Chapter VI
Warrington was up and about at six the next morning. He had never really outgrown the natural habit of waking at dawn, but he had fallen upon the evil way of turning over and sleeping till half after nine. He ate a light breakfast and went out to the stables and moved among the stalls, talking affectionate nonsense to the horses. A man can not talk baby-talk, that is the undisputed prerogative of the woman; but he has a fashion of his own which serves. "Aha, old boy! handsome beggar!" or—"How's the little lady this morning, eh?" or yet again—"Rascal! you've been rubbing the hair off your tail!" In the boxstall Warrington's thoroughbred Irish hunter nozzled his palm for loaf-sugar, and whinnied with pleasure when he found it. One of the first things Warrington had done, upon drawing his first big royalty check, was to buy a horse. As a boy on the farm he had hungered for the possession of one of those sleek, handsome animals which men call thoroughbreds. Then for a while he bought, sold and traded horses, for the mere pleasure it gave him to be near them. Finally he came to Herculaneum with two such saddle-horses as made every millionaire in town (and there were several in Herculaneum) offer fabulous sums whenever they ran across the owner. Next, he added two carriage-horses, in their way quite equal to the hunters. Men offered to buy these, too, but Warrington was a property owner now, and he wanted the horses for his own. In New York one of his wealthy friends had given him free use of his stables: so Warrington rode, at home and abroad. His income, ranging from twenty to thirty thousand the year, gave him that financial independence which neither the clerk nor the millionaire knew or understood. In the phraseology of the day, he carried his business under his hat: in other words, he had no business cares or responsibilities whatever.
Warrington made it a rule to saddle and bridle his own horses; grooms become careless. One or two men of his acquaintance had gone to their death for the want of care and a firm buckle. Besides, he enjoyed the work, and it accustomed the horses to his touch. He saddled his favorite hunter and led the eager animal into the open. He mounted and whistled for the dog; but Jove for once did not respond; doubtless he was out of hearing. Thereupon Warrington started for the Benningtons' and found Patty already in the saddle. It was not that the dramatist was blase, but he had come into contact with so many beautiful women that his pulse rarely stirred out of its healthy, measured beat. But this morning he was conscious of a slight thrill. The girl was really beautiful; more than that, she was fresh with youth and gaiety, gaiety which older women find necessary to repress. She was dressed in a dark grey riding-habit and wore a beaver cocked-hat.
"Good morning," he said, touching his cap with his crop. "I hope I haven't kept you waiting."
"Only a moment." The truth is, she wanted to prove to him that there was one woman who did not keep men waiting. "Shall I pick the going?"
"I'm afraid I've lost track of the good country roads."
"Follow me, then."
They walked their horses to the city limits. You never saw either of them galloping over brick or asphalt, which quickly ruins the surest-footed horse; neither did they permit any fox-trotting, which, while it shows off a spirited horse, decreases his value in the ring. All of which is to say, these two, like their mounts, were thoroughbreds.
"Where is Jove?" she asked presently.
"The rogue is missing. I dare say he is gallivanting around some neighbor's back yard. I haven't laid eyes on him this morning. I believe he realizes that he will see me frequently hereafter, and has not bothered his head to look me up."
"Frequently?" She turned her head.
"Yes. I am coming home to live. Of course, this is my place of residence; my voter's bed, as the politicians say, is here in Herculaneum. But I mean to live here now in deed as well as in thought."
"I am sure we shall be delighted to have you with us." This was said gravely. A thought, which she would have repelled gladly, sprang into being. "I know John will be glad. He's always talking about you and your exploits at college."
"Our exploits," he corrected, laughing. "Shall we give them a little exercise now?" he asked, with a gesture toward the long brown road.
She nodded, and they started off at a sharp trot, and presently broke into a canter. So he was coming home to live? She felt a hot wave of sudden anger sweep over her, and her hands tightened on the reins. It was true, then? She loved her brother. What right had this man at her side to threaten her brother's happiness? Had Katherine Challoner signified her desire not to leave New York, would Warrington have decided to return to Herculaneum? Her hands relaxed. What a silly little fool she was! She, who despised and contemned gossip, was giving it ready ear. Had she ever found gossip other than an errant, cowardly liar? Gossip, gossip! Ah, if gossip, when she had made her round, would not leave suspicion behind her; suspicion, hydra-headed! What signified it that Warrington intended to come home to live? What signified it that her brother's wife would live across the way? She was ashamed of her evil thought; presently she would be no better than Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene, or any of those women who get together to tear somebody apart. As if Warrington could compare with her big, handsome, manly brother! It was all impossible. She would punish herself for even entertaining such a thought as had been hers but a moment gone.
She stole a glance at Warrington. He was riding easily, his feet light in the stirrups, his head thrown back, his eyes half closed, and was breathing deeply of the cool air, which was heavy with the smell of sweet clover and dew-wet earth. It was a good, clean, honest face. Indeed, it was all impossible. Dissipation writes plainly upon the human countenance, and it had left no visible sign on Warrington's face. It may be that dissipation sometimes whimsically neglects to write at all.
They thundered over a wooden bridge. The spirit of the morning was in the horses; they began to race. An unexpected curve in the road discovered a road-builder and his gang of Italians. A low barrier ran across the road. It was not exactly needed, as they were not digging, but laying crushed stone. The obstruction was simply for the convenience of the boss, who desired to work unhampered.
"Shall we?" cried Warrington, mischief in his eyes.
"Yes." There was no fear in this girl.
On they went, in a cloud of dust. The Italians made for the ditches, but the boss stood in the road and waved his arms in warning. Presently he, too, ducked.
Hep! and over the pair went, landing clean and sound on the other side of the barrier. Before the surprised boss could express himself, they were far down the road. A curse was hurled after them, but they heard it not. They hadn't hurt the road at all, but the authority of the boss had suffered. He knew the girl, little snob! He would find out who the man was, soon enough. And if he had any influence in the City Hall, as he believed he had, he would make it tolerably warm for yonder vanishing parties.
He had put up that barrier to signify that the road was closed; very well, they'd see. Dirt under their feet, huh? All right. How he hated them all, with their horses and carriages and dances and dinners and clubs! Bah! He took a flask from his pocket and drank. Then he cursed the laggard Italians, and mourned that a year and a half must pass before he could sell their votes again. Bolles contracted for Italian labor and controlled something more than eight hundred votes. McQuade sublet various small contracts to him, and in return used the Italians during elections.
That jump, harmless enough in itself, was to prove a bad inspiration on Warrington's part. But it is always these seemingly inconsequent things that bear the heaviest reckoning.
Half a mile onward they drew down to a walk, flushed and breathless.
"Perhaps we oughtn't to have done that," she said doubtfully, working the numbness from her fingers. "No thoroughfare" had hitherto been religiously respected by her; this was her first transgression, and she wasn't entirely satisfied with herself.
"Pshaw! There's no harm done. There was no earthly reason why we should have turned back to the fork and added two miles to our ride. Don't let anything like that worry you; we went by too fast to be recognized. Look! here's a big clover patch. I never pass clover without wanting to get down and hunt for four-leaves. Shall we?"
She was out of the saddle before the query had left his lips.
"I believe it would be a good idea to arm ourselves against bad luck," she replied, gently moving aside the clover heads with her crop.
"You believe in four-leaf clover, then?"
She nodded.
"I do. I also am very careful," he added, "to catch the money-patches on my coffee."
She laughed. After all, there was something old-fashioned about this man. "And I never think of plucking a five-leaf. That's bad luck."
"The worst kind of bad luck. I remember, when I was a kid, I never played hooky without first hunting up my four-leaved amulet. If I got a licking when I returned home, why, I consoled myself with the thought, that it might have been ten times worse but for the four-leaf."
They moved about, looking here and there, while the horses buried their noses in the wet grass and threatened never to return to the road again. After a diligent search Patty found a beautiful four-leaf clover. She exhibited it in triumph.
"You've better luck than I," said Warrington. "We shall have to go on without my finding one."
"You may have this one," she replied; "and I hope it will bring you all sorts of good luck."
He took out his card-case and made room for the little amulet.
"It is impossible not to be fortunate now," he said, with a gravity that was not assumed.
She looked at him dubiously. No, there was no laughter in his eyes; he was perfectly serious.
They walked the horses over a small hill, then mounted. It was a very pleasant morning for Warrington. It had been years since he had talked to a young woman who was witty and unworldly. He had to readjust himself. He had written down that all witty women were worldly, but that all worldly women were not witty. But to be witty and unsophisticated was altogether out of his calculations.
At the Country Club they stabled the horses and wandered about the golf links. Luncheon was served on the veranda; and presently Warrington found himself confiding in this young girl as if he had known her intimately all his life. The girl felt a thrill of exultation. It flattered her young vanity to hear this celebrity telling her about his ambitions.
"Everything becomes monotonous after a while," he said. "And I have just begun to grow weary of living alone. Day after day, the same faces, the same places, the same arguments, the same work. I've grown tired. I want to live like other human beings. Monotony leads very quickly into folly, and I confess to many acts of folly. And no folly is absolutely harmless." He stirred his tea and stared into the cup.
"Why, I should think you ought to be the most contented of men," she cried. "You are famous, wealthy, courted. And when you return to Herculaneum, every girl in town will set her cap for you. I warn you of this, because I've taken a friendly interest in you."
"It is very good of you. Come," he said, draining his cup; "surely you tell fortunes in tea-cups; tell mine."
"Four-leaf clovers and tea-grounds," she mused. "You strike me as being a very superstitious young man."
"I am."
She passed the cup back to him. "Pour a little fresh tea in, spill it gently, turn the cup against the saucer and twirl it three times. That's the incantation."
He followed the directions carefully, and she extended her hand for the cup.
"There is always a woman in a man's tea-cup," she began. "There are two in this one."
"Good gracious!"
"Yes. Do you see that?" pointing to a cluster of leaves.
"Looks like a camel. Am I going to be thirsty?"
"That always indicates scandal," she declared soberly.
"Scandal?" He smiled skeptically.
"Scandal and disappointment. But happily these do not appear as having permanency."
"Thanks," piously. "Disappointment? I can readily believe that. Disappointment has always been my portion. But scandal has never lifted her ugly head."
"We are all far-sighted when scandal is in our immediate vicinity. This cup says scandal. There is plenty of money about you. See that? That means an enemy, strong, implacable. Disappointment and scandal are in his zone, which means he will probably be the cause of all your trouble. Have you an enemy?"
"None that I know of, save myself. But don't you think something is the matter with the tea? It seems impossible that those harmless grounds ... Why, I shan't sleep o' nights after this."
"You are laughing. Yet, this man is there. And here is a lie, too. It's a very bad cup, Mr. Warrington. I'm sorry."
"So am I," gaily. "By the way, when do you and your mother start for New York?"
"We leave to-night."
"Good. Do you mind if I take the same train down?"
"Mother and I'll be glad to have you with us."
The servant cleared the table, and Warrington lighted a cigar. A trolley-car rolled up in front of the club, and several golf enthusiasts alighted. They knew Patty, and bowed; they weren't quite certain who her escort was.
At two o'clock they began the journey home. There wasn't much loitering by the way. Patty had a tea; she must have time to rest and dress. All told, it was an enjoyable day for Warrington. More than ever he set his face against the great city and looked with satisfaction on the hills of his childhood. It would be a pleasant pastime to sit on Patty's veranda and talk, become, and act like one of the young people. He was growing old; his youth must be renewed soon, or he would lose it utterly. This young man had been surfeited with noise and light, with the sham and glitter of hotels, clubs and restaurants. He was not to the manner born; thus he could easily see how palpably false life is in a great city. To those who have lived in the abnormal glamour of city life, absolute quiet is a kind of new excitement.
Warrington found that he was a bit stiff from the long ride.
Patty, however, rode nearly every day; so she was but slightly fatigued. Nevertheless, she was conscious of not wanting to dress for the tea. But there was a very good reason why she must attend the function (as applied by the society reporter); they would naturally discuss her brother's coming marriage, but if she was present, the discussion would not rise above whispers. She wanted to meet the old busybodies in the open; she wasn't afraid. As she dressed, she caught herself doing aimless things, such as approaching the window and watching the clouds, or thoughtfully studying her face in the mirror, or patting the rug impatiently, or sighing. She shook herself vehemently, and went resolutely about the intricate business known as toilet.
"I simply can't believe it. I know he isn't that kind of man. This can't be such a wicked world. But if she dares to make John unhappy, I shall hate her. Why must we hear these things that make us doubt and ponder and hesitate?"
At the tea the ladies greeted her sympathetically. Sympathy! Hypocrites! Heads came together; she could see them from the corner of her eyes. She saw Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene, like a vast ship of the line, manoeuvering toward her. There were several escapes, but Patty stood her ground.
"You are looking charming, my dear," said Mrs. Haldene.
"Thank you."
"You go to the wedding, of course."
"Yes; mother and I leave to-night for New York. I am so excited over it. To think of John's being married to a celebrity!"
Patty was excited, but this excitement did not find its origin in anything exultant. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene to mind her own business. There was something primitive in Patty. Her second thoughts were due to cultivation, and not from any inherent caution.
Mrs. Haldene smiled and went on. It was a wonderful smile; it never changed; it served for all emotions, anger, hate, love, envy and malice. Mrs. Haldene never flew into passions or ecstasies. She was indeed preserved; and from the puckering taste she left in her wake, it might be suspected that she was pickled.
Before Patty arrived, two things had been fully discussed: the Bennington wedding and the report that Warrington was coming home to live. Shrugs, knowing glances, hypocritical resignation. Too bad, too bad! Warrington was coming home to live; young Mrs. Bennington would live across the street. When two and two make four, what more need be said?
But Patty had her friends, and they stood by her loyally.
New York. Clamor, clamor; noise, noise; the calling of cabmen, the clanging of street-cars, the rumbling of the elevated, the roaring of the drays, the rattling of the carts; shouting, pushing, hurrying, rushing, digging, streaming, pell-mell; the smell of coal-gas, of food cooking, of good and bad tobacco, of wet pavements, of plaster; riches and poverty jostling; romance and reality at war; monoliths of stone and iron; shops, shops; signs, signs; hotels; the tower of Babel; all the nations of the world shouldering one another; Jews and Gentiles, Christians and Turks; jumble, jumble. This is New York. There is nothing American about it; there is nothing English, French, German, Latin or Oriental about it. It is cosmopolitan; that is to say, it represents everything and nothing.
Warrington, Patty and her mother alighted from the train in the gloomy, smoky cavern called the Grand Central Station and walked toward the gates. There was sunshine outside, but it was scarcely noticeable through the blackened canopy overhead.
"There's John!" cried Patty, seizing her mother's arm. "And Miss Challoner, too!"
A moment later the son was holding his mother in a fond embrace. Mrs. Bennington gave the actress her hand, who ignored it, put her arms around the mother and kissed her. There was not the slightest affectation in the act; it was done naturally and sweetly. Mrs. Bennington was well pleased. But Patty, Miss Challoner hugged Patty and whispered: "My sister!" If Patty had any doubts, they disappeared like summer mists in sunshine.
"I'm a rank outsider," Warrington grumbled.
"Surely you did not expect to be kissed!" Patty retorted.
"A man never gives up hoping. Well, Benedick," to John, "I suppose you've a nice breakfast waiting for us somewhere."
"That I have!" John thwacked Warrington on the shoulder. "It was good of you to come down with the folks."
"No trouble at all."
They all followed John, who announced that he had a carriage waiting, large enough to carry them all comfortably. As they crossed over to the street exit Warrington covertly glanced at Miss Challoner. She was radiant; there was color on her cheeks and lips; she was happy. Heigh-ho! Warrington sighed. She was gone, as completely as though she had died. He grew angry at the heaviness of his heart. Was he always to love no one but Warrington? It is fine to be a bachelor when one is young; but when the years multiply, when there are no new junkets and old ones grow stale, when scenes change, when friends drop out one by one, when a younger generation usurps the primrose path of dalliance, ah! the world becomes a dreary place. The old bachelor is the loneliest and most pathetic of men.
Once inside the carriage, the women began a light, friendly chatter; smiles and laughter; little jests about Benedicks, about the servant question, about coming home late o' nights; antenuptial persiflage. There was little that was spontaneous; each jest was an effort; but it sufficed to relieve what might have been awkward silence.
"It's up to you, now, Dick," said John. "Think of the good times we four could have together!"
"And who'd marry an old man like me?" asked Warrington plaintively.
"Bosh!" said John.
"Nonsense!" said Patty.
"You are a young man," said the mother.
"There are plenty setting their caps for you, if you but knew it," said Miss Challoner.
"Aha! I smell a conspiracy!" laughed Warrington. "You are putting your heads together to get me off your hands."
The breakfast awaited them at Bennington's hotel. This passed off smoothly. Then Warrington excused himself. He had a business engagement down town. It was arranged, however, that they were to be his guests that evening at dinner and a box-party at the summer opera. On Wednesday, at ten, they were to breakfast in his apartment. From his rooms they would go straight to the parson's, the "Little Church Around the Corner."
When Warrington had gone, John turned to his sister.
"Isn't he the finest chap?"
"He isn't to be compared with you," Patty answered.
"Nobody is," said Miss Challoner.
John colored with pleasure.
"Mr. Warrington is a thorough gentleman, and I like him very much," said Mrs. Bennington. "I have heard things about him; I can see that there has been some exaggeration. I shall be very glad to have him for a neighbor."
"A neighbor?" said Miss Challoner.
"Yes. He is coming back to Herculaneum to live."
"That is news to me." The actress stirred her coffee and smiled at Patty. "I understand you've been riding together. He is really a splendid horseman."
"He has the dearest old dog," replied Patty.
The day passed quickly for all concerned: the dinner and box-party left nothing to be desired.
The wedding-breakfast would have provoked envy in the heart of Lucullus; for Warrington was a man of the world, thoroughly polished; there was nothing Stoic about him (though, in the early days he had been a disciple of this cult perforce); he was a thoroughgoing epicure.
Patty was delighted. Warrington guided her about the rooms on a tour of inspection. He pointed out all the curios and told the history of each. But the desk was the article which interested her most.
"And this is where you write? Upon this desk plays have grown up? Won't you give me a single sheet of manuscript to take home with me?"
"I certainly shall."
He pulled out a drawer and found some old manuscript. He selected a sheet, signed it, and gave it to her.
"I am rich!" the girl exclaimed. "Signed manuscript from a real live author! I suppose that you receive tons of letters, some praising, some arguing, some from mere autograph fiends."
"It's a part of the day's work." His face brightened. He searched his pockets. "Here is one out of the ordinary. It is unsigned, so I feel no qualms of conscience in letting you read it."
Patty took the envelope with suppressed eagerness. She drew out the letter and read it slowly.
"Do you receive many like that?" she asked, folding the letter and returning it.
"Very few; that's why I treasure it. I should like to meet the writer; but that's impossible. I have read and re-read it fifty times."
"Evidently it was written in good faith." Patty was not very enthusiastic.
"There's not the least doubt of that. I am glad of one thing: I can't disillusion her."
"What do you mean?"
"Oh, this young woman thinks I must be a paragon of virtues. I'm not; I'm a miserable impostor. She takes it for granted that I am good and kind and wise."
"Aren't you?" asked Patty gravely.
"As men go. I always try to be kind; sometimes I am good, and sometimes I am wise."
"I'm afraid you are one of those young men who try to be bad and can't. They are hopeless."
Warrington laughed.
"But I am superstitious about that letter. I've carried it in my pocket for weeks. It's a kind of mentor. Whenever some fool thing comes into my head, I stop and think of the letter."
"That is good. The writer hasn't wasted her time."
"I love you!" whispered John.
Miss Challoner smiled into his eyes. The smile encouraged him, and he raised her hand to his lips.
Ah, if it were not for those gloves! Why did he not say something? She was positive that he had them. To smile and laugh and talk; to face the altar, knowing that he possessed those hateful gloves! To pretend to deceive when she knew that he was not deceived! It was maddening. It was not possible that Warrington had the gloves; he would never have kept them all this while. What meant this man at her side? What was he going to do? She recollected a play in which there was a pair of gloves. The man had thrown them at the woman's feet, and, at the very altar, turned and left her. But she knew that men did not do such things in life. She was innocent of any wrong; this knowledge sustained her.
"A honeymoon in Switzerland: it has been the dream of my life." This time he drew her arm through his and crossed the room to his mother's side. "Mother mine, we shall be gone only three months; then we shall come home to stay."
"I shall miss you so; you have been away so much that I am hardly acquainted with you."
The woman who was to become her daughter suddenly dropped on her knees beside the chair.
"Please love me, too. I have been so lonely all my life."
"My daughter!" Mrs. Bennington laid her hand on the splendid head.
"I shall never marry," said Patty decidedly.
"What? Young lady, don't let any one hear you make such a remark. One of these fine days somebody will swoop you up and run off with you. I don't know but that I could play the part fairly well." Warrington laughed.
"Indeed! You'd have a time of it."
"I dare say. But there's the breakfast waiting."
Toasts and good wishes, how easy they are to give!
At the church the women cried a little. Women cry when they are happy, they cry when they are not; their tears keep a man guessing year in and year out. But this is no place for a dissertation on tears. There's time enough for that.
The bride and groom left immediately for Boston, from which city they were to sail for Europe the following day. In the carriage John drew his bride close to his heart.
"Mine!" he said, kissing her. "God grant that I may make you happy, girl."
"John, you are the finest gentleman in the world!"
His hand stole into his coat pocket and gently dropped something into her lap. She looked down and saw through her tears a crumpled pair of white kid gloves. Then she knew what manner of man was this at her side.
"It was not because I doubted you," he said softly: "it was because they were yours."
Chapter VII
Spring came round again in Herculaneum. People began to go to the tailor and the dress-maker and the hatter. There were witty editorials in the newspapers on house-cleaning and about the man who had the courage to wear the first straw hat. The season (referring to the winter festivities) had been unusually lively. There had been two charity balls by rival hospital boards, receptions, amateur dramatics, dinners and dances, not to omit the announcement of several engagements.
The new Bennington mansion had its house-warming in November. The reception, followed by a dinner-dance in the evening, was, according to the society columns, "one of the social events of the season. The handsomest house in town was a bower of smilax and hothouse roses." Everybody went to the reception, for everybody was more or less curious to meet the former celebrated actress. The society reporters, waiting for their cues, were rather non-committal in their description of the mistress. There was reason. They did not care, at this early stage of the game, to offend the leader by too much praise of a newcomer who had yet to establish herself. Besides, they realized how little their paragraphs would mean to a woman whose portrait had appeared in nearly all the illustrated magazines in the world. Thus, the half-heartedness of the newspapers was equally due to self-consciousness. Society itself, however, was greatly pleased with the beautiful Mrs. Bennington, for she entered with zest into all society's plans. In fact, she threatened to become very popular. The younger element began to call her Mrs. Jack.
Kate was in her element, for to live after this fashion was the one ambition that had survived all seasons. She was like a child with some wonderful new French doll. There was always a crowd of young married people about her, which is a healthy sign. She and Patty became inseparable comrades. They shopped together, went to the matinees, and drove and rode together.
Everything went along smoothly, too smoothly. Fate never permits anything like this to prosper long.
For the first time in her career Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene saw her position menaced. The younger set no longer consulted her as formerly. When, like Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene, a woman has nothing more serious to live for than to organize social affairs, the slightest defection from her ranks is viewed in the light of a catastrophe. She had called on Mrs. Bennington the second, armed with all those subtle cruelties which women of her caliber know so well how to handle. And behold! she met a fencer who quietly buttoned the foils before the bout began. She had finally departed with smiles on her lips and rage in her heart. This actress, whom she had thought to awe with the majesty of her position in Herculaneum, was not awed at all. It was disconcerting; it was humiliating. She had condescended to tolerate and was tolerated in turn. Katherine adored Patty, and Patty had told her that she hated Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene. Naturally Katherine assumed the defensive whenever she met the common enemy.
But Mrs. Haldene could wait. She had waited before this. She had made certain prophecies, and it embittered her to learn that so far none of these prophecies had come true. She could wait. Something was destined to happen, sooner or later. She knew human nature too well not to be expectant. To Mrs. Haldene the most gratifying phrase in the language was: "I told you so!" Warrington had disappointed her, too. He behaved himself. He did not run after young Mrs. Bennington; he never called there alone; he was seen more frequently at the old Bennington place. The truth is, Patty was busy reforming the wayward dramatist, and Warrington was busy watching the result. There were those who nodded and looked wise whenever they saw the two together.
Oh, Herculaneum was a city to be desired, socially. Everybody was on his or her best behavior. It was only from among the poor that scandal gleaned her items for the newspapers. The shooting of such a man by such a woman's husband aroused only the mildest comment. But that class of people, don't you know, is so primeval. To kill a man from jealousy! It was ridiculous. Why did they not go to court, like civilized human beings?
Of course there is always scandal in politics; everybody understands that this is unavoidable. Another franchise had slipped out of the Common Council into the transit company's pocket, and even the partizan papers mildly belabored the aldermanic body. The Evening Call, however slashed the ward representatives vigorously. It wound up its editorial with the query: "How much longer will the public stand this sort of thing?" The Call was the only independent sheet in town, and did about as it pleased.
Warrington found himself taking more than normal interest in the situation. Occasionally, on Monday nights, he wandered into the City Hall and listened to the impassioned speeches of the aldermen. Many a tempestuous scene passed under his notice. Ordinances were passed or blocked, pavement deals were rushed through or sidetracked. And once, when the gas company was menaced with dollar-gas, the city pay-roll was held up for two months by the lighting company's cohorts. Only Heaven knows how much longer it might have been held back, had not an assemblyman come to the mayor's help by rushing up to the capital and railroading through a law that required only a two-thirds vote.
The Democrats had remained in power for six years, and Herculaneum was essentially a Republican city. On the Democratic side was McQuade, on the Republican side was ex-Senator Henderson. These men were bosses of no ordinary type. The first was from the mass, the second from the class; and both were millionaires. The political arena was a pastime for these two men; it was a huge complex game of chess in which recently the senator had been worsted. The public paid, as it invariably does, to watch this game on the checkerboard of wards. The senator had been unfortunate in his candidates. He had tried young men and old, lawyers and merchants; but he had failed to nominate a man who was popular with class and mass.
The present mayor was a shrewd Democrat who understood the diplomacy of petty politics. He shook the grimy hand of toil in preference to the gloved hand of idleness. He was thoroughly a politician. He never disregarded public opinion openly. He never sailed close to the wind, but spent his time in safe tacks to whatever harbor he desired. He was McQuade's man just so long as McQuade made the business worth while. He had opened up many new streets, abolished needless nuisances, and these concessions gave him a strong hold on the independent voter. He was a king over frogs which had changed much since Aesop's time, for now they let well enough alone.
Nevertheless, things were going from bad to worse. Three terms are likely to cause a man to grow careless or indifferent, and Donnelly was making frequent bad breaks. The senator, ever watchful, believed he saw a chance to sweep McQuade off the board.
McQuade had an able lieutenant in Alderman Martin, whom the sporting fraternity followed loyally. Martin owned and ran the most disreputable hotel in the city. It occupied a position of unusual prominence on one of the principal business streets. There was a saloon and a cheap restaurant on the ground floor. On the second floor were wine-rooms and a notorious gambling-den. Above this was the hotel. The guests stole in at midnight and stole out at dawn.
This gambling-den was frequently the bone of contention between energetic ministers of the gospel and the police department. Regularly the police swore that gambling did not exist in town, and regularly the ministers went on a still hunt for proofs. Singularly enough, they never found any. A hint from headquarters, and the den would close up till after the excitement was over. All the newspapers understood that the police lied; but the editors were either afraid or indifferent; and the farce was played over yearly for the benefit of the ministerial association.
The place was run honestly enough. When the stakes are small, the professional gambler does not have to be dishonest. All the same, this kind of gambler is the most despicable of men. He lures the wage of the poor; clerks, bookkeepers, traveling salesmen, laborers, college boys, men who drink too much of a Saturday night, all these come to the net. Nobody ever wins anything; and if perchance one does make a small winning, it goes quickly over the bar. Women wait and wonder at home; it is their common lot. The spirit of the gambler is in us all, and we might as well confess it here and now. It is in the corpuscles: something for nothing, something for nothing!
Martin was a power in the Common Council. He could block or put through any measure. He always carried a roll of gold-bills in his pockets—for what purpose no one had the temerity to inquire. His following was large and turbulent; it came from the shops and the factories and the streets. In his ward no candidate had ever defeated him. "Nice people" had very little to do with Mr. Martin; the laborer who was honest had little to do with him, either. He was a pariah, but a very formidable one. Yet, no one, though many accused him, caught him in a dishonest deal.
On the other hand, Senator Henderson's party had the cloak of respectability on its shoulders. His lieutenants were prominent business men who went into politics as a light diversion, young men of aristocratic families who were ambitious to go to Albany or Washington, and lawyers. The senator was a shrewd politician, with an unreadable face, clean-shaven but for a stubby mustache, and keen blue eyes that saw everything. He was loyal to his party and above dishonesty.
This was the political situation in Herculaneum.
One May evening the senator called up Warrington. He was told that Mr. Warrington was at the club. The senator drove to the club forthwith. He found the dramatist in the reading-room, and greeted him pleasantly.
"My boy, I want half an hour of your time."
"You are welcome to an hour of it, Senator," replied Warrington, curious to know what the senator had to say to him.
"Come into a private dining-room, then." Once seated at the table, the senator reached over and touched Warrington mysteriously on the arm. "Young man, I heard you speak the other night at the Chamber of Commerce banquet. You're a born orator, and what is better than that, you've common sense and humor. How would you like to be mayor of Herculaneum next fall?"
"Mayor?" gasped Warrington.
"Yes."
"I'd make a fine mayor," with forced laughter, but thinking rapidly. "Aren't you jollying me, Senator?"
"I'm dead in earnest, Warrington. There is not another available man in sight. By available I mean a man who can pull the party out of the bog. There are a hundred I could nominate, but the nomination would be as far as they could go. We want a man who is fresh and new to the people, so far as politics goes; a man who can not be influenced by money or political emoluments. There are thousands of voters who are discontented, but they'd prefer to vote for Donnelly again rather than to vote for some one they know would be no better. You are known the world over. A good many people would never have known there was such a place as Herculaneum but for you. It is the home of the distinguished playwright."
"But I know practically nothing about political machinery," Warrington protested.
"You can leave the machinery to me," said the senator wisely. "I'll set the wheels going. It will be as easy as sliding down hill. I'll give you my word, if you land in the City Hall, to send you to Washington with the next Congress. Will you accept the nomination, in case I swing it around to you in September? It's a big thing. All you literary boys are breaking into politics. This is your chance."
"I'll take the night to think it over," said Warrington. He was vastly flattered, but he was none the less cautious and non-committal.
"Take a week, my boy; take a week. Another thing. You are intimate with young Bennington. He's a hard-headed chap and doesn't countenance politics in his shops. The two of you ought to bring the hands to their senses. If we can line up the Bennington steel-mills, others will fall in. Bennington owns the shops, but our friend McQuade owns the men who work there. Take a week to think it over; I can rely on your absolute secrecy."
"I shall be silent for half a dozen reasons," Warrington replied. "But I shan't keep you waiting a week. Call me up by 'phone to-morrow at any time between five and six. I shall say yes or no, direct."
"I like to hear a man talk like that."
"I can't get the idea into my head yet. I never expected to meddle with politics in this town."
"We'll do the meddling for you. Even if you accept, we shall require silence till the convention. It will be a bomb in the enemy's camp. You'll come around to the idea. Between five and six, then?"
"I shall have your answer ready. Good night."
The senator took himself off, while Warrington ordered a bottle of beer and drank it thoughtfully. Mayor! It would be a huge joke indeed to come back to Herculaneum to rule it. He chuckled all the way home that night; but when his head struck the pillow he saw the serious side of the affair. He recalled the old days when they sneered at him for selling vegetables; and here they were, coming to him with the mayoralty. It was mighty gratifying. And there was the promise of Washington. But he knew the world: political promises and pie-crusts. What would the aunt say? What would Patty say? Somehow, he was always thinking of Patty. He had not thought as yet to make any analysis of his regard for Patty. He held her in the light of an agreeable comrade, nothing more than that. Would she be pleased to see him mayor of Herculaneum? Bah! He couldn't sleep. He got out of bed, found a pipe and lighted it, and sat in the rocker by the window. Jove, hearing him moving about the room, woke up and came trotting in to inquire.
"Ha, old boy, what do you think?"
Jove laid his head on his master's knees.
"They want to make a mayor out of me."
Jove signified his approval.
"They have forgiven us our daily vegetables. But shall I? Will it be worth while? Well, we'll take a ride into the hills in the morning, and we'll think it all out. Mayor of Herculaneum; sounds good, doesn't it? Nothing like success, Jove."
Warrington smoked till the fire in his pipe died. He turned in, and this time he won sleep.
Early the next morning he was off on his horse, and he did not return till noon. But he had his answer.
At three that afternoon he had callers. Patty and Kate had just run over to see how the new play was getting on. Warrington confessed that he was doing only desultory work, but promised to read the scenario to them when it was done.
"You are becoming lazy," said Kate rebukingly.
"No; only a country gentleman."
"Patty, did you hear that? He calls Herculaneum a country village."
"Nothing of the sort. One may live in a city and be a countryman still."
"Mr. Warrington probably misses New York," said Patty.
"Not the veriest particle," promptly. Certainly Patty was growing more charming every day.
The Angora cat, with feline caution, peeped into the room. Patty, who loved cats, made a dash for the fluffy animal, which turned tail and bolted for the kitchen, Patty a close second.
For the first time since the marriage Kate and Warrington were alone together. He gazed at her, mildly speculative.
"Well, what do you see?" she asked.
"You are certainly one of the most beautiful women in the world," he declared, sighing.
"You say 'one of'?" frowning. "There was a time when it was not general; you used the definite article."
"I know it."
"Then there must be somebody else," quickly.
"I'm not a marrying man," he said evasively.
"Is it Patty, Dick? Oh, if it were only Patty!"
"I'm not good enough for Patty, Kate. The Lord knows, though, that I wish I were. She embarrasses me at times with her implicit faith in my goodness."
"Ah, Richard, what a terrible past yours was!" mockingly. "Nonsense!" briskly. "You are guilty of nothing but innocuous villainies. If there were fairies I should ask one to make you fall violently in love with Patty."
"No fairies need apply," ambiguously. "But you; you seem to be happy."
"There can not be a happier woman in the world. Let me confess. The confession may hurt your vanity. I love my husband better than I dreamed I could love. He is so just, so tender and strong. And isn't he handsome? I am madly jealous of every woman that comes near him. And once upon a time I believed that I was in love with Mr. Richard." There was no coquetry in this frank statement.
"Any one can see that you are happy."
"I want every one to see it. I want to tell everybody, too. You have no idea how strong he is, Dick. Yesterday I was in the shops with him. A rail was in the way; the men about did not see it; or refused to see it. John stooped, picked it up with his bare hands, and dropped it to one side. There are but two men in the shops who can do that. But I have a horror of those great bars of twisting white iron. They terrify me. I do not understand, but the men are always sullen when I am there. John says it's my imagination."
"It probably is. Perhaps the begrimed faces have something to do with it."
"I can read the human countenance too well," she said. "Is it because I have been on the stage? Have these men a base opinion of me?"
"Impossible!"
"And they seem to dislike John, too."
"John can take care of himself. He'll wait a long while, but when he moves forward nothing can stop him. Don't you ever miss the glare of the lights?" he asked, his endeavor being to interest her in something foreign to the shops.
"Dick, I have almost forgotten that I ever acted. You will remember that I refused to assist in the amateur theatricals last winter. Act? I hate the word. It suggests the puppet, the living in other people's worlds, parrot-wise, in imitation."
"Come, come, Kate; it's the greatest gift of all and you know it. Think! The power to make people laugh and cry, to make either happiness or misery perfectly real!"
"Oh, there was pleasure in it at times," she admitted reluctantly. "Do you remember my gloves, Dick? John had them."
"He knew you were in my rooms that night?"
"Yes. I told him the simple truth, and he believed me. How could I help loving a man as loyal as that?"
"It is fine. But Jack was always a thorough man. I don't blame you for loving him. I call him all sorts of names to Patty, and it is fun to watch her eyes flash."
Kate gave him a curious smile.
"What's the matter?"
"Nothing."
"You smiled."
"I had a happy thought."
"Probably about that house-broken John of yours."
"Who's calling John house-broken?" Patty stood in the doorway, the Angora struggling under her arm.
"Well, isn't he house-broken?" asked Warrington with gentle malice. "Gentle and warranted to stand?"
Patty, for reasons of her own, permitted him to believe that he succeeded in teasing her.
"Kate, let us be going. I can not listen to Mr. Warrington's remarks regarding my brother. He treats John as if he were a horse."
"Just as you say, dear. We shall punish Mr. Warrington by not making informal calls in the future."
"Wait till I get my hat," cried Warrington, "and I'll walk over to the house with you."
"If you do that," said Patty, "we shall be compelled to ask you to remain to dinner."
"Oh, I should refuse. I've a telephone engagement between five and six."
"But we never serve dinner till seven," replied Patty, buttoning her coat austerely.
Kate laughed merrily.
"If you will ask me over to dinner," said Warrington, "I'll tell you a secret, a real dark political secret, one that I've promised not to tell to a soul."
The two women stopped abruptly. The cast was irresistible, and they had to rise to it.
Yet Patty murmured: "How like a woman he is!"
"It simply shows what high regard I have for your discretion. It is a secret some men would pay a comfortable fortune to learn."
"Will you please come and dine with us this evening?" asked Patty.
"I shall be very happy."
"And now, the secret," said Mrs. Jack.
"Between five and six I expect a call on the phone from Senator Henderson."
"Senator Henderson!" exclaimed the women in unison.
"I shall say but a single word. It will be yes."
"But the secret! Mercy alive, you are keeping us waiting!"
Warrington glanced around with mock caution. He went mysteriously to the portieres and peered into the hall; he repeated this performance at the dining-room door, then turned, a finger upon his lips.
"Senator Henderson is looking for a candidate for mayor this fall. Mind, not a word to a soul, not even to John," this warning addressed principally to Mrs. Jack.
"The Honorable Richard Warrington," said Patty, musing. She rolled the words on her tongue as if testing the sound of them.
"That's it," laughed Warrington. "The Honorable Richard Warrington!—sounds like Lord Mayor of London!"
Every Eden has its serpent, sooner or later. Thus, having futilely tried the usual gates by which he enters Eden to destroy it, this particular serpent found a breach in the gate of politics.