XIII.
[From Helen's Diary.]
A few evenings ago some gentlemen called to see Edgar. He entertained them here in our own parlor, and something in their manner produced a great change in my way of looking at matters.
I had been in a species of revolt against Edgar's way of directing me how I was to receive the different women who called upon me—how I was to be very deferential to this one, haughty to that one, and to assume an easy familiarity with the other, all according to their husbands' relations to Edgar's business. He seemed to be making use of me, and the sense of being made use of in that way was degrading, especially as it involved insincerity in my manner toward these women. But when I saw how these men of wealth and influence treated Edgar, it opened my eyes to my stupidity. They recognized him in every way as a superior, a man to be heard with deference, and whose opinions were to be treated with profound respect.
As I listened and watched, a mingled feeling of exaltation and humiliation swept over me; exaltation in the thought that this superior man loved me and had made me his wife, and shame that I had ventured, even in my own mind, to question his instructions. I resolved then that I would devote my life to the task of making myself a fit companion for him, and would never again assume to doubt anything he might say or do. There will always be things that I cannot understand, of course, but that is because I am not his equal in ability and knowledge, and I can at least accept his superior judgment concerning them.
One of the gentlemen was charming, a Mr. Van Duyn. His daughter, Gladys, was to call upon me the next day, and Edgar had been at great pains to impress me with the importance of receiving her in just the right way. I was to wait for her to make all the advances, and to receive them with becoming appreciation. I almost hated the girl in advance, till I saw her father. Then that feeling passed away. He is a somewhat grave gentleman, whose earnestness impresses one. I liked him and decided that I should like his daughter very much.
After they left, Edgar stood at the window looking down into the streets below. He seemed to have forgotten me. My heart was so full of pride and a desire to be with him in everything, that I was oppressed and could not speak. It seemed to me that we had come to a fork in the road, and I must decide whether I should go with him, or travel the other path alone. There already seemed to be a little distance between us. I felt the tears coming into my eyes, and I went to the window and touched him. He turned and looked at me with a little smile, but he looked abstracted and a little sorrowful. I could no longer endure it and I burst into sobs. He took me at once in his arms and soothed me, but it was in a way that impressed me with the thought that I was a child to him, who was irresponsible and needed protection, instead of a woman who shared his hopes and ambitions and thoughts.
I suddenly threw my arms about him, and begged him to let me help him, and to make me understand all things that he strove for. The half shadow on his face disappeared, and a strange gladness took its place. He held me very close and said solemnly:
"Our life, love and ambition, failure or success, shall be mutual. We are man and wife—what can mean more?"
I met Miss Van Duyn the next day. I will say little of her. She is a woman I love. Strangely enough, I could not try a system of propitiation. I looked at her and thought "This is my equal." She is neither superior nor inferior to me, and she seemed to know it at once. She is calm, cold, dignified, with a high-bred trick of hand and head; sweet toned and fascinating. There is something subtle about her. I was impressed the moment she entered the room with her immaculateness, her irreproachableness of thought and feeling. She is a woman who might be greatly good or greatly wicked I believe—though one instinctively believes her to be greatly good. There has sprung up between us a strange intimacy—no familiarity whatever, but a dignified intimacy.
Edgar was at first half amazed, and then held out his arms and said: "I ought to have known, though, that it would be so; that my wife did not need experience to make her prized even by the most experienced of people."
I took luncheon with Miss Van Duyn yesterday. To-night Edgar and I dined with her at Delmonico's. I am tired and in a sort of maze, but have felt impelled to write while Edgar was down-stairs, smoking. I hear him coming down the corridor now. I know his step as well as his voice. This dinner to-night has affected me peculiarly. It has seemed to open to me a new life, a life that is almost as desirable as the one I have dreamed of—the life in the cottage at Thebes, with my editor and his great plans, and his greater love. It is a life of beauty and intelligence and luxury. It has impressed me strangely. I have a feeling that perhaps, in time, even I would not be out of place there—with Edgar who would reign there. I—
A man is in the doorway. He has stood watching the woman at the table, who has written on unconscious of his presence, for a moment.
She sits with her delicate face turned half towards him, her graceful, sunny head bent over the paper, one white hand guiding her pen, the other resting on the paper.
There is a magnetism, a sweetness, a rare charm and simplicity about her. And one looks at the man in the doorway, and knows that they are man and wife, of a truth.
XIV.
Helen had no opportunity to decline Gladys Van Duyn's invitation to Dorp House, the Van Duyn summer place on the Sound, even if she had been reluctant to go thither, as, in a certain way, she was. She craved seclusion with her husband, but she also craved a fuller immersion in that life of ease and art and culture in which she had as yet only dabbled with her feet. She was a trifle appalled by her own ignorance of the ways of that life, and shrank a little from it, as one shrinks from the cold bath while still desiring its shock.
But there was no choice left to her. Gladys Van Duyn was a peremptory little lady, accustomed to have her own winning way, and moreover, the whole matter had been arranged between the elder Van Duyn and Braine before it was mentioned to Helen at all.
Dorp House was within easy reach of the city, so that no business obstacle interposed. It would be infinitely pleasanter for Helen to rest there than to swelter in a hotel; Van Duyn and Braine had need of many and prolonged conferences over the business operations in which they were engaged, and Van Duyn wished Braine to meet a number of gentlemen whose connection with that business it was necessary to conceal as much as possible. These were so often Van Duyn's guests in summer that the necessary conferences with them could be had at Dorp House without observation, whereas any meeting in town would have set tongues wagging.
Thus all arguments pointed in one way, and it only remained for Helen to discover that the change would be beneficial to Braine, on whom heat and work were beginning to have some effect, in order that she should dismiss all her little fears and hesitations.
It was not until she had grown somewhat used to the sumptuous but easy hospitality of the house that she again resumed her diary.
[From Helen's Diary.]
I have had no time to write for many days. I am living in a whirl of excitement, and yet there is no occasion for excitement, as I am made to feel that I can really do precisely as I please.
The charm of this house's hospitality is that it sets one free. I need never go anywhere, or make the least apology for not going. I need not go to bed or get up till I like. I need never appear at a meal if I wish to stay away, and I need not wonder what anybody will think. And yet I feel as if I were in a whirl of excitement, I suppose because all the people about me are so bright, and the atmosphere so intellectual. Every species of high thought is represented here. Among the guests are artists, connoisseurs, musicians, authors, statesmen, financiers, and a world of brilliant and beautiful women. Good taste seems the only law existing or necessary in this society. It never occurred to me before, but good taste seems to be a complete code of morals, whose observance renders all other statutes unnecessary.
Edgar is ever the lover,—one whose caresses and endearments are never exhausted, and there is endless delight in the thought that my life holds nothing but to-morrows with him.
Gladys is altogether such as I imagined her to be at first sight—a charming, delicate woman, full of affection that never blunders, and is never lacking in tact. She is the most graceful hostess in the world. When I see her in this capacity, a sudden longing to have such a home, and such opportunities to bring about me such men and women, comes over me. I never mentioned this to Edgar until last night, for I feared he would think me dissatisfied—and that is impossible. I must always be happy where he is.
The cottage at Thebes is not forgotten, and at times, amid all this luxury and charm, I long for it with Edgar all to myself.
Last night I said something that conveyed my thought to him, quite by accident. I was confused for a moment afterward, and wanted to turn it off; but a sudden happy light came into Ed's eyes, and he said: "You would like to live like this?" I admitted it a little reluctantly, but told him that I would be just as well satisfied, though, when we were back in Thebes. He said that he was glad to know that this life made me happy, and that if I had not the ambition for it, at least the life would not be distasteful to me; that in another year I should entertain these same people in my own house, and that that house should be where I wished it to be.
This produced in me a strange emotion. It was one of joyous intoxication—and regret. I don't know what the regret was for, and it vanished in a moment.
Every one is very attentive to us. Edgar at once took the reins in his own hands. There seemed to be no effort on his part. He appeared to be almost unconscious of it. They are people whom he had never seen before, but people that every one hears of. There is something almost aggressively non-aggressive in Edgar's manner. It is impossible that he should appear in any company or walk through a room without impressing every one who sees him.
To-night there were some strange guests at dinner, and I was seated next to one of them, while Edgar took in Gladys. My neighbor did not understand that I was Edgar's wife, and during dinner the conversation turned on some public question, and some one referring to Edgar for his opinion, he gave it. He seemed to forget the company after a moment, he was so deeply interested in the subject, and talked on. Every one at the table seemed suddenly to cease talking, and to be listening intently to him. I forgot them, myself, everything but Edgar and his voice. There is a quality in his voice that I have never known in any other person's. It is a magnetic quality that compels one, that fascinates one.
When he stopped speaking every one was silent for a moment, and then a murmur of approval ran round the table.
The man next to me turned and said: "Do you remember the gentleman's name?" and I said, "Yes, Mr. Braine," and he said with a sudden surprise, "The man who has just—Why, he is a statesman; I had thought him only a speculator!"
He said it with a funny little snap of his teeth, and a decisive nod. I did not dare say that I was Edgar's wife. I felt that I deserved punishment for daring to be his wife. I cannot be interested in the conversation of people, unless they are talking of him. Every one seems to have discovered this, and so they all talk to me a great deal of him.
One or two of the gentlemen here I do not like particularly. I seem to afford them a certain amusement, and they endeavor to corner me on every occasion, and talk to me.
One of them said last night: "You are one of the most naïve women that I have ever known." It made me a little angry for some reason, and I told Edgar about it afterward, and he held my face in his hands and said: "Well, you certainly are," and his eyes smiled. I seemed to like it when Edgar said it.
There is a Mr. Everet coming to-morrow. Every one seems to enjoy the anticipation of his visit. Gladys talks a great deal of him. He is evidently a very superior man. We leave here to-morrow night, and return to Thebes. I have a little curiosity to meet the man, and hope that he will come before we leave.
August. We are still at Dorp House, and do not leave for some days yet. Mr. Everet came yesterday morning. He is a charming man, and reminds me of Edgar in many ways. He is a dignified man, too. I do not like men who do not impress me as earnest and grave. He is a courtly sort of man. I was very anxious to see him, for I desired to compare—impartially—Edgar and a man who is so much sought after and lauded for his brilliancy.
Well, I have seen him. Edgar is only the more magnificent. Mr. Everet and he seem to appreciate each other greatly. They smoke together and have had a long talk. They seem to have a great respect for each other's opinions—though they do not agree.
After dinner this evening, Mr. Everet came out on the piazza where I was sitting, and we had a delightful talk for an hour. I did not feel at all embarrassed. I have never felt just that since we left Thebes. I feel often that I am not the equal of many of those whom I meet, in an intellectual way, and I regret it, but I have the assurance that I am honest in doing my best for Edgar, and that they will overlook any mistake of mine, kindly, as I am his wife.
We talked of many things, and finally he regretted that we were going so soon, and hoped that he would see us in Washington—his interests are there, and he spends the winters there, and does something politically. I don't know anything about that. I told him about Thebes, and that we were to live there; that we had taken a cottage, and that I did not suppose that we could go to Washington for a long time, as I thought we should have to be quite economical.
For some reason I found myself talking very confidentially to him, and we seemed to have known each other a long time. I told him about the people at Thebes, and the Enterprise, and that it was just possible that sometime we could live somewhere else, and differently—a little like this.
He listened very attentively and sympathetically. There seemed to be a puzzled and surprised expression on his face at first, but soon it disappeared, and he smiled and said meditatively: "Yes, I understand."
After a while I happened to look up, and Edgar stood leaning against the railing, watching me. There was a beautiful look in his eyes, and he and Mr. Everet looked at each other and smiled.
I thought they seemed a little amused, but very much pleased. I asked Edgar afterwards, and he said, he could never look otherwise than pleased when listening to me, could he?
I presume he can't.
It was with a little sigh of regret that Helen received the final summons for an immediate return to Thebes. She reproached herself for the feeling, and resolutely made up her mind that her one supreme longing was to begin the quiet life she had planned to lead with Braine, in the little white cottage, with the bed of sweet-williams before the door.
Gladys had solemnly promised to visit her there during Lent, when, "Society is so deadly dull, you know." (A promise which she kept, making Thebes her place of retirement and meditation in preparation for her marriage after Easter.)
Braine set out on the return journey with a peculiar buoyancy of spirits which helped to drive away Helen's little regrets.
"Never mind, dear," he said, as they took their places in the palace car, "you have not seen the last of your New York friends. You shall spend winters there before you are many years older. I have only to emphasize myself in Thebes, and then we shall seek larger pastures."
"But hasn't this trip cost you a great deal of money, Ed?"
"Well, it hasn't impoverished me, at any rate," he answered, with his queer smile. "Perhaps that is because I am not altogether the paymaster."
But he did not explain.
XV.
Abner Hildreth was closeted in the parlor of his bank with a grave, but eager-faced man of perhaps fifty, who sat with his left hand doubled up into a fist, while he snapped the spaces between the knuckles with the fingers of the right, making a succession of little nervous snaps, which would have annoyed a more irritable person than Hildreth.
The banker had been reading aloud to his companion, and half a dozen copies of the Thebes Daily Enterprise lay open on a chair by his side. Hildreth had been reading the leading articles one after the other, and had just concluded, the series.
"I don't like the looks of it, Duncan. I don't know what it all means, or how much."
"Perhaps he is only guessing, and getting things wrong. These newspaper men often do that, you know."
"Yes—" returned Hildreth, meditatively, "but Braine isn't that sort. He is apt to surprise you just the other way. When you squeeze him to see if he knows what he has been saying, you're apt to find out he knows a good deal more. He's a cautious fellow, and not too previous." [Hildreth's speech declines to reduce itself to subjection, and must be reported faithfully.] "Besides, I particularly cautioned him when he began this series on 'Thebes as a Railroad Centre,' to go slow, and deal in glittering generalities. I told him we weren't quite ready to call the hand yet."
"What did he say?"
"Not much. He said he understood the situation, and I suppose he really thought so. I'm afraid he's upset the milk pail. I wish I'd taken him into full confidence."
"I wish you had, almost. But if you had, we should have had to let him in a good deal deeper than we intend. I suppose he's keen enough to know how thick the butter is on a slice of bread, when he gets a good look at it?"
"Keen enough? Yes, he's keen enough for anything. I'm afraid he's been too keen for us. I don't know what he's up to, or how much he knows, but it looks serious. Maybe after all it would have been cheaper to let him in on the ground floor, instead of pretending. What if he's leased the ground floor himself, and made up his mind to turn us out?"
"Had he money enough for that?"
"No, I suppose not. But brains count sometimes, and he's got brains. Couldn't you find out anyway what Van Duyn means to do?"
"No. He said he was in other things, and couldn't go in with us. Of course that means whatever he wanted it to mean. With a man of his wealth and banking connections, being in one thing or twenty things, don't prevent his going into others. But whether he's up to anything or not, I couldn't find out."
"Well, it looks bad. Braine played it very sharp on me when he got that charter and ferry franchise. I didn't know he knew of their existence, or would dream of their value if he did. Then he went to New York and got in with a lot of people there. I don't know how. Then came the sudden drop in Northern stock before we began selling short. Somebody must have been selling it quietly for days. Then when we went in to buy, you couldn't get a controlling interest at any price, and all we can make out is that a big block of it is held off the market. Now comes this series of articles."
"Read that last paragraph again."
Hildreth took up the paper and read:
"These plans are now about matured, and the hopes of Thebes approach fruition. It is yet too soon to publish particulars, but this much, at any rate, may be stated. A strong body of capitalists have secured control of the lines south of Columbia. Associated with them are the owners of the franchise for the connecting line between Thebes and Columbia. Contracts for the rapid construction of that line have been let, and the road will be in operation by the new year. Negotiations are in progress, or soon will be, for a traffic arrangement with the roads running north from Thebes, and there is now every assurance that the great tide of commerce between the North and South will speedily flow through this city."
The two sat silent for a time after the reading was done. Then Duncan said:
"Hildreth, there's more behind that; the fellow has a masked battery of some kind. Let's have the others down at once."
Hildreth rang for a clerk to whom he said:
"Telegraph to Tucker and Fanning to come down by the night express without fail, and meet Duncan here at ten in the morning. Say it's imperative."
When the clerk had gone, Duncan asked:
"What shall we do about Braine, in the mean time?"
"That's what puzzles me. On the whole, I think we'd better have him here to-night, and have it out with him some way. We may not be able to manage him, but I think we can. At all events, we'd best know how much powder he has in his magazine. Confound the fellow!"
"Don't be too hasty. He is evidently a man we want with us, and of course we can get him in some way. A very little slice of this cut will seem a feast to him. Send for him, and when we get him here we'll manage him."
Hildreth rang again, and said to the answering clerk:
"Go up to Braine's after you lock the vault for the day, and tell him to come down and see me here at eight o'clock sharp."
When this message was delivered to Braine an hour or two later the editor was quietly reading the "Biglow Papers" to his wife in the little white cottage with the sweet-williams in front. He had half an hour before received a note by messenger, which he crumpled up and threw into the waste basket. A moment later he picked it out again, went into the kitchen and placed it carefully on the fire.
When Hildreth's clerk delivered his summons, Braine quietly said to him:
"Take down my answer in shorthand and deliver it accurately. Tell Mr. Hildreth I am reading a very interesting book to my wife, and don't care to disturb myself. You may say to him, also, that after he has had a talk with Duncan, who is with him now, and Tucker and Fanning, who are to arrive by the express at ten to-morrow morning, I shall be at his service for any conference he may think necessary. Good evening, Charley."
"Why, Ed," exclaimed Helen, as soon as the clerk had gone, "this reading is of no consequence."
"I know it, dear. In fact I'm tired of it and shall read no more."
"Why didn't you go then? It may be of consequence."
"It is—to Hildreth."
"Why did you send him so—well, so curious a message, then?"
"Because I wanted him to know that I knew who was coming and by what trains."
"Didn't you get the information from him?"
"No, dear. He didn't know it himself till he telegraphed for them an hour ago, when we were at tea."
"Then how on earth did you find it out?"
"I pay for my education, dear, as I go on. The little note I burned in the kitchen brought me the information."
"But why did you treat Mr. Hildreth's message so—well, so curtly? I'm sure—"
"My dear, let me tell you a story. There was once a rich man and a poor man. The rich man wanted to make use of the poor man, and he carefully arranged matters so as to make himself the poor man's master. When he had things all ready, he went to the poor man and told him about it. He promised to be a kind master and to pay the poor man well for serving him. But the poor man was constituted a little curiously. He didn't like to have a master, even a kind one who paid him well. He liked to be master himself, and so he carefully arranged matters so as to make himself the rich man's master. When he had matters in readiness, he sent a reply to one of the rich man's orders, which let the rich man know that the poor man was master now. That's a little fable. But fables are often true."
XVI.
It was not until noon of the next day, after two hours of preparatory conference, that Hildreth sent Braine as courteous a note as his most accomplished clerk could manufacture, asking him to meet Duncan, Tucker and Fanning in the bank parlor, "for consultation upon matters of deep interest to all of us."
A little after one, Braine appeared at the bank, and greeted the others without seeming in the least conscious that he had kept the personal representatives of a good many millions of dollars waiting for an hour.
Meantime the group had agreed upon a plan of operations, which had only the one defect of being founded upon a total misapprehension of Braine's situation, attitude and intentions. A fresh perusal of the series of articles on "Thebes as a Railroad Centre," together with Hildreth's report of the message he had received from Braine in answer to his own, the day before, had led the quartette to certain conclusions.
"He knows what we're up to," was the verdict of Tucker, a pudgy little man, with a voice at least an octave too low for his apparent bellows-power; "at least he's worked out enough of it to bank on. He's making a strike. He proposes to get in with us, and it's my opinion we've got to let him in."
"Yes, but how far?" asked Fanning, a very thin person, with a high forehead, over which the skin seemed stretched with drum head tension.
"Well, of course, a fellow like that," said Hildreth, "isn't like one of us. He'll think it a big fortune if we let him in enough to give him a little bank account, and let his wife go to some fashionable watering-place every summer. He doesn't know how much a combination of this kind means. My notion is for us to take his ferry franchise and the railroad charter—he doesn't know what that piece of paper is worth, I fancy—and capitalize the ferry at two hundred thousand dollars, and the railroad at ten millions. The road won't cost more than three millions at the outside to build, and a ferry-boat can be had, with the landing traps, for thirty-five thousand dollars. We'll assign Braine two hundred thousand dollars' worth of stock in the road, and twenty-five thousand dollars in the ferry company. The figures will knock him over. Of course, we can fix it so as to throw most of the earnings of the ferry and connecting road over to our other properties. The idea of having $225,000 in anything will fetch him. It sounds big, that sort of thing, to a fellow that's rooted for his living as Braine has. He's sharp, but of course he doesn't know how these things are managed. He's had no experience."
"But we'll need his brains now and then, Hildreth," said Duncan, "and mustn't set him in antagonism to us. He'll find out after a while what his stock is worth, and then he'll fight us, sure. Can we afford to risk that?"
"That's a fact," said Hildreth; "well, how will it do to give him the stock and a clean cash twenty-five thousand dollars? He'll be rich on that, or think himself so. And we can help him in his political schemes, too. He is ambitious, and we shall want him in politics. I'll suggest politics after the money part is broached."
And so, when Braine entered, Hildreth was equipped.
"We've been reading your articles with interest, Braine," he began, "but we find you've been a little misled by your enthusiasm and hopefulness." A few months earlier, Hildreth had called that sort of thing "going off at half cock," but he thought it best to be more circumspect now. "After all," he continued, "I'm to blame for it, you know, because I ought to have kept you better posted."
"Would you mind telling me just wherein I have been misled?" asked Braine, without manifesting the least concern as to the seriousness of his blunders.
"Well, you see it's this way. We haven't got control of the Southern lines yet. Van Duyn disappointed us, and—"
"Yes—well?" said Braine.
"Your saying we have secured control may bother us a little in the negotiations."
"Did I say you had got control of the Southern lines? I don't recall it."
"Certainly; you say," reading, "'a strong body of capitalists have secured control of the lines south of Columbia.'"
"I see. Well?"
"Oh, I don't know as it need be very serious. It will pass as a careless newspaper statement."
"Certainly. Call it that and lay it on my shoulders. Nobody will mind me. Well, what else?"
"Well, I ought to have told you that we haven't got a good ready yet to begin work on the new line from here to Columbia, and we haven't yet succeeded in buying a controlling interest in the Northern road," said Hildreth.
"You never told me," said Braine, but without any look of surprise at the information, "that you contemplated doing anything with the Northern road, after you shut it off the river front by the levee transfer."
"Didn't I? That must have been an oversight. Well I'll tell you now. I'll be perfectly frank, Braine, for we're all in one boat you know. Our plan was to sell Northern down to the breaking point on the strength of its being cut off from the river, and then, when the bottom dropped out of it, to go in and buy up a controlling interest, consolidate the road with the Central, and send the stock up again."
"Why didn't you carry out the plan?" asked Braine, with languid interest. "It looks like a very good one."
"That's where the trouble lies. Somebody else sold the stock short on the quiet before we began, and he must have made a pile on the operation too, for the market was sold so deep that when we touched it, it tumbled to pieces like a barrel with the hoops off. And then when we began to buy on the broken market, we found another block in our way. Somebody had quietly bought while we were selling, and now holds a big block of the stock off the market. We've bought every share we can get, till we've sent the market up to where it was before the break, and even a little higher, but we can't get enough to control."
"What do you mean to do about it?" queried Braine.
"We're waiting for the fellow to weaken, and that's where the trouble comes in. Your article will stiffen him up like thunder. You must admit that you were too previous this time, Braine."
"Perhaps so. But what do you suggest now?"
"Well, we count on you to patch things up. Can't you get up some news about the thing, to knock out the impression you've made?"
"No," answered Braine, "that would never do. The first condition of success in journalism is never to print false and misleading news."
"Confound journalism!" Hildreth could not altogether repress his irritation. "The whole game is at stake, my dear fellow, and you're one of us, you know."
"Am I? How much? You've never told me."
Here Tucker winked at Fanning, and Duncan nodded at Tucker. It was clear that Braine was "striking," and they were now getting at the marrow of the matter.
"We've just been talking that over," said Hildreth with eager confidence; "and this is what we think we can afford to do for you," handing Braine a memorandum. "It's extremely liberal, you see, but we want to be as liberal as possible with you. We haven't forgotten how you served us at the pinch, and we want your brains hereafter."
Braine scanned the memorandum carelessly. Then he handed it back, and said:
"My brains cannot be had at the price. I've been trying them a little, recently, and find they're worth more to me than you offer."
"Might I ask, Mr. Braine," interposed Duncan, snapping his fingers against his knuckles, "what is your notion of a fair arrangement between us?"
"Certainly," answered Braine; "and in order that you may not think me unreasonable, I will first explain how matters stand with me. In the first place, it seems only proper to say that it was I who, in the absence of any hint of your plans from Mr. Hildreth, made the mistake of selling Northern short in New York."
"You!" exclaimed Hildreth. "You! Why, where on earth did you get the money?"
"You lent me enough. It don't take a great deal of margin to sell short with, on a falling market. By the way, I'd like to give you my check for the amount I owe you, and take up my note before maturity, if it's all the same to you. Besides I have some friends in New York who are pretty strong—the Van Duyns and others—sit still and hear me out, please," as the others rose in astonishment at the mention of that name. "As I was saying, I sold Northern short till the collapse came, and you will be glad to know that I netted a very comfortable profit when the stock tumbled from 73 to 37—just reversing the figures, which seems to me an interesting coincidence. By that time, Van Duyn and his friends had gone in with me in some plans I had formed. We thought, upon looking over the ground, that we could see a way by which the Northern road could force its way to the river in spite of the levee grant. In fact, I am pretty well convinced that the grant can be wholly invalidated if necessary. I hold conclusive proofs that the aldermen were bribed to make it. I thought if I asked to have it rescinded, all parties would probably consent rather than risk the submission of this proof to a grand jury."
By this time the four bankers were reduced, as to their moral natures, to the condition of pulp. They said nothing. They simply listened.
"However, that is aside. As I was saying, we thought Northern stock a good purchase at the price, so we bought it up to full recovery."
Here Braine paused, and going to the cooler drew a glass of water, which was far from perfectly clear as he held it between him and the light for inspection before drinking.
"Now that Thebes is sure of growth, Hildreth,"—it was the first time Braine had ever spoken to the banker by his name, without the prefix of courtesy,—"we must begin to think about a water supply, don't you think so? I'll write the thing up in a few days. I'm only waiting for some books on the subject, for which I have sent to New York."
"Confound the water supply!" ejaculated Hildreth. "Go on, can't you?"
"Oh, yes; about Northern. Well, we held the block of stock you referred to just now. In fact we have a trifle over fifty-one per cent, and we don't care to sell. It ought to go to par, or above, when the Southern connection is formed. I own the ferry franchise, you know, and the Van Duyn syndicate—by the way, Van Duyn is to be here next week, as my guest. I shall have the pleasure of asking you to meet him at dinner, Hildreth, and you also, Mr. Duncan, if you're in Thebes so long."
He passed over Tucker and Fanning quite as if they had not been present. "As I was saying, the Van Duyn syndicate has a ninety-nine years lease on the lines south of Columbia. That must have been what I referred to in the article where I spoke of a 'strong body of capitalists.' Now our idea is to build the connecting link south, finish the Northern line to the river, and make one system of our properties. We've ordered, from Hambleton's yards, a ferry boat capable of transferring trains without breaking freight bulk, or disturbing through passengers. We shall be independent of the Central rivalry, of course, as that road will be dependent on us for a southern connection; but it was the general feeling in New York that consolidation is better than throat-cutting, and I am authorized by my associates to consider any propositions you gentlemen may see fit to make touching a traffic arrangement, or better still, a close alliance. It might be possible for us to get together and arrange for a consolidation of the Central with our properties, on fair terms. That is for you, gentlemen, to consider. It would save some friction, as, of course, in the event of its not being done, we should naturally not be able, with justice to our own stockholders, to offer as favorable terms on through business to a road in rivalry with a part of our line, as to a road owned by ourselves, and an integral part of our system. We shall in any case be as courteous to you gentlemen of the Central, however, as we can with a due regard to the welfare of our own properties. I think that is all I have to say, and as you gentlemen probably have business affairs of your own to discuss, I will withdraw. Good morning, gentlemen."
What passed in that bank parlor after Braine's departure, there is no means of knowing now. Braine felt no uneasiness as to the result, however. He sent a cipher dispatch to Van Duyn, and then went home to read "In Memoriam" to Helen for an hour before supper. When Van Duyn had translated the dispatch, it read as follows:
"Exploded bomb this afternoon. Effect satisfactory. Delicacy about witnessing a family quarrel prompted me to withdraw. They will ask for our terms to-morrow, and accept them. Have asked Hildreth and Duncan to meet you at dinner next week. They won't come. Engineer reports easy construction on line to Columbia. Country flat, timber abundant, and only two small bridges."
When Braine shut up the volume of Tennyson that evening, and went to supper with his arm around Helen, he stopped, imprinted a caress upon her lips and said:
"I feel this evening just as I did many years ago, on the day I whipped Cale Dodge."
But he did not explain why.
XVII.
[From Helen's Diary.]
We have been back in Thebes for several weeks. The cottage is very charming—though I certainly did not realize how small it was until I returned. It needs a great many improvements before it will be quite satisfactory. They have put a remarkably ugly paper on the walls, and the ceilings look strange without any. I think the paper cannot be the same that I selected before we left, for if I remember alright it was very pretty. I spoke to the paper-hanger about it, and he assured me that it was the same, so perhaps it is.
Something must be done to the ceilings. They look quite startling. I have not mentioned it to Edgar, for I fear he might think me dissatisfied—after all, nothing matters, with him to love.
I have packed away many of my beautiful gowns. There is really no chance to wear them here. Sometimes I am seized with a longing to put one on, and one evening last week Edgar and I dined in state all alone at seven. I wore my most ravishing gown, and made him put on evening clothes. He laughed a great deal, but seemed to enjoy it. My servant was a little awkward, but I felt a strange elation at my success. I have a desire to try it on a larger scale some time. Perhaps I shall some day. Who knows but what Edgar may be able, some time, to do all he hopes! To me it is no matter whether he does or not. Every day—every hour—he grows dearer to me. I long to see him again among people who can appreciate such a man, and are his equals in some degree. I feel restless when I think of him here in such a miserably insignificant town, with all his great powers. I have no ambition for myself, but insatiable ambition to have him appreciated for what he is.
Gladys is to spend the Lenten season here. It will make a happy break for me in the dullness of my life—that is to say, in the uneventfulness of it; it is never dull where Edgar is.
I have experienced a strange emotion during the last week. It is the first real feeling of regret that has come to me since our marriage. I do not know that "regret" is just the term I should use—
Braine enters the room softly, and crossing the floor takes Helen's head in his hands, and tipping her face back, kisses her softly on the forehead. Her eyes grow luminous, and she drops her pen.
"Ah! you are home early! Did Mr. Van Duyn get off at ten o'clock?"
"Yes, I came straight home from the station." He walks on through into the other room—
"Anything to eat, dear?" going on out into the kitchen. Helen follows him into the pantry, and seats herself on a cracker box, with a wave of her hand at the shelves and towards the cupboard. She goes on talking about Van Duyn's departure.
"He'll reach home Friday morning, won't he, Ed?"
"M—huh!" munching an olive. "Where are the crackers, dear?"
"I don't know—look in that box up there," pointing to the top shelf. Braine looks and finds candles, and Helen reaches a paper bag on the left, from her seat, and finds eggs.
"Shall I call Mollie?—she's in bed."
"No. Here's the bread," and he cuts a slice two inches thick on one end and a sliver on the other, while Helen continues the conversation.
"You told him to tell Gladys about the lace the last thing, didn't you—else he'll forget it."
"M—huh!" stabbing an anchovy. "I wish to heaven the slave would keep that Rocquefort in the cellar, except when we are eating it," shoving the cheese under a pan.
Helen rises—"Come on! Bring the rest in here," and she takes the light in one hand, and the bottle of anchovies in the other, while Braine is about to follow when he discovers the cracker box.
"You've been sitting on those crackers, Helen Braine," scooping up a handful wrathfully.
"Well, you've found them; come on;" and they go into the sitting-room. He sits by the open window, while she fishes out olives and anchovies for him, alternately, and talks.
After a time, the anchovies are on the table, and the olive bottle on the window sill; the crackers carpet the floor immediately around Braine's chair, and Helen is kneeling between his knees.
The conversation becomes low toned and fitful. They like it better at those times when it is fitful. Presently, Helen says in a dreamy fashion:
"We will name the children 'Edgar,' shan't we?"
She doesn't think of what she is saying. She is in a misty dream. The silence that ensues arouses her. Edgar has not replied, and is looking out of the window. Something in his silence hurts her, humiliates her. She would give up every fond hope if she could recall the words.
She cannot break the silence, and she feels her lip quiver after a moment, when he does not speak.
Presently he throws his cigar out of the window and looks at her. There is a peculiar, half-pained, half-stern look in his face, but there is an expression of resignation too—that hurts her worse than all.
He says in a voice which he tries to make calm and matter of fact, but which reveals his anxiety painfully:
"Why, what do you mean?"
This seems to arouse her, and for a moment she feels no grief; but a certain pride that is a little resentful, comes over her, and she looks at him very coolly and says:
"Nothing; I was thinking that Gladys when she is Mrs. Grayson, might ask us to stand sponsors for her—first, and she likes the name of Edgar, you know."
There is a little feeling of recklessness creeping about her atmosphere, for some reason. The look of relief on Braine's face hurts, as but one other thing has ever hurt her—his preceding look of anxiety.
He looks out of the window as though sorry that he has thrown his cigar away. After a moment he says:
"Helen, would you like to have children?"
She still feels a little cold, and answers:
"I should like children well enough, though I presume that there may be more agreeable things to do in the world than to train them."
He looks around at her in surprise, and suddenly holds out his hand. He says:
"Come here, little girl." Gravity and self-reproach are in his tone. She is suddenly overwhelmed with a feeling of shame, and throws herself on her knees beside him. He smooths her hair for a moment without speaking, and then says in the one voice on earth:
"Dearest, I don't want you to interpret what I said, or looked, a moment ago. You startled me a little, and—" He pauses a moment, then goes on: "And I want to tell you why. I have had one dream since I have known you and loved you. I have dreamed of you as my wife, my very dearer self, surrounded with the refinements and sweetnesses of life; loving me, thinking with me, always near me. And to complete the dream were our children, little men and women; a part of your own dear, beautiful self; their little minds and faces reflecting you; little men and women that should enter upon life with the love of a man and woman who worshipped them for each other's sake. I have in imagination seen these little beings develop mentally, and morally, and physically, until I beheld the little woman, the model of my Helen, and the little man, a lover of his mother. I have not seemed to think of myself and these children, but of you and them. I think I should not love them because they were mine, but because they were yours. I—"
Braine pauses abruptly. His voice has been soft, wooing, monotonous. Helen is sobbing softly. After a moment he goes on:
"I have dreamed all this over and over, dear. Perhaps it will not be a vain dream, but—it must not be fulfilled now."
He pauses again, and draws a long breath, that is a half weary sigh.
"No, not now; not for a few years. We need each other just now, with nothing to divide our love or thought or care with. We do not want to bring beggars into the world. They would not be quite that, now, but not much better. I remember my own youth," tightening his fingers on the arm of his chair and speaking a little harshly, "I remember my own youth. My children shall never have such memories—nor such temptations—no, nor such guilt."
Helen lifts her head and stares at him. He has struck a strange note in his voice. He continues:
"If our children have ambitions that are good and true, I pray God that I may be able to allow them to live, yes and thrive. There is such a thing as moral suicide. I do not want to attend the moral funeral of my children, feeling that they have died for the reason that they have had no opportunity. I am unfit now, and for perhaps years to come, to have any hand in the moral charge of my children. I shall have no time, and you—" looking hungrily at her—"I want you. I cannot spare you just now even to my children—your children, our children," each time with a different, tenderer inflection on the words.
"Now, do you understand me, dear? Now, is there a little less heart-ache and reproach?"
She draws his face down until their lips meet.
XVIII.
The next few years of Edgar Braine's life were years of strenuous, almost turbulent, endeavor, but their details do not belong to this history. Their outline only concerns us.
When the consolidation of the Central road with the other lines north and south, was effected, Braine had every reason to feel as he had on the day of his battle with Cale Dodge. In the one case, as in the other, he had won a passionately coveted victory; in the one case as in the other, it was unsatisfying.
He had felt almost a savage joy in the process of conquering Hildreth and his party, and teaching them to recognize him as the master; but when the conquest was over, it seemed a very little victory after all, because the enemy was so contemptible.
"Hildreth has experience and cunning," he said, "but he has no masterful ability. As to the rest—faugh! Why should I care to match my brains against their poor headpieces? One little loving thought of Helen's is worth more than a thousand such victories."
Braine valued the wealth that was now securely his, not for any vulgar love of wealth, such as men are apt to feel who have grown up in poverty and wrought out riches for themselves, but for the liberty it secured to him to prosecute his other purposes unhampered by any bread-winning necessity.
He had enough money now, in possession and in certain prospect, to satisfy his desires in that direction, and if he afterward engaged in great financial undertakings, as he did, it was as the athlete expends his strength, not for results, but for the joy of the exercise.
Braine's mind found pleasure in forming and directing difficult schemes, and his self-love was gratified by the recognition of himself as the master mind among the strong men of finance with whom he allied himself in these schemes.
There was another reason for his continued activity in affairs. He saw in such activity vast opportunities to impress himself upon a rapidly developing country, and thus to forward his political ambition, which boldly grasped at the highest things, just as in finance he never suffered the magnitude or difficulty of any undertaking to appal him.
"We shall keep the cottage for our residence, dear," he said to Helen a few months after the events already related, "but we must live mainly in New York now. My business enterprises require it. You shall have such quarters as you want there, but I should like to keep the cottage just as it is, with a servant always in charge. It will be pleasant for us now and then to come back here for a little rest, and a little quiet love-making. Will it not?"
And so it was arranged. Braine retained control of the Enterprise, and even actively directed it, wherever he might be. No matter how absorbingly engaged he might become in any of his great enterprises, he found time each day to communicate by telegraph with the newspaper office and by crisp, brief commands to determine the character of every issue.
He still retained Thebes as his legal residence, and it was expected that he would represent the Thebes district in Congress, but to the surprise of every one, he chose to have himself elected to the State Legislature instead.
There his activity was ceaseless. He mastered every detail of information concerning the State, so perfectly that he could, and often did, instruct members from distant quarters concerning affairs in their own districts, about which their information was confidently inexact.
He carefully avoided accepting the leadership of his party, which might have been his for the taking, and before the session was over he was said to have won the personal friendship of every man in the Legislature.
At the next election he declined to be a candidate, and put up Mose Harbell instead. The nomination created general surprise at first, and a general laugh when surprise and incredulity had subsided; but Braine took care that his "genial" local editor should be elected.
He made himself very active in the State General Committee of his party also, though he was not a member of that body. He contributed largely to the Campaign fund, and took great pains to keep himself well informed as to the state of the canvass in every district in which there was any chance of success for his party. Whenever news came that the chance was slender in any district, Braine opened a confidential correspondence—usually conducted by Mose Harbell—with the local political leader of that district, and it was almost uniformly the case that the prospect of success in the district rapidly improved from the moment Braine's attention was directed to it.
The result of the election was a cause of general astonishment. The opposing party, which had long been in the ascendant, had carried the State ticket by about its customary majority, but the Legislature elected held—for the first time in many years—a good working majority for Braine's party, to the surprise of everybody in the State except Braine himself. He had expected precisely that result. Perhaps his anticipations had been stimulated by his carefully directed efforts to secure their fulfilment.
The fact that a United States Senator was to be chosen by this Legislature gave peculiar interest to the event. The senator whose place was to be filled had expected to be re-elected without opposition. He had made a secure bargain for re-election with the leaders of his party. But his party, being unexpectedly in the minority, was of course, unable to fulfil the contract.
The stir created by the unforeseen situation was very great. The several prominent men of the party were named one after another for the high place, and the newspapers by their advocacy of local "favorite sons" soon made the contest between them a very heated one.
Braine wrote with extreme courtesy of each of them in his newspaper, favoring none in particular, but daily pointing out the necessity of uniting upon some man who could command the hearty approval of the entire party, and emphasizing the apparent impossibility of such a union in behalf of any of those who had been named.
Mose Harbell held his peace, perhaps because he was equally impressed with the exceeding "geniality" of all the candidates.
Braine pleaded strongly for harmony in the interest of the party, and particularly for the selection of some rising man of ability, whose age had not deprived him of the energy necessary to make his ability felt at Washington.
When the Legislature assembled it was found that an extraordinarily large number of the members on the majority side were not positively pledged to any candidate for the caucus nomination, beyond the first two or three ballots, and a careful canvass showed that on the first ballot at least six candidates would be voted for, no one of whom would receive more than one fourth of the total vote.
Mose Harbell, of course, knew all the "genial" men about him in the Legislature and all of them knew Mose—mainly as a joke. Mose entered the caucus, pledged, for the first two ballots, to the least likely candidate on the list. He made his first speech in advocacy of that candidate's election, emphasizing the "geniality" of the man, and telling some stories of his own peculiar manufacture in illustration of it. With three others he voted for that man.
The first ballot in the caucus showed six candidates voted for and no election. The second ballot showed six candidates voted for and no election.
When the third ballot was ordered, Mose Harbell untwisted his long legs, removed his feet from the desk to the floor, and rose in his place to make a very brief speech.
"Mr. Chairman," he said, "it is evident that we cannot nominate any of the gentlemen for whom we have been voting. Why should we not nominate the man who best represents the intelligence and integrity of the party, the man to whose earnest devotion in the late election the party owes its opportunity to elect a senator? I, for one, shall vote on this ballot for Edgar Braine!"
It will be observed that the style of this speech was wholly unlike the usual literary methods of Mose Harbell. Perhaps that was sufficiently accounted for by the fact that the slip of paper from which Mose had committed it to memory, was in the handwriting of—his master.
The burst of applause that greeted the speech, seemed to indicate that a large proportion of the members present shared Mose's view of the situation, and the third ballot showed three candidates voted for, with Edgar Braine's name leading, and within two of a majority.
On the fourth ballot, Braine was nominated amid a roar of applause.
It had all been done precisely as the editor of the Enterprise had planned that it should be done.
That night Edgar incidentally mentioned to Helen that she was to be the wife of a United States Senator, at the next session of Congress, and so would have only one more winter to pass in New York.
XIX.
[From Helen's Diary.]
Washington, 18—. We have been here three weeks to-day. The entire time has been occupied in settling and furnishing the house. In the meantime we have been stopping at the Arlington. We are finally settled, and have been in the house now for a week.
It all seems a glorious dream. I believe that there is no home in Washington so beautiful as ours. It is beyond everything I have ever dreamed of.
The first night we stayed here, I reviewed all our married life. Saturday night, after I went to bed, I lay there thinking of all that has come and gone in this dear time. First, our weeks in New York, where a new life opened for me. Then, our return to Thebes, where we had both known poverty, and a stern necessity for management. There has since been no such stern necessity.
After our first return, things seemed to develop in so gradual and natural a manner, that only Saturday night as I lay in bed, comparing the rose draperies, the shaded light, the faint perfume and luxurious room, with a little bedroom far away, and its cretonne curtains, its ordinary little lamp, its moderate comfort, I felt wonder and amazement, and—what? Regret? I do not know. Perhaps, for some one shared that little ordinary room with me. Some one I loved. And as I thought, I half turned, to find myself quite alone—it was no longer "the thing" to share my room. Yes, I think it was regret that I felt.
He was very near—only a little corridor between, but perhaps he was asleep, and if he slept I could not put my hand on him and feel comfort in the touch. Yes, I think it was regret.
With the new house, a new custom had been inaugurated. A custom of division. I will admit the superiority of the custom, but not its capacity to satisfy. Edgar had said: "I think it best, dear, that my apartment should be distinct from your own, for the sake of your comfort. I come in at all hours of the night, and must necessarily disturb you, and it makes me feel constantly guilty."
I think I cannot convey the hurt that this gave me, though I knew, absolutely, that this suggestion was prompted by his great love for me, and so we fell to speaking of "your room" and "my room."
I have not known one less caress, one less expression of his love, for this being so, but—it is "your room" and "my room" for all that. I shall become accustomed to it, and prefer it so—Gladys says I will. I shall become used to it of course. It is not quite so strange to me even now, but that Saturday night it was very new—and very sad; I felt then that it would never be anything else. It is hard to become used to speaking of things, or thinking of them as other than ours. When the material things of our lives become separate, it seems to break the unity of the intangible things—the thoughts that are mutual; the spontaneity of emotion, affection. Perhaps it will not seem so after a time, but it is hard to think otherwise now.
For some reason, I have a dread of a time when I shall no longer find the new way strange and—sad. I think of the nights in the cottage, when one of us happened to be wakeful, restless. The other always knew it instinctively, and awoke. Then, there were few troubles or causes of wakefulness that a touch of the hand, or a tone of the voice, from the other, could not banish. Then, we could always divine, without any awkward efforts to discover, if the one was happier without the other's consideration—now it is different. I should experience almost as strange a sensation in entering his room, as I should have felt before we were married. I tried it last night. I heard him come in after one. I sit up in my room if he is late, for I cannot sleep and know that he is not safe; I sit in my own room that he may not know that I wait. It would worry him, did he know.
The other night he opened my door softly, thinking me asleep, and just intending to look at me, and instead of being asleep, I was sitting by the fire, thinking of him. He seemed startled to find the room lighted, and coming to the fire and taking my hands in his, said in a tone of anxiety: "Why, dearest! You should not wait for me like this. If I feel that you do, I shall be unable to attend to business properly after midnight, for thinking of you here, awake, waiting wearily for me, alone."
He said it with so much of anxiety and pain in his face and voice that it suddenly filled me with a great longing to sob in his arms, but it was too late to sob then—at least in his arms, and he looked too tired and worn.
Presently, he said good night, and I sat alone—he left me that I might go at once to sleep. I decided that he should not have any anxiety of that kind again; so now I go to bed—and lie awake until I hear him come up the stairs.
He always opens the door, and I can always tell by the light from the hall, whether he is very weary, or would like to talk to me. He cannot tell from the door whether I am asleep or not, if I am quiet. If he looks very tired, and as though he had started for his room, I say nothing. If not—I say, "I am awake, dearest."
He is very anxious to have me work into the social life of the city. I understand things far better than I did a few years ago, when we took the New York trip. Far differently! I know that society in Washington means business. I am incapable of understanding the business, but I can learn certain means by which it is carried on.
I have been impressed more and more every day of my life with Edgar's greatness and my own inferiority. And every day of my life, I have taken a new resolution to be with him in his greatness, if not of his greatness.
I do not think I care much for his greatness, but for him instead—and he and greatness are inseparable. I remember involuntarily at times that night in the hotel years ago, when the feeling came over me that we had come to a fork in the road, and I must decide whether to go alone, or with him.
The time is past when I must make such a decision, but now I must keep up with him in the road we travel together. He must not have to wait for me—and he would not go on without me—and I know that he could not live unless he went on.
He has planned many things for the coming season in which I must not fail him. I can assist him by social success. The season is still weeks in the future. Things are at a standstill just now, socially. I have a terrible fear that I must fail him. This fear consumes me, agonizes me. I dare not think too much about such a possibility—until I have to. I may not have to. Just now I am torn with anxiety.