, how the big, exhaustless +land was eager to yield of its store to all who would come and seek. Day +after day she wrote those things telling how the sick were made well +and the poor were made rich, how it was a land of indescribable wonders +which the feeble pen could not hope to portray. + +And the girl with whom almost everything in life had gone wrong came to +think of Out There as the place where everything was right. It was the +far country where there was no weariness nor loneliness, the land where +one did not grow tired, where one never woke up in the morning too tired +to get up, where no one went to bed at night too tired to go to sleep. +The street-cars did not ring their gongs so loud Out There, the newsboys +had pleasant voices, and there were no elevated trains. It was a pure, +high land which knew no smoke nor dirt, a land where great silences drew +one to the heart of peace, where the people in the next room did not +come in and bang things around late at night. Out There was a wide land +where buildings were far apart and streets were not crowded. Even the +horses did not grow tired Out There. Oh, it was a land where dreams +came true--a beautiful land where no one ate prunes, where the gravy was +never greasy and the potatoes never burned. It was a land of flowers and +birds and lovely people--a land of wealth and health and many smiles. + +Her imagination made use of it all. She knew how men were reclaiming the +desert of Idaho, of the tremendous undeveloped wealth of what had been +an almost undiscovered State. She thrilled to the poetry of irrigation. +Often when hot and tired and dusty her fancy would follow the little +mountain stream from its birth way up in the clouds, her imagination +rushing with it through sweetening forest and tumbling with it down +cooling rocks until finally strong, bold, wise men guided it to the +desert which had yearned for it through all the years, and the grateful +desert smiled rich smiles of grain and flowers. She could make it more +like a story than any story in any book. And she could always breathe +better in thinking of the pine forests of Oregon. There was something +liberating--expanding--in just the thought of them. She dreamed cooling +dreams about them, dreams of their reaching farther than one's fancy +could reach, big widening dreams of their standing there serene in the +consciousness of their own immensity. They stood to her for a beautiful +idea: the idea of space, of room--room for everybody, and then much more +room! Even one's understanding grew big as one turned to them. + +And she loved to listen for the Pacific Ocean, coming from +incomprehensible distances and unknowable countries, now rushing with +passion to the wild coast of Oregon, again stealing into the Washington +harbours. She loved to address the letters to Portland, Seattle, +Spokane, Tacoma--all those pulsing, vivid cities of a country of big +chances and big beauty. She loved to picture Seattle, a city builded +upon many hills--how wonderful that a city should be builded upon +hills!--in Chicago there was nothing that could possibly be thought of +as a hill. And she loved to shut her eyes and let the great mountain +peak grow in the distance, as one could see it from Portland--how noble +a thing to see a mountain peak from a city! Sometimes she trembled +before that consciousness of a mountain. Often when so tired she +scarcely knew what she was doing she found she was saying her prayers +to a mountain. Indeed, Out There seemed the place to send one's +prayers--for was it not a place where prayers were answered? + +During that summer when the West was overrun with tourists who grumbled +about everything from the crowded trains to the way in which sea-foods +were served, this little girl sat in one of the hot office buildings of +Chicago and across the stretch of miles drew to herself the spirit of +that country of coming days. Thousands rode in Pullman cars along the +banks of the Columbia--saw, and felt not; she sat before her typewriter +in a close, noisy room and heard the cooling rush of waters and got the +freeing message of the pines. In some rare moments when she rose from +the things about her to the things of which she dreamed she possessed +the whole great land, and as the sultry days sapped of her meagre +strength, and the bending over the typewriter cramped an already too +cramped chest she clung with a more and more passionate tenacity to the +bigness and the beauty and rightness of things Out There. And it was so +kind to her--that land of deep breaths and restoring breezes. It never +shut her out. It always kept itself bigger and more wonderful than one +could ever hope to fancy it. + +And the night she found the picture she knew that it was all really +so. That was why it was so momentous a night. The picture was a dream +visualised--a dreamer vindicated. They had pictures in the office, of +course--some pictures trying to tell of that very kind of a place. But +those were just pictures; this _proved_ it, told what it meant. It +told that she had been right, and there was joy in knowing that she had +known. She clung to the picture as one would to that which proves as +real all one has long held dear, loved it as the dreamer loves that +which secures him in his dreaming. + +She came to think of it as her own abiding place. Often when too tired +for long wings of fancy she would just sink down in the deep, cool +shadows of the pines, beside the little river which one knew so well was +the gift of distant snows. It rested her most of all; it quieted her. + +She smiled sometimes to think how no one in the office knew about +it, wondered what they would think if they knew. Often she would find +someone in the office looking at her strangely. She used to wonder about +it a little. + +And then one day Mr. Osborne sent for her to come into his office. He +acted so queerly. As she came in and sat down near his desk he swung his +chair around and sat there with his back to her. After that he got up +and walked to the window. + +The head stenographer had complained of her cough. She said she did not +think it right either to the girl or to the rest of them for her to be +there. She said she hated to speak of it, but could not stand it any +longer. That had been the week before, and ever since he had been +putting it off. But now he could put it off no longer; the head +stenographer was valuable, and besides he knew that she was right. + +And so he told her--this was all he could think of just then--that they +were contemplating some changes in the office, and for a time would have +less desk room. If he sent her machine to her home, would she be willing +to do her work there for a while? Hers was the kind of work that could +be done at home. + +She was sorry, for she wondered if she could find a place in her room +for the typewriter, and it did not seem there would be air enough there +to last her all day long. And she had grown fond of the office, with its +“literature” and pictures and maps and the men who had just come from +Out There coming in every once in a while. It was a bond--a place to +touch realities. But of course there was nothing for her to do but +comply, and she made no comment on the arrangement. + +She pushed her chair back and rose to go. “Are you alone in the world?” + he asked abruptly then, + +“Yes; I--oh yes.” + +It was too much for him. “How would you like,” he asked recklessly, “to +have me get you transportation out West?” + +She sank back in her chair. Every particle of colour had left her +face. Her deep eyes had grown almost wild. “Oh,” she gasped--“you can't +mean--you don't think--” + +“You wouldn't want to go?” + +“I mean”--it was but a whisper--“it would be--too wonderful.” + +“You would like it then?” + +She only nodded; but her lips were parted, her eyes glowing. He wondered +why he had never seen before how different looking and--yes, beautiful, +in a strange kind of way--she was. + +“I see you have a cold,” he said, “and I think you would get along +better out there. I'll see if I can fix up the transportation, and get +something with our people in one of the towns that would be good for +you.” + +She leaned back in her chair and sat there smiling at him. Something in +the smile made him say, abruptly: “That's all; you may go now, and I'll +send a boy with your machine.” + +She walked through the streets as one who had already found another +country. More than one turned to look at her. She reached her room at +last and pulling her one little chair up to the window sat staring out +across the alley at the brick wall across from her. But she was not +seeing a narrow alley and a high brick wall. She was seeing rushing +rivers and mighty forests and towering peaks. She leaned back in her +chair--an indulgence less luxurious than it sounds, as the chair only +reached the middle of her back--and looked out at the high brick wall +and saw a snow-clad range of hills. But she was tired; this tremendous +idea was too much for her; the very wonder of it was exhausting. She lay +down on her bed--radiant, but languid. Soon she heard a rush of waters. +At first it was only someone filling the bath-tub, but after a while it +was the little stream which flowed through her forest. And then she was +not lying on a lumpy bed; she was sinking down under pine trees--all so +sweet and still and cool. But an awful thing was happening!--the forest +was on fire--it was choking and burning her! She awoke to find smoke +from the building opposite pouring into her room; flies were buzzing +about, and her face and hands were hot. + +She did little work in the next few days. It was hard to go on with the +same work when waiting for a thing which was to make over one's whole +life. The stress of dreams changing to hopes caused a great languor to +come over her. And her chair was not right for her typewriter, and the +smoke came in all the time. Strangely enough Out There seemed farther +away. Sometimes she could not go there at all; she supposed it was +because she was really going. + +At the close of the week she went to the office with her work. She was +weak with excitement as she stepped into the elevator. Would Mr. Osborne +have the transportation for her? Would he tell her when she was to go? + +But she did not see Mr. Osborne at all. When she asked for him the clerk +just replied carelessly that he was not there. She was going to ask if +he had left any message for her, but the telephone rang then and the +man to whom she was talking turned away. Someone was sitting at her +old desk, and they did not seem to be making the changes they had +contemplated; everyone in the office seemed very busy and uncaring, and +because she knew her chin was trembling she turned away. + +She had a strange feeling as she left the office: as if standing on +ground which quivered, an impulse to reach out her hand and tell someone +that something must be done right away, a dreadful fear that she was +going to cry out that she could not wait much longer. + +All at once she found that she was crossing the street, and saw ahead +the little art store with the wonderful picture which proved it was all +really so. In the same old way, her step quickened. It would show her +again that it was all just as she had thought it was, and if that were +true, then it must be true also that Mr. Osborne was going to get her +the transportation. It would prove that everything was all right. + +But a cruel thing happened. It failed her. It was just as beautiful--but +something a long way off, impossible to reach. Try as she would, she +could not get _into_ it, as she used to. It was only a picture; a +beautiful picture of some pine trees. And they were very far away, and +they had nothing at all to do with her. + +Through the window, at the back of the store, she saw the old man +standing with his back to her. She thought of going in and asking to sit +down--she wanted to sit down--but perhaps he would say something cross +to her--he was such a queer looking old man--and she knew she would +cry if anything cross was said to her. That he had watched for her each +night, that he had tried and tried to think of a way of finding her, +that he would have been more glad to see her than to see anyone in the +world, would have been kinder to her than anyone on earth would have +been--those were the things she did not know. And so--more lonely than +she had ever been before--she turned away. + +On Monday she felt she could wait no longer. It did not seem that it +would be _safe_. She got ready to go to see Mr. Osborne, but the getting +ready tired her so that she sat a long time resting, looking out at the +high brick wall beyond which there was nothing at all. She was counting +the blocks, thinking of how many times she would have to cross the +street. But just then it occurred to her that she could telephone. + +When she came back upstairs she crept up on the bed and lay there very +still. The boy had said that Mr. Osborne was away and would be gone +two weeks. No one in the office had heard him say anything about her +transportation. + +All through the day she lay there, and what she saw before her was a +narrow alley and a high brick wall. She had lost her mountains and her +forests and her rivers and her lakes. She tried to go out to them in the +same old way--but she could not get beyond the high brick wall. She was +shut in. She tried to draw them to her, but they could not come across +the wall. It shut them out. She tried to pray to the great mountain +which one could see from Portland. But even prayers could get no farther +than the wall. + +Late that afternoon, because she was so shut in that she was choking, +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. + +“Father,” he asked, fretfully, “why do you always talk to those +fellows?” + +Herman Beckman turned in his chair and stared at his son. Then he +laughed. “Now, that's a fine question to come from the honour man of a +law school! I hope, Fritz, that your oration to-night is going to have a +little more sense in it than that.” + +The calling up of his oration made him reach out another clutching +hand to the vanished reporter. “But it's farcical, father, to be always +interviewed by a paper nobody reads.” + +“Nobody--_reads_?” + +“Why, nobody cares anything about the _Leader_. It's dead.” + +Herman Beckman looked at his son sharply; something about him seemed +strange. He decided that he was nervous about the commencement +programme. Fritz had the one oration. + +The boy had opened the drawer of his study table and was fingering some +papers he had taken out. + +“Sure you know it?” the man asked with affectionate parental anxiety. + +“Oh, I know it all right,” Fred answered grimly, and again the father +decided that he was nervous about the thing. He wasn't just like +himself. + +The man walked to the window and stood looking across at the university +buildings. Colleges had always meant much to Herman Beckman. The very +day Fritz was born he determined that the boy was to go to college. It +was good to witness the fulfilment of his dreams. He turned his glance +to the comfortable room. + +“Pretty decent comfortable sort of place, isn't it, father?” Fred asked, +following his father's look and thought from the Morris chair to the +student's lamp, and all those other things which nowadays seem an +inevitable part of the acquirement of learning. + +It made his father laugh. “Yes, my boy, I should call it decent--and +comfortable.” He grew thoughtful after that. + +“Pretty different from the place you had, father?” + +“Oh--me? My place to study was any place I could find. Sometimes on top +of a load of hay, lots of times by the light of the logs. I've studied +in some funny places, Fritz.” + +“Well, you _got_ there, father!” the boy burst out with feeling. “By +Jove, there aren't many of them _know_ the things you know!” + +“I know enough to know what I don't know,” said the old man, a little +sadly. “I know enough to know what I missed. I wanted to go to college. +No one will ever know how I wanted to! I began to think I'd never feel +right about it. But I have a notion that when I sit there to-night +listening to you, Fritz, knowing that you're speaking for two hundred +boys, half of whose fathers did go to college, I think I'm going to feel +better about it then.” + +The boy turned away. Something in the kindly words seemed as the cut of +a whip across his face. + +“Well, Fritz,” his father continued, getting into his coat, “I'll +be going downtown. Leave you to put on an extra flourish or two.” He +laughed in proud parental fashion. “Anyway, I have some things to see +about.” + +The boy stood up. “Father, I have something to tell you.” He said it +shortly and sharply. + +The father stood there, puzzled. + +“You won't like my oration to-night, father.” + +And still the man did not speak. The words would not have bothered him +much--it was the boy's manner. + +“In fact, father, you're going to be desperately disappointed in it.” + +The dull red was creeping into the man's cheeks. He was one to have +little patience with that thing of not doing one's work. “Why am I going +to be disappointed? This is no time to shirk! You should--” + +“Oh, you'll not complain of the time and thought I've put on it,” + the boy broke in with a short, hard laugh. “But, you see, father--you +see”--his armour had slipped from him--“it doesn't express--your views.” + +“Did I ever say I wanted you to express 'my views'? Did I bring you up +to be a mouthpiece of mine? Haven't I told you to _think_?” But with a +long, sharp glance at his boy anger gave way. “Come, boy”--going +over and patting him on the back--“brace up now. You're acting like a +seven-year-old girl afraid to speak her first piece,” and his big laugh +rang out, eager to reassure. + +“You won't see it! You won't believe it! I don't suppose you'll +believe it when you hear it!” He turned away, overwhelmed by a sudden +realisation of just how difficult was the thing that lay before him. + +The man started toward his son, but instead he walked over and sat down +at the opposite side of the table, waiting. He was beginning to see that +there was something in this which he did not understand. + +At last the boy turned to him, fighting back some things, taking on +other things. He gazed at the care-worn, rugged face--face of a worker +and a dreamer, reading in those lines the story of that life, seeing +more clearly than he had ever seen before the beauty and futility of it. +Here was the idealist, the man who would give his whole lifetime to a +dream he had dreamed. He loved his father very tenderly as he looked at +him, read him, then. + +“Father,” he asked quietly, “are you satisfied with your life?” + +The man simply stared--waiting, seeking his bearings. + +“You came to this country when you were nineteen years old--didn't you, +father?” The man nodded. “And now you're--it's sixty-one, isn't it?” + +Again he nodded. + +“You've been in America, then, forty-two years. Father, do you think as +much of it now as you did forty-two years ago?” + +“I don't know what you mean,” the man said, searching his son's quiet, +passionate face. “I can't make you out, Fritz.” + +“My favourite story as a kid,” the boy went on, “was to hear you tell of +how you felt when your boat came sailing into New York Harbour, and you +saw the first outlines of a country you had dreamed about all through +your boyhood, which you had saved pennies for, worked nights for, ever +since you were old enough to know the meaning of America. I mean,” he +corrected, significantly, “the meaning of what you thought was America. + +“It's a bully story, father,” he continued, with a smile at once tender +and hard; “the simple German boy, born a dreamer, standing there looking +out at the dim shores of that land he had idealised. If ever a man came +to America bringing it rich gifts, that man was you!” + +“Fritz,” his father's voice was rendered harsh by mystification and +foreboding, “tell me what you're talking about. Come to the point. Clear +this up.” + +“I'm talking about American politics--your party--having ruined your +life! I'm talking about working like a slave all your days and having +nothing but a mortgaged farm at sixty-one! I'm talking about playing a +losing game! I'm saying, _What's the use?_ Father, I'm telling you that +_I'm_ going to join the other party and make some money!” + +The man just sat there, staring. + +“Well,” the boy took it up defiantly, “why not?” + +And then he moved, laid a not quite steady hand out upon the table. “My +boy, you're not well. You've studied too hard. Now brace yourself up +for to-night, and then we'll go down home and fix you up. What you need, +Fritz,” he said, trying to laugh, “is the hayfield.” + +“You're not _seeing_ it!” The boy pushed back his chair and began moving +about the room. “The only way I can brace myself up for to-night is +to get so mad--father, usually you see things so easily! Don't you +understand? It was my chance, my one moment, my time to strike. It will +be years before I get such a hearing again. You see, father, the thing +will be printed, and the men I want to have hear it, the men who _own +this State_, will be there. One of them is to preside. And the story of +it, the worth of it, to them, is that I'm your son. You see, after all,” + he seized at this wildly, “I'm getting my start on the fact that I'm +your son.” + +“Go on,” said the man; the brown of his wind-beaten face had yielded to +a tinge of grey. “Just what is it you are going to say?” + +“I call it 'The New America,' a lot of this talk about doing things, the +glory of industrial America, the true Americans the men of constructive +genius, the patriotism of railroad and factory building, a eulogy of +railroad officials and corporation presidents,” he rushed on with a +laugh. “Singing the song of Capital. Father, can't you see _why?_” + +The old man had risen. “Tell me this,” he said. “None of it matters +much, if you just tell me this: You _believe_ these things? You've +thought it all out for yourself--and you _feel_ that way? You're honest, +aren't you, Fritz?” He put that last in a whisper. + +The boy made no reply; after a minute the man sank back to his chair. +The years seemed coming to him with the minutes. + +Fred was leaning against the wall. “Father,” he said at last, “I hope +you'll let me be a little roundabout. It's only fair to me to let me +ramble on a little. I've got to put it all right before you or--or--You +know, dad,”--he came back to his place by the table, “the first thing I +remember very clearly is those men, your party managers, coming down to +the farm one time and asking you to run for Governor. How many times is +it you've run for Governor, father?” He put the question slowly. + +“Five,” said the man heavily. + +“I don't know which time this was; but you didn't want to. You were +sorry when you saw them coming. I heard some of the talk. You talked +about your farm, what you wanted to do that summer, how you couldn't +afford the time or the money. They argued that you owed it to the +party--they always got you there; how no other man could hold down +majorities as you could--a man like you giving the best years of his +life to holding down majorities! They said you were the one man against +whom no personal attack could be made. And when there was so much to +fight, anyway--oh, I know that speech by heart! They've made great +capital of your honesty and your clean life. In fact, they've held that +up as a curtain behind which a great many things could go on. Oh, _you_ +didn't know about them; you were out in front of the curtain, but I +haven't lived in this town without finding out that they needed your +integrity and your clean record pretty bad! + +“That was out on the side porch. Mother had brought out some buttermilk, +and they drank it while they talked. You put up a good fight. Your +time was money to you at that time of year; a man shouldn't neglect his +farm--but you never yet could hold out against that 'needing-you' kind +of talk. They knew there was no chance for your election. You knew it. +But it takes a man of just your grit to put any snap into a hopeless +campaign. + +“Mother cried when you went to drive them back to town. You see, I +remember all those things. She told about how hard you would work, and +how it would do no good--that the State belonged to the other party. +She talked about the farm, too, and the addition she had wanted for the +house, and how now she wouldn't have it. Mother felt pretty bad that +night. She's gone through a lot of those times.” + +There was a silence. + +“You were away a lot that summer, and all fall. You looked pretty +well used up when you came home, but you said that you had held down +majorities splendidly.” + +Again there was silence. It was the silences that seemed to be saying +the most. + +“You had one term in Congress--that's the only thing you ever had. Then +you did so much that they concentrated in your district and saw to +it that you never got back. Julius Caesar couldn't have been elected +again,” he laughed harshly. + +“Father,” the boy went on, after a pause, “you asked me if I were +honest. There are two kinds of honesty. The primitive kind--like +yours--and then the kind you develop for yourself. Do I believe the +things I'm going to say to-night? No--not now. But I'll believe them +more after I've heard the applause I'm sure to get. I'll believe them +still more after I've had my first case thrown to me by our railroad +friends who own this State. More and more after I've said them over in +campaigning next fall, and pretty soon I'll be so sure I believe them +that I really will believe them--and that,” he concluded, flippantly, +“is the new brand of American honesty. Why, any smart man can persuade +himself he's not a hypocrite!” + +“My _God!_” it wrenched from the man. “_This?_ If you'd stolen +money--killed a man--but hypocrisy, cant--the very thing I've fought +hardest, hated most! You lived all your life with me to learn _this?_” + +“I lived all my life with you to learn what pays, and what doesn't. I +lived all my life with you to learn from failure the value of success.” + +“I never was sure I was a failure until this hour.” + +“Father! Can't you see--” + +“Oh, don't _talk_ to me!” cried the old man, rising, reaching out his +fist as though he would strike him. “Son of mine sitting there telling +me he is fixing up a brand of honesty for himself!” + +The boy grew quieter as self-restraint left his father. “I mean +that--just that,” he said at last. “Let a man either give or get. If he +gives, let it be to the real thing. There are two Americas. The America +of you dreamers--and then the real America. Yours is an idea--an +idea quite as much as an ideal. I don't think you have the slightest +comprehension of how far apart it is from the real America. The people +who dream of it over in Europe are a great deal nearer it than you +people who work for it here. Father, the spirit of this country flows in +a strong, swift, resistless current. You never got into it at all. +Your kind of idealists influence it about as much--about as much as +red lights burned on the banks of the great river would influence the +current of that river. You're not _of_ it. You came here, throbbing +with the love for America; and with your ideal America you've fought +the real, and you've worked and you've believed and you've sacrificed. +Father, _what's the use?_ In this State, anyway, it's hopeless. It has +been so through your lifetime; it will be through mine.” + +The man sat looking at him. He felt that he should say something, +but the words did not come--held back, perhaps, by a sense of their +uselessness. It was not so much what Fred said as it was the look in his +eyes as he said it. There was nothing impetuous or youthful about that +look, nothing to be laughed at or argued away. He had always felt that +Fred had a mind which saw things straight, saw them in their right +relations, and at that moment he had no words to plead for what Fred +called the America of the dreamers. + +“I'm of the second generation, dad,” the boy went on, at length, +“and the second generation has an ideal of its own, and that ideal is +Success. It took us these forty years to come to understand the spirit +of America. You were a dreamer who loved America. I'm an American. We've +translated democracy and brotherhood and equality into enterprise and +opportunity and success--and that's getting Americanised. Now, father,” + he sought refuge in the tone of every-day things, “you'll get used to +it--won't you? I don't expect you to feel very good about it, but you +aren't going to be broken up about it--are you? After all, father,” + laughing and moving about as if to break the seriousness of things, +“there's nothing criminal about being one of the other fellows--is +there? Just remember that there _are_ folks who even think it's +respectable!” The father had risen and picked up his hat. “No, Fred,” he +said, with a sadness in which there was great dignity, “there is nothing +criminal in it if a man's conviction sends him that way. But to me there +is something--something too sad for words in a man's selling his own +soul.” + +“Father! How extravagant! _Why_ is it selling one's soul to sit down +and figure out what's the best thing to do?” He hesitated, hating to +add hurt to hurt, not wanting to say that his father's fight should have +been with the revolutionists, that his life was ineffective because, +seeing his dream from within a dream, his thinking had been muddled. He +only said: “As I say, father, it's a question of giving or getting. I +couldn't even give in your way. And I've seen enough of giving to want +a taste of getting. I want to make things go--and I see my chance. Why +father,” he laughed, trying to turn it, “there's nothing so American as +wanting to make things _go_.” + +He looked at him for a long minute. “My boy,” he said, “I fear you are +becoming so American that I am losing you.” + +“Father,” the boy pleaded, affectionately, “now don't--” + +The old man held up his hand. “You've tried to make me understand it,” + he said, “and succeeded. You can't complain of the way you've succeeded. +I don't know why I don't argue with you--plead; there are things I could +say--should say, perhaps--but something assures me it would be useless. +I feel a good many years older than I did when I came into this room, +but the reason for it is not that you're joining the other party. You +know what I think of the men who control this State, the men with whom +you desire to cast your lot, but I trust the years I've spent fighting +them haven't made a bigot of me. It's not joining their party--it's +_using_ it--makes this the hardest thing I've been called upon to meet.” + +“Father, don't look like that! How do you think I am going to get up and +speak tonight with _that_ face before me?” + +“You didn't think, did you,” the man laughed bitterly, “that I would +inspire you to your effort?” + +The boy stood looking at his father, a strange new fire in his eyes. + +“Yes,” he said, quietly, tenderly, “you will inspire me. When I get +up before those men tonight I'm going to see the picture of that boy +straining for his first glimpse of New York Harbour. I'm going to think +for just a minute of the things that boy brought with him--things he +has never lost. And then I'll see you as you stand here now---it will be +enough. What I need to do is to get mad. If I falter I'll just think +of some of those times when you came home from your campaigns--how you +looked--what you said. It will bring the inspiration. Father, I figure +it out like this. We're going to get it back. We're going to get what's +coming to us. There's another America than the America of you dreamers. +To yours you have given; from mine I will get. And the irony of +it--don't think I don't see the irony of it--is that I will be called +the real American. Do you know what I'm going to do? I'm going to make +the railroads of this State--oh, it sounds like schoolboy talk, but just +give me a little time--I'm going to make the railroads of this State +pay off every cent of that mortgage on your farm! Father,” he finished, +impetuously, in a last appeal, “you're broken up now, disappointed, but +would you honestly want me to travel the road you've traveled?” + +“My boy,” answered the old man, and the tears came with it, “I wanted +you to travel the road of an honest man.” + +Herman Beckman did not go to the commencement exercises that night. +There was no train home until morning, so he had the night to spend in +town. He was alone, for his friends assumed that he would be out at the +university. But he preferred being alone. + +He sat in his room at the hotel, reading. And he could read. Years of +discipline stood him in good stead now. His life had taught him to read +anywhere, at any time. He had never permitted himself the luxury of not +being “in the mood.” It was only the men who had gone to college who +could do that. He _had_ to read. He always carried some little book with +him, for how did a man know that he might not have to wait an hour for +a train somewhere? The man had a simple-minded veneration for knowledge. +He wanted to know about things. And he had never learned to pretend that +he didn't want to know. He quite lacked the modern art of flippancy. He +believed in great books. + +And so on the night that his son was being graduated from college he sat +in his room at the hotel--cheap room in a mediocre hotel; he had never +learned to feel at home in the rich ones--reading Marcus Aurelius. But +his hand as he turned the pages trembled as the hand of a very old man. +At midnight some reporters came in to ask him what he thought of his +son's oration. They wanted a statement from him. + +He told them that he had never believed the sins of a parent should be +visited on a child, and that it was even so with the thought. He had +always contended that a man should do his own thinking. The contention +applied to his son. + +“Gamey old brute!” was what one of the reporters said in the elevator. + +He could not read Marcus Aurelius after that. He went to bed, but he did +not sleep. Many things passed before him. His anticipations, his dreams +for Fritz, had brought the warmest pleasure of his stern, unrelaxing +life. There was a great emptiness tonight. What was a man to turn to, +think about, when he seemed stripped, not only of the future, but of the +past? He seemed called upon to readjust the whole of his life, giving +up that which he had held dearest. What was left? Daylight found him +turning it over and over. + +In the morning he went home. He got away without seeing any of his +friends. + +He did not try to read this morning; somehow it seemed there was no use +in trying to read any more. He watched the country through which they +were passing, thinking of the hundreds of times he had ridden over it in +campaigning. He wondered, vaguely, just how much money he had spent on +railroad fare--he had never accepted mileage. Fred's “What's the use?” + kept ringing in his ears. There was something about that phrase which +made one feel very tired and old. It even seemed there was no use +looking out to see how the crops were getting on. _What's the use? +What's the use?_ Was that a phrase one learned in college? + +There had been two things to tell “mother” that night. The first was +that he had stopped in town and told Claus Hansen he could have that +south hundred and sixty he had been wanting for two years. + +It was not easy to tell the woman who had worked shoulder to shoulder +with him for thirty years, the woman who during those years had risen +with him in the early morning and worked with him until darkness rescued +the weary bodies, that in their old age they must surrender the fruit of +their toil. They would have left just what they had started with. They +had just held their own. + +Coming down on the train he had made up his mind that if Hansen were +in town he would tell him that he could have the land. He felt so very +tired and old, so bowed down with Fred's “What's the use?” that he saw +that he himself would never get the mortgage paid off. And Fred had said +something about making the railroads pay it. He did not know just how +the boy figured that out--indeed, he was getting a little dazed about +the whole thing--but if Fritz had any idea of having the railroads pay +off the mortgage on _his_ farm--he couldn't forget how the boy looked +when he said it, face white, eyes burning--he would see to it right now +that there was no chance of that. + +He tried not to look at the land as he drove past it on the way home. He +wondered just how much campaign literature it had paid for. He wondered +if he would ever get used to seeing Claus Hansen putting up his hay over +there in that field. + +He had felt so badly about telling mother that he told it very bluntly. +And because he felt so sorry for her he said not one kind word, but just +sat quiet, looking the other way. + +She was clearing off the table. He heard her scraping out the potato +dish with great care. Then she was coming over to him. She came +awkwardly, hesitatingly--her life had not schooled her in meeting +emotional moments beautifully--but she laid her hand upon him, patted +him on the shoulder as one would a child. “Never mind, papa--never you +mind. It will make it easier for us. There's enough left--and it will +make it easier. We're getting on--we're--” There she broke off abruptly +into a vigorous scolding of the dog, who was lifting covetous nostrils +to a piece of meat. + +That was all. And there was no woman in the country had worked harder. +And Martha was ambitious; she liked land, and she did not like Claus +Hansen's wife. + +Yes, he had had a good wife. + +Then there was that other thing to tell her--about Fritz. That was +harder. + +Mother had not gone up to the city to hear Fritz “speak” because her +feet were bothering her, and she could not wear her shoes. He had had a +vague idea of how disappointed she was, though she had said very little +about it. Martha never had been one to say much about things. When he +came back, of course she had wanted to know all about it, and he had put +her off. Now he had to tell her. + +It was much harder; and in the telling of it he broke down. + +This time she did not come over and pat his shoulder. Perhaps Martha +knew--likely she had never heard the word intuition, but, anyway, she +knew--that it was beyond that. + +It seemed difficult for her to comprehend. She was bewildered to find +that Fritz could change parties all in a minute. She seemed to grasp, +first of all, that it was disrespectful to his father. Some boys at +school had been putting notions into his head. + +But gradually she began to see it. Fritz wanted to make money. Fritz +wanted to have it easier. And the other people did “have it easier.” + +It divided her feeling: sorry and indignant for the father, secretly +glad and relieved for the boy. “He will have it easier than we had +it, papa,” she said at the last. “But it was not right of Fritz,” she +concluded, vaguely but severely. + +As she washed the dishes Martha was thinking that likely Fritz's wife +would have a hired girl. + +Then Martha went up to bed. He said that he would come in a few minutes, +but many minutes went by while he sat out on the side porch trying to +think it out. + +The moon was shining brightly down on that hundred and sixty which Claus +Hansen was to have. And the moon, too, seemed to be saying: “What's the +use?” + +Well, what _was_ the use? Perhaps, after all, the boy was right. What +had it all amounted to? What was there left? What had he done? + +Two Americas, Fred had said, and his but the America of the dreamers. He +had always thought that he was fighting for the real. And now Fred said +that he had never become an American at all. + +From the time he was twelve years old he had wanted to be an American. +A queer old man back in the German village--an old man, he recalled +strangely now, who had never been in America--told him about it. He told +how all men were brothers in America, how the poor and the rich loved +each other--indeed, how there were no poor and rich at all, but the +same chance for every man who would work. He told about the marvellous +resources of that distant America--gold in the earth, which men were +free to go and get, hundreds upon hundreds of miles of untouched forests +and great rivers--all for men to use, great cities no older than the men +who were in them, which men at that present moment were _making_--every +man his equal chance. He told of rich land which a man could have for +nothing, which would be _his_, if he would but go and work upon it. In +the heart of the little German boy there was kindled then a fire which +the years had never put out. His cheeks grew red, his eyes bright and +very deep as he listened to the story. He went home that night and +dreamed of going to America. And through the years of his boyhood, penny +by penny, he saved his money for America. It was his dream. It was +the passion of his life. More plainly than the events of yesterday, he +remembered his first glimpse of those wonderful shores--the lump in his +throat, the passionate excitement, the uplift. Leaning over the railing +of his boat, staring, searching, penetrating, worshipping, he lifted up +his heart and sent out his pledge of allegiance to the new land. How he +would love America, work for it, be true to it! + +He had three dollars and sixty cents in his pocket when he stepped upon +American soil. He wondered if any man had ever felt richer. For had he +not reached the land where there was an equal chance for every man who +would work, where men loved each other as brothers, and where the earth +itself was so rich and so gracious in its offerings? + +The old man crossed one leg over the other--slowly, stiffly. It made him +tired and stiff now just to think of the work he had done between that +day and this. + +But there was something which he had always had--that something was +_his_ America. That had never wavered, though he soon learned that +between it and realities were many things which were wrong and +unfortunate. With the whole force and passion of his nature, with all +his single mindedness--would some call it simple mindedness?--he threw +himself into the fight against those things which were blurring men's +vision of his America. No work, no sacrifice was too great, for America +had enemies who called themselves friends, men who were striking heavy +blows at that equal chance for every man. When he failed, it was because +he did not know enough; he must work, he must study, he must think, in +order to make more real to other men the America which was in his heart. +He must fight for it because it was his. + +And now it seemed that the end had come; he was old, he was tired, he +was not sure. Claus Hansen would have his land and his son would join +hands with the things which he had spent his life in fighting. And far +deeper and sadder and more bitter than that, he had not transmitted the +America of his heart even to his own son. He was not leaving someone to +fight for it in his stead, to win where he had failed. Fred saw in +it but a place for gain. “I lived all my life with you to learn from +failure the value of success.” That was what he had given to his boy. +Yes, that was what he had bequeathed to America. Could the failure, the +futility of his life be more clearly revealed? + +Twice Martha had called to him, but still he sat, smoking, thinking. +There was much to think about to-night. + +Finally, it was not thought, but visions. Too tired for conscious +thinking, he gave himself up to what came--Fred's America, his America, +the America of the dreamers--and the things which stood between. The +America of the future---what would that America be? + +At the last, taking form from many things which came and went, shaping +itself slowly, form giving place to new form, he seemed to see it grow. +Out beyond that land Claus Hansen was to have, a long way off, there +rose the vision of the America of the future--an America of realities, +and yet an America of dreams; for the dreamers had become the +realists---or was it that the realists had become dreamers? In the +manifold forms taken on and cast aside destroying dualism had made way +for the strength and the dignity and harmony of unity. He watched it as +breathlessly, as yearningly, as the nineteen-year-old boy had watched +the other America taking shape in the distance some forty years before. +“How did you come?” he whispered. “What are you?” + +And the voice of that real America seemed to answer: “I came because for +a long-enough time there were enough men who held me in their hearts. I +came because there were men who never gave me up. I was won by men who +believed that they had failed.” + +Again there was a lump in his throat--once more an exultation flooded +all his being. For to the old man--tired, stiff, smitten though he had +been, there came again that same uplift which long before had come to +the boy. Was there not here an answer to “What's the use?” For he would +leave America as he came to it--loving it, believing in it. What were +the work and the failure of a lifetime when there was something in his +heart which was his? Should he say that he had fought in vain when +he had kept it for himself? It was as real, as wonderful--yes as +inevitable, as it had been forty years before. Realities had taken his +land, his career, his hopes for the boy. But realities had not stripped +him of his dream. The futility of the years could not harm the things +which were in his heart. Even in America he had not lost His America. + +“Perhaps it is then that it is like that,” he murmured, his vision +carrying him back to the days of his broken English. “Perhaps it is that +every man's America is in the inside of his own heart. Perhaps it is +that it will come when it has grown big--big and very strong--in the +hearts.” + + + + +XII + +THE ANARCHIST: HIS DOG + + +Stubby had a route, and that was how he happened to get a dog. For the +benefit of those who have never carried papers it should be thrown in +that having a route means getting up just when there is really some fun +in sleeping, lining up at the _Leader_ office--maybe having a scrap with +the fellow who says you took his place in the line--getting your papers +all damp from the press and starting for the outskirts of the city. +Then you double up the paper in the way that will cause all possible +difficulty in undoubling and hurl it with what force you have against +the front door. It is good to have a route, for you at least earn your +salt, so your father can't say _that_ any more. If he does, you know it +isn't so. + +When you have a route, you whistle. All the fellows whistle. They may +not feel like it, but it is the custom--as could be sworn to by many +sleepy citizens. And as time goes on you succeed in acquiring the easy +manner of a brigand. + +Stubby was little and everything about him seemed sawed off just a +second too soon,--his nose, his fingers, and most of all, his hair. His +head was a faithful replica of a chestnut burr. His hair did not lie +down and take things easy. It stood up--and out!--gentle ladies couldn't +possibly have let their hands sink into it--as we are told they do--for +the hands just wouldn't sink. They'd have to float. + +And alas, gentle ladies didn't particularly want their hands to sink +into it. There was not that about Stubby's short person to cause +the hands of gentle ladies to move instinctively to his head. Stubby +bristled. That is, he appeared to bristle. Inwardly, Stubby yearned, +though he would have swung into his very best brigand manner on the spot +were you to suggest so offensive a thing. Just to look at Stubby you'd +never in a thousand years guess what a funny feeling he had sometimes +when he got to the top of the hill where his route began and could see +a long way down the river and the town curled in on the other side. +Sometimes when the morning sun was shining through a mist--making things +awful queer--some of the mist got into Stubby's squinty little eyes. +After the mist behaved that way he always whistled so rakishly and threw +his papers with such abandonment that people turned over in their beds +and muttered things about having that little heathen of a paper boy +shot. + +All along the route are dogs. Indeed, routes are distinguished by their +dogs. Mean routes are those that have terraces and mean dogs; good +routes--where the houses are close together and the dogs run out and wag +their tails. Though Stubby's greater difficulty came through the wagging +tails; he carried in a collie neighbourhood, and all collies seemed +consumed with mighty ambitions to have routes. If you spoke to them--and +how could you _help_ speaking to a collie when he came bounding out to +you that way?--you had an awful time chasing him back, and when he got +lost--and it seemed collies spent most of their time getting lost--the +woman would put her head out next morning and want to know if you had +coaxed her dog away. + +Some of the fellows had dogs that went with them on their routes. One +day one of them asked Stubby why he didn't have a dog and he replied in +surly fashion that he didn't have one 'cause he didn't want one. If he +wanted one, he guessed he'd have one. + +And there was no one within ear-shot old enough or wise enough--or +tender enough?--to know from the meanness of Stubby's tone, and by his +evil scowl, that his heart was just breaking to own a dog. + +One day a new dog appeared along the route. He was yellow and looked +like a cheap edition of a bull-dog. He was that kind of dog most +accurately described by saying it is hard to describe him, the kind you +say is just dog--and everybody knows. + +He tried to follow Stubby; not in the trusting, bounding manner of the +collies--not happily, but hopingly. Stubby, true to the ethics of his +profession, chased him back where he had come from. That there might +be nothing whatever on his conscience, he even threw a stone after him. +Stubby was an expert in throwing things at dogs. He could seem to just +miss them and yet never hit them. + +The next day it happened again; but just as he had a clod poised for +throwing, a window went up and a woman called: “For pity _sake_, little +boy, don't chase him back _here_.” + +“Why--why, ain't he yours?” called Stubby. + +“Mercy, _no_. We can't chase him away.” + +“Who's is he?” demanded Stubby. + +“Why, he's nobody's! He just hangs around. I wish you'd coax him away.” + +Well, that was a _new_ one! And then all in a heap it rushed over Stubby +that this dog who was nobody's dog could, if he coaxed him away--and the +woman _wanted_ him coaxed away--be his dog. + +And because that idea had such a strange effect on him he sang out, in +off-hand fashion: “Oh, all right, I'll take him away and drown him for +you! + +“Oh, little _boy_,” called the woman, “why, don't _drown_ him!” + +“Oh, all right, I'll shoot him then!” called obliging Stubby, whistling +for the dog--while all morning long the woman grieved over having sent a +helpless little dog away with that perfectly _brutal_ paper boy! + +Stubby's mother was washing. She looked up from her tubs on the back +porch to say, “Wish you'd take that bucket--” then seeing what was +slinking behind her son, straightway assumed the role of destiny with, +“Git out o' here!” + +Stubby snapped his fingers behind his back as much as to say, “Wait a +minute.” + +“A woman gave him to me,” he said to his mother. + +“_Gave_ him to you?” she scoffed. “I sh' think she would!” + +Then something happened that had not happened many times in Stubby's +short lifetime. He acknowledged his feelings. + +“I'd like to keep him. I'd like to have a dog.” + +His mother shook her hands and the flying suds seemed expressing her +scorn. “Huh! _That_ ugly good-for-nothing thing?” + +The dog had edged in between Stubby's feet and crouched there. “He could +go with me on my route,” said Stubby. “He'd kind of be company for me.” + +And when he had said that he knew all at once just how lonesome he had +been sometimes on his route, how he had wanted something to “kind of be +company” for him. + +His face twitched as he stooped down to pat the dog. Mrs. Lynch looked +at her son--youngest of her five. Not the hardness of her heart but the +hardness of her life had made her unpractised in moments of tenderness. +Something in the way Stubby was patting the dog suggested to her that +Stubby was a “queer one.” He _was_ kind of little to be carrying papers +all by himself. + +Stubby looked up. “He could eat what's thrown away.” + +That was an error in diplomacy. The woman's face hardened. “Mighty +little'll be thrown away _this_ winter,” she muttered. + +But just then Mrs. Johnson appeared on the other side of the fence and +began hanging up her clothes and with that Mrs. Lynch saw her way to +justify herself in indulging her son. Mrs. Johnson and Mrs. Lynch had +“had words.” “You just let him stay around, Stubby,” she called, and +you would have supposed from her tone it was Stubby who was on the other +side of the fence, “maybe he'll keep the neighbour's chickens out! Them +that ain't got chickens o' their own don't want to be bothered with the +neighbours'!” + +That was how it happened that he stayed; and no one but Stubby knew--and +possibly Stubby didn't either--how it happened that he was named Hero. +It would seem that Hero should be a noble St. Bernard, or a particularly +mean-looking bulldog, not a stocky, shapeless, squint-eyed yellow dog +with one ear bitten half off and one leg built on an entirely different +plan from its fellow legs. Possibly Stubby's own spiritual experiences +had suggested to him that you weren't necessarily the way you looked. + +The chickens were pretty well kept out, though no one ever saw Hero +doing any of it. Perhaps Hero had been too long associated with chasing +to desire any part in it--even with roles reversed. If Stubby could help +it, no one really saw Stubby doing the chasing either; he became skilled +in chasing when he did not appear to be chasing; then he would get Hero +to barking and turn to his mother with, “Guess you don't see so many +chickens round nowadays.” + +The fellows in the line jeered at Hero at first, but they soon tired of +it when Stubby said he didn't want the cur but his mother made him +stay around to keep the chickens out. He was a fine chicken dog, Stubby +grudgingly admitted. He couldn't keep him from following, said Stubby, +so he just let him come. Sometimes when they were waiting in line Stubby +made ferocious threats at Hero. He was going to break his back and wring +his head off and do other heartless things which for some reason he +never started in right then and there to accomplish. + +It was different when they were alone--and they were alone a good deal. +Stubby's route wasn't nearly so long after he had Hero to go with him. +When winter came and five o'clock was dark and cold for starting out +it was pretty good to have Hero trotting at his heels. And Hero always +wanted to go; it was never so rainy nor so cold that that yellow dog +seemed to think he would rather stay home by the fire. Then Hero was +always waiting for him when he came home from school. Stubby would sing +out, “Hello, cur!” and the tone was such that Hero did not grasp that he +was being insulted. Sometimes when there was nobody about, Stubby +picked Hero up in his arms and squeezed him--Stubby had not had a large +experience with squeezing. At those times Hero would lick Stubby's face +and whimper a little love whimper and such were the workings of Stubby's +heart and mind that that made him of quite as much account as if he +really had chased the chickens. Stubby, who had seen the way dogs can +look at you out of their eyes, was not one to say of a dog, “What good +is he?” + +But it seemed there were such people. There were even people who thought +you oughtn't to have a dog to love and to love you if you weren't one +of those rich people who could pay two dollars and a half a year for the +luxury. + +Stubby first heard of those people one night in June. The father of the +Lynch family was sitting in the back yard reading the paper when Hero +and Stubby came running in from the alley. It was one of those moments +when Hero, forgetting the bleakness of his youth, abandoned himself to +the joy of living. He was tearing round and round Stubby, barking, when +Stubby's father called out: “Here!--shut up there, you cur. You better +lie low. You're going to be shot the first of August.” + +Stubby, and as regards the joy of living Hero had done as much for +Stubby as Stubby for Hero, came to a halt. The fun and frolic just +died right out of him and he stood there staring at his father, who had +turned the page and was settling himself to a new horror. At last Stubby +spoke. “Why's he going to be shot on the first of August?” he asked in a +tight little voice. + +His father looked up. “Why's he going to be shot? You got any two +dollars and a half to pay for him?” + +He laughed as though that were a joke. Well, it was something of a joke. +Stubby got ten cents a week out of his paper money. The rest he “turned +in.” + +Then he went back to his paper. There was another long pause before +Stubby asked, in that tight queer little voice: “What'd I have to pay +two dollars and a half for? Nobody owns him.” + +His parent stirred scornfully. “Suppose you never heard of a dog tax, +did you? S'pose they don't learn you nothing like that at school?” + +Yes, Stubby did know that dogs had to have checks, but he hadn't +thought anything about that in connection with Hero. He ventured another +question. “You have to have 'em for all dogs, even if you just picked +'em up on the street and took care of 'em when nobody else would?” + +“You bet you do,” his parent assured him genially. “You pay your dog tax +or the policeman comes on the first of August and shoots your dog.” + +With that he dismissed it for good, burying himself in his paper. For a +minute the boy stood there in silence. Then he walked slowly round the +house and sat down where his father couldn't see him. Hero followed--it +was a way Hero had. The dog sat down beside the boy and after a couple +of minutes the boy's arm stole furtively around him and they sat there +very still for a long time. + +As nobody but Hero paid much attention to him, nobody save Hero noticed +how quiet and queer Stubby was for the next three days. Hero must have +noticed it, for he was quiet and queer too. He followed wherever Stubby +would let him, and every time he got a chance he would nestle up to him +and look into his face--that way even cur dogs have of doing when they +fear something is wrong. + +At the end of three days Stubby, his little freckled face set and grim, +took his stand in front of his father and came right out with: “I want +to keep one week's paper money to pay Hero's tax.” + +His father's chair had been tilted back against a tree. Now it came down +with a thud. “Oh, you _do_, do you?” + +“I can earn the other fifty cents at little jobs.” + +“You _can_, can you? Now ain't you smart!” + +The tone brought the blood to Stubby's face. “I think I got a right to,” + he said, his voice low. + +The man's face, which had been taunting, grew ugly. “Look a-here, young +man, none o' your lip!” + +The tears rushed to Stubby's eyes but he stumbled on: “I guess Hero's +got a right to some of my paper money when he goes with me every day on +my route.” + +At that his father stared for a minute and then burst into a loud laugh. +Blinded with tears, the boy turned to the house. + +After she had gone to bed that night Stubby's mother heard a sound from +the alcove at the head of the stairs where her youngest child slept. As +the sound kept on she got out of her bed and went to Stubby's cot. + +“Look here,” she said, awkwardly but not unkindly, “this won't do. We're +poor folks, Freddie” (it was only once in a while she called him that), +“all we can do to live these times--we can't pay no dog tax.” + +As Stubby did not speak she added: “I know you've taken to the dog, but +just the same you ain't to feel hard to your pa. He can't help it--and +neither can I. Things is as they is--and nobody can help it.” + +As, despite this bit of philosophy Stubby was still gulping back sobs, +she added what she thought a master stroke in consolation. “Now you just +go right to sleep, and if they come to take this dog away maybe you can +pick up another one in the fall.” + +The sobs suddenly stopped and Stubby stared at her. And what he said +after a long stare was: “I guess there ain't no use in you and me +talking about it.” + +“That's right,” said she, relieved; “now you go right off to sleep.” + And she left him, never dreaming why Stubby had seen there was no use +talking about it. + +Nor did he talk about it; but a change came over Stubby's funny little +person in the next few days. The change was particularly concerned with +his jaw, though there was something different, too, in the light in his +eyes as he looked straight ahead, and something different in his voice +when he said: “Come on, Hero.” + +He got so he could walk into a store and demand, in a hard little voice: +“Want a boy to do anything for you?” and when they said, “Got more boys +than we know what to do with, sonny,” Stubby would say, “All right,” and +stalk sturdily out again. Sometimes they laughed and said: “What could +_you_ do?” and then Stubby would stalk out, but possibly a little less +sturdily. + +Vacation came the next week, and still he had found nothing. His father, +however, had been more successful. He found a place where they wanted a +boy to work in a yard a couple of hours in the morning. For that Stubby +was to get a dollar and a half a week. But that was to be turned in for +his “keep.” There were lots of mouths to feed--as Stubby's mother was +always calling to her neighbour across the alley. + +But the yard gave Stubby an idea, and he earned some dimes and one +quarter in the next week. Most folks thought he was too little--one kind +lady told him he ought to be playing, not working--but there were people +who would let him take a big shears and cut grass around flower beds, +and things like that. This he had to do afternoons, when he was supposed +to be off playing, and when he came home his mother sometimes said some +folks had it easy--playing around all day. + +It was now the first week in July and Stubby had a dollar and twenty +cents. It was getting to the point where he would wake in the night and +find himself sitting up in bed, hands clenched. He dreamed dreams about +how folks would let him live if he had ninety-nine cents but how he only +had ninety-seven and a half, so they were going to shoot him. + +Then one day he found Mr. Stuart. He was passing the house after having +asked three people if they wanted a boy, and they didn't, and seemed so +surprised at the idea of their wanting him that Stubby's throat was all +tight, when Mr. Stuart sang out: “Say, boy, want a little job?” + +It seemed at first it must be a joke--or a dream--anybody asking him if +he _wanted_ one, but the man was beckoning to him, so he pulled himself +together and ran up the steps. + +“Now here's a little package”--he took something out of the mail box. +“It doesn't belong here. It's to go to three-hundred-two Pleasant +street. You take it for a dime?” + +Stubby nodded. + +As he was going down the steps the man called: “Say, boy, how'd you like +a steady job?” + +For the first minute it seemed pretty mean--making fun of a fellow that +way! + +“This will be here every day. Suppose you come each day, about this +time, and take it over there--not mentioning it to anybody.” + +Stubby felt weak. “Why, all right,” he managed to say. + +“I'll give you fifty cents a week. That fair?” + +“Yes, sir,” said Stubby, doing some quick calculation. + +“Then here goes for the first week”--and he handed him the other forty +cents. + +It was funny how fast the world could change! Stubby wanted to run--he +hadn't been doing much running of late. He wanted to go home and get +Hero to go with him to Pleasant street, but didn't. No, _sir_, when you +had a job you had to 'tend to things! + +Well, a person could do things, if he had to, thought Stubby. No use +saying you couldn't, you _could_, if you had to. He was back in tune +with life. He whistled; he turned up his collar in the old rakish way; +he threw a stick at a cat. Back home he jumped over the fence instead +of going in the gate--lately he had actually been using the gate. And +he cried, “Get out of my sight, you cur!” in tones which, as Hero +understood things, meant anything but getting out of his sight. + +He was a little boy again. He slept at night as little boys sleep. He +played with Hero along the route--taught him some new tricks. His jaw +relaxed from its grown-upishness. + +It was funny about those Stuarts. Sometimes he saw Mr. Stuart, but never +anybody else; the place seemed shut up. But each day the little package +was there, and every day he took it to Pleasant street and left it at +the door there--that place seemed shut up, too. + +When it was well into the second week Stubby ventured to say something +about the next fifty cents. + +The man fumbled in his pockets. Something in his face was familiar to +experienced Stubby. It suggested a having to have two dollars and a half +by August first and only having a dollar and a quarter state of mind. + +“I haven't got the change. Pay you at the end of next week for the whole +business. That all right?” + +Stubby considered. “I've got to have it before the first of August,” he +said. + +At that the man laughed--funny kind of laugh, it was, and muttered +something. But he told Stubby he would have it before the first. + +It bothered Stubby. He wished the man had given it to him _then_. He +would rather get it each week and keep it himself. A little of the +grown-up look stole back. + +After that he didn't see Mr. Stuart, and one day, a week or so later, +the package was not in the box and a man who wore the kind of clothes +Stubby's father wore came around the house and asked him what he was +doing. + +Stubby was wary. “Oh, I've got a little job I do for Mr. Stuart.” + +The man laughed. “I had a little job I did for Mr. Stuart, too. You paid +in advance?” + +Stubby pricked up his ears. + +“'Cause if you ain't, I'd advise you to look out for a little job +some'eres else.” + +Then it came out. Mr. Stuart was broke; more than that, he was “off his +nut.” Lots of people were doing little jobs for him--there was no sense +in any of them, and now he had suddenly been called out of town! + +There was a trembly feeling through Stubby's insides, but outwardly he +was bristling just like his hair bristled as he demanded: “Where am I to +get what's coming to me?” + +“'Fraid you won't get it, sonny. We're all in the same boat.” He looked +Stubby up and down and then added: “Kind of little for that boat.” + +“I _got_ to have it!” cried Stubby. “I tell you, I _got_ to!” + +The man shook his head. “_That_ cuts no ice. Hard luck, sonny, but we've +got to take our medicine in this world. 'Taint no medicine for kids, +though,” he muttered. + +Stubby's face just then was too much for him. He put his hand in his +pocket and drew out a dime, saying: “There now. You run along and get +you a soda and forget your troubles. It ain't always like this. You'll +have better luck next time.” + +But Stubby did not get the soda. He put the dime in his pocket and +turned toward home. Something was the matter with his legs--they acted +funny about carrying him. He tried to whistle, but something was the +matter with his lips, too. + +Counting this dime, he now had a dollar and eighty cents, and it was the +twenty-eighth day of July. “Thirty days has September--April, June and +November--” he was saying to himself. Then July was one of the long +ones. Well, _that_ was a good thing! Been a great deal worse if July was +a short one. Again he tried to whistle, and that time did manage to pipe +out a few shrill little notes. + +When Hero came running up the hill to meet him he slapped him on the +back and cried, “Hello, Hero!” in tones fairly swaggering with bravado. + +That night he engaged his father in conversation--the phrase is well +adapted to the way Stubby went about it. “How is it about--'bout things +like taxes”--Stubby crossed his knees and swung one foot to show his +indifference--“if you have _almost_ enough--do they sometimes let you +off?”--the detachment was a shade less perfect on that last. + +His father laughed scoffingly. “Well, I guess _not!_” + +“I thought maybe,” said Stubby, “if a person had _tried_ awful hard--and +had _most_ enough--” + +Something inside him was all shaky, so he didn't go on. His father said +that _trying_ didn't have anything to do with it. + +It was hard for Stubby not to sob out that he thought trying _ought_ to +have something to do with it, but he only made a hissing noise between +his teeth that took the place of the whistle that wouldn't come. + +“Kind of seems,” he resumed, “if a person would have had enough if they +hadn't been beat out of it, maybe--if he done the best he could--” + +His father snorted derisively and informed him that doing the best you +could made no difference to the government; hard luck stories didn't go +when it came to the laws of the land. + +Thereupon Stubby took a little walk out to the alley and spent a +considerable time in contemplation of the neighbour's chicken-yard. When +he came back he walked right up to his father and standing there, feet +planted, shoulders squared, wanted to know, in a desperate little voice: +“If some one else was to give--say a dollar and eighty cents for Hero, +could I take the other seventy out of my paper money?” + +The man turned upon him roughly. “Uh-_huh_! _That's_ it, is it? _That's_ +why you're getting so smart all of a sudden about government! Look +a-here. Just l'me tell you something. You're lucky if you git enough +to _eat_ this winter. Do you know there's talk of the factory shuttin' +down? _Dog_ tax! Why you're lucky if you git _shoes_.” + +Stubby had turned away and was standing with his back to his father, +hands in his pockets. + +“And l'me tell you some'en else, young man. If you got any dollar and +eighty cents, you give it to your mother!” + +As Stubby was turning the corner of the house he called after him: +“How'd you like to have me get you an automobile?” + +He went doggedly from house to house the next afternoon, but nobody had +any jobs. When Hero came running out to him that night he patted him, +but didn't speak. + +That evening as they were sitting in the back yard--Stubby and Hero +a little apart from the others--his father was discoursing with his +brother about anarchists. They were getting commoner, his father +thought. There were a good many of them at the shop. They didn't call +themselves that, but that was what they were. + +“Well, what is an anarchist, anyhow?” Stubby's mother wanted to know. + +“Why, an anarchist,” her lord informed her, “is one that's against +the government. He don't believe in the law and order. The real bad +anarchists shoot them that tries to enforce the laws of the land. Guess +if you'd read the papers these days you'd know.” + +Stubby's brain had been going round and round and these words caught in +it as it whirled. The government--the laws of the land--why, it was the +government and the laws of the land that were going to shoot Hero! It +was the government--the laws of the land--that didn't care how hard you +had _tried_--didn't care whether you had been cheated--didn't care how +you _felt_--didn't care about anything except getting the money! His +brain got hotter. Well, _he_ didn't believe in the government, either. +He was one of those people--those anarchists--that were against the laws +of the land. + +He'd done the very best he could and now the government was going +to take Hero away from him just because he couldn't get--_couldn't_ +get--that other seventy cents. + +Stubby's mother didn't hear her son crying that night. That was because +Stubby was successful in holding the pillow over his head. + +The next morning he looked in one of the papers he was carrying to +see what it said about anarchists. Sure enough, some place way off +somewhere, the anarchists had shot somebody that was trying to enforce +the laws of the land. The laws of the land--that didn't _care_. + +That afternoon as Stubby tramped around looking for jobs he saw a good +many boys playing with dogs. None of them seemed to be worrying about +whether their dogs had checks. To Stubby's hot little brain and sore +little heart came the thought that they didn't love their dogs any more +than he loved Hero, either. But the government didn't care whether he +loved Hero or not! Pooh!--what was that to the government? All it cared +about was getting the money. He stood for a long time watching a boy +giving his dog a bath. The dog was trying to get away and the boy and +another boy were having lots of fun about it. All of a sudden Stubby +turned and ran away--ran down an alley, ran through a number of alleys, +just kept on running, blinded by the tears. + +And that night, in the middle of the night, that something in his head +going round and round, getting hotter and hotter, he decided that the +only thing for him to do was to shoot the policeman who came to take +Hero away on the morning of August first--that would be day after +to-morrow. + +All night long policemen with revolvers stood around his bed. When his +mother called him at half-past four he was shaking so he could scarcely +get into his clothes. + +On his way home from his route Stubby had to pass a police-station. He +went on the other side of the street and stood there looking across. One +of the policemen was playing with a dog! + +Suddenly he wanted to rush over and throw himself down at that +policeman's feet--sob out the story--ask him to please, _please_ wait +till he could get that other seventy cents. + +But just then the policeman got up and went in the station, and Stubby +was afraid to go in the police-station. + +That policeman complicated things for Stubby. Before that it had been +quite simple. The policeman would come to enforce the law of the land; +but he did not believe in the law of the land, so he would just kill the +policeman. But it seemed a policeman wasn't just a person who enforced +the laws of the land. He was also a person who played with a dog. + +After a whole day of walking around thinking about it--his eyes burning, +his heart pounding--he decided that the thing to do was to warn the +policeman by writing a letter. He did not know whether real anarchists +warned them or not, but Stubby couldn't get reconciled to the idea of +killing a person without telling him you were going to do it. It seemed +that even a policeman should be told--especially a policeman who played +with a dog. + +The following letter was pencilled by a shaking hand, late that +afternoon. It was written upon a barrel in the Lynch wood-shed, on a +piece of wrapping paper, a bristly little head bending over it: + +To the Policeman who comes to take my dog 'cause I ain't got the two +fifty--'cause I tried but could only get one eighty--'cause a man was +off his nut and didn't pay me what I earned-- + +This is to tell you I am an anarchist and do not believe in the +government or the law and the order and will shoot you when you come. I +wouldn't a been an anarchist if I could a got the money and I tried to +get it but I couldn't get it--not enough. I don't think the government +had ought to take things you like like I like Hero so I am against the +government. + +Thought I would tell you first. + +Yours truly, + +F. LYNCH. + +I don't see how I can shoot you 'cause where would I get the revolver. +So I will have to do it with the butcher knife. Folks are sometimes +killed that way 'cause my father read it in the paper. + +If you wanted to take the one eighty and leave Hero till I can get the +seventy I will not do anything to you and would be very much obliged. + +1113 Willow street. + +The letter was properly addressed and sealed--not for nothing had +Stubby's teacher given those instructions in the art of letter writing. +The stamp he paid for out of the dime the man gave him to get a soda +with--and forget his troubles. + +Now Bill O'Brien was on the desk at the police-station and Miss Murphy +of the Herald stood in with Bill. That was how it came about that the +next morning a fat policeman, an eager-looking girl and a young fellow +with a kodak descended into the hollow to 1113 Willow street. + +A little boy peeped around the corner of the house--such a wild-looking +little boy--hair all standing up and eyes glittering. A yellow dog ran +out and barked. The boy darted out and grabbed the dog in his arms and +in that moment the girl called to the man with the black box: “Right +now! Quick! Get him!” + +They were getting ready to shoot Hero! That box was the way the police +did it! He must--oh, he _must--must_ ... Boy and dog sank to the +ground--but just the same the boy was shielding the dog! + +When Stubby had pulled himself together the policeman was holding Hero. +He said that Hero was certainly a fine dog--he had a dog a good +deal like him at home. And Miss Murphy--she was choking back sobs +herself--knew how he could earn the seventy cents that afternoon. + +In such wise do a good anarchist and a good story go down under the same +blow. Some of those sobs Miss Murphy choked back got into what she wrote +about Stubby and his yellow dog and the next day citizens with no sense +of the dramatic sent money enough to check Hero through life. + +At first Stubby's father said he had a good mind to lick him. But +something in the quality of Miss Murphy's journalism left a hazy feeling +of there being something remarkable about his son. He confided to his +good wife that it wouldn't surprise him much if Stubby was some day +President. Somebody had to be President, said he, and he had noticed +it was generally those who in their youthful days did things that made +lively reading in the newspapers. + + + + +XIII + +AT TWILIGHT + + +A breeze from the May world without blew through the class-room, and as +it lifted his papers he had a curious sense of freshness and mustiness +meeting. He looked at the group of students before him, half smiling at +the way the breath of spring was teasing the hair of the girls sitting +by the window. Anna Lawrence was trying to pin hers back again, but May +would have none of such decorum, and only waited long enough for her +to finish her work before joyously undoing it. She caught the laughing, +admiring eyes of a boy sitting across from her and sought to conceal her +pleasure in her unmanageable wealth of hair by a wry little face, and +then the eyes of both strayed out to the trees that had scented +that breeze for them, looking with frank longing at the campus which +stretched before them in all its May glory that sunny afternoon. He +remembered having met this boy and girl strolling in the twilight the +evening before, and as a buoyant breeze that instant swept his own face +he had a sudden, irrelevant consciousness of being seventy-three years +old. + +Other eyes were straying to the trees and birds and lilacs of that world +from which the class-room was for the hour shutting them out. He was +used to it--that straying of young eyes in the spring. For more than +forty years he had sat at that desk and talked to young men and women +about philosophy, and in those forty years there had always been +straying eyes in May. The children of some of those boys and girls had +in time come to him, and now there were other children who, before +many years went by, might be sitting upon those benches, listening to +lectures upon what men had thought about life, while their eyes strayed +out where life called. So it went on--May, perhaps, the philosopher +triumphant. + +As, with a considerable effort--for the languor of spring, or some other +languor, was upon him too--he brought himself back to the papers they +had handed in, he found himself thinking of those first boys and girls, +now men and women, and parents of other boys and girls. He hoped that +philosophy had, after all, done something more than shut them out from +May. He had always tried, not so much to instruct them in what men had +thought, as to teach them to think, and perhaps now, when May had become +a time for them to watch the straying of other eyes, they were the less +desolate because of the habits he had helped them to form. He wanted to +think that he had done something more than hold them prisoners. + +There was a sadness to-day in his sympathy. He was tired. It was hard +to go back to what he had been saying about the different things the +world's philosophers had believed about the immortality of the soul. So, +as often when his feeling for his thought dragged, he turned to Gretta +Loring. She seldom failed to bring a revival of interest--a freshening. +She was his favourite student. He did not believe that in all the years +there had been any student who had not only pleased, but helped him as +she did. + +He had taught her father and mother. And now there was Gretta, +clear-eyed and steady of gaze, asking more of life than either of them +had asked; asking, not only May, but what May meant. For Gretta there +need be no duality. She was one of those rare ones for whom the meaning +of life opened new springs to the joy of life, for whom life intensified +with the understanding of it. He never said a thing that gratified him +as reaching toward the things not easy to say but that he would find +Gretta's face illumined--and always that eager little leaning ahead for +more. + +She had that look of waiting now, but to-day it seemed less an expectant +than a troubled look. She wanted him to go on with what he had been +saying about the immortality of the soul. But it was not so much a +demand upon him--he had come to rely upon those demands, as it was--he +had an odd, altogether absurd sense of its being a fear for him. She +looked uncomfortable, fretted; and suddenly he was startled to see her +searching eyes blurred by something that must be tears. + +She turned away, and for just a minute it seemed to leave him alone and +helpless. He rubbed his forehead with his hand. It felt hot. It got that +way sometimes lately when he was tired. And the close of that hour often +found him tired. + +He believed he knew what she wanted. She would have him declare his own +belief. In the youthful flush of her modernism she was impatient with +that fumbling around with what other men had thought. Despising the +muddled thinking of some of her classmates, she would have him put it +right to them with “As for yourself--” + +He tried to formulate what he would care to say. But, perhaps just +because he was too tired to say it right, the life the robin in the +nearest tree was that moment celebrating in song seemed more important +than anything he had to say about his own feeling toward the things men +had thought about the human soul. + +It was ten minutes before closing time, but suddenly he turned to his +class with: “Go out-of-doors and think about it. This is no day to sit +within and talk of philosophy. What men have thought about life in the +past is less important than what you feel about it to-day.” He paused, +then added, he could not have said why, “And don't let the shadow of +either belief or unbelief fall across the days that are here for you +now.” Again he stopped, then surprised himself by ending, “Philosophy +should quicken life, not deaden it.” + +They were not slow in going, their astonishment in his wanting them to +go quickly engulfed in their pleasure in doing so. It was only Gretta +who lingered a moment, seeming too held by his manner in sending her out +into the sunshine to care about going there. He thought she was going to +come to the desk and speak to him. He was sure she wanted to. But at the +last she went hastily, and he thought, just before she turned her face +away, that it was a tear he saw on her lashes. + +Strange! Was she unhappy, she through whom life surged so richly? And +yet was it not true, that where it gave much it exacted much? Feeling +much, and understanding what she felt, and feeling for what she +understood--must she also suffer much? Must one always pay? + +He sighed, and began gathering together his papers. Thoughts about life +tired him to-day. + +On the steps he paused, unreasonably enough a little saddened as he +watched some of them beginning a tennis game. Certainly they were losing +no time--eager to let go thoughts about life for its pleasures, very few +of them awake to that rich life he had tried to make them ready for. +He drooped still more wearily at the thought that perhaps the most real +gift he had for them was that unexpected ten minutes. + +Remembering a book he must have from the library, he turned back. He +went to the alcove where the works on philosophy were to be found, and +was reaching up for the volume he wanted, when a sentence from a lowly +murmured conversation in the next aisle came to him across the stack of +books. + +“That's all very well; we know, of course, that he doesn't believe, but +what will he do when it comes to _himself?_” + +It arrested him, coming as it did from one of the girls who had just +left his class-room. He stood there motionless, his hand still reaching +up for the book. + +“Do? Why, face it, of course. Face it as squarely as he's faced every +other fact of life.” + +That was Gretta, and though, mindful of the library mandate for silence, +her tone was low, it was vibrant with a fine scorn. + +“Well,” said the first speaker, “I guess he'll have to face it before +very long.” + +That was not answered; there was a movement on the other side of the +barricade of books--it might have been that Gretta had turned away. His +hand dropped down from the high shelf. He was leaning against the books. + +“Haven't you noticed, Gretta, how he's losing his grip?” + +At that his head went up sharply; he stood altogether tense as he waited +for Gretta to set the other girl right--Gretta, so sure-seeing, so much +wiser and truer than the rest of them. Gretta would _laugh!_ + +But she did not laugh. And what his strained ear caught at last was--not +her scornful denial, but a little gasp of breath suggesting a sob. + +“_Noticed_ it? Why it breaks my heart!” + +He stared at the books through which her low, passionate voice had +carried. Then he sank to the chair that fortunately was beside him. +Power for standing had gone from him. + +“Father says--father's on the board, you know” (it was the first girl +who spoke)--“that they don't know what to do about it. It's not justice +to the school to let him begin another year. These things are arranged +with less embarrassment in the big schools, where a man begins emeritus +at a certain time. Though of course they'll pension him--he's done a lot +for the school.” + +He thanked Gretta for her little laugh of disdain. The memory of it was +more comforting--more satisfying--than any attempt to put it into words +could have been. + +He heard them move away, their skirts brushing the book-stacks in +passing. A little later he saw them out in the sunshine on the campus. +Gretta joined one of the boys for a game of tennis. Motionless, he sat +looking out at her. She looked so very young as she played. + +For an hour he remained at the table in the alcove where he had +overheard what his students had to say of him. And when the hour had +gone by he took up the pen which was there upon the study table and +wrote his resignation to the secretary of the board of trustees. It was +very brief--simply that he felt the time had come when a younger man +could do more for the school than he, and that he should like his +resignation to take effect at the close of the present school year. He +had an envelope, and sealed and stamped the letter--ready to drop in the +box in front of the building as he left. He had always served the school +as best he could; he lost no time now, once convinced, in rendering +to it the last service he could offer it--that of making way for the +younger man. + +Looking things squarely in the face, and it was the habit of a lifetime +to look things squarely in the face, he had not been long in seeing that +they were right. Things tired him now as they had not once tired him. He +had less zest at the beginning of the hour, more relief at the close +of it. He seemed stupid in not having seen it for himself, but possibly +many people were a little stupid in seeing that their own time was over. +Of course he had thought, in a vague way, that his working time couldn't +be much longer, but it seemed part of the way human beings managed with +themselves that things in even the very near future kept the remoteness +of future things. + +Now he understood Gretta's troubled look and her tears. He knew how +those fine nerves of hers must have suffered, how her own mind had +wanted to leap to the aid of his, how her own strength must have +tormented her in not being able to reach his flagging powers. It seemed +part of the whole hardness of life that she who would care the most +would be the one to see it most understandingly. + +What he was trying to do was to see it all very simply, in +matter-of-fact fashion, that there might be no bitterness and the least +of tragedy. It was nothing unique in human history he was facing. One +did one's work; then, when through, one stopped. He tried to feel that +it was as simple as it sounded, but he wondered if back of many of those +brief letters of resignation that came at quitting-time there was the +hurt, the desolation, that there was no use denying to himself was back +of his. + +He hoped that most men had more to turn to. Most men of seventy-three +had grandchildren. That would help, surrounding one with a feeling of +the naturalness of it all. But that school had been his only child. And +he had loved it with the tenderness one gives a child. That in him which +would have gone to the child had gone to the school. + +The woman whom he loved had not loved him; he had never married. His +life had been called lonely; but lonely though it undeniably had been, +the life he won from books and work and thinking had kept the chill from +his heart. He had the gift of drawing life from all contact with life. +Working with youth, he kept that feeling for youth that does for the +life within what sunshine and fresh air do for the room in which one +dwells. + +It was now that the loneliness that blights seemed waiting for him.... +Life _used_ one--and that in the ugly, not the noble sense of being +used. Stripped of the fine fancies men wove around it, what was it +beyond just a matter of being sucked dry and then thrown aside? Why not +admit that, and then face it? And the abundance with which one might +have given--the joy in the giving--had no bearing upon the fact that it +came at last to that question of getting one out of the way. It was +no one's unkindness; it was just that life was like that. Indeed, the +bitterness festered around the thought that it _was_ life itself--the +way of life--not the brutality of any particular people. “They'll +pension him--he's done a lot for the school.” Even the grateful memory +of Gretta's tremulous, scoffing little laugh for the way it fell short +could not follow to the deep place that had been hurt. + +Getting himself in hand again, and trying to face this as simply and +honestly as he had sought to face the other, he knew that it was true he +had done a great deal for the school. He did not believe it too much to +say he had done more for it than any other man. Certainly more than any +other man he had given it what place it had with men who thought. He had +come to it in his early manhood, and at a time when the school was in +its infancy--just a crude, struggling little Western college. Gretta +Loring's grandfather had been one of its founders--founding it in revolt +against the cramping sectarianism of another college. He had gloried +in the spirit which gave it birth, and it was he who, through the +encroachings of problems of administration and the ensnarements and +entanglements of practicality, had fought to keep unattached and +unfettered that spirit of freedom in the service of truth. + +His own voice had been heard and recognised, and a number of times +during the years calls had come from more important institutions, but he +had not cared to go. For year by year there deepened that personal love +for the little college to which he had given the youthful ardour of his +own intellectual passion. All his life's habits were one with it. His +days seemed beaten into the path that cut across the campus. The vines +that season after season went a little higher on the wall out there +indicated his strivings by their own, and the generation that had worn +down even the stones of those front steps had furrowed his forehead and +stooped his shoulders. He had grown old along with it! His days were +twined around it. It was the place of his efforts and satisfactions +(joys perhaps he should not call them), of his falterings and his hopes. +He loved it because he had given himself to it; loved it because he had +helped to bring it up. On the shelves all around him were books which it +had been his pleasure--because during some of those hard years they were +to be had in no other way--to order himself and pay for from his own +almost ludicrously meagre salary. He remembered the excitement there +always was in getting them fresh from the publisher and bringing them +over there in his arms; the satisfaction in coming in next day and +finding them on the shelves. Such had been his dissipations, his +indulgences of self. Many things came back to him as he sat there going +back over busy years, the works on philosophy looking down upon him, the +shadows of that spring afternoon gathering around him. He looked like +a very old man indeed as he at last reached out for the letter he had +written to the trustees, relieving them of their embarrassment. + +Twilight had come on. On the front steps he paused and looked around +the campus. It was growing dark in that lingering way it has in the +spring--daylight creeping away under protest, night coming gently, as +if it knew that the world having been so pleasant, day would be loath to +go. The boys and girls were going back and forth upon the campus and the +streets. They could not bear to go within. For more than forty years +it had been like that. It would be like that for many times forty +years--indeed, until the end of the world, for it would be the end of +the world when it was not like that. He was glad that they were out in +the twilight, not indoors trying to gain from books something of the +meaning of life. That course had its satisfactions along the way, but it +was surely no port of peace to which it bore one at the last. + +He shrunk from going home. There were so many readjustments he must +make, once home. So, lingering, he saw that off among the trees a girl +was sitting alone. She threw back her head in a certain way just then, +and he knew by the gesture that it was Gretta Loring. He wondered what +she was thinking about. What did one who thought think about--over there +on the other side of life? Youth and age looked at life from opposite +sides. Then they could not see it alike, for what one saw in life seemed +to depend so entirely upon how the light was falling from where one +stood. + +He could not have said just what it was made him cross the campus toward +her. Part of it was the desire for human sympathy--one thing, at least, +which age did not deaden. But that was not the whole of it, nor the +deepest thing in it. It was an urge of the spirit to find and keep for +itself a place where the light was falling backward upon life. + +She was quiet in her greeting, and gentle. Her cheeks were still +flushed, her hair tumbled from her game, but her eyes were thoughtful +and, he thought, sad. He felt that the sadness was because of him; of +him and the things of which he made her think. He knew of her affection +for him, the warmth there was in her admiration of the things for which +he had fought. He had discovered that it hurt her now that others +should be seeing and not he, pained her to watch so sorry a thing as his +falling below himself, wounded both pride and heart that men whom she +would doubtless say had never appreciated him were whispering among +themselves about how to get rid of him. Why, the poor child might even +be tormenting herself with the idea she ought to tell him! + +That was why he told her. He pointed to the address on the envelope, +saying: “That carries my resignation, Gretta.” + +Her start and the tears which rushed to her eyes told him he was right +about her feeling. She did not seem able to say anything. Her chin was +trembling. + +“I see that the time has come,” he said, “when a younger man can do more +for the school than I can hope to do for it.” + +Still she said nothing at all, but her eyes were deepening and she +had that very steadfast, almost inspired look that had so many times +quickened him in the class-room. + +She was not going to deny it! She was not going to pretend! + +After the first feeling of not having got something needed he rose to +her high ground--ground she had taken it for granted he would take. + +“And will you believe it, Gretta,” he said, rising to that ground and +there asking, not for the sympathy that bends down, but for a hand in +passing, “there comes a hard hour when first one feels the time has come +to step aside and be replaced by that younger man?” + +She nodded. “It must be,” she said, simply; “it must be very much harder +than any of us can know till we come to it.” + +She brought him a sense of his advantage in experience--his riches. To +be sure, there was that. + +And he was oddly comforted by the honesty in her which could not stoop +to dishonest comforting. In what superficially might seem her failure +there was a very real victory for them both. And there was nothing of +coldness in her reserve! There was the fulness of understanding, and of +valuing the moments too highly for anything there was to be said about +it. There was a great spiritual dignity, a nobility, in the way she was +looking at him. It called upon the whole of his own spiritual dignity. +It was her old demand upon him, but this time the tears through which +her eyes shone were tears of pride in fulfilment, not of sorrowing for +failure. + +Suddenly he felt that his life had not been spent in vain, that the +lives of all those men of his day who had fought the good fight for +intellectual honesty--spiritual dignity--had not been spent in vain +if they were leaving upon the earth even a few who were like the girl +beside them. + +It turned him from himself to her. She was what counted--for she was +what remained. And he remained in just the measure that he remained +through her; counted in so far as he counted for her. It was as if he +had been facing in the wrong direction and now a kindly hand had turned +him around. It was not in looking back there he would find himself. He +was not back there to be found. Only so much of him lived as had been +able to wing itself ahead--on in the direction she was moving. + +It did not particularly surprise him that when she at last spoke it was +to voice a shade of that same feeling. “I was thinking,” she began, “of +that younger man. Of what he must mean to the man who gives way to him.” + +She was feeling her way as she went--groping among the many dim things +that were there. He had always liked to watch her face when she was +thinking her way step by step. + +“I think you used a word wrongly a minute ago,” she said, with a smile. +“You spoke of being replaced. But that isn't it. A man like you isn't +replaced; he's”--she got it after a minute and came forth with it +triumphantly--“fulfilled!” + +Her face was shining as she turned to him after that. “Don't you see? +He's there waiting to take your place because you got him ready. Why, +you made that younger man! Your whole life has been a getting ready for +him. He can do his work be cause you first did yours. Of course he can +go farther than you can! Wouldn't it be a sorry commentary on you if he +couldn't?” + +Her voice throbbed warmly upon that last, and during the pause the light +it had brought still played upon her face. “We were talking in class +about immortality,” she went on, more slowly. “There's one form of +immortality I like to think about. It's that all those who from the very +first have given anything to the world are living in the world to-day.” + There was a rush of tears to her eyes and of affection to her voice +as she finished, very low: “You'll never die. You've deepened the +consciousness of life too much for that.” + +They sat there as twilight drew near to night, the old man and the young +girl, silent. The laughter of boys and girls and the good-night calls of +the birds were all around them. The fragrance of life was around +them. It was one of those silences to which come impressions, faiths, +longings, not yet born as thoughts. + +Something in the quality of that silence brought the rescuing sense +of its having been good to have lived and done one's part--that sense +which, from places of desolation and over ways rough and steep and dark, +can find its way to the meadows of serenity. + + +THE END + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Lifted Masks, by Susan Glaspell + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LIFTED MASKS *** + +***** This file should be named 7368-0.txt or 7368-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/7/3/6/7368/ + +Produced by Suzanne L. 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