"Perhaps. One dishonest step leads to another, and if I should sanction this man, I should not hesitate at greater dishonesty. My honesty is my bread and butter ... and my conscience."
"Corporations have no souls; politics has no conscience. Williard ..."
"My name is Newcomb," abruptly. "In a matter of this kind I can not permit myself to be subjected to comparisons. You brought about my present position in municipal affairs."
"We had need of you, and still need you," confessed the other reluctantly. "The party needs new blood."
"You are a clever man, Mr. McDermott; you are a leader; let me appeal to your better judgment. Murphy is a blackguard, and he would be in any party, in any country. In forcing him on me, you rob me of my self-respect."
McDermott shrugged. "In this case he is a necessary evil. The success of the party depends upon his good will. Listen. Will you find, in all this wide land, a ruling municipality that is incorrupt? Is there not a fly in the ointment whichever way you look? Is not dishonesty fought with dishonesty; isn't it corruption against corruption? Do you believe for a minute that you can bring about this revolution? No, my lad; no. This is a workaday world; Utopia is dreamland.You can easily keep your eye on this man. If he makes a dishonest move, you can find it in your power to remove him effectually. But I swear to you that he is absolutely necessary."
"Well, I will assume the risk of his displeasure."
"Show him your document, and tell him that if he leaves you in the lurch at the polls, you'll send him to prison. That's the only way out." McDermott thought he saw light.
"Make a blackmailer of myself? Hardly."
"I am sorry." McDermott rose. "You are digging a pit for a very bright future."
"Politically, perhaps."
"If you are defeated, there is no possible method of sending you to Washington in Miller's place. You must havepopularity to back you. I have observed that you are a very ambitious young man."
"Not so ambitious as to obscure my sense of right."
"I like your pluck, my boy, though it stands in your own light. I'll do all I can to pacify Murphy. Good night and good luck to you." And McDermott made his departure.
Newcomb remained motionless in his chair, studying the night. So much for his dreams! He knew what McDermott's "I'll do what I can" meant. If only he had not put his heart so thoroughly into the campaign! Was there any honesty? Was it worth while to be true to oneself? Murphy controlled nearly four hundred votes. For six years the eighth ward had carried the Democratic party into victory. Had he turned this aside? For years the elections had been like cheese-parings;and in ten years there hadn't been a majority of five hundred votes on either side. If Murphy was a genuine party man, and not a leech, he would stand square for his party and not consider personal enmity. What would he do when he heard from McDermott that he (Newcomb) had deliberately crossed him off the ticket of appointees?
From among some old papers in a drawer Newcomb produced the portrait of a young girl of sixteen in fancy dress. When he had studied this a certain length of time, he took out another portrait: it was the young girl grown into superb womanhood. The eyes were kind and merry, the mouth beautiful, the brow fine and smooth like a young poet's, a nose with the slightest tilt; altogether a high-bred, queenly, womanly face, such as makes a man desire to do great things inthe world. Newcomb had always loved her. He had gone through the various phases: the boy, the diffident youth, the man. (Usually it takes three women to bring about these changes!) There was nothing wild or incoherent in his love, nothing violent or passionate; rather the serene light, the steady burning light, that guides the ships at sea; constant, enduring, a sure beacon.
As he studied the face from all angles, his jaws hardened. He lifted his chin defiantly. He had the right to love her; he had lived cleanly, he had dealt justly to both his friends and his enemies, he owed no man, he was bound only to his mother, who had taught him the principles of manly living. He had the right to love any woman in the world.... And there was Williard—handsome, easy-going old Dick! Why was it written thattheir paths must cross in everything? Yes, Dick loved her, too, but with an affection that had come only with majority. Williard had everything to offer besides. Should he step down and aside for his friend? Did friendship demand such a sacrifice? No! Let Williard fight for her as he (Newcomb) intended to fight for her; and if Williard won, there would be time then to surrender.
It was almost twelve when the scrub-woman aroused him from his reveries. He closed his desk and went home, his heart full of battle. He would put up the best fight that was in him, for love and for fame; and if he lost he would still have his manhood and self-respect, which any woman might be proud to find at her feet, to accept or decline. He would go into Murphy's own country and fight him openly and without secret weapons. Heknew very well that he held it in his power to coerce Murphy, but that wasn't fighting.
Neither of the candidates slept well that night.
So the time went forward. The second Tuesday in November was but a fortnight off. Newcomb fought every inch of ground. He depended but little, if any, upon McDermott's assistance, though that gentleman came gallantly to his rescue, as it was necessary to save his own scalp. It crept into the papers that there was a rupture between Murphy and the Democratic candidate. The opposition papers cried in glee; the others remained silent. Murphy said nothing when questioned; he simply smiled. Newcomb won the respect of his opponents. The laboring classes saw in him a Moses, and
they hailed him with cheers whenever they saw him.
There were many laughable episodes during the heat of the campaign; but Newcomb knew how and when to laugh. He answered questions from the platform, and the ill-mannered were invariably put to rout by his good-natured wit. Once they hoisted him on top of a bar in an obscure saloon. His shoulders touched the gloomy ceiling, and he was forced to address the habitués, with his head bent like a turtle's, his nose and eyes offended by the heat and reek of kerosene and cheap tobacco. They had brought him there to bait him; they carried him out on their shoulders. To those who wanted facts he gave facts; to some he told humorous stories, more or less applicable; and to others he spoke his sincere convictions.
Meantime Williard took hold of affairs, but in a bored fashion. He did the best he knew how, but it wasn't the best that wins high place in the affections of the people.
The betting was even.
Election day came round finally—one of those rare days when the pallid ghost of summer returns to view her past victories, when the broad wings of the West go a-winnowing the skies, and the sun shines warm and grateful. On that morning a change took place in Newcomb's heart. He became filled with dread. After leaving the voting-polls early in the morning, he returned to his home and refused to see any one. He even had the telephone wires cut. Only his mother saw him, and hovered about him with a thousand kindly attentions. At the door she became a veritable dragon; not even telegraphmessengers could pass her or escape her vigilance.
At six in the evening Newcomb ordered around his horse. He mounted and rode away into the hill country south of the city, into the cold crisp autumn air. There was fever in his veins that needed cooling; there were doubts and fears in his mind that needed clearing. He wanted that sense of physical exhaustion which makes a man indifferent to mental blows.
The day passed and the night came. Election night! The noisy, good-natured crowds in the streets, the jostling, snail-moving crowds! The illuminated canvas-sheets in front of the newspaper offices! The blare of horns, the cries, the yells, the hoots and hurrahs! The petty street fights! The stalled surface-cars, the swearing cabbies, the venders of horns and whistles, the newsboys hawking theirextras! It is the greatest of all spectacular nights; humanity comes out into the open.
The newspaper offices were yellow with lights. It was a busy time. There was a continuous coming and going of messengers, bringing in returns. The newspaper men took off their coats and rolled up their sleeves. Figures, figures, thousands of figures to sift and resift! Filtering through the various noises was the maddening click of the telegraph instruments. Great drifts of waste paper littered the floors. A sandwich man served coffee and sandwiches. The chief distributed cigars. Everybody was writing, writing. Five men were sent out to hunt for Newcomb, but none could find him. His mother refused to state where he had gone; in fact, she knew nothing save that he had gone horseback riding.
At nine there was a gathering at theclub. Williard was there, and all who had charge of the wheels within wheels. They had ensconced themselves in the huge davenports in the bow-window facing the street, and had given orders to the steward to charge everything that night to Senator Gordon. A fabulous number of corks were pulled; but gentlemen are always orderly.
Williard, however, seemed anything but happy. He had dined at the senator's that evening, and something had taken place there which the general public would never learn. He was gloomy, and the wine he drank only added to his gloom.
The younger element began to wander in, carrying those execrable rooster-posters. A gay time ensued.
Newcomb had ridden twelve miles into the country. At eight o'clock the temperaturechanged and it began to snow. He turned and rode back toward the city, toward victory or defeat. Sometimes he went at a canter, sometimes at a trot. By and by he could see the aureola from the electric lights wavering above the city. Once he struck a wind-match and glanced at his watch. Had he lost or had he won? A whimsical inspiration came to him. He determined to hear victory or defeat from the lips of the girl he loved. The snow fell softly into his face and melted. His hair became matted over his eyes; his gauntlets dripped and the reins became slippery; a steam rose from the horse's body, a big-hearted hunter on which he had ridden many a mile.
"Good boy!" said Newcomb; "we'll have it first from her lips."
Finally he struck the asphalt of the city limits, and he slowed down to a walk. Heturned into obscure streets. Whenever he saw a bonfire, he evaded it.
It was ten o'clock when he drew up in front of the Gordon home. He tied his horse to the post with the hitching-chain and knotted the reins so that they would not slip over the horse's head, wiped his face with his handkerchief, and walked bravely up to the veranda. There were few lights. Through the library window he saw the girl standing at the telephone. He prayed that she might be wholly alone. After a moment's hesitation he pressed the button and waited.
Betty herself came to the door. She peered out.
"What is it?" she asked.
"I did not expect that you would recognize me," said Newcomb, laughing.
"John? Where in the world did you come from?" taking him by the arm anddragging him into the hall. "Good gracious!"
"The truth is, Betty, I took to my heels at six o'clock, and have been riding around the country ever since." He sent her a penetrating glance.
"Come in to the fire," she cried impulsively. "You are cold and wet and hungry."
"Only wet," he admitted as he entered the cheerful library. He went directly to the blazing grate and spread out his red, wet, aching hands. He could hear her bustling about; it was a pleasant sound. A chair rolled up to the fender; the rattle of a tea-table followed. It was all very fine. "I ought to be ashamed to enter a house in these reeking clothes," he said; "but the temptation was too great."
"You are always welcome, John," softly.
His keen ear caught the melancholy sympathy in her tone. He shrugged. He had lost the fight. Had he won, she would already have poured forth her congratulations.
"Sit down," she commanded, "while I get the tea. Or would you prefer brandy?"
"The tea, by all means. I do not need brandy to bolster up my courage." He sat down.
She left the room and returned shortly with biscuit and tea. She filled a cup, put in two lumps of sugar, and passed the cup to him.
"You've a good memory," he said, smiling at her. "It's nice to have one's likes remembered, even in a cup of tea. I look as if I had been to war, don't I?"
She buttered a biscuit. He ate it, not because he was hungry, but because herfingers had touched it. It was a phantom kiss. He put the cup down.
"Now, which is it; have I been licked, or have I won?"
"What!" she cried; "do you mean to tell me you do not know?" She gazed at him bewilderedly.
"I have been four hours in the saddle. I know nothing, save that which instinct and the sweet melancholy of your voice tell me. Betty, tell me, I've been licked, haven't I, and old Dick has gone and done it, eh?"
The girl choked for a moment; there was a sob in her throat.
"Yes, John."
Newcomb reached over and tapped the hearth with his riding-crop, absent-mindedly. The girl gazed at him, her eyes shining in a mist of unshed tears.... She longed to reach out her handand smooth the furrows from his careworn brow, to brush the melting crystals of snow from his hair; longed to soothe the smart of defeat which she knew was burning his heart. She knew that only strong men suffer in silence.
From a half-opened window the night breathed upon them, freighted with the far-off murmur of voices.
"I confess to you that I built too much on the outcome. I am ambitious; I want to be somebody, to take part in the great affairs of the world. I fought the very best I knew how. I had many dreams. Do you recollect the verses I used to write to you when we were children? There was always something of the poet in me, and it is still there, only it no longer develops on paper. I had looked toward Washington ... even toward you, Betty."
Silence. The girl sat very still. Her face was white and her eyes large.
"I am honest. I can see now that I have no business in politics...." He laughed suddenly and turned toward the girl. "I was on the verge of wailing. I'm licked, and I must begin all over again. Dick will make a good mayor, that is, if they leave him alone.... Whimsical, wasn't it, of me, coming here to have you tell me the news?" He looked away.
The girl smiled and held out her hand to him, and as he did not see it, laid it gently on his sleeve.
"It does not matter, John. Some day you will realize all your ambitions. You are not the kind of man who gives up. Defeat is a necessary step to greatness; and you will become great. I am glad that you came to me." She knew now; allher doubts were gone, all the confusing shadows.
Newcomb turned and touched her hand with his lips.
"Why did you come to me?" she asked with fine courage.
His eyes widened. "Why did I come to you? If I had won I should have told you. But I haven't won; I have lost."
"Does that make the difference so great?"
"It makes the difficulty greater."
"Tell me!" with a voice of command.
They both rose suddenly, rather unconsciously, too. Their glances held, magnet and needle-wise. Across the street a bonfire blazed, and the ruddy light threw a mellow rose over their strained faces.
"I love you," he said simply. "That is what drew me here, that is what has always drawn me here. But say nothing tome, Betty. God knows I am not strong enough to suffer two defeats in one night. God bless you and make you happy!"
He turned and took a few steps toward the door.
"If it were not defeat ... if it were victory?" she said, in a kind of whisper, her hands on the back of the chair.
The senator came in about midnight. He found his daughter asleep in a chair before a half-dead fire. There was a tender smile on her lips. He touched her gently.
"It is you, daddy?" Her glance traveled from his florid countenance to the clock. "Mercy! I have been dreaming these two hours."
"What do you suppose Newcomb did to-night?" lighting a cigar.
"What did he do?"
"Came into the club and congratulated Williard publicly."
"He did that?" cried the girl, her cheeks dyeing exquisitely.
"Did it like a man, too." The senator dropped into a chair. "It was a great victory, my girl."
Betty smiled. "Yes, it was."
I
"IT is positively dreadful!"
Even with the puckered brow and drooping lips, Mrs. Cathewe was a most charming young person.
Absently she breathed upon the chilled window-pane, and with the pink horn of her tapering forefinger drew letters and grotesque noses and millions on millions of money.
Who has not, at one time or another, pursued art and riches in this harmless fashion?
The outlook—from the window, not the millions—was not one to promote anydegree of cheerfulness, being of darkness, glistening pavements and a steady, blurring rain; and at this particular moment Mrs. Cathewe was quite in sympathy with the outlook; that is to say, dismal.
"Only last week," she went on, "it was an actor out of employ, a man with reversible cuffs and a celluloid collar; but even he knew the difference between bouillon and tea. And now, Heaven have mercy, it is a prize-fighter!"
Mrs. Cathewe reopened the note which in her wrath she had crushed in her left hand, and again read it aloud:
"Dear Nancy—Am bringing home Sullivan, the boxer, to dinner. Now, ducky, don't get mad. I want to study him at close range. You know that I am to have a great boxing scene in my new book, and this study is absolutely necessary. In haste.Jack."
"Dear Nancy—Am bringing home Sullivan, the boxer, to dinner. Now, ducky, don't get mad. I want to study him at close range. You know that I am to have a great boxing scene in my new book, and this study is absolutely necessary. In haste.
Jack."
Mrs. Cathewe turned pathetically to her companion.
"Isn't it awful? A prize-fighter, in spite of all this reform movement! A pugilist!"
"A pug, as my brother would tersely but inelegantly express it," and Caroline Boderick lifted an exquisitely molded chin and laughed; a rollicking laugh which, in spite of her endeavor to remain unmoved, twisted up the corners of Mrs. Cathewe's rebel mouth.
"Forgive me, Nan, if I laugh; but who in the world could help it? It is so droll. This is the greatest house! Imagine, I had the blues the worst kind of way to-day; and now I shall be laughing for a whole week. You dear girl, what do you care? You'll be laughing, too, presently. When a woman marries a successful painter or a popular novelist, she will find that she has wedded also a life full of surprises, full of amusing scenes; ennuiis a word cast forth to wander among commonplace folk. Your husband must have his model, just the same as if he were an artist, which he undeniably is."
"Models!" scornfully. "I wish he were a romanticist. I declare, if this realism keeps on, I shall go and live in the country!"
"And have your husband's curios remain all night instead of simply dining." And Caroline pressed her hands against her sides.
"That is it; laugh, laugh! Carol, you have no more sympathy than a turtle."
"You are laughing yourself," said Caroline.
"It is because I'm looking at you. Why, I am positively raging!" She tore her husband's letter into shreds and cast them at her feet. "Jack is always upsetting my choicest plans."
"And my sobriety. If I had a husband likeyoursI should always be the happiest and merriest woman in the world. What a happy woman you must and ought to be!"
"I am, Carol, I am; but there are times when Jack is as terrible and uncertain as Mark Twain's New England weather. Supposing I had been giving a big dinner to-night? It would have been just the same."
"Only more amusing. Fancy Mrs. Nottingham-Stuart taking inventory of this Mr. Sullivan through that pince-nez of hers!"
A thought suddenly sobered Mrs. Cathewe.
"But whatever shall I do, Carol? I have invited the rector to dine with us."
Mirth spread its sunny wings and flew away, leaving Caroline's beautiful eyesthoughtful and contemplative. "I understood that it was to be a very little dinner for the family."
"Carol, why don't you like the rector? He is almost handsome."
"I do like him, Nan."
"Oh, I don't mean in that way," impulsively.
"In what way?" asked Caroline, her voice losing some of its warmth.
"Passively."
The faint, perpendicular line above Caroline's nose was the only sign of her displeasure.
"Has he proposed to you?"
"Gracious sakes! one would think that the rector was in love with me. Nan, you are very embarrassing when you look like that. Match-making isn't your forte. Besides, the rector and I do not get on very well. Bifurcated riding skirts are not tohis fancy; and I would not give up my morning ride for the best man living. Oh, Nan, you ought to ride a horse; there's nothing like it in the world."
"The rector has called upon you more than any other girl in town." When Mrs. Cathewe had an idea, she was very persistent about it. "I have even seen him watching you when delivering a sermon."
Caroline laughed.
"Calling doesn't signify. And you must remember, daddy is the banker of St. Paul's. No, Nan; I don't mean that; I am sure that the rector's calls have nothing to do with the finances of the church. But, to tell the truth, daddy calls him a mollycoddle; says he hasn't enough gumption—whatever that may be—to stand up for himself at the trustees' meetings. All the trustees are opposed to him because he is not over thirty."
"And the best-looking rector the church ever had," supplemented Mrs. Cathewe.
"But a mollycoddle, Nan! You wouldn't have me marry a mollycoddle, would you?" There was a covert plea in her tones which urged Mrs. Cathewe emphatically to deny that the Reverend Richard Allen was a mollycoddle.
Mrs. Cathewe did deny it. "He is not a mollycoddle, and you very well know it. Jack says that his meekness and humility is all a sham."
"A hypocrite!" sitting up very straight.
"Mercy, no! His meekness is merely a sign of splendid self-control. No man could be a mollycoddle and have eyes like his. True, they are mild, but of the mildness of the sea on a calm day. 'Ware of the hurricane!"
"Has Mr. Cathewe found out yet towhat college he belonged before he became a divinity student?"
"No; and even I have never had the courage to ask him. But Jack thinks it is Harvard, because the rector let slip one day something about Cambridge. Why don't you write to ask your brother about him?"
For reasons best known to herself, Caroline did not answer.
"Are you ever going to get married? You are twenty-four."
Caroline was laughing again; but it was not the same spirit of mirth that had been called into life by the possible and probable advent of Mr. "Shifty" Sullivan.
"You ought to get married," declared Mrs. Cathewe. "Think of the dinners and teas I should give, following the announcement."
"It is almost worth the risk," mockingly. Caroline arose and walked over to the grate and sat down in the Morris chair. She took up the tongs and stirred the maple log. The spurt of flame discovered a face almost as beautiful as it was interesting and amiable. Her principal claim to beauty, however, lay in her eyes, which were large and brown, with a glister of gold in the rim of that part of the iris which immediately surrounded the pupil. With these eyes she was fascinating; even her dearest friends admitted this; and she was without caprices, which is a rare trait in a beautiful woman. She was also as independent as the Declaration which her mother's grandfather signed a hundred and some odd years before. She came naturally into the spirit, her father being a retired army officer, now the financial mainstay of St. Paul's,of which the Reverend Richard Allen had recently been duly appointed rector.
It is propitious to observe at once that the general possessed an unreliable liver and a battered shin which always ached with rheumatism during rainy weather. Only two persons dared to cross him on stormy days—his daughter and his son. The son was completing his final year at Harvard in the double capacity of so-and-so on the 'varsity crew and some-place-or-other on the eleven, and felt the importance of the luster which he was adding to the historic family name. But this story in nowise concerns him; rather the adventures of Mr. Sullivan, the pugilist, and the rector of St. Paul.
"Mollycoddle," mused Caroline, replacing the tongs.
"Oh, your father's judgment is not infallible."
"It is where courage is concerned," retorted Caroline.
"Well, what's a mollycoddle, anyway?" demanded Mrs. Cathewe, forgetting for the time being her own imminent troubles.
"Does Webster define it? I do not recall. But at any rate the accepted meaning of the word is a person without a backbone, a human being with rubber vertebræ, as daddy expresses it."
"Oh, fudge! your father likes men who slam doors, talk loudly, and bang their fists in their palms."
"Not always," smiling; "at least on days like this."
"Yes, I understand," replied Mrs. Cathewe, laughing. "B-r-r-r! I can see him. Jack says he eats them alive, whatever he means by that."
"Poor daddy!"
"I remember the late rector. Wheneverhe made a begging call he first asked the servant at the door, 'How's the general's liver to-day?' 'Bad, bad, your worship.' I overheard this dialogue one day while waiting for you. I had to bury my head in the sofa pillows."
"You are going to have Brussels sprouts for salad?"
"Yes. Why?" amused at this queer turn in the conversation.
"I was wondering if your Mr. Sullivan will call them amateur cabbages?"
"Why did you remind me of him? I had almost forgotten him."
"If only I can keep a sober face!" said Caroline, clasping her hands. "If he wears a dress suit, it is sure to pucker across the shoulders, be short in the sleeves, and generally wrinkled. He will wear a huge yellow stone, and his hair will be clipped close to the skull. It willbe covered with as many white scars as a map with railroad tracks. 'Mr. Sullivan, permit me to introduce the Reverend Richard Allen.' 'Sure.' Oh, it is rich!" And the laughter which followed smothered the sound of closing doors. "Nan, it is a tonic. I wish I were a novelist's wife. 'Mr. Sullivan, I am charmed to meet you.' I can imagine the rector's horror."
"And what is going to horrify the rector?" asked a manly voice from the doorway.
Both women turned guiltily, each uttering a little cry of surprise and dismay. They beheld a young man of thirty, of medium height, who looked shorter than he really was because of the breadth of his shoulders. His face was clean-shaven and manly; the head was well developed, the chin decided, the blue-gray eyes alight with animation and expectancy.The clerical frock was buttoned closely to the throat, giving emphasis to the splendid breathing powers concealed beneath. The Reverend Richard Allen looked all things save the mollycoddle, as the flush on Caroline's cheeks conceded. And as she arose, she vaguely wondered how much he had heard.
The rector, being above all things a gentleman, did not press his question. He came forward and shook hands, and then spread his fingers over the crackling log.
"What do you suppose has happened to me this day?" he began, turning his back to the blaze and looking first at Mrs. Cathewe because she was his hostess, and then at Caroline because she was the woman who lived first in his thoughts.
"You have found a worthy mendicant?" suggested Caroline, taking up the hand-screen and shading her eyes.
"Cold, cold."
"You have been asked to make an address before some woman's club," Mrs. Cathewe offered.
"Still cold. No. TheMorning Posthas asked me, in the interests of reform, to write up the prize-fight to-morrow night between Sullivan and McManus, setting forth the contest in all its brutality."
The two women looked at each other and laughed nervously. The same thought had occurred to each.
"Mr. Allen," said Mrs. Cathewe, deciding immediately to explain the cause of her merriment, "as you entered you must have overheard us speak of a Mr. Sullivan. You know how eccentric Mr. Cathewe is. Well, when I invited you to dine this evening I had no idea that this husband of mine was going to bring home Mr. Sullivan in order to study him atclose range, as a possible character in a new book he is writing."
The rector stroked his chin. Caroline, observing him shyly, was positive that the luster in his eyes was due to suppressed laughter.
"That will be quite a diversion," he said, seating himself. What a charming profile this girl possessed! Heigh-ho! between riches and poverty the chasm grew wide.
"And we have been amusing ourselves by dissecting Mr. Sullivan," added the woman with the charming profile. "I suggested that if he wore a dress suit it would be either too large or too small."
"Mercy!" exclaimed Mrs. Cathewe, rising suddenly as the hall door slammed, "I believe he has come already. Whatever shall I do, Carol, whatever shall I do?" in a loud whisper.
The rector got up and smiled at Caroline, who returned the smile. In the matter of appreciating humor, she and the rector stood upon common ground.
Presently the novelist and his guest entered. Both he and Mr. Sullivan appeared to be in the best of spirits, for their mouths were twisted in grins.
"My dear," began Cathewe, "this is Mr. Sullivan; Mr. Sullivan, Miss Boderick and the Reverend Richard Allen, of St. Paul's."
"I am delighted," said Mr. Sullivan, bowing.
There was not a wrinkle in Mr. Sullivan's dress suit; there were no diamond studs in his shirt bosom, no watch-chain; just the rims of his cuffs appeared, and these were of immaculate linen. His hair was black and thick and soft as hair always is that is frequently subjected tosoap and water. In fact, there was only one sign which betrayed Mr. Sullivan's profitable but equivocal business in life, and this was an ear which somewhat resembled a withered mushroom.
Caroline was disconcerted; she was even embarrassed. This pleasant-faced gentleman bowing to her was as far removed from her preconceived idea of a pugilist as the earth is removed from the sun. She did not know—as the wise writer knows—that it is only pugilists who can not fight who are all scarred and battered. She saw the rector shake Mr. Sullivan's hand. From him her gaze roved to Mrs. Cathewe, and the look of perplexity on that young matron's face caused her to smother the sudden wild desire to laugh.
"My dear, I shall leave you to entertain Mr. Sullivan while I change myclothes;" and Cathewe rushed from the room. He was a man who could not hold in laughter very successfully.
"Come over to the fire and warm yourself," said the rector pleasantly. The look of entreaty in Mrs. Cathewe's eyes could not possibly be ignored.
Mr. Sullivan crossed the room, gazing about curiously.
"I haven't th' slightest idea, ma'am," said the famed pugilist, addressing his hostess, "what your husband's graft is; but I understand he's a literary fellow that writes books, an' I suppose he knows why he ast me here t' eat."
Caroline sighed with relief; his voice was very nearly what she expected it would be.
"An' besides," continued Mr. Sullivan, "I'm kind o' curious myself t' see you swells get outside your feed. I ain't stuckon these togs, generally; a man's afraid t' breathe hearty."
Mrs. Cathewe shuddered slightly; Mr. Sullivan was rubbing the cold from his fungus-like ear. What should she do to entertain this man? she wondered. She glanced despairingly at Caroline; but Caroline was looking at the rector, who in turn seemed absorbed in Mr. Sullivan. She was without help; telegraphic communication was cut off, as it were.
"Do you think it will snow to-night?" she asked.
"It looks like it would," answered Mr. Sullivan, with a polite but furtive glance at the window. "Though there'll be a bigger push out to-morrer if it's clear. It's goin' t' be a good fight. D' you ever see a scrap, sir?" he asked, turning to the rector.
Caroline wondered if it was the fire orthe rector's own blood which darkened his cheek.
"I belong to the clergy," said the rector softly; "it is our duty not to witness fights, but to prevent them."
"Now, I say!" remonstrated Mr. Sullivan, "you folks run around in your autos, knock down people an' frighten horses, so's they run away; you go out an' kill thousands of birds an' deer an' fish, an' all that; an' yet you're th' first t' holler when two healthy men pummel each other for a livin'. You ain't consistent. Why, th' hardest punch I ever got never pained me more'n an hour, an' I took th' fat end of th' purse at that. When you're a kid, ain't you always quarrelin' an' scrappin'? Sure. Sometimes it was with reason an' cause, an' again jus' plain love of fightin'. Well, that's me. I fight because I like it, an' because it pays. Sure.It's on'y natural for some of us t' fight all th' time; an' honest, I'm dead weary of th' way th' papers yell about th' brutal prize-fight. If I want t' get my block punched off, that's my affair; an' I don't see what business some old fussies have in interferin'."
"It isn't really the fighting, Mr. Sullivan," replied the rector, who felt compelled to defend his point of view; "it's the rough element which is always brought to the surface during these engagements. Men drink and use profane language and wager money."
"As t' that, I don't say;" and Mr. Sullivan moved his hands in a manner which explained his inability to account for the transgressions of the common race.
"What's a block?" whispered Mrs. Cathewe into Caroline's ear.
Caroline raised her eyebrows; she hadalmost surrendered to the first natural impulse, that of raising her hands above her head, as she had often seen her brother do when faced by an unanswerable question.
The trend of conversation veered. Mr. Sullivan declared that he would never go upon the stage, and all laughed. Occasionally the women ventured timidly to offer an observation which invariably caused Mr. Sullivan to loose an expansive grin. And when he learned that the rector was to witness the fight in the capacity of a reporter, he enjoyed the knowledge hugely.
Presently Cathewe appeared, and dinner was announced. Mr. Sullivan sat between his host and hostess. No, he would not have a cocktail nor a highball; he never drank. Mrs. Cathewe straightway marked him down as a rank impostor. Didn't prize-fighters always drink andcarouse and get locked up by the police officers?
"Well, this is a new one on me," Mr. Sullivan admitted, as he tasted of his caviar and quietly dropped his fork. "May I ask what it is?"
"It's Russian caviar. It is like Russian literature; one has to cultivate a taste for it." The novelist glanced amusedly at the rector.
"It reminds me of what happened t' me at White Plains a couple of years ago. I was in trainin' that fall at Mulligan's. You've heard of Mulligan; greatest man on th' mat in his time. Well, I bucked up against French spinach. Says he: 'Eat it.' Says I, 'I don't like it.' Says he, 'I don't care whether you like it or not. I don't like your mug, but I have t' put up with it. Eat that spinach.' Says I, 'I don't see how I can eat it if I don't like it.'An' an hour after he gives me th' bill, an' I'd have had on'y thirty minutes t' get out but for th' housekeeper, who patched it up. Those were great times. Sure. Well, no spinach or caviar in mine. Now say, what's th' game? Do you want my history, or jus' a scrap or two?"
"Describe how you won the championship from McGonegal," said Cathewe eagerly, nodding to the butler to serve the oysters.
Mr. Sullivan toyed with the filigree butter-knife, mentally deciding that its use was for cutting pie. He cast an oblique glance at the immobile countenance of the English butler, and ahemmed.
"Well," he began, "it was like this...."
As Mr. Sullivan went on, a series of whispered questions and answers wasstarted between Caroline and the rector.
Caroline: What does he mean by "block"?
The Rector: His head, I believe.
Caroline: Oh!
Mr. Sullivan: There wasn't much doin' in th' third round. We fiddled a while. On'y once did either of us get t' th' ropes ... an' th' bell rang. Th' fourth was a hot one; hammer an' tongs from th' start off. He hooked me twice on th' wind, and I handed him out a jolt on th' jaw that put him t' th' mat.... I had th' best of th' round.
Caroline: In mercy's sake, what does he mean by "slats"?
The Rector(seized with a slight coughing): Possibly his ribs.
Caroline: Good gracious! (Whether this ejaculation was caused by surprise or by the oyster on which she had put morehorse-radish than was suited to her palate, will always remain a mystery.)
Mr. Sullivan: We were out for gore th' fift' round. He was gettin' strong on his hooks.
Mrs. Cathewe(interrupting him with great timidity): What do you mean by "hooks"?
Mr. Sullivan: It's a blow like this. (Illustrates and knocks over the centerpiece. Water and flowers spread over the table.) I say, now, look at that. Ain't I a Mike now, t' knock over th' flower-pot like that?
Cathewe: Never mind that, Mr. Sullivan. Go on with the fight.
Mr. Sullivan: Where was I? Oh, yes; he put it all over me that round.... They had counted eight when th' bell rang an' saved me.
Caroline: Hit him on thephonograph!
The Rector(reddening): It is possible that he refers to Mr. McGonegal's mouth.
Caroline: Well, I never! And I've got a slangy brother, too, at Harvard.
(The rector looks gravely at his empty oyster-shells.)
Mr. Sullivan: Things went along about even till th' tenth, when I blacked his lamps.
Caroline: Lamps?
The Rector: Eyes, doubtless.
Caroline: It's getting too deep for me.
Mr. Sullivan: The last round I saw that I had him goin' all right. In two seconds I had burgundy flowin' from his trombone.
(Cathewe leans back in his chair and laughs.)
Mrs. Cathewe(bewilderingly): Burgundy?
Mr. Sullivan(rather impatiently): Ajolt on th' nose. Well, there was some more waltzin', and then a hook an' a swing, an' him on th' mat, down an' out. I made six thousand, an' on'y got this tin ear t' show for my trouble.
It was fully ten o'clock when the coffee was served. Mr. Sullivan may have lost not a few "e's" and "g's" in the passing, but for all that he proved no small entertainment; and when he arose with the remark that he was "for th' tall pines," both ladies experienced an amused regret.
"Which way do you go?" asked Mr. Sullivan, laying his hand on the rector's arm.
"I pass your hotel. I shall be pleased to walk with you."
"I say," suddenly exclaimed Mr. Sullivan, pressing his pudgy fingers into the rector's arm, "where did you get thisarm? Why, it is as tough as a railroad tie."
"A course of physical culture," said the rector, visibly embarrassed.
"Physical culture? All right. But don't ever get mad at me," laughed Mr. Sullivan. "It's as big as a pile-driver."
The novelist told Mr. Sullivan that he was very much obliged for his company.
"Don't mention it. Drop int' th' fight to-morrer night. You'll get more ideas there'n you will hearin' me shoot hot air."
Cathewe looked slyly at his wife. He was a man, and more than once he had slipped away from the club and taken in the last few rounds, and then had returned home to say what a dull night he had had at the club.
Mrs. Cathewe had her arm lovingly around Caroline's waist. All at once she felt Caroline start.
"What is it?" she whispered.
"Nothing, nothing!" Caroline declared quickly.
But on the way home in her carriage Caroline wondered where the Reverend Richard Allen, rector of St. Paul's, had acquiredhistin ear.
II
"DEAR SIS—Yours received. Have hunted up the name, and have found that your Reverend Richard Allen is an '89 man, one of the best all-round men we ever had on the track. He was a terror, too, so an old grad tells me. Got kicked out in his senior year. It seems that his chum and roommate was very deeply in the hole, not extravagantly, like yours truly, but by a series of hard knocks. Allen had no cash himself. And you know when you haven't any money in sight, you can't borrow any. One night at the Museum (there was a cheap show on) a prize-fighter offered $300 to any one who would stand up before him for five rounds. Allen jumped up on the stage and licked the pug to a standstill. He got a bad swipe on the ear, however; and if your Allen has what they call a tin ear, an ear that looks as if my best bullpup had tried to make his dinner off it,ecce homo! He paid his mate's debts, and then was requested to call on the fac. The old ladies told him to pack up. He did. He has never returned to college since. But why doyou want to know all about him? They say he was a handsome duffer. You know I haven't seen him yet, not having been home since last Easter time. Now, for Heaven's sake, Sis, don't go and get daffy on his Riverince. I've got a man in tow for you, the best fellow that ever lived.Affectionately,Jack.""P.S.—Can't you shove a couple of 50's in your next letter to me? The governor's liver wasn't in good shape the first of the month."
"DEAR SIS—Yours received. Have hunted up the name, and have found that your Reverend Richard Allen is an '89 man, one of the best all-round men we ever had on the track. He was a terror, too, so an old grad tells me. Got kicked out in his senior year. It seems that his chum and roommate was very deeply in the hole, not extravagantly, like yours truly, but by a series of hard knocks. Allen had no cash himself. And you know when you haven't any money in sight, you can't borrow any. One night at the Museum (there was a cheap show on) a prize-fighter offered $300 to any one who would stand up before him for five rounds. Allen jumped up on the stage and licked the pug to a standstill. He got a bad swipe on the ear, however; and if your Allen has what they call a tin ear, an ear that looks as if my best bullpup had tried to make his dinner off it,ecce homo! He paid his mate's debts, and then was requested to call on the fac. The old ladies told him to pack up. He did. He has never returned to college since. But why doyou want to know all about him? They say he was a handsome duffer. You know I haven't seen him yet, not having been home since last Easter time. Now, for Heaven's sake, Sis, don't go and get daffy on his Riverince. I've got a man in tow for you, the best fellow that ever lived.
Affectionately,Jack."
"P.S.—Can't you shove a couple of 50's in your next letter to me? The governor's liver wasn't in good shape the first of the month."
Caroline dropped the letter into her lap and stared out of the window. It was snowing great, soft, melting flakes. She did not know whether to laugh or to cry, nor what occasioned this impulse to do either. So he was a Cambridge man, and had been expelled for prize-fighting; for certainly it had been prize-fighting, even though the motive had been a good and manly one.
"A milksop!" There was no doubt, no hesitancy; her laughter rang out freshand clear. What would her father say when he learned the truth? Her next thought was, why should the rector pose as a lamb, patient and unspeaking, when all the time he was a lion? She alone had solved the mystery. It was self-control, it was power. This discovery filled her with a quiet exultation. She was a woman, and to unravel a secret was as joyful a task for her as to invent a fashionable hat.
The bygone rectors had interested her little; they had been either pedants, fanatics, or social drones; while this man had gone about his work quietly and modestly. He never said: "I visited the poor to-day." It was the poor who said: "The rector was here to-day with money and clothes." But his past he let remain nebulous; not even the trustees themselves had peered far into it, at least not as far backas the Cambridge days. Thus, the element of mystery surrounding him first attracted her; the man's personality added to this. The knowledge that he was a college man seemed to place him nearer her social level, though she was not a person to particularize so long as a man proved himself; and the rector had, beyond a doubt, proved himself.
There were dozens of brilliant young men following eagerly in her train. They rode with her, drove with her, and fought for the privilege of playing caddy to her game. Yet, while she liked them all, she cared particularly for none. The rector, being a new species of man, became a study. Time and time again she had invited him to the Country Club; he always excused himself on the ground that he was taking a course of reading such as to demand all his spare time in the day.One morning she had been riding alone, and had seen him tramping across country. In the spirit of fun she took a couple of fences and caught up with him. He had appeared greatly surprised, even embarrassed, for her woman's eye had been quick to read. She had rallied him upon his stride. He had become silent. And this man had "jumped upon the stage and licked the pug to a standstill!"
"Carol, are you there?"
Caroline started and hid the letter. She arose and admitted her father.
"James says that you received a letter this afternoon. Was it from the boy? Begging for money? Well, don't you dare to send it to him. The ragamuffin has overdrawn seven hundred dollars this month. What's he think I am, a United States Steel Corporation?"
"He has asked me for one hundreddollars, and I am going to send it to the poor boy to-night."
"Oh, you are, are you? Who's bringing up the scalawag, you or I?"
"You are trying to, daddy, but I believe he's bent on bringing himself up." She ran her fingers through his hair. "I know the weather's bad, daddy, but don't be cross. Come over to the piano and I'll play for you."
"I don't want any music," gruffly.
"Come," dragging him.
"That's the way; I have no authority in this house. But, seriously, Carol, the boy's spending it pretty fast, and it will not do him a bit of good. I want to make a man out of him, not a spendthrift. Play that what-d'you-call-it from Chopin."
"TheBerceuse?" seating herself at the piano.
The twilight of winter was fast settlingdown. The house across the way began to glow at various windows. Still she played. From Chopin she turned to Schumann, from Schumann to Rubinstein, back to Chopin's polonaise and the nocturne in E flat major.
"You play those with a livelier spirit than usual," was the general's only comment. How these haunting melodies took him back to the past, when the girl's mother played them in the golden courting days! He could not see the blush his comment had brought to his daughter's cheek. "My dear, my dear!" he said, with great tenderness, sliding his arm around her waist, "I know that I'm cross at times, but I'm only an old barking dog; don't do any harm. I'll tell you what, if my leg's all right next Saturday I'll ride out to the Country Club with you, and we'll have tea together."
She leaned toward him and kissed him. "Daddy, what makes you think so meanly of the rector? I was thinking of him when you came in."
"I don't think meanly of him; but, hang it, Carol, he always says 'Yes' when I want him to say 'No,' andvise versa. He's too complacent. I like a man who's a human being to kick once in a while, a man who's got some fight in him.... What are you laughing at, you torment?"
"At something which just occurred to me. There goes the gong for dinner. I am ravenous."
"By the way, I forgot to tell you what I saw in the evening edition of thePost. Your parson is going to report the prize-fight to-night. He'll be frightened out of his shoes. I'm going up to the club; going to play a few rubbers. It'll make me forget my grumbling leg. You run overto Cathewe's or telephone Mrs. Cathewe to run over here."
"Can't you stay in to-night? I don't want anybody but you."
"But I've half promised; besides, I'm sort of blue. I need the excitement."
"Very well; I'll telephone Nan. Mr. Cathewe will probably go to that awful fight in the interests of his new book. She'll come."
"Cathewe's going to the fight, you say? Humph!" The general scratched his ear thoughtfully.
III
THE auditorium was a great barn-like building which had been erected originally for the purpose of a roller-skating rink. Nowadays the charity bazaars were held there, the balls, political mass-meetings, amateur dramatics, and prize-fights.
Cathewe, as he gazed curiously around, pictured to himself the contrast between the Thanksgiving ball of the past week and the present scene, and fell into his usual habit of philosophizing. His seat was high up in the gallery. What faces he saw through the blue and choking haze of smoke! Saloon keepers, idlers, stunted youth, blasé men about town, with a sprinkling of respectable business men,who ever and anon cast hasty and guilty glances over their shoulders, and when caught would raise a finger as if to say: "You rogue, what areyoudoing here?"—these and other sights met his interested eye. Even he confessed to himself that his presence here was not all due to the gathering of color for his new book. Self-analysis discovered to him that the animal in him was eagerly awaiting the arrival of the fighters. Such is human nature.
Down below he saw the raised platform, strongly protected by ropes. Around this were the reporters' tables, the telegraph operators' desks, a few chairs for the privileged friends of the press, and pails, towels and sponges. Yes, there was the rector, sitting at one of the reporters' tables, erect in his chair, his gaze bent upon his paper pad, apparently oblivious to his strange surroundings. Cathewewondered what was going on in that somewhat mystifying mind. He certainly would have been surprised could he have read.
In fact, the rector was going over again his own memorable battle in Boston some ten years ago. He was thinking how it had changed his whole career, how it had swerved him from the bar to the pulpit.
Ah, to be within the magic circle of her presence, to be within sight and touch all his life, sometimes to hear her voice lifted in song, the smooth, white fingers bringing to life the poetry of sound! He had ceased to lie to himself. He loved, with all his heart, with all his soul. He had given up; he had surrendered completely; but she was never to know. Even at this moment poverty took him to the mount and showed him the abyss between him and his heart's desire. He wasaroused from his dreams by a sudden commotion, a subdued murmur. Mr. Sullivan's antagonist, dressed in a gaudy sky-blue bath-robe, was crawling under the ropes, followed by his seconds. The murmur grew into a prolonged cheer when Mr. Sullivan shortly followed in a bath-robe, even richer in hues.
The reporters shifted their writing-pads, lighted fresh cigars, and drew their legs under the tables. The sporting editor of thePostturned to the rector.
"I'll tip you off on the technicalities of the scrap," he said. "All you need to do is to watch the men and describe what they do in your own way."
"Thank you," replied the rector. He was calm. When Mr. Sullivan nodded pleasantly, he smiled.
The men in the ring threw aside their bath-robes, and stood forth in all thesplendor of their robust physiques. A short, pompous man, wearing a watch-chain which threatened to disconcert his physical balance, stepped to the ropes and held up his hand. Silence suddenly fell upon two thousand men.
"Th' preliminary is off; th' 'Kid' refuses to go on because th' 'Dago' didn't weigh in as agreed. Th' main bout will now take place. Mr. Sullivan t' th' right, an' Mr. McManus t' th' left." The pompous man took out a greasy telegram from his pocket, and said: "Lanky Williams challenges th' winner fer a purse an' a side bet of fi' thousan'."
He was cheered heartily. Nobody cared about the preliminary "go"; it was Sullivan and McManus the spectators had paid their money to see.
The rector recalled the scenes inQuo Vadis, and shrugged his shoulders. Humannature never changes; only politics and fashions. He himself was vaguely conscious of a guilty thrill as he saw the two men step from their corners and shake hands.
As this is a story not of how Mr. "Shifty" Sullivan won his battle from Mr. McManus, but of how the rector of St. Paul's nearly lost his, I shall not dwell upon the battle as it was fought by rounds. Let it suffice that the crisis came during the twelfth round. Sullivan was having the best of this round, though in the four previous he had been worsted. The men came together suddenly, and there was some rough in-fighting. The pompous man, who was the referee, was kept on the jump. One could hear the pad-pad of blows and the scrape-scrape of shoes on the resined mat, so breathless were the spectators. The boxers became tangled.
"Foul, foul!"
The voice rang out strong and distinct. It was not the referee's voice, for the referee himself looked angrily down whence the voice came. Sullivan, his face writhed in agony, was clinging desperately to his opponent.
"A foul blow!"
Pandemonium. Everybody was yelling, half not knowing why.
The seconds and trainers were clambering into the ring. The referee separated the boxers. They rushed at each other furiously. The seconds stepped in between. A general mix-up followed, during which the pompous man lost his silk hat.
The reporter for thePostpulled the rector's coat tails, and the rector sank into his chair, pale and terrified. He had forgotten! Carried away by his old love ofclean fighting, by his love of physical contests, he had forgotten, forgotten!
"Foul! It was a foul!"
"Ye-a! Ye-a! Foul blow!"
"Bully fer th' parson!"
"Sullivan, Sullivan!"
"McManus!"
"Foul, foul! T'row out th' referee!"
"Give th' deacon a show fer his money!"
These and a thousand other cries rose in the vicinity of the rector. Those reporters whose city editors had not thought of the stroke of sending a minister of the gospel to report the fight were delighted. Here was a story worth forty fights, a story to delight thousands and thousands who looked upon St. Paul's as a place where only the rich might worship.
"I declare the fight a draw, an' all bets off!" howled the referee, wiping thedust from his damaged hat, which he had at length recovered.
The rector rose to move down the aisle to the entrance. He felt morally and physically crushed. All this would be in the newspapers the next morning. He was disgraced; for everybody would ask, "How should he know what a foul blow was?" It was terribly bitter, after having struggled so long. Presently he became aware that men, reeking with cigar smoke and liquors, were talking loudly to him, even cursing him. He caught some words about "makin' us lose our bets, when we come all th' way from N'York."
A hand came into contact with his cheek, and the sting of it ran like fire through his veins. The wrath at his moral defeat broke down the dikes of his self-control; the fury which is always quickly provoked by physical pain in the animalityof man, swept aside his prudence. The man who struck him was seen to rise bodily and fall crumpled among the seats. The man's friends—there were four in number—recovering from their momentary surprise, attacked the rector swiftly, and not without a certain conformity.
What followed has become history. Even Sullivan and his opponent forgot their animosity for the time being, and leaned eagerly over the ropes. Far back in the surging crowd several police helmets could be discerned, but they made little progress. The rector in his tightly fitting frock was at a disadvantage, but his wonderful vigor and activity stood him in good stead. Quick as a cat he leaped from this side to that, dealing his blows with the rapidity of a piston-rod and almost as terrible in effect. Once he went down; but, like Antæus, the touchof earth revived him and doubled his strength.
Men, in the mad effort to witness this battle, trod on one another's toes, hats were crushed, coats were torn, even blows were struck. They stood on chairs, on tables, yelling and cheering. This was a fight thatwasa fight. Faking had no part in it; there was no partiality of referees. When the police finally arrived it was all over. The rector was brushing his hat, while Cathewe, who had dashed down-stairs at the first sound of the rector's voice, was busy with the rector's coat.
"Want t' appear against 'em?" asked one of the officers.
"No, no! Let them go," cried the rector. "Cathewe, take me out, please; take me home." His hands shook as he put on his hat. He was very white. The knuckles of his left hand were raw and bleeding.
The police finally opened a pathway in the cheering crowd, and through this Cathewe and the rector disappeared. Outside, Cathewe hailed a carriage.
"Cathewe, I have absolutely and positively ruined my career."
The rector sank back among the cushions, overwhelmed. His voice was uneven and choked.
"Nonsense!" cried Cathewe. "What else could you do?"
"I could have passed by the man who struck me."
"Oh, pshaw! A man can not help being human simply because he wears the cloth. It was the bulliest fight I ever saw. It was magnificent! They weren't in it at any time. And you walloped four of 'em, and one was an ex-pugilist. It was great."
"Don't!"
"They'll call you the fighting parson."
"I shall resign to-morrow. I must begin life all over again. It will be very hard."
"Resign nothing! By the way, I saw General Boderick in the crowd."
"Boderick? Oh, I must hurry. He must have my resignation before he has a chance to demand it."