VITHE TEST
IN the large back yard of the “Executive Mansion” the young governor, George Helm, was wheeling his first born—George Helm, also—up and down the shady central walk in a perambulator of the latest scientific make. The baby was giving the healthy baby’s fascinating exhibition of the fathomless peace and content that can be got only from sleep. The Governor and Bill Desbrough, the state Attorney-General and his one really intimate friend, were talking politics. At the window of the sitting-room sat Eleanor Helm, sewing—when she was not watching the two Georges—hertwo Georges.
There are two things as brief as any inthis world of brevities—the babyhood of her first born to the mother who loves babies, and his term of office to the public man who loves office. It so happened that both these befell the Helms at the same time. George married Eleanor Clearwater, daughter of the lumber king and United States Senator, a few weeks before he was inaugurated; and the first baby came toward the end of the second year of that famous stormy term of his. It was now the spring of his fourth year as governor. Both he and the young woman at the window looked younger than when they married—without the consent which her father dared not publicly withhold, or indeed privately, since he had not the courage to cut himself off from his only child. The reason the hands were turning backward for Helm and his wife was, of course, happiness. A man often loves a woman—a girl—for the possibilities he seesin her which he fancies he can realize. Indeed one of woman’s best beguilements for “leading on” the man she wants is the subtle creating or encouragement of this same fancy. But when a woman really does love a man, she loves him for himself, wishes him to stay exactly as he is. Eleanor had taken the lank, tall, rural-looking impersonation of strength, gentleness and self-unconscious simplicity because that was what she wanted. Having got it and finding that it did not change, she proceeded to be happy. The slovenly woman’s way of being happy is to go to pieces. The energetic and self-respecting woman’s way is to “take a fresh grip.” Mrs. George Helm was younger than she had been since early girlhood. She felt utterly and blissfully irresponsible; had she not her George, and had not he taken everything on his shoulders—except looking after the money-spending,the house—and the baby? The house and the baby were a delight. Looking after the house meant making big George comfortable; looking after the baby meant making little George comfortable. As for the money, that was simple enough. In the first place, there wasn’t much of it; in the second place, George gave it all to her and meekly accepted the small allowance for pocket money—all he was fit to be trusted with.
“Bill,” said George to the lazy friend whom he had made into his political manager and had forced to take the office of Attorney-General—“Bill, you ought to get married. My wife takes all the responsibilities off my shoulders and leaves me free just to have fun.”
Bill was amused. Only a few minutes before Mrs. Helm had told him that a sensible woman—meaning, of course, herself—alwayschose a man she could trust and then turned over to him all the responsibilities and gave herself up to love and happiness.
George Helm’s reason for looking younger was somewhat different. That is, he got the happiness in a different way. Much is said about the heavy cares of office, and certainly most men in high office do age rapidly. But Helm’s notion of the duties of office was not that usually held by officials. If a man spends his time at secretly doing things which would ruin him, were they found out—if he hides service of thieves and plunderers behind a pretense of public service, naturally he grows old rapidly. Such secrets and such terrors loosen the hair and the teeth, stoop the shoulders, yellow the fat and sag and wrinkle the cheeks. But if a man has no secrets in his public service, if he spends each day in the rejuvenating effort to do the square thing without troublinghimself in the least about whether he will be misunderstood, or maligned, or beaten for a second term, he gets younger and happier all the time. For health and vitalizing no other vacation equals the vacation from lying and swindling and double-dealing and plotting that make up the routine of so many lives.
As the two men and the baby carriage reached the far end of the walk, Bill said:
“George, it’s a wonder you aren’t wheeling this cart up and down the main street.”
“Too much noise and dust,” replied the governor. “Bad for the fat one.” He usually called his namesake “the fat one.”
“You’ve done about everything else I can think of to get everybody down on you. You’ve made the politicians hate you by forcing through decent primary and election laws. You’ve got the railroads and the big businesses down on you by making thempay taxes and obey the laws. You’ve got the farmers down on you by giving the railroads the excuse of their taxes for raising rates. You’ve got the breweries down on you by shutting up a lot of their doggeries and enforcing an inspection of their beer. You’ve got the merchants down on you by making them toe the mark on false weights and measures. You’ve got the men down on you because they say your ‘honest’ administration has made business bad, and increased the unemployed. You’ve got the women down on you because you and your wife haven’t been social snobs and givers of swell entertainments, as governors and their wives always have been hitherto—and are expected to be.”
George listened, much amused. “No friends left but you, Bill,” said he.
“You haven’t succeeded in pleasing anybody on earth.”
“Except myself,” said Helm.
They had turned and were once more moving toward the house—toward the young woman at the window. “Yourself—and your wife,” said Desbrough.
“I hope so,” said George. He was looking at her. His eyes always changed expression when he looked at her.
“When you took this office, you said you were going to please the people,” pursued Bill.
“Toservethe people,” corrected Helm.
“Same thing,” rejoined his friend. “Now—you’ve found out that there isn’t any such thing as the people.”
Helm nodded.
“There are a lot of interests of one kind and another, big and little. The masses are employed by them to produce and are their customers as consumers. The interests rob them, both ways from the Jack.”
Helm nodded.
“There are pluckers and plucked, but there is no such thing as ‘the people.’”
“Not yet,” admitted Helm.
“You’ve been serving something that doesn’t exist.”
Helm nodded.
“The pluckers hate you because you’ve interfered with their game. The plucked hate you because they think you’ve put them in a position where they’ll not be plucked only because they haven’t anything to pluck.”
“They don’t hate me, exactly,” said George.
“You’re right. I withdraw hate. They love you. They go crazy at sight of you. They flock to hear you speak and they cheer you until you have to stop them to get through your speech. But—that doesn’t fool you?”
“Not for a minute,” replied Helm. “They think I mean well but am—dangerous.”
“You hypnotized them two years ago,” Desbrough went on, “and induced them to give you a legislature that had to put through your program. But the pluckers have organized and have put that fox Sayler in charge again—and they’ve got your humble friends of the workshop and the plow good and scared at last.”
“But I didn’t bring you here to-day, Bill, to talk about my political fortunes. What’s become of those Western Timber cases?”
“Those cases you asked me to get up against the Western Timber and Mineral Company?” said Desbrough with a curious change of voice.
“Wait,” said Helm. “My wife wants the baby.”
Desbrough waited. Helm disappearedwith the carriage at the half-basement door; Mrs. Helm disappeared from the window. Affairs of state had to wait full ten minutes. Then Helm rejoined his friend with an expression of intense, if somewhat guilty, pleasure that gave the shrewd Attorney-General a clue to what had occurred within. Said Helm, with renewed vigor:
“What about those cases, Bill? You lazy pup! I’ve had to nag at you ever since we got in.”
“Haven’t I done all you asked?” laughed Desbrough.
“Yes—and done it well, Bill. But—how I have had to nag!”
“It’d ’a’ been better for you, if I hadn’t done so much. You’ve tried to set the world straight, George, in one term as governor.”
“You’re wrong there, old man,” replied Helm. “I’ve simply settled each question as it came up. It had to be settled one wayor the other. I haven’t had time to do anything but just the things that were squarely put up to me to do.”
Desbrough’s shrug was admission that George had spoken exactly. “I don’t blame you, George,” said he. “But you see how it is. Didn’t I warn you?”
“That I was playing bad politics? Oh, yes. And I knew it. I knew how to get in, Bill. I knew how to stay in. But when it came to a show-down I couldn’t do a dozen rotten things in order to get through one that was half way decent.”
“Well—you’ll go out, and somebody that’s altogether rotten’ll come in.”
“How about those cases?”
“I’ll take them up in a few days.” Desbrough was trying to hide his nervousness from his keen-eyed friend. “Give me another week, George.”
Helm laid a heavy hand on Desbrough’sshoulder. “What’s the matter?” he demanded.
Desbrough saw he could not evade. “This Western Timber and Mineral Company—the T. and M., as they call it—it’s a queer sort of holding corporation.”
“It’s the worst thief in this part of the world—a waster and a stealer and a starver.”
“But it’s a clever villain—the cleverest. It’s got safety hooks and lines out in every direction. If you attack it you’ll get a return volley from pretty near everything that has a voice in this state—newspapers, preachers, charity societies of every kind, doctors, lawyers, retailers. It’s wound round everything and everybody.”
“It’s the big waster, the big stealer, the big starver—and the big corruption. Now, it has defied the government of this state—the people.”
“The people doesn’t exist,” Desbrough reminded him.
“It’s got to go.”
“First crack out of the box—as soon as I begin to attack—it will close a lot of plants and throw fifty thousand workers—men, women and children—out of employment.”
“Is that as bad as what it’s doing?”
“No,” admitted Desbrough. “Not one hundredth part as bad. But it’lllookworse. Everybody will think and say it’s worse.”
“What are you afraid of, Bill? I know it isn’t yourself.Whatis it?”
Desbrough looked steadily at his friend. “You know what the T. & M. is—whoit really is?”
“Anybody especial?”
“It’s controlled by—your father-in-law.”
This was by no means the first time that George Helm had been faced with the difficulties necessarily involved in his havingmarried the daughter of one of the leading politico-business traffickers of the Middle West. But theretofore each difficulty had come in some form that enabled him to keep on his course without wounding his wife’s sensibilities, and with no other ill effect than deepening his father-in-law’s secret hatred and detestation. But now the long-dreaded crisis seemed to have come.
“We’ve warned that company several times,” said he, reflecting.
“Five formal warnings,” said Desbrough. “I’ve just given them a sixth. That’s why I’m delaying.”
“Six. That’s too many. We’ve been more than fair.”
“George, if I go ahead—I send two of your wife’s own cousins to the pen—and disgrace her father—drive him out of public life.”
A long silence. Then Helm said quietly:
“Do you think they’ll pay attention to the warning?”
“No,” replied Desbrough. He watched the lines growing slowly taut in George Helm’s rugged face, and hastily added, “Now, see here, old man—for God’s sakedon’tdo another unpractical thing—the worst yet. The others only wrecked you politically. This’ll wreck your home.”
In the same tranquil way Helm said:
“Have I ever done a single unpractical thing? You know I haven’t. You know—or ought to—that Sayler— There’s a politician!—he put up the whole game on me. He fixed it so that I’d be forced either to do dirty work or to offend one after another every power in this state and so kill myself politically.”
Desbrough suddenly saw the whole plot—simple, devilish, inevitably successful. And all his love for Helm was concentrated inthe deep, passionate fury of his exclamation—“The dirty devil!”
“No use calling names,” rejoined Helm placidly. “He plays his game; we play ours. And anyhow, he has lost.”
“Lost?” echoed Desbrough. “How do you make that out? I think he’s won. Hasn’t he done you up for a second term?”
“Even so, still he has lost,” Helm answered. “His main object was to make us do dirty work. And we haven’t—not yet.”
Desbrough’s eyes shifted. After a pause he said with some constraint:
“You want me to wait till these people have a chance to act on my last warning?”
Helm said:
“I’ll give you an answer to-morrow. You’re all ready to go ahead?”
“Yes.”
“Then—I’ll see you to-morrow.”
And Desbrough did not envy him the rest of that day and the night.
In the afternoon, to the governor’s private room in the Capitol came Harvey Sayler. Nominally, Sayler was a rich United States Senator and the state leader of the Republican party machine. Actually, he was the boss of the machines of both parties, was an overlord of bosses, was the plutocracy’s honored and courted major-general for the Middle West. As the masses in their slow, dim way were beginning to realize that parties and politics were not matters of principle but of pocket filling—and pocket-emptying, Sayler was being denounced, was being built up into a figure of greater menace, and therefore of greater public admiration and respect, than the actualities warranted, powerful and dangerous though he was. But he had remainedthe affable, cynically good-humored good fellow. Whenever one of the plutocracy’s thoroughly pliant tools was in high office, Sayler and he always pretended to quarrel, got the newspapers to fool the public with big headlines—“Fearless governor (or attorney-general or judge) breaks with the bosses”—and Sayler and he met only in the stealthiest privacy, if meeting became necessary. Whenever a more or less independent man was in office, Sayler always kept on terms of the greatest apparent friendliness with him—for obvious reasons.
As Helm had shown in his talk with Bill Desbrough, he understood Sayler. And Sayler, knowing that he could gain nothing by deceiving Helm in their personal talks, gave himself the pleasure of being almost frank.
“Well, Governor,” said he, “how goes the game of honest politics?”
“I needn’t tellyou,” replied Helm, good-humoredly.
“You’ll some day see I was right when I warned you there was no such thing as honest politics.”
“Did I ever deny it?” said Helm. “How could there be honest politics? Human society is, necessarily, modeled as yet upon the only example man had to guide them—nature, with her cruel law of the survival of the fittest. Men live by taking advantage of one another—of one another’s ignorance, stupidity, necessity, cowardice. And politics—it’s simply the struggle between warring appetites, between competing selfishnesses.”
“Then what’s the use of exhorting men to stop robbing each other?” inquired Sayler. “Isn’t my plan the wiser—and the better?—to try to show the strong that they shouldn’t strip the weak—that they should contentthemselves with all the harvest, and not uproot and so prevent another harvest.”
“I admit you have your usefulness,” replied Helm. “But I insist that my sort of politician is useful also. You are trying to soften the strong, we to strengthen the weak. But”—with eyes suddenly twinkling—“I’ve been expecting you. I knew your plan was about complete.”
“My plan?”
“You’ve been very cleverly forcing me into a position where I’d have every interest, big and little, in the state against me—a position where it would be impossible for me to get a second term—or any office. Well—you’ve apparently got me where you want me. So it’s time for you to make me a proposition.”
Sayler’s smile was admission.
“Incidentally,” pursued Helm, “you’ve made me punish those of your plutocraticfriends who were restless under your rule. They are now all back at your feet, I believe?”
Sayler laughed. “All,” said he. “They’ll not annoy me soon again.”
“Well—what next?”
“I’ve come to offer youmyposition,” was Sayler’s unexpected and astounding offer. “I am going to marry again, and the lady does not like politics—my kind of politics—the only kind I can play. Also, I’m tired. I’d like to give my place to my colleague in the Senate and first lieutenant, splendid old Doc Woodruff. But he’s a born lieutenant. He simply couldn’t learn to lead. So—I’ve been training you for the job.”
Sayler evidently regarded it as a rare joke that he, a plutocracy boss, had been training the most radical and anti-plutocratic governor in the Middle West—had been training him to become the leader for the plutocracy.Helm, recovering from his surprise, was also amused.
“I’ve been teaching you the folly of your ways. You have had a free hand. You have done what was right. Result—general dissatisfaction, general distrust ofyou, general desire for a change back to us. The people say—‘Yes, those fellows steal almost all the fruits of our labor. But they own the mines and the shops and the railroads, which practically means that they own the land. If we want to earn a living for our families, we’ve got to apply to them for permission to work. The sensible thing for us to do is to make the best terms we can. If we took the property away from the plutocracy we’d not get it, but our clever leaders would, and they’d rob us just as we’re being robbed now.’ Isn’t that the way the people reason?”
“Much like that,” admitted Helm.
“And there they show their shrewd sense. Oh, the people aren’t fools—not altogether. They have intelligence enough. What they lack isefficientintelligence. They know, but they don’t know how to use their knowledge.”
“They’re learning,” said Helm.
“You mean your independent following? Yes”—Sayler nodded thoughtfully—“you have done wonders. I’ve admired the way you’ve built up a personal following of nearly a hundred thousand votes. If we didn’t happen to own both machines—and therefore are indifferent which wins—your following would give you the balance of power. As matters stand, what is a hundred thousand, when we have nearly half a million?”
Helm was silent.
“You see the situation as it is,” continued Sayler. “That’s why I come to you. Whatour side needs is another leader such as I’ve tried to be—one who shows the plutocratic fools their true interest—not to kill but to pet and fatten the goose that lays the golden eggs.”
Helm was thinking. Sayler felt encouraged. He went on:
“You can make yourself as rich as you please. Or, you can remain poor, if you like. You can—in fact, you must—keep your independent following—and increase it. It is the power you can use to keep your plutocratic clients in order.”
Sayler observed the thoughtful face of the young governor narrowly. Then he went on:
“There’s plenty of time to consider this proposition of mine. I guess it will be attractive or not to you according as you decide that you can or cannot control your plutocratic clients to reasonably, humanlydecent conduct. I think you can. That’s why I make you the offer.”
“You had another matter about which you wished to speak to me?” said Helm.
“A good guess. Yes—I want to talk T. and M.”
“To-morrow,” said Helm. “Not to-day.”
“I suppose you know that your father-in-law——”
“I’ve learned it.”
“Being a public official, he’s had to keep his corporation connections very dark indeed. Perhaps I should have told you. But I knew the secret in a way that made it difficult for me to speak.”
“It didn’t matter,” said Helm, grimly. “I’ve learned in good time.”
Sayler rose. “Your father-in-law telegraphs me that he’ll arrive to-night.”
“Keep him away from my house until eleven to-morrow.”
“You wish to tell your wife first?”
“No. I shall let him tell her. But no one ought to hear agitating news before the middle of the morning—after the day is well started but while there’s still most of the day left for thinking it over.”
Sayler was touched by this evidence of Helm’s minute thoughtfulness for the woman he loved. “Thank you for that suggestion,” said he. “I’ve been letting my secretary tell me all sorts of news at any old time—with disastrous results to my health. My compliments to your wife. I’m hoping to see her before I go back to Washington.”
At noon the following day Helm left his office—an hour earlier than usual—and went home. At the sitting-room door he paused. After a brief hesitation he opened the door and entered. As he expected, therewere his wife and her father. Helm glanced at the troubled face of his wife. Without greeting his father-in-law he said to her:
“He has told you?”
“It’s true then, George?” replied she.
He nodded.
Clearwater interposed with angry dignity:
“I’ve been laying the whole case before my daughter, sir—your proposed attempt to disgrace and to ruin me.”
Helm now looked at him. “You have had six warnings,” said he. “You could have made your corporation obey the laws—or you could have sold your holdings and gotten away from it.”
“We have disobeyed no laws,” retorted Clearwater. “We have simply disregarded alleged laws enacted by demagogues to compel us to pay blackmail or go out of business.”
“Your own lawyers drew the laws,” replied Helm, “and Sayler ordered them passed six years ago. But they were intended for use against any rival to your monopoly that might spring up.”
“You’ll let us alone, or you’ll never hold another office in this state,” cried Clearwater. “I came here to ask my daughter to use her influence with you to save yourself from destruction. I had forgotten what an obstinate visionary you were. But I think even you will hesitate before breaking her heart, bowing her head with shame.”
“I’ve told father,” said Eleanor, “that I haven’t any influence with you. I’d not venture to speak to you about a political matter—unless I understood it. And I’ve been so busy with the baby these last two years that I don’t really know anything any more.”
“Eleanor, I’ve explained it all to you,”said Clearwater, deeply agitated. “If he goes on, it means disgrace to me. I can punish him—and I shall. But I’ll have to leave public life.”
Eleanor looked inquiringly at her husband. He said:
“Yes, dear.”
“George, you can’t do that!” cried she.
Helm winced. He said gravely:
“Your father—through his corporation—put it squarely up to me either to prosecute him or to re-license his corporation for robbing the people of this state.”
“That’s a lie!” cried Clearwater. “It’s as honest a business as there is!”
“Yes,” said Helm, “it’s as honest abigbusiness as there is—and as dishonest.”
“You can’t disgracemyfather, George,” said Eleanor. “You can’t send my cousins to the penitentiary. Why, they’re like my brothers.”
Helm looked gravely at her. He said slowly:
“You are their cousin. You are Senator Clearwater’s daughter. But you are my wife—you are our son’s mother.”
She was deathly pale, and her eyes looked her terror, as she said breathlessly:
“Myfather! Oh, George, youcan’t!”
“Yes,” said Helm gently. “I can—and I must—and, Ellen, I will.”
“Youasking me to choose between you and my father!” exclaimed she.
“No, Ellen,” replied he. “I am your husband. There can’t be any choice between me and any one else on earth.”
They gazed at each other, he as white as she. But she was trembling, while he stood like a strong tree. She said:
“Yes—I am yours, George. But—you will give me a wound I’ll never recover from.”
He said: “It will giveusa wound that’ll never heal. But—we’ll suffer together, my love, as we have been happy together.”
Clearwater watched them with awe. It was the first time in all his life that he had ever seen love—the reality of love. And the sight was so overpowering that it overwhelmed his emotions of terror and rage and hate. When he finally spoke it was with a kind of hysteria:
“My God, Eleanor! If your dead mother could have known that her daughter——”
Helm put his arm round his wife and interrupted sternly:
“If her dead mother could have seen you at your deviltry through that corporation—could have seen the starving wretches in your lumber camps—the blighted children toiling in your mines, the blood and filth on your dividend dollars, every one of them!”
“He lies, Eleanor!” cried her father. “He is a half-crazed crank——”
“He is my husband, father,” interrupted Eleanor. And very proud she looked as she said it.
“You will do nothing to help me!” cried her father, in a sudden agony of fear.
Eleanor was about to reply. Helm shook his head, led her gently toward the door. He said:
“Leave us alone, please.”
“Eleanor,” shrieked her father, “if you yield to this man, if you give up your father to be destroyed by him, I shall disinherit you, I shall curse you. I shall curse you. I shall curse you!”
The daughter shivered from head to foot. Helm bore her firmly on, released her at the threshold. She cried, “George, let me stay! Please, dear! Let me talk with both of you. You are both so hard——”
Her voice had been faltering, for again he had fixed her gaze with those kind, inflexible eyes of his. She became silent. In the hall he kissed her, released her. Then he returned to the sitting-room, closing the door behind him. He said to Clearwater, quietly, almost gently:
“You had better tell your corporation to yield. If you don’t, it will break her heart, as you see.”
“We will not yield!” cried Clearwater, shaking his fist in Helm’s face. “And after you have actually done your dastardly work, she will hate you. You think you own her, body and soul. You’ll find out afterward. She will hate you, she will leave you.”
“She will neither leave me, nor hate me.”
There was in his voice the finality not of mere conviction, but of truth itself. For he knew—as only those who really loveand really are loved know—what he and his wife were to each other—the union that is a fusion which not even death can dissolve.
After a pause he went on:
“Shall I tell the attorney-general that formal notice of yielding will come to-morrow?”
Silence. Then Clearwater sullenly:
“Day after to-morrow.”
Helm reflected, said: “That will do.”
“You have won,” sneered Clearwater. “Not much of a victory. You knew you could count on her, hard-hearted fool that she is.”
“Count on her?” replied Helm, tranquilly. “As on myself. And I may add that I knew whatyouwould do. What else could you do, if you failed to make my wife turn traitor and ask me to dishonor myself that you might go on robbing. Don’t try to shift and twist out of your agreementwith me. Next time there will be no warning.”
Clearwater reduced himself to the calm fury that is looking forward with a kind of serenity to a certain and complete revenge. Said he:
“This is the last year you’ll ever hold office in this state—or anywhere in this country.”
“Then your people have to live decent only about eight months longer,” was Helm’s amiable rejoinder. “I guess they can manage it.”
“I am going,” said Clearwater, moving toward the door. “I hope I shall never see either of you again. I shall hound you both into poverty. Then—if you wish me to take the child, I’ll take it—provided you give me full possession.”
“I shall remember,” said Helm, simply.
His manner was that of a man who hasnothing to say, who will answer any direct question with unruffled courtesy, who will listen as long as his visitor wishes to talk, and patiently. Clearwater, discouraged, cast about for some speech that would help him out of the room. He could find none. So he abruptly departed, feeling more uncomfortable than angry. He could not understand his own feelings, his unprecedented lack of spirit. It did not occur to him that Helm, matchless as a manager of men, and far Clearwater’s superior in intelligence, might have been responsible for this puzzling state of his.
As soon as his father-in-law had had time to get clear of the house, Helm went up to his wife. The “fat one” was solemnly inspecting his bright blocks in the middle of the floor. Eleanor was sitting by the window, gazing out into the tree-tops. She slowly became conscious that her husbandwas at the threshold. She turned her eyes toward him.
Said he:
“He’s gone. He has agreed to yield. So the prosecution won’t be necessary.”
Instead of the expression of relief he expected, she looked as if she had not heard. She came toward him; she laid her hands upon his shoulders and looked up at him. The “fat one” paused in the inspection of a block to observe them—his father and mother; he was trying hard to get acquainted with them, and to make them acquainted with him.
Eleanor said:
“I never knew until to-day what love meant—and that I loved you.”
He laughed gently, and gently kissed her. There were tears in his eyes. The “fat one” dropped the block and opened wide his mouth and shut tight his eyes and emitteda lusty howl—the beginning of a series that was suspended by his lapsing into his bad habit of holding his breath. Eleanor caught him up and tried to shake him back to howling. But he continued to hold his breath, to grow a deeper and deeper purple.
“If he only wouldn’t do that!” cried she. “I thought he was cured of it.”
“Give him to me, mother,” said George, intensely alarmed, though he knew the baby would come out of it all right. He handled the “fat one” awkwardly, but it was touching as well as amusing to see the little creature in those long arms. He and Eleanor shook and patted and pleaded. But not until they were quite beside themselves did the “fat one” consent to resume. With a gurgle and gasp he suddenly expelled the long-held breath in a whoop and a shriek—a hideous sound, but how it thrilled those two frightened parents!
“I really ought to spank him,” said Ellen with a hysterical laugh. “He does it on purpose.”
“You fat rascal!” said George, waving a long forefinger at his son. The fat one seized it and abruptly began to smile. Peace being thus restored, George—of an analytical mind—said: “Whatever possessed him to burst out that way?”
Eleanor laughed. “I think he was jealous,” she suggested. She kissed the “fat one” tenderly. “And he had reason to be,” she added.
They played on the floor with the baby and the blocks—no; they played, using the baby and the blocks as an excuse. After a while George said:
“How little do you suppose we can live on?”
“Oh, as little as anybody,” replied she carelessly, intent upon the house of blocksthey were making. “You see, so long as we’ve got ourselves, we don’t need much else. You’re building your side too thin.”
George filled out the lower walls with a second row, like the walls on her side. Said he:
“Sayler offered me his job—running the two machines.”
Eleanor gave a faint smile of amusement—as much attention as she could spare for an “outside” matter when she was teaching the “fat one’s” clumsy hands to lay blocks straight.
“Shall I ask him to dinner when I see him this afternoon, to thank him and tell him I won’t take it?”
“Yes—do ask him,” said Ellen. “He brought us together—when you were trying to get away. No, baby, not that way—the long side across.”
“Your father told me he was going to cut you off—and the baby, too, unless we gave it to him to raise.”
Ellen smiled—amused, a little sad. She said: “Poor papa! He ought to be ashamed of himself for trying to interfere between you and me.” A pause of several minutes, filled with building—repairing the ravages of a wild thrust of the “fat one’s” fists. Then her mind went back to what he had said.
“I suppose he will cut us off,” observed she. “I knew it would come to that, when we married. I’m sorry. You might have used the money in your politics.”
“No,” said George, working steadily away at the castle. “Money’s of no use in our kind of politics, Ellen. It’s been tried again and again. It always fails. You see, we’re trying to make everybody see that it’s to his interest to wake up and work. Andthe only money we want is what our people must learn to invest, themselves.”
Eleanor was building a tower now, and delicate work it was. “Wouldn’t you have let me take it, George, if he had given it to me?”
“No,” said George. “We don’t need it, and we’d not let the baby be spoiled by it.”
A long and busy pause, then Eleanor: “I’ve knownsomenice people with money. But they’d have been nicer, I guess, without it. It’s so hard to have friends or to be friends if one has money—lots of money. George Helm, do untwist your legs. You’ll get awful cramps.”
“They’re used to it,” replied the governor and statesman. “Now, listen! now, fat one!”
And with a wild shout of glee the “fat one” fell upon the finished castle, fist and foot, and demolished it, and rolled in the ruins with his father and mother maulinghim and each other. The waitress, coming to announce lunch, caught them. But she was used to it. She laughed at them and they laughed back at her. On the way down, George said:
“I’ve figured it all out. I could force them to give me a second term. But I want to get my independent movement under way. So I’ll let Sayler and Hazelrigg do as they like, and I’ll run independent—and take a defeat.”
“I’ll be glad to get away from this house,” said Eleanor. “I sometimes think it’s damp and bad for the baby.”
“Oh, we’ll be back here in a few years, all right,” said George. “I’ve got a lot of work to do in this job of governor.”
“Well—by that time the baby won’t any longer be a baby——”
She stopped short on the stairway. “Oh, George!” she cried. “Isn’t that afrightfulthought! If we could only keep him as he is—and ourselves as we are—always!”
George did not like the thought either. But he said cheeringly, “I guess we’ll find as many things to like in to-morrow as we’ve found in to-day. Anyhow, let’s hope so.”
She gave his arm a squeeze. “Hopeso? Weknowso! As many things? More things, George—every day more and more things—to like—to love—to live for.”
George was suddenly so happy that he carried her and the baby the rest of the way down stairs—she in one arm, the baby in the other, with equal ease. What a good old world it was, after all—if one only took it right! The one thing it lacked was “the people.” If there were a real “people”—intelligent, persistent, not easily fooled, no longer conquerable and easy to rob and oppress through their ignorance and their prejudices—if there were “the people,” refusingto be ruled except by and for themselves, what a heaven of a world it would become! Well—the thing to do was to fall to and do his share toward making this “people.”
They were at lunch—a little table, he, his wife, the baby in a high-chair. George and Eleanor looked at each other, and their eyes filled; for the same thought came to both. The “fat one” halted his spoon on its way to his mouth and looked inquiringly from one to the other. Said she unsteadily, laughing to keep from crying:
“Don’t, George—don’t look at me like that. We’ll make the baby cry.”
THE END