The speaker's words had been uttered slowly at the outset—ponderous, sonorous, sentence by sentence, like the big drops before a heavy shower. As he warmed to his theme the pauses ceased, and his speech flowed with the musical sweep of a master of platform oratory. When he spoke of war his voice choked; in speaking of peace he paused for an appreciable moment, casting his eyes up as though he could discern the angel of national tranquillity hovering overhead. Although this opening peroration seemed scarcely germane to the occasion, the audience listened in absorbed silence, spell-bound by the magnetism of his delivery. They felt sure that he had a point in reserve to which these splendid and agreeable truths were a pertinent introduction.
Proceeding, with his address, Mr. Lyons made a panegyric on these United States of America, from the special standpoint of their dedication to the "God of our fathers," a solemn figure of speech. The sincerity of his patriotism was emphasized by the religious fervor of his deduction that God was on the side of the nation, and the nation on the side of God. Though he abstained from direct strictures, both his manner and his matter seemed to serve a caveat, so to speak, on the other nations by declaring that for fineness of heart and thought, and deed, the world must look to the land "whose wide and well-nigh boundless prairies were blossoming with the buds of truth fanned by the breeze of liberty and fertilized by the aspirations of a God-fearing and a God-led population. What is the hope of the world, I repeat?" he continued. "The plain and sovereign people of our beloved country. Whatever menaces their liberties, whatever detracts from their, power and infringes on their prerogatives is a peril to our institutions and a step backward in the science of government. My friends, we are here to-night to protest against a purpose to invade those liberties—a deliberately conceived design to take away from the sovereign people of this city one of their cherished privileges—the right to decide who shall direct the policy of our free public-school system, that priceless heritage of every American. I beg to remind you that this contest is no mere question of healthy rivalry between two great political parties; nor again is it only a vigorous competition between two ambitious and intelligent women. A ballot in behalf of our candidate will be a vote of confidence in the ability of the plain people of this country to adopt the best educational methods without the patronizing dictation of aboard of specialists nurtured on foreign and uninspiring theories of instruction. A ballot against Miss Luella Bailey, the competent and cultivated lady whose name adds strength and distinction to our ticket, and who has been needlessly and wantonly opposed by those who should be her proud friends, will signify a willingness to renounce one of our most precious liberties—the free man's right to choose those who are to impart to his children mastery of knowledge and love of country. I take my stand to-night as the resolute enemy of this aristocratic and un-American suggestion, and urge you, on the eve of election, to devote your energies to overwhelming beneath the shower of your fearless ballots this insult to the intelligence of the voters of Benham, and this menace to our free and successful institutions, which, under the guidance of the God of our fathers, we purpose to keep perpetually progressive and undefiled."
A salvo of enthusiasm greeted Mr. Lyons as he concluded. His speeches were apt to cause those whom he addressed to feel that they were no common campaign utterances, but eloquent expressions of principle and conviction, clothed in memorable language, as, indeed, they were. He was fond of giving a moral or patriotic flavor to what he said in public, for he entertained both a profound reverence for high moral ideas and an abiding faith in the superiority of everything American. He had arrayed himself on the threshold of his legal career as a friend and champion of the mass of the people—the plain and sovereign people, as he was apt to style them in public. His first and considerable successes had been as the counsel for plaintiffs before juries in accident cases against large corporations, and he had thought of himself with complete sincerity as a plain man, contesting for human rights before the bar of justice, by the sheer might of his sonorous voice and diligent brain. His political development had been on the same side. Latterly the situation had become a little puzzling, though to a man of straightforward intentions, like himself, not fundamentally embarrassing. That is, the last four or five years had altered both the character of his practice and his circumstances, so that instead of fighting corporations he was now the close adviser of a score of them; not the defender of their accident cases, but the confidential attorney who was consulted in regard to their vital interests, and who charged them liberal sums for his services. He still figured in court from time to time in his capacity of the plain man's friend, which he still considered himself to be no less than before, but most of his time was devoted to protecting the legal interests of the railroad, gas, water, manufacturing, mining and other undertakings which, the rapid growth of Benham had forgotten. And as a result of this commerce with the leading men of affairs in Benham, and knowledge of what was going on, he had been able to invest his large fees to the best advantage, and had already reaped a rich harvest from the rapid rise in value of the securities of diverse successful enterprises. When new projects were under consideration he was in a position to have a finger in the pie, and he was able to borrow freely from a local bank in which he was a director.
He was puzzled—it might be said distressed—how to make these rewards of his professional prominence appear compatible with his real political principles, so that the plain and sovereign people would recognize as clearly as he that there was no inconsistency in his having taken advantage of the opportunities for professional advancement thrown in his way. He was ambitious for political preferment, sharing the growing impression that he was well qualified for public office, and he desired to rise as the champion of popular ideas. Consequently he resented bitterly the calumnies which had appeared in one or two irresponsible newspapers to the effect that he was becoming a corporation attorney and a capitalist. Could a man refuse legitimate business which was thrust upon him? How were his convictions and interest in the cause of struggling humanity altered or affected by his success at the bar? Hence he neglected no occasion to declare his allegiance to progressive doctrine, and to give utterance to the patriotism which at all times was on tap in his emotional system. He had been married, but his wife had been dead a number of years, and he made his home with his aged mother, to whom he was apt to refer with pious tremulousness when he desired to emphasize some domestic situation before a jury. As a staunch member of the Methodist Church, he was on terms of intimate association with his pastor, and was known as a liberal contributor to domestic and foreign missions.
Selma was genuinely carried away by the character of his oratory. His sentiments were so completely in accord with her own ideas that she felt he had left nothing unsaid, and had put the case grandly. Here at last was a man who shared with her the convictions with which her brain was seething—a man who was not afraid to give public expression to his views, and who possessed a splendid gift of statement. She had felt sure that she would meet sympathy and kindred spirits in Benham, but her experience in New York had so far depressed her that she had not allowed herself to expect such a thorough-going champion. What a contrast his solid, devotional, yet business-like aspect was to the quizzical lightness of the men in New York she had been told were clever, like Dr. Page and Mr. Dennison! He possessed Wilbur's ardor and reverence, with a robustness of physique and a practical air which Wilbur had lacked—lacked to his and her detriment. If Wilbur had been as vigorous in body as he ought to have been, would he have died? She had read somewhere lately that physical delicacy was apt to react on the mind and make one's ideas too fine-spun and unsubstantial. Here was the advantage which a man like Mr. Lyons had over Wilbur. He was strong and thickset, and looked as though he could endure hard work without wincing. So could she. It was a great boon, an essential of effective manhood or womanhood. These thoughts followed in the wake of the enthusiasm his personality had aroused in her at the close of his address. She scarcely heard the remarks of the next speaker, the last on the programme. Her eyes kept straying wistfully in the direction of Mr. Lyons, and she wondered if there would be an opportunity when the meeting was over to let him know how much she approved of what he had said, and how necessary she felt the promulgation, of such ideas was for the welfare of the country.
She was aroused from contemplation by the voice of Mrs. Earle, who, now that everybody was standing up preliminary to departure, bent over her front bench on the platform to whisper, "Wasn't Mr. Lyons splendid?"
"Yes, indeed," said Selma. "I should like so much to make his acquaintance, to compare notes with him and thank him for his brave, true words."
"I know he'd be pleased to meet you. I'll try to catch his eye. I wish some of those Reform Club people could have heard what he thought of them. There! He's looking this way. I'm going to attract his attention." Whereupon Mrs. Earle began to nod in his direction energetically. "He sees us now, and has noticed you. I shouldn't wonder if he has recognized you. Follow me close, Selma, and we'll be able to shake hands with him."
By dint of squeezing and stertorous declarations of her desire, Mrs. Earle obtained a gradual passage through the crowd. Many from the audience had ascended to the platform for the purpose of accosting the speakers, and a large share of the interest was being bestowed on Mr. Lyons, who was holding an impromptu reception. When at last Mrs. Earle had worked her way to within a few feet of him, her wheezing condition and bulk announced her approach, and procured her consideration from the others in the line, so that she was able to plant herself pervasively and firmly in front of her idol and take possession of him by the fervid announcement, "You were simply unanswerable. Eloquent, convincing, and unanswerable. And I have brought with me an old friend, Mrs. Littleton, who sympathizes with your superb utterances, and wishes to tell you so."
As Selma stepped forward in recognition of this introduction she vibrated to hear Mr. Lyons say, without a sign of hesitation, "A friend whom it is a pleasure to welcome back to Benham, Mrs. Littleton, I am pleased to meet you again."
Selma had hoped, and felt it her due, that he would recognize her. Still his having done so at once was a compliment which served to enhance the favorable opinion which she had already formed regarding him.
"I have been longing for months, Mr. Lyons," she said, "to hear someone say what you have said to-night. I am concerned, as we all are of course, in Miss Bailey's election, and your advocacy of her cause was most brilliant; but what I refer to—what interested, me especially, was the splendid protest you uttered against all movements to prevent the intelligence of the people from asserting itself. It gave me encouragement and made me feel that the outlook for the future is bright—that our truths must prevail."
It was a maxim with Lyons that it was desirable to remember everyone he met, and he prided himself on his ability to call cordially by name clients or chance acquaintances whom he had not seen for years. Nature had endowed him with a good memory for names and faces, but he had learned to take advantage of all opportunities to brush up his wits before they were called into flattering, spontaneous action. When his glance, attracted by Mrs. Earle's remote gesticulation, rested on Selma's face, he began to ask himself at once where he had seen it before. In the interval vouchsafed by her approach he recalled the incident of the divorce, that her name had been Babcock, and that she had married again, but he was still groping for the name of her husband when the necessary clew was supplied by Mrs. Earle, and he was able to make his recognition of her exhaustive. He noticed with approval her pretty face and compact figure, reflecting that the slight gain in flesh was to her advantage, and noticed also her widow's mourning. But her eager, fluent address and zealous manner had prevented his attention from secretly wandering with business-like foresight to the next persons in the line of those anxious to shake his hand, and led him to regard her a second time. He was accustomed to compliments, but he was struck by the note of discriminating companionship in her congratulation. He believed that he had much at heart the very issue which she had touched upon, and it gratified him that a woman whose appearance was so attractive to him should single out for sympathetic enthusiasm what was in his opinion the cardinal principle involved, instead of expatiating on the assistance he had rendered Miss Bailey. Lyons said to himself that here was a kindred spirit—a woman with whom conversation would be a pleasure; with whom it would be possible to discourse on terms of mental comradeship. He was partial to comely women, but he did not approve of frivolity except on special and guarded occasions.
"I thank you cordially for your appreciation," he answered. "You have grasped the vital kernel of my speech and I am grateful for your good opinion."
Even in addressing the other sex, Lyons could not forget the responsibility of his frock-coat and that it was incumbent upon him to be strictly serious in public. Nevertheless his august but glib demeanor suited Selma's mood better than more obvious gallantry, especially as she got the impression, which he really wished to convey, that he admired her. It was out of the question for him to prolong the situation in the face of those waiting to grasp his hand, but Lyons heard with interest the statement which Mrs. Earle managed to whisper hoarsely in his ear just as he turned to welcome the next comer, and they were swept along:
"She is one of our brightest minds. The poor child has recently lost her husband, and has come to keep Mr. Parsons company in his new house—an ideal arrangement."
The identity of Mr. Parsons was well known to Lyons. He had met him occasionally in the past in other parts of the State in connection with business complications, and regarded him as a practical, intelligent citizen whose name would be of value to an aspirant for Congressional honors. It occurred to him as he shook hands with those next in line and addressed them that it would be eminently suitable if he should pay his respects to this new-comer to Benham by a visit. By so doing he world kill two birds with one stone, for he had reasoned of late that he owed it to himself to see more of the other sex. He had no specific matrimonial intentions; that is, he was not on the lookout for a wife; but he approved of happy unions as one of the great bulwarks of the community, and was well-disposed to encounter a suitable helpmate. He should expect physical charms, dignity, capacity and a sympathetic mind; a woman, in short, who would be an ornament to his home, a Christian influence in society and a companion whose intelligent tact would be likely to promote his political fortunes. And so it happened that in the course of the next few days he found himself thinking of Mrs. Littleton as a fine figure of a woman. This had not happened to him before since the death of his wife, and it made him thoughtful to the extent of asking "Why not?" For in spite of his long frock-coat and proper demeanor, passion was not extinct in the bosom of the Hon. James O. Lyons, and he was capable on special and guarded occasions of telling a woman that he loved her.
CHAPTER III.
Miss Luella Bailey was not elected. The unenlightened prejudice of man to prefer one of his own sex, combined with the hostility of the Reform Club, procured her defeat, notwithstanding that the rest of her ticket triumphed at the polls. There was some consolation for her friends in the fact that her rival, Miss Snow, had a considerably smaller number of votes than she. Selma solaced herself by the reflection that, as she had been consulted only at the twelfth hour, she was not responsible for the result, but she felt nerved by the defeat to concentrate her energies against the proposed bill for an appointed school board.
Her immediate attention and sympathy were suddenly invoked by the illness of Mr. Parsons, who had seemed lacking in physical vigor for some weeks, and whose symptoms culminated in a slight paralysis, which confined him to his bed for a month, and to his house during the remainder of the autumn. Selma rejoiced in this opportunity to develop her capacities as a nurse, to prove how adequate she would have been to take complete charge of her late husband, had Dr. Page chosen to trust her. She administered with scrupulous regularity to the invalid such medicines as were ordered, and kept him cheerful by reading and conversation, so that the physician in charge complimented her on her proficiency. Trained nurses were unknown in Benham at this time, and any old or unoccupied female was regarded as qualified to watch over the sick. Selma appreciated from what she had observed of the conduct of Wilbur's nurse that there was a wrong and a right way of doing things, but she blamed Dr. Page for his failure to appreciate instinctively that she was sure to do things suitably. It seemed to her that he had lacked the intuitive gift to discern latent capabilities—a fault of which the Benham practitioner proved blameless.
From the large, sunny chamber in which Mr. Parsons slowly recovered some portion of his vitality, Selma could discern the distant beginnings of Wetmore College, pleasantly situated on an elevation well beyond the city limits on the further side of the winding river. An architect had been engaged to carry out Wilbur's plans, and she watched the outlines of the new building gradually take shape during the convalescence of her benefactor. She recognized that the college would be theoretically a noble addition to the standing of Benham as a city of intellectual and æsthetic interests, but it provoked her to think that its management was in the hands of Mrs. Hallett Taylor and her friends, between whom and herself she felt that a chasm of irreconcilable differences of opinion existed. Mrs. Taylor had not called on her since her return. She believed that she was glad of this, and hoped that some of the severely indignant criticism which she had uttered in regard to the Reform Club movement had reached her ears. Or was Mrs. Taylor envious of her return to Benham as the true mistress of this fine establishment on the River Drive, so superior to her own? Nevertheless, it would have suited Selma to have been one of the trustees of this new college—her husband's handiwork in the doing of which he had laid down his promising life—and the fact that no one had sought her out and offered her the honor as a fitting recognition of her due was secretly mortifying. The Benham Institute had been prompt to acknowledge her presence by giving a reception in her honor, at which she was able to recite once more, "Oh, why should the Spirit of Mortal be proud?" with old-time success, and she had been informed by Mrs. Earle that she was likely to be chosen one of the Vice-Presidents at the annual meeting. But these Reform Club people had not even done her the courtesy to ask her to join them or consider their opinions. She would have spurned the invitation with contempt, but it piqued her not to know more about them; it distressed her to think that there should exist in Benham an exclusive set which professed to be ethically and intellectually superior and did not include her, for she had come to Benham with the intention of leading such a movement, to the detriment of fashion and frivolity. With Mr. Parsons's money at her back, she was serenely confident that the houses of the magnates of Benham—the people who corresponded in her mind's eye to the dwellers on Fifth Avenue—would open to her. Already there had been flattering indications that she would be able to command attention there. She had expected to find this so; her heart would have been broken to find it otherwise. Still, her hope in shaking the dust of New York from her feet had been to find in Benham an equally admirable and satisfactory atmosphere in regard to mental and moral progress. She had come just in time, it is true, to utter her vehement protest against this exclusive, aristocratic movement—this arrogant affectation of superiority, and to array herself in battle line against it, resolved to give herself up with enthusiasm to its annihilation. Yet the sight of the college buildings for the higher education of women, rising without her furtherance and supervision, and under the direction of these people, made her sad and gave her a feeling of disappointment. Why had they been permitted to obtain this foothold? Someone had been lacking in vigilance and foresight. Thank heaven, with her return and a strong, popular spirit like Mr. Lyons in the lead, these unsympathetic, so-called reformers would speedily be confounded, and the intellectual air of Benham restored to its original purity.
One afternoon while Selma's gaze happened to be directed toward the embryo college walls, and she was incubating on the situation, Mr. Parsons, who had seemed to be dozing, suddenly said:
"I should like you to write to Mr. Lyons, the lawyer, and ask him to come to see me."
"I will write to-night. You know he called while you were ill."
"Yes, I thought him a clever fellow when we met two or three times on railroad matters, and I gather from what you told me about his speech at the political meeting that he's a rising man hereabouts. I'm going to make my will, and I need him to put it into proper shape."
"I'm sure he'd do it correctly."
"There's not much for him to do except to make sure that the language is legal, for I've thought it all out while I've been lying here during these weeks. Still, it's important to have in a lawyer to fix it so the people whom I don't intend to get my money shan't be able to make out that I'm not in my right mind. I guess," he added, with a laugh, "that the doctor will allow I've my wits sufficiently for that?"
"Surely. You are practically well now."
Mr. Parsons was silent for a moment. He prided himself on being close-mouthed about his private affairs until they were ripe for utterance. His intention had been to defer until after the interview with his lawyer any statement of his purpose, but it suddenly occurred to him that it would please him to unbosom his secret to his companion because he felt sure in advance that she would sympathize fully with his plans. He had meant to tell her when the instrument was signed. Why not now?
"Selma," he said, "I've known ever since my wife and daughter died that I ought to make a will, but I kept putting it off until it has almost happened that everything I've got went to my next of kin—folk I'm fond of, too, and mean to remember—but not fond enough for that. If I give them fifty thousand dollars apiece—the three of them—I shall rest easy in my grave, even if they think they ought to have had a bigger slice. It's hard on a man who has worked all his days, and laid up close to a million of dollars, not to have a son or a daughter, flesh of my flesh, to leave it to; a boy or a girl given at the start the education I didn't get, and who, by the help of my money, might make me proud, if I could look on, of my name or my blood. It wasn't to be, and I must grin and bear it, and do the next best thing. I caught a glimpse of what that thing was soon after I lost my wife and daughter, and it was the thought of that more than anything which kept me from going crazy with despair. I'm a plain man, an uneducated man, but the fortune I've made has been made honestly, and I'm going to spend it for the good of the American people—to contribute my mite toward helping the cause of truth and good citizenship and free and independent ideas which this nation calls for. I'm going to give my money for benevolent uses."
"Oh, Mr. Parsons," exclaimed Selma, clasping her hands, "how splendid! how glorious! How I envy you. It was what I hoped."
"I knew you would be pleased. I've had half a mind once or twice to let the cat out of the bag, because I guessed it would be the sort of thing that would take your fancy; but somehow I've kept mum, for fear I might be taken before I'd been able to make a will. And then, too, I've been of several minds as to the form of my gift. I thought it would suit me best of all to found a college, and I was disappointed when I learned that neighbor Flagg had got the start of me with his seminary for women across the river. I wasn't happy over it until one night, just after the doctor had gone, the thought came to me, 'Why, not give a hospital?' And that's what it's to be. Five hundred thousand dollars for a free hospital in the City of Benham, in memory of my wife and daughter. That'll be useful, won't it? That'll help the people as much as a college? And, Selma," he added, cutting off the assuring answer which trembled on her tongue and blazed from her eyes, "I shan't forget you. After I'm gone you are to have twenty thousand dollars. That'll enable you, in case you don't marry, to keep a roof over your head without working too hard."
"Thank you. You are very generous," she said. The announcement was pleasant to her, but at the moment it seemed of secondary importance. Her enthusiasm had been aroused by the fact and character of his public donation, and already her brain was dancing with the thought of the prospect of a rival vital institution in connection with which her views and her talents would in all probability be consulted and allowed to exercise themselves. Her's, and not Mrs. Taylor's, or any of that censorious and restricting set. In that hospital, at least, ambition and originality would be allowed to show what they could do unfettered by envy or paralyzed by conservatism. "But I can't think of anything now, Mr. Parsons, except the grand secret you have confided to me. A hospital! It is an ideal gift. It will show the world what noble uses our rich, earnest-minded men make of their money, and it will give our doctors and our people a chance to demonstrate what a free hospital ought to be. Oh, I congratulate you. I will write to Mr. Lyons at once."
A note in prompt response stated the hour when the lawyer would call. On his arrival he was shown immediately to Mr. Parsons's apartments, with whom he was closeted alone. Selma managed to cross the hall at the moment he was descending, and he was easily persuaded to linger and to follow her into the library.
"I was anxious to say a few words to you, Mr. Lyons," she said. "I know the purpose for which Mr. Parsons sent for you. He has confided to me concerning his will—told me everything. It is a noble disposition of his property. A free hospital for Benham is an ideal selection, and one envies him his opportunity."
"Yes. It is a superb and generous benefaction."
"I lay awake for hours last night thinking about it; thinking particularly of the special point I am desirous to consult you in regard to. I don't wish to appear officious, or to say anything I shouldn't, but knowing from what I heard you state in your speech the other day that you feel as I do in regard to such matters, I take the liberty of suggesting that it seems to me of very great importance that the management of this magnificent gift should be in proper hands. May I ask you without impropriety if you will protect Mr. Parsons so that captious or unenthusiastic persons, men or women, will be unable to control the policy of his hospital? He would wish it so, I am sure. I thought of mentioning the matter to him myself, but I was afraid lest it might worry him and spoil the satisfaction of his generosity or retard his cure. Is what I ask possible? Do I make myself clear?"
"Perfectly—perfectly. A valuable suggestion," he said. "I am glad that you have spoken—very glad. Alive as I am to the importance of protecting ourselves at all points, I might not have realized this particular danger had you not called it to my attention. Perhaps only a clever woman would have thought of it."
"Oh, thank you. I felt that I could not keep silence, and run the risk of what might happen."
"Precisely. I think I can relieve your mind by telling you—which under the circumstances is no breach of professional secrecy, for it is plain that the testator desires you to know his purpose—that Mr. Parsons has done me the honor to request me to act as the executor of his will. As such I shall be in a position to make sure that those to whom the management of his hospital is intrusted are people in whom you and I would have confidence."
"Ah! That is very satisfactory. It makes everything as it should be, and I am immensely relieved."
"Now that you have spoken," he added, meeting her eager gaze with a propitiating look of reflective wisdom, "I will consider the advisability of taking the further precaution of advising the testator to name in his will the persons who shall act as the trustees of his charity. That would clinch the matter. The selection of the individuals would necessarily lie with Mr. Parsons, but it would seem eminently natural and fitting that he should name you to represent your sex on such a board. I hope it would be agreeable to you to serve?"
Selma flushed. "It would be a position which I should prize immensely. Such a possibility had not occurred to me, though I felt that some definite provision should be made. The responsibility would be congenial to me and very much in my line."
"Assuredly. If you will permit me to say so, you are just the woman for the place. We have met only a few times, Mrs. Littleton, but I am a man who forms my conclusions of people rapidly, and it is obvious to me that you are thoughtful, energetic, and liberal-minded—qualities which are especially requisite for intelligent progress in semi-public work. It is essentially desirable to enlist the co-operation of well-equipped women to promote the national weal."
Lyons departed with an agreeable impression that he had been talking to a woman who combined mental sagacity and enterprise with considerable fascination of person. This capable companion of Mr. Parsons was no coquettish or simpering beauty, no mere devotee of fashionable manners, but a mature, well-poised character endowed with ripe intellectual and bodily graces. Their interview suggested that she possessed initiative and discretion in directing the course of events, and a strong sense of moral responsibility, attributes which attracted his interest. He was obliged to make two more visits before the execution of the will, and on each occasion he had an opportunity to spend a half-hour alone in the society of Selma. He found her gravely and engagingly sympathetic with his advocacy of democratic principles; he told her of his ambition to be elected to Congress—an ambition which he believed would be realized the following autumn. He confided to her, also, that he was engaged in his leisure moments in the preparation of a literary volume to be entitled, "Watchwords of Patriotism," a study of the requisites of the best citizenship, exemplified by pertinent extracts from the public utterances of the most distinguished American public servants.
Selma on her part reciprocated by a reference to the course of lectures on "Culture and Higher Education," which she had resolved to deliver before the Benham Institute during the winter. In these lectures she meant to emphasize the importance of unfettered individuality, and to comment adversely on the tendencies hostile to this fundamental principle of progress which she had observed in New York and from which Benham itself did not appear to her to be entirely exempt. After delivering these lectures in Benham she intended to repeat them in various parts of the State, and in some of the large cities elsewhere, under the auspices of the Confederated Sisterhood of Women's Clubs of America, the Sorosis which Mrs. Earle had established on a firm basis, and of which at present she was second vice-president. As a token of sympathy with this undertaking, Mr. Lyons offered to procure her a free pass on the railroads over which she would be obliged to travel. This pleased Selma greatly, for she had always regarded free passes as a sign of mysterious and enviable importance.
Two months later Selma, as secretary of the sub-committee of the Institute selected to oppose before the legislature the bill to create an appointed school board, had further occasion to confer with Mr. Lyons. He agreed to be the active counsel, and approved of the plan that a delegation of women should journey to the capital, two hours and a half by rail, and add the moral support of their presence at the hearing before the legislative committee.
The expedition was another gratification to Selma—who had become possessed of her free pass. She felt that in visiting the state-house and thus taking an active part in the work of legislation she was beginning to fulfil the larger destiny for which she was qualified. Side by side with Mrs. Earle at the head of a delegation of twenty Benham women she marched augustly into the committee chamber. The contending factions sat on opposite sides of the room. Through its middle ran a long table occupied by the Committee on Education to which the bill had been referred. Among the dozen or fifteen persons who appeared in support of the bill Selma perceived Mrs. Hallett Taylor, whom she had not seen since her return. She was disappointed to observe that Mrs. Taylor's clothes, though unostentatious, were in the latest fashion. She had hoped to find her dowdy or unenlightened, and to be able to look down on her from the heights of her own New York experience.
The lawyer in charge of the bill presented lucidly and with skill the merits of his case, calling to the stand four prominent educators from as many different sections of the State, and several citizens of well-known character, among them Babcock's former pastor, Rev. Henry Glynn. He pointed out that the school committee, as at present constituted, was an unwieldy body of twenty-four members, that it was regarded as the first round in the ladder of political preferment, and that the members which composed it were elected not on the ground of their fitness, but because they were ambitious for political recognition.
The legislative committee listened politely but coldly to these statements and to the testimony of the witnesses. It was evident that they regarded the proposed reform with distrust.
"Do you mean us to understand that the public schools of this State are not among the best, if not the best, in the world?" asked one member of the committee, somewhat sternly.
"I recognize the merits of our school system, but I am not blind to its faults," responded the attorney in charge of the bill. He was a man who possessed the courage of his convictions, but he was a lawyer of tact, and he knew that his answer went to the full limit of what he could safely utter by way of qualification without hopelessly imperilling his cause.
"Are not our public schools turning out yearly hundreds of boys and girls who are a growing credit to the soundness of the institutions of the country?" continued the same inquisitor.
Here was a proposition which opened such a vista of circuitous and careful speech, were he to attempt to answer it and be true to conscience without being false to patriotism, that Mr. Hunter was driven to reply, "I am unable to deny the general accuracy of your statement."
"Then why seek to harass those who are doing such good work by unfriendly legislation?"
The member plainly felt that he had disposed of the matter by this triumphant interrogation, for he listened with scant attention to a repetition of the grounds on which, relief was sought.
Mr. Lyons's method of reply was a surprise to Selma. She had looked for a fervid vindication of the principle of the people's choice, and an eloquent, sarcastic setting forth of the evils of the exclusive and aristocratic spirit. He began by complimenting the members of the committee on their ability to deal intelligently with the important question before them, and then proceeded to refer to the sincere but mistaken zeal of the advocates of the bill, whom he described as people animated by conscientious motives, but unduly distrustful of the capacity of the American people. His manner suggested a desire to be at peace with all the world and was agreeably conciliatory, as though he deprecated the existence of friction. He said that he would not do the members of the committee the injustice to suppose that they could seriously favor the passage of a bill which would deprive the intelligent average voter of one of his dearest privileges; but that he desired to put himself on record as thinking it a fortunate circumstance, on the whole, that the well-intentioned promoters of the bill had brought this matter to the attention of the legislature, and had an opportunity to express their views. He believed that the hearing would be productive of benefit to both parties, in that on the one hand it would tend to make the voters more careful as to whom they selected for the important duties of the school board, and on the other would—he, as a lover of democratic institutions, hoped—serve to convince the friends of the bill that they had exaggerated the evils of the situation, and that they were engaged in a false and hopeless undertaking in seeking to confine by hard and fast lines the spontaneous yearnings of the American people to control the education of their children. "We say to these critics," he continued, "some of whom are enrolled under the solemn name of reformers, that we welcome their zeal and offer co-operation in a resolute purpose to exercise unswerving vigilance in the selection of candidates for the high office of guardians of our public schools. So far as they will join hands with us in keeping undefiled the traditions of our forefathers, to that extent we are heartily in accord with them, but when they seek to override those traditions and to fasten upon this community a method which is based on a lack of confidence in democratic theories, then I—and gentlemen, I feel sure that you—are against them."
Lyons sat down, having given everyone in the room, with the exception of a few discerning spirits on the other side, the impression that he had intended to be pre-eminently fair, and that he had held out the olive branch when he would have been justified in using the scourge. The inclination to make friends, to smooth over seamy situations and to avoid repellent language in dealing with adversaries, except in corporation cases before juries and on special occasions when defending his political convictions, had become a growing tendency with him now that he was in training for public office. Selma did not quite know what to make of it at first. She had expected that he would crush their opponents beneath an avalanche of righteous invective. Instead he took his seat with an expression of countenance which was no less benignant than dignified. When the hearing was declared closed, a few minutes later, he looked in her direction, and in the course of his passage to where she was sitting stopped to exchange affable greetings with assemblymen and others who came in his way. At his approach Mrs. Earle uttered congratulations so comprehensive that Selma felt able to refrain for the moment from committing herself. "I am glad that you were pleased," he said. "I think I covered the ground, and no one's feelings have been hurt." As though he divined what was passing through Selma's mind, he added in an aside intended only for their ears, "It was not necessary to use all our powder, for I could tell from the way the committee acted that they were with us."
"I felt sure they would be," exclaimed Mrs. Earle. "And, as you say, it is a pleasure that no one's feelings were hurt, and that we can all part friends."
"Which reminds me," said Lyons, "that I should be glad of an introduction to Mrs. Taylor as she passes us on her way out. I wish to assure her personally of my willingness to further her efforts to improve the quality of the school board."
"That would be nice of you," said Mrs. Earle, "and ought to please and encourage her, for she will be disappointed, poor thing, and after all I suppose she means well. There she is now, and I will keep my eye on her."
"But surely, Mr. Lyons," said Selma, dazed yet interested by this doctrine of brotherly love, "don't you think our school committee admirable as it is?"
"A highly efficient body," he answered. "But I should be glad to have our opponents—mistaken as we believe them to be—appreciate that we no less than they are zealous to preserve the present high standard. We must make them recognize that we are reformers and in sympathy with reform."
"I see," said Selma. "For, of course, we are the real reformers. Convert them you mean? Be civil to them at least? I understand. Yes, I suppose there is no use in making enemies of them." She was thinking aloud. Though ever on her guard to resent false doctrine, she was so sure of the loyalty of both her companions that she could allow herself to be interested by this new point of view—a vast improvement on the New York manner because of its ethical suggestion. She realized that if Mr. Lyons was certain of the committee, it was right, and at the same time sensible, not to hurt anyone's feelings unnecessarily—although she felt a little suspicious because he had asked to be introduced to Mrs. Taylor. Indeed, the more she thought of this attitude, on the assumption that the victory was assured, the more it appealed to her conscience and intelligence; so much so that when Mrs. Earle darted forward to detain Mrs. Taylor, Selma was reflecting with admiration on his magnanimity.
She observed intently the meeting between Mr. Lyons and Mrs. Taylor. He was deferential, complimentary, and genial, and he made a suave, impressive offer of his personal services, in response to which Mrs. Taylor regarded him with smiling incredulity—a smile which Selma considered impertinent. How dared she treat his courtly advances with flippant distrust!
"Are you aware, Mr. Lyons," Mrs. Taylor was saying, "that one of the present members of the school board is a milkman, and another a carpenter—both of them persons of very ordinary efficiency from an educational standpoint? Will you co-operate with us, when their terms expire next year and they seek re-election, to nominate more suitable candidates in their stead?"
"I shall be very glad when the time comes to investigate carefully their qualifications, and if they are proved to be unworthy of the confidence of the people, to use my influence against them. You may rely on this—rely on my cordial support, and the support of these ladies," he added, indicating Mrs. Earle and Selma, with a wave of his hand, "who, if you will permit me to say so, are no less interested than you in promoting good government."
"Oh, yes, indeed. We thought we were making an ideal choice in Miss Luella Bailey," said Mrs. Earle with effusion. "If Mrs. Taylor had seen more of her, I feel sure she would have admired her, and then our Institute would not have been dragged into politics."
Mrs. Taylor did not attempt to answer this appeal. Instead she greeted Selma civilly, and said, "I was sorry to hear that you were against us, Mrs. Littleton. We were allies once in a good cause, and in spite of Mr. Lyons's protestations to the contrary, I assure you that this is another genuine opportunity to improve the existing order of things. At least," she added, gayly but firmly, "you must not let Mr. Lyons's predilection to see everything through rose-colored spectacles prevent you from looking into the matter on your own account."
"I have done so already," answered Selma, affronted at the suggestion that she was uninformed, yet restrained from displaying her annoyance by the sudden inspiration that here was an admirable opportunity to practise the proselytizing forbearance suggested by Mr. Lyons. The idea of patronizing Mrs. Taylor from the vantage-ground of infallibility, tinctured by magnanimous condescension, appealed to her. "I have made a thorough study of the question, and I never could look at it as you do, Mrs. Taylor. I sided with you before because I thought you were right—because you were in favor of giving everyone a chance of expression. But now I'm on the other side for the same reason—because you and your friends are disposed to deprive people of that very thing, and to regard their aspirations and their efforts contemptuously, if I may say so. That's the mistake we think you make—we who, as Mr. Lyons has stated, are no less eager than you to maintain the present high character of everything which concerns our school system. But if you only would see things in a little different light, both Mrs. Earle and I would be glad to welcome you as an ally and to co-operate with you."
Selma had not expected to make such a lengthy speech, but as she proceeded she was spurred by the desire to teach Mrs. Taylor her proper place, and at the same time to proclaim her own allegiance to the attitude of optimistic forbearance.
"I knew that was the way they felt," said Lyons, ingratiatingly. "It would be a genuine pleasure to us all to see this unfortunate difference of opinion between earnest people obviated."
Mrs. Taylor, as Selma was pleased to note, flushed at her concluding offer, and she answered, drily, "I fear that we are too far apart in our ideas to talk of co-operation. If our bill is defeated this year, we shall have to persevere and trust to the gradual enlightenment of public sentiment. Good afternoon."
Selma left the State-house in an elated frame of mind. She felt that she had taken a righteous and patriotic stand, and it pleased her to think that she was taking an active part in defending the institutions of the country. She chatted eagerly as she walked through the corridors with Mr. Lyons, who, portly and imposing, acted as escort to her and Mrs. Earle, and invited them to luncheon at a hotel restaurant. Excitement had given her more color than usual, to which her mourning acted as a foil, and she looked her best. Lyons was proud of being in the company of such a presentable and spirited appearing woman, and made a point of stopping two or three members of the legislature and introducing them to her. When they reached the restaurant he established them at a table where they could see everybody and be seen, and he ordered scolloped oysters, chicken-salad, ice-cream, coffee, and some bottles of sarsaparilla. Both women were in high spirits, and Selma was agreeably conscious that people were observing them. Before the repast was over a messenger brought a note to Mr. Lyons, which announced that the legislative committee had given the petitioners leave to withdraw their bill, which, in Selma's eyes, justified the management of the affair, and set the seal of complete success on an already absorbing and delightful occasion.
CHAPTER IV.
Her mourning and the slow convalescence of Mr. Parsons deprived Selma of convincing evidence in regard to her social reception in Benham, for those socially prominent were thus barred from inviting her to their houses, and her own activities were correspondingly fettered. Indeed, her circumstances supplied her with an obvious salve for her proper dignity had she been disposed to let suspicion lie fallow. As it was a number of people had left cards and sent invitations notwithstanding they could not be accepted, and she might readily have believed, had she chosen—and as she professed openly to Mr. Parsons—that everyone had been uncommonly civil and appreciative.
She found herself, however, in spite of her declared devotion to her serious duties, noting that the recognition accorded to Mr. Parsons and herself was not precisely of the character she craved. The visiting-cards and invitations were from people residing on the River Drive and in that neighborhood, indeed—but from people like the Flaggs, for instance, who, having acquired large wealth and erected lordly dwellings, were eager to dispense good-natured, lavish hospitality without social experience. Her sensitive ordeal in New York had quickened her social perceptions, so that whereas at the time of her departure from Benham as Mrs. Littleton she regarded her present neighborhood as an integral class, she was now prompt to separate the sheep from the goats, and to remark that only the goats seemed conscious of her existence. With the exception of Mrs. Taylor, who had called when she was out, not one of a certain set, the outward manifestations of whose stately being were constantly passing her windows, appeared to take the slightest interest in her. Strictly speaking, Mrs. Taylor was of this set, yet apart from it. Hers was the exclusive intellectual and æsthetic set, this the exclusive fashionable set—both alike execrable and foreign to the traditions of Benham. As Selma had discovered the one and declared war against it, so she promised herself to confound the other when the period of her mourning was over, and she was free to appear again in society. Once more she congratulated herself that she had come in time to nip in the bud this other off-shoot of aristocratic tendencies. As yet either set was small in number, and she foresaw that it would be an easy task to unite in a solid phalanx of offensive-defensive influence the friendly souls whom these people treated as outsiders, and purge the society atmosphere of the miasma of exclusiveness. In connection with the means to this end, when the winter slipped away and left her feeling that she had been ignored, and that she was eager to assume a commanding position, she began to take more than passing thought of the attentions of Mr. Lyons. That he was interested by her there could be no doubt, for he plainly went out of his way to seek her society, calling at the house from time to time, and exercising a useful, nattering superintendence over her lecture course in the other cities of the State, in each of which he appeared to have friends on the newspaper press who put agreeable notices in print concerning her performance. She had returned to Benham believing that her married life was over; that her heart was in the grave with Wilbur, and that she would never again part with her independence. The notice which Mr. Lyons had taken of her from the outset had gratified her, but though she contrasted his physical energy with Wilbur's lack of vigor, it had not occurred to her to consider him in the light of a possible husband. Now that a year had passed since Wilbur's death, she felt conscious once more, as had happened after her divorce, of the need of a closer and more individual sympathy than any at her command. Her relations with Mr. Parsons, to be sure, approximated those of father and daughter, but his perceptions were much less acute than before his seizure; he talked little and ceased to take a vital interest in current affairs. She felt the lack of companionship and, also, of personal devotion, such personal devotion as was afforded by the strenuous, ardent allegiance of a man. On the other hand she was firmly resolved never to allow the current of her own life to be turned away again by the subordination of her purposes to those of any other person, and she had believed that this resolution would keep her indifferent to marriage, in spite of any sensations of loneliness or craving for masculine idolatry. But as a widow of a year's standing she was now suddenly interested by the thought that this solid, ambitious, smooth-talking man might possibly satisfy her natural preference for a mate without violating her individuality. She began to ask herself if he were not truly congenial in a sense which no man had ever been to her before; also, to ask if their aspirations and aims were not so nearly identical that he would be certain as her husband to be proud of everything she did and said, and to allow her to work hand in hand with him for the furtherance of their common purpose. She did not put these questions to herself until his conduct suggested that he was seeking her society as a suitor; but having put them, she was pleased to find her heart throb with the hope of a stimulating and dear discovery.
Certain causes contributed to convince her that this hope rested on a sure foundation—causes associated with her present life and point of view. She felt confident first of all of the godliness of Mr. Lyons as indicated not only by his sober, successful life, and his enthusiastic, benignant patriotism, but by his active, reverent interest in the affairs of his church—the Methodist Church—to which Mr. Parsons belonged, and which Selma had begun to attend since her return to Benham. It had been her mother's faith, and she had felt a certain filial glow in approaching it, which had been fanned into pious flame by the effect of the ministration. The fervent hymns and the opportunities for bearing testimony at some of the services appealed to her needs and gave her a sense of oneness with eternal truth, which had hitherto been lacking from her religious experience. In judging Wilbur she was disposed to ascribe the defects of his character largely to the coldness and analyzing sobriety of his creed. She had accompanied him to church listlessly, and had been bored by the unemotional appeals to conscience and quiet subjective designations of duty. She preferred to thrill with the intensity of words which now roundly rated sin, now passionately called to mind the ransom of the Saviour, and ever kept prominent the stirring mission of evangelizing ignorant foreign people. It appeared probable to Selma that, as the wife of one of the leading church-members, who was the chairman of the local committee charged with spreading the gospel abroad, her capacity for doing good would be strengthened, and the spiritual availability of them both be enhanced.
Then, too, Mr. Lyons's political prospects were flattering. The thought that a marriage with him would put her in a position to control the social tendencies of Benham was alluring. As the wife of Hon. James O. Lyons, Member of Congress, she believed that she would be able to look down on and confound those who had given her the cold shoulder. What would Flossy say when she heard it? What would Pauline? This was a form of distinction which would put her beyond the reach of conspiracy and exclusiveness; for, as the wife of a representative, selected by the people to guard their interests and make their laws, would not her social position be unassailable? And apart from these considerations, a political future seemed to her peculiarly attractive. Was not this the real opportunity for which she had been waiting? Would she be justified in giving it up? In what better way could her talents be spent than as the helpmate and intellectual companion of a public man—a statesman devoted to the protection and development of American ideas? Her own individuality need not, would not be repressed. She had seen enough of Mr. Lyons to feel sure that their views on the great questions of life were thoroughly in harmony. They held the same religious opinions. Who could foretell the limit of their joint progress? He was still a young man—strong, dignified, and patriotic—endowed with qualities which fitted him for public service. It might well be that a brilliant future was before him—before them, if she were his wife. If he were to become prominent in the councils of the nation—Speaker of the House—Governor—even President, within the bounds of possibility, what a splendid congenial scope his honors would afford her own versatility! As day by day she dwelt on these points of recommendation, Selma became more and more disposed to smile on the aspirations of Mr. Lyons in regard to herself, and to feel that her life would develop to the best advantage by a union with him. Until the words asking her to be his wife were definitely spoken she could not be positive of his intentions, but his conduct left little room for doubt, and moreover, was marked by a deferential soberness of purpose which indicated to her that his views regarding marriage were on a higher plane than those of any man she had known. He referred frequently to the home as the foundation on which American civilization rested, and from which its inspiration was largely derived, and spoke feelingly of the value to a public man of a stimulating and dignifying fireside. It became his habit to join her after morning service and to accompany her home, carrying her hymn-books, and he sent her from time to time, through the post, quotations which had especially struck his fancy from the speeches he was collecting for his "Watchwords of Patriotism."
Another six months passed, and at its close Lyons received the expected nomination for Congress. The election promised to be close and exciting. Both parties were confident of victory, and were preparing vigorously to keep their adherents at fever pitch by rallies and torch-light processions. Although the result of the caucus was not doubtful, it was understood between Lyons and Selma that he would call at the house that evening to let her know that he had been successful. She was waiting to receive him in the library. Mr. Parsons had gone to bed. His condition was not promising. He had recently suffered another slight attack of paralysis, which seemed to indicate that he was liable at any time to a fatal seizure.
Lyons entered smilingly. "So far so good," he exclaimed.
"Then you have won?"
"Oh, yes. As I told you, it was a foregone conclusion. Now the fight begins."
Selma, who had provided a slight refection, handed him a cup of tea. "I feel sure that you will be chosen," she said. "See if I am not right. When is the election?"
"In six weeks. Six weeks from to-morrow."
"Then you will go to Washington to live?"
"Not until the fourth of March."
"I envy you. If I were a man I should prefer success in politics to anything else."
He was silent for a moment. Then he said, "Will you help me to achieve success? Will you go with me to Washington as my wife?"
His courtship had been formal and elaborate, but his declaration was signally simple and to the point. Selma noticed that the cup in his hand trembled. While she kept her eyes lowered, as women are supposed to do at such moments, she was wondering whether she loved him as much as she had loved Wilbur? Not so ardently, but more worthily, she concluded, for he seemed to her to fulfil her maturer ideal of strong and effective manhood, and to satisfy alike her self-respect and her physical fancy. A man of his type would not split hairs, but proceed straight toward the goal of his ambition without fainting or wavering. Why should she not satisfy her renewed craving to be yoked to a kindred spirit and companion who appreciated her true worth?
"I cannot believe," he was saying, "that my words are a surprise to you. You can scarcely have failed to understand that I admired you extremely. I have delayed to utter my desire to make you my wife because I did not dare to cherish too fondly the hope that the love inspired in me could be reciprocated, and that you would consent to unite your life to mine and trust your happiness to my keeping. If I may say so, we are no boy and girl. We understand the solemn significance of marriage; what it imports and what it demands. Of late I have ventured to dream that the sympathy in ideas and identity of purpose which exist between us might be the trustworthy sign of a spiritual bond which we could not afford to ignore. I feel that without you the joy and power of my life will be incomplete. With you at my side I shall aspire to great things. You are to me the embodiment of what is charming and serviceable in woman."
Selma looked up. "I like you very much, Mr. Lyons. You, in your turn, must have realized that, I think. As you say, we are no boy and girl. You meant by that, too, that we both have been married before. I have had two husbands, and I did not believe that I could ever think of marriage again. I don't wish you to suppose that my last marriage was not happy. Mr. Littleton was an earnest, talented man, and devoted to me. Yet I cannot deny that in spite of mutual love our married life was not a success—a success as a contribution to accomplishment. That nearly broke my heart, and he—he died from lack of the physical and mental vigor which would have made so much difference. I am telling you this because I wish you to realize that if I should consent to comply with your wishes, it would be because I was convinced that true accomplishment—the highest accomplishment—would result from the union of our lives as the result of our riper experience. If I did not believe, Mr. Lyons, that man and woman as we are—no longer boy and girl—a more perfect scheme of happiness, a grander conception of the meaning of life than either of us had entertained was before us, I would not consider your offer for one moment."
"Yes, yes, I understand," Lyons exclaimed eagerly. "I share your belief implicitly. It was what I would have said only—"
Despite his facility as an orator, Lyons left this sentence incomplete in face of the ticklish difficulty of explaining that he had refrained from suggesting such a hope to a widow who had lost her husband only two years before. Yet he hastened to bridge over this ellipsis by saying, "Without such a faith a union between us must fall short of its sweetest and grandest opportunities."
"It would be a mockery; there would be no excuse for its existence," cried Selma impetuously. "I am an idealist, Mr. Lyons," she said clasping her hands. "I believe devotedly in the mission and power of love. But I believe that our conception of love changes as we grow. I welcomed love formerly as an intoxicating, delirious potion, and as such it was very sweet. You have just told me of your own feelings toward me, so it is your right to know that lately I have begun to realize that my association with you has brought peace into my life—peace and religious faith—essentials of happiness of which I have not known the blessings since I was a child. You have dedicated yourself to a lofty work; you have chosen the noble career of a statesman—a statesman zealous to promote principles in which we both believe. And you ask me to share with you the labors and the privileges which will result from this dedication. If I accept your offer, it must be because I know that I love you—love you in a sense I have not loved before—may the dead pardon me! If I accept you it will be because I wish to perpetuate that faith and peace, and because I believe that our joint lives will realize worthy accomplishment." Selma looked into space with her wrapt gaze, apparently engaged in an intense mental struggle.
"And you will accept? You do feel that you can return my love? I cannot tell you how greatly I am stirred and stimulated by what you have said. It makes me feel that I could never be happy without you." Lyons put into this speech all his solemnity and all his emotional beneficence of temperament. He was genuinely moved. His first marriage had been a love match. His wife—a mere girl—had died within a year; so soon that the memory of her was a tender but hazy sentiment rather than a formulated impression of character. By virtue of this memory he had approached marriage again as one seeking a companion for his fireside, and a comely, sensible woman to preside over his establishment and promote his social status, rather than one expecting to be possessed by or to inspire a dominant passion. Yet he, too, regarded himself distinctly as an idealist, and he had lent a greedy ear to Selma's suggestion that mature mutual sympathy and comradeship in establishing convictions and religious aims were the source of a nobler type of love than that associated with early matrimony. It increased his admiration for her, and gave to his courtship, the touch of idealism which—partly owing to his own modesty as a man no longer in the flush of youth—it had lacked. He nervously stroked his beard with his thick hand, and gave himself up to the spell of this vision of blessedness while he eagerly watched Selma's face and waited for her answer. To combine moral purpose and love in a pervasive alliance appealed to him magnetically as a religious man.
Selma, as she faced Lyons, was conscious necessarily of the contrast between him and her late husband. But she was attuned to regard his coarser physical fibre as masculine vigor and a protest against aristocratic delicacy, and to derive comfort and exaltation from it.
"Mr. Lyons," she said, "I will tell you frankly that the circumstances of married life have hitherto hampered the expression of that which is in me, and confined the scope of my individuality within narrow and uncongenial limits. I am not complaining; I have no intention to rake up the past; but it is proper you should know that I believe myself capable of larger undertakings than have yet been afforded me, and worthy of ampler recognition than I have yet received. If I accept you as a husband, it will be because I feel confident that you will give my life the opportunity to expand, and that you sympathize with my desire to express myself adequately and to labor hand in hand, side by side, with you in the important work of the world."
"That is what I would have you do, Selma. Because you are worthy of it, and because it is your right."
"On that understanding it seems that we might be very happy."
"I am certain of it. You fill my soul with gladness," he cried, and seizing her hand he pressed it to his lips and covered it with kisses, but she withdrew it, saying, "Not yet—not yet. This step represents so much to me. It means that if I am mistaken in you, my whole life will be ruined, for the next years should be my best. We must not be too hasty. There are many things to be thought of. I must consider Mr. Parsons. I cannot leave him immediately, if at all, for he is very dependent on me."
"I had thought of that. While Mr. Parsons lives, I realize that your first duty must be to him."
The reverential gravity of his tone was in excess of the needs of the occasion, and Selma understood that he intended to imply that Mr. Parsons would not long need her care. The same thought was in her own mind, and it had occurred to her in the course of her previous cogitations in regard to Lyons, that in the event of his death it would suit her admirably to continue to occupy the house as its real mistress. She looked grave for a moment in her turn, then with a sudden access of coyness she murmured, "I do not believe that I am mistaken in you."
"Ah," he cried, and would have folded her in his arms, but she evaded his onset and said with her dramatic intonation, "The knights of old won their lady-loves by brilliant deeds. If you are elected a member of Congress, you may come to claim me."
Reflection served only to convince Selma of the wisdom of her decision to try matrimony once more. She argued, that though a third marriage might theoretically seem repugnant if stated as a bald fact, the actual circumstances in her case not merely exonerated her from a lack of delicacy, but afforded an exhibition of progress—a gradual evolution in character. She felt light-hearted and triumphant at the thought of her impending new importance as the wife of a public man, and she interested herself exuberantly in the progress of the political campaign. She was pleased to think that her stipulation had given her lover a new spur to his ambition, and she was prepared to believe that his victory would be due to the exhaustive efforts to win which the cruel possibility of losing her obliged him to make.
This was a campaign era of torch-light processions. The rival factions expressed their confidence and enthusiasm by parading at night in a series of battalions armed with torches—some resplendently flaring, some glittering gayly through colored glass—and bearing transparencies inscribed with trenchant sentiments. The houses of their adherents along the route were illuminated from attic to cellar with rows of candles, and the atmosphere wore a dusky glow of red and green fire. To Selma all this was entrancing. She revelled in it as an introduction to the more conspicuous life which she was about to lead. She showed herself a zealous and enthusiastic partisan, shrouding the house in the darkness of Erebus on the occasion when the rival procession passed the door, and imparting to every window the effect of a blaze of light on the following evening—the night before election—when the Democratic party made its final appeal to the voters. Standing on a balcony in evening dress, in company with Mrs. Earle and Miss Luella Bailey, whom she had invited to view the procession from the River Drive, Selma looked down on the parade in an ecstatic mood. The torches, the music, the fireworks and the enthusiasm set her pulses astir and brought her heart into her mouth in melting appreciation of the sanctity of her party cause and her own enviable destiny as the wife of an American Congressman. She held in one hand a flag which she waved from time to time at the conspicuous features of the procession, and she stationed herself so that the Bengal lights and other fireworks set off by Mr. Parsons's hired man should throw her figure into conspicuous relief. The culminating interest of the, occasion for her was reached when the James O. Lyons Cadets, the special body of youthful torch-bearers devoted to advertising the merits of her lover, for whose uniforms and accoutrements he had paid, came in sight.
They proved to be the most flourishing looking organization in line. They were preceded by a large, nattily attired drum corps; their ranks were full, their torches lustrous, and they bore a number of transparencies setting forth the predominant qualifications of the candidate for Congress from the second district, the largest of which presented his portrait superscribed with the sentiment, "A vote for James O. Lyons is a vote in support of the liberties of the plain people." On the opposite end of the canvas was the picture of the king of beasts, with open jaws and bristling mane, with the motto, "Our Lyons's might will keep our institutions sacred." In the midst of this glittering escort the candidate himself rode in an open barouche on his way to the hall where he was to deliver a final speech. He was bowing to right and left, and constant cheers marked his progress along the avenue. Selma leaned forward from the balcony to obtain the earliest sight of her hero. The rolling applause was a new, intoxicating music in her ears, and filled her soul with transport. She clapped her hands vehemently; seized a roman-candle, and amid a blaze of fiery sparks exploded its colored stars in the direction of the approaching carriage. Then with the flag slanted across her bosom, she stood waiting for his recognition. It was made solemnly, but with the unequivocal demonstration of a cavalier or knight of old, for Lyons stood up, and doffing his hat toward her, made a conspicuous salute. A salvo of applause suggested to Selma that the multitude had understood that he was according to her the homage due a lady-love, and that their cheers were partly meant for her. She put her hand to her bosom with the gesture of a queen of melodrama, and culling one from a bunch of roses Lyons had sent her that afternoon threw it from the balcony at the carriage. The flower fell almost into the lap of her lover, who clutched it, pressed it to his lips, and doffed his hat again. The episode had been visible to many, and a hoarse murmur of interested approval crowned the performance. The glance of the crowds on the sidewalk was turned upward, and someone proposed three cheers for the lady in the balcony. They were given. Selma bowed to either side in delighted acknowledgment, while the torches of the cadets waved tumultuously, and there was a fresh outburst of colored fires.
"I can't keep the secret any longer," she exclaimed, turning to her two companions. "I'm engaged to be married to Mr. Lyons."