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diff --git a/30627-h/30627-h.htm b/30627-h/30627-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d701cf3 --- /dev/null +++ b/30627-h/30627-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,23420 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.1//EN" "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml11/DTD/xhtml11.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" > +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=iso-8859-1" /> +<meta name="generator" content="eppg.py 0.34 (04-Dec-2009)" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of In the Heart of a Fool, by William Allen White</title> +<style type="text/css"> +body {margin-left:10%; margin-right:10%;} +p {margin-top:1ex; margin-bottom:0; text-indent:0; text-align:justify; padding-right:2ex;} +p + p {margin-top:0; text-indent:1em;} +div.bquote {font-size:1.0em; margin:5px 5%;} +div.bquote p {text-indent:0em; margin-bottom:4px; margin-top:4px;} +div.center {text-indent:0em; margin-bottom:4px; margin-top:4px;} +div.poetry {text-indent:0em; margin-left:2em; margin-bottom:4px; margin-top:4px;} +div.adpage {} +div.adpage p {text-indent:0em; margin-top:1ex;} +p.center {text-align:center; text-indent:0em;} +p.caption {font-size:smaller; text-indent:0em;} +p.tp {font-size:1em; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0; text-align:center; text-indent:0em;} +h1,h2 {text-align:center; font-weight:normal;} +h1 {font-size:1.6em;} +h2 {font-size:1.4em; margin-top:4ex; margin-bottom:2ex;} +a {text-decoration:none;} +span.h2fs {font-size:small;} +table {margin-left:auto; margin-right:auto; clear:both;} +td.tcol1 {text-align:right; padding-right:1ex; vertical-align:top;} +td.tcol2 {text-align:left; padding-right:2ex; vertical-align:top;} +td.tcol3 {text-align:right; padding-right:2ex; vertical-align:bottom;} +hr.short {border:none; border-bottom:1px solid black; height: 1px; width: 20%; margin-left: 40%; margin-top:1ex; margin-bottom:1ex;} +hr.pb {border:none; page-break-after:always; margin-top:4em;} +.pagenum {display:none;} +.pncolor {color:inherit;} +div.box {text-align:center; margin-left:15%; width:70%; font-size:smaller;} +div.sc {} + +.footnote {font-size: 90%; } +.footnote .label {float:left; text-align:left; width:2em;} +.footnote a {text-decoration:none;} +.fnanchor {font-size: 80%; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: 0.25em;} +div.footnote p {margin-bottom:1ex; text-indent:0em;} + +@media screen { +hr.pb {margin:30px 0; width:100%; border:none; border-top:thin dashed silver;} +.pagenum {display:inline; font-size:x-small; text-align:right; text-indent:0; +position:absolute; right:2%; padding:1px 3px; font-style:normal; +font-variant:normal; font-weight:normal; text-decoration:none; +background-color:inherit; border:1px solid #eee;} +.pncolor {color:silver;} +div.nbox {text-align:center; margin:1ex auto; width:25ex; font-size:smaller;} +div.box {text-align:center; margin:1ex auto; width:35ex; font-size:smaller;} +div.mbox {text-align:center; margin:1ex auto; width:45ex; font-size:smaller;} +div.wbox {text-align:center; margin:1ex auto; width:55ex; font-size:smaller;} +div.sc {font-variant:small-caps} +} +</style> +</head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of In the Heart of a Fool, by William Allen White + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: In the Heart of a Fool + +Author: William Allen White + +Release Date: December 8, 2009 [EBook #30627] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IN THE HEART OF A FOOL *** + + + + +Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<h1>IN THE HEART OF A FOOL</h1> + +<hr class='pb' /> + +<div class='box'> +<p class='tp'>BY WILLIAM ALLEN WHITE</p> +<hr class='short' /> +<p>THE REAL ISSUE<br />THE COURT OF BOYVILLE<br /> STRATAGEMS AND +SPOILS<br /> IN OUR TOWN<br /> A CERTAIN RICH MAN<br /> THE OLD ORDER +CHANGETH<br /> GOD’S PUPPETS<br /> THE MARTIAL ADVENTURES +OF<br /> HENRY AND ME<br /> IN THE HEART +OF A FOOL</p> </div> + +<hr class='pb' /> + +<p class='tp' style='font-size:1.8em;margin-bottom:20px;'>IN THE HEART OF A +FOOL</p> +<p class='tp' style=''>BY</p> +<p class='tp' style='font-size:larger;'>WILLIAM ALLEN WHITE</p> +<p class='tp' style='font-size:smaller;margin-bottom:50px;'>Author of “In +Our Town,” “A Certain Rich Man,”<br />“The Martial +Adventures of Henry<br />and Me,” etc.</p> +<p class='tp' style=''>New York<br />THE MACMILLAN COMPANY<br />1918</p> +<p class='tp' style='font-size:smaller;'>All rights reserved</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> + +<p class='tp' style='font-size:smaller;'>COPYRIGHT, 1918<br />BY THE MACMILLAN +COMPANY</p> +<hr class='short' /> +<p class='tp' style='font-size:smaller;'>Set up and electrotyped. Published +October, 1918.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> + +<div class='sc'> +<table summary='TOC'> +<tr><td colspan='3' style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em;'>CONTENTS</td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1' style='font-size:smaller;'>CHAPTER</td><td></td><td class='tcol3' style='font-size:smaller;'>PAGE</td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>I</td><td class='tcol2'>Being Stage Directions, and a Cast of Characters.</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_1'>1</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>II</td><td class='tcol2'>In Which We Introduce the Fool and His Lady Fair, and What He Said in His Heart–the Same Being the Theme and Thesis of This Story</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_2'>4</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>III</td><td class='tcol2'>In Which We Consider the Ladies–God Bless ’Em!</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_3'>21</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>IV</td><td class='tcol2'>The Adams Family Bible Lies Like a Gentleman</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_4'>38</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>V</td><td class='tcol2'>In Which Margaret Müller Dwells in Marble Halls and Henry Fenn and Kenyon Adams Win Notable Victories</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_5'>47</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>VI</td><td class='tcol2'>Enter the Beauty and Chivalry of Harvey; Also Herein We Break Our Finest Heart</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_6'>63</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>VII</td><td class='tcol2'>In Which We See How Life Translates Itself Into the Materialism Around It</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_7'>69</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>VIII</td><td class='tcol2'>Captain Morton Acts As Court Herald and Morty Sands and Grant Adams Hear Sad News</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_8'>80</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>IX</td><td class='tcol2'>Wherein Henry Fenn Tries an Interesting Experiment</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_9'>89</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>X</td><td class='tcol2'>In Which Mary Adams Takes a Much Needed Rest</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_10'>98</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>XI</td><td class='tcol2'>Wherein a Fool Gropes for a Spirit and Can Find Only Dust</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_11'>103</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>XII</td><td class='tcol2'>In Which We Learn That Love Is the Lever That Moves the World</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_12'>114</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>XIII</td><td class='tcol2'>In Which We Observe the Interior of a Deserted House</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_13'>126</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>XIV</td><td class='tcol2'>In Which Our Hero Strolls out With the Devil to Look at the High Mountain</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_14'>135</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>XV</td><td class='tcol2'>Wherein We Welcome in a New Year and Consider a Serious Question</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_15'>152</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>XVI</td><td class='tcol2'>Grant Adams Is Sold Into Bondage and Margaret Fenn Receives a Shock</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_16'>163</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>XVII</td><td class='tcol2'>A Chapter Which Introduces Some Possible Gods</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_17'>180</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>XVIII</td><td class='tcol2'>Our Hero Rides to Hounds With the Primrose Hunt</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_18'>187</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>XIX</td><td class='tcol2'>Herein Captain Morton Falls Under Suspicion and Henry Fenn Falls from Grace</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_19'>200</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>XX</td><td class='tcol2'>In Which Henry Fenn Falls from Grace and Rises Again</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_20'>209</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>XXI</td><td class='tcol2'>In Which We See a Fat Little Rascal on the Rack</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_21'>219</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>XXII</td><td class='tcol2'>In Which Tom Van Dorn Becomes a Wayfaring Man Also</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_22'>232</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>XXIII</td><td class='tcol2'>Here Grant Adams Discovers His Insides</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_23'>241</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>XXIV</td><td class='tcol2'>In Which the Devil Formally Takes the Two Hindermost and Closes an Account in His Ledger</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_24'>252</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>XXV</td><td class='tcol2'>In Which We See Two Temples and the Contents Thereof</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_25'>264</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>XXVI</td><td class='tcol2'>Dr. Nesbit Starts on a Long Upward but Devious Journey</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_26'>277</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>XXVII</td><td class='tcol2'>In Which We See Something Come Into This Story Outside of the Material World</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_27'>288</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>XXVIII</td><td class='tcol2'>Wherein Morty Sands Makes a Few Sensible Remarks in Public</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_28'>298</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>XXIX</td><td class='tcol2'>Being Not a Chapter but an Interlude</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_29'>309</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>XXX</td><td class='tcol2'>Grant Adams Preaching a Message of Love Raises the Very Devil in Harvey</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_30'>320</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>XXXI</td><td class='tcol2'>In Which Judge Van Dorn Makes His Brags and Dr. Nesbit Sees a Vision</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_31'>337</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>XXXII</td><td class='tcol2'>Wherein Violet Hogan Takes up an Old Trade and Margaret Van Dorn Seeks a Higher Plane</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_32'>350</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>XXXIII</td><td class='tcol2'>In Which the Angels Shake a Foot for Henry Fenn</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_33'>365</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>XXXIV</td><td class='tcol2'>A Short Chapter, Yet in It We Examine One Canvas Heaven, One Real Heaven, and Two Snug Little Hells</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_34'>379</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>XXXV</td><td class='tcol2'>The Old Spider Begins to Divide His Flies With Others and George Brotherton Is Puzzled Twice in One Night</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_35'>388</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>XXXVI</td><td class='tcol2'>A Long Chapter but a Busy One, in Which Kenyon Adams and His Mother Have a Strange Meeting, and Lila Van Dorn Takes a Night Ride</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_36'>403</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>XXXVII</td><td class='tcol2'>In Which We Witness a Ceremony in the Temple of Love</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_37'>423</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>XXXVIII</td><td class='tcol2'>Grant Adams Visits the Sons of Esau</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_38'>431</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>XXXIX</td><td class='tcol2'>Being No Chapter at All but an Intermezzo Before the Last Movement</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_39'>441</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>XL</td><td class='tcol2'>Here We Have the Fellow and the Girl Beginning to Prepare for the Last Chapter</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_40'>444</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>XLI</td><td class='tcol2'>Here We See Grant Adams Conquering His Third and Last Devil</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_41'>454</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>XLII</td><td class='tcol2'>A Chapter Which Is Concerned Largely With the Love Affairs of “The Full Strength of the Company”</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_42'>468</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>XLIII</td><td class='tcol2'>Wherein We Find Grant Adams Calling Upon Kenyon’s Mother, and Darkness Falls Upon Two Lovers</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_43'>496</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>XLIV</td><td class='tcol2'>In Which We Suffer Little Children, With George Brotherton, and in General Consider the Habitants of the Kingdom</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_44'>515</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>XLV</td><td class='tcol2'>In Which Lida Bowman Considers Her Universe and Tom Van Dorn Wins Another Victory</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_45'>527</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>XLVI</td><td class='tcol2'>Wherein Grant Adams Preaches Peace and Lida Bowman Speaks Her Mind</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_46'>543</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>XLVII</td><td class='tcol2'>In Which Grant Adams and Laura Van Dorn Take a Walk Down Market Street and Mrs. Nesbit Acquires a Long Lost Grandson-In-Law</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_47'>561</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>XLVIII</td><td class='tcol2'>Wherein We Erect a House Built Upon a Rock</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_48'>575</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>XLIX</td><td class='tcol2'>How Morty Sands Turned Away Sadly and Judge Van Dorn Uncovered a Secret</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_49'>582</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>L</td><td class='tcol2'>Judge Van Dorn Sings Some Merry Songs and They Take Grant Adams Behind a White Door</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_50'>597</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>LI</td><td class='tcol2'>In Which We End As We Began and All Live Happily Ever After</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_51'>609</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>LII</td><td class='tcol2'>Not Exactly a Chapter but Rather a Q. E. D. or a Hic Fabula Docet</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_52'>613</a></td></tr> +</table> +</div> + +<hr class='pb' /> + +<p class='tp' style='font-size:1.6em;'><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_1'></a>1</span>IN THE HEART OF A FOOL</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><a id='link_1'></a>CHAPTER I<br /><span class='h2fs'>BEING STAGE DIRECTIONS, AND A CAST OF CHARACTERS</span></h2> + +<p>Sunshine and prairie grass–well in the foreground. For the background, +perhaps a thousand miles away or more than half a decade removed in time, is the +American Civil War. In the blue sky a meadow lark’s love song, and in the +grass the boom of the prairie chicken’s wings are the only sounds that +break the primeval silence, excepting the lisping of the wind which dimples the +broad acres of tall grass–thousand upon thousand of acres–that +stretch northward for miles. To the left the prairie grass rises upon a low +hill, belted with limestone and finally merges into the mirage on the knife edge +of the far horizon. To the southward on the canvas the prairie grass is broken +by the heavy green foliage above a sluggish stream that writhes and twists and +turns through the prairie, which rises above the stream and meets another +limestone belt upon which the waving ripples of the unmowed grass wash southward +to the eye’s reach.</p> + +<p>Enter R. U. E. a four-ox team hauling a cart laden with a printing press and +a printer’s outfit; following that are other ox teams hauling carts laden +with tents and bedding, household goods, lumber, and provisions. A four-horse +team hauling merchandise, and a span of mules hitched to a spring wagon come +crashing up through the timber by the stream. Men and women are walking beside +the oxen or the teams and are riding in the covered wagons. They are eagerly +seeking something. It is the equality of opportunity that is supposed to be +found in the virgin prairies of the new West. The men are nearly all veterans of +the late war, for the most part bearded youngsters in their twenties or early +thirties. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_2'></a>2</span>The women are +their fresh young wives. As the procession halts before the canvas, the men and +women begin to unpack the wagons and to line out on each side of an imaginary +street in the prairie. The characters are discovered as follows:</p> + +<p>Amos Adams, a red-bearded youth of twenty-nine and Mary Sands, his wife. They +are printers and begin unpacking and setting up the printing material in a +tent.</p> + +<p>Dr. James Nesbit and Bedelia Satterthwaite, his wife, in the tent beside the +Adamses.</p> + +<p>Captain Ezra Morton, and Ruth his wife; he is selling a patent, self-opening +gate.</p> + +<p>Ahab Wright, in side whiskers, white necktie, flannel shirt and carefully +considered trousers tucked in shiny boots.</p> + +<p>Daniel Sands, Jane, his young wife, and Mortimer, her infant stepson. Daniel +owns the merchandise in the wagon.</p> + +<p>Casper Herdicker, cobbler, and Brunhilde Herdicker, his wife.</p> + +<p>Herman Müller, bearded, coarse-featured, noisy; a Pennsylvania Dutchman, his +faded, rope-haired, milk-eyed, sickly wife and Margaret, their baby +daughter.</p> + +<p>Kyle Perry, owner of the horses and spring wagon.</p> + +<p>Dick Bowman, Ira Dooley, Thomas Williams, James McPherson, Dennis Hogan, a +boy, laborers.</p> + +<p>As other characters enter during the early pages of the story they shall be +properly introduced.</p> + +<p>As the actors unload their wagons the spectators may notice above their heads +bright, beautiful and evanescent forms coming and going in and out of being. +These are the visions of the pioneers, and they are vastly more real than the +men and women themselves. For these visions are the forces that form the human +crystal.</p> + +<p>Here abideth these three: sunshine and prairie grass and blue sky, cloud +laden. These for ages have held domain and left the scene unchanged. When +lo–at Upper Middle Entrance,–enter love! And love witched the dreams +and visions of those who toiled in the sunshine and prairie grass under the blue +sky cloud laden. And behold what they visioned in the witchery of love, took +form and spread upon the prairie <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_3'></a>3</span>in wood and stone and iron, and became a part of the +life of the Nation. Blind men in other lands, in other times looked at the +Nation and saw only wood and stone and iron. Yet the wood and stone and iron +should not have symbolized the era in America. Rather should the dreams and +visions of the pioneers, of those who toiled under the sunshine and in the +prairie grass have symbolized our strength. For half a century later when the +world was agonizing in a death grapple with the mad gods of a crass materialism, +mankind saw rising from the wood and stone and iron that had seemed to epitomize +this Nation, a spirit which had lain hidden yet dormant in the Nation’s +life–a beautiful spirit of idealism strong, brave and humbly wise; the +child of the dreams and visions and the love of humanity that dwelled in the +hearts of the pioneers of that earlier time.</p> + +<p>But this is looking forward. So let us go back to scene one, act one, in +those days before the sunshine was shaded, the prairie grass worn off, and the +blue sky itself was so stained and changed that the meadow-lark was mute!</p> + +<p>And now we are ready for the curtain: and–music please.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_4'></a>4</span><a id='link_2'></a>CHAPTER II<br /><span class='h2fs'>IN WHICH WE INTRODUCE THE FOOL AND HIS LADY FAIR AND WHAT HE SAID IN HIS HEART–THE SAME BEING THE THEME AND THESIS OF THIS STORY</span></h2> + +<p>A story is a curious thing, that grows with a kind of consciousness of its +own. Time was, in its invertebrate period of gestation when this story was to be +Amos Adams’s story. It was to be the story of one who saw great visions +that were realized, who had from the high gods whispers of their plans. What a +book it would have been if Amos and Mary could have written it–the story +of dreams come true. But alas, the high gods mocked Amos Adams. Mary’s +clippings from the Tribune–a great litter of them, furnished certain dates +and incidents for the story. Often when the Tribune was fresh from the press +Mary and Amos would sit together in the printing office and Mary eaten with +pride would clip from the damp paper the grandiloquent effusions of Amos that +seemed to fit into other items that were to remind them of things which they +could not print in their newspaper but which would be material for their book. +What a bundle of these clippings there is! And there was the diary, or +old-fashioned Memory Book of Mary Adams. What a pile of neatly folded sheets +covered with Mary Adams’ handwriting are there on the table by the window! +What memories they revive, what old dead joys are brought to life, what faded +visions are repainted. This is to be the Book–the book that they dreamed +of in their youth–even before little Kenyon was born, before Jasper was +born, indeed before Grant was born.</p> + +<p>But now the years have written in many things and it will not be even their +story. Indeed as life wrote upon their hearts its mysterious legend–the +legend that erased many of their noble dreams and put iron into their souls, +there is evidence in what they wrote that they thought it would be <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_5'></a>5</span>Grant’s story. Most +parents think their sons will be heroes. But their boy had to do his part in the +world’s rough work and before the end the clippings and the notes in the +Memory Book show that they felt that a hero in blue overalls would hardly answer +for their Book. Then there came a time when Amos alone in his later years +thought that it might be Kenyon’s story; for Kenyon now is a fiddler of +fame, and fiddlers make grand heroes. But as the clippings and the notes show +forth still another story, the Book that was to be their book and story, may not +be one man’s or one woman’s story. It may not be even the story of a +town; though Harvey’s story is tragic enough. (Indeed sometimes it has +seemed that the story of Harvey, rising in a generation out of the sunshine and +prairie grass, a thousand flued hell, was to be the story of the Book.) But now +Harvey seems to be only a sign of the times, a symptom of the growth of the +human soul. So the Book must tell the tale of a time and a place where men and +women loved and strove and joyed or suffered and lost or won after the old, old +fashion of our race; with only such new girdles and borders and frills in the +record of their work and play as the changing skirts of passing circumstance +require. The Book must be more than Amos Adams’s or his son’s or his +son’s son’s story or his town’s, though it must be all of +these. It must be the story of many men and many women, each one working out his +salvation in his own way and all the threads woven into the divine design, +carrying along in its small place on the loom the inscrutable pattern of human +destiny. But most of all it should be the story which shall explain the America +that rose when her great day came–exultant, triumphant to the glorious +call of an ideal, arose from sordid things environing her body and soul, and +consecrated herself without stint or faltering hand to the challenge of +democracy.</p> + +<p>In the old days–the old days when Amos Adams was young–he printed +the Harvey <i>Tribune</i> on a hand press. Mary spread the ink upon the types; he +pulled the great lever that impressed each sheet; and as they worked they sang +about the coming of the new day. As a soldier–a commissioned officer he +had fought in the great Civil War for the truth that should make men free. And +he was sure <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_6'></a>6</span> in those +elder days that the new day was just dawning. And Mary was sure too; so the +readers of the Tribune were assured that the dawn was at hand. The editor knew +that there were men who laughed at him for his hopes. But he and Mary, his wife, +only laughed at men who were so blind that they could not see the dawn. So for +many years they kept on rallying to whatever faith or banner or cause seemed +surest in its promise of the sunrise. Green-backers, Grangers, Knights of Labor, +Prohibitionists–these two crusaders followed all of the banners. And still +there came no sunrise. Farmers’ Alliance, Populism, Free Silver–Amos +marched with each cavalcade. And was hopeful in its defeat.</p> + +<p>And thus the years dragged on and made decades and the decades marshaled into +a generation that became an era, and a city rose around a mature man. And still +in his little office on a rickety side street, the <i>Tribune</i>, a weekly +paper in a daily town, kept pointing to the sunrise; and Amos Adams, editor and +proprietor, an old fool with the faith of youth, for many years had a book to +write and a story to tell–a story that was never told, for it grew beyond +him.</p> + +<p>He printed the first edition of the <i>Tribune</i> in his tent under an elm +tree in a vast, unfenced meadow that rose from the fringe of timber that shaded +the Wahoo. Volume one, number one, told a waiting world of the formation of the +town company of Harvey with Daniel Sands as president. It was one of thousands +of towns founded after the Civil War–towns that were bursting like +mushrooms through the prairie soil. After that war in which millions of men gave +their youth and myriads gave their lives for an ideal, came a reaction. And in +the decades that followed the war, men gave themselves to an orgy of +materialism. Harvey was a part of that orgy. And the Ohio crowd, the group that +came from Elyria–the Sandses, the Adamses, Joseph Calvin, Ahab Wright, +Kyle Perry, the Kollanders <a id="FNanchor_X_1"></a> <a href="#Footnote_X_1" +class="fnanchor"><sup>[1]</sup></a> and all the rest except the +Nesbits–were so considerable a part of Harvey in the beginning, that +probably they were as guilty as the rest of the country in the crass riot of +greed that followed <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_7'></a>7</span> +the war. They brought Amos Adams to Harvey because he was a printer and in those +halcyon days all printers were supposed to be able to write; and he brought +Mary–but did he bring Mary? He was never sure whether he brought her or +she brought him. For Mary Sands–dear, dear Mary Sands–she had a way +with her. She was not Irish for nothing, God bless her.</p> + +<p>Amos always tried to be fair with Daniel Sands because he was Mary’s +brother; even though there was a time after he came home a young soldier from +the war and found that Daniel Sands who hired a substitute and stayed at home, +had won Esther Haley, who was pledged to Amos,–a time when Amos would have +killed Daniel Sands. That passed, Mary, Daniel’s sister, came; and for +years Amos Adams bore Daniel Sands no grudge. What has all his money done for +Daniel. It has ground the joy out of him–for one thing. And as for Esther, +somewhere about Elyria, Ohio, the grass is growing over her grave and for forty +years only Mortimer, her son, with her eyes and mouth and hair, was left in the +world to remind Amos of the days when he was stark mad; and Mary, dear, dear, +Irish Mary Sands, caught his heart upon the bounce and made him happy.</p> + +<p>So let us say that Mary brought Amos to Harvey with the Ohio crowd, as Daniel +Sands and his followers were known, The other early settlers came to grow up +with the country and to make their independent fortunes; but Mary and Amos came +to see the sunrise. For they were sure that men and women starting in a new +world having found equality of opportunity, would not make this new world +sordid, unfair and cruel as the older world was around them in those days.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_8'></a>8</span>Amos and Mary took +up their homestead just south of the town on the Wahoo, and started the Tribune, +and Mary hoped the high hopes of the Irish while Amos wrote his part of the +news, set his share of the type, ran the errands for the advertising and bragged +of the town in their editorial columns with all the faith of an Irishman by +marriage.</p> + +<p>What a fairy story the history of Harvey would be if it should be written +only as it was. For one could even begin it once upon a time. Once upon a time, +let us say, there was a land of sunshine and prairie grass. And then great genii +came and set in little white houses and new unpainted barns, thumbed in faint +green hedgerows and board fences, that checkered in the fields lying green or +brown or loam black by the sluggish streams that gouged broad, zigzag furrows in +the land. And upon a hill that overlooked a rock-bottomed stream the genii, the +spirit of the time, sat a town. It glistened in the sunshine and when the town +was over a year old, it was so newly set in, that its great stone schoolhouse +all towered and tin-corniced, beyond the scattered outlying residences, rose in +the high, untrodden grass. The people of Harvey were vastly proud of that +schoolhouse. The young editor and his wife used to gaze at it adoringly as they +drove to and from the office morning and evening; and they gilded the town with +high hopes. For then they were in their twenties. The population of Harvey for +the most part those first years was in its twenties also, when gilding is cheap. +But thank Heaven the gilding of our twenties is lasting.</p> + +<p>It was into this gilded world that Grant Adams was born. Suckled behind the +press, cradled in the waste basket, toddling under hurrying feet, Grant’s +earliest memories were of work–work and working lovers, and their gay talk +as they worked wove strange fancies in his little mind.</p> + +<p>It was in those days that Amos Adams and his wife, considering the mystery of +death, tried to peer behind the veil. For Amos tables tipped, slates wrote, +philosophers, statesmen and conquerors flocked in with grotesque advice, and all +those curious phenomena that come from the activities of the abnormal mind, +appeared and astounded the visionaries <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_9'></a>9</span>as they went about their daily work. The boy Grant used +to sit, a wide-eyed, freckled, sun-browned little creature, running his skinny +little hands through his red hair, and wondering about the unsolvable problems +of life and death.</p> + +<p>But soon the problems of a material world came in upon Grant as the child +became a boy: problems of the wood and field, problems of the constantly growing +herd at play in water, in snow, on the ice and in the prairie; and then came the +more serious problems of the wood box, the stable and farm. Thus he grew strong +of limb, quick of hand, firm of foot and sure of mind. And someway as he grew +from childhood into boyhood, getting hold of his faculties–finding himself +physically, so Harvey seemed to grow with him. All over the town where men +needed money Daniel Sands’s mortgages were fastened–not heavily +(nothing was heavy in that day of the town’s glorious youth) but surely. +Dr. Nesbit’s gay ruthless politics, John Kollander’s patriotism, +leading always to the court house and its emoluments, Captain Morton’s +inventions that never materialized, the ever coming sunrise of the +Adams–all these things became definitely a part of the changeless universe +of Harvey as Grant’s growing faculties became part of his +consciousness.</p> + +<p>And here is a mystery: the formation of the social crystal. In that crystal +the outer facets and the inner fell into shape–the Nesbits, the +Kollanders, the Adamses, the Calvins, the Mortons, and the Sandses, falling into +one group; and the Williamses, the Hogans, the Bowmans, the McPhersons, the +Dooleys and Casper Herdicker falling into another group. The hill separated from +the valley. The separation was not a matter of moral sense; for John Kollander +and Dan Sands and Joseph Calvin touched zero in moral intelligence; and it could +not have been business sense, for Captain Morton for all his dreams was a child +with a dollar, and Dr. Nesbit never was out of debt a day in his life; without +his salary from tax-payers John Kollander would have been a charge on the +county. In the matter of industry Daniel Sands was a marvel, but Jamie McPherson +toiling all day used to come home and start up his well drill and its clatter +could be heard far into the night, and often he started it hours before dawn. +Nor could aspirations and visions have furnished <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_10'></a>10</span>the line of cleavage; for no one could +have hopes so high for Harvey as Jamie, who sank his drill far into the earth, +put his whole life, every penny of his earnings and all his strength into the +dream that some day he would bring coal or oil or gas to Harvey and make it a +great city. Yet when he found the precious vein, thick and rich and easy to +mine, Daniel Sands and Joseph Calvin took his claim from him by chicanery as +easily as they would have robbed a blind man of a penny, and Jamie went to work +in the mines for Daniel Sands grumbling but faithful. Williams and Dooley and +Hogan and Herdicker bent at their daily tasks in those first years, each feeling +that the next day or the next month or at most the next year his everlasting +fortune would be made. And Dick Bowman, cohort of Dr. Nesbit, many a time and +oft would wash up, put on a clean suit, and go out and round up the voters in +the Valley for the Doctor’s cause and scorn his task with a hissing; for +Dick read Karl Marx and dreamed of the day of the revolution. Yet he dwelled +with the sons of Essua, who as they toiled murmured about their stolen +birthright. When a decade had passed in Harvey the social crystal was firm; the +hill and the valley were cast into the solid rock of things as they are. No one +could say why; it was a mystery. It is still a mystery. As society forms and +reforms, its cleavages follow unknown lines.</p> + +<p>It was on a day in June–late in the morning, after Grant and Nathan +Perry–son of the stuttering Kyle of that name, had come from a cool hour +in the quiet pool down on the Wahoo and little Grant, waiting like a hungry pup +for his lunch, that was tempting him in the basket under the typerack, was +counting the moments and vaguely speculating as to what minutes were–when +he looked up from the floor and saw what seemed to him a visitor from another +world. <a id="FNanchor_X_2"></a><a href="#Footnote_X_2" +class="fnanchor"><sup>[2]</sup></a></p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_11'></a>11</span>The creature was +talking to Amos Adams sitting at the desk; and Amos was more or less impressed +with the visitor’s splendor. He wore exceedingly tight +trousers–checked trousers, and a coat cut grandly and extravagantly in its +fullness, a high wing collar, and a soup dish hat. He was such a figure as the +comic papers of the day were featuring as the exquisite young man of the +period.</p> + +<p>Youth was in his countenance and lighted his black eyes. His oval, finely +featured face, his blemishless olive skin, his strong jaw and his high, +beautiful forehead, over which a black wing of hair hung carelessly, gave him a +distinction that brought even the child’s eyes to him. He was smiling +pleasantly as he said,</p> + +<p>“I’m Thomas Van Dorn–Mr. Adams, I believe?” he asked, +and added as he fastened his fresh young eyes upon the editor’s, +“you scarcely will remember me–but you doubtless remember the day +when father’s hunting party passed through town? Well–I’ve +come to grow up with the country.”</p> + +<p>The editor rose, roughed his short, sandy beard and greeted the youth +pleasantly. “Mr. Daniel Sands sent me <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_12'></a>12</span>to you, Mr. Adams–to print a professional card +in your paper,” said the young man. He pronounced them “cahd” +and “papuh” and smiled brightly as his quick eyes told him that the +editor was conscious of his eastern accent. While they were talking business, +locating the position of the card in the newspaper, the editor noticed that the +young man’s eyes kept wandering to Mary Adams, typesetting across the +room. She was a comely woman just in her thirties and Amos Adams finally +introduced her. When he went out the Adamses talked him over and agreed that he +was an addition to the town.</p> + +<p>Within a month he had formed a partnership with Joseph Calvin, the +town’s eldest lawyer; and young Henry Fenn, who had been trying for a year +to buy a partnership with Calvin, was left to go it alone. So Henry Fenn +contented himself with forming a social partnership with his young rival. And +when the respectable Joseph Calvin was at home or considering the affairs of the +Methodist Sunday School of which he was superintendent, young Mr. Fenn and young +Mr. Van Dorn were rambling at large over the town and the adjacent prairie, +seeking such diversion as young men in their exceedingly early twenties delight +in: Mr. Riley’s saloon, the waters of the Wahoo, by moonlight, the +melliferous strains of “Larboard watch,” the shot gun, the quail and +the prairie chicken, the quarterhorse, and the jackpot, the cocktail, the Indian +pony, the election, the footrace, the baseball team, the Sunday School picnic, +the Fourth of July celebration, the dining room girls at the Palace Hotel, the +cross country circus and the trial of the occasional line fence murder +case–all were divertissements that engaged their passing young +attention.</p> + +<p>If ever the world was an oyster for a youth the world of Harvey and the +fullness thereof was an oyster to Thomas Van Dorn. He had all that the crude +western community cherished: the prestige of money, family, education, and that +indefinable grace and courtesy of body and soul that we call charm. And Harvey +people seemed to be made for him. He liked their candor, their strength, their +crass materialism, their bray and bluster, their vain protests of democracy and +their unconscious regard for his caste and culture. <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_13'></a>13</span>So whatever there was of egoism in his +nature grew unchecked by Harvey. He was the young lord of the manor. However +Harvey might hoot at his hat and gibe at his elided R’s and mock his +rather elaborate manners behind his back; nevertheless he had his way with the +town and he knew that he was the master. While those about him worked and +worried Tom Van Dorn had but to rub lightly his lamp and the slave appeared and +served him. Naturally a young man of his conspicuous talents in his exceedingly +early twenties who has the vast misfortune to have a lamp of Aladdin to rub, +asks genii first of all for girls and girls and more girls. Then incidentally he +asks for business and perhaps for politics and may be as an afterthought and for +his own comfort he may pray for the good will of his fellows. Tom Van Dorn +became known in the vernacular as a “ladies man.” It did not hurt +his reputation as a lawyer, for he was young and youth is supposed to have its +follies so long as its follies are mere follies. No one in that day hinted that +Tom Van Dorn was anything more dangerous than a butterfly. So he flitted from +girl to girl, from love affair to love affair, from heart to heart in his gay +clothes with his gay manners and his merry face. And men smiled and women and +girls whispered and boys hooted and all the world gave the young lord his way. +But when he included the dining room girls at the Palace Hotel in his list of +conquests, Dr. Nesbit began squinting seriously at the youth and, late at night +coming from his professional visits, when the doctor passed the young fellow +returning from some humble home down near the river, the Doctor would pipe out +in the night, “Tut, tut, Tom–this is no place for you.”</p> + +<p>But the Doctor was too busy with his own affairs to assume the guardianship +of Tom Van Dorn. As Mayor of Harvey the Doctor made the young man city attorney, +thereby binding the youth to the Mayor in the feudal system of politics and +attaching all the prestige and charm and talent of the boy to the Doctor’s +organization.</p> + +<p>For Dr. Nesbit in his blithe and cock-sure youth was born to politics as the +sparks fly upward. Men looked to him for leadership and he blandly demanded that +they follow him. He was every man’s friend. He knew the whole <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_14'></a>14</span>county by its first name. +The men, the women, the children, the dogs, the horses knew him and he knew and +loved them all. But in return for his affection he expected loyalty. He was a +jealous leader who divided no honors. Seven months in the year he wore white +linen clothes and his white clad figure bustling through a crowd on Market +Street on Saturday or elbowing its way through a throng at any formal gathering, +or jogging through the night behind his sorrel mare or moving like a pink-faced +cupid, turned Nemesis in a county convention, made him a marked man in the +community. But what was more important, his distinction had a certain cheeriness +about it. And his cheeriness was vocalized in a high, piping, falsetto voice, +generally gay and nearly always soft and kindly. It expressed a kind of +incarnate good nature that disarmed enmity and drew men to him instinctively. +And underneath his amicability was iron. Hence men came to him in trouble and he +healed their ills, cured their souls, went on their notes and took their hearts +for his own, which carried their votes for his uses. So he became calif of +Harvey.</p> + +<p>Even deaf John Kollander who had political aspirations of a high order +learned early that his road to glory led through obedience to the Doctor. So +John went about the county demanding that the men who had saved the union should +govern it and declaring that the flag of his country should not be trailed in +the dust by vandal hands–meaning of course by “vandal hands” +the opposition candidate for register of deeds or county clerk or for whatever +county office John was asking at that election; and at the convention +John’s old army friends voted for the Doctor’s slate and in the +election they supported the Doctor’s ticket. But tall, deaf John Kollander +in his blue army clothes with their brass buttons and his campaign hat, always +cut loose from Dr. Nesbit’s paternal care after every election. For the +Doctor, after he had tucked John away in a county office, asked only to appoint +John’s deputies and that Mrs. Kollander keep out of the Doctor’s +office and away from his house.</p> + +<p>“I have no objections,” the Doctor would chirrup at the ample, +good-natured Rhoda Kollander who would haunt him during John’s periods of +political molting, pretending <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_15'></a>15</span>to advise with the Doctor on her husband’s +political status, “to your society from May until November every two +years, Rhody, but that’s enough. Now go home! Go home, woman,” he +commanded, “and look after your growing family.”</p> + +<p>And Rhoda Kollander would laugh amiably in telling it and say, “Now I +suppose some women would get mad, but law, I know Doc Jim! He doesn’t mean +a thing!” Whereupon she would settle down where she was stopping until +meal time and reluctantly remain to eat. As she settled comfortably at the table +she would laugh easily and exclaim: “Now isn’t it funny! I +don’t know what John and the boys will have. There isn’t a thing in +the house. But, law, I suppose they can get along without me once in a +lifetime.” Then she would laugh and eat heartily and sit around until the +crisis at home had passed.</p> + +<p>But the neighbors knew that John Kollander was opening a can of something, +gathering the boys around him and as they ate, recounting the hardships of army +life to add spice to an otherwise stale and unprofitable meal. Afterward +probably he would go to some gathering of his comrades and there fight, bleed +and die for his country. For he was an incorrigible patriot. The old flag, his +country’s honor, and the preservation of the union were themes that never +tired him. He organized his fellow veterans in the town and county and helped to +organize them in the state and was forever going to other towns to attend camp +fires and rallies and bean dinners and reunions where he spoke with zeal and +some eloquence about the danger of turning the country over to the southern +brigadiers. He had a set speech which was greatly admired at the rallies and in +this speech it was his wont to reach for one of the many flags that always +adorned the platform on such occasions, tear it from its hanging and wrapping it +proudly about his gaunt figure, recite a dialogue between himself and the angel +Gabriel, the burden of which was that so long as John Kollander had that flag +about him at the resurrection, no question would be asked at Heaven’s gate +of one of its defenders. Now the fact was that John Kollander was sent to the +war of the rebellion a few weeks before the surrender of Lee at Appomattox, as +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_16'></a>16</span>Daniel Sands’s +paid substitute and his deafness was caused by firing an anvil at the peace +jubilee in Cincinnati, the powder on the anvil being the only powder John +Kollander ever had smelled. But his descriptions of battle and the hardships and +horrors of war were none the less vivid and harrowing because he had never +crossed the Ohio.</p> + +<p>Those were the days when the <i>Tribune</i> was at its zenith–the days +when Jared Thurston was employed as its foreman and Lizzie Coulter, pretty, +blue-eyed, fair-haired Lizzie Coulter helped Mary Adams to set the type. It was +not a long Day of Triumph, but while it lasted Mary and Amos made the most of it +and spoke in a grand way about “the office force.” They even had +vague notions of starting a daily and many a night Jared and Amos pored over the +type samples in the advertising in Rounds Printer’s Cabinet, picked out +the type they would need and the other equipment necessary for the new venture. +But it was only a dream. For gradually Jared found Lizzie’s eyes and he +found more to interest him there than in the type-book, and so the dream faded +and was gone.</p> + +<p>Also as Lizzie’s eyes began to glow in his sky, Jared let his interest +lag in the talk at Casper Herdicker’s shoe shop, though it was tall talk, +and Jared sitting on a keg in a corner with little Tom Williams, the stone +mason, beside him on a box, and Denny Hogan near him on a vacant work bench and +Ira Dooley on the window ledge would wrangle until bed time many a night as Dick +Bowman, wagging a warlike head, and Casper pegging away at his shoes, tore +society into shreds, smashed idols and overturned civilization. Up to this point +there was complete agreement between the iconoclasts. They went so far together +that they had no quarrel about the route of the mob down Fifth Avenue in New +York–which Dick knew only as a legend but which Casper had seen; and they +were one in the belief that Dan Sands’s bank and Wright & +Perry’s store should fall early in the sack of Market Street. But when it +came to reconstructing society there was a clash that mounted to a cataclysm. +For Dick, shaking his head violently, demanded a government that should regulate +everything and Casper waving a vicious, flat-nosed hammer, battered down all +government <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_17'></a>17</span>and stood +for the untrammeled and unhampered liberty of the individual. Night after night +they looted civilization and stained the sky with their fires and the ground +with the oppressor’s blood, only to sink their claws and tusks into each +other’s vitals in mortal combat over the spoil.</p> + +<p>About the time that Jared Thurston found the new stars that had ranged across +his ken, Tom Van Dorn, the handsome, cheerful, exquisite Tom Van Dorn began to +find the debates between Casper and Dick Bowman diverting. So many a night when +the society of the softer sex was either cloying or inconvenient, the dapper +young fellow would come dragging Henry Fenn with him, to sit on a rickety chair +and observe the progress of the revolution and to enjoy the carnage that always +followed the downfall of the established order. He used to sit beside Jared +Thurston who, being a printer, was supposed to belong to the more intellectual +of the crafts and hence more appreciative than Williams or Dooley or Hogan, of +his young lordship’s point of view; and as the debate waxed warm, Tom was +wont to pinch the lean leg of Mr. Thurston in lieu of the winks Tom dared not +venture. But a time came when Jared Thurston sat apart from Van Dorn and stared +coldly at him. And as Tom and Henry Fenn walked out of the human slaughter house +that Dick and Casper had made after a particularly bloody revolt against the +capitalistic system, Henry Fenn walked for a time beside his friend looking +silently at the earth while Van Dorn mooned and star-gazed with wordy delight. +Henry lifted his face, looked at Tom with great, bright, sympathetic eyes and +cut in:</p> + +<p>“Tom–why are you playing with Lizzie Coulter? She is not in your +class or of your kind. What’s your idea in cutting in between Jared and +her; you’ll only make trouble.”</p> + +<p>A smile, a gay, happy, and withal a seductive smile lit up the handsome, oval +face of young Mr. Van Dorn. The smile became a laugh, a quiet, insinuating, +good-natured, light-hearted laugh. As he laughed he replied:</p> + +<p>“Lizzie’s all right, Henry–don’t worry about +Lizzie.” Again he laughed a gentle, deep-voiced chuckle, and held <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_18'></a>18</span>up his hand in the +moonlight. A brown scab was lined across the back of the hand and as Henry saw +it Van Dorn spoke: “Present from Lizzie–little pussy.” Again +he chuckled and added, “Nearly made the horse run away, too. +Anyway,” he laughed pleasantly, “when I left her she promised to go +again.”</p> + +<p>But Henry Fenn returned to his point: “Tom,” he cried, +“don’t play with Lizzie–she’s not your kind, and +it’s breaking Jared’s heart. Can’t you see what you’re +doing? You’ll go down there a dozen times, make love to her, hold her hand +and kiss her and go away and pick up another girl. But she’s the whole +world and Heaven to boot for Jared. She’s his one little ewe lamb, Tom. +And she’d be happy with Jared if–”</p> + +<p>“If she wants Jared she can have him. I’m not holding her,” +interrupted the youth. “And anyway,” he exclaimed, “what do I +owe to Jared and what do I owe to her or to any one but myself!”</p> + +<p>Fenn did not answer at once. At length he broke the silence. “Well, you +heard what I said and I didn’t smile when I said it.”</p> + +<p>But Tom Van Dorn did smile as he answered, a smile of such sweetness, and of +such winning grace that it sugar-coated his words.</p> + +<p>“Henry,” he cried in his gay, deep voice with the exuberance of +youth ringing in it, “the world is mine. You know what I think about this +whole business. If Lizzie doesn’t want me to bother her she mustn’t +have such eyes and such hair and such lips. In this life I shall take what I +find that I can get. I’m not going to be meek nor humble nor patient, nor +forgiving and forbearing and I’m not going to refrain from a mutton roast +because some one has a ewe lamb.”</p> + +<p>He put a warm, kind, brotherly hand on the shoulder beside him. +“Shocked, aren’t you, Henry?” he asked, laughing.</p> + +<p>Henry Fenn looked up with a gentle, glowing smile on his rather dull face and +returned, “No, Tom. Maybe you can make it go, but I +couldn’t.”</p> + +<p>“Well, I can. Watch me,” he cried arrogantly. “Henry, I +want the advantage of my strength in this world and I’m <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_19'></a>19</span>not going to go puling +around, golden-ruling and bending my back to give the weak and worthless a ride. +Let ’em walk. Let ’em fall. Let ’em rot for all I care. +I’m not afraid of their God. There is no God. There is nature. Up to the +place where man puts on trousers it’s a battle of thews and teeth. And +nature never intended pants to mark the line where she changes the order of +things. And the servile, weakling, groveling, charitable, cowardly philosophy of +Christ–it doesn’t fool me, Henry. I’m a pagan and I want the +advantage of all the force, all the power, that nature gave me, to live life as +a dangerous, exhilarating experience. I shall live life to the full–live +it hard–live it beautifully, but live it! live it! Henry, live it like a +gentleman and not like an understrapper and bootlicker! I intend to command, not +obey! Rule, not serve! I shall take and not give–not give save as it +pleases me to have my hand licked now and then! As for Lizzie and Jared,” +young Mr. Van Dorn waved a gay hand, “let them look out for themselves. +They’re not my worries!”</p> + +<p>“But, Tom,” remonstrated Henry as he looked at the ground, +“it’s nothing to me of course, but Lizzie–”</p> + +<p>“Ah, Henry,” Van Dorn laughed gayly, “I’m not going +to hurt Lizzie. She’s good fun: that’s all. And now look here, Mr. +Preacher–you come moralizing around me about what I’m doing to some +one else, which after all is not my business but hers; and I’m right here +to tell you, what you’re doing to yourself, and that’s your business +and no one’s else. You’re drinking too much. People are talking +about it. Quit it! Whisky never won a jury. In the Morse case you loaded up for +your speech and I beat you because in all your agonizing about the wrong to old +man Müller and his ‘pretty brown-eyed daughter’ as you called her, you +forgot slick and clean the flaw in Morse’s deed.”</p> + +<p>“I suppose you’re right, Tom. But I was feeling kind of off that +day, mother’d been sick the night before and–”</p> + +<p>“And so you filled up with a lot of bad whisky and driveled and wept +and stumbled through the case and I beat you. I tell you, Henry, I keep myself +fit. I have no time to look after others. My job is myself and you’ll find +that unless you look after yourself no one else will, at least whisky +won’t. If <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_20'></a>20</span>I +find girling is beating me in my law cases I quit girling. But it doesn’t. +Lord, man, the more I know of human nature, the more I pick over the souls of +these country girls and blow open the petals of their pretty hearts, the wiser I +am.”</p> + +<p>“But the girls, Tom–the girls–” protested the +somber-eyed Mr. Fenn.</p> + +<p>“Ah, I don’t hurt ’em and they like it. And so long as your +whisky hamestrings you and my girls give me what I need in my +business–don’t talk to me.”</p> + +<p>Tom Van Dorn left Fenn at his mother’s door and as Fenn saw his friend +turn toward the south he called, “Aren’t you going to your +room?”</p> + +<p>“Why, it’s only eleven o’clock,” answered Van Dorn. +To the inquiring silence Van Dorn called, “I’m going down to see +Lizzie.”</p> + +<p>Henry Fenn stood looking at his friend, who explained: “That’s +all right. I said I’d be down to-night and she’ll wait.”</p> + +<p>“Well–” said Fenn. But Van Dorn cut him short with +“Now, Henry, I can take care of myself. Lizzie can take care of +herself–and you’re the only one of us who, as I see it, needs +careful nursing!” And with that he went striding away.</p> + +<p>And three hours later when the moon was waning in the west a girl sitting by +her window gazed at the red orb and dreamed beautiful dreams, such as a girl may +dream but once, of the prince who had come to her so gloriously. While the +prince strolled up the street with his coat over his arm, his hat in his hand, +letting the night wind flutter the raven’s wing of hair on his brow, and +as he went he laughed to himself softly and laughed and laughed. For are we not +told of old to put not our trust in princes!</p> + +<div class="footnote"> +<a id="Footnote_X_1"></a> +<a href="#FNanchor_X_1"> +<span class="label">[1]</span></a> +<p>The reader may be interested in seeing one of Mary Adams’s clippings +with a note attached. Here is one concerning Mrs. John Kollander. The clipping +from the Harvey <i>Tribune</i> of June, 1871, reads:</p> + +<p>“Mrs. Rhoda Byrd Kollander arrived to-day from Elyria, Ohio. It is her +first visit to Harvey and she was greeted by her husband, Hon. John Kollander, +Register of Deeds of Greeley County, with a handsome new home in Elm +Street.”</p> + +<p>Then under it is this note:</p> + +<p>“Of all the women of the Elyria settlers, Rhoda Kollander would not +come with us and face the hardships of pioneer life; but she made John come out, +get an office and build her a cabin before she would come. Rhoda will not be +happy as an angel unless they have rocking chairs in Heaven.”</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"> +<a id="Footnote_X_2"></a> +<a href="#FNanchor_X_2"> +<span class="label">[2]</span></a> +<p>Let us read Mary Adams’s clipping and note on the arrival of young +Thomas Van Dorn in Harvey. The clipping which is from the local page of the +paper reads:</p> + +<p>“Thomas Van Dorn, son of the late General Nicholas Van Dorn of +Schenectady, New York, has located in Harvey for the practice of law and his +advertising card appears elsewhere. Mr. Van Dorn is a Yale man and a law +graduate of that school as well as an alumnus of the college. As a youth with +his father young Thomas stopped in Harvey the day the town was founded. He was a +member of the hunting party organized by Wild Bill which under General Van +Dorn’s patronage escorted the Russian Grand Duke Alexis over this part of +the state after buffalo and wild game. Mr. Thomas Van Dorn remembers the visit +well, and old settlers will recall the fact that Daniel Sands that day sold for +$100 in gold to the General the plot now known as Van Dorn’s addition to +Harvey. Mr. Thomas Van Dorn still has the deed to the plot and will soon put the +lots on the market. He was a pleasant caller at the <i>Tribune</i> office this +week. Come again, say we.”</p> + +<p>And upon a paper whereon the clipping is pasted is this in Mary Adams’s +hand:</p> + +<p>“The famous Van Dorn baby! How the years have flown since the scandal +of his mother’s elopement and his father’s duel with Sir Charles +shook two continents. What an old rake the General was. And the boy’s +mother after two other marriages and a sad period on the variety stage died +alone in penury! And Amos says that the General was so insolent to his men in +the war, that he dared not go into action with them for fear they would shoot +him in the back. Yet the boy is as lovely and gentle a creature as one could ask +to meet. This is as it should be.”</p></div> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_21'></a>21</span><a id='link_3'></a>CHAPTER III<br /><span class='h2fs'>IN WHICH WE CONSIDER THE LADIES–GOD BLESS ’EM!</span></h2> + +<p>During those years in the late seventies and the early eighties, the genii on +the Harvey job grunted and grumbled as they worked, for the hours were long and +tedious and the material was difficult to handle. Kyle Perry’s wife died, +and it was all the genii could do to find him a cook who would stay with him and +his lank, slab-sided son, and when the genii did produce a cook–the famous +Katrina, they wished her on Kyle and the boy for life, and she ruled them with +an iron rod. And to even things up, they let Kyle stutter himself into a +partnership with Ahab Wright–though Kyle was trying to tell Ahab that they +should have a partition in their stable. But partition was too much of a +mouthful and poor Kyle fell to stuttering on it and found himself sold into +bondage for life by the genii, dispensing nails and cod-fish and calico as +Ahab’s partner, before Kyle could get rid of the word partition.</p> + +<p>The genii also had to break poor Casper Herdicker’s heart–and he +had one, and a big one, despite his desire for blood and plunder; and they broke +it when his wife Brunhilde deserted the hearthstone back of the shoe-shop, +rented a vacant store room on Market Street and went into the millinery way of +life. And it wasn’t enough that the tired genii had to gouge out the +streets of Harvey; to fill in the gulleys and ravines; to dab in scores of new +houses; to toil and moil over the new hotel, witching up four bleak stories upon +the prairie. It wasn’t enough that they had to cast a spell on people all +over the earth, dragging strangers to Harvey by trainloads; it wasn’t +enough that the overworked genii should have to bring big George Brotherton to +town with the railroad–and he was load enough for any engine; his heart +itself weighed ten stone; it wasn’t enough that they <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_22'></a>22</span>had to find various and innumerable +contraptions for Captain Morton to peddle, but there was Tom Van Dorn’s +new black silk mustache to grow, and to be oiled and curled daily; so he had to +go to the Palace Hotel barber shop at least once every day, and passing the +cigar counter, he had to pass by Violet Mauling–pretty, empty-faced, +doll-eyed Violet Mauling at the cigar stand. And all the long night and all the +long day, the genii, working on the Harvey job, cast spells, put on charms, and +did their deepest sorcery to take off the power of the magic runes that young +Tom’s black art were putting upon her; and day after day the genii felt +their highest potencies fail. So no wonder they mumbled and grumbled as they +bent over their chores. For a time, the genii had tried to work on Tom Van +Dorn’s heart after he dropped Lizzie Coulter and sent her away on a weary +life pilgrimage with Jared Thurston, as the wife of an itinerant editor; but +they found nothing to work on under Tom’s cigar holder–that is, +nothing in the way of a heart. There was only a kind of public policy. So the +genii made the public policy as broad and generous as they could and let it go +at that.</p> + +<p>Tom Van Dorn and Henry Fenn rioted in their twenties. John Hollander saved a +bleeding country, pervaded the courthouse and did the housework at home while +Rhoda, his wife, who couldn’t cook hard boiled eggs, organized the French +Cooking Club. Captain Ezra Morton spent his mental energy upon the invention of +a self-heating molasses spigot, which he hoped would revolutionize the grocery +business while his physical energy was devoted to introducing a burglar proof +window fastener into the proud homes that were dotting the tall grass environs +of Harvey. Amos Adams was hearing rappings and holding-high communion with great +spirits in the vasty deep. Daniel Sands, having buried his second wife, was +making eyes at a third and spinning his financial web over the town. Dr. and +Mrs. Nesbit were marvelling at the mystery of a child’s soul, a +maiden’s soul, reaching out tendril after tendril as the days made years. +The Dick Bowman’s were holding biennial receptions to the little angels +who came to the house in the Doctor’s valise–and welcomed, +hilariously welcomed babies they <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_23'></a>23</span>were–welcomed with cigars and free drinks at +Riley’s saloon by Dick, and in awed silence by Lida, his +wife–welcomed even though the parents never knew exactly how the celestial +guests were to be robed and harped; while the Joe Calvins of proud Elm Street, +opulent in an eight room house, with the town’s one bath tub, scowled at +the angels who kept on coming nevertheless–for such is the careless and +often captious way of angels that come to the world in the doctor’s black +bag–kept on coming to the frowning house of Calvin as frequently and as +idly as they came to the gay Bowmans. Looking back on those days a generation +later, it would seem as if the whole town were a wilderness of babies. They came +on the hill in Elm Street, a star-eyed baby named Ann even came to the Daniel +Sandses, and a third baby to the Ezra Mortons and another to the Kollanders +(which gave Rhoda an excuse for forming a lifelong habit of making John serve +her breakfast in bed to the scorn of Mrs. Nesbit and Mrs. Herdicker who for +thirty years sniffed audibly about Rhoda’s amiable laziness) and the John +Dexters had one that came and went in the night. But down by the +river–there they came in flocks. The Dooleys, the McPhersons, the +Williamses and the hordes of unidentified men and women who came to saw boards, +mix mortar, make bricks and dig–to them the kingdom of Heaven was very +near, for they suffered little children and forbade them not. And also, because +the kingdom was so near–so near even to homes without sewers, homes where +dirt and cold and often hunger came–the children were prone to hurry back +to the Kingdom discouraged with their little earthly pilgrimages. For those who +had dragged chains and hewed wood and drawn water in the town’s first days +seemed by some specific gravity of the social system to be holding their places +at those lower levels–always reaching vainly and eagerly, but always +reaching a little higher and a little further from them for that equality of +opportunity which seemed to lie about them that first day when the town was +born.</p> + +<p>In the upper reaches of the town Henry Fenn’s bibulous habits became +accepted matters to a wider and wider circle and Tom Van Dorn still had his way +with the girls while the town grinned at the two young men in gay reproval. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_24'></a>24</span>But Amos Adams +through his familiar spirits got solemn, cryptic messages for the young +men–from Tom’s mother and Henry’s father. Amos, abashed, but +never afraid, used to deliver these messages with incidental admonitions of his +own–kind, gentle and gorgeously ineffective. Then he would return to his +office with a serene sense of a duty well done, and meet and feast upon the eyes +of Mary, his wife, keen, hungry eyes, filled with more or less sinful pride in +his strength.</p> + +<p>No defeat that ever came to Amos Adams, and because he was born out of his +time, defeat was his common portion, and no contumely ever was his in a time +when men scorned the evidence of things not seen, no failure, no apparent +weakness in her husband’s nature, ever put a tremor in her faith in him. +For she knew his heart. She could hear his armor clank and see it shine; she +could feel the force and the precision of his lance when all the world of Harvey +saw only a dreamer in rusty clothes, fumbling with some stupid and ponderous +folly that the world did not understand. The printing office that Mary and Amos +thought so grand was really a little pine shack, set on wooden piers on a side +street. Inside in the single room, with the rough-coated walls above the press +and type-cases covered with inky old sale bills, and specimens of the +<i>Tribune’s</i> printing–inside the office which seemed to Mary and +Amos the palace of a race of giants, others saw only a shabby, inky, little +room, with an old fashioned press and a jobber among the type racks in the gloom +to the rear. Through the front window that looked into a street filled with +loads of hay and wood, and with broken wagons, and scrap iron from a +wheelwright’s shop, Amos Adams looked for the everlasting sunrise, and +Mary saw it always in his face.</p> + +<p>But this is idling; it is not getting on with the Book. A score of men and +women are crowding up to these pages waiting to get into the story. And the town +of Harvey, how it is bursting its bounds, how it is sprawling out over the white +paper, tumbling its new stores and houses and gas mains and water pipes all over +the table; with what a clatter and clamor and with what vain pride! Now the +pride of those years in Harvey came with the railroad, and here, <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_25'></a>25</span>pulling at the paper, +stands big George Brotherton with his ten stone heart. He has been sputtering +and nagging for a dozen pages to swing off the front platform of the first +passenger car that came to town. He was a fat, overgrown youth in his late +teens, but he wore the uniform of a train newsboy, and any uniform is a uniform. +His laugh was like the crash of worlds–and it is to-day after thirty +years. When the road pushed on westward Brotherton remained in Harvey and even +though the railroad roundhouse employed five hundred men and even though the +town’s population doubled and then trebled, still George Brotherton was +better than everything else that the railroad brought. He found work in a pool +and billiard hall; but that was a pent-up Utica for him and his contracted +powers sent him to Daniel Sands for a loan of twenty-five dollars. The unruffled +exterior, the calm impudence with which the boy waived aside the banker’s +request for a second name on George’s note, and the boy’s obvious +eagerness to be selling something, secured the money and established him in a +cigar store and news stand. Within a year the store became a social center that +rivaled Riley’s saloon and being near the midst of things in business, +attracted people of a different sort from those who frequented Casper +Herdicker’s debating school in the shoe shop. To the cigar stand by day +came Dr. Nesbit with his festive but guileful politics, Joe Calvin, Amos Adams, +stuttering Kyle Perry, deaf John Kollander, occasionally Dick Bowman, Ahab +Wright in his white necktie and formal garden whiskers, Rev. John Dexter and +Captain Morton; while by night the little store was a forum for young Mortimer +Sands, for Tom Van Dorn, for Henry Fenn, for the clerks of Market Street and for +such gay young blades as were either unmarried or being married were brave +enough to break the apron string. For thirty years, nearly a generation, they +have been meeting there night after night and on rainy days, taking the world +apart and putting it together again to suit themselves. And though strangers +have come into the council at Brotherton’s, Captain Morton remains dean. +And though the Captain does not know it, being corroded with pride, there still +clings about the place a tradition of the day <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_26'></a>26</span> when Captain Morton rode his high wheeled bicycle, +the first the town ever had seen, in the procession to his wife’s funeral. +They say it was the Captain’s serene conviction that his agency for the +bicycle–exclusive for five counties–would make him rich, and that it +was no lack of love and respect for his wife but rather an artist’s pride +in his work as the distributor of a long-felt want which perched Ezra Morton on +that high wheel in the funeral procession. For Mary Adams who knew, who was with +the stricken family when death came, who was in the lonely house when the family +came home from the cemetery, says that Ezra’s grief was real. Surely +thirty years of singlehearted devotion to the three motherless girls should +prove his love.</p> + +<p>Those were gala days for Captain Morton; the whole universe was flowering in +his mind in schemes and plans and devices which he hoped to harness for his +power and glory. And the forensic group at Mr. Brotherton’s had much first +hand information from the Captain as to the nature of his proposed activities +and his prospective conquests. And while the Captain in his prime was surveying +the world that was about to come under his domain the house of Adams, little and +bleak and poor, down near the Wahoo on the homestead which the Adamses had taken +in the sixties became in spite of itself, a gay and festive habitation. +Childhood always should make a home bright and there came a time when the little +house by the creek fairly blossomed with young faces. The children of the +Kollanders, the Perrys, the Calvins, the Nesbits, and the Bowmans–girls +and boys were everywhere and they knew all times and seasons. But the red poll +and freckled face of Grant Adams was the center of this posy bed of youth.</p> + +<p>Grant was a shrill-voiced boy, impulsive and passionately generous and all +but obsessed with a desire to protect the weak. Whether it was bug, worm or dog, +or hunted animal or bullied child or drunken man, fly-swarmed and bedeviled of +boys in the alley, or a little girl teased by her playmates, +Grant–fighting mad, came rushing in to do battle for the victim. Yet he +was no anemic child of ragged nerves. His fist went straight when he fought, and +landed with force. His eyes saw accurately and his voice carried terror in +it.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_27'></a>27</span>He was a vivid +youth, and without him the place down by the river would have been bleak and +dreary. But because Grant was in the world, the rusty old phaëton in which Amos +and Mary rode daily from the farm to their work, gradually bedecked itself with +budding childhood blooming into youth, and it was no longer drab and dusty, but +a veritable chariot of life. When Grant was a sturdy boy of eight, little Jasper +Adams came into this big bewildering world. And after Grant and his gardenful of +youth were gone, Jasper’s garden followed. And there was a short season +when the two gardens were growing together. It was in that season while Grant +was just coming into shoeblacking and paper collars, that in some indefinite +way, Laura Nesbit, daughter of the Doctor and Bedelia Satterthwaite, his blue +blooded Maryland wife, separated herself from the general beauty of the universe +and for Grant, Laura became a particular person. In Mary Adams’s note book +she writes with maternal pride of his fancy for Laura: “It is the only +time in Grant’s life when he has looked up instead of down for something +to love.” And the mother sets down a communication from Socrates through +the planchette to Amos, declaring that “Love is a sphere +center”–a message which doubtless the fond parents worked into +tremendous import for their child. Though a communication from some anonymous +sage called the Peach Blow Philosopher, who began haunting Amos as a familiar +spirit about this time recorded the oracle, also carefully preserved by Mary in +her book among the prophecies for Grant that, “Carrots, while less +fragrant than roses, are better for the blood.” And while the cosmic +forces were wrestling with these problems for Grant and Laura, the children were +tripping down their early teens all innocent of the uproar they were making +among the sages and statesmen and conquerors who flocked about the planchette +board for Amos every night. For Laura, Grant carved tiny baskets from peach-pits +and coffee beans; for her he saved red apples and candy globes that held in +their precious insides gorgeous pictures; for her he combed his hair and washed +his neck; for her he scribbled verses wherein eyes met skies, and arts met +hearts, and beams met dreams and loves the doves.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_28'></a>28</span>The joy of first +love that comes in early youth–and always it does come then, though it is +not always confessed–is a gawky and somewhat guilty joy that spends itself +in sighs and blushes and Heaven knows what of self-discovery. Thus Grant in +Laura’s autograph album after all his versifying on the kitchen table +could only write “Truly Yours” and leave her to define the deep +significance of the phrase so obviously inverted. And she in his autograph album +could only trust herself–though naturally being female she was +bolder–to the placid depths of “As ever your friend.” Though +in lean, hungry-eyed Nathan Perry’s book she burst into glowing words of +deathless remembrance and Grant wrote in Emma Morton’s album fervid +stanzas wherein “you” rimed with “the wandering Jew” and +“me” with “eternity.” At school where the subtle wisdom +of childhood reads many things not writ in books, the names of Grant and Laura +were linked together, in the innocent gossip of that world.</p> + +<p>They say that modern thought deems these youthful experiences dangerous and +superfluous; and so probably they will end, and the joy of this earliest mating +season will be bottled up and stored for a later maturity. God is wise and good. +Doubtless some new and better thing will take the place of this first moving of +the waters of life in the heart; but for us of the older generation that is +beginning to fade, we are glad that untaught and innocent, our lips tasted from +that spring when in the heart was no knowledge of the poison that might come +with the draft.</p> + +<p>A tall, shy, vivid girl, but above everything else, friendly, was Laura +Nesbit in her middle teens; and though Grant in later years remembered her as +having wonderful gray eyes, the elder town of Harvey for the most part +recollects her only as a gay and kindly spirit looking out into the world +through a happy, inquiring face. But the elder town could not in the nature of +things know Laura Nesbit as the children knew her. For the democracy of +childhood has its own estimates of its own citizens and the children of +Harvey–the Dooleys and the Williamses and the Bowmans as well as the +Calvins, the Mortons, the Sandses and the Kollanders, remember Laura Nesbit for +something more than her rather gawky body. To the children, she was a bright +soul. They <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_29'></a>29</span>remember–and the Bowmans better than any one +else–that Laura Nesbit shared what she had with every one. She never ate a +whole stick of candy in her life. From her school lunch-basket, the Dooleys had +their first oranges and the Williamses their first bananas. Apples for the +Bowmans and maple sugar–a rare delicacy on the prairies in those +days–for every one came from her wonderful basket. And though her mother +kept Laura in white aprons when the other girls were in ginghams and in little +red and black woolen, though the child’s wonderful yellow hair, soft and +wavy like her father’s plumey roach, was curled with great care and much +pride, it was her mother’s pride–the grim Satterthwaite demand for +caste in any democracy. But even with those caste distinctions there was the +face that smiled, the lips that trembled in sympathy, the heart that felt the +truth.</p> + +<p>“Jim,” quoth the mother on a day when the yard was full of +Dooleys and Bowmans and Calvins–Calvins, whom Mrs. Nesbit regarded as +inferior even to the Dooleys because of the vast Calvin +pretense–“Jim, Laura has inherited that common Indiana streak of +yours. I can’t make her a Satterthwaite–she’s Indiana to the +bone. Why, when I go to town with her, every drayman and ditch digger and +stableman calls to her, and the yard is always full of their towheaded children. +I’ll give her up.”</p> + +<p>And the Doctor gurgled a chuckle and gave her up also.</p> + +<p>She always came with her father to the Adamses on Sunday afternoons, and +while the Doctor and Amos Adams on the porch went into the matter of the +universe as either a phantasm superinduced by the notion of time, or the notion +of time as an hallucination of those who believed in space, down by the creek +Grant and Laura sitting under the oak near the silent, green pool were feeling +their way around the universe, touching shyly and with great abasement the cords +that lead from the body to the soul, from material to the spiritual, from dust +to God.</p> + +<p>It is a queer world, a world that is past finding out. Here are two children, +touching souls in the fleetest, lightest way in the world, and the touch welds +them together forever. And along come two others, and even as the old song has +it, <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_30'></a>30</span>“after +touch of wedded hands,” they are strangers yet. No one knows what makes +happiness in love. Certainly marriage is no part of it. Certainly it is not +first love, for first lovers often quarrel like cats. Certainly it is not +separation, for absence, alas, does not make the heart grow fonder; nor is it +children–though the good God knows that should help; for they are love +incarnate. Certainly it is not respect, for respect is a stale, cold comforter, +and love is deeper than respect, and often lives without it–let us whisper +the truth in shame. What, then, is this irrational current of the stuff of life, +that carries us all in its sway, that brings us to earth, that guides our +destiny here–makes so vastly for our happiness or woe, gives us strength +or makes us weak, teaches us wisdom or leads us into folly unspeakable, and all +unseen, unmeasured and infinitely mysterious?</p> + +<p>There was young Tom Van Dorn. Love was a pleasurable emotion, and because it +put a joyous fever in his blood, it enhanced his life. But he never defined +love; he merely lived on it. Then there was Ahab Wright who regarded love as a +kind of sin and when he married the pale, bloodless, shadowy bookkeeper in +Wright & Perry’s store, he regarded the charivari prepared by Morty +Sands and George Brotherton as a shameful rite and tried for an hour to lecture +the crowd in his front yard on the evils of unseemly conduct before he gave them +an order on the store for a bucket of mixed candy. If Ahab had defined love he +would have put cupid in side whiskers and a white necktie and set the fat little +god to measuring shingle nails, cod-fish and calico on week days and sitting +around in a tail coat and mouse-colored trousers on Sunday, reading the +<i>Christian Evangel</i> and the <i>Price Current</i>. And again there was Daniel +Sands who married five women in a long and more or less useful life. He would +have defined love as the apotheosis of comfort. Finally there was Henry Fenn to +whom love became the compelling force of his being. Love is many things: indeed +only this seems sure. Love is the current of our lives, and like minnows we run +in schools through it, guided by instinct and by herd suggestions; and some of +us are washed ashore; some of us are caught and devoured, and others fare forth +in joy and reach the deep.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_31'></a>31</span>One rainy day when +the conclave in Brotherton’s cigar store was weary of discussing the +quarrel of Mr. Conklin and Mr. Blaine and the eccentricities of the old German +Kaiser, the subject of love came before the house for discussion. Dr. Nesbit, +who dropped in incidentally to buy a cigar, but primarily to see George +Brotherton about some matters of state in the Third ward, found young Tom Van +Dorn stroking his new silky mustache, squinting his eyes and considering himself +generally in the attitude of little Jack Horner after the plum episode.</p> + +<p>“Speaking broadly,” squeaked the Doctor, breaking irritably into +the talk, “touching the ladies, God bless ’em–from young +Tom’s angle, there’s nothing to ’em. Broad is the petticoat +that leadeth to destruction.” The Doctor turned from young Van Dorn, and +looked critically at some obvious subject of Van Dorn’s remarks as she +picked her way across the muddy street, showing something more than a wink of +striped stockings, “Tom, there’s nothing in it–not a thing in +the world.”</p> + +<p>“Oh,–I don’t know,” returned the youth, wagging an +impudent, though good-natured head at the Doctor; “what else is there in +the world if not in that? The world’s full of it–flowers, trees, +birds, beasts, men and women–the whole damn universe is afire with it. +It’s God; there is no other God–just nature building and propagating +and perpetuating herself.”</p> + +<p>“I suppose,” squeaked the Doctor with a sigh, as he reached for +his morning paper, “that if I had nothing else to do for a living except +practice law with Joe Calvin on the side and just be twenty-five years old three +hundred days in the year, and no other chores except to help old man Sands rib +up his waterworks deal, I would hold some such general views myself. But when I +was twenty-five, young man, Bedelia and I were running a race with the meal +ticket, and our notions as to the moral government of the universe came hard and +were deepset, and we can’t change them now.”</p> + +<p>George Brotherton, Henry Fenn, Captain Morton and Amos Adams came in with a +kind of Greek chorus of general agreement with the Doctor. Van Dorn cocked his +hat over <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_32'></a>32</span>his eyes and +laughed, and then the Doctor went on in his high falsetto:</p> + +<p>“It’s all right, Tom; go it while you’re young. But that +kind of love’s young dream generally ends in a nightmare.” He +hesitated a minute, and then said: “Well, so long as we’re all here +in the family, I’ll tell you about a case I had last night. There’s +an old fellow–old Dutchman to be exact, down in Spring township; he came +here with us when we founded the town; husky old boy, that is, he used to be +fifteen years ago. And he had Tom’s notion about the ladies, God bless +’em, when he was Tom’s age. When I first knew him his notion was +causing him trouble, and had settled in one leg, and last night he died of the +ladies, God bless ’em.”</p> + +<p>The Doctor’s face flinched with pain, and his treble voice winced as he +spoke: “Lord, but he suffered, and to add to his physical torment, he knew +that he had to leave his daughter all alone in the world–and without a +mother and without a dollar; but that isn’t the worst, and he knew +it–at the last. This being twenty-five for a living is the hardest job on +earth–when you’re sixty, and the old man knew that. The girl has +missed his blood taint; she’s not scarred nor disfigured. It would be +better if she were; but he gave her something worse–she’s his +child!” For a moment the Doctor was silent, then he sighed deeply and shut +his eyes as he said: “Boys, for a year and more he’s been seeing all +that he was, bud like a glorious poison in his daughter.”</p> + +<p>Van Dorn smiled, and asked casually, “Well, what’s her +name?” The rest of the group in the store looked down their noses and the +Doctor, with his paper under his arm, obviously ignored the question and only +stopped in the door to pipe out: “This wasn’t the morning to talk to +me of the ladies–God bless ’em.”</p> + +<p>The men in the store watched him as he started across the street, and then +saw Laura skip gayly toward him, and the two, holding hands, crossed the muddy +street together. She was laughing, and the joy of her soul–a child’s +soul, shone like a white flame in the dull street and George Brotherton, who saw +the pair in the street, roared out: “Well, say–now isn’t that +something worth looking at? That beats Niagara Falls and Pike’s +Peak–for me.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_33'></a>33</span>Captain Morton +looked at the gay pair attentively for a moment and spoke: “And I have +three to his one; I tell you, gentlemen–three to his one; and I guess I +haven’t told you gentlemen about it, but I got the exclusive agency for +seven counties for Golden’s Patent Self-Opening Fruit Can, an absolute +necessity for every household, and in another year my three will be wearing +their silks and diamonds!” He smiled proudly around the group and added: +“My! that doesn’t make any difference. Silk or gingham, I know +I’ve got the best girls on earth–why, if their mother could just see +’em–see how they’re unfolding–why, Emma can make every +bit as good hash as her mother,” a hint of tears stood in his blue eyes. +“Why–men, I tell you sometimes I want to die and go right off to +Heaven to tell mother all the fine news about ’em–eh?” Deaf +John Kollander, with his hand to his less affected ear, nodded approval and +said, “That’s what I always said, James G. Blaine never was a true +friend of the soldier!”</p> + +<p>Van Dorn had been looking intently at nothing through the store window. When +no one answered Captain Morton, Van Dorn addressed the house rather +impersonally:</p> + +<p>“Man is the blindest of the mammals. You’d think as smart a man +as Dr. Nesbit would see his own vices. Here he is mayor of Harvey, boss of the +town. He buys men with Morty’s father’s money and sells ’em in +politics like sheep–not for his own gain; not for his family’s gain; +but just for the joy of the sport; just as I follow the ladies, God bless +’em; and yet he stands up and reads me a lecture on the wickedness of a +little more or less innocent flirting.” The young man lighted his cigar at +the alcohol flame on the counter. “Morty,” he continued, squinting +his eyes and stroking his mustache, and looking at the boy with vast vanity, +“Morty, do you know what your old dad and yon virtuous Nesbit pasha are +doing? Well, I’ll tell you something you didn’t learn at military +school. They’re putting up a deal by which we’ve voted one hundred +thousand dollars’ worth of city bonds as bonus in aid of a system of city +water works and have given them to your dad outright, for putting in a plant +that he will own and control; and that he will build for seventy-five thousand +dollars.” Van Dorn <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_34'></a>34</span>smiled a placid, malevolent smile at the group and +went on: “And the sheik of the village there helped Daniel Sands put it +through; helped him buy me as city attorney, with your father’s +bank’s legal business; helped buy Dick Bowman, poor devil with a houseful +of children for a hundred dollars for his vote in the council, helped work +George here for his vote in the council by lending money to him for his +business; and so on down the line. The Doc calls that politics, and regards it +as one of his smaller vices; but me?” scoffed the young man, “when I +go gamboling down the primrose path of dalliance with a lady on each +arm–or maybe more, I am haled before the calif and sentenced to his large +and virtuous displeasure. Man,”–here young Mr. Van Dorn drummed his +fingers on the showcase and considered the universe calmly through the store +window–“man is the blindest of mammals.” After which smiling +deliverance, Thomas Van Dorn picked up his morning paper, and his gloves, and +stalked with some dignity into the street.</p> + +<p>“Well, say,”–Brotherton was the first to +speak–“rather cool–”</p> + +<p>“Shame, shame!” cried John Kollander, as he buttoned up his blue +coat with its brass buttons. “Where was Blaine when the bullets were +thickest? Answer me that.” No one answered, but Captain Morton began:</p> + +<p>“Now, George, why, that’s all right. Didn’t the people vote +the bonds after you fellows submitted ’em? Of course they did. The town +wanted waterworks; Daniel Sands knew how to build ’em–eh? The people +couldn’t build ’em themselves, could they?” asked the Captain +triumphantly. Brotherton laughed; Morty Sands grinned,–and, shame be to +Amos Adams, the rugged Puritan, who had opposed the bonds in his paper so +boldly, he only shook a sorrowful head and lifted no voice in protest. Such is +the weakness of our thunderers without their lightning! Brotherton, who still +seemed uneasy, went on: “Say, men, didn’t that franchise call for a +system of electric lights and gas in five years and a telephone system in ten +years more–all for that $100,000; I’m right here to tell you we got +a lot for our money.”</p> + +<p>Again Amos Adams swallowed his Adam’s apple and cut in as boldly as a +man may who thinks with his lead pencil: <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_35'></a>35</span>“And don’t forget the street car +franchises you gave away at the same time. Water, light, gas, telephone and +street car franchises for fifty years and one hundred thousand to boot! It +seemed to me you were giving away a good deal!”</p> + +<p>But John Kollander’s approving nod and George Brotherton’s great +laugh overcame the editor, and the talk turned to other things.</p> + +<p>There came a day in Harvey when men, looking back at events from the +perspective of another day, believed that in those old days of Harvey, Daniel +Sands was master and Dr. Nesbit was servant. And there was much evidence to +indicate that Daniel’s was the master spirit of those early times. But the +evidence was merely based on facts, and facts often are far from the truth. The +truth is that Daniel Sands was the beneficiary of much of the activity of Doctor +Nesbit in those days, but the truth is also that Doctor Nesbit did what he +did–won the county seat for Harvey, secured the railroad, promoted the +bond election, which gave Daniel Sands the franchises for the distribution of +water, gas and electricity–not because the Doctor had any particular +regard for Daniel Sands but because, first of all, the good of the town, as the +Doctor saw it, seemed to require him to act as he acted; and second, because his +triumph at any of these elections meant power, and he was greedy for power. But +he always used his power to make others happy. No man ever came to the Doctor +looking for work that he could not find work for that man. Men in ditches, men +on light poles, men in the court house, men at Daniel Sands’s furnaces, +men grading new streets, men working on city or county contracts knew but one +source of authority in Harvey, and that was Doctor James Nesbit. Daniel Sands +was a mere money grubbing incident of that power. Daniel could have won no one +to vote with him; the county seat would have gone to a rival town, the railroad +would not have veered five miles out of its way to reach Harvey, and a dozen +promoters would have wrangled for a dozen franchises but for Dr. Nesbit.</p> + +<p>And if Dr. Nesbit made it his business to see that Dick Bowman had work, it +was somewhat because he knew how badly the little Bowmans needed food. And if he +saw to it that Dick’s vote in the council occasionally yielded him a <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_36'></a>36</span>substantial return from +those whom that vote benefited so munificently, it was partly because the Doctor +felt how sorely Lida Bowman, silently bending over her washtub, needed the +little comforts which the extra fifty-dollar bill would bring that Dick +sometimes found in his monthly pay envelope. And if the Doctor saw to it that +Ira Dooley was made foreman of the water works gang, or that Tom Williams had +the contract for the stone work on the new court house, it was largely in +payment for services rendered by Ira and Tom in bringing in the Second Ward for +John Kollander for county clerk. The rewards of Ira and Tom in working for the +Doctor were virtue’s own; and if re-marking a hundred ballots was part of +that blessed service, well and good. And also it must be recorded that the +foremanship and the stone contract were somewhat the Doctor’s way of +showing Mrs. Dooley and Mrs. Williams that he wished them well.</p> + +<p>Doctor Nesbit’s scheme of politics included no punishments for his +enemies, and he desired every one for his friend. The round, pink face, the +high-roached, yellow hair, the friendly, blue eyes, had no place for hate in +them, and in the high-pitched, soft voice was no note of terror to evil doers. +His countenance did not betray his power; that was in his tireless little legs, +his effective hands, and his shrewd brain motived by a heart too kind for the +finer moral distinctions that men must make who go far in this world. Yet +because he had a heart, a keen mind, even without much conscience, and a vision +larger than those about him, Dr. Nesbit was their leader. He did not move in a +large sphere, but in his small sphere he was the central force, the dominating +spirit. And off in a dark corner, Daniel Sands, who was hunger incarnate and +nothing more, spun his web, gathered the dust and the flies and the weaker +insects and waxed fat. To say that his mind ruled Dr. Nesbit’s, to say +that Daniel Sands was master and Dr. Nesbit servant in those first decades of +Harvey–whatever the facts may seem in those later days–is one of +those ornately ridiculous travesties upon the truth that facts sometimes are +arranged to make. But how little did they know what they were building! For they +and their kind all over America working in the darkness of their own selfish +desires, were laying footing stones–quite substantial yet <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_37'></a>37</span>necessary–for the +structure of a growing civilization which in its time, stripped of its +scaffolding and extraneous débris, was to stand among the nations of the earth +as a tower of righteousness in a stricken world.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_38'></a>38</span><a id='link_4'></a>CHAPTER IV<br /><span class='h2fs'>THE ADAMS FAMILY BIBLE LIES LIKE A GENTLEMAN</span></h2> + +<p>How light a line divides comedy from tragedy! When the ass speaks, or the man +brays, there is comedy. Yet fate may stop the mouth of either man or ass, and in +the dumb struggle for voice, if fate turns the screws of destiny upon duty, +there is tragedy. Only the consequences of a day or a deed can decide whether it +shall have the warm blessing of our smiles or the bitter benediction of our +tears.</p> + +<p>This, one must remember in reading the chapter of this story that shall +follow. It is the close of the story to which Mary Adams, with her memory book +and notes and clippings, has contributed much. For of the pile of envelopes all +numbered in their order; the one marked “Margaret Müller” was the +last envelope that she left. Now the package that concerns Margaret Müller may +not be transcribed separately but must be woven into the woof of the tale. The +package contains a clipping, a dozen closely written pages, and a +photograph–a small photograph of a girl. The photograph is printed on the +picture of a scroll, and the likeness of the girl does not throb with life as it +did thirty years ago when it was taken. Then the plump, voluptuous arm and +shoulders in the front of the picture seemed to exude life and to bristle with +the temptation that lurked under the brown lashes shading her big, innocent, +brown eyes. And her hair, her wonderful brown hair that fell in a great rope to +her knees, in this photograph is hidden, and only her frizzes, covering a fine +forehead, are emphasized by the picture maker. One may smile at the picture now, +but then when it was taken it told of the red of her lips and the pink of her +flesh, and the dimples that forever went flickering across her face. In those +days, the old-fashioned picture portrayed with great clearness the joy and charm +and impudence of that beautiful face. But now the picture is only grotesque. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_39'></a>39</span>It proves rather than +discloses that once, when she was but a young girl, Margaret Müller had +wonderfully molded arms and shoulders, regular features and enchanting eyes. But +that is all the picture shows. In the photograph is no hint of her mellow voice, +of her eager expression and of the smoldering fires of passion, ambition and +purpose that smoked through those gay, bewitching eyes. The old-fashioned +frizzled hair on her forehead, the obvious pose of her hand with its cheap +rings, the curious cut of her dress, made after that travesty of the prevailing +mode which country papers printed in their fashion columns, the black +court-plaster beauty spot on her cheek and the lace fichu draped over her head +and bare shoulders, all stand out like grinning gargoyles that keep much of the +charm she had in those days imprisoned from our eyes to-day. So the picture +alone is of no great service. Nor will the clipping tell much. It only +records:</p> + +<div class='bquote'> +<p>“Miss Margaret Müller, daughter of the late Herman Müller of Spring +Township, this county, will teach school in District 18, the Adams District in +Prospect Township, this fall and winter. She will board with the family of ye +editor.”</p></div> + +<p>Now the reader must know that Margaret Müller’s eyes had been turned to +Harvey as to a magnet for three years. She had chosen the Adams district school +in Prospect Township, because the Adams district school was nearer than any +other school district to Harvey; she had gone to the Adamses to board because +the little bleak house near the Wahoo was the nearest house in the district to +Harvey and to a social circle which she desired to enter–the best that +Harvey offered.</p> + +<p>She saw Grant, a rough, ruddy, hardy lad, of her own time of life, moving in +the very center of the society she cherished in her dreams, and Margaret had no +gay inadvertence in her scheme of creation. So when the lank, strapping, +red-headed boy of a man’s height, with a man’s shoulders and a +child’s heart, started to Harvey for high school every morning, as she +started to teach her country school, he carried with him, beside his lunch, a +definite impression that Margaret was a fine girl. Often, indeed, he thought her +an extraordinarily fine girl. Tales of prowess he brought back from the Harvey +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_40'></a>40</span>High School, and she +listened with admiring face. For they related to youths whose names she knew as +children of the socially elect.</p> + +<p>A part of her admiration for Grant was due to the fact that Grant had leaped +the social gulf–deep even then in Harvey–between those who lived on +the hill, and the dwellers in the bottoms near the river.</p> + +<p>This instinctively Margaret Müller knew, also–though perhaps +unconsciously–that even if they lived in the bottoms, the Adamses were of +the aristoi; because they were friends of the Nesbits, and Mrs. Nesbit of +Maryland was the fountain head of all the social glory of Harvey. Thus Margaret +Müller of Spring Township came to camp before Harvey for a lifetime siege, and +took her ground where she could aim straight at the Nesbits and Kollanders and +Sandses and Mortons and Calvins. With all her banners flying, banners gaudy and +beautiful, banners that flapped for men and sometimes snapped at women, she set +her forces down before Harvey, and saw the beleaguered city through the portals +of Grant’s fine, wide, blue eyes, within an easy day’s walk of her +own place in the world. So she hovered over Grant, played her brown eyes upon +him, flattered him, unconsciously as is the way of the female, when it would win +favor, and because she was wise, wiser than even her own head knew, she cast +upon the youth a strange spell.</p> + +<p>Those were the days when Margaret Müller came first to early bloom. They were +the days when her personality was too big for her body, so it flowed into +everything she wore; on the tips of every ribbon at her neck, she glowed with a +kind of electric radiance. A flower in her hair seemed as much a part of her as +the turn of her cleft chin. A bow at her bosom was vibrant with her. And to +Grant even the things she touched, after she was gone, thrilled him as though +they were of her.</p> + +<p>Now the pages that are to follow in this chapter are not written for him who +has reached that grand estate where he may feel disdain for the feverish follies +of youth. A lad may be an ass; doubtless he is. A maid may be as fitful as the +west wind, and in the story of the fitfulness and folly of the man and the maid, +there is vast pathos and pain, from which <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_41'></a>41</span>pathos and pain we may learn wisdom. Now the strange +part of this story is not what befell the youth and the maid; for any tragedy +that befalls a youth and a maid, is natural enough and in the order of things, +as Heaven knows well. The strange part of this story is that Mary and Amos Adams +were, for all their high hopes of the sunrise, like the rest of us in this +world–only human; stricken with that inexplicable parental blindness that +covers our eyes when those we love are most needing our care.</p> + +<p>Yet how could they know that Grant needed their care? Was he not in their +eyes the fairest of ten thousand? They enshrined him in a kind of holy vision. +It seems odd that a strapping, pimple-faced, freckled, red-headed boy, +loudmouthed and husky-voiced, more or less turbulent and generally in trouble +for his insistent defense of his weaker playmates–it seems odd that such a +boy could be the center of such grand dreams as they dreamed for their boy. Yet +there was the boy and there were the dreams. If he wrote a composition for +school that pleased his parents, they were sure it foretold the future author, +and among her bundle of notes for the Book, his mother has cherished the +manuscript for his complete works. If at school Friday afternoon, he spoke a +piece, “trippingly on the tongue,” they harkened back over his +ancestry to find the elder Adams of Massachusetts who was a great orator. When +he drove a nail and made a creditable bobsled, they saw in him a future +architect and stored the incident for the Romance that was to be biography. When +he organized a baseball club, they saw in him the budding leadership that should +make him a ruler of men. Even Grant’s odd mania to take up the cause of +the weak–often foolish causes that revealed a kind of fanatic chivalry in +him–Mary noted too; and saw the youth a mailed knight in the Great Battle +that should precede and usher in the sunrise.</p> + +<p>Jasper was a little boy and his parents loved him dearly; but Grant, the +child of their honeymooning days, held their hearts. And so their vanity for him +became a kind of mellow madness that separated them from a commonsense world. +And here is a curious thing also–the very facts that were making Grant a +leader of his fellows should have warned Mary and Amos that their son was +setting out on his journey <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_42'></a>42</span>from the heart of his childish paradise. He was +growing tall, strong, big-voiced, with hands, broad and muscular, that made him +a baseball catcher of a reputation wider than the school-grounds, yet he had a +child’s quick wit and merry heart. Such a boy dominated the school as a +matter of course, yet so completely had his parents daubed their eyes with pride +that they could not see that his leadership in school came from the fact that a +man was rising in him–the far-casting shadow of a virility deep and +significant as destiny itself. They could not see the man’s body; they saw +only the child’s heart. It was natural that they should ask themselves +what honor could possibly come to the house of Adams or to any house, for that +matter, further than that which illumined it when Grant came home to announce +that he had been elected President of the senior class in the Harvey High School +and would deliver the valedictory address at commencement. When Mary and Amos +learned that news, they had indeed found the hero for their book. After that, +even his cousin, Morty Sands, home from college for a time, little, wiry, agile, +and with a face half ferret and half angel, even Morty, who had an indefinite +attachment for glowing exuberant Laura Nesbit, felt that so long as Grant held +her attention–great, hulking, noisy, dominant Grant–even Morty +arrayed in his college clothes, like Solomon, would have to wait until the fancy +for Grant had passed. So Morty backed Grant with all his pocket money as a ball +player while he fluttered rather gayly about Ave Calvin–and always with an +effect of inadvertence.</p> + +<p>Now if a lad is an ass–and he is–how should a poor jack be +supposed to know of the wisdom of the serpent? For we must remember that early +youth has been newly driven from the heart of that paradise wherein there is no +good and evil. He gropes in darkness as he comes nearer the gates of his +paradise, through an unchartered wilderness. But to Mary and Amos, Grant seemed +to be wandering in the very midst of his Eden. They did not realize how he was +groping and stumbling, nor could they know what a load he carried–this ass +of a lad coming toward the gate of the Garden. In those times when he sat in his +room, trying to show his soul bashfully to Laura Nesbit as he wrote to her in +Maryland <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_43'></a>43</span>at school, +Grant felt always, over and about him, the consciousness of the spell of +Margaret Müller, yet he did not know what the spell was. He wrestled with it +when finally he came rather dimly to sense it, and tried with all the strength +of his ungainly soul to be loyal to the choice of his heart. His will was loyal, +yet the smiles, the eyes, the soft tempting face of Margaret always were near +him. Furious storms of feeling swayed him. For youth is the time of tempest. In +our teens come those floods of soul stuff through the gates of heredity, +swinging open for the last time in life, floods that bring into the world the +stores of the qualities of mind and heart from outside ourselves; floods stored +in Heaven’s reservoir, gushing from the almost limitlessly deep springs of +our ancestry; floods which draw us in resistless currents to our destinies. And +so the ass, laden with this relay of life from the source of life, that every +young, blind ass brings into the world, floundered in the flood.</p> + +<p>Grant thought his experience was unique. Yet it is the common lot of man. To +feel his soul exposed at a thousand new areas of sense; to see a new heaven and +a new earth–strange, mysterious, beautiful, unfolding to his eyes; to +smell new scents; to hear new sounds in the woods and fields; to look open-eyed +and wondering at new relations of things that unfold in the humdrum world about +him, as he flees out of the blind paradise of childhood; to dream new dreams; to +aspire to new heights, to feel impulses coming out of the dark that tremble like +the blare of trumpets in the soul,–this is the way of youth.</p> + +<p>With all his loyalty for Laura Nesbit–loyalty that enshrined her as a +comrade and friend, such is the contradiction of youth that he was madly jealous +of every big boy at the country school who cast eyes at Margaret Müller. And +because she was ages older than he, she knew it; and it pleased her. She knew +that she could make all his combs and crests and bands and wattles and spurs +glisten, and he knew in some deep instinct that when she sang the emotion in her +voice was a call to him that he could not put into words. Thus through the +autumn, Margaret and Grant were thrown together daily in the drab little house +by the river. Now a boy and a girl thrown together commonly make the speaking +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_44'></a>44</span>donkeys of comedy. +Yet one never may be sure that they may not be the dumb struggling creatures of +the tragic muse. Heaven knows Margaret Müller was funny enough in her capers. +For she related her antics–her grand pouts, her elaborate condescensions, +her crass coquetry and her hidings and seekings–into what she called a +“case.” In the only wisdom she knew, to open a flirtation was to +have a “case.” So Margaret ogled and laughed and touched and ran and +giggled and cried and played with her prey with a practiced lore of the heart +that was far beyond the boy’s knowledge. Grant did not know what spell was +upon him. He did not know that his great lithe body, his gripping hands, his +firm legs and his long arms that had in their sinews the power that challenged +her to wrestle when she was with him–he did not know what he meant to the +girl who was forever teasing and bantering him when they were alone. For it was +only when Margaret and Grant were alone or when no one but little Jasper was +with them, that Margaret indulged in the joys of the chase. Yet often when other +boys came to see her–the country boys from the Prospect school district +perhaps, or lorn swains trailing up from Spring Township–Margaret did not +conceal her fluttering delight in them from Mary Adams. So the elder woman and +the girl had long talks in which Margaret agreed so entirely with Mary Adams +that Mary doubted the evidence of her eyes. And Amos in those days was much +interested in certain transcendental communications coming from his Planchette +board and purporting to be from Emerson who had recently passed over. So Amos +had no eyes for Margaret and Mary was fooled by the girl’s fine speech. +Yet sometimes late at night when Margaret was coming in from a walk or a ride +with one of her young men, Mary heard a laugh–a high, hysterical +laugh–that disquieted Mary Adams in spite of all Margaret’s fair +speaking. But never once did Mary connect in her mind Margaret’s wiles +with Grant. Such is the blindness of mothers; such is the deep wisdom of +women!</p> + +<p>All the while Grant floundered more hopelessly into the quicksand of +Margaret’s enchantment, and when he tried to write to Laura Nesbit, +half-formed shames fluttered and flushed across his mind. So often he sat alone +for long night <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_45'></a>45</span>hours +in his attic bedroom in vague agonies and self accusations, pen in hand, trying +to find honest words that would fill out his tedious letter. Being a boy and +being not entirely outside the gate of his childish paradise, he did not +understand the shadow that was clouding his heart.</p> + +<p>But there came one day when the gate closed and looking back, he saw the +angel–the angel with the flaming sword. Then he knew. Then he saw the face +that made the shadow and that day a great trembling came into his soul, a +blackness of unspeakable woe came over him, and he was ashamed of the light. +After that he never wrote to Laura Nesbit.</p> + +<p>In May Margaret’s school closed, and the Adamses asked her to remain +with them for the summer, and she consented rather listlessly. The busy days of +the June harvest combined with the duties of printing a newspaper made their +Sunday visits with the Nesbits irregular. It was in July that Mrs. Nesbit asked +for Margaret, and Mary Adams remembered that Margaret, whose listlessness had +grown into sullenness, had found some excuse for being absent whenever the +Nesbits came to spend the afternoon with the Adamses. Then in August, when Amos +came home one night, he saw Margaret hurry from the front porch. He went into +the house and heard Mary and Grant sobbing inside and heard Mary’s voice +lifted in prayer, with agony in her voice. It was no prayer for forgiveness nor +for mercy, but for guidance and strength, and he stepped to the bedroom and saw +the two kneeling there with Margaret’s shawl over the chair where Mary +knelt. There he heard Mary tell the story of her boy’s shame to her +God.</p> + +<p>Death and partings have come across that threshold during these three +decades. Amos Adams has known anguish and has sat with grief many times, but +nothing ever has cut him to the heart like the dead, hopeless woe in +Mary’s voice as she prayed there in the bedroom with Grant that August +night. A terrible half-hour came when Mary and Amos talked with Margaret. For +over their shame at what their son had done, above their love for him, even +beyond their high hope for him, rose their sense of duty to the child who was +coming. For the child they spent the passion of their shame and love and hope as +they pleaded with Margaret for <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_46'></a>46</span>a child’s right to a name. But she had hardened +her heart. She shook her head and would not listen to their pleadings. Then they +sent Grant to her. It is not easy to say which was more dreadful, the impudent +smile which she turned to the parents as she shook her head at them, or the +scornful laugh they heard when Grant sat with her. That was a long and weary +night they spent and the sun rose in the morning under a cloud that never was +lifted from their hearts.</p> + +<p>In the six or seven sordid, awful weeks that followed before Kenyon was born, +they turned for comfort and for help to Dr. Nesbit. They made his plan to save +the child’s good name, their plan. Of course–the Adamses were +selfish. They felt a blight was on their boy’s life. They could not +understand that in Heaven there is neither marriage nor giving in marriage; that +when God sends a soul through the gates of earth it comes in joy even though we +greet it in sorrow. Their gloom should have been lighted; part of its blackness +was their own vain pride in Grant. Yet they were none the less tender with +Margaret, and when she went down into the valley of the shadow, Mary went with +her and stood and supported the girl in the journey.</p> + +<p>When Doctor Nesbit was climbing into the buggy at the gate, Grant, standing +by the hitching-post, said: “Doctor–sometime–when we are both +older–I mean Laura–” He got no further. The Doctor looked at +the boy’s ashen face, and knew the cost of the words he was speaking. He +stopped, reached his hand out to Grant and touched his shoulder. “I think +I know, Grant–some day I shall tell her.” He got into the buggy, +looked at the lad a moment and said in his high, squeaky voice: “Well, +Grant, boy, you understand after all it’s your burden–don’t +you? Your mother has saved Margaret’s good name. But son–son, +don’t you let the folks bear that burden.” He paused a moment +further and sighed: “Well, good-by, kid–God help you, and make a man +of you,” and so turning his cramping buggy, he drove away in the dusk.</p> + +<p>Thus came Kenyon Adams, recorded in the family Bible as the third son of Mary +and Amos Adams, into the wilderness of this world.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_47'></a>47</span><a id='link_5'></a>CHAPTER V<br /><span class='h2fs'>IN WHICH MARGARET MÜLLER DWELLS IN MARBLE HALLS AND HENRY FENN AND KENYON ADAMS WIN NOTABLE VICTORIES</span></h2> + +<p>The world into which Kenyon Adams came was a busy and noisy and ruthless +world. The prairie grass was leaving Harvey when Grant Adams came, and the +meadow lark left in the year that Jasper came. When Kenyon entered, even the +blue sky that bent over it was threatened. For Dr. Nesbit returning from the +Adamses the evening that Kenyon came to Harvey found around the well-drill at +Jamey McPherson’s a great excited crowd. Men were elbowing each other and +craning their necks, and wagging their heads as they looked at the core of the +drill. For it contained unmistakably a long worm of coal. And that night saw +rising over Harvey such dreams as made the angels sick; for the dreams were all +of money, and its vain display and power. And when men rose after dreaming those +dreams, they swept little Jamey McPherson away in short order. For he had not +the high talents of the money maker. He had only persistence, industry and a +hopeful spirit and a vague vision that he was discovering coal for the common +good. So when Daniel Sands put his mind to bear upon the worm of coal that came +wriggling up from the drilled hole on Jamey’s lot, the worm crawled away +from Jamey and Jamey went to work in the shaft that Daniel sank on his vacant +lot near the McPherson home. The coal smoke from Daniel Sands’s mines +began to splotch the blue sky above the town, and Kenyon Adams missed the large +leisure and joyous comraderie that Grant had seen; indeed the only leisurely +person whom Kenyon saw in his life until he was–Heaven knows how +old–was Rhoda Kollander. The hum and bustle of Harvey did not ruffle the +calm waters of her soul. She of all the women in Harvey held to the early custom +of the town of going out to spend the day.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_48'></a>48</span>“So that +Margaret’s gone,” she was saying to Mary Adams sometime during a +morning in the spring after Kenyon was born. “Law me–I +wouldn’t have a boarder. I tell John, the sanctity of the home is invaded +by boarders these days; and her going out to the dances in town the way she +does, I sh’d think you’d be glad to be alone again, and to have your +own little flock to do for. And so Grant’s going to be a +carpenter–well, well! He didn’t take to the printing trade, did he? +My, my!” she sighed, and folded her hands above her apron–the apron +which she always put on after a meal, as if to help with the dishes, but which +she never soiled or wrinkled–“I tell John I’m so thankful our +little Fred has such a nice place. He waits table there at the Palace, and gets +all his meals–such nice food, and can go to school too, and you +wouldn’t believe it if I’d tell you all the nice men he +meets–drummers and everything, and he’s getting such good manners. I +tell John there’s nothing like the kind of folks a boy is with in his +teens to make him. And he sees Tom Van Dorn every day nearly and sometimes gets +a dime for serving him, and now, honest, Mary, you wouldn’t believe it, +but Freddie says the help around the hotel say that Mauling girl at the cigar +stand thinks Tom’s going to marry her, but law me–he’s aiming +higher than the Maulings. The old man is going to die–did you know it? +They came for John to sit up with him last night. John’s an Odd Fellow, +you know. But speaking of that Margaret, you know she’s a friend of +Violet’s and slips into the cigar stand sometimes and Violet introduces +Margaret to some nice drummers. And I heard John say that when Margaret gets +this term of school taught here, the Spring Township people have made Doc Jim +get her a job in the court house–register of deeds office. But I tell +John–law me, you men are the worst gossips! Talk about women!”</p> + +<p>Little Kenyon in his crib was restless, and Mary Adams was clattering the +dishes, so between the two evils, Mrs. Kollander picked up the child, and rocked +him and patted him and then went on: “I was over and spent the day with +the Sandses the other day. Poor woman, she’s real puny. Ann’s such a +pretty child and Mrs. Sands says that Morty’s not goin’ back to +college again. And she says he just moons <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_49'></a>49</span>around Laura Nesbit. Seems like the boy’s got no +sense. Why, Laura’s just a child–she’s Grant’s age, +isn’t she–not more than eighteen or nineteen, and Morty must be +nearly twenty-three. My–how they have sprung up. I tell John–why, +I’ll be thirty-six right soon now, and here I’ve worked and slaved +my youth away and I’ll be an old woman before we know it.” She +laughed good naturedly and rocked the fretting child. “Law me, Mary Adams, +I sh’d think you’d want Grant to stay with George Brotherton there +in the cigar stand, instead of carpentering. Such elegant people he can meet +there, and such refined influences since Mr. Brotherton’s put in books and +newspapers, and he could work in the printing office and deliver the Kansas City +and St. Louis and Chicago dailies for Mr. Brotherton, and do so much better than +he can carpentering. I tell John, if we can just keep our boy among nice people +until he’s twenty-five, he’ll stay with ’em. Now look at Lide +Bowman. Mary Adams, we know she was a smart woman until she married Dick and now +just see her–living down there with the shanty trash and all those +ignorant foreigners, and she’s growing like ’em. She’s lost +two of her babies, and that seems to be weighing on her mind, and I can’t +persuade her to pick up and move out of there. It’s like being in another +world. And Mary Adams–let me tell you–Casper Herdicker has gone into +the mine. Yes, sir, he closed his shop and is going to work in the mine, because +he can make three dollars a day. But law me! you’ll not see Hildy +Herdicker moving down there. She’ll keep her millinery store and live with +the white folks.”</p> + +<p>The dishes were put away, and in the long afternoon Mary Adams sat sewing as +Rhoda Kollander rambled on. For the third time Rhoda came back to comment upon +the fact that Grant Adams had quit working in the printing office–a +genteel trade, and had stopped delivering papers for Mr. Brotherton’s +newspaper stand–a rather high vocation, and was degrading himself by +learning the carpenter’s trade, when Mary Adams cut into the current of +the stream of talk.</p> + +<p>“Well, my dear, it was this way. There are two reasons why Grant is +learning the carpenter’s trade. In the first place, the boy has some sort +of a passion to cast his lot among <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_50'></a>50</span>the poor. He feels they are neglected and–well, +he has a sort of a fierce streak in him to fight for the under dog, +and–”</p> + +<p>“Well, law me, Mary–don’t I know that? Hasn’t Freddie +told me time and again how Grant used to fight for Freddie when he was a little +boy and the big boys plagued him. Grant whipped the whole school for teasing a +little half-witted boy once–did you know that?” Mary Adams shook her +head. “Well, he did, and–well now, isn’t that nice. I can see +just how he feels!” And she could. Never lived a more sympathetic soul +than Rhoda. And as she rocked she said: “Of course, if that’s the +reason–law me, Mary, you never can tell how these children are going to +turn out. Why, I tell John–”</p> + +<p>“And the other reason is, Rhoda, that he is earning two dollars a day +as a carpenter’s helper, and since Kenyon came we seem to be miserably +hard pushed for money.” Mary Adams stopped and then went on as one +carefully choosing her words: “And since Margaret has gone to board over +at the other side of the school district, and we don’t have her board +money–why of course–”</p> + +<p>“Why of course,” echoed Mrs. Kollander, “of course. I tell +John he’s been in a county office now twenty years, drawing all the way +from a thousand to three thousand a year–and what have we got to show for +it? I scrimp and pinch and save, and John does too–but law me–it +seems like the way times are–” Amos Adams, standing at the door, +heard her and cut in:</p> + +<p>“I was talking the other night with George Washington about the times, +and they’re coming around all right.” The man fumbled his sandy +beard, closed his eyes as if to remember something and went on: +“Let’s see, he wrote: ‘Peas and potatoes preserve the people,’ +and the next day, everything in the market dropped but peas and potatoes.” +He nodded a wise head. “They think that planchette is nonsense, but how do +they account for coincidences like that! And now tell me some news for the +<i>Tribune</i>.” The two sat talking well into the twilight and when Rhoda +pulled up her chair to the supper table, the editor’s notebook was +full.</p> + +<p>Grant appeared, an ox-shouldered, red-haired, bass-voiced <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_51'></a>51</span>boy with ham-like hands; +Jasper came in from school full of the town’s adventure into coal and the +industries, and his chatter trickled into the powerful but slowly spoken +insistence of Mrs. Kollander’s talk and was lost and swept finally into +silence. After supper Grant retired to a book from the Sea-side Library, +borrowed of Mr. Brotherton from stock–“Sesame and Lilies” was +its title. Jasper plunged into his bookkeeping studies and by the wood stove in +the sitting-room Rhoda Kollander held her levee until bedtime sent her home.</p> + +<p>During the noon hour the next day in Mr. Brotherton’s cigar store and +news stand, the walnut bench was filled that he had just installed for the +comfort of his customers. At one end, was Grant Adams who had hurried up from +the mines to buy a paperbound copy of Carlyle’s “French +Revolution”; next to him sat deaf John Kollander smoking his noon cigar, +and beside Kollander sat stuttering Kyle Perry, thriftily sponging his morning +Kansas City <i>Times</i> over Dr. Nesbit’s shoulder. The absent brother +always was on the griddle at Mr. Brotherton’s amen corner, and the burnt +offering of the moment was Henry Fenn. He had just broken over a protracted +drouth–one of a year and a half–and the group was shaking sad heads +over the county attorney’s downfall. The doctor was saying, +“It’s a disease, just as the ‘ladies, God bless ’em’ +will become a disease with Tom Van Dorn if he doesn’t stop pretty +soon–a nervous disease and sooner or later they will both go down. Poor +Henry–Bedelia and I noticed him at the charity ball last night; he +was–”</p> + +<p>“A trifle polite–a wee bit too punctilious for these +latitudes,” laughed Brotherton from behind the counter.</p> + +<p>“I was going to say decorative–what Mrs. Nesbit calls +ornate–kind of rococco in manner,” squeaked the doctor, and sighed. +“And yet I can see he’s still fighting his devil–still trying +to keep from going clear under.”</p> + +<p>“It’s a sh-sh-sh-a-ame that ma-a-an should have th-that kind of a +d-d-d-devil in him–is-isis-n’t it?” said Kyle Perry, and John +Kollander, who had been smoking in peace, blurted out, “What else can be +expected under a Democratic administration? Of course, they’ll return the +rebel flags. They’ll <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_52'></a>52</span>pension the rebel soldiers next!” He looked +around for approval, and the smiles of the group would have lured him further +but Tom Van Dorn came swinging through the door with his princely manner, and +the Doctor rose to go. He motioned George Brotherton to the rear of the room and +said gently:</p> + +<p>“George–old man Mauling died an hour ago; John Dexter and I were +there at the last. And John sent word for me to have you get your choir +out–so I’ll notify Mrs. Nesbit. Dexter said he was a lodge member +with you–what lodge, George?”</p> + +<p>“Odd Fellow,” returned the big man, then asked, +“Pall-bearer?”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” returned the Doctor. “There’s no one else much +but the lodge in his case. You will sing him to sleep with your choir and tuck +him in as pall-bearer as you’ve been doing for the dead folks ever since +you came to town.” The Doctor turned to go, “Meet to-night at the +house for choir practice, I suppose?”</p> + +<p>Brotherton nodded, and turned to take a bill from Tom Van Dorn, who had +pocketed a handful of cigars and a number of papers.</p> + +<p>“We were just talking about Henry, Tom,” remarked Mr. Brotherton, +as he handed back the change.</p> + +<p>“He’s b-back-sl-slidden,” prompted Perry.</p> + +<p>“Oh, well–it’s all right. Henry has his weaknesses–we +all have our failings. But drunk or sober he danced a dozen times last night +with that pretty school teacher from Prospect Township.” Grant looked up +from his book, as Van Dorn continued, “Gorgeous creature–” he +shut his eyes and added: “Don’t pity Henry when he can get a woman +like that to favor him!”</p> + +<p>As John Kollander thundered back some irrelevant comment on the +moment’s politics, Van Dorn led Brotherton to the further end of the +counter and lowering his voice said:</p> + +<p>“You know that Mauling girl at the Palace cigar counter?”</p> + +<p>As Brotherton nodded, Van Dorn, dropping his voice to a whisper, said: +“Her father’s dead–poor child–she’s been spending +her money–she hasn’t a cent. I know; I have <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_53'></a>53</span>been talking to her more or less for a +year or so. Which one of your lodges does the old man belong to, +George?”</p> + +<p>When the big man said: “Odd Fellows,” Van Dorn reached into an +inner coat pocket, brought out some bills and slipping them to Brotherton, so +that the group on the bench in the corner could not see, Van Dorn mumbled:</p> + +<p>“Tell her folks this came from the lodge–poor little creature, +she’s their sole support.”</p> + +<p>As Van Dorn lighted his cigar at the alcohol burner Henry Fenn turned into +the store. Fenn stood among them and smiled his electric smile, that illumined +his lean, drawn face and said, “Here,” a pause, then, “I +am,” another pause, and a more searching smile, “I am +again!”</p> + +<p>Mr. Brotherton looked up from the magazine counter where he was sorting out +<i>Centurys</i>, and <i>Harpers</i> and <i>Scribners</i> from a pile: +“Say–” he roared at the newcomer, “Well–say, +Henry–this won’t do. Come–take a brace; pull yourself +together. We are all for you.”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” answered Fenn, smiling out of some incandescence in his +heart, “that’s just it: You’re all for me. The boys over at +Riley’s saloon are all for me. Mother–God bless her, down at the +house is for me so strong that she never flinches or falters. I can get every +vote in the delegation, but my own!”</p> + +<p>“Oh, Henry, why these tears?” sneered Van Dorn. +“We’ve all got to have our fun.”</p> + +<p>“I presume, Tom,” snapped Fenn, “that you’ve got your +little affairs of the heart so that you can take ’em or let ’em +alone!” But to the group in the amen corner, Fenn lifted up his head in +shame. He looked like a whipped dog. One by one the crowd disappeared, all but +Grant, who was bending over his book, and deaf John Kollander.</p> + +<p>Fenn and Brotherton went back to Brotherton’s desk and Fenn asked, +“Did I–George, was it pretty bad last night? God +she–she–that Müller girl–what a wonderful woman she is. +George, do you suppose–” Fenn caught Grant’s eyes wandering +toward them. The name of Margaret Müller had reached his ears. But Fenn went on, +lowering his voice: “I honestly believe she could, if any one +could.” Fenn put his lean, tapering hand upon Brotherton’s broad fat +paw, <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_54'></a>54</span>and smiled a +quaint, appreciative smile, frank and gentle. It was one of those smiles that +carried agreement with what had been said, and with everything that might be +said. Brotherton took up the hallelujah chorus for Margaret with: “Fine +girl–bright, keen–well say, did you know she’s buying the +books here of me for the chautauqua course and is trying for a +degree–something in her head besides hairpins–well, say!”</p> + +<p>He stopped in the middle of the sentence, and brought down his great hand on +his knee. “Well, say–observe me the prize idiot! Get the blue ribbon +and pin it on your Uncle George. Look here at me overlooking the main bet. Well, +say, Henry–here are the specifications of one large juicy plan. Funeral +to-morrow–old man Mauling; obliging party to die. Uncle George and the +angel choir to officiate with Uncle George doubling in brass as pall-bearer. The +new Mrs. Sands, our bell-voiced contralto, is sick: also obliging party to be +sick. Need new contralto: Müller girl has voice like morning star, or stars, as +the case may be.” Fenn flashed on his electric smile, and rose, looking a +question.</p> + +<p>“That’s the idea, Henry, that finally wormed its way into my +master mind,” cried Brotherton, laughing his big laugh. +“That’s what I said before I spoke. You are to drive into Prospect +Township this evening–Hey, Grant,” called Brotherton to the boy on +the bench in the Amen corner, “Does that pretty school ma’am board +with you people?” And when Grant shook his head, Brotherton went on: +“Yes–she’s moved across the district I remember now. Well, +anyway, Henry, you’re to drive into Prospect Township this evening and +produce one large, luscious brunette contralto for choir practice at General +Nesbit’s piano at eight o’clock sharp.” He stood facing Fenn +whose eyes were glowing. The lurking devil seemed to slink away from him. +Brotherton, seeing the change, again burst into his laugh and bringing Fenn to +the front of the store roared: “Well, say–Hennery–are there +any flies on your Uncle George’s scheme?”</p> + +<p>Grant began buttoning his coat. Fenn, free for the moment of his devil, was +happy, and Brotherton looked at the <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_55'></a>55</span>two and cried, “Now get out of here–the +both of you: you’re spiling trade. And say,” called Brotherton to +Fenn, “bring her up to the Palace Hotel for supper, and we’ll fill +her full of rich food, so’s she can sing–well, say!”</p> + +<p>That evening going home Grant met Margaret and Fenn at a turn of the road, +and before they noticed him, he saw a familiar look in her eyes as she gazed at +the man, saw how closely they were sitting in the buggy, saw a score of little +things that sent the blood to his face and he strode on past them without +speaking. That night he slipped into the room where the baby lay playing with +his toes, and there, standing over the little fellow, the youth’s eyes +filled with tears and for the first time he felt the horror of the baby lifting +from him. He did not touch the child, but tiptoed from the room ashamed to be +seen.</p> + +<p>To Margaret Müller, the baby’s mother, that night opened a new world. +To begin with, it marked her entrance through the portals of the Palace Hotel as +a guest. She had sometimes flitted into the office with its loose, tiled floors +and shabby, onyx splendor to speak to Miss Mauling of the news stand; then she +came as a fugitive and saw things only furtively. But this night Margaret walked +in through the “Ladies Entrance,” sat calmly in the parlor, while +Mr. Fenn wrote her name upon the register, and after some delirious moments of +grand conversation with Mr. Fenn in the gilded hall of pleasure with its +chenille draperies and its apoplectic furniture all puffed to the bursting +point, she had walked with Mr. Fenn through the imposing halls of the wonderful +edifice, like a rescued princess in a fairy tale, to the dining room, there to +meet Mr. Brotherton, and the eldest Miss Morton, who recently had been playing +the cabinet organ at funerals to guide Mr. Brotherton’s choir. Now the +eldest Miss Morton was not antique, being only a scant fifteen in short dresses +and pig tails. But at the urgent request of Mr. Brotherton, and “to fill +out the table, and to take the wrinkles out of her apron by a square meal at the +Palace,” as Mr. Brotherton explained to the Captain, she had been primped +and curled and scared by her sisters and her father, and sent along with Mr. +Brotherton–possibly in his great ulster pocket, and she sat breathing +irregularly and <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_56'></a>56</span>looking steadily into her lap in great awe and +trepidation.</p> + +<p>Margaret Müller, in the dining-room whose fame had spread to the outposts of +Spring township and to the fastnesses of Prospect, behaved with scarcely less +constraint than the eldest Miss Morton. She gazed at the beamed ceiling, the +high wainscoting, the stenciled walls, the frescoes upon the panels, framed by +the beams, the wide sideboard, the glittering glass and the plated silver +service, and if her eyes had not been so beautiful they would have betrayed her +wonder and admiration. As it was, they showed an ecstasy of delight that made +them shine and when Henry Fenn saw them he looked at Mr. Brotherton, and Mr. +Brotherton looked at Mr. Fenn, and the moon in Mr. Brotherton’s face +beamed a lively approval. Moreover the cigar salesman from Leavenworth and a +hardware drummer from St. Louis and a dry-goods salesman from Chicago and a +travelling auditor for the Midland saw Margaret’s eyes and they too looked +at one another and gave their unqualified approval. In other years–in +later years–when she was at Bertolini’s Grand Palace in Naples or in +some of the other Grand Palaces of other effete and luxurious capitals of +Europe, Margaret used to think of that first meal at the Palace house in Harvey +and wonder what in the world really did become of the dozen fried oysters that +she so innocently ordered. She could see them looming up, a great pyramid of +brown batter, garnished with cress, and she knew that she had blundered. But she +did not see the wink that Mr. Brotherton gave Mr. Fenn nor the glare that Mr. +Fenn gave Mr. Brotherton; so she faced it out and whether she ate them or left +them, she never could recall.</p> + +<p>But it was a glorious occasion in spite of the fried oysters. What though the +tiles of the floor of the Palace were cracked; what though the curtains sagged, +and the furniture was shabby, and the walls were faded and dingy; what though +the great beams in the dining-room were dirty and the carpets in the halls +bedraggled, and the onyx gapping in great cracks upon the warped walls of the +office; what though the paint had faded and the varnish cracked all over the +house! To Margaret Müller and also to the eldest Miss Morton, who only managed +to breathe below her locket when <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_57'></a>57</span>they were under the stars, it was a dream of marble +halls, and the frowsy Freddie Kollander and the other waiter who brought in the +food on thick, cracked oblong dishes were vassals and serfs by their sides.</p> + +<p>When they started up Sixth Avenue, the eldest Miss Morton was trying to think +of everything that had happened to tell the younger Misses Morton, Martha and +Ruth–what they ate and what Miss Müller wore, and what Freddie Kollander +who waited on them, and also went to high school, did when he saw her, and how +Mr. Fenn acted when Miss Müller got the big platter of oysters, and what olives +tasted like and if anything had been cooked in the Peerless Cooker that father +had just sold Mr. Paxton and in general why the spirit of mortal should be +proud.</p> + +<p>But Miss Müller entertained no such thoughts. She was treading upon the air +of some elysium, and she took and held Mr. Fenn’s arm with an unnecessary +tightness and began humming the tune that told of the girl who dreamed she dwelt +in marble halls; and then, as they left the thick of the town and were walking +along the board sidewalks that lead to Elm Crest on Elm Street, they all fell to +singing that tune; and as one good tune deserved another, and as they were going +to practice the funeral music that evening, they sang other tunes of a highly +secular nature that need not be enumerated here. And as Miss Müller had a +substantial dinner folded snugly within her, and the ambition of her life was +looming but a few blocks ahead of her, she walked closer to Mr. Fenn, county +attorney in and for Greeley county, than was really necessary. So when Mr. +Brotherton walked alongside with the eldest Miss Morton stumbling intermittently +over the edge of the sidewalk and walking in the dry weeds beside it, Miss +Müller put some feeling into her singing voice and they struck what Mr. +Brotherton was pleased to call a barbershop chord, and held it to his delight. +And the frosty air rang with their voices, and the rich tremulous voice of the +young woman thrilled with passion too deep for words. So deep was it that it +might have stirred the hovering soul of the dead whose dirges they were to sing +and brought back to him the time when he too had thrilled with youth and its +inexpressible joy.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_58'></a>58</span>Up the hill they +go, arm in arm, with fondling voices uttering the unutterable. And now they turn +into a long, broad avenue of elms, of high, plumey elms trimmed and tended, +mulched and cultivated for nearly twenty years, the apple of one man’s +eye; great elms set in blue grass, branching only at the tops, elms that stand +in a grove around an irregular house, elms that shade a broad stone walk leading +up to a wide, hospitable door. The young people ring. There is a stirring in the +house, Margaret Müller’s heart is a-flutter–and the eldest Miss +Morton wonders whether Laura or the hired girl will open the door, and in a +moment–enter Margaret Müller into the home of the Nesbits.</p> + +<p>As the wide door opens, a glow of light and life falls upon the young people. +Standing in the broad reception room is Doctor Nesbit, with his finger in a +book–a poetry book if you please–and before him with his arm about +her and her head beneath his chin stands his daughter. Coming down the stairs is +Mrs. Bedelia Satterthwaite Nesbit–of the Maryland +Satterthwaites–tall, well-upholstered, with large features and a Roman +nose and with the makings of a double chin, if she ever would deign to bend her +queenly head, and finally with the pomp of a major general in figure and +mien.</p> + +<p>She ignores the débris of the carpenters who have been putting in the +hardwood floors, without glancing at it, and walking to her guests, welcomes +them with regal splendor, receiving Miss Müller with rather obvious dignity. +Mrs. Nesbit in those days was a woman of whom the doctor said, “There is +no foolishness about Bedelia.” The jovial Mr. Brotherton attempts some +pleasant hyperbole of speech, which the hostess ignores and the Doctor greets +with a smile. Mrs. Nesbit leads the way to the piano, being a woman of purpose, +and whisks the eldest Miss Morton upon a stool and has the hymn book opened in +less time than it takes to tell how she did it. The Doctor and Laura stand +watching the company, and perhaps they stand awkwardly; which prompts Mr. +Brotherton in the goodness of his heart to say, “Doctor, won’t you +sit and hear the music?”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Nesbit looks around, sees the two figures standing near the fire and +replies, “No, the Doctor won’t.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_59'></a>59</span>To which he chirps +a mocking echo–“No, the Doctor won’t.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Brotherton glances at Mr. Fenn, and the Doctor sees it. +“That’s all right, boys–that’s all right; I may be +satrap of Harvey and have the power of life and death over my subjects, but +that’s down town. Out here, I’m the minority report.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Nesbit opens the hymn book, smooths the fluttering leaves and says +without looking toward the Doctor: “I suppose we may as well begin +now.” And she begins beating the time with her index finger and marking +the accents with her foot.</p> + +<p>As they sing they can hear the gentle drone of the Doctor’s soft voice +in the intervals in the music, reading in some nearby room to his daughter. They +are reading Tennyson’s “Maud” and sometimes in the emotional +passages his voice breaks and his eyes fill up and he cannot go on. At such +times, the daughter puts her head upon his shoulder and often wipes her tears +away upon his coat and they are silent until he can begin again. When his throat +cramps, she pats his cheek and they sit dreaming for a time and the dreams they +dream and the dreams they read differ only in that the poetry is made with +words.</p> + +<p>It is a proud night for Margaret Müller. She has come into a new +world–the world of her deep desire. Mrs. Nesbit sees the girl’s +wandering eyes, taking note of the furniture, as one making an inventory. No +article of the vast array of vases and jars and plaques and jugs and statuettes +and grotesque souvenirs of far journeys across the world, nor etchings nor steel +engravings nor photographs of Roman antiquities nor storied urns nor animated +busts escapes the wandering, curious brown eyes of the girl. But in her vast +wonderment, though her eyes wander far and wide, they never are too far to flash +back betimes at Henry Fenn’s who drinks from the woman’s eyes as +from a deep and bewitching well. He does not see that she is staring. But as the +minutes speed, he knows that he is electrified with alternating currents from +her glowing face and that they bring to him a rapture that he has never known +before.</p> + +<p>But you may be sure of one thing: Mrs. Nesbit–she that <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_60'></a>60</span>was Satterthwaite of the +Maryland Satterthwaites–she sees what is in the wind. She is not wearing +gold-rimmed nose glasses for her health. Her health is exceptionally good. And +what is more to the point, as they are singing, Mrs. Nesbit gives George +Brotherton a look–one of the genuine old Satterthwaite looks that speak +volumes, and in effect it tells him that if he has any sense, he will take Henry +Fenn home before he makes a fool of himself. And the eldest Miss Morton, +swinging her legs under the piano stool and drumming away to Mrs. Nesbit’s +one- and two- and three- and four-ands, peeps out of the corners of her eyes and +sees Miss Müller gobbling Mr. Fenn right down without chewing him, and whoopee +but Mrs. Nesbit is biting nails, and Mr. Brotherton, he can’t hardly keep +his face straight from laughing at all, and if Ruth and Martha ever tell she +will never tell them another thing in the world. And she mustn’t forget to +ask Mrs. Nesbit if she’s used the Peerless Cooker and if she has, will she +please say something nice about it to Mrs. Ahab Wright, for Papa is so anxious +to sell one to the Wrights!</p> + +<p>It is nearly nine o’clock. Mr. Fenn has been eaten up these twenty +times. The wandering eyes have caressed the bric-a-brac over and over. Mrs. +Nesbit’s tireless index finger has marked the time while the great hands +of the tall hall clock have crept around and halfway around again. They are upon +the final rehearsal of it.</p> + +<p>“Other refuge have I none,” says the voice and the eyes say even +more and are mutely answered by another pair of eyes.</p> + +<p>“Hangs my helpless soul on thee,” says the deep passionate voice, +and the eyes say things even more tender to eyes that falter only because they +are faint with joy. In the short interval the moving finger of Mrs. Nesbit goes +up, and then comes a rattling of the great front door. A moment later it is +opened and the flushed face of Grant Adams is seen. He is collarless, and +untidy; he rushes into the room crying, “O, doctor–doctor, +come–our baby–he is choking.” The youth sees Margaret, and +with passion cries: “Kenyon–Kenyon–the baby, he is dying; for +God’s sake–Mag, where is the Doctor?”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_61'></a>61</span>In an instant the +little figure of the Doctor is in the room. He stares at the red-faced boy, and +quick as a flash he sees the open mouth, the dazed, gaping eyes, the graying +face of Margaret as she leans heavily upon George Brotherton. In another instant +the Doctor sees her rally, grapple with herself, bring back the slow color as if +by main strength, and smile a hard forced smile, as the boy stands in impotent +anguish before them.</p> + +<p>“I have the spring wagon here, Doctor–hurry–hurry +please,” expostulates the youth, as the Doctor climbs into his overcoat, +and then looking at Margaret the boy exclaims wildly–“Wouldn’t +you like to go, too, Maggie? Wouldn’t you?”</p> + +<p>She has hold of herself now and replies: “No, Grant, I don’t +think your mother will need me,” but she almost loses her grip as she asks +weakly, “Do you?”</p> + +<p>In another second they are gone, the boy and the Doctor, out into the night, +and the horse’s hoofs, clattering fainter and fainter as they hurry down +the road, bring to her the sound of a little heart beating fainter and fainter, +and she holds on to her soul with a hard hand.</p> + +<p>Before long Margaret Müller and Henry Fenn are alone in a buggy driving to +Prospect township.</p> + +<p>She sees above her on the hill the lights in the great house of her desire. +And she knows that down in the valley where shimmers a single light is a little +body choking for breath, fighting for life.</p> + +<p>“Hangs my helpless soul on thee,” swirls through her brain, and +she is cold–very cold, and sits aloof and will not talk, cannot talk. Ever +the patter of the horse’s feet in the valley is borne upward by the wind, +and she feels in her soul the faltering of a little heart. She dares not hope +that it will start up again; she cannot bear the fear that it will stop.</p> + +<p>So she leaves the man who knew her inmost soul but an hour ago; hardly a word +she speaks at parting; hardly she turns to him as she slips into the house, cold +and shivering with the sound of every hoof-beat on the road in the night, +bringing her back to the helpless soul fluttering in the little body that once +she warmed in hers.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_62'></a>62</span>Thus the watchers +watched the fighting through the night, the child fighting so hard to live. For +life is dear to a child–even though its life perpetuates shame and brings +only sorrow–life still is dear to that struggling little body there under +that humble roof, where even those that love it, and hover in agony over it in +its bed of torture, feel that if it goes out into the great mystery from whence +it came, it will take a sad blot from the world with it. And so hope and fear +and love and tenderness and grief are all mingled in the horror that it may die, +in the mute question that asks if death would not be merciful and kind. And all +night the watchers watched, and the watcher who was absent was afraid to pray, +and as the daylight came in, wan and gray, the child on the rack of misery sank +to sleep, and smiled a little smile of peace at victory.</p> + +<p>Then in the pale dawn, a weary man, trudging afoot slowly up the hill into +Harvey, met another going out into the fields. The Doctor looked up and was +astonished to see Henry Fenn, with hard drawn features, trembling limbs, hollow +eyes and set lips. He too had been fighting hard and he also had won his +victory. The Doctor met the man’s furtive, burning eyes and piped out +softly:</p> + +<p>“Stick to it, Henry–by God, stick hard,” and trudged on +into the morning gloaming.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_63'></a>63</span><a id='link_6'></a>CHAPTER VI<br /><span class='h2fs'>ENTER THE BEAUTY AND CHIVALRY OF HARVEY; ALSO HEREIN WE BREAK OUR FIRST HEART</span></h2> + +<p>Towns are curiously like individuals. They take their character largely from +their experiences, laid layer upon layer in their consciousnesses, as time +moves, and though the experiences are seemingly forgotten, the results of those +experiences are ineffaceably written into the towns. Four or five towns lie +buried under the Harvey that is to-day, each one possible only as the other +upholds it, and all inexorably pointing to the destiny of the Harvey that is, +and to the many other Harveys yet to rise upon the townsite–the Harveys +that shall be. There was, of course, heredity before the town was; the strong +New England strain of blood that was mixed in the Ohio Valley and about the +Great Lakes and changed by the upheaval of the Civil War. Then came the hegira +across the Mississippi and the infant town in the Missouri Valley–the town +of the pioneers–the town that only obeyed its call and sought +instinctively the school house, the newspaper, orderly government, real estate +gambling and “the distant church that topt the neighboring hill.” In +the childhood of the town the cattle trail appeared and with the cattle trade +came wild days and sad disorder. But the railroad moved westward and the cattle +trail moved with the railroad and then in the early adolescence of the town came +coal and gas and oil. And suddenly Harvey blossomed into youth.</p> + +<p>It was a place of adventure; men were made rich overnight by the blow of a +drill in a well. Then was the time for that equality of opportunity to come +which the pioneers sought if ever it was coming. But alas, even in matters of +sheer luck, the fates played favorites. In those fat years it began raining +red-wheeled buggies on Sundays, and smart traps drawn by horses harnessed +gaudily in <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_64'></a>64</span>white or +tan appeared on the streets. Morty Sands often hired a band from Omaha or Kansas +City, and held high revel in the Sands opera house, where all the new dances of +that halcyon day were tripped. The waters of the Wahoo echoed with the sounds of +boating parties–also frequently given by Morty Sands, and his mandolin +twittered gayly on a dozen porches during the summer evenings of that period. It +was Morty who enticed Henry Fenn into the second suit of evening clothes ever +displayed in Harvey, though Tom Van Dorn and George Brotherton appeared a week +later in evening clothes plus white gloves and took much of the shine from Henry +and Morty’s splendor. Those were the days when Nate Perry and young Joe +Calvin and Freddie Kollander organized the little crowd–the Spring +Chickens, they called themselves–and the little crowd was wont to ape its +elders and peek through the fence at the grandeur of the grown-ups. But alas for +the little crowd, month by month it was doomed to see its little girls kidnaped +to bloom in the upper gardens. Thus Emma Morton went; thus Ave Calvin +disappeared, and so Laura Nesbit vanished from the Spring Chickens and appeared +in Morty Sands’s bower! Doctor Nesbit in those days called Morty the +“head gardener in the ‘rosebud garden of girls!’” And a lovely +garden it was. Of course, it was more or less democratic; for every one was +going to be rich; every one was indeed just on the verge of riches, and lines of +caste were loosely drawn. For wealth was the only line that marked the social +differences. So when Henry Fenn, the young county attorney, in his new evening +clothes brought Margaret Müller of the Register of Deeds office to Morty +Sands’s dances, Margaret had whatever social distinction her wits gave +her; which upon the whole was as much distinction as Rhoda Kollander had whose +husband employed Margaret. The press of the social duties in that day weighed +heavily upon Rhoda, who was not the woman to neglect her larger responsibilities +to so good a husband as John Kollander, by selfishly staying at home and keeping +house for him. She had a place in society to maintain, that the flag of her +country might not be sullied by barring John from a county office.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_65'></a>65</span>The real +queen-rose in the garden was Laura Nesbit. How vivid she was! What lips she had +in those days of her first full bloom, and what frank, searching eyes! And her +laugh–that chimed like bells through the merriment of the youth that +always was gathered about her–her laugh could start a reaction in Morty +Sands’s heart as far as he could hear the chime. It was a matter of common +knowledge in the “crowd,” that Morty Sands had one supreme aim in +life: the courtship of Laura Nesbit. For her he lavished clothes upon himself +until he became known as the iridescent dream! For her he bought a high-seated +cart of great price, drawn by a black horse in white kid harness! For her he +learned a whole concert of Schubert’s songs upon the mandolin and +organized a serenading quartette that wore the grass smooth under her window. +For her candy, flowers, books–usually gift books with padded covers, or +with handpainted decorations, or with sumptuous engravings upon them or in them, +sifted into the Nesbits’ front room, and lay in a thick coating upon the +parlor table.</p> + +<p>Someway these votive offerings didn’t reach the heart of the goddess. +She rode beside him in his stanhope, and she wore his bouquets and read his +books, such as were intended for reading; and alas for her figure, she ate his +candy. But these things did not prosper his suit. She was just looking around in +the market of life. Pippa was forever passing through her heart singing, +“God’s in his heaven–all’s right with the world.” +She did not blink at evil; she knew it, abhorred it, but challenged it with +love. She had a vague idea that evil could be vanquished by inviting it out to +dinner and having it in for tea frequently and she believed if it still refused +to transform itself into good, that the thing to do with evil was to be a sister +to it.</p> + +<p>The closest she ever came to overcoming evil with evil was when she spanked +little Joe Calvin for persisting in tying cans to the Morton cat’s tail, +whereupon Morty Sands rose and gave the girl nine rahs, exhibiting an enthusiasm +that inspired him for a year. So Laura thought that if the spanking had not +helped much the soul of little Joe, it had put something worth while into Morty +Sands. The thought cheered her. For Morty was her problem. During the first +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_66'></a>66</span>months after her +return from boarding school, she had broken him–excepting upon minor +moonlight relapses–of trying to kiss her, and she had sufficiently +discouraged his declarations of undying devotion, so that they came only at +weddings, or after other mitigating circumstances which, after pinching his ear, +she was able to overlook.</p> + +<p>But she could not get him to work for a living. He wouldn’t even keep +office hours. Lecturing settled nothing. Lecturing a youth in a black and gold +blazer, duck trousers and a silk shirt and a red sash, with socks and hat to +match his coat, lecturing a youth who plays the mandolin while you talk, and +looks at you through hazel eyes with all the intelligence of an affectionate +pup, lecturing a youth who you know would be kissing you at the moment if you +weren’t twenty pounds heavier and twice as strong–someway +doesn’t arouse enthusiasm. So Morty Sands remained a problem.</p> + +<p>Now an affair of the heart when a man is in his twenties and a girl is just +passing out of her teens, is never static; it is dynamic and always there is +something doing.</p> + +<p>It was after one of Morty’s innumerable summer dances in the Sands +Opera House, that Fate cast her dies for the final throw. Morty had filled Laura +Nesbit’s program scandalously full. Two Newports, three military +schottisches, the York, the Racket–ask grandpa and grammer about these +dances, ye who gyrate in to-day’s mazes–two waltz quadrilles and a +reel. And when you have danced half the evening with a beautiful girl, Fate is +liable to be thumping vigorously on the door of your heart. So Morty walking +home under a drooping August moon with Laura Nesbit that night determined to +bring matters to a decision. As they came up the walk to the Nesbit home, the +girl was humming the tune that beat upon his heart, and almost unconsciously +they fell to waltzing. At the veranda steps they paused, and his arm was around +her. She tried to move away from him, and cuffed him as she cried: “Now +Morty–you know–you know very well what I’ve +always–”</p> + +<p>“Laura–Laura–” he cried, as he held her hand to his +face and tried to focus her soul with his brown eyes, “Laura,” he +faltered, then words deserted him: the fine <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_67'></a>67</span>speech he had planned melted into, “O, my +dear–my dear!” But he kept her hand. The pain and passion in his +voice cut into the girl’s heart. She was not frightened. She did not care +to run. She did not even take his persisting arm from about her. She let him +kiss her hand reverently, then she sat with him on the veranda step and as they +sat she drew his arm from her waist until it was hooked in her arm, and her hand +held his.</p> + +<p>“Oh, I’m in earnest to-night, Laura,” said Morty, gripping +her hand. “I’m staking my whole life to-night, Laura. I’m +deadly–oh, quite deadly serious, Laura, and oh–”</p> + +<p>“And I’m serious too, Morty,” said the +girl–“just as serious as you!” She slipped her hand away from +his and put her hand upon his shoulder gently, almost tenderly. But the youth +felt a certain calmness in her touch that disheartened him.</p> + +<p>In a storm of despair he spoke: “Laura–Laura, can’t you +see–how can you let me go on loving you as I do until I am mad! +Can’t you see that my soul is yours and always has been! You can call it +into heights it will never know without you! You–you–O, sometimes I +feel that I could pray to you as to God!” He turned to her a face glowing +with a white and holy passion, and dropped her hand from his shoulder and did +not touch her as he spoke. Their eyes met steadfastly in a silence. Then the +girl bowed her head and sobbed. For she knew, even in her teens, she knew with +the intuitions that are old as human love upon the planet that she was in the +naked presence of an adoring soul. When she could speak she picked up the +man’s soft white hand, and kissed it. She could not have voiced her +eternal denial more certainly. And Morty Sands lifted an agonized face to the +stars and his jaws trembled. He had lighted his altar fire and it was quenched. +The girl, still holding his hand, said tenderly:</p> + +<p>“I’m so sorry–so sorry, Morty. But I can’t! I +never–never–never can!” She hesitated, and repeated, shaking +her head sadly, “I never, never can love you, Morty–never! And +it’s kind–”</p> + +<p>“Yes, yes,” he answered as one who realizes a finality. +“It’s kind enough–yes, I know you’re kind, Laura!” +He <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_68'></a>68</span>stopped and gazed +at her in the moonlight–and it was as if a flame on the charred altar of +his heart had sprung up for a second as he spoke: “And I never–never +shall–I never shall love any one else–I never, never +shall!”</p> + +<p>The girl rose. A moment later the youth followed her. Back into its sheath +under his countenance his soul slipped, and he stood before the girl smiling a +half deprecatory smile. But the girl’s face was racked with sorrow. She +had seen tragedy. Her pain wounded him and he winced in his heart. Wherefore he +smiled quite genuinely, and stepped back, and threw a kiss at the girl as he +said: “It’s nothing, Laura! Don’t mind! It’s nothing at +all and we’ll forget it! Won’t we?”</p> + +<p>And turning away, he tripped down the walk, leaving her gazing after him in +the moonlight. At the street he turned back with a gay little gesture, blew a +kiss from his white finger tips and cried, “It’s nothing at +all–nothing at all!” And as she went indoors she heard him call, +“It’s nothing at all!”</p> + +<p>She heard him lift his whistle to the tune of the waltz quadrille, but she +stood with tears in her eyes until the brave tune died in the distance.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_69'></a>69</span><a id='link_7'></a>CHAPTER VII<br /><span class='h2fs'>IN WHICH WE SEE HOW LIFE TRANSLATES ITSELF INTO THE MATERIALISM AROUND IT</span></h2> + +<p>Coal and oil and gas and lead and zinc. The black sprite, the brown sprite, +the invisible sprite, the two gray sprites–elemental sprites they +were–destined to be bound servants of man. Yet when they came rushing out +of the earth there at Harvey, man groveled before them, and sold his immortal +soul to these trolls. Naturally enough Daniel Sands was the high priest at their +altar. It was fitting that a devil worship which prostrated itself before coal +and oil and gas and lead and zinc should make a spider the symbol of its +servility. So the spider’s web, all iron and steel in pipes below ground, +all steel and iron and copper in wires and rails above ground, spread out over +the town, over the country near the town, and all the pipes and tubes and rails +and wires led to the dingy little room where Daniel Sands sat spinning his web. +He was the town god. Even the gilded heifer of Baal was a nobler one. And the +curious thing about this orgy of materialism, was that Harvey and all the +thousands of Harveys great and small that filled America in those decades +believed with all their hearts–and they were essentially kind +hearts–that quick, easy and exorbitant profits, really made the equality +of opportunity which every one desired. They thought in terms of +democracy–which is at bottom a spiritual estate,–and they acted like +gross materialists. So they fooled the world, while they deceived themselves. +For the soul of America was not reflected in that debauch of gross profit +making. The soul of America still aspired for justice; but in the folly of the +day, believed quite complacently because a few men got rich quick (stupid men +too,) and many men were well-to-do, that justice was achieved, and the world +ready <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_70'></a>70</span>for the +millennium. But there came a day when Harvey, and all its kind saw the truth in +shame.</p> + +<p>And life in Harvey shaped itself into a vast greedy dream. A hard, metallic +timbre came into the soft, high voice of Dr. James Nesbit, but did not warn men +of the metallic plate that was galvanizing the Doctor’s soul; nor did it +disturb the Doctor. Amos Adams saw the tinplate covering, heard the sounding +brass, and Mary his wife saw and heard too; but they were only two fools and the +Doctor who loved them laughed at them and turned to the healing of the sick and +the subjugation of his county. So men sent him to the state Senate. Curiously +Mrs. Nesbit–she whom George Brotherton always called the General–she +did not shake the spell of the trolls from her heart. They were building wings +and ells and lean-tos on the house that she called her home, and she came to +love the witchery of the time and place and did not see its folly. Yet there +walked between these two entranced ones, another who should have awakened. For +she was young, fresh from the gods of life. Her eyes, unflinching, glorious +eyes, should have seen through the dream of that day. But they were only a +girl’s eyes and were happy, so they could not see beyond the spell that +fell around them. And alas, even when the prince arrived, his kiss was poisoned +too.</p> + +<p>When young Thomas Van Dorn came to the Nesbit house on a voyage of +exploration and discovery–came in a handsome suit of gray, with hat and +handkerchief to match, and a flowing crepe tie, black to harmonize with his +flowing mustache and his wing of fine jet black hair above his ivory tinted +face, Laura Nesbit considered him reflectively, and catalogued him.</p> + +<p>“Tom,” explained the daughter to her father rather coldly one +morning, after the young man had been reading Swinburne in his deep, mellow +pipe-organ of a voice to the family until bedtime the night before, “Tom +Van Dorn, father, is the kind of a man who needs the influence of some strong +woman!”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Nesbit glanced at her husband furtively and caught his grin as he piped +gayly:</p> + +<p>“Who also must carry the night key!”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_71'></a>71</span>The three laughed +but the daughter went on with the cataloguing: “He is a young man of +strong predilections, of definite purpose and more than ordinary intellectual +capacity.”</p> + +<p>“And so far as I have counted, Laura,” her father interrupted +again, “I haven’t found an honest hair in his handsome head; though +I haven’t completed the count yet!” The father smiled amiably as he +made the final qualification.</p> + +<p>The girl caught the mother’s look of approval shimmering across the +table and laughed her gay, bell-like chime. “O, you’ve made a bad +guess, mother.”</p> + +<p>Again she laughed gayly: “It’s not for me to open a school for +the Direction of Miscalculated Purposes. Still,” this she said seriously, +“a strong woman is what he needs.”</p> + +<p>“Not omitting the latch-key,” gibed her father, and the talk +drifted into another current.</p> + +<p>The next Sunday afternoon young Tom Van Dorn appeared with Rossetti added to +his Swinburne, and crowded Morty Sands clear out of the hammock so that Morty +had to sleep in a porch chair, and woke up frequently and was unhappy. While the +gilded youth slept the Woman woke and listened, and Morty was left +disconsolate.</p> + +<p>The shadows were long and deep when Tom Van Dorn rose from the hammock, +closed his book, and stood beside the girl, looking with a gentle tenderness +from the burning depths of his black eyes into her eyes. He paused before +starting away, and held up a hand so that she could see, wound about it, a +flaxen hair, probably drawn from the hammock pillow. He smiled rather sadly, +dropped his eyes to the book closed in his hands, and quoted softly:</p> + +<div class='poetry'> +<p>“‘And around his heart, one strangling golden +hair!’”</p></div> + +<p>He did not speak again, but walked off at a great stride down the stone path +to the street. The next day Rossetti’s sonnets came to Laura Nesbit in a +box of roses.</p> + +<p>The Sunday following Laura Nesbit made it a point to go with her parents to +spend the day with the Adamses down by the river on their farm. But not until +the Nesbits piled into their phaëton to leave did Grant appear. He met the +visitors at the gate with a great bouquet of woods flowers, saying, <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_72'></a>72</span>“Here, Mrs. +Nesbit–I thought you might like them.” But they found Laura’s +hands, and he smiled gratefully at her for taking them. As they drove off, +leaving him looking eagerly after them, Dr. Nesbit said when they were out of +hearing, “I tell you, girls–there’s the makings of a +man–a real man!”</p> + +<p>That night Laura Nesbit in her room looking at the stars, rose and smelled +the woods flowers on her table beside some fading roses.</p> + +<p>As her day dreams merged into vague pictures flitting through her drowsy +brain, she heard the plaintive, trembling voice of Morty Sands’s mandolin, +coming nearer and nearer, and his lower whistle taking the tune while the E +string crooned an obligato; he passed the house, went down the street to the +Mortons’ and came back and went home again, still trilling his heart out +like a bird. As the chirping faded into the night sounds, the girl smiled +compassionately and slept.</p> + +<p>As she slept young Thomas Van Dorn walked alone under the elm trees that +plumed over the sidewalks in those environs with hands clasped behind him, +occasionally gazing into the twinkling stars of the summer night, considering +rather seriously many things. He had come out to think over his speech to the +jury the next day in a murder case pending in the court. But the murderer kept +sinking from his consciousness; the speech would not shape itself to please him, +and the young lawyer was forever meeting rather squarely and abruptly the vision +of Laura Nesbit, who seemed to be asking him disagreeable and conclusive +questions, which he did not like to answer. Was she worth it–the sacrifice +that marriage would require of him? Was he in love with her? What is love +anyway? Wherein did it differ from certain other pleasurable emotions, to which +he was not a stranger? And why was the consciousness of her growing larger and +larger in his life? He tried to whistle reflectively, but he had no music in his +soul and whistling gave him no solace.</p> + +<p>It was midnight when he found himself walking past the Nesbit home, looking +toward it and wondering which of the open windows was nearest to her. He +flinched with <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_73'></a>73</span>shame +when he recollected himself before other houses gazing at other windows, and he +unpursed his lips that were wont to whistle a signal, and went down the street +shuddering. Then after an impulse in which some good angel of remorse shook his +teeth to rouse his soul, he lifted his face to the sky and would have cried in +his heart for help, but instead he smiled and went on, trying to think of his +speech and resolving mightily to put Laura Nesbit out of his heart finally for +the night. He held himself to his high resolve for four or five minutes. It is +only fair to say that the white clad figure of the Doctor coming clicking up the +street with his cane keeping time to a merry air that he hummed as he walked +distracted the young man. His first thought was to turn off and avoid the Doctor +who came along swinging his medicine case gayly. But there rushed over Van Dorn +a feeling that he would like to meet the Doctor. He recognized that he would +like to see any one who was near to Her. It was a pleasing sensation. He coddled +it. He was proud of it; he knew what it meant. So he stopped the preoccupied +figure in white, and cried, “Doctor–we’re late +to-night!”</p> + +<p>“Well, Tom, I’ve got a right to be! Two more people in Harvey +to-night than were here at five o’clock this afternoon because I am a +trifle behindhand. Girl at your partner’s–Joe Calvin’s, and a +boy down at Dick Bowman’s!” He paused and smiled and added musingly, +“And they’re as tickled down at Dick’s as though he was heir +to a kingdom!”</p> + +<p>“And Joe–I suppose–not quite–”</p> + +<p>“Oh, Joe, he’s still in the barn, I dropped in to tell him it was +a girl. But he won’t venture into the house to see the mother before noon +to-morrow! Then he’ll go when she’s asleep!”</p> + +<p>“Dick really isn’t more than two jumps ahead of the wolf, is he, +Doctor?”</p> + +<p>“Well,” grinned the elder man, “maybe a jump-and-a-half or +two jumps.”</p> + +<p>The young man exclaimed, “Say, Doctor! I think it would be a pious act +to make the fellows put up fifty dollars for Dick to-night. I’ll just go +down and raid a few poker games and make them do it.”</p> + +<p>The Doctor stopped him: “Better let me give it to Dick <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_74'></a>74</span>if you get it, Tom!” +Then he added, “Why don’t you keep Christian hours, boy? You +can’t try that Yengst case to-morrow and be up all night!”</p> + +<p>“That’s just what I’m out here for, Doctor–to get my +head in shape for the closing speech.”</p> + +<p>“Well,” sniffed the Doctor, “I wish you no bad luck, but I +hope you lose. Yengst is guilty, and you’ve no business–”</p> + +<p>“Doctor,” cut in Van Dorn, “there’s not a penny in +the Yengst case for me! He was a poor devil in trouble and he came to my office +for help! Do you consider the morals of your sick folks–whether they have +lived virtuous and upright lives when they come to you stricken and in pain? +They’re just sick folks to you in your office, and they’re just poor +devils in trouble for me.”</p> + +<p>The Doctor cocked his head on one side, sparrow-wise, looked for a moment at +the young man and piped, “You’re a brassy pup, aren’t +you!”</p> + +<p>A second later the Doctor was trudging up the street, homeward, humming his +bee-like song. Van Dorn watched him until his white clothes faded into the +shades of the night, then he turned and walked slowly townward, with his hands +behind him and his eyes on the ground. He forgot the Yengst case, and everything +else in the universe except a girl’s gray eyes, her radiant face, and the +glory of her aspiring soul. It was calling with all its power to Tom Van Dorn to +rise and shine and take up the journey to the stars. And when one hears that +call, whether it come from man or maid, from friend or brother, or sweetheart or +child, or from the challenge within him of the holy spirit, when he heeds its +call, no matter where he is while he hears, he walks with God!</p> + +<p>So it came to pass the next day that Thomas Van Dorn went before the jury and +pleaded for the murderer in the Yengst case with the tongue of men and of +angels. For he knew that Dr. Nesbit was loitering in the clerk’s office, +adjoining the courtroom to listen to the plea. Every faculty of his mind and +every capacity of his body was awake, and they said around the court house that +it was “the speech of Tom’s life!” The Doctor on the front +steps of the courthouse met the young man in the daze that follows an <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_75'></a>75</span>oratorical flight, munching +a sandwich to relieve his brain, while the multitude made way for him as he went +to his office.</p> + +<p>“Well, Tom–” piped the Doctor as he grasped the sweaty, +cold hands of the young orator, “if Yengst had been innocent do you +suppose you could have done as well?”</p> + +<p>Van Dora, gave his sandwich to a passing dog, and took the Doctor’s arm +as they walked to their common stairway. Before they had walked a dozen steps +the Doctor had unfolded a situation in local politics that needed attention, and +Van Dorn could not lead the elder man back to further praises of his speech. Yet +the young lawyer knew that he had moved the Doctor deeply.</p> + +<p>That night in his office Tom Van Dorn and Henry Fenn sat with their feet in +the window sill, looking through the open window into the moon. In their +discourse they used that elaborate, impersonal anonymity that youth engages to +carry the baggage of its intimate confidences.</p> + +<p>“I’ve got to have a pretty woman, Henry,” quoth the lawyer +to his friend, while the moon blushed behind a cloud. “She must have +beauty above everything, and after that good manners, and after that good +blood.”</p> + +<p>The moon came out and smiled at Henry. “Tom, let me tell you something, +I don’t care! I used to think I’d be pickey and choosey. But I know +my own heart. I don’t care! I’m the kind of fellow, I guess, who +just gets it bad and comes down all broken out with it.” He turned his +glowing smile into Tom Van Dorn’s face, and finding no quick response +smiled whimsically back at the moon.</p> + +<p>“Some fellows are that way, Henry,” assented Van Dorn, “but +not I! I couldn’t love a servant girl no matter how pretty she +was–not for keeps, and I couldn’t love an ugly princess, and +I’d leave a bluestocking and elope with a chorus girl if I found the +bluestocking crocked or faded in the wash! Yet a beautiful woman, who remained a +woman and didn’t become a moral guide–” he stared brazenly at +the moon and in the cloud that whisked by he saw a score of fancies of other +women whose faces had shone there, and had passed. He went on: “Oh, she +could hold me–she could hold me–I think!”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_76'></a>76</span>The street noises +below filled the pause. Henry rose, looked eagerly into the sky and wistfully at +the moon as he spoke, “Hold me? Hold me?” he cried. “Why, Tom, +though I’d fall into hell myself a thousand times–she couldn’t +lose me! I’d still–still,” he faltered, “I’d +still–” He did not finish, but sat down and putting his hand on the +arm of his friend’s chair, he bent forward, smiled into the handsome young +face in the moonlight and said: “Well–you know the kind of a fool I +am, Tom–now!”</p> + +<p>“That’s what you say, Henry–that’s what you say +now.” Van Dorn turned and looked at his friend. “You’re +sticking it out all right, Henry–against the rum fiend–I presume? +When does your sentence expire?”</p> + +<p>“Next October,” answered Fenn.</p> + +<p>“Going to make it then?”</p> + +<p>“That’s the understanding,” returned Fenn.</p> + +<p>“And you say you’ve got it bad,” laughed Van Dorn. +“And yet–say, Henry–why didn’t you do better with the +jury this afternoon in the Yengst case? Doesn’t it–I mean that +tremendous case you have on with the Duchess of Müller–doesn’t it +put an edge on you? What was the matter with you to-day?”</p> + +<p>Fenn shook his head slowly and said: “It’s different with me. I +just couldn’t help feeling that if I was worth any woman’s giving +herself–was worth anything as a man, I’d want to be dead square with +that Yengst creature–and I got to thinking, maybe in his place, drunk and +hungry–well, I just couldn’t, Tom–because–because +of–well, I wanted her to marry a human being first–not a county +attorney!”</p> + +<p>“You’re a damn fool!” retorted Van Dorn. “Do you +think you’ll succeed in this world on that basis! I tell you if I was in +love with a woman I’d want to take that Yengst case and lay it before her +as a trophy I’d won–lay it before her like a dog!”</p> + +<p>Fenn hesitated. He disliked to give pain. But finally he said, “I +suppose, Tom, I’d like to lay it before her–like a man!”</p> + +<p>“Hell’s delight!” sneered Van Dorn, and they turned off the +subject of the tender passion, and went to considering <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_77'></a>77</span>certain stipulations that Van Dorn was +asking of the county attorney in another matter before the court.</p> + +<p>The next day young Thomas Van Dorn began rather definitely to prepare his +pleading in still another suit in another court, and before the summer’s +end, Morty Sands’s mandolin was wrapped in its chamois skin bag and locked +in its mahogany case. Sometimes Morty, whistling softly and dolefully, would +pass the Nesbit home late at night, hoping that his chirping might reach her +heart; at times he made a rather formal call upon the entire Nesbit family, +which he was obviously encouraged to repeat by the elders. But Morty was +inclined to hide in the thicket of his sorrow and twitter his heart out to the +cold stars. Tom Van Dorn pervaded the Nesbit home by day with his flowers and +books and candy, and by night–as many nights a week as he could buy, beg +or steal–by night he pervaded the Nesbit home like an obstinate haunt.</p> + +<p>He fell upon the whole family and made violent love to the Doctor and Mrs. +Nesbit. He read Browning to the Doctor and did his errands in politics like a +retrieving dog. Mrs. Nesbit learned through him to her great joy that the +Satterthwaite, who was the maternal grandfather of the Tory governor of +Maryland, was not descended from the same Satterlee hanged by King John in his +war with the barons, but from the Sussex branch of the family that remained +loyal to the Crown. But Tom Van Dorn wasted no time or strength in foolishness +with the daughter of the house. His attack upon her heart was direct and +unhalting. He fended off other suitors with a kind of animal jealousy. He drove +her even from so unimportant a family friend as Grant Adams.</p> + +<p>Gradually, as the autumn deepened into winter and Tom Van Dorn found himself +spending more and more time in the girl’s company he had glimpses of his +own low estate through the contrast forced upon him daily by his knowledge of +what a good woman’s soul was. The self-revelation frightened him; he was +afraid of what he saw inside himself in those days, and there can be no doubt +that for a season his soul was wrestling with its doom for release. No +make-believe passion was it that spurred him forward in his <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_78'></a>78</span>attack upon the heart of Laura Nesbit. +Within him, there raged the fierce battle between the spirit of the +times–crass, material and ruthless–and the spirit of things as they +should be. It was the old fight between compromise and the ideal.</p> + +<p>As for the girl, she was in that unsettled mind in which young women in their +first twenties often find themselves when sensing by an instinct new to them the +coming of a grown-up man with real matrimonial intentions. Given a girl somewhat +above the middle height, with a slim, full-blown figure, with fair hair, curling +and blowing about a pink and white face, and with solemn eyes–prematurely +gray eyes, her father called them–with red lips, with white teeth that +flashed when she smiled, and with a laugh like the murmur of gay waters; given a +more than usual amount of inherited good sense, and combine that with a world of +sentiment that perfect health can bring to a girl of twenty-two; then add one +exceptionally fascinating man of thirty–more or less–a handsome +young man; a successful man as young men go, with the oratorical temperament and +enough of a head to be a good consulting lawyer as well as a jury lawyer with +more than local reputation; add to the young man that vague social iridescence, +or aura or halo that young men wear in glamor, and that old men wear in +shame–a past; and then let public opinion agree that he is his own worst +enemy and declare that if he only had some strong woman to take hold of +him–and behold there are the ingredients of human gunpowder!</p> + +<p>Doctor Nesbit smelled the burning powder. Vainly he tried to stamp out the +fire before the explosion.</p> + +<p>“Bedelia,” said the Doctor one day, as the parents heard the girl +talking eagerly with the young man, “what do you make out of this +everlasting ‘Tom, Tom, Tom,’ out there in the living room?”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Nesbit rocked in her chair and shook an ominous head. Finally she said: +“I wish he’d Tom himself home and stay there, Doctor.” The +wife spoke as an oracle with emphasis and authority. “You must speak to +the child!”</p> + +<p>The little man puckered his loose-skinned face into a sad, absurdly pitiful +smile and shrilled back:</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_79'></a>79</span>“Yes–I +did speak to her. And she–” he paused.</p> + +<p>“Well?” demanded the mother.</p> + +<p>“She just fed me back all the decent things I have said of Tom when he +has done my errands.” He drummed his fingers helplessly on his chair and +sighed mournfully: “I wonder why I said those things! I really +wonder!”</p> + +<p>But the voices of the young people rose gayly and disturbed his musings.</p> + +<p>It is easy now after a quarter of a century has unfolded its events for us to +lay blame and grow wise in retrospect. It is easy to say that what happened was +foredoomed to happen; and yet here was a man, walking up and down the curved +verandahs that Mrs. Nesbit had added to the house at odd times, walking up and +down, and speaking to a girl in the moonlight, with much power and fire, of life +and his dreams and his aspirations.</p> + +<p>Over and over he had sung his mating song. Formerly he had made love as he +tried lawsuits, exhibiting only such fervor as the case required. There can be +no doubt, however, that when he made love to Laura Nesbit, it was with all the +powers of his heart and mind. If he could plead with a jury for hire, if he +could argue with the court and wrangle with council, how could he meet reason, +combat objections, and present the case of his soul and make up the brief for +his own destiny?</p> + +<p>He did not try to shield himself when he wooed Laura Nesbit, but she saw all +that he could be. A woman has her vanity of sex, her elaborate, prematernal +pride in her powers, and when man appeals to a woman’s powers for saving +him, when he submits the proofs that he is worth saving, and when he is +handsome, with an education in the lore of the heart that gives him charm and +breaks down reserves and barriers–but these are bygones now–bygones +these twenty-five years and more. What was to be had to be, and what might have +been never was, and what their hopes and high aims were, whose hearts glowed in +the fires of life in Harvey so long ago–and what all our vain, unfruited +hopes are worth, only a just God who reads us truly may say. And a just God +would give to the time and the place, the spirit of the age, its share in all +that followed.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_80'></a>80</span><a id='link_8'></a>CHAPTER VIII<br /><span class='h2fs'>CAPTAIN MORTON ACTS AS COURT HERALD AND MORTY SANDS AND GRANT ADAMS HEAR SAD NEWS</span></h2> + +<p>Spring in Mrs. Nesbit’s garden, even in those days when a garden in +Harvey meant chiefly lettuce and radishes and peas, was no casual event. Spring +opened formally for the Nesbits with crocuses and hyacinths; smiled genially in +golden forsythia, bridal wreath and tulips, preened itself in flags and lilacs +before glowing in roses and peonies. Now the spring is always wise; for it knows +what the winter only hopes or fears. Events burst forth in spring that have been +hidden since their seedtime. And it was with the coming of the first crocuses +that Dr. Nesbit found in his daughter’s eyes a joyous look, new and +exultant–a look which never had been inspired by the love he lavished upon +her. It was not meant for him. Yet it was as truly a spring blossom as any that +blushed in the garden. When it came and when the father realized that the mother +also saw it, they feared to speak of it–even to themselves and by +indirection.</p> + +<p>For they knew their winter conspiracies had failed. In vain was the trip to +Baltimore; in vain was the week with grand opera in New York, and they both knew +that the proposed trip to Europe never would occur. When the parents saw that +look of triumphant joy in their daughter’s face, when they saw how it +lighted up her countenance like a flame when Tom Van Dorn was near or was on his +way to her, they knew that from the secret recesses of her heart, from the +depths of her being, love was springing. They knew that they could not uproot +it, and they had no heart to try. For they accepted love as a fact of life, and +felt that when once it has seeded and grown upon a heart, it is a part of that +heart and only God’s own wisdom and mercy <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_81'></a>81</span>may change the destiny that love has written upon the +life in which love rests. So in the wisdom of the spring, the parents were mute +and sad.</p> + +<p>There was no hint of anger in their sorrow. They realized that if she was +wrong, and they were right, she needed them vastly more than if they were wrong +and she was right, and so they tried to rejoice with her–not of course +expressly and baldly, but in a thousand ways that lay about them, they made her +as happy as they could. Their sweet acquiescence in what she knew was cutting +the elders to the quick, gave the girl many an hour of poignant distress. Yet +the purpose of her heart was not moved. The Satterthwaite in her was +dominant.</p> + +<p>“Doctor,” spoke the wife one morning as they sat alone over their +breakfast, “I think–” She stopped, and he knew she was +listening to the daughter, who was singing in an undertone in the garden.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” he answered, “so do I. I think they have settled +it.”</p> + +<p>The man dropped his glance to the table before him, where his hands rested +helplessly and cried, “Bedelia–I don’t–I don’t +like it!”</p> + +<p>The color of her woe darkened Mrs. Nesbit’s face as her features +trembled for a second, before she controlled herself. “No, +Jim–no–no! I don’t–I’m afraid–afraid, of I +don’t know what!”</p> + +<p>“Of course, he’s of excellent family–the very best!” +the wife ventured.</p> + +<p>“And he’s making money–and has lots of money from his +people!” returned the father.</p> + +<p>“And he’s a man among men!” added the mother.</p> + +<p>“Oh, yes–very much that,–and he’s trying to be +decent! Honestly, Bedelia, I believe the fellow’s got a new grip on +himself!” The Doctor’s voice had regained its timbre; it was just a +little hard, and it broke an instant later as he cried: “O Lord, Lord, +mother–we can’t fool ourselves; let’s not try!” They +looked into the garden, where the girl stood by the blooming lilacs with her +arms filled with blossoms.</p> + +<p>At length the mother spoke, “What shall we do?”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_82'></a>82</span>“What can we +do?” the Doctor echoed. “What can any human creatures do in these +cases! To interfere does no good! The thing is here. Why has it come? I +don’t know.” He repeated the last sentence piteously, and went on +gently:</p> + +<p>“‘They say it was a stolen tide–the Lord who sent it, He knows +all!’ But why–why–why–did it wash in here? What does it +mean? What have we done–and what–what has she done?”</p> + +<p>The little Doctor looked up into the strong face of his wife rather +helplessly, then the time spirit that is after all our sanity–touched +them, and they smiled. “Perhaps, Jim,” the smile broke into +something almost like a laugh, “father said something like that to mother +the day I stood among the magnolias trying to pluck courage with the flowers to +tell him that I was going with you!”</p> + +<p>They succeeded in raising a miserable little laugh, and he squeezed her +hand.</p> + +<p>The girl moved toward the house. The father turned and put on his hat as he +went to meet her. She was a hesitant, self-conscious girl in pink, who stopped +her father as he toddled down the front steps with his medicine case, and she +put her hand upon him, saying:</p> + +<p>“Father,” she paused, looking eagerly at him, then continued, +“there’s the loveliest yellow flag over here.” The father +smiled, put his arm about the girl and piped: “So the pink rosebud will +take us to the yellow flag!” They walked across the garden to the flower +and she exclaimed: “Oh, father–isn’t it lovely!”</p> + +<p>The father looked tenderly into her gray eyes, patted her on the shoulder and +with his arm still about her, he led her to a seat under the lilacs before the +yellow flower. He looked from the flower to her face and then kissed her as he +whispered: “Oh my dear, my dear.” She threw her arms about him and +buried her face, all flushed, upon his shoulder. He felt her quiver under the +pressure of his arm and before she could look at him, she spoke:</p> + +<p>“Oh, father! Father! You–you won’t–you won’t +blame–” Then she lifted up her face to his and cried passionately: +“But all the world could not stop it now–not <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_83'></a>83</span>now! But, oh, father, I want you with +me,” and she shook his arm. “You must understand. You must see Tom +as I see him, father.” She looked the question of her soul in an anxious, +searching glance. Her father reached for one of her hands and patted it. He +gazed downward at the yellow iris, but did not see it.</p> + +<p>“Yes, dear, I know–I understand.”</p> + +<p>“I was sure that you would know without my spelling it all out to you. +But, oh, father,” she cried, “I don’t want you and mother to +feel as you do about Tom, for you are wrong. You are all–all +wrong!”</p> + +<p>The Doctor’s fat hand pressed the strong hand of the girl. +“Well,” he began slowly, his high-keyed voice was pitched to a soft +tone and he spoke with a woman’s gentleness, “Tom’s quite a +man, but–” he could only repeat, “quite a man.” Then he +added gently: “And I feel that he thinks it’s genuine +now–his–love for you, daughter.” The Doctor’s face +twitched, and he swallowed a convulsive little sob as he said, +“Laura–child–can’t you see, it really makes no +difference about Tom–not finally!” He blinked and gulped and went on +with renewed courage. “Can’t you see, child–you’re all +we’ve got–mother and I–and if you want +Tom–why–” his face began to crumple, but he controlled it, and +blurted out, “Why by johnnie you can have him. And what’s +more,” his voice creaked with emotion as he brought his hand down on his +knee, “I’m going to make Tom the best father-in-law in the whole +United States.” His body rocked for a moment as he spurred himself to a +last effort. Then he said: “And mother–mother’ll +be–mother will–she’ll make him–” he could get no +further, but he felt the pressure of her hand, and knew that she understood. +“Mother and I just want you to be happy and if it takes Tom for +that–why Tom’s what it takes, I guess–and that’s all we +want to know!”</p> + +<p>The girl felt the tears on his face as she laid her cheek against his.</p> + +<p>Then she spoke: “But you don’t know him, father! You don’t +understand him! It’s beautiful to be able to do what I can +do–but,” she shuddered, “it’s so awful–I mean all +that devil that used to be in him. He is so ashamed, so <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_84'></a>84</span>sorry–and it’s gone–all +gone–all, every bit of it gone, father!” She put her father’s +hand to her flaming cheek and whispered, “You think so, don’t you, +father?”</p> + +<p>The father’s eyes filled again and his throat choked. +“Laura,” he said very gently, “my professional opinion is +this: You’ve a fighting chance with Tom Van Dorn–about one in ten. +He’s young. You’re a strong, forceful woman–lots of good +Satterthwaite in you, and precious little of the obliging Nesbits. Now +I’ll tell you the truth, Laura; Tom’s got a typical cancer on his +soul. But he’s young; and you’re young, and just now he’s +undergoing a moral regeneration. You are new blood. You may purify him. If the +moral tissue isn’t all rotten, you may cure him.”</p> + +<p>The girl gripped her father’s hand and cried: “But you think I +can–father, you think I can?”</p> + +<p>“No,” piped the little man sadly, “no, daughter, I +don’t think you can. But I hope you can; and if you’d like to know, +I’m going to pray the God that sent me to your mother to give you the +sense and power He gave her.” The Doctor smiled, withdrew his arm, and +started for the street. He turned, “And if you do save him, Laura, +I’ll be mighty proud of you. For,” he squeaked good naturedly, +“it’s a big job–but when you’ve done it you’ll +have something to show for it–I’ll say that for +him–you’ll certainly have something to show for it,” he +repeated. He did not whistle as he walked down the street and the daughter +thought that he kept his eyes upon the ground. As he was about to pass from her +view, he turned, waved his hand and threw her a kiss, and with it she felt a +blessing.</p> + +<p>But curiously enough she saw only one of the goodly company of Doctor Nesbits +that trudged down the hill in his white linen suit, under his broad-brimmed +panama hat. Naturally she hardly might be expected to see the conscienceless +boss of Hancock and Greely counties, who handled the money of privilege seekers +and bought and sold men gayly as a part of the day’s work. Nor could she +be expected to see the helpless little man whose face crumpled, whose heart sank +and whose courage melted as he stood beside her in the garden, the sad, hopeless +little man who, as he went down <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_85'></a>85</span>the hill was captain of the groups that walked under +his hat that hour. The amiable Doctor, who was everybody’s friend and was +loyal to those who served him, the daughter neglected that day; and the State +Senator did not attract her. She saw only a gentle, tender, understanding +father, whose love shone out of his face like a beacon and who threw merry +kisses as he disappeared down the hill–a ruddy-faced, white phantom in a +golden spring day!</p> + +<p>Some place between his home and Market Street the father retired and the +politician took command of Dr. Nesbit’s soul. And he gave thought to the +Nesbit machine. The job of the moment before the machine was to make George +Brotherton, who had the strength of a man who belonged to all the lodges in +town, mayor of Harvey. “Help Harvey Hump” was George’s +alliterative slogan, and the translation of the slogan into terms of Nesbitese +was found in a rather elaborate plan to legalize the issuance of bonds by the +coal and oil towns adjacent to Harvey, so that Daniel Sands could spin out his +web of iron and copper and steel,–rails and wires and pipes into these +huddles of shanties that he might sell them light and heat and power and +communication and transportation.</p> + +<p>Even the boss–even Old Linen Pants–was not without his sense of +humor, nor without his joyous moments when he relished human nature in large, +raw portions. As he walked down the hill there flashed across his mind a +consciousness of the pride of George Brotherton in his candidacy. That pride +expressed itself in a feud George had with Violet Mauling who, having achieved +stenography, was installed in the offices of Calvin & Van Dorn as a +stenographer–the stenographer in fact. She on her part was profoundly +proud of her job and expressed her pride in overhanging and exceeding +mischievous looking bangs upon her low and rather narrow brow. In the feud +between George and Violet, it was her consecrated task to keep him waiting as +long as possible before admitting him to Van Dorn’s inner room, and it was +Mr. Brotherton’s idea never to call her by her right name, nor by any name +twice in succession. She was Inez or Maude or Mabel or Gwendolyn or Pet or +Sweetheart or Dearest, in rapid succession, and in return for his <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_86'></a>86</span>pseudonymnal attentions, +Mr. Brotherton always was sure of receiving from Miss Mauling upon leaving the +office, an elaborately turned-up nose. For Miss Mauling was peevish and far from +happy. She had been conscious for nearly a year that her power over young Mr. +Van Dorn was failing, or that her charms were waning, or that something was +happening to clog or cloy her romance. On a certain May morning she had sat +industriously writing, “When in the course of human events,” +“When in the course of human events it becomes necessary,” +“When in the course of human events it becomes necessary for a people to +separate–” upon her typewriter, over and over and over again, while +she listened to Captain Morton selling young Mr. Van Dorn a patent churn, and +from the winks and nods and sly digs and nudges the Captain distributed through +his canvass, it was obvious to Miss Mauling that affairs in certain quarters had +reached a point.</p> + +<p>That evening at Brotherton’s Amen corner, where the gay young blades of +the village were gathered–Captain Morton decided that as court herald of +the community he should proclaim the banns between Thomas Van Dorn and Laura +Nesbit. Naturally he desired a proper entrance into the conversation for his +proclamation, but with the everlasting ting-aling and tym-ty-tum of Nathan +Perry’s mandolin and the jangling accompaniment of Morty’s mandolin, +opening for the court herald was not easy. Grant Adams was sitting at the +opposite end of the bench from the Captain, deep in one of Mr. +Brotherton’s paper bound books–to-wit, “The Stones of +Venice,” and young Joe Calvin sadly smoking his first stogy, though still +in his knickerbockers, was greedily feasting his eyes upon a copy of the pink +Police <i>Gazette</i> hanging upon a rack above the counter. Henry Fenn and Mr. +Brotherton were lounging over the cigar case, discussing matters of state as +they affected a county attorney and a mayor, when the Captain, clearing his +throat, addressed Mr. Brotherton thus:</p> + +<p>“George–I sold two patent churns to two bridegrooms +to-day–eh?” As the music stopped the Captain, looking at Henry Fenn, +added reflectively: “Bet you four bits, George, you can’t name the +other one–what say?” No one <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_87'></a>87</span>said and the Captain took up his solo. +“Well–it’s this-away: I see what I see next door. And I hear +what my girls say. So this morning I sashays around the yard till I meets a +certain young lady a standing by the yaller rose bush next to our line fence and +I says: ‘Good morning madam,’ I says, ‘from what I see and hear and +cogitate,’ I says, ‘it’s getting about time for you to join my list +of regular customers.’ And she kind of laughs like a Swiss +bellringer’s chime–the way she laughs; and she pretended she +didn’t understand. So I broadens out and says, ‘I sold Rhody Kollander her +first patent rocker the day she came to town to begin housekeeping with. I sold +your pa and ma a patent gate before they had a fence. I sold Joe Calvin’s +woman her first apple corer, and I started Ahab Wright up in housekeeping by +selling him a Peerless cooker. I’ve sold household necessities to every +one of the Mrs. Sandses’ and ’y gory, madam,’ I says, ‘next to the +probate court and the preacher, I’m about the first necessity of a happy +marriage in this man’s town,’ I says, ‘and it looks to me,’ I +says, ‘it certainly looks to me–’ And I laughs and she laughs, all +redded up and asts: ‘Well, what are you selling this spring, Captain?’ And +I says, ‘The Appomattox churn,’ and then one word brought on another and +she says finally, ‘You just tell Tom to buy one for the first of our Lares and +Penates,’ though I got the last word wrong and tried to sell him Lares and +spuds and then Lares and Murphies before he got what I was drivin’ at. But +I certainly sold the other bridegroom, Henry–eh?”</p> + +<p>A silence greeted the Captain’s remarks. In it the “Stones of +Venice” grew bleak and cold for Grant Adams. He rose and walked rather +aimlessly toward the water cooler in the rear of the store and gulped down two +cups of water. When he came back to the bench the group there was busy with the +Captain’s news. But the music did not start again. Morty Sands sat staring +into the pearl inlaid ring around the hole in his mandolin, and his chin +trembled. The talk drifted away from the Captain’s announcement in a +moment, and Morty saw Grant Adams standing by the door, looking through a window +into the street. Grant seemed a tower of strength. For a few minutes Morty tried +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_88'></a>88</span>to restore his soul +by thrumming a tune–a sweet, tinkly little tune, whose words kept dinging +in his head:</p> + +<div class='poetry'> +<p>“Love comes like a summer sigh, softly o’er us +stealing;<br />Love comes and we wonder why, at love’s shrine +we’re kneeling!”</p> </div> + +<p>But that only unsteadied his chin further. So he tucked his mandolin under +his arm, and moved rather stupidly over to Grant Adams. To Morty, Grant Adams, +even though half a dozen years his junior, represented cousinship and +fellowship. As Morty rose Grant stepped through the open door into the street +and stood on the curb. Morty came tiptoeing up to the great rawboned youth and +whispered:</p> + +<p>“Grant–Grant–I’m so–so damned unhappy! You +don’t mind my telling you–do you?” Grant felt the arm of his +cousin tighten around his own arm. Grant stared at the stars, and Morty gazed at +the curb; presently he drew a deep sigh and said: “Thank you, +Grant.” He relaxed his hold of the boy’s arm and walked away with +his head down, and disappeared around the corner into the night. Slowly Grant +followed him. Once or twice or perhaps three times he heard Morty trying vainly +to thrum the sad little tune about the waywardness of love.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_89'></a>89</span><a id='link_9'></a>CHAPTER IX<br /><span class='h2fs'>WHEREIN HENRY FENN MAKES AN INTERESTING EXPERIMENT</span></h2> + +<p>The formal announcement of the engagement of Laura Nesbit and Thomas Van Dorn +came when Mrs. Nesbit began tearing out the old floors on the second story of +the Nesbit home and replacing them with hardwood floors. Having the carpenters +handy she added a round tower with which to impress the Schenectady Van Dorns +with the importance of the Maryland Satterthwaites. In this architectural +outburst the town read the news of the engagement. The town was so moved by the +news that Mrs. Hilda Herdicker was able to sell to the young women of her +millinery suzerainty sixty-three hats, which had been ordered “especially +for Laura Nesbit,” at prices ranging from $2.00 to $57. Each hat was +carefully, indeed furtively, brought from under the counter, or from the back +room of the shop or from a box on a high shelf and secretly exhibited and sold +with injunctions that the Nesbits must not be told what Mrs. Herdicker had done. +One of these hats was in reach of Violet Mauling’s humble twenty dollars! +Poor Violet was having a sad time in those days. No candy, no soda water, no ice +cream, no flowers; no buggy rides, however clandestine, nor fervid +glances–nothing but hard work was her unhappy lot and an occasional clash +with Mr. Brotherton. Thus the morning after the newly elected Mayor had heard +the formal announcement of the engagement, he hurried to the offices of Calvin +& Van Dorn to congratulate his friend:</p> + +<p>“Hello, Maudie,” said Mr. Brotherton. “Oh, it isn’t +Maudie–well then, Trilby, tell Mr. Van Dorn the handsome gentleman has +came.”</p> + +<p>Hearing Brotherton’s noise Van Dorn appeared, to summon his guest to +the private office.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_90'></a>90</span>“Well, you +lucky old dog!” was Mr. Brotherton’s greeting. “Well, +say–this is his honor, the Mayor, come up to collect your dog tax! Well, +say!” As he walked into the office all the secret society pins and charms +and signets–the Shriners’ charm, the Odd Fellows’ links, the +Woodmen’s ax, the Elks’ tooth, the Masons’ square and compass, +the Knights Templars’ arms, were glistening upon his wrinkled front like a +mosaic of jewels!</p> + +<p>Mr. Brotherton shook his friend’s hand, repeating over and over, +“Well, say–” After the congratulatory ceremony was finished +Mr. Brotherton cried, “You old scoundrel–I’d rather have your +luck than a license to steal in a mint!” Then with an eye to business, he +suggested: “I’ll just about open a box of ten centers down at my +home of the letters and arts for you when the boys drop around!” He backed +out of the room still shaking Mr. Van Dorn’s hand, and still roaring, +“Well, say!” In the outer office he waved a gracious hand at Miss +Mauling and cried, “Three sugars, please, Sadie–that will do for +cream!” and went laughing his seismic laugh down the stairs.</p> + +<p>That evening the cigar box stood on the counter in Brotherton’s store. +It was wreathed in smilax like a votive offering and on a card back of the box +Mr. Brotherton had written these pious words:</p> + +<div class='poetry'> +<p>“In loving memory of the late Tom Van +Dorn,<br /> Recently +engaged.<br /> For here, kind friends, we all must lie;<br /> Turn, Sinner, +turn before ye die!<br /> + <i>Take</i> +one.”</p> </div> + +<p>Seeing the box in the cloister and the brotherhood assembled upon the walnut +bench Dr. Nesbit, who came in on a political errand, sniffed, and turned to Amos +Adams. “Well, Amos,” piped the Doctor, “how’s Lincoln +this evening?”</p> + +<p>The editor looked up amiably at the pudgy, white-clad figure of the Doctor, +and replied casually though earnestly, “Well, Doc Jim, I couldn’t +seem to get Lincoln to-day. But I did have a nice chat with Beecher last night +and he said: ‘Your friend, Dr. Nesbit, I observe, is a low church <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_91'></a>91</span>Congregationalist.’ +And when I asked what he meant Beecher replied, ‘High church Congregationalists +believe in New England; low church Congregationalists believe in God!’ +Sounds like him–I could just see him twitching his lips and twinkling his +eyes when it came!” Captain Morton looked suspiciously over his +steel-bowed glasses to say testily:</p> + +<p>“’Y gory, Amos–that thing will get you yet–what say?” +he asked, turning for confirmation to the Doctor.</p> + +<p>Amos Adams smiled gently at the Captain, but addressed the Doctor eagerly, as +one more capable of understanding matters occult: “And I’ll tell you +another thing–Mr. Left is coming regularly now.”</p> + +<p>“Mr. Left?” sniffed the Captain.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” explained the editor carefully, “I was telling the +Doctor last week that if I go into a dark room and blindfold myself and put a +pencil in my left hand, a control who calls himself Mr. Left comes and writes +messages from the Other Side.”</p> + +<p>“Any more sense to ’em than your crazy planchette?” scoffed +Captain Morton.</p> + +<p>The editor closed his eyes in triumph. “Read our editorial this week on +President Cleveland and the Money Power?” he asked. The Captain nodded. +“Mr. Left got it without the scratch of a ’t’ or the dot of an +‘i’ from Samuel J. Tilden.” He opened his eyes to catch the +astonishment of the listeners.</p> + +<p>“Humph!” snorted the Doctor in his high, thin voice, “Old +Tilden seems to have got terribly chummy with Karl Marx in the last two +years.”</p> + +<p>“Well, I didn’t write it, and Mary says it’s not even like +my handwrite. And that reminds me, Doctor, I got to get her prescription filled +again. That tonic you give her seems to be kind of wearing off. The baby you +know–” he stopped a moment vaguely. “Someway she doesn’t +seem strong.”</p> + +<p>Only the Doctor caught Grant’s troubled look.</p> + +<p>The Doctor snapped his watch, and looked at Brotherton. The Doctor was not +the man to loaf long of an autumn evening before any election, and he turned to +Amos and <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_92'></a>92</span>said: +“All right, Amos–we’ll fix up something for Mary a little +later. Now, George–get out that Fourth Ward voters’ list and +let’s get to work!”</p> + +<p>The group turned to the opening door and saw Henry Fenn, resplendent in a +high silk hat and a conspicuously Sunday best suit, which advertised his +condition, standing in the open door. “Good evening, gentlemen,” he +said slowly.</p> + +<p>A look of common recognition of Fenn’s case passed around the group in +the corner. Fenn saw the look as he came in. He was walking painfully straight. +“I may,” he said, lapsing into the poetry that came welling from his +memory and marked him for a drunken fool, “I may,” opening his +ardent eyes and glancing affectionately about, “have been toying with +‘lucent syrups tinct with cinnamon’ and my feet may be ‘uncertain, coy and +hard to please,’” he grinned with wide amiability, “but my +head is clear as a bell.” His eyes flashed nervously about the shop, +resting upon nothing, seeing everything. He spied Grant, “Hello, +Red,” exclaimed Mr. Fenn, “glad to see you back again. ’M back again +myself. Ye crags ’n’ peaks ’m with you once again.” As he +nourished his silk hat he saw the consternation on Brotherton’s big, moon +face. Walking behind the counter he clapped both hands down on +Brotherton’s big shoulders. “Georgy, Georgy,” he repeated +mournfully:</p> + +<p>“Old story, Georgy. Fight–fight, fight, then just a little, just +a very little surrender; not going to give in, but just a nip for old +sake’s sake. Whoo-oo-oo-oo-p the skyrocket blazes and is gone, and then +just another nip to cool the first and then a God damn big drink +and–and–”</p> + +<p>He laughed foolishly and leaned forward on the counter. As his arm touched +the counter it brushed the smilax covered cigar box and sent the box and the +cigars to the floor.</p> + +<p>“Henry, you fool–you poor fool,” cried Brotherton; but his +voice was not angry as he said: “If you must mess up your own affairs for +Heaven’s sake have some respect for Tom’s!”</p> + +<p>“Tom’s love affairs and mine,” sneered the maudlin man. +“‘They grew in beauty side by side.’ But don’t you fool <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_93'></a>93</span>yourself,” and Fenn +wagged a drunken head, “Tom’s devil isn’t, dead, she sleepeth, +that’s what she does. The maiden is not dead she sleepeth, and some day +she’ll wake up and then Tom’s love affair will be where my love +affair is.” His eyes met the doctor’s. Fenn sighed and laughed +fatuously and then he straightened up and said: “Mr. George Brotherton, +most worshipful master, Senior Warden, Grand High Potentate, Keeper of the +Records and Seals–hear me. I’m going out to No. 826 Congress Street +to see the fairest of her sex–the fairest of her sex.” Then he +smiled like the flash of a burning soul and continued:</p> + +<div class='poetry'> +<p>“‘The cold, the changed, perchance the dead anew,<br />The mourned, +the loved, the lost.’”</p> </div> + +<p>And sighing a deep sigh, and again waving his silk hat in a profound bow, he +was gone. The group in the store saw him step lightly into a waiting hack, and +drive away out of their reach. Brotherton stood at the door and watched the +carriage turn off Market Street, then came back, shaking a sorrowful head. He +looked up at the Doctor and said: “She’s bluffing–say, Doctor, +you know her, what do you think?”</p> + +<p>“Bluffing,” returned the Doctor absently, then added quickly: +“Come now, George, get your voters’ list! It’s getting +late!”</p> + +<p>George Brotherton looked blankly at the group. In every face but the +Doctor’s a genuine sorrow for their friend was marked. “Doc,” +Brotherton began apologetically, “I guess I’ll just have to get you +to let me off to-night!” He hesitated; then as he saw the company around +him backing him up, “Why, Doc, the way I feel right now I don’t care +if the whole county ticket is licked! I can’t work to-night, Doc–I +just can’t!”</p> + +<p>The Doctor’s face as he listened, changed. It was as though another +soul had come upon the deck of his countenance. He answered softly in his piping +voice, “No man could, George–after that!” Then turning to +Grant the Doctor said gently, as one reminded of a forgotten purpose:</p> + +<p>“Come along with me, Grant.” They mounted the stairs to the +Doctor’s office and when the door was closed the Doctor <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_94'></a>94</span>motioned Grant to a chair +and piped sharply: “Grant, Kenyon is wearing your mother’s life out. +I’ve just been down to see her. Look here, Grant, I want to know about +Margaret? Does she ever come to see you folks–how does she treat +Kenyon?”</p> + +<p>Looking at the floor, Grant answered slowly, “Well she rode down on her +wheel on his first birthday–slipped in when we were all out but mother, +and cried and went on about her poor child, mother said, and left him a pair of +little knit slippers. And she wrote him a birthday card the second time, but we +didn’t hear from her this time.” He paused. “She never looks +at him on the street, and she’s just about quit speaking to me. But last +winter, she came down and cried around one afternoon. Mother sent for her, I +think.”</p> + +<p>“Why!” asked the Doctor quickly.</p> + +<p>“Well,” hesitated Grant, “it was when mother was first +taken sick. I think father and mother thought maybe Maggie might see things +different–well, about Kenyon.” He stopped.</p> + +<p>“Maggie and you?” prompted the Doctor.</p> + +<p>“Well, something like that, perhaps,” replied the boy.</p> + +<p>The Doctor pushed back in his chair abruptly and cut in shrilly, “They +still think you and Margaret should marry on account of Kenyon?” Grant +nodded. “Do you want to marry her?” The Doctor leaned forward in his +chair, watching the boy. The Doctor saw the flash of revulsion that spread over +the youth’s face before Grant raised his head, and met the Doctor’s +keen gaze and answered soberly, “I would if it was best.”</p> + +<p>“Well,” the Doctor returned as if to himself. “I suppose +so.” To the younger man, he said: “Grant, she wouldn’t marry +you. She is after bigger game. As far as reforming Henry Fenn’s concerned, +she’s bluffing. It doesn’t interest her any more than Kenyon’s +lack of a mother.”</p> + +<p>The Doctor rose and Grant saw that the interview was over. The Doctor left +the youth at the foot of the stairway and went out into the autumn night, where +the stars could blink at all his wisdom. Though he, poor man, did not know <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_95'></a>95</span>that they were winking. For +often men who know good women and love them well, are as unjust to weak women as +men are who know only those women who are frail.</p> + +<p>That night Margaret Müller sat on the porch, where Henry Fenn left her, +considering her problem. Now this problem did not remotely concern the +Adamses–nor even Kenyon Adams. Margaret Müller’s problem was +centered in Henry Fenn, County Attorney of Greeley County; Henry Fenn, who had +visited her gorgeously drunk; Henry Fenn on whose handsome shoulder she had +enjoyed rather keenly shedding some virtuous tears in chiding him for his broken +promise. Yet she knew that she would take him back. And she knew that he knew +that he might come back. For she had moved far forward in the siege of Harvey. +She was well within the walls of the beleaguered city, and was planning for the +larger siege of life and destiny.</p> + +<p>About all there is in life is one’s fundamental choice between the +spiritual and the material. After that choice is made, the die of life is cast. +Events play upon that choice their curious pattern, bringing such griefs and +joys, such calamities and winnings as every life must have. For that choice +makes character, and character makes happiness. Margaret Müller sitting there in +the night long after the last step of Henry Fenn had died away, thought of her +lover’s arms, remembered her lover’s lips, but clearer and more +moving than these vain things, her mind showed her what his hands could bring +her and if her soul waved a duty signal, for the salvation of Henry Fenn, she +shut her eyes to the signal and hurried into the house.</p> + +<p>She was one of God’s miracles of beauty the next day as she passed +Grant Adams on the street, with his carpenter’s box on his arm, going from +the mine shaft to do some work in the office of the attorney for the mines. She +barely nodded to Grant, yet the radiance of her beauty made him turn his head to +gaze at her. Doctor Nesbit did that, and Captain Morton, and Dick +Bowman,–even John Kollander turned, putting up his ear trumpet as if to +hear the glory of her presence; the whole street turned after her as though some +high wind had blown human heads backward when she passed. They saw a lithe, +exquisite animal figure, poised <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_96'></a>96</span>strongly on her feet, walking as in the very pride of +sex, radiating charms consciously, but with all the grace of a flower in the +breeze. Her bright eyes, her masses of dark hair, her dimpled face and neck, her +lips that flamed with the joy of life, the enchantment of her whole body, was so +complete a thing that morning, that she might well have told her story to the +world. The little Doctor knew what her answer to Henry Fenn had been and always +would be. He knew as well as though she had told him. In spite of himself, his +heart melted a little and he had consciously to stop arguing with himself that +she had done the wise thing; that to throw Henry over would only hasten an end, +which her powerful personality might finally avert. But George +Brotherton–when he saw the light in her eyes, was sad. In the core of him, +because he loved his friend, he knew what had happened to that friend. He was +sad–sad and resentful, vaguely and without reason, at the mien and bearing +of Margaret Müller as she went to her work that morning.</p> + +<p>Brotherton remembered her an hour later when, in the back part of the +bookstore Henry Fenn sat, jaded, haggard, and with his dull face drawn with +remorse,–a burned-out sky rocket. Brotherton was busy with his customers, +but in a lull, and between sales as the trade passed in and out, they talked. +Sometimes a customer coming in would interrupt them, but the talk went on as +trade flowed by. It ran thus:</p> + +<p>“Yes, George, but it’s my salvation. She’s the only anchor +I have on earth.”</p> + +<p>“But she didn’t hold you yesterday.”</p> + +<p>“I know, but God, George, it was terrific, the way that thing grabbed +me yesterday. But it’s all gone now.”</p> + +<p>“I know, Henry, but it will come back–can’t you see what +you’ll be doing to her?”</p> + +<p>Fenn, gray of face, with his straight, colorless hair, with his staring eyes, +with his listless form, sat head in hands, gazing at the floor. He did not look +up as he replied: “George, I just can’t give her up; I won’t +give her up,” he cried. “I believe, after the depths of love she +showed me in her soul last night, I’d take her, if I knew I was taking +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_97'></a>97</span>us both to hell. Just +let me have a home, George,–and her and children–George, I know +children would hold me–lots of children–I can make money. I’ve +got money–all I need to marry on, and we’ll have a home and children +and they will hold me–keep me up.”</p> + +<p>In Volume XXI of the “Psychological Society’s +Publications,” page 374, will be found a part of the observations of +“Mr. Left,” together with copious notes upon the Adams case by an +eminent authority. The excerpt herewith printed is attributed by Mr. Left to +Darwin or Huxley or perhaps one of the Brownings–it is unimportant to note +just which one, for Mr. Left gleaned from a wide circle of intellects. The +interesting thing is that about the time these love affairs we are considering +were brewing, Mr. Left wrote: “If the natural selection of love is the +triumph of evolution on this planet, if the free choice of youth and maiden, +unhampered by class or nationality, or wealth, or age, or parental interference, +or thought of material advantage, is the greatest step taken by life since it +came mysteriously into this earth, how much of the importance of the natural +selection of youth in love hangs upon full and free access to all the data +necessary for choice.”</p> + +<p>What irony was in the free choice of these lovers here in Harvey that day +when Mr. Left wrote this. What did Henry Fenn know of the heart or the soul of +the woman he adored? What did Laura Nesbit know of her lover and what did he +know of her? They all four walked blindfolded. Free choice for them was as +remote and impossible as it would have been if they had been auctioned into +bondage.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_98'></a>98</span><a id='link_10'></a>CHAPTER X<br /><span class='h2fs'>IN WHICH MARY ADAMS TAKES A MUCH NEEDED REST</span></h2> + +<p>The changing seasons moved from autumn to winter, from winter to spring. One +gray, wet March day, Grant Adams stood by the counter asking Mr. Brotherton to +send to the city for roses.</p> + +<p>“White roses, a dozen white roses.” Mr. Brotherton turned his +broad back as he wrote the order, and said gently: “They’ll be down +on No. 11 to-night, Grant; I’ll send ’em right out.”</p> + +<p>As Grant stood hesitating, ready to go, but dreading the street, Dr. Nesbit +came in. He pressed the youth’s hand and did not speak. He bought his +tobacco and stood cleaning his pipe. “Could your father sleep any +after–when I left, Grant?” asked the Doctor.</p> + +<p>The young man shook his head. “Mrs. Nesbit is out there, isn’t +she?” the Doctor asked again.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” replied the youth, “she and Laura came out before we +had breakfast. And Mrs. Dexter is there.”</p> + +<p>“Has any one else come?” asked the Doctor, looking up sharply +from his pipe, and added, “I sent word to Margaret Müller.”</p> + +<p>Grant shook his head and the Doctor left the shop. At the doorway he met +Captain Morton, and seemed to be telling him the news, for the Captain’s +face showed the sorrow and concern that he felt. He hurried in and took +Grant’s hand and held it affectionately.</p> + +<p>“Grant, your mother was with my wife her last night on earth; I wish I +could help you, son. I’ll run right down to your father.”</p> + +<p>And the Captain left in the corner of the store the model of a patent coffee +pot he was handling at the time and went away without his morning paper. Mr. Van +Dorn <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_99'></a>99</span>came in, picked +up his paper, snipped off the end of his cigar at the machine, lighted the +cigar, considered his fine raiment a moment, adjusted his soft hat at a proper +angle, pulled up his tie, and seeing the youth, said: “By George, young +man, this is sad news I hear; give the good father my sympathy. Too +bad.”</p> + +<p>When Grant went home, the silence of death hung over the little house, in +spite of the bustling of Mrs. Nesbit. And Grant sat outside on a stone by his +father under the gray sky.</p> + +<p>In the house the prattle of the child with the women made the house seem +pitifully lonesome. Jasper was expressing his sorrow by chopping wood down in +the timber. Jasper was an odd sheep in the flock; he was a Sands after +Daniel’s own heart. So Grant and his father sat together mourning in +silence. Finally the father drew in a deep broken breath, and spoke with his +eyes on the ground:</p> + +<p>“‘These also died in the faith, without having received the +promise!’” Then he lifted up his face and mourned, +“Mary–Mary–” and again, “Oh, Mary, we +need–” The child’s voice inside the house calling fretfully, +“Mother! mother!” came to the two and brought a quick cramp to the +older man’s throat and tears to his eyes. Finally, Amos found voice to +say:</p> + +<p>“I was thinking how we–you and I and Jasper need mother! But our +need is as nothing compared with the baby’s. Poor–lonely little +thing! I don’t know what to do for him, Grant.” He turned to his son +helplessly.</p> + +<p>Again the little voice was lifted, and Laura Nesbit could be heard hushing +the child’s complaint. Not looking at his father, Grant spoke: “Dr. +Nesbit said he had let Margaret know–”</p> + +<p>The father shook his head and returned, “I presumed he would!” He +looked into his son’s face and said: “Maggie doesn’t see +things as we do, son. But, oh–what can we do! And the little fellow needs +her–needs some one, who will love him and take care of him. Oh, +Mary–Mary–” he cried from his bewildered heart. “Be with +us, Mary, and show us what to do!”</p> + +<p>Grant rose, went into the house, bundled up Kenyon and <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_100'></a>100</span>between showers carried him and walked +with him through the bleak woods of March, where the red bird’s joyous +song only cut into his heart and made the young man press closer to him the +little form that snuggled in his arms.</p> + +<p>At night Jasper went to his room above the kitchen and the father turned to +his lonely bed. In the cold parlor Mary Adams lay. Grant sat in the kitchen by +the stove, pressing to his face his mother’s apron, only three days before +left hanging by her own hands on the kitchen door. He clung to this last touch +of her fingers, through the long night, and as he sat there his heart filled +with a blind, vague, rather impotent purpose to take his mother’s place +with Kenyon. From time to time he rose to put wood in the stove, but always when +he went back to his chair, and stroked the apron with his face, the baby seemed +to be clinging to him. The thought of the little hands forever tugging at her +apron racked him with sobs long after his tears were gone.</p> + +<p>And so as responsibility rose in him he stepped across the border from youth +to manhood.</p> + +<p>They made him dress in his Sunday best the next morning and he was still so +close to that borderland of boyhood that he was standing about the yard near the +gate, looking rather lost and awkward when the Nesbits drove up with Kenyon, +whom they had taken for the night. When the others had gone into the house the +Doctor asked:</p> + +<p>“Did she come, Grant?”</p> + +<p>The youth lifted his face to the Doctor and looked him squarely in the eye as +man to man and answered sharply, “No.”</p> + +<p>The Doctor cocked one eye reflectively and said slowly, +“So–” and drove away.</p> + +<p>It was nearly dusk when the Adamses came back from the cemetery to the empty +house. But a bright fire was burning in the kitchen stove and the kettle was +boiling and the odor of food cooking in the oven was in the air. Kenyon was +moving fitfully about the front room. Mrs. Dexter was quietly setting the table. +Amos Adams hung up his hat, took off his coat, and went to his rocker by the +kitchen door; Jasper sat stiffly in the front room. Grant met Mrs. Dexter in the +dining room, and she saw that the child had <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_101'></a>101</span>hold of the young man’s finger and she heard +the baby calling, “Mother–mother! Grant, I want mother!” with +a plaintive little cry, over and over again. Grant played with the child, showed +the little fellow his toys and tried to stop the incessant call of +“Mother–mother–where’s mother!” At last the +boy’s eyes filled. He picked up the child, knocking his own new hat +roughly to the floor. He drew up his chin, straightened his trembling jaw, +batted his eyes so that the moisture left them and said to his father in a hard, +low voice–a man’s voice:</p> + +<p>“I am going to Margaret; she must help.”</p> + +<p>It was dark when he came to town and walked up Congress Street with the +little one snuggled in his arms. Just before he arrived at the house, the +restless child had asked to walk, and they went hand in hand up the steps of the +house where Margaret Müller lived. She was sitting alone on the +veranda–clearly waiting for some one, and when she saw who was coming up +the steps she rose and hurried to them, greeting them on the very threshold of +the veranda. She was white and her bosom was fluttering as she asked in a tense +whisper:</p> + +<p>“What do you want–quick, what do you want?”</p> + +<p>She stood before Grant, as if stopping his progress. The child’s +plaintive cry, “Mother–Grant, I want mother!” not in grief, +but in a great question, was the answer.</p> + +<p>He looked into her staring, terror-stricken eyes until they drooped and for a +moment he dominated her. But she came back from some outpost of her nature with +reënforcements.</p> + +<p>“Get out of here–get out of here. Don’t come here with your +brat–get out,” she snarled in a whisper. The child went to her, +plucked her skirts and cried, “Mother, mother.” Grant pointed to the +baby and broke out: “Oh, Maggie–what’s to become of +Kenyon?–what can I do! He’s only got you now. Oh, Maggie, +won’t you come?” He saw fear flit across her face in a tense second +before she answered. Then fear left and she crouched at him trembling, red-eyed, +gaping, mouthed, the embodiment of determined hate; swiping the child’s +little hands away from her, she snapped:</p> + +<p>“Get out of here!–leave! quick!” He stood stubbornly <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_102'></a>102</span>before her and only the +child’s voice crying, “Grant, Grant, I want to go home to +mother,” filled the silence. Finally she spoke again, cutting through the +baby’s complaint. “I shall never, never, never take that child; I +loathe him, and I hate you and I want both of you always to keep away from +me.”</p> + +<p>Without looking at her again, he caught up the toddling child, lifted it to +his shoulder and walked down the steps. As they turned into the street they ran +into Henry Fenn, who in his free choice of a mate was hurrying to one who he +thought would give him a home–a home and children, many children to stand +between him and his own insatiate devil. Henry greeted Grant:</p> + +<p>“Why, boy–oh, yes, been to see Maggie? I wish she could help you, +Grant.”</p> + +<p>And from the veranda came a sweet, rich voice, crying:</p> + +<p>“Yes, Henry–do you know where they can get a good nurse +girl?”</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_103'></a>103</span><a id='link_11'></a>CHAPTER XI<br /><span class='h2fs'>HERE OUR FOOL GROPES FOR A SPIRIT AND CAN FIND ONLY DUST</span></h2> + +<p>Henry Fenn and Margaret Müller sat naming their wedding day, while Grant +Adams walked home with his burden. Henry Fenn had been fighting through a long +winter, against the lust for liquor that was consuming his flesh. At times it +seemed to him that her presence as he fought his battle, helped him; but there +were phases of his fight, when she too fashioned herself in his imagination as a +temptress, and she seemed to blow upon the coals that were searing his weak +flesh.</p> + +<p>At such times he was taciturn, and went about his day’s work as one who +is busy at a serious task. He smiled his amiable smile, he played his +man’s part in the world without whimpering, and fought on like a +gentleman. The night he met Grant and the child at the steps of the house where +Margaret lived, he had called to set the day for their marriage. And that night +she glowed before him and in his arms like a very brand of a woman blown upon by +some wind from another world. When he left her his throat grew parched and dry +and his lips quivered with a desire for liquor that seemed to simmer in his +vitals. But he set his teeth, and ran to his room, and locked himself in, +throwing the key out of the window into the yard. He sat shivering and +whimpering and fighting, by turns conquering his devil, and panting under its +weight, but always with the figure and face of his beloved in his eyes, +sometimes beckoning him to fight on, sometimes coaxing him to yield and stop the +struggle. But as the day came in he fell asleep with one more battle to his +credit.</p> + +<p>In Harvey for many years Henry Fenn’s name was a byword; but the +pitying angels who have seen him fight in the days of his strength and +manhood–they looked at Henry <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_104'></a>104</span>Fenn, and touched reverent foreheads in his high +honor. Then why did they who know our hearts so well, let the blow fall upon +him, you ask. But there you trespass upon that old question that the Doctor and +Amos Adams have thrashed out so long. Has man a free will, or has the illusion +of time and space wound him up in its predestined tangle, to act as he must and +be what he is without appeal or resistance, or even hope of a pardon?</p> + +<p>Doctor Nesbit and Amos Adams were trying to solve the mystery of human +destiny at the gate of the Adams’ home the day after the funeral. Amos had +his foot on the hub of the Doctor’s buggy and was saying: “But +Doctor, can’t you see that it isn’t all material? Suppose that every +atom of the universe does affect every other atom, and that the accumulated +effect of past action holds the stars in their courses, and that if we knew what +all the past was we should be able to foretell the future, because it would be +mathematically calculable–what of it? That does not prove your case, man! +Can’t you see that in free will another element enters–the +spiritual, if you please, that is not amenable to atomic action past or +present?” Amos smiled deprecatingly and added sadly: “Got that last +night from Schopenhauer.” The Doctor, clearly unawed by Schopenhauer, +broke out: “Aye, there I have you, Amos. Isn’t the brain matter, and +doesn’t the brain secrete consciousness?”</p> + +<p>“Does this buggy secrete distance, Jim? Go ’long with you, man.” +Before the Doctor could reply, around the corner of the house, bringing little +Kenyon Adams in his best bib and tucker, came the lofty figure of Mrs. Nesbit. +With her came her daughter. Then up spoke Mrs. Bedelia Satterthwaite Nesbit of +the Maryland Satterthwaites, “Look here, Amos Adams–I don’t +care what you say, I’m going to take this baby.” There was strong +emphasis upon the “I’m,” and she went on: “You can have +him every night, and Grant can take care of the child after supper when he comes +home from work. But every morning at eight I’m going to have this +baby.” Further emphasis upon the first person. “I’m not going +to see a child turned over to a hired girl all day and me with a big house and +no baby and a daughter about to marry and leave me and a houseful of <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_105'></a>105</span>help, if I needed it, +which thank Heavens I don’t.” She put her lips together sternly, +and, “Not a word, Amos Adams,” she said to Amos, who had not opened +his mouth. “Not another word. Kenyon will be home at six +o’clock.”</p> + +<p>She put the child into the Doctor’s submissive arms–helped her +daughter into the buggy, and when she had climbed in herself, she glared +triumphantly over her glasses and above her Roman nose, as she said: “Now, +Amos–have some sense. Doctor,–go on.” And in a moment the +buggy was spinning up the hill toward the town.</p> + +<p>Thus it was that every day, rain or shine, until the day of her wedding, +Laura Nesbit drove her dog cart to the Adamses before the men went to their work +and took little Kenyon home with her and brought him back in the evening. And +always she took him from the arms of Grant–Grant, red-headed, freckled, +blue-eyed, who was hardening into manhood and premature maturity so fast that he +did not realize the change that it made in his face. It grew set, but not hard, +a woman’s tenderness crept into the features, and with that tenderness +came at times a look of petulant impatience. It was a sad face–a sadly +fanatic face–yet one that lighted with human feeling under a smile.</p> + +<p>Little by little, meeting daily–often meeting morning and evening, +Grant and Laura established a homely, wholesome, comfortable relation.</p> + +<p>One evening while Laura was waiting for Tom Van Dorn and Grant was waiting +for Kenyon she and Grant sitting upon the veranda steps of the Nesbit home, +looked into the serene, wide lawn that topped the hill above the quiet town. +They could look across the white and green of the trees and houses, across the +prosperous, solid, red roofs of the stone and brick stores and offices on Market +Street, into the black smudge of smoke and the gray, unpainted, sprawling rows +of ill-kept tenements around the coal mines, that was South Harvey. They could +see even then the sky stains far down the Wahoo Valley, where the villages of +Foley and Magnus rose and duplicated the ugliness of South Harvey.</p> + +<p>The drift of the conversation was personal. The thoughts of youth are largely +personal. The universe is measured by one’s own thumb in the twenties. +“Funny, isn’t it,” said <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_106'></a>106</span>Grant, playing with a honeysuckle vine that climbed +the post beside him, “I guess I’m the only one of the old crowd who +is outlawed in overalls. There’s Freddie Kollander and Nate Perry and +cousin Morty and little Joe Calvin, all up town counterjumping or working in +offices. The girls all getting married.” He paused. “But as far as +that goes I’m making more money than any of the fellows!” He paused +again a moment and added as he gazed moodily into the pillars of smoke rising +above South Harvey, “Gee, but I’ll miss you when you’re +gone–”</p> + +<p>The girl’s silvery laugh greeted his words. “Now, Grant,” +she said, “where do you think I’m going? Why, Tom and I will be only +a block from here–just over on Tenth Street in the Perry House.”</p> + +<p>Grant grinned as he shook his head. “You’re lost and gone +forever, just the same, Miss Clementine. In about three years I’ll +probably be that ‘red-headed boss carpenter in the mine─let me see, +what’s his name?’”</p> + +<p>“Oh, Grant,” scoffed the girl. She saw that his heart was sadder +than his face.</p> + +<p>She took courage and said: “Grant, you never can know how often I think +of you–how much I want you to win everything worth while in this world, +how much I want you to be happy–how I believe in you +and–and–bet on you, Grant–bet on you!”</p> + +<p>Grant did not answer her. Presently he looked up and over the broad valley +below them. The sun behind the house was touching the limestone ledge far across +the valley with golden rays. The smoke from South Harvey on their right was +lighted also. The youth looked into the smoke. Then he turned his eyes back from +the glowing smoke and spoke.</p> + +<p>“This is how I look at it. I don’t mean you’re any +different from any one else. What I was trying to say was that I’m the +only one of our old crowd in the High School you know that used to have parties +and go together in the old days–I’m the only one that’s +wearing overalls, and my way is down there”; he nodded his head toward the +mines and smelters and factories in the valley.</p> + +<p>“Look at these hands,” he said, solemnly spreading out <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_107'></a>107</span>his wide, muscular hands +on his knees; showing one bruised blue-black finger nail. The hands were flinty +and hairy and brown, but they looked effective with an intelligence almost apart +from the body which they served.</p> + +<p>“I’m cut out for work. It’s all right. That’s my job, +and I’m proud of it so far as that goes. I could get a place clerking if I +wanted to, and be in the dancing crowd in six months, and be out to the Van +Dorns for dinner in a year.” He paused and looked into the distant valley +and cried. “But I tell you–my job is down there. And I’m not +going to quit them. God knows they’re getting the rough end of it. If you +knew,” his voice raised slightly and a petulant indignation tempered it. +“If you knew the gouging and pocket picking and meanness that is done by +the people up town to the people down there in the smoke, you’d be one of +those howling red-mouthed anarchists you read about.”</p> + +<p>The girl looked at him silently and at length asked: “For +instance–what’s just one thing?”</p> + +<p>“Well, for instance–in the mines where I work all the men come up +grimy and greasy and vile. They have to wash. In Europe we roughnecks know that +wash-houses are provided by the company, but here,” he cried excitedly, +“the company doesn’t provide even a faucet; instead the +men–father and son and maybe a boarder or two have to go home–into +those little one and two roomed houses the company has built, and strip to the +hide with the house full of children and wash. What if your girlhood had been +used to seeing things like that–could you laugh as you laugh now?” +He looked up at her savagely. “Oh, I know they’re ignorant +foreigners and little better than animals and those things don’t hurt +them–only if you had a little girl who had to be in and out of the single +room of your home when the men came home to wash up–”</p> + +<p>He broke off, and then began again, “Why, I was talking to a dago last +night at the shaft mouth going down to work on the graveyard shift and he said +that he came here believing he would find a free, beautiful country in which his +children could grow up self-respecting men and women, and then he told me about +his little girls living down there <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_108'></a>108</span>where all the vice is scattered through the +tenements, and–about this washing up proposition, and now one of the girls +is gone and they can’t find her.” He threw out a despairing hand; +“So I’m a roughneck, Laura–I’m a jay, and I’m +going to stay with them.”</p> + +<p>“But your people,” she urged. “What about them–your +father and brothers?”</p> + +<p>“Jap’s climbing out. Father’s too old to get in. And +Kenyon–” he flinched, “I hope to God I’ll have the nerve +to stay when the test on him comes.” He turned to the girl passionately: +“But you–you–oh, you–I want you to know–” He +did not finish the sentence, but rose and walked into the house and called: +“Dad–Kenyon–come on, it’s getting late. Stars are coming +out.”</p> + +<p>Half an hour later Tom Van Dorn, in white flannels, with a red silk tie, and +with a white hat and shoes, came striding across the lawn. His black silky +mustache, his soft black hair, his olive skin, his shining black eyes, his alert +emotional face, dark and swarthy, was heightened even in the twilight by the +soft white clothes he wore.</p> + +<p>“Hello, popper-in-law,” he cried. “Any room left on the +veranda?”</p> + +<p>“Come in, Thomas,” piped the older man. “The girls are +doing the dishes, Bedelia and Laura, and we’ll just sit out two or three +dances.”</p> + +<p>The young man lolled in the hammock shaded by the vines. The elder smoked and +reflected. Then slowly and by degrees, as men who are feeling their way to +conversation, they began talking of local politics. They were going at a high +rate when the talk turned to Henry Fenn. “Doing pretty well, +Doctor,” put in the younger man. “Only broke over once in eighteen +months–that’s the record for Henry. Shows what a woman can do for a +man.” He looked up sympathetically, and caught the Doctor’s curious +eyes.</p> + +<p>The Doctor puffed, cleaned out his pipe, absently put it away, then rose and +deliberately pulled his chair over to the hammock: “Tom–I’m a +generation older than you–nearly. I want to tell you +something–” He smiled. “Boy–you’ve got the +devil’s own fight ahead of you–did <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_109'></a>109</span>you know it–I mean,” he paused, +“the–well, the woman proposition.”</p> + +<p>Van Dorn fingered his mustache, and looked serious.</p> + +<p>“Tom,” the elder man chirped, “you’re a handsome +pup–a damn handsome, lovable pup. Sometimes.” He let his voice run +whimsically into its mocking falsetto, “I almost catch myself getting +fooled too.”</p> + +<p>They laughed.</p> + +<p>“Boy, the thing’s in your blood. Did you realize that +you’ve got just as hard a fight as poor Henry Fenn? It’s all right +now–for a while; but the time will come–we might just as well look +this thing squarely in the face now, Tom–the time will come in a few years +when the devil will build the same kind of a fire under you he is building under +Henry Fenn–only it won’t be whisky; it will be the woman +proposition. Damn it, boy,” cried the elder man squeakily, +“it’s in your blood; you’ve let it grow in your very blood. +I’ve known you ten years now, and I’ve seen it grow. Tom–when +the time comes, can you stand up and fight like Henry Fenn–can you, Tom? +And will you?” he cried with a piteous fierceness that stirred all the +sympathy in the young man’s heart.</p> + +<p>He rose to the height of the Doctor’s passion. Tears came into Van +Dorn’s bright eyes. His breast expanded emotionally and he exclaimed: +“I know what I am, oh, I know it. But for her–you and I +together–you’ll help and we’ll stand together and fight it out +for her.” The father looked at the mobile features of his companion, and +sensed the thin plating of emotion under the vain voice. Whereupon the Doctor +heaved a deep, troubled sigh.</p> + +<p>“Heigh-ho, heigh-ho.” He put his arm upon the broad, handsome, +young shoulder. “But you’ll try to be a good boy, won’t +you–” he repeated. “Just try hard to be a good boy, +Tom–that’s all any of us can do,” and turning away he whistled +into the house and a girlish trill answered him.</p> + +<p>After the Doctor had jogged down the hill behind his old horse making his +evening professional visits, Mrs. Nesbit came out and made a show of sitting +with the young people for a time. And not until she left did they go into those +things that were near their hearts.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_110'></a>110</span>When Mrs. Nesbit +left the veranda the young man moved over to the girl and she asked: “Tom, +I wonder–oh, so much and so often–about the soul of us and the body +of us–about the justice of things.” She was speaking out of the +heart that Grant had touched to the quick with his outburst about the poor. But +Tom Van Dorn could not know what was moving within her and if he had known, +perhaps he would have had small sympathy with her feeling. Then she said: +“Oh, Tom, Tom, tell me–don’t you suppose that our souls pay +for the bodies that we crush–I mean all of us–all of us–every +one in the world?”</p> + +<p>The man looked at her blankly. Then he put his arm tenderly about her and +answered: “I don’t know about our souls–much–” He +kissed her. “But I do know about you–your wonderful eyes–and +your magic hair, and your soft cheek!” He left her in no doubt as to her +lover’s mood.</p> + +<p>Vaguely the girl felt unsatisfied with his words. Not that she doubted the +truth of them; but as she drew back from him she said softly: “But if I +were not beautiful, what then?”</p> + +<p>“Ah, but you are–you are; in all the world there is not another +like you for me.” In the rapture that followed, her soul grew in a wave of +joy, yet she spoke shyly.</p> + +<p>“Tom,” she said wistfully, “how can you fail to see +it–this great, beautiful truth that makes me glad: That the miracle of our +love proves God.”</p> + +<p>He caressed her hands and pressed closer to her. “Call it what you +will, little girl: God if it pleases you, I call it nature.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, it’s bigger than that, Tom,” and she shook a stubborn +Satterthwaite head, “and it makes me so happy and makes me so humble that +I want to share it with all the world.” She laid an abashed cheek on his +hands that were still fondling hers.</p> + +<p>But young Mr. Van Dorn spoke up manfully, “Well, don’t you try +sharing it. I want all of it, every bit of it.” He played with her hair, +and relaxed in a languor of complete possession of her.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_111'></a>111</span>“Doesn’t love,” she questioned, +“lift you? Doesn’t it make you love every living thing?” she +urged.</p> + +<p>“I love only you–only you in all the world–your eyes thrill +me; when your body is near I am mad with delight; when I touch you I am in +heaven. When I close my eyes before the jury I see you and I put the bliss of my +vision into my voice, and,” he clinched his hands, “all the devils +of hell couldn’t win that jury away from me. You spur me to my best, put +springs in every muscle, put power in my blood.”</p> + +<p>“But, Tom, tell me this?” Still wistfully, she came close to him, +and put her chin on her clasped hands that rested on his shoulder. “Love +makes me want to be so good, so loyal, so brave, so kind–isn’t it +that way with you? Isn’t love the miracle that brings the soul out into +the world through the senses.” She did not wait for his answer. She +clasped her hands tighter on his shoulder. “I feel that I’m +literally stealing when I have a single thought that I do not bring to you. In +every thrill of my heart about the humblest thing, I find joy in knowing that we +shall enjoy it together. Let me tell you something. Grant Adams and his father +were here to-day for dinner. Well, you know Grant is in a kind of obsession of +love for that little motherless child Mrs. Adams left; Grant mothers him and +fathers him and literally loves him to distraction. And Grant’s growing so +manly, and so loyal and so strong in the love of that little boy–he +doesn’t realize it; but I can see it in him. Oh, Tom, can you see it in +me?”</p> + +<p>Before her mood had changed she told him all that Grant Adams had said; and +her voice broke when she retold the Italian’s story. Tears were in her +eyes when she finished. And young Mr. Van Dorn was emotionally touched also, but +not in sympathy with the story the girl was telling. She ended it:</p> + +<p>“And then I looked at Grant’s big rough hands–bony and +hairy, and Tom, they told me the whole story of his destiny; just as your soft, +effective, gentle white hands prophesy our destiny. Oh, why–why–I am +beginning to wonder why, Tom, why things must be so. Why do some <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_112'></a>112</span>of us have to do all the +world’s rough, hard, soul-killing work, and others of us have lives that +are beautiful, aspiring, glorious? How can we let such injustices be, and not +try to undo them!”</p> + +<p>In his face an indignation was rising which she could not comprehend. Finally +he found words to say:</p> + +<p>“So that’s what that Adams boy is putting in your head! Why do +you want to bother with such nonsense?”</p> + +<p>But the girl stopped him: “Tom, it’s not nonsense. They do work +and dig and grind down there in a way which we up here know nothing about. +It’s real–this–this miserable unfair way things are done in +the world. O my dear, my dear, it’s because I love you so, it’s +because I know now what love really is that it hurts to see–” He +took her face in his hands caressingly, and tried to put an added tenderness +into his voice that his affection might blunt the sharpness of his words.</p> + +<p>“Well, it’s nonsense I tell you! Look here, Laura, if there is a +God, he’s put those dagos and ignorant foreigners down there to work; just +as he’s put the fish in the sea to be caught, and the beasts of the field +to be eaten, and it’s none of my business to ask why! My job is +myself–myself and you! I refuse to bear burdens for people. I love you +with all the intensity of my nature–but it’s my nature–not +human nature–not any common, socialized, diluted love; it’s +individual and it’s forever between you and me! What do I care for the +rest of the world! And if you love me as you will some day, you’ll love me +so that they can’t set you off mooning about other people’s +troubles. I tell you, Laura, I’m going to make you love me so you +can’t think of anything day or night but me–and what I am to you! +That’s my idea of love! It’s individual, intimate, restricted, +qualified and absolutely personal–and some day you’ll see +that!”</p> + +<p>As he tripped down the hill from the Nesbit home that spring night, he +wondered what Laura Nesbit meant when she spoke of Grant Adams, and his love for +the motherless baby. The idea that this love bore any sort of resemblance to the +love of educated, cultivated people as found in the love that Laura and her +intended husband bore toward each <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_113'></a>113</span>other, puzzled the young lawyer. Being restless, he +turned off his homeward route, and walked under the freshly leaved trees. Over +and over again the foolish phrases and sentences from Laura Nesbit’s love +making, many other nights in which she seemed to assume the unquestioned truth +of the hypothesis of God, also puzzled him. Whatever his books had taught him, +and whatever life had taught him, convinced him that God was a polite word for +explaining one’s failure. Yet, here was a woman whose mind he had to +respect, using the term as a proved theorem. He looked at the stars, wheeling +about with the monstrous pulleys of gravitation and attraction, and the certain +laws of motion. A moment later he looked southward in the sky to that flaming, +raging, splotched patch where the blue and green and yellow flames from the +smelters and the belching black smoke from the factories hid the low-hanging +stars and marked the seething hell of injustice and vice and want and woe that +he knew was in South Harvey, and he held the glowing cigarette stub in his hand +and laughed when he thought of God. “Free will,” says “Mr. +Left” in one of his rather hazy and unconvincing observations, “is +of limited range. Man faces two buttons. He must choose the material or the +spiritual–and when he has chosen fate plays upon his choice the grotesque +variation of human destiny. But when the cloth of life is finished, the pattern +of the passing events may be the same in either choice, riches or poverty, +misery or power, only the color of the cloth differs; in one piece, however +rich, the pattern is drab with despair, the other cloth sheens in +happiness.” Which Mr. Van Dorn in later life, reading the <i>Psychological +Journal</i>, turned back to a second time, and threw aside with a casual and +unappreciative, “Oh hell,” as his only comment.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_114'></a>114</span><a id='link_12'></a>CHAPTER XII<br /><span class='h2fs'>IN WHICH WE LEARN THAT LOVE IS THE LEVER THAT MOVES THE WORLD</span></h2> + +<p>Mrs. Nesbit tried to put the Doctor into his Sunday blacks the day of her +daughter’s wedding, but he would have none of them. He appeared on Market +Street and went his rounds among the sick in his linen clothes with his Panama +hat and his pleated white shirt. He did not propose to have the visiting +princes, political and commercial, who had been summoned to honor the occasion, +find him in his suzerainty without the insignia of his power. For it was +“Old Linen Pants,” not Dr. James Nesbit, who was the boss of the +northern district and a member of the State’s triumvirate. So the Doctor +in the phaëton, drawn by his amiable, motherly, sorrel mare, the Doctor, white +and resplendent in a suit that shimmered in the hot June sun, flaxed around +town, from his office to the hotel, from the hotel to the bank, from the bank to +South Harvey. As a part of the day’s work he did the honors of the town, +soothed the woes of the weary, healed the sick, closed a dying man’s eyes, +held a mother’s hands away from death as she brought life into the world, +made a governor, paid his overdue note, got a laborer work, gave a lift to a +fallen woman, made two casual purchases: a councilman and a new silk vest, with +cash in hand; lent a drunkard’s wife the money for a sack of flour, showed +three Maryland Satterthwaites where to fish for bass in the Wahoo, took four +Schenectady Van Dorns out to lunch, and was everywhere at once doing everything, +clicking his cane, whistling gently or humming a low, crooning tune, smiling for +the most part, keeping his own counsel and exhibiting no more in his face of +what was in his heart than the pink and dimpled back of a six-months’ +baby.</p> + +<p>To say that the Doctor was everywhere in Harvey is inexact. He was everywhere +except on Quality Hill in Elm <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_115'></a>115</span>Street. There, from the big, bulging house with its +towers and minarets and bow windows and lean-tos, ells and additions, the Doctor +was barred. There was chaos, and the spirit that breathed on the face of the +waters was the Harvey representative of the Maryland Satterthwaites, with her +crimping pins bristling like miniature gun barrels, and with the look of command +upon her face, giving orders in a firm, cool voice and then executing the orders +herself before any one else could turn around. She could call the spirits from +the vasty deep of the front hall or the back porch and they came, or she knew +the reason why. With an imperial wave of her hand she sent her daughter off to +some social wilderness of monkeys with all the female Satterthwaites and Van +Dorns and Mrs. Senators and Miss Governors and Misses Congressmen, and with the +offices of Mrs. John Dexter, Mrs. Herdicker, the ladies’ hatter, and two +Senegambian slaveys, Mrs. Nesbit brought order out of what at one o’clock +seemed without form and void.</p> + +<p>It was late in the afternoon, almost evening, though the sun still was high +enough in the heavens to throw cloud shadows upon the hills across the valley +when the Doctor stabled his mare and came edging into the house from the barn. +He could hear the clamor of many voices; for the Maryland Satterthwaites had +come home from the afternoon’s festivity. He slipped into his +office-study, and as it was stuffy there he opened the side door that let out +upon the veranda. He sat alone behind the vines, not wishing to be a part of the +milling in the rooms. His heart was heavy. He blinked and sighed and looked +across the valley, and crooned his old-fashioned tune while he tried to remember +all of the life of the little girl who had come out of the mystery of birth into +his life when Elm Street was a pair of furrows on a barren, wind-swept prairie +hill; tried to remember how she had romped in girlhood under the wide sunshine +in the prairie grass, how her little playhouse had sat where the new dining-room +now stood, how her dolls used to litter the narrow porch that grew into the +winding, serpentine veranda that belted the house, how she read his books, how +she went about with him on his daily rounds, and how she had suddenly bloomed +into a womanhood that <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_116'></a>116</span>made him feel shy and abashed in her presence. He +wondered where it was upon the way that he had lost clasp of her hand: where did +it drop from him? How did the little fingers that he used to hold so tightly, +slip into another’s hand? Her life’s great decision had been made +without consulting him; when did he lose her confidence? She had gone her way an +independent soul–flown like a bird from the cage, he thought, and was +going a way that he felt would be a way of pain, and probably sorrow, yet he +could not stop her. All the experience of his life was worthless to her. All +that he knew of men, all that he feared of her lover, were as chaff in the +scales for her.</p> + +<p>The Doctor, the boss, the friend, the man, withdrew from his consciousness as +he sat behind the vines and he became the impersonal, universal father, +wondering at the mystery of life. As he sat musing, he heard a step behind him, +and saw his daughter coming across the porch to greet him. “Father,” +she said, “I have just this half hour that’s to be ours. I’ve +planned for it all day. Mother has promised to keep every one away.”</p> + +<p>The father’s jaw began to tremble and his cherubic face to wrinkle in +an emotional pucker. He put the girl’s arm about his neck, and rubbed her +hand upon his cheek. Then the father said softly:</p> + +<p>“I never felt poor before until this minute.” The girl looked +inquiringly at him and was about to protest. He stopped her: “Money +wouldn’t do you much good–not all the money in the world.”</p> + +<p>“Well, father, I don’t want money: we don’t need it,” +said the girl. “Why, we have a beautiful home and Tom is +making–”</p> + +<p>“It’s not that, my dear–not that.” He played with her +hand a moment longer. “I feel that I ought to give you something better +than money; my–my–well, my view of life–what they call +philosophy of life. It’s the accumulation of fifty years of living.” +He fumbled in his pocket for his pipe. “Let me smoke, and maybe I can +talk.”</p> + +<p>“Laura–girl–” He puffed bashfully in a pause, and +began again: “There’s a lot of Indiana–real common +Eendiany,” he mocked, “about your father, and I just some <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_117'></a>117</span>way can’t talk +under pressure.” He caressed the girl’s hand and pulled at his pipe +as one giving birth to a system of philosophy. Yet he was dumb as he sat before +the warm glow of the passing torch of life which was shining from his +daughter’s face. Finally he burst forth, piping impatience at his own +embarrassment.</p> + +<p>“I tell you, daughter, it’s just naturally hell to be +pore.” The girl saw his twitching mouth and the impotence of his swimming +eyes; but before she could protest he checked her.</p> + +<p>“Pore! Pore!” he repeated hopelessly. “Why, if we had a +million, I would still be just common, ornery, doless pore +folks–tongue-tied and helpless, and I couldn’t give you +nothin–nothin!” he cried, “but just rubbish! Yet there are so +many things I’d like to give you, Laura–so many, many things!” +he repeated. “God Almighty’s put a terrible hog-tight inheritance +tax on experience, girl!” He smiled a crooked, tearful little +smile–looked up into her eyes in dog-like wistfulness as he continued: +“I’d like to give you some of mine–some of the wisdom +I’ve got one way and another–but, Lord, Lord,” he wailed, +“I can’t. The divine inheritance tax bars me.” He patted her +with one hand, holding his smoldering pipe in the other. Then he shrilled out in +the impotence of his pain: “I just must give you this, Laura: Whatever +comes and whatever goes–and lots of sad things will come and lots of sad +things will go, too, for that matter–always remember this: Happiness is +from the heart out–not from the world in! Do you understand, +child–do you?”</p> + +<p>The girl smiled and petted him, but he saw that he hadn’t reached her +consciousness. He puffed at a dead pipe a moment, then he cried as he beat his +hands together in despair: “I suppose it’s no use. It’s no +use. But you can at least remember these words, Laura, and some time the meaning +will get to you. Always carry your happiness under your bonnet! It’s the +only thing I can give you–out of all my store!”</p> + +<p>The girl put her arm about him and pressed closely to him, and they rose, as +she said: “Why, father–I understand. Of course I understand. +Don’t you see I understand, father?”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_118'></a>118</span>She spoke +eagerly and clasped her arms tighter about the pudgy little figure. They stood +quietly a moment, as the father looked earnestly, dog-wise, up into her face, as +if trying by his very gaze to transmit his loving wisdom. Then, as he found +voice: “No, Laura, probably you’ll need fifty years to understand; +but look over on the hill across the valley at the moving cloud shadows. They +are only shadows–not realities. They are just unrealities that prove the +real–just trailing anchors of the sun!” He had pocketed his pipe and +his hand came up from his pocket as he waved to the distant shadows and piped: +“Trouble–heartaches–all the host of clouds that cover +life–are only–only–” he let his voice drop gently as he +sighed: “only anchors of the sun; Laura, they only prove–just +prove–”</p> + +<p>She did not let him finish, but bent to kiss him and she could feel the +shudder of a smothered sob rack him as she touched his cheek.</p> + +<p>Then he smiled at her and chirped: “Just Eendiany–sis’. +Just pore, dumb Eendiany! Hi, ho! Now run and be a good girl! And here’s a +jim-crack your daddy got you!”</p> + +<p>From his pocket he drew out a little package, and dangled a sparkling jewel +in his hands. He saw a flash of pleasure on her face. But his heart was full, +and he turned away his head as he handed the gift to her. Her eyes were upon the +sparkling jewel, as he led her into the house, saying with a great sigh: +“Come on, my dear–let’s go in.”</p> + +<p>At nine o’clock that night, the great foundry of a house, with its half +a score of chimneys, marking its various epochs of growth, literally was stuffed +with smilax, ferns, roses, orange blossoms, and daisy chains. In the mazes of +these aisles of verdure, a labyrinth of Van Dorns and Satterthwaites and +visiting statesmen with highly powdered womankind was packed securely. George +Brotherton, who was born a drum major, wearing all of his glittering insignia of +a long line of secret societies, moved as though the welding humanity were +fluid. He had presided at too many funerals not to know the vast importance of +keeping the bride’s kin from the groom’s kin, and when he saw that +they were ushered into the wedding supper, in due form and order, <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_119'></a>119</span>it was with the fine +abandon of a grand duke lording it over the populace. Senators, Supreme Court +justices, proud Satterthwaites, haughty Van Dorns, Congressmen, governors, local +gentry, were packed neatly but firmly in their proper boxes.</p> + +<p>The old families of Harvey–Captain Morton and his little flock, the +Kollanders, Ahab Wright with his flaring side-whiskers, his white necktie and +his shadow of a wife; Joseph Calvin and his daughter in pigtails, Mrs. Calvin +having written Mrs. Nesbit that it seemed that she just never did get to go +anywhere and be anybody, having said as much and more to Mr. Calvin with +emphasis; Mrs. Brotherton, mother of George, beaming with pride at her +son’s part; stuttering Kyle Perry and his hatchet-faced son, the Adamses +all starched for the occasion, Daniel Sands, a widower pro tem. with a +broadening interest in school teachers, Mrs. Herdicker, the ladies’ +hatter, classifying the Satterthwaites and the Van Dorns according to the +millinery of their womenkind; Morty Sands wearing the first white silk vest +exhibited in Harvey and making violent eyes at a daughter of the railroad +aristocracy–either a general manager’s daughter or a general +superintendent’s, and for the life of her Mrs. Nesbit couldn’t say; +for she had not the highest opinion in the world of the railroad aristocracy, +but took them, president, first, second and third vice, general managers, ticket +and passenger agents, and superintendents, as a sort of social job-lot because +they came in private cars, and the Doctor desired them, to add to his trophies +of the occasion,–Henry Fenn, wearing soberly the suit in which he appeared +when he rode the skyrocket, and forming part of the bridal chorus, stationed in +the cigar-box of a sewing-room on the second floor to sing, “Oh, Day So +Dear,” as the happy couple came down the stairs–the old families of +Harvey were all invited to the wedding. And the old and the new and most of the +intermediary families of no particular caste or standing, came to the reception +after the ceremony. But because she had the best voice in town, Margaret Müller +sang “Oh, Promise Me,” in a remote bedroom–to give the effect +of distant music, low and sweet, and after that song was over, and after Henry +Fenn’s great <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_120'></a>120</span>pride had been fairly sated, Margaret Müller mingled +with the guests and knew more of the names and stations of the visiting nobility +from the state house and railroad offices than any other person present. And +such is the perversity of the male sex that there were more “by +Georges,” and more “Look–look, looks,” and more faint +whistles, and more “Tch–tch tchs,” and more nudging and +pointing among the men when Margaret appeared than when the bride herself, pink +and white and beautiful, came down the stairs. Even the eyes of the groom, as he +stood beside the bride, tall, youthful, strong, and handsome as a man may dare +to be and earn an honest living, even his eyes sometimes found themselves +straying toward the figure and face of the beautiful girl whom he had scarcely +noticed while she worked in the court house. But this may be said for the groom, +that when his eyes did wander, he pulled them back with an almost irritated +jerk, and seemed determined to keep them upon the girl by his side.</p> + +<p>As for the wedding ceremony itself–it was like all others. The women +looked exultant, and the men–the groom, the bride’s father, the +groomsmen, and even Rev. John Dexter, had a sort of captured look and went +through the service as though they wished that marriages which are made in +Heaven were celebrated there also. But after the service was actually +accomplished, after the bride and groom had been properly congratulated, after +the multitude had been fed in serried ranks according to social precedence, +after the band on the lawn outside had serenaded the happy couple, and after +further interminable handshaking and congratulations, from those outside, after +the long line of invited guests had filed past the imposing vista of pickle +dishes, cutlery, butter dishes and cake plates, reaching around the walls of +three bedrooms,–to say nothing of an elaborate wax representation of +nesting cupids bearing the card of the Belgian Society from the glass works and +sent, according to the card, to “Mlle. Lille’n’en Pense”; after the +carriage, bedecked and bedizened with rice and shoes and ribbons, that was +supposed to bear away the bride and groom, had gone amid the shouting and the +tumult of the populace, and after the phaëton and the sorrel mare had <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_121'></a>121</span>actually taken the bride +and groom from the barn to the railway station, after the fiddle and the bassoon +and the horn and the tinkling cymbal at Morty Sands’s dance had frayed and +torn the sleep of those pale souls who would sleep on such a night in Harvey, +Grant Adams and his father, leaving Jasper to trip whatever fantastic toes he +might have, in the opera house, drove down the hill through the glare of the +furnaces, the creaking of the oil derricks and the smell of the straw paper mill +through the heart of South Harvey.</p> + +<p>They made little talk as they rode. Their way led them through the street +which is shaded and ashamed by day, and which glows and flaunts itself by night. +Men and women, gambling, drinking, carousing, rioted through the street, in and +out of doors that spilled puddles of yellow light on the board sidewalks and +dirt streets; screaming laughter, hoarse calls, the stench of liquor, the +muffled noises of gambling, sputter of electric lights and the flash of +glimmering reflections from bar mirrors rasped their senses and kept the father +and son silent as they rode. When they had passed into the slumbering tenements, +the father spoke: “Well, son, here it is–the two kinds of playing, +and here we have what they call the bad people playing. The Van Dorns and the +Satterthwaites will tell you that vice is the recreation of the poor. And +it’s more or less true.” The elder man scratched his beard and faced +the stars: “It’s a devilish puzzle. Character makes happiness; +I’ve got that down fine. But what makes character? Why is vice the +recreation of the poor? Why do we recruit most of our bad boys and all of our +wayward girls from those neighborhoods in every city where the poor live? Why +does the clerk on $12 a week uptown crowd into Doctor Jim’s wedding party, +and the glass blower at $4 a day down here crowd into ‘Big Em’s’ and +‘Joe’s Place’ and the ‘Crescent’? Is poverty caused by vice; +or is vice a symptom of poverty? And why does the clerk’s wife move in +‘our best circles’ and the miner’s wife, with exactly the same money +to spend, live in outer social darkness?”</p> + +<p>“I’ve asked myself that question lots of times,” exclaimed +the youth. “I can’t make it work out on any <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_122'></a>122</span>theory. But I tell you, father,” +the son clinched the hand that was free from the lines, and shook it, +“it’s wrong–some way, somehow, it’s wrong, way down at +the bottom of things–I don’t know how nor why–but as sure as I +live, I’ll try to find out.”</p> + +<p>The clang of an engine bell in the South Harvey railroad yards drowned the +son’s answer. The two were crossing the track and turning the corner that +led to the South Harvey station. The midnight train was about due. As the buggy +came near the little gray box of a station a voice called, +“Adams–Adams,” and a woman’s voice, “Oh, +Grant.”</p> + +<p>“Why,” exclaimed the father, “it’s the happy +couple.” Grant stopped the horse and climbed out over the sleeping body of +little Kenyon. “In a moment,” replied Grant. Then he came to a +shadow under the station eaves and saw the young people hiding. “Adams, +you can help us,” said Van Dorn. “We slipped off in the +Doctor’s phaëton, to get away from the guying crowd and we have tried to +get the house on the ’phone, and in some way they don’t answer. The +horse is tied over by the lumber yard there. Will you take it home with you +to-night, and deliver it to the Doctor in the +morning–whatever–” But Grant cut in:</p> + +<p>“Why, of course. Glad to have the chance.” He was awkward and ill +at ease, and repeated, “Why, of course, anything.” But Van Dorn +interjected: “You understand, I’ll pay for it–” Grant +Adams stared at him. “Why–why–no–” stammered Grant +in confusion, while Van Dorn thrust a five-dollar bill upon him. He tried to +return it, but the bride and groom ran to the train, leaving the young man alone +and hurt in his heart. The father from the buggy saw what had happened. In a few +minutes they were leading the Doctor’s horse behind the Adams buggy. +“I didn’t want their money,” exclaimed Grant, “I wanted +their–their–”</p> + +<p>“You wanted their friendship, Grant–that’s what you +wanted,” said the father.</p> + +<p>“And he wanted a hired man,” cried Grant. “Just a hired +man, and she–why, didn’t she understand? She knew I would have +carried the old horse on my back clear <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_123'></a>123</span>to town, if she’d let me, just to hear her +laugh once. Father,” the son’s voice was bitter as he spoke, +“why didn’t she understand─why did she side with +him?”</p> + +<p>The father smiled. “Perhaps, on your wedding trip, Grant, your wife +will agree with you too, son.”</p> + +<p>As they rode home in silence, the young man asked himself over and over +again, what lines divided the world into classes; why manual toil shuts off the +toilers from those who serve the world otherwise. Youth is sensitive; often it +is supersensitive, and Grant Adams saw or thought he saw in the little byplay of +Tom Van Dorn the caste prod of society jabbing labor back into its place.</p> + +<p>“Tom,” said the bride as they watched Grant Adams unhitch the +horse by the lumber yard, “why did you force that money on Grant─he +would have much preferred to have your hand when he said good-by.”</p> + +<p>“He’s not my kind of folks, Laura,” replied Van Dorn. +“I know you like him. But that five will do him lots more good than my +shaking his hand, and if that youth wasn’t as proud as Lucifer he’d +rather have five dollars than any man’s hand. I would─if it comes +to that.”</p> + +<p>“But, Tom,” answered the girl, “that wasn’t pride, +that was self-respect.”</p> + +<p>“Well, my dear,” he squeezed her gloved hand and in the darkness +put his arm about her, “let’s not worry about him. All I know is +that I wanted to square it with him for taking care of the horse and five +dollars won’t hurt his self-respect. And,” said the bridegroom as he +pressed the bride very close to his heart, “what is it to us? We have each +other, so what do we care─what is all the world to us?”</p> + +<p>As the midnight train whistled out of South Harvey Grant Adams sitting on a +bedside was fondly unbuttoning a small body from its clothes, ready to hear a +sleepy child’s voice say its evening prayers. In his heart there flamed +the love for the child that was beckoning him into love for every sentient +thing. And as Laura Van Dorn, bride of Thomas of that name, heard the whistle, +her being was flooded with a love high and marvelous, washing in from the +infinite love that moves the universe and carrying her soul in aspiring <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_124'></a>124</span>thrills of joy out to +ride upon the mysterious currents that we know are not of ourselves, and so have +called divine.</p> + +<p>In the morning, in the early gray of morning, when Grant Adams rose to make +the fire for breakfast, he found his father, sitting by the kitchen table, half +clad as he had risen from a restless bed. Scrawled sheets of white paper lay +around him on the floor and the table. He said sadly:</p> + +<p>“She can’t come, Grant–she can’t come. I dreamed of +her last night; it was all so real–just as she was when we were young, and +I thought–I was sure she was near.” He sighed as he leaned back in +his chair. “But they’ve looked for her–all of them have looked +for her. She knows I’m calling–but she can’t come.” The +father fumbled the papers, rubbed his gray beard, and shut his fine eyes as he +shook his head, and whispered: “What holds her–what keeps her? They +all come but her.”</p> + +<p>“What’s this, father?” asked Grant, as a page closely +written in a fine hand fluttered to the floor.</p> + +<p>“Oh, nothing–much–just Mr. Left bringing me some message +from Victor Hugo. It isn’t much.”</p> + +<p>But the Eminent Authority who put it into the Proceedings of the +Psychological Society laid more store by it than he did by the scraps and +incoherent bits of jargon which pictured the old man’s lonely grief. They +are not preserved for us, but in the Proceedings, on page 1125, we have this +from Mr. Left:</p> + +<p>“The vice of the poor is crass and palpable. It carries a quick and +deadly corrective poison. But the vices of the well-to-do are none the less +deadly. To dine in comfort and know your brother is starving; to sleep in peace +and know that he is wronged and oppressed by laws that we sanction, to gather +one’s family in contentment around a hearth, while the poor dwell in a +habitat of vice that kills their souls, to live without bleeding hearts for the +wrong on this earth–that is the vice of the well-to-do. And so it shall +come to pass that when the day of reckoning appears it shall be a day of wrath. +For when God gives the poor the strength to rise (and they are waxing stronger +every hour), they will meet not a brother’s hand but a +glutton’s–the hard, dead hand of a hard, dead soul. Then will the +vicious poor and the <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_125'></a>125</span>vicious well-to-do, each crippled by his own vices, +the blind leading the blind, fall to in a merciless conflict, mad and +meaningless, born of a sad, unnecessary hate that shall terrorize the earth, +unless God sends us another miracle of love like Christ or some vast chastening +scourge of war, to turn aside the fateful blow.”</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_126'></a>126</span><a id='link_13'></a>CHAPTER XIII<br /><span class='h2fs'>IN WHICH WE OBSERVE THE INTERIOR OF A DESERTED HOUSE</span></h2> + +<p>An empty, lonely house was that on Quality Hill in Elm Street after the +daughter’s marriage. It was not that the Doctor and Mrs. Nesbit did not +see their daughter often; but whether she came every day or twice a week or +every week, always she came as a visitor. No one may have two homes. And the +daughter of the house of Nesbit had her own home;–a home wherein she was +striving to bind her husband to a domesticity which in itself did not interest +him. But with her added charm to it, she believed that she could lure him into +an acceptance of her ideal of marriage. So with all her powers she fell to her +task. Consciously or unconsciously, directly or by indirection, but always with +the joy of adventure in her heart, whether with books or with music or with +comradeship, she was bending herself to the business of wifehood, so that her +own home filled her life and the Nesbit home was lonely; so lonely was it that +by way of solace and diversion, Mrs. Nesbit had all the woodwork downstairs +“done over” in quarter-sawed oak with elaborate carvings. Ferocious +gargoyles, highly excited dolphins, improper, pot-bellied little cupids, and +mermaids without a shred of character, seemed about to pounce out from banister, +alcove, bookcase, cozy corner and china closet.</p> + +<p>George Brotherton pretended to find resemblances in the effigies to people +about Harvey, and to the town’s echoing delight he began to name the +figures after their friends, and always saluted the figures intimately, as +Maggie, or Henry, or the Captain, or John Kollander, or Lady Herdicker. But +through the wooden menagerie in the big house the Doctor whistled and hummed and +smoked and chirruped more or less drearily. To him the Japanese screens, the +huge blue vases, the ponderous high-backed chairs crawly <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_127'></a>127</span>with meaningless carvings, the mantels +full of jars and pots and statuettes, brought no comfort. He was forever putting +his cane over his arm and clicking down the street to the Van Dorn home; but he +felt in spite of all his daughter’s efforts to welcome him–and +perhaps because of them–that he was a stranger there. So slowly and rather +imperceptibly to him, certainly without any conscious desire for it, a fondness +for Kenyon Adams sprang up in the Doctor’s heart. For it was exceedingly +soft in spots and those spots were near his home. He was domestic and he was +fond of home joys. So when Mrs. Nesbit put aside the encyclopedia, from which +she was getting the awful truth about Babylonian Art for her paper to be read +before the Shakespeare Club, and going to the piano, brought from the bottom of +a pile of yellow music a tattered sheet, played a Chopin nocturne in a rolling +and rather grand style that young women affected before the Civil War, the +Doctor’s joy was scarcely less keen than the child’s. Then came rare +occasions when Laura, being there for the night while her husband was away on +business, would play melodies that cut the child’s heart to the quick and +brought tears of joy to his big eyes. It seemed to him at those times as if +Heaven itself were opened for him, and for days the melodies she played would +come ringing through his heart. Often he would sit absorbed at the piano when he +should have been practicing his lesson, picking out those melodies and trying +with a poignant yearning for perfection to find their proper harmonies. But at +such times after he had frittered away a few minutes, Mrs. Nesbit would call +down to him, “You, Kenyon,” and he would sigh and take up his scales +and runs and arpeggios.</p> + +<p>Kenyon was developing into a shy, lovely child of few noises; he seemed to +love to listen to every continuous sound–a creaking gate, a waterdrip from +the eaves, a whistling wind–a humming wire. Sometimes the Doctor would +watch Kenyon long minutes, as the child listened to the fire’s low murmur +in the grate, and would wonder what the little fellow made of it all. But above +everything else about the child the Doctor was interested in watching his eyes +develop into the great, liquid, soulful orbs that marked his mother. <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_128'></a>128</span>To the Doctor the +resemblance was rather weird. But he could see no other point in the +child’s body or mind or soul whereon Margaret Müller had left a token. The +Doctor liked to discuss Kenyon with his wife from the standpoint of ancestry. He +took a sort of fiendish delight–if one may imagine a fiend with a seraphic +face and dancing blue eyes and a mouth that loved to pucker in a pensive +whistle–in Mrs. Nesbit’s never failing stumble over the +child’s eyes.</p> + +<p>Any evening he would lay aside his Browning─even in a knotty passage +wherein the Doctor was wont to take much pleasure, and revert to type thus:</p> + +<p>“Yes, I guess there’s something in blood as you say! The child +shows it! But where do you suppose he gets those eyes?” His wife would +answer energetically, “They aren’t like Amos’s and they +certainly are not much like Mary’s! Yet those eyes show that somewhere in +the line there was fine blood and high breeding.”</p> + +<p>And the Doctor, remembering the kraut-peddling Müller, who used to live back +in Indiana, and who was Kenyon’s great-grandfather, would shake a wise +head and answer:</p> + +<p>“Them eyes is certainly a throw-back to the angel choir, my +dear–a sure and certain throw-back!”</p> + +<p>And while Mrs. Nesbit was climbing the Sands family tree, from Mary Adams +back to certain Irish Sandses of the late eighteenth century, the Doctor would +flit back to “Paracelsus,” to be awakened from its spell by: +“Only the Irish have such eyes! They are the mark of the Celt all over the +world! But it’s curious that neither Mary nor Daniel had those +eyes!”</p> + +<p>“It’s certainly curious like,” squeaked the Doctor +amicably–“certainly curious like, as the treetoad said when he +couldn’t holler up a rain. But it only proves that blood always tells! +Bedelia, there’s really nothing so true in this world as blood!”</p> + +<p>And Mrs. Nesbit would ask him a moment later what he could find so amusing in +“Paracelsus”? She certainly never had found anything but headaches +in it.</p> + +<p>Yet there came a time when the pudgy little stomach of the Doctor did not +shake in merriment. For he also had his <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_129'></a>129</span>problem of blood to solve. Tom Van Dorn was, after +all, the famous Van Dorn baby!</p> + +<p>One evening in the late winter as the Doctor was trudging home from a belated +call, he saw the light in Brotherton’s window marking a yellow bar across +the dark street. As he stepped in for a word with Mr. Brotherton about the +coming spring city election, he saw quickly that the laugh was in some way on +Tom Van Dorn, who rose rather guiltily and hurried out of the shop.</p> + +<p>“Seegars on George!” exclaimed Captain Morton; then answered the +Doctor’s gay, inquiring stare: “Henry bet George a box of Perfectos +Tom wouldn’t be a year from his wedding asking ‘what’s her +name’ when the boys were discussing some girl or other, and they’ve +laid for Tom ever since and got him to-night, eh?”</p> + +<p>The Captain laughed, and then remembering the Doctor’s relationship +with the Van Dorns, colored and tried to cover his blunder with: “Just +boys, you know, Doc–just their way.”</p> + +<p>The Doctor grinned and piped back, “Oh, yes–yes–Cap–I +know, boys will be dogs!”</p> + +<p>Toddling home that night the Doctor passed the Van Dorn house. He saw through +the window the young couple in their living-room. The doctor had a feeling that +he could sense the emotions of his daughter’s heart. It was as though he +could see her trying in vain to fasten the steel grippers of her soul into the +heart and life of the man she loved. Over and over the father asked himself if +in Tom Van Dorn’s heart was any essential loyalty upon which the hooks and +bonds of the friendship and fellowship of a home could fasten and hold. The +father could see the handsome young face of Van Dorn in the gas light, aflame +with the joy of her presence, but Dr. Nesbit realized that it was a passing +flame–that in the core of the husband was nothing to which a wife might +anchor her life; and as the Doctor clicked his cane on the sidewalk vigorously +he whispered to himself: “Peth–peth–nothing in his heart but +peth.”</p> + +<p>A day came when the parents stood watching their daughter as she went down +the street through the dusk, after she had kissed them both and told them, and +after they had all <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_130'></a>130</span>said they were very happy over it. But when she was +out of sight the hands of the parents met and the Doctor saw fear in Bedelia +Nesbit’s face for the first time. But neither spoke of the fear. It took +its place by the vague uneasiness in their hearts, and two spectral sentinels +stood guard over their speech.</p> + +<p>Thus their talk came to be of those things which lay remote from their +hearts. It was Mrs. Nesbit’s habit to read the paper and repeat the news +to the Doctor, who sat beside her with a book. He jabbed in comments; she +ignored them. Thus: “I see Grant Adams has been made head carpenter for +all the Wahoo Fuel Companies mines and properties.” To which the Doctor +replied: “Grant, my dear, is an unusual young man. He’ll have ten +regular men under him–and I claim that’s fine for a boy in his +twenties–with no better show in life than Grant has had.” But Mrs. +Nesbit had in general a low opinion of the Doctor’s estimates of men. She +held that no man who came from Indiana and was fooled by men who wore cotton in +their ears and were addicted to chilblains, could be trusted in appraising +humanity.</p> + +<p>So she answered, “Yes,” dryly. It was her custom when he began to +bestow knighthood upon common clay to divert him with some new and irrelevant +subject. “Here’s an item in the <i>Times</i> this morning I fancy you +didn’t read. After describing the bride’s dress and her beauty, it +says, ‘And the bride is a daughter of the late H. M. Von Müller, who was an +exile from his native land and gave up a large estate and a title because of his +participation in the revolution of ’48. Miss Müller might properly be called the +Countess Von Müller, if she chose to claim her rightful title!’–what +is there to that?”</p> + +<p>The Doctor threw back his head and chuckled:</p> + +<p>“Pennsylvania Dutch for three generations–I knew old Herman +Müller’s father–before I came West–when he used to sell kraut +and cheese around Vincennes before the war, and Herman’s grandfather came +from Pennsylvania.”</p> + +<p>“I thought so,” sniffed Mrs. Nesbit. And then she added: +“Doctor, that girl is a minx.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, my dear,” chirped the Doctor. “Yes, she’s a +minx; <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_131'></a>131</span>but this +isn’t the open season for minxes, so we must let her go. And,” he +added after a pause, during which he read the wedding notice carefully, +“she may put a brace under Henry–the blessed Lord knows Henry will +need something, though he’s done mighty well for a year–only twice +in eighteen months. Poor fellow–poor fellow!” mused the Doctor. Mrs. +Nesbit blinked at her husband for a minute in sputtering indignation. Then she +exclaimed: “Brace under Henry!” And to make it more emphatic, +repeated it and then exploded: “The cat’s foot–brace for +Henry, indeed–that piece!”</p> + +<p>And Mrs. Nesbit stalked out of the room, brought back a little dress–a +very minute dress–she was making and sat rocking almost imperceptibly +while her husband read. Finally, after a calming interval, she said in a more +amiable tone, “Doctor Nesbit, if you’ve cut up all the women you +claim to have dissected in medical school, you know precious little about +what’s in them, if you get fooled in that Margaret woman.”</p> + +<p>“The only kind we ever cut up,” returned the Doctor in a mild, +conciliatory treble, “were perfect–all Satterthwaites.”</p> + +<p>And when the Doctor fell back to his book, Mrs. Nesbit spent some time +reflecting upon the virtues of her liege lord and wondering how such a paragon +ever came from so common a State as Indiana, where so far as any one ever knew +there was never a family in the whole commonwealth, and the entire population as +she understood it carried potatoes in their pockets to keep away rheumatism.</p> + +<p>The evening wore away and Dr. and Mrs. Nesbit were alone by the ashes in the +smoldering fire in the grate. They were about to go up stairs when the Doctor, +who had been looking absent-mindedly into the embers, began meditating aloud +about local politics while his wife sewed. His meditation concerned a certain +trade between the city and Daniel Sands wherein the city parted with its stock +in Sands’s public utilities with a face value of something like a million +dollars. The stocks were to go to Mr. Sands, while the city received therefor a +ten-acre tract east of town on the Wahoo, called Sands Park. After bursting into +the <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_132'></a>132</span>Doctor’s +political nocturne rather suddenly and violently with her feminine disapproval, +Mrs. Nesbit sat rocking, and finally she exclaimed: “Good Lord, Jim +Nesbit, I wish I was a man.”</p> + +<p>“I’ve long suspected it, my dear,” piped her husband,</p> + +<p>“Oh, it isn’t that–not your politics,” retorted Mrs. +Nesbit, “though that made me think of it. Do you know what else old Dan +Sands is doing?”</p> + +<p>The Doctor bent over the fire, stirred it up and replied, “Well, not in +particular.”</p> + +<p>“Philandering,” sniffed Mrs. Nesbit.</p> + +<p>“Again?” returned the Doctor.</p> + +<p>“No,” snapped Mrs. Nesbit–“as usual!”</p> + +<p>The Doctor had no opinion to express; one of the family specters was engaging +his attention at the moment. Presently his wife put down her paper and sat as +one wrestling with an impulse. The specter on her side of the hearth was trying +to keep her lips sealed. They sat while the mantel clock ticked off five +minutes.</p> + +<p>“What are you thinking?” the Doctor asked.</p> + +<p>“I’m thinking of Dan Sands,” replied the wife with some +emotion in her voice.</p> + +<p>The foot tap of Mrs. Nesbit became audible. She shook her head with some +force and exclaimed: “O Jim, wouldn’t I like to have that +man–just for one day.”</p> + +<p>“I’ve noticed,” cut in the Doctor, “regarding such +propositions from the gentler sex, that the Lord generally tempers the wind to +the shorn lamb.”</p> + +<p>“The shorn lamb–the shorn lamb,” retorted Mrs. Nesbit. +“The shorn tom-cat! I’d like to shear him.” Wherewith she rose +and putting out the light led the Doctor to the stairs.</p> + +<p>Both knew that the spectral sentinels had used Daniel Sands and his amours +only as a seal upon their lips.</p> + +<p>The parents could speak in parables about what they felt or fancied because +there was so little that was tangible and substantial for them to see. Of all +the institutions man has made–the state, the church, his commerce, his +schools,–the home is by far the most spiritual. Its successes and its +failures are never material. They are never evidenced in any <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_133'></a>133</span>sort of worldly goods. +Only in the hearts of those who dwell in a home, or of those to whom it is dear, +do its triumphs and its defeats register themselves. But in Tom Van Dorn’s +philosophy of life small space was left for things of the spirit alone, to +register. He was trying with all his might to build a home upon material things. +So above all he built his home around a beautiful woman. Then he lavished upon +her and about the house wherein she dwelled, beautiful objects. He was proud of +their cost. Their value in dollars and cents gave these objects their chief +value in his balance sheet of gain or less in footing up his account with his +home. And because what he had was expensive, he prized it. Possibly because he +had bought his wife’s devotion, at some material sacrifice to his own +natural inclinations toward the feminine world, he listed her high in the assets +of the home; and so in the only way he could love, he loved her jealously. She +and the rugs and pictures and furniture–all were dear to him, as chattels +which he had bought and paid for and could brag about. And because he was too +well bred to brag, the repression of that natural instinct he added to the cost +of the items listed,–rugs, pictures, wife, furniture, house, trees, lot, +and blue grass lawn. So when toward the end of the first year of his marriage, +he found that actually he could turn his head and follow with his eyes a pretty +petticoat going down Market Street, and still fool his wife; when he found he +could pry open the eyes of Miss Mauling at the office again with his old ogle, +and still have the beautiful love which he had bought with self-denial, its +value dropped.</p> + +<p>And his wife, who felt in her soul her value passing in the heart she loved, +strove to find her fault and to correct it. Daily her devotion manifested itself +more plainly. Daily she lived more singly to the purpose of her soul. And daily +she saw that purpose becoming a vain pursuit.</p> + +<p>Outwardly the home was unchanged as this tragedy was played within the two +hearts. The same scenery surrounded the players. The same voices spoke, in the +same tones, the same words of endearment, and the same hours brought the same +routine as the days passed. Yet the home was slowly sinking into failure. And +the specters that sealed the lips <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_134'></a>134</span>of the parents who stood by and mutely watched the +inner drama unfold, watched it unfold and translate itself into life without +words, without deeds, without superficial tremor or flinching of any +kind–the specters passed the sad story from heart to heart in those +mysterious silences wherein souls in this world learn their surest truths.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_135'></a>135</span><a id='link_14'></a>CHAPTER XIV<br /><span class='h2fs'>IN WHICH OUR HERO STROLLS OUT WITH THE DEVIL TO LOOK AT THE HIGH MOUNTAIN</span></h2> + +<p>The soup had come and gone; great platters of fried chicken had disappeared, +with incidental spinach and new peas and potatoes. A bowl of lettuce splashed +with a French dressing had been mowed down as the grass, and the goodly company +was surveying something less than an acre of strawberry shortcake at the close +of a rather hilarious dinner–a spring dinner, to be exact. Rhoda Kollander +was reciting with enthusiasm an elaborate and impossible travesty of a recipe +for strawberry shortcake, which she had read somewhere, when the Doctor, in his +nankeens, putting his hands on the table cloth as one who was about to deliver +an oracle, ran his merry eyes down the table, gathering up the Adamses and +Mortons and Mayor Brotherton and Morty Sands; fastened his glance upon the Van +Dorns and cut in on the interminable shortcake recipe rather ruthlessly thus in +his gay falsetto:</p> + +<p>“Tom, here–thinks he’s pretty smart. And George Brotherton, +Mayor of all the Harveys, thinks he is a pretty smooth article; and the +Honorable Lady Satterthwaite here, she’s got a Maryland notion that she +has second sight into the doings of her prince consort.” He chuckled and +grinned as he beamed at his daughter: “And there is the princess +imperial–she thinks she’s mighty knolledgeous about her +father–but,” he cocked his head on one side, enjoying the suspense +he was creating as he paused, drawling his words, “I’m just going to +show you how I’ve got ’em all fooled.”</p> + +<p>He pulled from his pocket a long, official envelope, pulled from the envelope +an official document, and also a letter. He laid the official document down +before him and opened the letter.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_136'></a>136</span>“Kind +o’ seems to be signed by the Governor of the State,” he drolled: +“And seems like the more I look at it the surer I am it’s addressed +to Tom Van Dorn. I’m not much of an elocutionist and never could read at +sight, having come from Eendiany, and I guess Rhody here, she’s kind of +elocutionary and I’ll jest about ask her to read it to the ladies and +gentlemen!” He handed Mrs. Kollander the letter and passed the sealed +document to his son-in-law.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Kollander read aloud:</p> + +<p>“I take pleasure in handing you through the kindness of Senator James +Nesbit your appointment to fill the vacancy in your judicial district created +to-day by the resignation of Judge Arbuckle of your district to fill a vacancy +in the Supreme Court of this State created there by the resignation of Justice +Worrell.”</p> + +<p>Looking over his wife’s shoulder and seeing the significance of the +letter, John Kollander threw back his head and began singing in his roaring +voice, “For we’ll rally round the flag, boys, we’ll rally once +again, shouting the battle cry of freedom,” and the company at the table +clapped its hands. And while George Brotherton was bellowing, +“Well–say!” Judge Thomas Van Dorn kissed his wife and beamed +his satisfaction upon the company.</p> + +<p>When the commotion had subsided the chuckling little man, all a-beam with +happiness, his pink, smooth face shining like a headlight, explained thus:</p> + +<p>“I jest thought these Maryland Satterthwaites and Schenectady Van Dorns +was a-gittin’ too top-lofty, and I’d have to register one for the +Grand Duke of Griggsby’s Station, to sort of put ’em in their +place!” He was happy; and his vernacular, which always was his pose under +emotional stress, was broad, as he went on: “So I says to myself, the Corn +Belt Railroad is mighty keen for a Supreme Court decision in the Missouri River +rate case, and I says, Worrell J., he’s the boy to write it, but I says to +the Corn Belt folks, says I, ‘It would shatter the respect of the people for +their courts if Worrell J. should stay on the bench after writing the kind of a +decision you want, so we’ll just put him in your law offices at twelve +thousand per, which is three times what he is getting now, and then one idear +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_137'></a>137</span>brought on another +and here’s Tom’s commission and three men and a railroad all made +happy!” He threw back his head and laughed silently as he finished, +“and all the justices concurring!” After the hubbub of +congratulations had passed and the guests had moved into the parlor of the +Nesbit home, the little Doctor, standing among them, regaled himself thus:</p> + +<p>“Politics is jobs. Jobs is friends. Friends is politics. The reason why +the reformers don’t get anywhere is that they have no friends in politics. +They regard the people as sticky and smelly and low. Bedelia has that notion. +But I love ’em! Love ’em and vote ’em!”</p> + +<p>Amos Adams opened his mouth to protest, but the Doctor waved him into +silence. “I know your idear, Amos! But when the folks get tired of +politics that is jobs and want politics that is principles, I’ll open as +fine a line of principles as ever was shown in this market!”</p> + +<p>After the company had gone, Mrs. Nesbit faced her husband with a peremptory: +“Well–will you tell me why, Jim Nesbit?” And he sighed and +dropped into a chair.</p> + +<p>“To save his self-respect! Self-respect grows on what it feeds on, my +dear, and I thought maybe if he was a judge”–he looked into the +anxious eyes of his wife and went on–“that might hold him!” He +rested his head on a hand and drew in a deep breath. “‘Vanity, +vanity,’ saith the Preacher–‘all is vanity!’ And I thought +I’d hitch it to something that might pull him out of the swamp! And I +happened to know that he had a sneaking notion of running for Judge this fall, +so I thought I’d slip up and help him.”</p> + +<p>He sighed again and his tone changed. “I did it primarily for +Laura,” he said wearily, and: “Mother, we might as well face +it.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Nesbit looked intently at her husband in understanding silence and +asked: “Is it any one in particular, Jim–”</p> + +<p>He hesitated, then exclaimed: “Oh, I may be wrong, but somehow I +don’t like the air–the way that Mauling girl assumes authority at +the office. Why, she’s made me wait in the outer office twice +now–for nothing except to show that she could!”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_138'></a>138</span>“Yes, +Jim–but what good will this judgeship do? How will it solve +anything?” persisted the wife. The Doctor let his sigh precede his words: +“The office will make him realize that the eyes of the community are on +him, that he is in a way a marked man. And then the place will keep him busy and +spur on his ambition. And these things should help.”</p> + +<p>He looked tenderly into the worried face of his wife and smiled. +“Perhaps we’re both wrong. We don’t know. Tom’s young +and–” He ended the sentence in a +“Ho–ho–ho–hum!” and yawned and rose, leading the +way up stairs.</p> + +<p>In the Van Dorn home a young wife was trying to define herself in the new +relation to the community in which the evening’s news had placed her. She +had no idea of divorcing the judgeship from her life. She felt that marriage was +a full partnership and that the judgeship meant much to her. She realized that +as a judge’s wife her life and her duties–and she was eager always +to acquire new duties–would be different from her life and her duties as a +lawyer’s wife or a doctor’s wife or a merchant’s wife, for +example. For Laura Van Dorn was in the wife business with a consuming ardor, and +the whole universe was related to her wifehood. To her marriage was the +development of a two-phase soul with but one will. As the young couple entered +their home, the wife was saying:</p> + +<p>“Tom, isn’t it fine to think of the good you can do–these +poor folk in the Valley don’t really get justice. And they’re your +friends. They always help you and father in the election, and now you can see +that they have their rights. Oh, I’m so glad–so glad father did it. +That was his way to show them how he really loves them.”</p> + +<p>The husband smiled, a husbandly and superior smile, and said absently, +“Oh, well, I presume they don’t get much out of the courts, but they +should learn to keep away from litigation. It’s a rich man’s game +anyway!” He was thinking of the steps before him which might lead him to a +higher court and still higher. His ambition vaulted as he spoke. “Laura, +Father Jim wouldn’t mind having a son-in-law on the United States Supreme +Court, and I believe <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_139'></a>139</span>we can work together and make it in twenty years +more!”</p> + +<p>As the young wife saw the glow of ambition in his fine, mobile face she +stifled the altruistic yearnings, which she had come to feel made her husband +uncomfortable, and joined him as he gazed into the crystal ball of the future +and saw its glistening chimera.</p> + +<p>Perhaps the preceding dialogue wherein Dr. James Nesbit, his wife, his +daughter and his son-in-law have spoken may indicate that politics as the Doctor +played it was an exceedingly personal chess game. We see him here blithely +taking from the people of his state, their rights to justice and trading those +rights cheerfully for his personal happiness as it was represented in the +possible reformation of his daughter’s husband. He thought it would +work–this curious bartering of public rights for private ends. He could +not see that a man who could accept a judgeship as it had come to Tom Van Dorn, +in the nature of things could not take out an essential self-respect which he +had forfeited when he took the place. The Doctor was as blind as Tom Van Dorn, +as blind as his times. Government was a personal matter in that day; public +place was a personal perquisite.</p> + +<p>As for the reformation of Tom Van Dorn, for which all this juggling with +sacred things was done, he had no idea that his moral regeneration was concerned +in the deal, and never in all the years of his service did the vaguest hint come +to him that the outrage of justice had been accomplished for his own +soul’s good.</p> + +<p>The next morning Tom Van Dorn read of his appointment as Judge in the morning +papers, and he pranced twice the length of Market Street, up one side and down +the other, to let the populace congratulate him. Then with a fat box of candy he +went to his office, where he gave the candy and certain other tokens of esteem +to Miss Mauling, and at noon after the partnership of Calvin & Van Dorn had +been dissolved, with the understanding that the young Judge was to keep his law +books in Calvin’s office, and was to have a private office there–for +certain intangible considerations. Then after the business with Joseph Calvin +was concluded, the young Judge in his private office with his <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_140'></a>140</span>hands under his coattails +preened before Miss Mauling and talked from a shameless soul of his greed for +power! The girl before him gave him what he could not get at home, an abject +adoration, uncritical, unabashed, unrestrained.</p> + +<p>The young man whom the newly qualified Judge had inherited as court +stenographer was a sadly unemotional, rather methodical, old maid of a person, +and Tom Van Dorn could not open his soul to this youth, so he was wont to stray +back to the offices of Joseph Calvin to dictate his instructions to juries, and +to look over the books in his own library in making up his decisions. The office +came to be known as the Judge’s Chambers and the town cocked a gay and +suspicious eye at the young Judge. Mr. Calvin’s practice doubled and +trebled and Miss Mauling lost small caste with the nobility and gentry. And as +the summer deepened, Dr. James Nesbit began to see that vanity does not build +self-respect.</p> + +<p>When the young Judge announced his candidacy for election to fill out the two +years’ unexpired term of his predecessor, no one opposed Van Dorn in his +party convention; but the Doctor had little liking for the young man’s +intimacy in the office of Joseph Calvin and less liking for the scandal of that +intimacy which arose when the rich litigants in the Judge’s court crowded +into Calvin’s office for counsel. The Doctor wondered if he was squeamish +about certain matters, merely because it was his own son-in-law who was the +subject of the disquieting gossip connected with Calvin’s practice in Van +Dorn’s court. Then there was the other matter. The Doctor could notice +that the town was having its smile–not a malicious nor condemning smile, +but a tolerant, amused smile about Van Dorn and the Mauling girl; and the Doctor +didn’t like that. It cut deeply into the Doctor’s heart that as the +town’s smile broadened, his daughter’s face was growing perceptibly +more serious. The joy she had shown when first she told him of the baby’s +coming did not illumine her face; and her laughter–her never failing well +of gayety–was in some way being sealed. The Doctor determined to talk with +Tom on the Good of the Order and to talk man-wise–without feeling of +course but without guile.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_141'></a>141</span>So one autumn +afternoon when the Doctor heard the light, firm step of the young man in the +common hallway that led to their offices over the Traders’ Bank, the +Doctor tuned himself up to the meeting and cheerily called through his open +door:</p> + +<p>“Tom–Tom, you young scoundrel–come in here and let’s +talk it all over.”</p> + +<p>The young man slipped a package into his pocket, and came lightly into the +office. He waved his hand gayly and called: “Well–well, pater +familias, what’s on your chest to-day?” His slim figure was clad in +gray–a gray suit, gray shirt, gray tie, gray shoes and a crimson rose bud +in his coat lapel. As he slid into a chair and crossed his lean legs the Doctor +looked him over. The young Judge’s corroding pride in his job was written +smartly all over his face and figure. “The fairest of ten thousand, the +bright and morning star, Tom,” piped the Doctor. Then added briskly, +“I want to talk to you about Joe Calvin.” The young man lifted a +surprised eyebrow. The Doctor pushed ahead as he pulled the county bar docket +from his desk and pointed to it. “Joe Calvin’s business has +increased nearly fifty per cent. in less than six months! And he has the money +side of eighty per cent. of the cases in your court!”</p> + +<p>“Well–” replied Van Dorn in the mushy drawl that he used +with juries, “that’s enough! Joe couldn’t ask more.” +Then he added, eying the Doctor closely, “Though I can’t say that +what you tell me startles me with its suddenness.”</p> + +<p>“That’s just my point,” cried the Doctor in his high, +shrill voice. “That’s just my point, Thomas,” he repeated, +“and here’s where I come in. I got you this job. I am standing for +you before the district and I am standing for you now for this election.” +The Doctor wagged his head at the young man as he said, “But the truth is, +Tom, I had some trouble getting you the solid delegation.”</p> + +<p>“Ah?” questioned the suave young Judge.</p> + +<p>“Yes, Tom–my own delegation,” replied the Doctor. +“You see, Tom, there is a lot of me. There is the one they call Doc Jim; +then there’s Mrs. Nesbit’s husband and there’s your +father-in-law, and then there’s Old Linen Pants. The old man was for you +from the jump. Doc Jim was for you <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_142'></a>142</span>and Mrs. Nesbit’s husband was willing to go +with the majority of the delegation, though he wasn’t strong for you. But +I’ll tell you, Tom,” piped the Doctor, “I did have the devil +of a time ironing out the troubles of your father-in-law.”</p> + +<p>The Doctor leaned forward and pointed a fat, stern finger at his son-in-law. +“Tom,” the Doctor’s voice was shrill and steely, “I +don’t like your didos with Violet Mauling!” The face above the +crimson flower did not flinch.</p> + +<p>“I don’t suppose you’re making love to her. But you have no +business fooling around Joe Calvin’s office on general principles. Keep +out, and keep away from her.” And then the Doctor’s patience slipped +and his voice rose: “What do you want to give her the household bills for? +Pay ’em yourself or let Laura send her checks!” The Doctor’s +tones were harsh, and with the amiable cast off his face his graying blond +pompadour hair seemed to bristle militantly. The effect gave the Doctor a +fighting face as he barked, “You can’t afford it. You must stop it. +It’s no way to do. I didn’t think it of you, Tom!”</p> + +<p>After Van Dorn had touched his black wing of hair, his soft mustache and the +crimson flower on his coat, he had himself well in hand and had planned his +defense and counter attacks. He spoke softly:</p> + +<p>“Now, Father Jim–I’m not–” he put a touch of +feeling in the “not,” “going to give up the Mauling girl. When +I’m elected next month, I’m going to make her my court +stenographer!” He looked the Doctor squarely in the face and paused for +the explosion which came in an excited, piping cry:</p> + +<p>“Why, Tom, are you crazy! Take her all over the three counties of this +district with you? Why, boy–” But Judge Van Dorn continued evenly: +“I don’t like a man stenographer. Men make me nervous and +self-conscious, and I can’t give a man the best that’s in me. And I +propose to give my best to this job–in justice to myself. And Violet +Mauling knows my ways. She doesn’t interpose herself between me and my +ideas, so I am going to make her court stenographer next month right after the +election.”</p> + +<p>When the Doctor drew in a breath to speak, Van Dorn <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_143'></a>143</span>put out a hand, checked the elder man +and said blandly and smilingly, “And, Father Jim, I’m going to be +elected–I’m dead sure of election.”</p> + +<p>The Doctor thought he saw a glint of sheer malicious impudence in Van +Dorn’s smile as he finished speaking: “And anyway, pater, we +mustn’t quarrel right now–Just at this time, Laura–”</p> + +<p>“You’re a sly dog, now, ain’t you! Ain’t you a sly +dog?” shrilled the Doctor in sputtering rage. Then the blaze in his eyes +faded and he cried in despair: “Tom, Tom, isn’t there any way I can +put the fear of God into you?”</p> + +<p>Van Dorn realized that he had won the contest. So he forbore to strike +again.</p> + +<p>“Doctor Jim, I’m afraid you can’t jar me much with the fear +of God. You have a God that sneaks in the back door of matter as a kind of a +divine immanence that makes for progress and Joe Calvin in there has a God with +whiskers who sits on a throne and runs a sort of police court; but one’s +as impossible as the other. I have no God at all,” his chest swelled +magnificently, “and here’s what happens”:</p> + +<p>He was talking against time and the Doctor realized it. But his scorn was +crusting over his anger and he listened as the young Judge amused himself: +“I’ve defended gamblers and thugs–and crooks, some rich, some +poor, mostly poor and mostly guilty. And Joe has been free attorney for the law +and order league and has given the church free advice and entertained preachers +when he wasn’t hiding out from his wife. And he’s gone to conference +and been a deacon and given to the Lord all his life. And now that it’s +good business for him to have me elected, can he get a vote out of all his +God-and-morality crowd? Not a vote. And all I have to do is to wiggle my finger +and the whole crowd of thugs and blacklegs and hoodlums and rich and poor line +up for me–no matter how pious I talk. I tell you, Father +Jim–there’s nothing in your God theory. It doesn’t work. My +job is to get the best out of myself possible.” But this was harking back +to Violet Mauling and the young Judge smiled with bland impertinence as he +finished, “The fittest survive, my dear pater, and I propose to keep +fit–to keep fit–and survive!”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_144'></a>144</span>The +Doctor’s anger cooled, but the pain still twinged his heart, the pain that +came as he saw clearly and surely that his daughter’s life was bound to +the futile task of making bricks without straw. Deep in his soul he knew the +anguish before her and its vain, continual round of fallen hopes. As the young +Judge strutted up and down the Doctor’s office, the father in the elder +man dominated him and a kind of contemptuous pity seized him. Pity overcame +rage, and the Doctor could not even sputter at his son-in-law. “Fit and +survive” kept repeating themselves over in Dr. Nesbit’s mind, and it +was from a sad, hurt heart that he spoke almost kindly: “Tom–Tom, my +boy, don’t be too sure of yourself. You may keep fit and you may +survive–but Tom, Tom–” the Doctor looked steadily into the +bold, black eyes before him and fancied they were being held consciously from +dropping and shifting as the Doctor cried: “For God’s sake, Tom, +don’t let up! Keep on fighting, son, God or no God–you’ve got +a devil–keep on fighting him!”</p> + +<p>The olive cheeks flushed for a fleeting second. Van Dorn laughed an irritated +little laugh. “Well,” he said, turning to the door, “be over +to-night?–or shall we come over? Anything good for dinner?”</p> + +<p>A minute later he came swinging into his own office. He pulled a package from +his pocket. “Violet,” he said, going up to her writing desk and half +sitting upon it, as he put the package before her, “here’s the +candy.”</p> + +<p>He picked up her little round desk mirror, smiled at her in it, and played +rather idly about the desk for a foolish moment before going to his own desk. He +sat looking into the street, folding a sheet of blank paper. When it became a +wad he snapped it at the young woman. It hit her round, beautiful neck and +disappeared into her square-cut bodice.</p> + +<p>“Get it out for you if you want it?” He laughed fatuously.</p> + +<p>The girl flashed quick eyes at him, and said, “Oh, I don’t +know,” and went on with her work. He began to read, but in a few minutes +laid his book down.</p> + +<p>“How’d you like to be a court stenographer?” The girl kept +on writing. “Honest now I mean it. If I win this <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_145'></a>145</span>election and get this job for the two +years of unexpired term, you’ll be court stenographer–pays fifteen +hundred a year.” The girl glanced quickly at him again, with fire in her +eyes, then looked conspicuously down at the keyboard of the writing machine.</p> + +<p>“I couldn’t leave home,” she said finally, as she pulled +out a sheet of paper. “It wouldn’t be the thing–do you think +so?”</p> + +<p>He put his feet on the desk, showing his ankles of pride, and fingering his +mustache, smiling a squinty smile with his handsome, beady eyes as he said: +“Oh, I’d take care of you. You aren’t afraid of me, are +you?”</p> + +<p>They both laughed. And the girl came over with a sheet of paper. “Here +is that Midland Valley letter. Will you sign it now?”</p> + +<p>He managed to touch her hand as she handed him the sheet, and again to touch +her bare forearm as he handed it back after signing it. For which he got two +darts from her eyes.</p> + +<p>A client came in. Joseph Calvin hurried in and out, a busy little rat of a +man who always wore shiny clothes that bagged at the knees and elbows. George +Brotherton crashed in through the office on city business, and so the afternoon +wore away. At the end of the day, Thomas Van Dorn and Miss Mauling locked up the +office and went down the hall and the stairs to the street together. He released +her arm as they came to the street, and tipped his hat as she rounded the corner +for home. He saw the white-clad Doctor trudging up the low incline that led to +Elm Street.</p> + +<p>Dr. Nesbit was asking the question, Who are the fit? Who should survive? His +fingers had been pinched in the door of the young Judge’s philosophy and +the Doctor was considering much that might be behind the door. He wondered if it +was the rich and the powerful who should survive. Or he thought perhaps it is +those who give themselves for others. There was Captain Morton with his one +talent, pottering up and down the town talking all kinds of weather, and all +kinds of rebuffs that he might keep the girls in school and make them ready to +serve society; yet according to Tom’s standards of success the Captain was +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_146'></a>146</span>unfit; and there +was George Brotherton, ignorant, but loyal, foolishly blind, of a tender heart, +yet compared with those who used his ignorance and played upon his blindness +(and the Doctor winced at his part in that game) Mr. Brotherton was cast aside +among the world’s unfit; and so was Henry Fenn, fighting with his devil +like a soldier; and so was Dick Bowman going into the mines for his family, +sacrificing light and air and the joy of a free life that the wife and children +might be clad, housed and fed and that they might enjoy something of the +comforts of the great civilization which his toil was helping to build up around +them; yet in his grime Dick was accounted exceedingly unfit. Dick only had a +number on the company’s books and his number corresponded to a share of +stock and it was the business of the share of stock to get as much out of Dick +and give him back as little, and to take as much from society in passing for +coal as it could, and being without soul or conscience or feeling of any kind, +the share of stock put the automatic screws on Dick–as their numbers +corresponded. And for squeezing the sweat out of him the share was accounted +unusually fit, while poor Dick–why he was merely a number on the books and +was called a unit of labor. Then there was Daniel Sands. He had spread his web +all over the town. It ran in the pipes under ground that brought water and gas, +and the wires above ground, that brought light and power and communication. The +web found its way into the earth–through deep cuts in the earth, worming +along caverns where it held men at work; then the web ran into foul dens where +the toilers were robbed of their health and strength and happiness and even of +the money the toilers toiled for, and the web brought it all back slimey and +stinking from unclean hands into the place where the spider sat spinning. And +there was his son and daughter; Mr. Sands had married at least four estimable +ladies with the plausible excuse that he was doing it only to give his children +a home. Mr. Sands had given his son a home, to be sure; but his son had not +taken a conscience from the home–for who was there at home to give it? Not +the estimable ladies who had married Mr. Sands, for they had none <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_147'></a>147</span> or they would have been +somewhere else, to be sure; not Mr. Sands himself, for he was busy with his web, +and conscience rips such webs as his endways, and Daniel would have none of +that. And the servants who had reared the youth had no conscience to give him; +for it was made definite and certain in that home that they were paid for what +they did, so they did what they were paid for, and bestowing consciences upon +young gentlemen is no part of the duty of the “help” in a home like +that.</p> + +<p>As for his daughter, Anne, again one of God’s miracles was wrought. +There she was growing in the dead atmosphere of that home–where she had +known two mothers before she was ten and she saw with a child’s shrewd +eyes that another was coming. Yet in some subsoil of the life about her the +roots of her life were finding a moral sense. Her hazel eyes were questioning so +curiously the old man who fathered her that he felt uncomfortable when she was +near him. Yet for all the money he had won and all that money had made him, he +was reckoned among the fit. Then there was the fit Mr. Van Dorn and the fit Mr. +Calvin. Mr. Calvin never missed a Sunday in church, gave his tithe, and revered +the law. He adjusted his halo and sang feelingly in prayer meeting about his +cross and hoped ultimately for his crown as full and complete payment and +return, the same being the legal and just equivalent for said hereinbefore named +cross as aforesaid, and Mr. Calvin was counted among the fit, and the Doctor +smiled as he put him in the list. And Mr. Van Dorn had confessed that he was +among the fit and his fitness consisted in getting everything that he could +without being caught.</p> + +<p>But these reflections were vain and unprofitable to Dr. Nesbit, and so he +turned himself to the consideration of the business in hand: namely, to make his +calling and reëlection sure to the State Senate that November. So he went over +Greeley County behind his motherly sorrel mare, visiting the people, telling +them stories, prescribing for their ailments, eating their fried chicken, cream +gravy and mashed potatoes, and putting to rout the forces of the loathed +opposition who maintained that the Doctor beat his wife, by sometimes <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_148'></a>148</span>showing said wife as +exhibit “A” without comment in those remote parts of the county +where her proud figure was unknown.</p> + +<p>In November he was reëlected, and there was a torchlight procession up the +aisle of elms and all the neighbors stood on the front porch, including the Van +Dorns and the Mortons and John Kollander in his blue soldier clothes, carrying +the flag into another county office, and the Henry Fenns, while the Doctor +addressed the multitude! And there was cheering, whereupon Mr. Van Dorn, Judge +pro tem and Judge-elect, made a speech with eloquence and fire in it; John +Kollander made his well-known flag speech, and Captain Morton got some comfort +out of the election of Comrade Nesbit, who had stood where bullets were thickest +and as a boy had bared his breast to the foe to save his country, and drawing +the Doctor into the corner, filed early application to be made sergeant-at-arms +of the State Senate and was promised that or Something Equally Good. The hungry +friends of the new Senator so loaded him with obligations that blessed night +that he again sold his soul to the devil, went in with the organization, got all +the places for all his people, and being something of an organizer himself, +distributed the patronage for half the State.</p> + +<p>Ten days later–or perhaps it may have been two weeks later, at half +past five in the evening–the Judge-elect was sitting at his desk, +handsomely dressed in black–as befitting the dignity of his office. He and +his newly appointed court stenographer had returned the hour before from an +adjoining county where they had been holding court. The Judge was alone, if one +excepts the young woman at the typewriting desk, before whom he was preening, as +though she were a mere impersonal mirror. During the hour the Judge had visited +the tailor’s and had returned to his office wearing a new, long-tailed +coat. His black silk neck-scarf was resplendently new, his large, soft, black +hat–of a type much favored by statesmen in that day–was cocked at a +frivolous angle, showing the raven’s wing of black hair upon his fine +forehead. A black silk watchguard crossed his black vest; his patent leather +shoes shone below his trim black silk socks, <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_149'></a>149</span>and he rubbed his smooth, olive cheek with the +yellow chrysanthemum upon his coat lapel.</p> + +<p>“Gee, but you’re swell,” said Miss Mauling. “You look +good enough to eat.”</p> + +<p>“Might try a bite–if you feel that way about it,” replied +the Judge. He put his hands in his pockets, tried them under his long coat +tails, buttoned the coat and thrust one hand between the buttons, put one hand +in a trousers’ pocket, letting the other fall at his side, put both hands +behind him, and posed for a few minutes exchanging more or less fervent glances +with the girl. A step sounded in the hallway. The man and woman obviously +listened. It was a heavy tread; it was coming to the office door. The man and +woman slipped into Judge Van Dorn’s private office. When the outer door +opened, and it was apparent that some one was in the outer office, Miss Mauling +appeared, note book in hand, quite brisk and businesslike with a question in her +good afternoon.</p> + +<p>“Where’s Van Dorn?” The visitor was tall, rawboned, and of +that physical cast known as lanky. His face was flinty, and his red hair was +untrimmed at the neck and ears.</p> + +<p>“The Judge is engaged just now,” smiled Miss Mauling. “Will +you wait?” She was careful not to ask him to sit. Grant Adams looked at +the girl with a fretful stare. He did not take off his hat, and he shook his +head toward Van Dorn’s office door as he said brusquely, “Tell him +to come out. It’s important.” The square shoulders of the tall man +gave a lunge or hunch toward the door. “I tell you it’s +important.”</p> + +<p>Miss Mauling smiled. “But he can’t come out just now. He’s +busy. Any message I can give him?”</p> + +<p>The man was excited, and his voice and manner showed his temper.</p> + +<p>“Now, look here–I have no message; tell Van Dorn I want him +quick.”</p> + +<p>“What name, please?” responded Miss Mauling, who knew that the +visitor knew she was playing.</p> + +<p>“Grant Adams–tell him it’s his business and not +mine–except–”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_150'></a>150</span>But the girl had +gone. It was several minutes before Tom Van Dorn moved gracefully and elegantly +into the room. “Ah,” he began. Grant glared at him.</p> + +<p>“I’ve just driven down from Nesbit’s with Kenyon, and Mrs. +Nesbit says to tell you Laura’s there–came over this morning, and +you’re to come just as quick as you can. They tried to get you on the +’phone, but you weren’t here. Do you understand? You’re to +come quick, and I’ve left my horse out here for you. Kenyon and I’ll +catch a car home.”</p> + +<p>The pose with one hand in his trousers pocket and the other hanging loosely +suited the Judge-elect as he answered: “Is that all?” Then he added, +as his eyes went over the blue overalls: “I presume Mrs. Nesbit advised +you as to the reason for–for, well–for haste?”</p> + +<p>Grant saw Van Dorn’s eyes wander to the girl’s for approval. +“I shall not need your horse, Adams,” Van Dorn went on without +waiting for a reply to his question. Then again turning his eyes to the girl, he +asked: “Adams, anything I can do to repay your kindness?”</p> + +<p>“No–” growled Adams, turning to go.</p> + +<p>“Say, Adams,” called Van Dorn, rubbing his hands and still +smiling at the girl, “you wouldn’t take a cigar in–in +anticipation of the happy–”</p> + +<p>Adams whirled around. His big jaw muscles worked in knots before he spoke; +his blue eyes were set and raging. But he looked at the floor an instant before +crying:</p> + +<p>“You go to hell!” And an instant later, the lank figure had left +the room, slamming the door after him. Grant heard the telephone bell ringing, +and heard the girl’s voice answering it, then he went to the +doctor’s office. As he was writing the words “At Home” on the +slate on the door, he could hear Miss Mauling at the telephone.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” and again, “Yes,” and then, “Is there +any message,” and finally she giggled, “All right, I’ll call +him.” Then Grant stalked down the stairs. The receiver was hanging down. +The Doctor at the other end of the wire could hear a man and a woman laughing. +Van Dorn stepped to the instrument and said: “Yes, Doctor.”</p> + +<p>Then, “What–well, you don’t say!”</p> + +<p>And still again, “Yes, he was just here this minute; shall <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_151'></a>151</span>I call him back?” +And before hanging up the receiver, he said, “Why, of course, I’ll +come right out.”</p> + +<p>The Judge-elect turned gracefully around, smiling complacently: “Well, +Violet–it’s your bet. It’s a girl!”</p> + +<p>The court stenographer poked a teasing forefinger at him and whittled it with +another in glee. Then, as if remembering something, she asked: +“How’s your wife?”</p> + +<p>Van Dorn’s face was blank for an instant. “By +George–that’s so. I forgot to ask.” He started to pick up the +telephone receiver, but checked himself. He pulled his broad-brimmed hat over +his eyes, and started for the door, waving merrily and rubbing his chin with his +flower.</p> + +<p>“Ta ta,” he called as he saw the last of her flashing smile +through the closing door.</p> + +<p>And thus into a world where only the fittest survive that day came Lila Van +Dorn,–the child of a mother’s love.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_152'></a>152</span><a id='link_15'></a>CHAPTER XV<br /><span class='h2fs'>WHEREIN WE WELCOME IN A NEW YEAR AND CONSIDER A SERIOUS QUESTION</span></h2> + +<p>The journey around the sun is a long and tumultuous one. Many of us jolt off +the earth as we ride, others of us are turned over and thrown into strange and +absurd positions, and a few of us sit tight and edge along, a little further +toward the soft seats. But as we whirl by the stations, returning ever and again +to the days that are precious in our lives, to the seasons that give us greatest +joy, we measure our gains, on the long journey, in terms of what we love. +“A little over a year ago to-night, my dear,” chirruped Dr. Nesbit, +pulling a gray hair from his temple where hairs of any kind were becoming scarce +enough. “A year, a month, and a week and a day ago to-night the town and +the Harvey brass band came out here and they tramped up the blue grass so that +it won’t get back in a dozen years.</p> + +<p>“Well,” he mused, as the fire burned, “I got ’em all +their jobs, I got two or three good medical laws passed, and I hope I have made +some people happy.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, my dear,” answered his wife. “In that year little +Lila has come into short dresses, and Kenyon Adams has learned to play on the +piano, and is taking up the violin.”</p> + +<p>“How time has flown since election a year ago,” said Captain +Morton to his assembled family as they sat around the base burner smoldering in +the dining-room. “And I’ve put the patent window fastener into forty +houses and sold Henry Fenn the burglar alarm to go with his.” And the +eldest Miss Morton spoke up and said:</p> + +<p>“My good land, I hope we’ll have a new principal by this time +next year. Another year under that man will kill me–pa, I do wish +you’d run for the school board.”</p> + +<p>And the handsome Miss Morton added, “My goodness, <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_153'></a>153</span>Emma Morton, if I didn’t have +anything to do but draw forty dollars every month for yanking a lot of little +kids around and teaching them the multiplication tables, I wouldn’t say +much. Why, we’ve come through algebra into geometry and half way through +Cicero, while you’ve been fussing with that old principal–and Mrs. +Herdicker’s got a new trimmer, and we girls down at the shop have to put +up with her didoes. Talk of trouble, gee!”</p> + +<p>“Martha, you make me weary,” said the youngest Miss Morton, +eating an apple. “If you’d had scarlet fever and measles the same +year, and your old dress just turned and your same old hat, you’d have +something to talk about.”</p> + +<p>“Well,” remarked His Honor the Mayor to Henry Fenn and Morty +Sands as they sat in the Amen Corner New Year’s eve, looking at the backs +of a shelf of late books and viewing several shelves of standard sets with +highly gilded backs, “it’s more’n a year since +election–and well, say–I’ve got all my election bets paid now +and am out of debt again, and the book store’s gradually coming along. By +next year this time I expect to put four more shelves of copyrighted books in +and cut down the paper backs to a stack on the counter. But old Lady Nicotine is +still the patron of the fine arts–say, if it wasn’t for the ’baccy +little Georgie would be so far behind with his rent that he would knock off a +year and start over.”</p> + +<p>Young Mr. Sands rolled a cigarette and lighted it and said: “It’s +a whole year–and Pop’s gone a long time without a wife; it’ll +be two years next March since the last one went over the hill who was brought +out to make a home for little Morty, and I saw Dad peeking out of the hack +window as we were standing waiting for the hearse, and wondered which one of the +old girls present he’d pick on. But,” mused Morty, “I guess +it’s Anne’s eyes. Every time he edges around to the subject of our +need of a mother, Anne turns her eyes on him and he changes the subject.” +Morty laughed quietly and added: “When Anne gets out of her ‘teens +she’ll put father in a monastery!”</p> + +<p>“Honeymoon’s kind of waning–eh, Henry?” asked Judge +Van Dorn, who dropped in for a magazine and heard <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_154'></a>154</span>the conversation about the passing of +the year. He added: “I see you’ve been coming down here pretty +regularly for three or four months!” Henry looked up sadly and shook his +head. “You can’t break the habit of a dozen years. And I got to +coming here back in the days when George ran a pool and billiard hall, and I +suppose I’ll come until I die, and then George will bring his wheezy old +quartette around and sing over me, and probably act as pall-bearer too–if +he doesn’t read the burial service of the lodge in addition.”</p> + +<p>“Well, a year’s a year,” said the suave Judge Van Dorn. +“A year ago you boys were smoking on me as the new judge of this judicial +district. All hail Thane of Cawdor–” He smiled his princely smile, +taking every one in with his frank, bold eyes, and waved himself into the +blustery night. There he met Mr. Calvin, who, owing to a turn matters had taken +at home, was just beginning another long period of exile from the hearthstone. +He walked the night like a ghost, silent and grim. His thin little neck, +furrowed behind by the sunken road between his arteries, was adorned by two +tufts of straggling hair, and as his overcoat collar was rolled and wrinkled, he +had an appearance of extreme neglect and dejection. “Did you realize that +it’s over a year since election?” said Van Dorn. “We might as +well begin looking out for next year, Joe,” he added, “if +you’ve got nothing better to do. I wish you’d go down the row +to-night and see the boys and tell them I want to talk to them in the next ten +days or so; a man never can be too early in these things; and say–if you +happen in the Company store down there and see Violet Mauling, slip her a ten +and charge it to me on the books; I wonder how she’s doing–I +haven’t heard of her for three months. Nice girl, Violet.”</p> + +<p>And Mrs. Herdicker hadn’t heard of Miss Mauling for some time, and +sitting in her little office back of the millinery store, sorting over her old +bills, she came to a bill badly dog-eared with Miss Mauling’s name on it. +The bill called for something like $75 and the last payment on it had been made +nearly half a year ago. So she looked at that bill and added ten dollars to Mrs. +Van Dorn’s bill for the last hat she bought, and did what she could to +resign herself to the <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_155'></a>155</span>injustices of a cruel world. But it had been a good +year for Mrs. Herdicker. New wells in new districts had come gushing gas and oil +into Harvey in great geysers and the work on the new smelter was progressing, +and the men in the mines had been kept steadily at work; for Harvey coal was the +best in the Missouri Valley. So the ladies who are no better than they should be +and the ladies who are much better than they should be, and the ladies who will +stand for a turned ribbon, and a revived feather, and are just about what they +may be expected to be, all came in and spent their money like the princesses +that they were. And Mrs. Herdicker figured in going over her stock just which +hat she could sell to Mrs. Nesbit as a model hat from the Paris exhibit at the +World’s Fair, and which one she could put on Mrs. Fenn as a New York +sample, and as she built her castles the loss of the $75 to Miss Mauling had its +compensating returns, and she smiled and thought that just a year ago she had +offered that same World’s Fair Model to the wife of the newly elected +State Senator and she must put on a new bunch of flowers and bend down the +brim.</p> + +<p>The Dexters were sitting by the stove in the living-room with Amos Adams; +they had come down to the lonely little home to prepare a good dinner for the +men. “A year ago to-day,” said the minister to the group as he put +down the newspaper, “Kenyon got his new fiddle.”</p> + +<p>“The year has brought me something–I tell you,” Jasper +said. “I’ve bought a horse with my money I earned as page in the +State Senate and I’ve got a milk route, and have all the milk in the +neighborhood to distribute. That’s what the year has done for +me.”</p> + +<p>“Well,” reflected the minister, “we’ve got the +mission church in South Harvey on a paying basis, and the pipe organ in the home +church paid for–that’s some comfort. And they do say,” his +eyes twinkled as he looked at his wife, “that the committee is about to +settle all the choir troubles. That’s pretty good for a year.”</p> + +<p>“Another year,” sighed Amos Adams, and the wind blew through the +gaunt branches of the cottonwood trees in the yard, and far down in the valley +came the moaning as of many waters, and the wind played its harmonies in the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_156'></a>156</span>woodlot. The old +man repeated the words: “Another year,” and asked himself how many +more years he would have to wait and listen to the sighing of the moaning waters +that washed around the world. And Kenyon Adams, lying flushed and tousled and +tired upon a couch near by, heard the waters in his dreams and they made such +music that his thin, little face moved in an eyrie smile.</p> + +<p>“Mag,” said a pale, nervous girl with dead, sad eyes as she +looked around at the new furniture in the new house, and avoided the rim of soft +light that came from the electric under the red shade, “did you think I +was cheeky to ask you all those questions over the ’phone–about +where Henry was to-night, and what you’d be doing?” The hostess +said: “Why, no, Violet, no–I’m always glad to see +you.”</p> + +<p>There was a pause, and the girl exclaimed: “That’s what I come +out for. I couldn’t stand it any longer. Mag, what in God’s name +have I done? Didn’t you see me the other day on Market Street? You were +looking right at me. It’s been nearly a year since we’ve talked. You +used to couldn’t get along a week without a good talk; but now–say, +Mag, what’s the matter? what have I done to make you treat me like +this?” There was a tremor in the girl’s voice. She looked piteously +at the wife, radiant in her red house gown. The hostess spoke. “Look here, +Violet Mauling, I did see you on Market Street, and I did cut you dead. I knew +it would bring you up standing and we’d have this thing out.”</p> + +<p>The girl looked her question, but flushed. Then she said, “You mean the +old man?”</p> + +<p>“I mean the old man. It’s perfectly scandalous, Violet; +didn’t you get your lesson with Van Dorn?” returned the hostess. +“The old man won’t marry you–you don’t expect that, do +you?” The girl shook her head. The woman continued, “Well, then drop +it. You can’t afford to be seen with him.”</p> + +<p>“Mag,” returned the visitor, “I tell you before God I +can’t afford not to. It’s my job. It’s all I’ve got. +Mamma hasn’t another soul except me to depend on. And he’s +harmless–the old coot’s as harmless as a child. Honest and true, +Mag, if I ever told the truth that’s it. He just <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_157'></a>157</span>stands around and is silly–just +makes foolish breaks to hear himself talk–that’s all. But what can I +do? He keeps me in the company store, and Heaven knows he doesn’t kill +himself paying me–only $8 a week, as far as that goes, and then he talks +and talks and talks about Judge Van Dorn, and snickers and drops his front false +teeth–ugh!–and drivels. But, Mag, he’s harmless as a +baby.”</p> + +<p>“Well,” returned the hostess, “Henry says every one is +talking about it, and you’re a common scandal, Violet Mauling, and you +ought to know it. I can’t hold you up, as you well know–no one +can.”</p> + +<p>Then there followed a flood of tears, and after it had subsided the two women +were sitting on a couch. “I want to tell you about Tom Van Dorn, +Mag–you never understood. You thought I used to chase him. God knows I +didn’t, Mag–honest, honest, honest! You knew as well as anything all +about it; but I never told you how I fought and fought and all that and how +little by little he came closer and closer, and no one ever will know how I +cried and how ashamed I was and how I tried to fight him off. That’s the +God’s truth, Mag–the God’s truth if you ever heard +it.”</p> + +<p>The girl sobbed and hid her face. “Once when papa died he sent me a +hundred dollars through Mr. Brotherton, and mamma thought it came from the +Lodge; but I knew better. And, O Mag, Mag, you’ll never know how I felt to +bury papa on that kind of money. And I saved for nearly a year to pay it back, +and of course I couldn’t, for he kept getting me expensive things and I +had to get things to go with ’em and went in debt, and then when I went +there in the office it was all so–so close and I couldn’t fight, and +he was so powerful–you know just how big and strong, and–O Mag, Mag, +Mag–you’ll never know how I tried–but I just couldn’t. +Then he made me court reporter and took me over the district.” The girl +looked up into the great, soft, beautiful eyes of Margaret Fenn, and thought she +saw sympathy there. That was a common mistake; others made it in looking at +Margaret’s eyes. The girl felt encouraged. She came closer to her one-time +friend. “Mag,” she said, “they lied awfully about how I lost +my job. They said Mrs. Van Dorn made a row. Honest, Mag, there’s nothing +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_158'></a>158</span>to that. She never +even dreamed anything was–well–was–don’t you know. She +wasn’t a bit jealous, and is as nice as she can be to me right now. It was +this way. You know when I sent mamma away last May for a visit, and the Van +Dorns asked me over there to stay?” Mrs. Fenn nodded. “Well,” +continued Violet, “one day in court–you know when they were trying +that bond case–the city bonds and all–well, the Judge scribbled a +note on his desk and handed it to me. It said my room door creaked, and not to +shut it.” She stopped and put her head in her hand and rocked her body. +“I know, Mag, it was awful, but some way I just couldn’t help it. He +is so strong, and–you know, Mag, how we used to say there’s some men +when they come about you just make you kind of flush all over and +weak–well, he’s that way. And, anyway, like a fool I dropped that +note and one of the jurors–a farmer from Union township–picked it up +and took it straight to Doctor Jim.”</p> + +<p>The girl hid her face in her friend’s dress. “It was +awful.” She spoke without looking up. “But, O Mag–Doctor Jim +was fine–so gentle, so kind. The Judge thought he would cuss around a lot, +but he didn’t–not even to him–the Judge said. And the Doctor +came to me as bashful and–as–well, your own father couldn’t +have been better to you. So I just quit, and the Judge got me the job in the +Company store and the Doctor drops in and she–yes, Mag, the Judge’s +wife comes with the Doctor sometimes, and now it’s been five months to-day +since I left the court reporter’s work and I have hardly seen the Judge to +speak to him since. But they all know, I guess, but mamma, and I sometimes think +folks try to talk to her; and that old man Sands comes snooping and snickering +around like an old dog hunting a buried bone, and he’s my job, and I +don’t know what to do.”</p> + +<p>Neither did Margaret know what to do, so she let her go and let her stay, and +knew her old friend no more. For Margaret was rising in the world, and could +have no encumbrances; and Miss Mauling disappeared in South Harvey and that New +Year’s Eve marked the sad anniversary of the break in her relations with +Mrs. Fenn. And it is all set down here on this anniversary to show what a jolty +journey <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_159'></a>159</span>some of us +make as we jog around the sun, and to show the gentle reader how the proud Mr. +Van Dorn hunts his prey and what splendid romances he enjoys and what a fair +sportsman he is.</p> + +<p>But the old year is restless. It has painted the sky of South Harvey with the +smoke of a score of smelter chimneys; it has burned in the drab of the +dejected-looking houses, and it has added a few dozen new ones for the men and +their families who operate the smelter.</p> + +<p>Moreover, the old year has run many new, strange things through a little +boy’s eyes as he looks sadly into a queer world–a little, black-eyed +boy, while a grand lady with a high head sits on a piano bench beside the child +and plays for him the grand music that was fashionable in her grand day. The +passing year pressed into his little heart all that the music told him–not +of the gray misery of South Harvey, not of the thousands who are mourning and +toiling there, but instead the old year has whispered to the child the beautiful +mystic tales of great souls doing noble deeds, of heroes who died that men might +live and love, of beauty and of harmony too deep for any words of his that throb +in him and stir depths in his soul to high aspiration. It has all gone through +his ears; for his eyes see little that is beautiful. There is, of course, the +beauty of the homely hours he spends with those who love him best, hours spent +at school and joyous hours spent by the murmuring creek, and there is what the +grand lady at the piano thinks is a marvel of beauty in the ornate home upon the +hill. But the most beautiful thing he sees as the old year winds the passing +panorama of life for his eyes is the sunshine and prairie grass. This comes to +him of a Sunday when he walks with Grant–brother Grant, out in the fields +far away from South Harvey–where the frosty breath of autumn has turned +the grass to lavender and pale heliotrope, and the hills roll away and away like +silent music and the clouds idling lazily over the hillsides afar off cast dark +shadows that drift in the lavender sea. Now the smoke that the old year paints +upon the blue prairie sky will fade as the year passes, and the great smelters +may crumble and men may plow over the ground where they stand so proudly even +to-day; but the music in <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_160'></a>160</span>the boy’s heart, put there by the passing +year, and the glory of the sunshine and the prairie grass with the meadow +lark’s sad evening song as it quivers for a moment in the sunset +air,–these have been caught in the child’s soul and have passed +through the strange alchemy of God’s great mystery of human genius into an +art that is the heritage of the race. For into the mind of that child–that +eyrie, large-eyed, wondering, silent, lonely-seeming child–the signals of +God were passing. When he grew into his man’s estate and could give them +voice, the winds of the prairie, low and gentle, the soft lisping of quiet +waters, the moving passion of the hurricane, the idle dalliance of the clouds +whose purple shadows combed the rolling hills, and all the ecstasy of the love +cry of solitary prairie birds, found meaning and the listening world heard, +through his music, God speaking to His children.</p> + +<p>So the year moved quickly on. Its tasks were countless. It had another child +to teach another message. There was a little girl in the town–a small girl +with the bluest eyes in the world and tiny curls–yellow curls that wound +so softly around her mother’s fingers that you would think that they were +not curls at all but golden dreams of curls that had for the moment come true +and would fade back into fairyland whence they came. And the passing year had to +prop the child at a window while the dusk came creeping into the quiet house. +There she sat waiting, watching, hoping that the proud, handsome man who came at +twilight down the way leading to the threshold, would smile at her. She was not +old enough to hope he would take her in his arms where she could cuddle and be +loved. So the passing year had to take a fine brush and paint upon the small, +wistful face a fleeting shadow, the mere ghost of a sadness that came and went +as she watched and waited for the father love.</p> + +<p>And Judge Thomas Van Dorn, the punctilious, gay, resistless, young Tom Van +Dorn was deaf to the deeper voices that called to him and beckoned him to rest +his soul. And soon upon the winds that roam the world and carry earth dreams +back to ghosts, and bring ghosts of what we would be back to our +dreams–the roaming winds bore away the <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_161'></a>161</span>passing year, but they could not take the shadows +that it left upon the child’s tender heart.</p> + +<p>Now, when the old year with all its work lay down in the innumerable company +of its predecessors, and the bells rang and the whistles blew in South Harvey to +welcome in the new year, the midnight sky was blazoned with the great torches +from the smelter chimneys, and the pumps in the oil wells kept up their dolorous +whining and complaining, like great insects battening upon an abandoned world. +In South Harvey the lights of the saloons and the side of the dragon’s +spawn glowed and beckoned men to death. Money tinkled over the bars, and +whispered as it was crumpled in the claws of the dragon. For money the scurrying +human ants hurried along the dark, half-lighted streets from the ant hills over +the mines. For money the cranes of the pumps creaked their monody. For money the +half-naked men toiled to their death in the fumes of the smelter. So the New +Year’s bells rang a pean of welcome to the money that the New Year would +bring with its toll of death.</p> + +<p>“Money,” clanged the church bells in the town on the hill. +“Money makes wealth and since we have banished our kings and stoned our +priests, money is the only thing in our material world that will bring power and +power brings pleasure and pleasure brings death.”</p> + +<p>“And death? and death? and death?” tolled the church bells that +glad New Year, and then ceased in circling waves of sound that enveloped the +world, still inquiring–“and death? and death?” fainter and +fainter until dawn.</p> + +<p>The little boy who heard the bells may have heard their plaintive question; +for in the morning twilight, sitting in his nightgown on his high chair looking +into the cheerful mouth of the glowing kitchen stove, while the elders prepared +breakfast, the child who had been silent for a long time raised his face and +asked:</p> + +<p>“Grant–what is death?” The youth at his task answered by +telling about the buried seed and the quickening plant. The child listened and +shook his head.</p> + +<p>“Father,” he asked, addressing the old man, who was rubbing his +chilled hands over the fire, “what is death?” The old man spoke, +slowly. He ran his fingers through his <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_162'></a>162</span>beard and then addressing the youth who had spoken +rather than the child, replied:</p> + +<p>“Death? Death?” and looked puzzled, as if searching for his +words. “Death is the low archway in the journey of life, where we +all–high and low, weak and strong, poor and rich, must bow into the dust, +remove our earthly trappings, wealth and power and pleasure, before we rise to +go upon the next stage of our journey into wider vistas and greener +fields.”</p> + +<p>The child nodded his head as one who has just appraised and approved a +universe, replying sagely, “Oh,” then after a moment he added: +“Yes.” And said no more.</p> + +<p>But when the sun was up, and the wheels scraped on the gravel walk before the +Adams home, and the silvery, infectious laugh of a young mother waked the echoes +of the home, as she bundled up Kenyon for his daily journey, the old man and the +young man heard the child ask: “Aunty Laura–what is death?” +The woman with her own child near in the very midst of life, only laughed and +laughed again, and Kenyon laughed and Lila laughed and they all laughed.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_163'></a>163</span><a id='link_16'></a>CHAPTER XVI<br /><span class='h2fs'>GRANT ADAMS IS SOLD INTO BONDAGE AND MARGARET FENN RECEIVES A SHOCK</span></h2> + +<p>Perhaps the sound of their laughter drowned the mournful voices of the bells +in Grant Adams’s heart. But the bells of the New Year left within him some +stirring of their eternal question. For as the light of day sniffed out, Grant +in a cage full of miners, with Dick Bowman and one of his boys standing beside +him, going down to the second level of the mine, asked himself the question that +had puzzled him: Why did not these men get as much out of life as their fellows +on the same pay in the town who work in stores and offices? He could see no +particular difference in the intelligence of the men in Harvey and the workers +in South Harvey; yet there they were in poorer clothes, with, faces not so +quick, clearly not so well kept from a purely animal standpoint, and even if +they were sturdier and physically more powerful, yet to the young man working +with them in the mine, it seemed that they were a different sort from the +white-handed, keen-faced, smooth-shaven, well-groomed clerks of Market Street, +and that the clerks were getting the better of life. And Grant cried in his +heart: “Why–why–why?”</p> + +<p>Then Dick Bowman said: “Red–penny for your thoughts?” The +men near by turned to Grant and he said: “Hello, Dick–” Then +to the boy: “Well, Mugs, how are you?” He spoke to the others, +Casper and Barney and Evans and Hugh and Bill and Dan and Tom and Lew and Gomer +and Mike and Dick–excepting Casper Herdicker, mostly Welsh and Irish, and +they passed around some more or less ribald greetings. Then they all stepped +upon the soft ground and stood in the light of the flickering oil torches that +hung suspended from timbers.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_164'></a>164</span>Stretching down +long avenues these flickering torches blocked out the alleys of the mine in +either direction from the room, perhaps fifty by forty feet, six or seven feet +high, where they were standing. A car of coal drawn by forlorn mules and pushed +by a grinning boy, came creaking around a distant corner, and drew nearer to the +cage. A score of men ending their shift were coming into the passageways from +each end, shuffling along, tired and silent. They met the men going to work with +a nod or a word and in a moment the room at the main bottom was empty and +silent, save for the groaning car and the various language spoken by the +grinning boy to the unhappy mule. Grant Adams turned off the main passage to an +air course, where from the fans above cold air was rushing along a narrow and +scarcely lighted runway about six feet wide and lower than the main passage. +Down this passage the new mule barn was building. Grant went to his work, and +just outside the barn, snuffed a sputtering torch that was dripping burning oil +into a small oily puddle on the damp floor. The room was cold. Three men were +with him and he was directing them, while he worked briskly with them. +Occasionally he left the barn to oversee the carpenters who were timbering up a +new shaft in a lower level that was not yet ready for operation. Fifty miners +and carpenters were working on the third level, clearing away passages, making +shaft openings, putting in timbers, constructing air courses and getting the +level ready for real work. On the second level, in the little rooms, off the +long, gloomy passages lighted with the flaring torches hanging from the damp +timbers that stretched away into long vistas wherein the torches at the ends of +the passage glimmered like fireflies, men were working–two hundred men +pegging and digging and prying and sweating and talking to their +“buddies,” the Welsh in monosyllables and the Irish in a confusion +of tongues. The cars came jangling along the passageways empty and went back +loaded and groaning. Occasionally the piping voice of a boy and the melancholy +bray of a mule broke the deep silence of the place.</p> + +<p>For sound traveled slowly through the gloom, as though the torches sapped it +up and burned it out in faint, trembling <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_165'></a>165</span>light to confuse the men who sometimes came plodding +down the galleries to and from the main bottom. At nine o’clock Grant +Adams had been twice over the mine, on the three levels and had thirty men +hammering away for dear life. He sent a car of lumber down to the mule barn, +while he went to the third level to direct the division of an air shaft into an +emergency escape. On one side of this air shaft the air came down and there was +a temporary hoist for the men on the third level and on the other side a wooden +stairway was to be built up seventy feet toward the second level.</p> + +<p>At ten o’clock Grant came back to the second level by the hoist in the +air shaft and as he started down the low air course branching off from the main +passage and leading to the new mule barn, he smelled burning pine; and hurrying +around a corner saw that the boy who dumped the pine boards for the mule barn +had not taken the boards into the barn, nor even entirely to the barn, but had +dumped them in the passage to the windward of the barn, under the leaky torch, +and Grant could see down the air course the ends of the boards burning +brightly.</p> + +<p>The men working in the barn could not smell the fire, for the wind that +rushed down the air course was carrying the smoke and fumes away from them. +Grant ran down the course toward the fire, which was fanned by the rushing air, +came to the lumber, which was not all afire, jumped through the flames, slapping +the little blazes on his clothes with his hat as he came out, and ran into the +barn calling to the men to help him put out the fire. They spent two or three +minutes trying to attach the hose to the water plug there, but the hose did not +fit the plug; then they tried to turn the plug to get water in their dinner +pails and found that the plug had rusted and would not turn. While they worked +the fire grew. It was impossible to send a man back through it, so Grant sent a +man speeding around the air course, to get a wrench from the pump room, or from +some one in the main bottom to turn on the water. In the meantime he and the +other two men worked furiously to extinguish the fire by whipping it with their +coats and aprons, but always the flames beat them back. Helplessly they saw it +eating along <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_166'></a>166</span>the +mine timbers far down the vacant passage. Little red devils of flame that winked +maliciously two hundred feet away, and went out, then sprang up again, then +blazed steadily. Grant and the two men tugged frantically at the burning boards, +trying to drag them out of the passageway into the barn, but only here and there +could an end be picked up, and it took five minutes to get half a dozen charred +boards into the barn. While they struggled with the charred boards the flames +down the passage kept glowing brighter and brighter. The men were conscious that +the flames were playing around the second torch below the barn. Although they +realized that the man they sent for the wrench had nearly half a mile to go and +come by the roundabout way, they asked one another if he was making the +wrench!</p> + +<p>Men began poking their heads into the course and calling, “Need any +help down there,” and Grant cried, “Yes, go to the pump in the main +balcony with your buckets and get water.” The man sent for the wrench +appeared down the long passage. Grant yelled,</p> + +<p>“Hurry–hurry, man!” But though he came running, the fire +seemed to be going faster than he was. They could hear men calling and felt that +there was confusion at the end of the air course where it turned into the main +passage ahead of the flames. A second torch exploded, scattering the fire far +down the course. The man, breathless and exhausted, ran up with the wrench. Then +they felt the air in the air course stop moving. They looked at one another. +“Yes,” said the man with the wrench, “I told ’em to +reverse the fans and when we got the water turned on we’d hold the fire +from going to the other end of the passage.” He said this between gasps as +he tugged at the water plug with the wrench. He hit it a vicious blow and the +cap broke.</p> + +<p>The fan had reversed. The air was rushing back, bringing the flames to the +barn. They beat the fire madly with their coats, but in two minutes the roaring +air had brought the flames upon them. The loose timber and shavings in the barn +were beginning to blaze and the men ran for their lives down the air course. As +they ran for the south passage, the smoke followed them and they felt it in +their eyes and <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_167'></a>167</span>lungs. The lights behind them were dimmed, and those +in front grew dim. They reached the passage in a cloud of smoke, but it was +going up the air shaft and did not fill the passage. “Mugs,” yelled +Grant to a boy driving an ore car, “run down this passage and tell the men +there’s a fire–where’s your father?”</p> + +<p>“He’s up yon way,” called the boy, pointing in the opposite +direction as he ran. “You tell him.” The fire was roaring down the +air course behind them, and Grant and the three men knew that in a few minutes +the reverse air would be sucking the flames up the air shaft, cutting off the +emergency escape for the men on the first and second levels.</p> + +<p>Grant knew that the emergency escape was not completed for the third level, +but he knew that they were using the air chute for a temporary hoist for the men +from the third level and that the main shaft was not running to the third +level.</p> + +<p>“Run down this passage, Bill,” called Grant. “Get all those +fellows. Evans, you call the first level; I’ll skin down this rope to the +men below.” In an instant, as the men were flying on their errands, his +red head disappeared down the rope into the darkness. At the bottom of the hoist +in the third level Grant found forty or fifty men at work. They were startled to +see him come down without waiting for the bucket to go up and he called +breathlessly as his feet touched the earth: “Boys, there’s a fire +above on the next level–I don’t know how bad it is; but it looks bad +to me. They may get it out with a hose from the main bottom–if +they’ve got hose there that will reach any place.”</p> + +<p>“Let’s go up,” cried one of the men. As they started toward +him, Grant threw up his hand.</p> + +<p>“Hold on now, boys–hold on. The fans will be blowing that fire +down this air shaft in a few minutes. How far up have you got the +ladders?” he asked.</p> + +<p>Some one answered: “Still twelve feet shy.” There was a scramble +for the buckets, but no one offered to man the windlass and hoist them up the +air shaft. Grant was only a carpenters’ boss. The men around the buckets +were miners. But he called: “Get out of there, Hughey and Mike–none +of that. We must make that ladder first–get <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_168'></a>168</span>some timbers–put the rungs three +feet apart, and work quick.”</p> + +<p>He pointed at the timbers to be used for the ladders, stepped to the windlass +and cried:</p> + +<p>“Here, Johnnie–you got no family–get hold of this windlass +with me. Ready now–family men first–you, Sam–you, +Edwards–you, Lewellyn.”</p> + +<p>Then he bent to the wheel and the men in the bucket started up the shaft. The +others pounded at the ladder, and those who could find no work clambered up the +stairs to the bottom of the gap that separated them from the second level. As +the men in the buckets were nearly up to the second level, where the hoist +stopped, Grant heard one of them call: “Hurry, hurry–here she +comes,” and a second later a hot, smoky wind struck his face and he knew +the fan was turned again and soon would be blowing fire down the air course.</p> + +<p>The men had the ladder almost finished. The men above on the stairs smelled +the smoke and began yelling. The bucket reached the top and was started down. +Grant looked up the air shaft and saw the fire–little flickering flames +lighting up the shaft near the second level. The air rushing down was smoky and +filled with sparks. The ladder was ready and the men made a rush with it up the +stairway. Most of their lamps were put out and it was dark in the stairway. The +men were uttering hysterical, foolish cries as they rushed upward in their +panic. The ladder jolting against the sides of the chamber knocked the men off +their feet and there was tumbling and swearing and tripping and struggling.</p> + +<p>Grant grabbed the ladder from the men and held it above his head, and called +out:</p> + +<p>“You men go up there in order. You’ll not get the ladder till you +straighten up.”</p> + +<p>The emergency-passage was filling with smoke. The men were coughing and +gasping.</p> + +<p>Up and down the stairs men called:</p> + +<p>“Brace up, that’s right.”</p> + +<p>“Red’s right.”</p> + +<p>“We’ll all go if we don’t straighten up.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_169'></a>169</span>In a moment +there was some semblance of order, and Grant wormed his way to the top holding +the ladder above him. He put one end of it on a landing and nailed the foot of +the ladder to the landing floor. Then he stood on the landing, a great, powerful +man with blazing eyes, and called down: “Now come; one at a time, and if +any man crowds I’ll kill him. Come on–one at a time.” One came +and went up; when he was on the third rung of the ladder, Grant let another man +pass up, and so three men were on the ladder.</p> + +<p>As the top man raised the trapdoor above, Grant and those upon the ladder +could see the flames and a great gust of smoke poured down. The man at the top +hesitated. On the other side of the partition in the air chute the smoke was +pouring and the fire was circling the top of the emergency escape through which +the men must pass.</p> + +<p>“Go ahead or jump down,” yelled Grant.</p> + +<p>Those on the ladder and on the landing who could see up cried:</p> + +<p>“Quick, for God’s sake! Hurry!”</p> + +<p>And in another second the first man had scrambled through the hole, letting +the trapdoor fall upon the head of the scrambling man just under him. He fell, +but Grant caught him, and shoved him into the next turn upon the ladder.</p> + +<p>After that they learned to lift their hands up and catch the trapdoor, but +they could see the flames burning the timbers and dropping sparks and blowing +smoke down the emergency shaft. Ten men went up; the fire in the flume along the +stairs below them was beginning to whip through the board partition. The fan was +pumping the third level full of smoke; it was carried out of the stairway by the +current. But the men were calling below. Little Ira Dooley tried to go around +Grant ahead of his turn at the ladder. The cheater felt the big man’s hand +catch him and hold him. The men below saw Grant hit the cheater upon the point +of the jaw and throw him half conscious under the ladder. The men climbed +steadily up. Twenty-five went through the trapdoor into the unknown hell raging +above. Again and again the ladder emptied itself, as the <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_170'></a>170</span>flames in the shaft grew longer, and the +circle of fire above grew broader. The men passed through the trapdoor with +scorching clothes.</p> + +<p>The ladder was filling for the last time. The last man was on the first rung. +Grant reached under the ladder, caught Dooley about the waist and started up +with him. On the ladder Dooley regained consciousness, and Grant shoved him +ahead and saw Dooley slip through the trapdoor and then stop in the smoke and +fire and stand holding up the door for Grant. The two men smiled through the +smoke, and as Grant came through with his clothes afire, he and Dooley looked +quickly about them. Their lights were out; but the burning timbers above gave +them their directions. They headed down the south passage, but even as they +entered it the flames barred them there. Then they turned to go up the passage, +and could hear men calling and yelling far down in the dark alley. The torches +were gone. Far ahead through the stifling smoke that swirled about the damp +timbers overhead, they could see the flickering lights of men running. They +started to follow the lamps. Dooley, who was a little man, slowly dropped back. +Grant caught his hand and dragged him. Soon they came up to the others, who +paused to give them lights. Then they all started to run again, hoping to come +out of that passage into the main bottom by the main shaft in another quarter of +a mile. Occasionally a man would begin to lag, but some one always stopped to +give him a hand. Once Grant passed two men, Tom Williams and Evan Davis, leaning +against a timber, Davis fagged, Williams fanning his companion with his cap.</p> + +<p>From some cross passage a group of men who worked on the second level came +rushing to them. They had no lights and were lost. Down the passage they all ran +together, and at the end they saw something cluttering it up. The opening seemed +to be closed. The front man tumbled and fell; a dozen men fell over him. Three +score men were trapped there, struggling in a pile of pipes and refuse timber +that all but filled the passage into the main bottom. Five minutes were lost +there. Then by twos they crawled into the main bottom. There men were working +with hose, trying to put out the fire in the air course leading to the mule +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_171'></a>171</span>stables. They did +not realize that the other end of the mine was in flames.</p> + +<p>Coal was still going up in the cages. The men in the east and west passages +were still at work. Smoke thickened the air. The entrance to the air course was +charred, and puffing smoke. The fans relaxed for a moment upon a signal to cease +until the course was explored. A hose was playing in the course, but no man had +ventured down it. When Grant came out he called to the men with the cage boss: +“Where’s Kinnehan–where’s the pit boss?” No one +knew. Some little boys–trimmers and drivers–were begging to go up +with the coal. Finally the cage boss let them ride up.</p> + +<p>While they were wrangling, Grant said: “Lookee here–this is a +real fire, men; stop spitting on that air course with the hose and go turn out +the men.”</p> + +<p>The men from the third level were clamoring at the cage boss to go up.</p> + +<p>Grant stopped them: “Now, here–let’s divide off, five in a +squad and go after the men on this level, and five in a squad go up to the next +level and call the men out there. There’s time if we hurry to save the +whole shift.” He tolled them off and they went down the glimmering +passages, that were beginning to grow dim with smoke. As he left the main bottom +he saw by his watch under a torch that it was nearly eleven o’clock. He +ran with his squad down the passage, calling out the men from their little +rooms. Three hundred yards down the smoke grew denser. And he met men coming +along the passage.</p> + +<p>“Are they all out back of you?” he called to the men as they +passed. “Yes,” they cried, “except the last three or four +rooms.”</p> + +<p>Grant and his men pushed forward to these rooms. As they went they stumbled +over an unconscious form in the passage. The men behind Grant–Dooley, +Hogan, Casper Herdicker, Williams, Davis, Chopini–joined him. Their work +was done. They had been in all the rooms. They picked up the limp form, and +staggered slowly back down the passage. The smoke gripped Grant about the belly +like a vise. He could not breathe. He stopped, then crawled a few feet, then +leaned against a timber. Finally he rose and <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_172'></a>172</span>came upon the swaying group with the unconscious +man. Another man was down, and three men were dragging two.</p> + +<p>The smoke kept rolling along behind them. It blackened the passage ahead of +them. Most of the lights the men carried were out. Grant lent a hand, and the +swaying procession crawled under the smoke. They went so slowly that one man, +then two on their hands and knees, then three more caught up with them and they +were too exhausted to drag the senseless man with them. At a puddle in the way +they soused the face of the prostrated man in the water. That revived him. They +could hear and feel another man across the passage calling feebly for help. +Grant and Chopini, speaking different languages, understood the universal call +of distress, and together crawled in the dark and felt their way to the feeble +voice. Chopini reached the voice first. Grant could just distinguish in the +darkness the powerful movement of the Italian, with his head upon the ground +like a nosing dog’s as he wormed under the fallen body and got it on his +back and bellied over to the group that was slowly moving down the passage +toward the glimmering light. As they passed the rooms vacated by the miners, +sometimes they put their heads in and got refreshing air, for the smoke moved in +a slow, murky current down the passage and did not back into the rooms at +first.</p> + +<p>Grant and Chopini crawled on all fours into a room, and found the air fresh. +They rose, holding each other’s hands. They leaned together against the +dark walls and breathed slowly, and finally their diaphragms seemed to be +released and they breathed more deeply. By a hand signal they agreed to start +out. At the door they crouched and crawled. A few yards further they found the +little group of a dozen men feebly pushing on. Seven were trying to drag five. +Further down the passage they could hear the shrill cries of the men in the main +bottom, as they came hurrying from the other runways, and far back up the dark +passage behind them they could hear the roar of flames. They saw that they were +trapped. Behind them was the fire. Before them was the long, impossible stretch +to the main bottom, with the smoke thickening and falling lower every second. So +thick <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_173'></a>173</span>was the smoke +that the light ahead winked out. Death stood before them and behind them.</p> + +<p>“Boys–” gasped Grant, “in here–let’s get +in one of these rooms and wall it up.”</p> + +<p>The seven looked at him and he crawled to a room; sticking his head in he +found it murky. He tried another. The third room was fresh and cool, and he +called the men in.</p> + +<p>Then all nine dragged one after another of the limp bodies into the room and +they began walling the door into the passage. There were two lights on a dozen +caps. Grant put out one lamp and they worked by the glimmer of a single lamp. +Gradually, but with a speed–slow as it had to be–inspired by deadly +terror, the wall went up. They daubed it with mud that seemed to refresh itself +from a pool that was hollowed in the floor. After what seemed an age of swiftly +accurate work, the wall was waist high; the smoke bellied in, in a gust, and was +suddenly sucked out by an air current, and the men at the wall tapping some +spring of unknown energy bent frantically to their task. Three of the six men +were coming to life. They tried to rise and help. Two crawled forward, and +patted the mud in the bottom crevices. The fierce race with death called out +every man’s reserves of body and soul.</p> + +<p>Then, when the wall was breast high, some one heard a choking cry in the +passage. Grant was in the rear of the room, wrestling with a great rock, and did +not hear the cry; but Chopini was over the wall, and Dooley followed him, and +Evans followed him in an instant. They disappeared down the passage, and when +Grant returned, carrying the huge rock to the speeding work at the wall, he +heard a voice outside call:</p> + +<p>“We’ve got ’em.”</p> + +<p>And then, after a silence, as the workmen hurried with the wall, there came a +call for help. Williams and Dennis Hogan followed Grant through the hole now +nearing the roof of the room, out into the passage. The air was scorching. Some +current was moving it rapidly. The second party came upon the first struggling +weakly with Dick Bowman and his son. Father and son were unconscious and one of +the rescuing party had fainted. Again the vise <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_174'></a>174</span>gripped Grant’s abdomen, and he put his face +upon the damp earth and panted. Slowly the three men in the darkness bellied +along until they felt the wall, then in an agony of effort raised themselves and +their burden. Up the wall they climbed to their knees, to their feet, and met +the hands of those inside who took the burden from them. One, two, three whiffs +of clean air as they stuck their heads in the room, and they were gone–and +another two men from the room followed them. They came upon the first party +working their gasping, fainting course back to the wall, with their load, +rolling a man before them. And they all pulled and tugged and pushed and some +leaned heavily upon others and all looked death squarely in the face and no man +whimpered. The panic was gone; the divine spark that rests in every human soul +was burning, and life was little and cheap in their eyes, compared with the +chance they had to give it for others.</p> + +<p>Flicks of fire were swirling down the passage, and the roar of the flames +came nearer and Grant fancied he could hear the crackle of it. Chopini was on +his knees clutching at the crevices in the wall; Hogan and Dooley dug with their +hands into the chinks, then four men were on their feet, with the burden, and in +the blackness, hands within the wall reached out and took the man from those +outside. The hands reached out and felt other hands and pulled them up, and +five, six men stood upon their feet and were pulled, scrambling and trembling +and reeling, into the room. The blackness outside became a lurid glare. The +flickering lamp inside showed them that one man was outside. Grant Adams stood +faint and trembling, leaning against a wall of the room; the room and the men +whirled about him and he grew sick at the stomach. But with a powerful effort he +gathered himself, and lunged to the hole in the rising wall. He was trying to +pull himself up when Dooley pulled him down, and went through the hole like a +cat. Hogan followed Dooley and Evans followed Hogan. “Here he is, right at +the bottom,” called Hogan, and in an instant the feet of Casper Herdicker, +then the sprawling legs, then the body and then the head with the closed eyes +and gaping mouth came in, and then three men slowly followed him. Grant, <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_175'></a>175</span>revived by the water from +the puddle under him, stood and saw the last man–Dennis Hogan–crawl +in. Then Grant, seeing Hogan’s coat was afire, looked out and saw flames +dancing along the timbers, and a spark with a gust of smoke was sucked into the +room by some eddy of the current outside. In a last spurt of terrible effort the +hole in the wall was closed and plastered with mud and the men were sealed in +their tomb.</p> + +<p>It was but a matter of minutes before the furnace was raging outside. The men +in the room could hear it crackle and roar, and the mud in the chinks steamed. +The men daubed the chinks again and again.</p> + +<p>As the fire roared outside, the men within the room fancied–and perhaps +it was the sheer horror of their situation that prompted their fancy–that +they could hear the screams of men and mules down the passage toward the main +bottom. After an hour, when the roar ceased, they were in a great silence. And +as the day grew old and the silence grew deep and the immediate danger past, +they began to wait. As they waited they talked. At times they heard a roaring +and a crash and they knew that the timbers having burned away, the passages and +courses were caving in. By their watches they knew that the night was upon them. +And they sat talking nervously through the night, fearing to sleep, dreading +what each moment might bring. Lamp after lamp burned out in turn. And still they +sat and talked. Here one would drowse–there another lose consciousness and +sink to the ground, but always men were talking. The talk never ceased. They +were ashamed to talk of women while they were facing death, so they kept upon +the only other subjects that will hold men long–God and politics. The talk +droned on into morning, through the forenoon, into the night, past midnight, +with the thread taken from one man sinking to sleep by another waking up, but it +never stopped. The water that seeped into the puddle on the floor moistened +their lips as they talked. There was no food save in two lunch buckets that had +been left in the room by fleeing miners, and thus went the first day.</p> + +<p>The second day the Welsh tried to sing–perhaps to stop the continual +talk of the Irish. Then the Italian sang something, <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_176'></a>176</span>Casper Herdicker sang the +“Marseillaise” and the men clapped their hands, in the twilight of +the last flickering lamp that they had. After that Grant called the roll at +times and those who were awake felt of those who were asleep and answered for +them, and a second day wore into a third.</p> + +<p>By the feeling of the stem of Grant Adams’s watch as he wound it, he +judged that they had lived nearly four days in the tomb. Little Mugs Bowman was +crying for food, and his father was trying to comfort him, by giving him his +shoe leather to chew. Others rolled and moaned in their sleep, and the talk grew +unstable and flighty.</p> + +<p>Some one said, “Hear that?” and there was silence, and no one +heard anything. Again the talk began and droned unevenly along.</p> + +<p>“Say, listen,” some one else called beside the first man who had +heard the sound.</p> + +<p>Again they listened, and because they were nervous perhaps two or three men +fancied they heard something. But one said it was the roar of the fire, another +said it was the sound of some one calling, and the third said it was the crash +of a rock in some distant passageway. The talk did not rise again for a time, +but finally it rose wearily, punctuated with sighs. Then two men cried:</p> + +<p>“Hear it! There it is again!”</p> + +<p>And breathless they all sat, for a second. Then they heard a voice calling, +“Hello–hello?” And they tried to cheer.</p> + +<p>But the voice did not sound again, and a long time passed. Grant tried to +count the minutes as they ticked off in his watch, but his mind would not remain +fixed upon the ticking, so he lost track of the time after three minutes had +passed. And still the time dragged, the watch kept ticking.</p> + +<p>Then they heard the sound again, clearer; and again it called. Then Dick +Bowman took up a pick, called:</p> + +<p>“Watch out, away from the wall, I’m going to make a +hole.”</p> + +<p>He struck the wall and struck it again and again, until he made a hole and +they cried through it:</p> + +<p>“Hello–hello–We’re here.” And they all tried to +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_177'></a>177</span>get to the hole and +jabber through it. Then they could hear hurrying feet and voices calling, and +confusion. The men called, and cried and sobbed and cheered through the hole, +and then they saw the gleam of a lantern. Then the wall crumbled and they +climbed into the passage. But they knew, who had heard the falling timbers and +the crashing rocks, for days, that they were not free.</p> + +<p>The rescuers led the imprisoned miners down the dark passage; Grant Adams was +the last man to leave the prison. As he turned an angle of the passage, a great +rock fell crashing before him, and a head of dirt caught him and dragged him +under. His legs and body were pinioned. Dennis Hogan in front heard the crash, +saw Grant fall, and stood back for a moment, as another huge rock slid slowly +down and came to rest above the prostrate man. For a second no one moved. Then +one man–Ira Dooley–slowly crept toward Grant and began digging with +his hands at the dirt around Grant’s legs. Then Casper Herdicker and +Chopini came to help. As they stood at Grant’s head, quick as a flash, the +rock fell and the two men standing at Grant’s head were crushed like +worms. The roof of the passage was working wickedly, and in the flickering light +of the lanterns they could see the walls shudder. Then Dick Bowman stepped out. +He brought a shovel from a room opening on the passage, and Evan Davis and Tom +Williams and Jamey McPherson with shovels began working over Grant, who lay +white and frightened, watching the squirming wall above and blowing the dropping +dirt from his face as it fell.</p> + +<p>“Mugs, come here,” called Dick Bowman. “Take that +shovel,” commanded the father, “and hold it over Grant’s face +to keep the dirt from smothering him.” The boy looked in terror at the +roof dropping dirt and ready to fall, but the father glared at the son and he +obeyed. No one spoke, but four men worked–all that could stand about him. +They dug out his body; they released his legs, they freed his feet, and when he +was free they helped him up and hurried him down the passage which he had +traversed four days ago. Before they turned into the main bottom room, he was +sick with the stench. And as he turned into that room, where the cage landed, he +saw by the lantern lights and by <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_178'></a>178</span>the flaring torches held by a dozen men, a great +congregation of the dead–some piled upon others, some in attitudes of +prayer, some shielding their comrades in death, some fleeing and stricken prone +upon the floor, some sitting, looking the foe in the face. Men were working with +the bodies–trying to sort them into a kind of order; but the work had just +begun.</p> + +<p>The weakened men, led by their rescuers, picked their way through the corpses +and went to the top in a cage. Far down in the shaft, the daylight cut them like +a knife. And as they mounted higher and higher, they could hear the murmur of +voices above them, and Grant could hear the sobs of women and children long +before he reached the top. The word that men had been rescued passed out of the +shaft house before they could get out of the cage, and a great shout went +up.</p> + +<p>The men walked out of the shaft house and saw all about them, upon flat cars, +upon the dump near the shaft, upon buildings around the shaft house, a great +crowd of cheering men and women, pale, drawn, dreadful faces, illumined by eager +eyes. Grant lifted his eyes to the crowd. There in a carriage beside Henry Fenn, +Grant saw Margaret staring at him, and saw her turn pale and slide down into her +husband’s arms, as she recognized Grant’s face among those who had +come out of death. Then he saw his father and little Kenyon in the crowd and he +dashed through the thick of it to them. There he held the boy high in the air, +and cried as the little arms clung about his neck.</p> + +<p>The great hoarse whistles roared and the shrill siren whistles screamed and +the car bells clanged and the church bells rang. But they did not roar and +scream and peal and toll for money and wealth and power, but for life that was +returned. As for the army of the dead below, for all their torture, for all +their agony and the misery they left behind for society to heal or help or +neglect–the army of the dead had its requiem that New Year’s eve, +when the bells and whistles and sirens clamored for money that brings wealth, +and wealth that brings power, and power that brings pleasure, and pleasure that +brings death–and death?–and death?</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_179'></a>179</span>The town had met +death. But no one even in that place of mourning could answer the question that +the child heard in the bells. And yet that divine spark of heroism that burns +unseen in every heart however high, however low–that must be the +faltering, uncertain light which points us to the truth across the veil through +the mists made by our useless tears.</p> + +<p>And thus a New Year in Harvey began its long trip around the sun, with its +sorrows and its joys, with its merry pantomime and its mutes mourning upon the +hearse, with its freight of cares and compensations and its sad ironies. So let +us get on and ride and enjoy the journey.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_180'></a>180</span><a id='link_17'></a>CHAPTER XVII<br /><span class='h2fs'>A CHAPTER WHICH INTRODUCES SOME POSSIBLE GODS</span></h2> + +<p>When Grant Adams had told and retold his story to the reporters and had eaten +what Dr. Nesbit would let him eat, it was late in the afternoon. He lay down to +sleep with the sun still shining through the shutters in his low-ceiled, west +bed room. Through the night his father sat or slept fitfully beside him and when +the morning sun was high, and still the young man slept on, the father guarded +him, and would let no one enter the house. At noon Grant rose and dressed. He +saw the Dexters coming down the road and he went to the door to welcome them. It +seemed at first that the stupor of sleep was not entirely out of his brain. He +was silent and had to be primed for details of his adventure. He sat down to +eat, but when his meal was half finished, there came bursting out of his soul a +flame of emotion, and he put down his food, turned half around from the table, +grasped the edges of the board with both hands and cried as a fanatic who sees a +vision:</p> + +<p>“Oh, those men,–those men–those wonderful, beautiful souls +of men I saw!–those strong, fearless. Godlike men!–there in the +mine, I mean. Evan Davis, Dick Bowman, Pat McCann, Jamey McPherson, Casper +Herdicker, Chopini–all of them; yes, Dennis Hogan, drunk as he is +sometimes, and Ira Dooley, who’s been in jail for hold-ups–I +don’t care which one–those wonderful men, who risked their lives for +others, and Casper Herdicker and Chopini, who gave their lives there under the +rock for me. My God, my God!”</p> + +<p>His voice thrilled with emotion, and his arms trembled as his hands gripped +the table. Those who heard him did not stop him, for they felt that from some +uncovered spring in his being a section of personality was gushing forth that +never had seen day. He turned quietly to the wondering <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_181'></a>181</span>child, took him from his chair and +hugged him closely to a man’s broad chest and stroked the boyish head as +the man’s blue eyes filled with tears. Grant sat for a moment looking at +the floor, then roughed his red mane with his fingers and said slowly and more +quietly, but contentiously:</p> + +<p>“I know what you don’t know with all your religion, Mr. Dexter; I +know what the Holy Ghost is now. I have seen it. The Holy Ghost is that divine +spark in every human soul–however life has smudged it over by +circumstance–that rises and envelopes a human creature in a flame of +sacrificial love for his kind and makes him joy to die to save others. +That’s the Holy Ghost–that’s what is immortal.”</p> + +<p>He clenched his great hickory fist and hit the table and lifted his face +again, crying: “I saw Dennis Hogan walk up to Death smiling that Irish +smile. I saw him standing with a ton of loose dirt hanging over him while he was +digging me out! I saw Evan Davis–little, bow-legged Evan Davis–go +out into the smoke alone–alone, Mr. Dexter, and they say Evan is a +coward–he went out alone and brought back Casper Herdicker’s limp +body hugged to his little Welsh breast like a gorilla’s–and saved a +man. I saw Dick Bowman do more–when the dirt was dropping from the +slipping, working roof into my mouth and eyes, and might have come down in a +slide–I lay there and watched Dick working to save me and I heard him +order his son to hold a shovel over my face–his own boy.” Grant +shuddered and drew the child closer to him, and looked at the group near him +with wet eyes. “Ira Dooley and Tom Williams and that little Italian went +on their bellies, half dead from the smoke, out into death and brought home +three men to safety, and would have died without batting an eye–all three +to save one lost man in that passage.” He beat the table again with his +fist and cried wildly: “I tell you that’s the Holy Ghost. I know +those men may sometimes trick the company if they can. I know Ira Dooley spends +lots of good money on ‘the row’; I know Tom gambles off everything he can +get his hands on, and that the little Dago probably would have stuck a knife in +an enemy over a quarter. But that doesn’t count.”</p> + +<p>The young man’s voice rose again. “That is circumstance; <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_182'></a>182</span>much of it is +surroundings, either of birth or of this damned place where we are living. If +they cheat the company, it is because the company dares them to cheat and cheats +them badly. If they steal, it is because they have been taught to steal by the +example of big, successful thieves. I’ve had time to think it all out.</p> + +<p>“Father–father!” cried Grant, as a new wave of emotion +surged in from the outer bourne of his soul, “you once said Dick Bowman +sold out the town and took money for voting for the Harvey Improvement bond +steal. But what if he did? That was merely circumstance. Dick is a little man +who has had to fight for money all his life–just enough money to feed his +hungry children. And here came an opportunity to get hold of–what was +it?–a hundred dollars–” Amos Adams nodded. “Well, then, +a hundred dollars, and it would buy so much, and leading citizens came and told +him it was all right–men we have educated with our taxes and our surplus +money in universities and colleges. And we haven’t educated Dick; +we’ve just taught him to fight–to fight for money, and to think +money will do everything in God’s beautiful world. So Dick took it. That +was the Dick that man and Harvey and America made, father, but I saw the Dick +that God made!” He stopped and cried out passionately, “And some +day, some day all the world must know this man–this great-souled, common +American–that God made!”</p> + +<p>Grant’s voice was low, but a thousand impulses struggled across his +features for voice and his eyes were infinitely sad as he gazed at the curly, +brown hair of the child in his arms playing with the buttons on his coat.</p> + +<p>The minister looked at his wife. She was wet-faced and a-tremble, and had her +hands over her eyes. Amos Adams’s old, frank face was troubled. The son +turned upon him and cried:</p> + +<p>“Father–you’re right when you say character makes +happiness. But what do you call it–surroundings–where you live and +how you live and what you do for a living–environment! That’s it, +that’s the word–environment has lots and lots to do with character. +Let the company reduce its dividends by giving the men a chance at decent living +conditions, <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_183'></a>183</span>in +decent houses and decent streets, and you’ll have another sort of attitude +toward the company. Quit cheating them at the store, and you’ll have more +honesty in the mines; quit sprinkling sour beer and whiskey on the sawdust in +front of the saloons to coax men in who have an appetite, and you’ll have +less drinking–but, of course, Sands will have less rents. Let the company +obey the law–the company run by men who are pointed out as examples, and +there’ll be less lawlessness among the men when trouble comes. Why, Mr. +Dexter, do you know as we sat down there in the dark, we counted up five laws +which the company broke, any one of which would have prevented the fire, and +would have saved ninety lives. Trash in the passage leading to the main shaft +delayed notifying the men five minutes–that’s against the law. +Torches leaking in the passageway where there should have been electric +lights–that’s against the law. Boys–little ten-year-olds +working down there–cheap, cheap!” he cried, “and dumping that +pine lumber under a dripping torch–that’s against the law. Having no +fire drill, and rusty water plugs and hose that doesn’t +reach–that’s against the law. A pine partition in an air-chute using +it as a shaft–that’s against the law. Yet when trouble comes and +these men burn and kill and plunder–we’ll put the miners in jail, +and maybe hang them, for doing as they are taught a thousand times a week by the +company–risking life for their own gain!”</p> + +<p>Grant Adams rose. He ran his great, strong, copper-freckled hands through his +fiery hair and stood with face transfigured, as the face of one staring at some +phantasm. “Oh, those men–they risked their lives–Chopini and +Casper Herdicker gave their lives for me. Father,” he cried, “I am +bought with a price. These men risked all and gave all for me. I am theirs. I +have no other right to live except as I serve them.” He drew a deep +breath; set his jaw and spoke with all the force he could put into a quiet +voice: “I am dedicated to men–to those great-souled, brave, kind men +whom God has sent here for man to dwarf and ruin. They have bought me. I am +theirs.”</p> + +<p>The minister put the question in their minds:</p> + +<p>“What are you going to do, Grant?”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_184'></a>184</span>The fervor that +had been dying down returned to Grant Adams’s face.</p> + +<p>“My job,” he cried, “is so big I don’t know where to +take hold. But I’m not going to bother to tell those men who sweat and +stink and suffer under the injustices of men, about the justice of God. +I’ve got one thing in me bigger’n a wolf–it’s this: House +them–feed them, clothe them, work them–these working +people–and pay them as you people of the middle classes are housed and fed +and paid and clad, and crime won’t be the recreation of poverty. And the +Lord knows the work of the men who toil with their hands is just as valuable to +society as preaching and trading and buying and selling and banking and editing +and lawing and doctoring, and insuring and school teaching.”</p> + +<p>He stood before the kitchen stove, a tall, awkward, bony, wide-shouldered, +loose-wired creature in the first raw stage of full-blown manhood. The red +muscles of his jaw worked as his emotions rose in him. His hands were the hands +of a fanatic–never still.</p> + +<p>“I’ve been down into death and I’ve found something about +life,” he went on. “Out of the world’s gross earnings +we’re paying too much for superintendence, and rent and machines, and not +enough for labor. There’s got to be a new shake-up. And I’m going to +help. I don’t know where nor how to begin, but some way I’ll find a +hold and I’m going to take it.”</p> + +<p>He drew in a long breath, looked around and smiled rather a ragged, ugly +smile that showed his big teeth, all white and strong but uneven.</p> + +<p>“Well, Grant,” said Mrs. Dexter, “you have cut out a big +job for yourself.” The young man nodded soberly.</p> + +<p>“Well, we’re going to organize ’em, the first thing. We +talked that over in the mine when we had nothing else to talk about–but +God and our babies.”</p> + +<p>In the silence that followed, Amos Adams said: “While you were down +there of course I had to do something. So after the paper was out, I got to +talking with Lincoln about things. He said you’d get out. Though,” +smiled the old man sheepishly and wagged his beard, “Darwin didn’t +think <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_185'></a>185</span>you would. +But anyway, they all agreed we should do something for the widows.”</p> + +<p>“They have a subscription paper at George Brotherton’s +store–you know, Grant,” said Mr. Dexter.</p> + +<p>“Well–we ought to put in something, father,–all we’ve +got, don’t you think?”</p> + +<p>“I tried and tried to get her last night to know how she felt about +it,” mused Amos. “I’ve borrowed all I can on the +office–and it wouldn’t sell for its debts.”</p> + +<p>“You ought to keep your home, I think,” put in Mrs. Dexter +quickly, who had her husband’s approving nod.</p> + +<p>“They told me,” said the father, “that Mary didn’t +feel that way about it. I couldn’t get her. But that was the word she +sent.”</p> + +<p>“Father,” said Grant with the glow in his face that had died for +a minute, “let’s take the chance. Let’s check it up to God +good and hard. Let’s sell the house and give it all to those who have lost +more than we. We can earn the rent, anyway.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Dexter looked significantly at Kenyon.</p> + +<p>“No, that shouldn’t count, either,” said Grant stubbornly. +“Dick Bowman didn’t let his boy count when I needed help, and when +hundreds of orphaned boys and girls and widows need our help, we shouldn’t +hold back for Kenyon.”</p> + +<p>“Grant,” said the father when the visit was ended and the two +were alone, “they say your father has no sense–up town. Maybe I +haven’t. I commune with these great minds; maybe they too are shadows. But +they come from outside of me.” He ran his fingers through his graying +beard and smiled. “Mr. Left brings me things that are deeper and wiser +than the things I know–it seems to me. But they all bear one testimony, +Grant; they all tell me that it’s the spiritual things and not the +material things in this world that count in the long run, and, Grant, +boy,” the father reached for his son’s strong hand, “I would +rather have seen the son that has come back to me from death, go back to death +now, if otherwise I never could have seen him. They told me your mother was with +you. And now I know some way she touched your heart out there in <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_186'></a>186</span>the dark–O Grant, +boy, while you spoke I saw her in your face–in your face I saw her. +Mary–Mary,” cried the weeping old man, “when you sent me back +to the war you looked as he looked to-day, and talked so.”</p> + +<p>“Father,” said Grant, “I don’t know about your Mr. +Left. He doesn’t interest me, as he does you, and as for the +others–they may be true or all a mockery, for anything I know. But,” +he exclaimed, “I’ve seen God face to face and I can’t rest +until I’ve given all I am–everything–everything to help those +men!”</p> + +<p>Then the three went out into the crisp January air–father and son and +little Kenyon bundled to the chin. They walked over the prairies under the +sunshine and talked together through the short winter afternoon. At its close +they were in the timber where the fallen leaves were beginning to pack against +the tree trunks and in the ravines. The child listened as the wind played upon +its harp, and the rhythm of the rising and falling tide of harmony set his heart +a-flutter, and he squeezed his father’s fingers with delight. A redbird +flashing through the gray and brown picture gave him joy, and when it sang far +down the ravine where the wind organ seemed to be, the child’s eyes +brimmed and he dropped behind the elders a few paces to listen and be alone with +his ecstasy. And so in the fading day they walked home. The quail piped for the +child, and the prairie chicken pounded his drum, and in the prairie grass the +slanting sun painted upon the ripples across the distant, rolling hills many +pictures that filled the child’s heart so full that he was still, as one +who is awed with a great vision. And it was a great vision that filled his soul: +the sunset with its splendors, the twilight hovering in the brown woods, the +prairie a-quiver with the caresses of the wind, winter-birds throbbing life and +ecstasy into the picture, and above and around it all a great, warm, +father’s heart symbolizing the loving kindness of the infinite to the +child’s heart.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_187'></a>187</span><a id='link_18'></a>CHAPTER XVIII<br /><span class='h2fs'>OUR HERO RIDES TO HOUNDS WITH THE PRIMROSE HUNT</span></h2> + +<p>Going home from the Adamses that afternoon, John Dexter mused: +“Curious–very curious.” Then he added: “Of course this +phase will pass. Probably it is gone now. But I am wondering how fundamental +this state of mind is, if it will not appear again–at some crisis later in +life.”</p> + +<p>“His mother,” said Mrs. Dexter, “was a strong, beautiful +woman. She builded deep and wide in that boy. And his father is a wise, earnest, +kindly man, even if he may be impractical. Why shouldn’t Grant do all that +he dreams of doing?”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” returned the minister dryly. “But there is +life–there are its temptations. He is of the emotional type, and the wrong +woman could bend him away from any purpose that he may have now. Then, suppose +he does get past the first gate–the gate of his senses–there’s +the temptation to be a fool about his talents if he has any–if this gift +of tongues we’ve seen to-day should stay with him–he may get the +swelled head. And then,” he concluded sadly, “at the end is the +greatest temptation of all–the temptation that comes with power to get +power for the sake of power.”</p> + +<p>The next morning Amos Adams and Grant went in to Market Street to sell their +home. Grant seemed a stranger to that busy mart of trade: the week of his +absence had taken him so far from it. His eyes were caught by two tall figures, +a man and a woman, walking and talking as they crossed the street–the man +in a heavy, long, brown ulster, the woman in a flaring red, outer garment. He +recognized them as Margaret Fenn and Thomas Van Dorn. They had met entirely by +chance, and the meeting was one of perhaps half a dozen chance meetings which +they had enjoyed during the winter, and these meetings were so entirely +pleasurable <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_188'></a>188</span>that +the man was beginning rather vaguely to anticipate them–to hope for +another meeting after the last. Grant was in an exalted mood that morning, and +the sight of the two walking together struck him only as a symbol and epitome of +all that he was going into the world to fight–in the man intellect without +moral purpose, in the woman materialism, gross and carnal. The Adamses went the +rounds of the real estate dealers trying to sell their home, and in following +his vision Grant forgot the two tall figures in the street.</p> + +<p>But the two figures that had started Grant’s reverie continued to +walk–perhaps a trifle slower than was the wont of either, down Market +Street. They walked slowly for two reasons: For her part, she wished to make the +most of a parade on Market Street with so grand a person as the Judge of the +District Court, and the town’s most distinguished citizen; and for his +part, he dawdled because life was going slowly with him in certain quarters: he +felt the lack of adventure, and here–at least, she was a stunning figure +of a woman! “Yes,” she said, “I heard about them. Henry has +just told me that Mr. Brotherton said the Adamses are going to sell their home +and give it to the miners’ widows. Isn’t it foolish? It’s all +they’ve got in the world, too! Still, really nothing is strange in that +family. You know, I boarded with them one winter when I taught the Prospect +School. Henry says they want to do something for the laboring people,” she +added naïvely.</p> + +<p>As she spoke, the man’s eyes wandered over her figure, across her face, +and were caught by her eyes that looked at him with something in them entirely +irrelevant to the subject that her lips were discussing. His eyes caught up the +suggestion of her eyes, and carried it a little further, but he only said: +“Yes–queer folks–trying to make a whistle–”</p> + +<p>“Out of a pig’s tail,” she laughed. But her eyes thought +his eyes had gone just a little too far, so they drooped, and changed the +subject.</p> + +<p>“Well, I don’t know that I would say exactly a pig’s +tail,” he returned, bracketing his words with his most engaging smile, +“but I should say out of highly refractory material.”</p> + +<p>His eyes in the meantime pried up her eyelids and asked <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_189'></a>189</span>what was wrong with that. And her eyes +were coy about it, and would not answer directly.</p> + +<p>He went on speaking: “The whole labor trouble, it seems to me, lies in +this whistle trade. A smattering of education has made labor dissatisfied. The +laboring people are trying to get out of their place, and as a result we have +strikes and lawlessness and disrespect for courts, and men going around and +making trouble in industry by ‘doing something for labor.’”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” she replied, “that is very true.”</p> + +<p>But her eyes–her big, liquid, animal eyes were saying, “How +handsome you are–you man–you great, strong, masterful man with your +brown ulster and brown hat and brown tie, and silken, black mustache.” To +which his eyes replied, “And you–you are superb, and such lips and +such teeth,” while what he trusted to words was:</p> + +<p>“Yes–I believe that the laborer in the mines, for instance, +doesn’t care so much about what we would consider hardship. It’s +natural to him. It would be hard for us, but he gets used to it! Now, the +smelter men in that heat and fumes–they don’t seem to mind it. The +agonizing is done largely by these red-mouthed agitators who never did a lick of +work in their lives.”</p> + +<p>Their elbows touched for a moment as they walked. He drew away politely and +her eyes said:</p> + +<p>“That’s all right: I didn’t mind that a bit.” But her +lips said: “That’s what I tell Mr. Fenn, and, anyway, the +work’s got to be done and cultivated people can’t do it. It’s +got to be done by the ignorant and coarse and those kind of people.”</p> + +<p>His eyes flinched a little at “those kind” of people and she +wondered what was wrong. But it was only for a moment that they flinched. Then +they told her eyes how fine and desirable she looked, and she replied eyewise +with a droop such as the old wolf might have used in replying to Red Riding +Hood, “The better to eat you, my child.” Then his voice spoke; his +soft, false, vain, mushy voice, and asked casually: “By the way, speaking +of Mr. Fenn–how is Henry? I don’t see him much now since he’s +quit the law and gone into real estate.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_190'></a>190</span>His eyes asked +plainly: Is everything all right in that quarter? Perhaps I might–</p> + +<p>“Oh, I guess he’s all right,” and her eyes said: +That’s so kind of you, indeed; perhaps you might–</p> + +<p>But he went on: “You ought to get him out more–come over some +night and we’ll make a hand at whist. Mrs. Van Dorn isn’t much of a +player, but like all poor players, she enjoys it.” And the eyes continued: +But you and I will have a fine time–now please come–soon–very +soon.</p> + +<p>“Yes, indeed–I don’t play so well, but we’ll +come,” and the eyes answered: That is a fair promise, and I’ll be so +happy. Then they flashed quickly: But Mrs. Van Dorn must arrange it. He replied: +“I’ll tell Mrs. Van Dorn you like whist, and she and you can arrange +the evening.”</p> + +<p>Then they parted. He walked into the post office, and she walked on to the +Wright & Perry store. But instead of returning to his office, he lounged +into Mr. Brotherton’s and sat on a bench in the Amen Corner, biting a +cigar, waiting for traffic to clear out. Then he said: “George, how is +Henry Fenn doing–really?”</p> + +<p>His soft, brown hat was tipped over his eyes and his ulster, unbuttoned, +displayed his fine figure, and he was clearly proud of it. Brotherton hesitated +while he invoiced a row of books.</p> + +<p>“Old trouble?” prompted Judge Van Dorn.</p> + +<p>“Old trouble,” echoed Mr. Brotherton–“about every +three months since he’s been married; something terrible the last time. +But say–there’s a man that’s sorry afterwards, and what he +doesn’t buy for her after a round with the joy-water isn’t worth +talking about. So far, he’s been able to square her that way–I take +it. But say–that’ll wear off, and then–” Mr. Brotherton +winked a large, mournful, devilish wink as one who was hanging out a storm flag. +Judge Van Dorn twirled his mustache, patted his necktie, jostled his hat and +smiled, waiting for further details. Instead, he faced a question:</p> + +<p>“Why did Henry quit the law for real estate, Judge–the old +trouble?”</p> + +<p>Judge Van Dorn echoed, and added: “Folks pretty generally <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_191'></a>191</span>know about it, and they +don’t trust their law business in that kind of hands. Poor +Henry–poor devil,” sighed the young Judge, and then said: “By +the way, George, send up a box of cigars–the kind old Henry likes best, to +my house. I’m going to have him and the missus over some +evening.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Brotherton’s large back was turned when the last phrase was +uttered, and Mr. Brotherton made a little significant face at his shelves, and +the thought occurred to Mr. Brotherton that Henry Fenn was not the only man whom +people pretty generally knew about. After some further talk about Fenn and his +affairs, Van Dorn primped a moment before the mirror in the cigar cutter and +started for the door.</p> + +<p>“By the by, your honor, I forgot about the Mayor’s miners’ +relief fund. How is it now?” asked Van Dorn.</p> + +<p>“Something past ten thousand here in the county.”</p> + +<p>“Any one beat my subscription?” asked Van Dorn.</p> + +<p>Brotherton turned around and replied: “Yes–Amos Adams was in here +five minutes ago. He has mortgaged his place and so long as he and Grant +can’t find kith or kin of Chopini, and Mrs. Herdicker would take +nothing–Amos has put $1,500 into the fund. Done it just now–him and +Grant.”</p> + +<p>The Judge took the paper, looked at the scrawl of the Adamses, and scratching +out his subscription, put two thousand where there had been one thousand. He +showed it to Brotherton, and added with a smile:</p> + +<p>“Who’ll call that–I wonder.”</p> + +<p>And wrapping his ulster about him and cocking his hat rakishly, he went with +some pride into the street. He was thirty-four years old and was accounted as +men go a handsome dog, with a figure just turning from the litheness of youth +into a slight rotundity of very early middle age. He carried his shoulders well, +walked with a firm, straight gait–perhaps a little too much upon his toes +for candor, but, with all, he was a well-groomed animal and he knew it. So he +passed Margaret Fenn again on the street, lifted his hat, hunted for her eyes, +gave them all the voltage he had, and the smile that he shot at her was left +over on his face for <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_192'></a>192</span>half a block down the street. People passing him +smiled back and said to one another:</p> + +<p>“What a fine, good-natured, big-hearted fellow Tom Van Dorn +is!”</p> + +<p>And Mr. Van Dorn, not oblivious to the impression he was making, smiled and +bowed and bowed and smiled, and hellowed Dick, and howareyoued Hiram, and +goodmorninged John, down the street, into his office. There he found his former +partner busy with a laudable plan of defending a client. His client happened to +be the Wahoo Fuel Company, which was being assailed by the surviving relatives +of something like one hundred dead men. So Mr. Calvin was preparing to show that +in entering the mine they had assumed the ordinary risks of mining, and that the +neglect of their fellow servants was one of those ordinary risks. And as for the +boy ten years old being employed in the mines contrary to law, there were some +details of a trip to Austria for that boy and his parents, that had to be +arranged with the steamship company by wire that very morning. The Judge sat +reading the law, oblivious–judicially–to what was going on, and +Joseph Calvin fell to work with a will. But what the young Judge, who could +ignore Mr. Calvin’s activities, could not help taking judicial notice of +in spite of his law books, were those eyes out there on the street. They were +indeed beautiful eyes and they said so much, and yet left much to the +imagination–and the imagination of Judge Van Dorn was exceedingly nimble +in those little matters, and in many other matters besides. Indeed, so nimble +was his imagination that if it hadn’t been for the fact that at Judge Van +Dorn’s own extra-judicial suggestion, every lawyer in town, excepting +Henry Fenn, who had retired from the law practice, had been retained by the +Company an hour after the accident, no one knows how many holes might have been +found in Mr. Joseph Calvin’s unaided brief.</p> + +<p>As the young Judge sat poring over his law book, Captain Morton came in and +after the Captain’s usual circumlocution he said:</p> + +<p>“What I really wanted to know, Judge, was about a charter. I want to +start a company. So I says to myself, Judge Tom, he can just about start me +right. He’ll <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_193'></a>193</span>get my company going–what say?” +Answering the Judge’s question about the nature of the company, the +Captain explained: “You see, I had the agency for the Waverly bicycle here +a while back, and I got one of their wheels and was fooling with it like a +fellow will on a wet day–what say?” He smiled up at the Judge a +self-deprecatory smile, as if to ask him not to mind his foolishness but to +listen to his story. “And when I got the blame thing apart, she +wouldn’t go together–eh? So I had to kind of give up the agency, and +I took a churn that was filling a long-felt want just then. Churns is always my +specialty and I forgot all about the bicycle–just like a fellow +will–eh? But here a while back I wanted to rig up a gearing for the churn +and so I took down the wreck of the old wheel, and dubbing around I worked out a +ball-bearing sprocket joint–say, man, she runs just like a feather. And +now what I want is a patent for the sprocket and a charter for the company to +put it on the market. Henry Fenn’s going to the capital for me to fix up +the charter; and then whoopee–the old man’s coming along, eh? When I +get that thing on the market, you watch out for me–what say?”</p> + +<p>The eyes of Margaret Fenn danced around the Captain’s sprocket. So the +Judge, thinking to get rid of the Captain and oblige the Fenns with one stroke, +sent the Captain away with twenty-five dollars to pay Henry Fenn for getting the +patent for the sprocket and securing the charter for the company.</p> + +<p>As the Captain left the office of the Judge he greeted Mrs. Van Dorn with an +elaborate bow.</p> + +<p>And now enter Laura Van Dorn. And she is beautiful, too–with candid, +wide-open gray eyes. Maturity has hardly reached her, but through the beauty of +line and color, character is showing itself in every feature; Satterthwaite and +Nesbit, force and sentiment are struggling upon her features for mastery. The +January air has flushed her face and her frank, honest eyes glow happily. But +when one belongs to the ancient, though scarcely Honorable Primrose Hunt, and +rides forever to the hounds down the path of dalliance, one’s wife of four +years is rather stale sport. One does not pry up her eyelashes; they have been +pried; <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_194'></a>194</span>nor does one +hold dialogues with her under the words of conventional speech. The rules of the +Hunt require one to look up at one’s wife–chiefly to find out what +she is after and to wonder how long she will inflict herself. And when one is +hearing afar the cry of the pack, no true sportsman is diverted from the chase +by ruddy, wifely cheeks, and beaming, wifely eyes, and an eager, wifely heart. +So when Laura his wife came into the office of the young Judge she found his +heart out with the Primrose Hunt and only his handsome figure and his judicial +mind accessible to her. “Oh, Tom,” she cried, “have you heard +about the Adamses?” The young Judge looked up, smiled, adjusted his +judicial mind, and answered without emotion: “Rather foolish, don’t +you think?”</p> + +<p>“Well, perhaps it’s foolish, but you know it’s splendid as +well as I. Giving up everything they had on earth to soften the horror in South +Harvey–I’m so proud of them!”</p> + +<p>“Well,” he replied, still keeping his chair, and letting his wife +find a chair for herself, “you might work up a little pride for your +husband while you’re at it. I gave two thousand. They only gave fifteen +hundred.”</p> + +<p>“Well–you’re a dear, too.” She touched him with a +caressing hand. “But you could afford it. It means for you only the +profits on one real estate deal or one case of Joe Calvin’s in the Federal +Court, where you can still divide the fees. But, Tom–the Adamses have +given themselves–all they have–themselves. It’s a very +inspiring thing; I feel that it must affect men in this town to see that +splendid faith.”</p> + +<p>“Laura,” he answered testily, “why do you still keep up +that foolish enthusiasm for perfectly unreasonable things? There was no sense in +the Adamses giving that way. It was a foolish thing to do, when the old man is +practically on the town. His paper is a joke. Sooner or later we will all have +to make up this gift a dollar at a time and take care of him.”</p> + +<p>He turned to his law book. “Besides, if you come to +that–it’s money that talks and if you want to get excited, get +excited over my two thousand. It will do more good than their fifteen +hundred–at least five hundred dollars more. And that’s all there is +to it.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_195'></a>195</span>Her face +twitched with pain. Then from some depths of her soul she hailed him +impulsively:</p> + +<p>“Tom, I don’t believe that, and I don’t believe you do, +either–it isn’t the good the money does those who receive; +it’s the good it does the giver. And the good it does the giver is +measured by the amount of sacrifice–the degree of himself that he puts +into it–can’t you understand, Tom? I’d give my soul if you +could understand.”</p> + +<p>“Well, I can’t understand, Laura,” impatiently; +“that’s your father’s sentimental side. Of all the fool +things,” the Judge slapped the book sheet viciously, “that the old +man has put into your head–sentiment is one of the foolest. I tell you, +Laura, money talks. There are ten languages spoken in South Harvey, and money +talks in all of them, and one dollar does as much as another, and that’s +all there is to it.”</p> + +<p>She rose with a little sigh. “Well,” she said gently, “we +won’t quarrel.” The wife looked intently at the husband, and in that +flash of time from beneath her consciousness came renewed strength. Something +primeval–the eternal uxorial upon which her whole life rested, possessed +her and she smiled, and touched her husband’s thick, black hair gently. +For she felt that if the spiritual ties for the moment had failed them, she must +pick up some other tie. She was the nest builder indomitable. If the golden +thread should drop–there is the string–the straw–the horse +hair–the twig. So Laura Van Dorn picked up an appeal to her +husband’s affections and continued her predestined work.</p> + +<p>“Tom,” she said, with her smile still on her face, “what I +really and truly wanted to tell you was about Lila.” The mention of the +child’s name brought quick light to the mother’s face. +“Lila–think of it, Tom–Lila,” the mother repeated with +vast pride. “You must come right out and see her. About an hour ago, she +sat gazing at your picture on my dresser, and suddenly without a word from me, +she whispered ‘Daddy,’ and then was as shy for a moment, then whispered it +again, and then spoke it out loud, and she is as proud as Punch, and keeps +saying it over and over! Tom–you must come out and hear it.”</p> + +<p>Perhaps it was a knotty point of law that held his mind, <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_196'></a>196</span>or perhaps it was the old beat of the +hoofs on the turf of the Primrose Hunt that filled his ears, or the red coat of +the fox that filled his eyes.</p> + +<p>He smiled graciously and replied absently: +“Well–Daddy–” And repeated +“Daddy–don’t you think father is–” He caught the +cloud flashing across her face, and went on: “Oh, I suppose daddy is all +right to begin with.” He picked up his law book and the woman drew nearer +to him. She put her hand over the page and coaxed:</p> + +<p>“Come on, Tom–just for a little minute–come on out and see +her. I know she is waiting for you–I know she is just dying to show off to +you–and besides, the new rugs have come for the living-room, and I just +couldn’t unpack them without you. It would seem +so–old–old–old marriedy, and we aren’t going to be +that.” She laughed and tried to close the law book.</p> + +<p>Their eyes met and she thought for a moment that she was winning her contest. +But he put her hand aside gently and answered: “Now, Laura, I’m +busy, exceedingly busy. This mine accident is bound to come before me in one +form or another soon, and I must be ready for it, and it is a serious matter. +There will be all kinds of attacks upon the property.”</p> + +<p>“The property?” she asked, and he answered:</p> + +<p>“Why, yes–legal attacks upon the mine–to bleed the owners, +and I must be ready to guard them against these assaults, and I just can’t +jump and run every time Lila coos or you cut a string on a package. I’ll +be out to-night and we’ll hear Lila and look at the rugs.” To the +disappointment upon her face he replied: “I tell you, Laura, sentiment is +going to wreck your life if you don’t check it.”</p> + +<p>The man looked into his book without reading. He had come to dislike these +little scenes with his wife. He looked from his book out of the window, into the +snowy street. He remembered his morning walk. There was no talk of souls in +those eyes, no hint of higher things from those lips, no covert taunt of +superiority in that face.</p> + +<p>Laura did not wince. But her eyes filled and her voice was husky as she +spoke: “Tom, I want your soul again–the <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_197'></a>197</span>one that used to speak to me in the old +days.” She bent over him, and rubbed her cheek against his and there she +left him, still looking into the street.</p> + +<p>That evening at sunset, Judge Van Dorn, with his ulster thrown back to show +his fine figure, walked in his character of town Prince homeward up the avenue. +His face was amiable; he was gracious to every one. He spoke to rich and poor +alike, as was his wont. As he turned into his home yard, he waved at a little +face in the window. In the house he was the spirit of good nature itself. He was +full of quips and pleasantries and happy turns of speech. But Laura Van Dorn had +learned deep in her heart to fear that mood. She was ashamed of her +wisdom–degraded by her doubt, and she fought with it.</p> + +<p>And yet a man and a woman do not live together as man and wife and parents +without learning much that does not come from speech and is not put into +formulated conviction. The signs were all for trouble, and in the secret places +of her heart she knew these signs.</p> + +<p>She knew that this grand manner, this expansive mood, this keying up of +attentions to her were the beginnings of a sad and sordid story–a story +that she did not entirely understand; would not entirely translate, but a story +that sickened her very soul. To keep the table talk going, she said: “Tom, +it’s wonderful the way Kenyon is taking to the violin. He has a real gift, +I believe.”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” answered the husband absently, and then as one who would +plunge ahead, began: “By the by–why don’t you have your father +and mother and some of the neighbors over to play cards some evening–and +what’s the matter with the Fenns? Henry’s kind of down on his luck, +and I’ll need him in my next campaign, and I thought if we could have them +over some evening–well, what’s the matter with to-morrow evening? +They’d enjoy it. You know Mrs. Fenn–I saw her down town this +morning, and George Brotherton says Henry’s slipping back to his old ways. +And I just thought perhaps–”</p> + +<p>But she knew as well as he what he “thought perhaps,” and a cloud +trailed over her face.</p> + +<p>When Thomas Van Dorn left his home that night, striding <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_198'></a>198</span>into the lights of Market Street, his +heart was hot with the glowing coals of an old wrong revived. For to Judge Van +Dorn, home had become a trap, and the glorious eyes that had beamed upon him in +the morning seemed beacons of liberty.</p> + +<p>As gradually those eyes became fixed in his consciousness, through days and +weeks and months, a mounting passion for Margaret Fenn kindled in his heart. And +slowly he went stone-blind mad. The whole of his world was turned over. Every +ambition, every hope, every desire he ever had known was burned out before this +passion that was too deep for desire. Whatever lust was in his blood in those +first months of his madness grew pale. It seemed to the man who went stalking +down the street past her house night after night that the one great, unselfish +passion of his life was upon him, loosening the roots of his being, so that any +sacrifice he could make, whether of himself or of any one or anything about him, +would give him infinite joy. When he met Henry Fenn, Van Dorn was always tempted +and often yielded to the temptation to rush up to Fenn with some foolish +question that made the sad-eyed man stare and wonder. But just to be that near +to her for the moment pleased him. There was no jealousy for Fenn in Van +Dorn’s heart; there was only a dog-like infatuation that had swept him +away from his reason and seated a fatuous, chattering, impotent, lecherous ape +where his intellect should have been. And he knew he was a fool. He knew that he +was stark mad. Yet what he did not know was that this madness was a culmination, +not a pristine passion new born in his heart. For the maggot in his brain had +eaten out a rotten place wherein was the memory of many women’s yieldings, +of many women’s tears. One side of his brain worked with rare cunning. He +wound the evidence against the men in the mine, taken at the coroner’s +hearing, through the labyrinth of the law, and snared them tightly in it. That +part of his brain clicked with automatic precision. But sitting beside him was +the ape, grinning, leering, ready to rise and master him. So many a night when +he was weary, he lay on the couch beside his desk, and the ape came and howled +him to a troubled sleep.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_199'></a>199</span>But while Judge +Van Dorn tried to fight his devil away with his law book, down in South Harvey +death still lingered. Death is no respecter of persons, and often vaunts himself +of his democracy. Yet it is a sham democracy. In Harvey, when death taps on a +door and enters the house, he brings sorrow. But in South Harvey when he crosses +a threshold he brings sorrow and want. And what a vast difference lies between +sorrow, and sorrow with want. For sometimes the want that death brings is so +keen that it smothers sorrow, and the poor may not mourn without +shame–shame that they feel the self-interest in their sorrow. So when +Death entered a hundred homes in South Harvey that winter day at the beginning +of the new year, with him came hunger, with him came cold, with him came the +harlot’s robe and the thief’s mask, and the blight of ignorance, and +the denial of democratic opportunity to scores of children. With death that day +as he crossed the dreary, unpainted portals of the poor came horror that +overshadows grief among the poor and makes the boast of the democracy of death a +ruthless irony.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_200'></a>200</span><a id='link_19'></a>CHAPTER XIX<br /><span class='h2fs'>HEREIN CAPTAIN MORTON FALLS UNDER SUSPICION AND HENRY FENN FALLS FROM GRACE</span></h2> + +<p>On Market Street nearly opposite the Traders’ National Bank during the +decades of the eighties and nineties was a smart store front upon which was +fastened a large, black and gold sign bearing the words “The Paris +Millinery Company” and under these words in smaller letters, “Mrs. +Brunhilde Herdicker, Prop.” If Mr. George Brotherton and his Amen Corner +might be said to be the clearing house of public opinion in Harvey, the +establishment of Mrs. Brunhilde Herdicker, Prop., might well be said to be the +center of public clamor. For things started in this establishment–by +things one means in general, trouble; variegated of course as to domestic, +financial, social, educational, amatory, and at times political. Now the women +of Harvey and South Harvey and of Greeley county–and of Hancock and +Seymour counties so far as that goes–used the establishment of “The +Paris Millinery Company, Mrs. Brunhilde Herdicker, Prop.,” as a +club–a highly democratic club–the only place this side of the grave, +in fact, where women met upon terms of something like equality.</p> + +<p>And in spring when women molt and change their feathers, the establishment of +“Mrs. Brunhilde Herdicker, Prop.” at its opening rose to the dignity +of a social institution. It was a kind of folk-mote. Here at this opening, where +there was music and flowers and bonbons, women assembled en masse. Mrs. Nesbit +and Mrs. Fenn, Mrs. Dexter and Violet Hogan, she that was born Mauling met, if +not as sisters at least in what might be called a great step-sisterhood; and +even the silent Lida Bowman, wife of Dick, came <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_201'></a>201</span>from her fastness and for once in a year met her old +friends who knew her in the town’s early days before she went to South +Harvey to share the red pottage of the Sons of Esau!</p> + +<p>But her friends had little from Mrs. Bowman more than a smile–a cracked +and weather-beaten smile from a broken woman of nearly forty, who was a wife at +fifteen, a mother at seventeen, and who had borne six children and buried two in +a dozen years.</p> + +<p>“There’s Violet,” ventured Mrs. Bowman to Mrs. Dexter. +“I haven’t seen her since her marriage.”</p> + +<p>To a question Mrs. Bowman replied reluctantly, “Oh–as for Denny +Hogan, he is a good enough man, I guess!”</p> + +<p>After a pause, Mrs. Bowman thought it wise to add under the wails of the +orchestra: “Poor Violet–good hearted girl’s ever lived; so +kind to her ma; and what with all that talk when she was in Van Dorn’s +office and all the talk about the old man Sands and her in the Company store, I +just guess Vi got dead tired of it all and took Denny and run to cover with +him.”</p> + +<p>Violet Hogan in a black satin,–a cheap black satin, and a black +hat–a cheap black hat with a red rose–a most absurdly cheap red rose +in it, walked about the place picking things over in a rather supercilious way, +and no one noticed her. Mrs. Fenn gave Violet an eyebrow, a beautifully penciled +eyebrow on a white marble forehead, above beaming brown eyes that were closed +just slightly at the moment. And Mrs. Van Dorn who had kept track of the girl, +you may be sure, went over to her and holding out her hand said: +“Congratulations, Violet,–I’m so glad to hear–” +But Mrs. Denny Hogan having an eyebrow to spare as the gift of Mrs. Fenn passed +it on to Mrs. Van Dorn who said, “Oh–” very gently and went to +sit on a settee beside Mrs. Brotherton, the mother of the moon-faced Mr. +Brotherton and Mrs. Ahab Wright, who always seemed to seek the shade. And then +and there, Mrs. Van Dorn had to listen to this solo from Mrs. Brotherton:</p> + +<p>“George says Judge Van Dorn is running for Judge again: really, Laura, +I hope he’ll win. George says he will. George says Henry Fenn is the only +trouble Mr. Van Dorn will have, though I don’t see as Henry could do <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_202'></a>202</span>much. Though George says +he will. George says Henry is cranky and mean about the Judge someway and George +says Henry is drinking like a fish this spring and his legs is hollow, he holds +so much; though he must have been joking for I have heard of hollow horn in +cattle, but I never heard of hollow legs, though they are getting lots of new +diseases.”</p> + +<p>By the time Mrs. Brotherton found it necessary to stop for breath, Laura Van +Dorn had regained the color that had dimmed as she heard the reference to Henry +Fenn. And when she met Mrs. Margaret Fenn at a turn of the aisle, Mrs. Margaret +Fenn was the spirit of joy and it seemed that Mrs. Van Dorn was her long lost +sister; so Mrs. Margaret Fenn began fumbling her over to find the identifying +strawberry mark. At least that is what Mrs. Herdicker, Prop., told Mrs. Nesbit +as she sold Mrs. Nesbit the large one with the brown plume.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Herdicker, Prop., made it a rule never to gossip, as every one who +frequented her shop was told, but as between old friends she would say to Mrs. +Nesbit that if ever one woman glued herself to another, and couldn’t be +boiled or frozen, or chopped loose, that woman was Maggie Fenn sticking to Laura +Van Dorn. And Mrs. Herdicker, Prop., closed her mouth significantly, and Mrs. +Nesbit pretended with a large obvious, rather clumsy pretense, that she read no +meaning in Mrs. Herdicker’s words. The handsome Miss Morton, with her shoe +tops tiptoeing to her skirts, who was in the shop and out of school for the rush +season, listened hard, but after that they whispered and the handsome Miss +Morton turned her attention to the youngest Miss Morton who was munching bonbons +and opening the door for all of Harvey and South Harvey and the principalities +around about to enter and pass out. After school came the tired school teachers +from the High School, her eldest sister, Emma Morton, among them, with their +books and reports pressed against their sides. But Margaret Fenn did not see the +school teachers, nor even the fifth Mrs. Sands towed about by her star-eyed +stepdaughter Anne, though Margaret Fenn’s eyes were busy. But she was +watching the women; she was looking for something as though to ward it off, +always glancing ahead of her to see where she was going, <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_203'></a>203</span>and who was in her path; always +measuring her woman, always listening under the shriek of the clarionettes, +always quick with a smile–looking for something–something that she +may have felt was upon its way, something that she dreaded to see. But all the +shoulders she hobnobbed with that day were warm enough–indifferently warm, +and that was all she asked. So she smiled and radiated her fine, animal grace, +her feline beauty, her superfemininity, and was as happy as any woman could be +who had arrived at an important stage of her journey and could see a little way +ahead with some degree of clearness.</p> + +<p>Let us look at her as she stands by the door waiting to overhaul Mrs. Nesbit. +A fine figure of a woman, Margaret Fenn makes there–in her late twenties, +with large regular features, big even teeth, clear brown eyes–not bold at +all, yet why do they seem so? Perhaps because she is so sure and firm and +unhesitating. Her skin is soft and fair as a child’s, bespeaking health +and good red blood. The good red blood shows in her lips–red as a wicked +flower, red and full and as shameless as a dream. Taller than Mrs. Nesbit she +stands, and her clothes hang to her in spite of the fullness of the fashion, in +most suggestive lines. She seems to shine out of her clothes a lustrous, +shimmering figure, female rather than feminine, and gorgeous rather than lovely. +Margaret Fenn is in full bloom; not a drooping petal, not a bending stamen, not +a wilted calyx or bruised leaf may be seen about her. She is a perfect flower +whose whole being–like that of a flower at its full–seems eager, +thrilling, burning with anticipation of the perfect fruit.</p> + +<p>She puts out her hands–both of her large strong hands, so well-gloved +and well-kept, to Mrs. Nesbit. Surely Mrs. Fenn’s smile is not a +make-believe smile; surely that is real pleasure in her voice; surely that is +real joy that lights up her eyes. And why should they not be real? Is not Mrs. +Nesbit the one person in all Harvey that Margaret Fenn would delight to honor? +Is not Mrs. Nesbit the dowager empress of Harvey, and the social despot of the +community? And is not Mrs. Nesbit smiling at the eldest Miss Morton, she of the +Longfellow school, who is trying on a traveling hat, and explaining that she +always wanted a traveling hat <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_204'></a>204</span>and suit alike so that she could go to the Grand +Canyon if she could ever save up enough money, but she could never seem to +afford it? Moreover is not Mrs. Nesbit in a beneficent frame of mind?</p> + +<p>“Well,” smiles the eyes and murmurs the voice, and glows the face +of the young woman, and she puts out her hand. “Mrs. Nesbit–so glad +I’m sure. Isn’t it lovely here? Mrs. Herdicker is so +effective.”</p> + +<p>“Mrs. Fenn,–” this from the dowager, and the eyebrow that +Mrs. Fenn gave to Mrs. Hogan, and Mrs. Hogan gave to Mrs. Van Dorn and Mrs. Van +Dorn gave to Mrs. Brotherton and Mrs. Brotherton gave to Mrs. Calvin who, George +says, is an old cat, and Mrs. Calvin gave to Mrs. Nesbit for remarks as to the +biennial presence of Mr. Calvin in the barn (repeated to Mrs. Calvin), the +eyebrow having been around the company comes back to Mrs. Fenn.</p> + +<p>After which Mrs. Nesbit moves with what dignity her tonnage will permit out +of the perfumed air, out of the concord of sweet sounds into the street. Mrs. +Fenn, who was looking for it all the afternoon, that thing she dreaded and +anticipated with fear in her heart’s heart, found it. It was exceedingly +cold–and also a shoulder of some proportions. And it chilled the flowing +sap of the perfect flower so that the flower shivered in the breeze made by the +closing door, though the youngest Miss Morton presiding at the door thought it +was warm, and Mrs. Herdicker thought it was warm and Mrs. Violet Hogan said to +Mrs. Bowman as they went through the same door and met the same air: “My +land, Bowman, did you ever see such an oven?” and then as the door closed +she added:</p> + +<p>“See old Mag Fenn there? I just heard something about her to-day. I bet +it’s true.”</p> + +<p>Thus the afternoon faded and the women went home to cook their evening meals, +and left Mrs. Herdicker, Prop., with a few late comers–ladies of no +particular character who had no particular men folk to do for, and who slipped +in after the rush to pay four prices for what had been left. Mrs. Herdicker, +Prop., was straightening up the stock and snapping prices to the girls who were +waiting upon the belated customers. She spent little of her talent upon the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_205'></a>205</span>sisterhood of the +old, old trade, and contented herself with charging them all she could get, and +making them feel she was obliging them by selling to them at all. It was while +trade sagged in the twilight that Mrs. Jared Thurston, Lizzie Thurston to be +exact, wife of the editor of the South Harvey <i>Derrick</i> came in. Mrs. +Herdicker, Prop., knew her of old. She was in to solicit advertising, which +meant that she was needing a hat and it was a swap proposition. So Mrs. +Herdicker told Mrs. Thurston to write up the opening and put in a quarter page +advertisement beside and send her the bill, and Mrs. Thurston looked at a hat. +No time was wasted on her either–nor much talent; but as Mrs. Thurston was +in a business way herself, Mrs. Herdicker, Prop., stopped to talk to her a +moment as to an equal–a rare distinction. They sat on a sofa in the alcove +that had sheltered the orchestra behind palms and ferns and Easter lilies, and +chatted of many things–the mines, the new smelter, the new foreman’s +wife at the smelter, the likelihood that the Company store in South Harvey would +put in a line of millinery–which Mrs. Herdicker, Prop., denied with +emphasis, declaring she had an agreement with the old devil not to put in +millinery so long as she deposited at his bank. Mrs. Herdicker, Prop., had taken +the $500 which the Company had offered for the life of poor Casper and had filed +no lawsuit, fearing that a suit with the Company would hurt her trade. But as a +business proposition both women were interested in the other damage suits +pending against the Company for the mine accident. “What do they say down +there about it?” asked the milliner.</p> + +<p>“Well, of course,” returned Mrs. Thurston, who was not sure of +her ground and had no desire to talk against the rich and powerful, “they +say that some one ought to pay something. But, of course, Joe Calvin always wins +his suits and the Judge, of course, was the Company’s attorney before he +was the Judge–”</p> + +<p>“And so the claim agents are signing ’em up for what the Company +will give,” cut in the questioner.</p> + +<p>“That’s about it, Mrs. Herdicker,” responded Mrs. Thurston. +“Times are hard, and they take what they can get now, rather than fight +for it. And the most the Company <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_206'></a>206</span>will pay is $400 for a life, and not all are getting +that.”</p> + +<p>“Tom Van Dorn–he’s a smooth one, Lizzie–he’s a +smooth one.” Mrs. Herdicker, Prop., looked quickly at Mrs. Thurston and +got a smile in reply. That was enough. She continued:</p> + +<p>“You’d think he’d know better–wouldn’t +you?”</p> + +<p>“Well, I don’t know–it’s hard to teach an old dog new +tricks,” was the non-committal answer of Mrs. Thurston, still cautious +about offending the powers.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Herdicker, Prop., brushed aside formalities. +“Yes–stenographers and hired girls, and biscuit shooters at the +Palace and maybe now and then an excursion across the track; but this is +different; this is in his own class. They were both here this afternoon, and you +should have seen the way she cooed and billed over Laura Van Dorn. Honest, +Lizzie, if I’d never heard a word, I’d know something was wrong. And +you should have seen old lady Nesbit give her the come-uppins.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Herdicker, Prop., dropped her voice to a confidential tone. +“Lizzie?” a pause; “They say you’ve seen ’em +together.”</p> + +<p>The thought of the quarter page advertisement overcame whatever scruples Mrs. +Thurston may have had, and so long as she had the center of the stage she said +her lines: “Why I don’t know a single thing–only this: that +for–maybe a month or so every few days along about five or six +o’clock when the roads are good I’ve seen him coming one way on his +wheel, and go down in the country on the Adams road, and about ten minutes later +from another way she’d come riding along on her wheel and go down the +Adams road into the country following him. Then in an hour or so, they come +back, sometimes one of them first–sometimes the other, but I’ve +really never seen them together. She might be going to the Adamses; she boarded +there once years ago.”</p> + +<p>“Yes,–and she hates ’em!” snapped Mrs. Herdicker +derisively, and then added, “Well, it’s none of my business so long +as they pay for their hats.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_207'></a>207</span>“Well, my +land, Mrs. Herdicker,” quoth Lizzie, “it’s a comfort to hear +some one talk sense. For two months now we’ve been hearing nothing but +that fool Adams boy’s crazy talk about unions, and men organizing to help +their fellows, and–why did you know he’s quit his job as boss +carpenter in the mine? And for why–so that he can be a witness against the +company some say; though there won’t be any trial. Tom Van Dorn will see +to that. He’s sent word to the men that they’d better settle as the +law is against them. But that Grant Adams quit his job any way and is going +about holding meetings every night, and working on construction work above +ground by day and talking union, union, union till Jared and I are sick of it. I +tell you the man’s gone daft. But a lot of the men are following him, I +guess.”</p> + +<p>Being a methodical woman Mrs. Herdicker, Prop., wrote the copy for her +advertisement and let Mrs. Thurston go in peace. She went into the gathering +twilight, and hurried to do a few errands before returning to South Harvey.</p> + +<p>At the court house Mrs. Thursston met Henry Fenn coming out of the register +of deeds office where he had been filing a deed to some property he had sold, +and at Mr. Brotherton’s Amen Corner, she saw Tom Van Dorn smoking upon the +bench. The street was filled with bicycles, for that was a time when the bicycle +was a highly respectable vehicle of business and pleasure. Mrs. Thurston left +Market Street and a dozen wheels passed her. As she turned into her street to +South Harvey a bell tinkled. She looked around and saw Margaret Fenn making +rapidly for the highway. Mrs. Thurston was human; she waited! And in five +minutes Tom Van Dorn came by and went in the same direction!</p> + +<p>An hour later Margaret Fenn came pedaling into the town from the country +road, all smiling and breathless and red lipped, and full of color. As she +turned into her own street she met her husband, immaculately dressed. He bowed +with great punctiliousness and lifting his hat high from his head smiled a +search-light of a smile that frightened his wife. But he spoke no word to her. +Five minutes later, as Tom Van Dorn wheeled out of Market Street, he also saw +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_208'></a>208</span>Henry Fenn, +standing in the middle of the crossing leering at him and laughing a drunken, +foolish, noisy laugh. Van Dorn called back but Fenn did not reply, and the Judge +saw nothing in the figure but his drunken friend standing in the middle of the +street laughing.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_209'></a>209</span><a id='link_20'></a>CHAPTER XX<br /><span class='h2fs'>IN WHICH HENRY FENN FALLS FROM GRACE AND RISES AGAIN</span></h2> + +<p>This chapter must devote itself chiefly to a bargain. In the bargain, Judge +Thomas Van Dorn is party of the first part, and Margaret Fenn, wife of Henry +Fenn, is party of the second part, and the devil is the broker.</p> + +<p>Tom Van Dorn laid hungry eyes upon Margaret Fenn; Margaret Fenn looked +ravenously upon all that Van Dorn had; his talent, his position, his worldly +goods, estates and chattels. He wanted what she had. He had what she wanted, and +by way of commission in negotiating the bargain, the devil took two +souls–not such large souls so far as that goes; but still the devil seems +to have been the only one in the transaction who profited.</p> + +<p>June came–June and the soft night wind, and the warm stars; June with +its new, deep foliage and its fragrant grass and trees and flowers; June with a +mocking bird singing through the night to its brooding mate; June came with its +poets leaning out of windows into the night hearing love songs in the rhythmic +whisper of lagging feet strolling under the shade of elms. And under cover of a +June night, breathing in the sensuous meaning of the time like a charmed potion, +Judge Van Dorn, who personated justice to twenty-five thousand people, went +forth a slinking, cringing beast to woo!</p> + +<p>Here and there a lamp blinked through the foliage. The footfalls of late +homecomers were heard a long way off; the voices of singers–a serenading +party out baying at the night–was heard as the breeze carried the music +upon its sluggish ebb and flow. To avoid belated homecomers, Judge Van Dorn +crossed the street; the clanging electric car did not find him with its +search-light, though he felt shielded by its roar as he stepped over the iron +railing about the Fenn home and came softly across the lawn upon the grass.</p> + +<p>On the verandah, hidden by summer vines, he sat a moment alone, panting, +breathless, though he had come up but four <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_210'></a>210</span>steps, and had mounted them gently. A rustle of +woman’s garments, the creaking of a screen door, the perfume that he +loved, and then she stood before him–and the next moment he had her in his +arms. For a minute she surrendered without struggling, without protest, and for +the first time their lips met. Then she warded him off.</p> + +<p>“No–no, Tom. You sit there–I’ll have this +swing,” and she slipped into a porch swing and finally he sat down.</p> + +<p>“Now, Tom,” she said, “I have given you everything +to-night. I am entirely at your mercy; I want you to be as good to me as I have +been to you.”</p> + +<p>“But, Margaret,” he protested, “is this being good to me, +to keep me a prisoner in this chair while you–”</p> + +<p>“Tom,” she answered, “there is no one in the house. +I’ve just called Henry up by long distance telephone at the Secretary of +State’s office in the capitol building. I’ve called him up every +hour since he got there this afternoon, to make him remember his promise to me. +He hasn’t taken a thing on this trip–I’m sure; I can tell by +his voice, for one thing.” The man started to speak. She stopped him: +“Now listen, Tom. He’ll have that charter for the Captain’s +company within half an hour and will start home on the midnight train. That will +give us just an hour together–all alone, Tom, undisturbed.”</p> + +<p>She stopped and he sprang toward her, but she fended him off, and gave him a +pained look and went on as he sank moaning into his chair: “Tom, dear, how +should we spend the first whole hour we have ever had in our lives alone +together? I have read and re-read your beautiful letters, dear. Oh, I know some +of them by heart. I am yours, Tom–all yours. Now, dear,” he made a +motion to rise, “come here by my chair, I want to touch you. +But–that’s all.”</p> + +<p>They sat close together, and the woman went on: “There are so many +things I want to say, Tom, to-night. I wonder if I can think of any of them. It +is all so beautiful. Isn’t it?” she asked softly, and felt his +answer in every nerve in his body, though his lips did not speak. It was the +woman who broke the silence. “Time is slipping by, Tom. I know +what’s in your mind, and you know what’s in mine. Where will this +thing end? It can’t go on this way. It must end <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_211'></a>211</span>now, to-night–this very night, +Tom, dear, or we must know where we are coming out. Do you +understand?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, Margaret,” replied the man. He gripped his arm about her, +and continued passionately, “And I’m ready.” In a long minute +of ecstasy they were dumb. He went on, “You have good cause–lots of +cause–every one knows that. But I–I’ll make it +somehow–Oh, I can make it.” He set his teeth fiercely, and repeated, +“Oh, I’ll make it, Margaret.”</p> + +<p>The night sounds filled their deaf ears, and the pressure of their +hands–all so new and strange–filled them with joy, but the joy was +shattered by a step upon the sidewalk, and until it died away they were +breathless. Then they sat closer together and the woman whispered:</p> + +<div class='poetry'> +<p>“‘And I’d turn my back upon things eternal<br />To lie on your +breast a little while.’”</p> </div> + +<p>A noise in the house, perhaps of the cat moving through the room behind them, +startled them again. The man shook and the woman held her breath; then they both +smiled. “Tom–Tom–don’t you see how guilty we are? We +mustn’t repeat this; this is our hour, but we must understand each other +here and now.” The man did not reply. He who had taken recklessly and +ruthlessly all of his life had come to a place where he must give to take. His +fortunes were tied up in his answer, so he replied: “Margaret, you know +the situation–down town?”</p> + +<p>“The judgeship?” she asked.</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>“But that will be settled in November. After that is time enough. Oh, +eternity is time enough, Tom–I can wait and wait and wait–only if it +is to be for eternity, we must not reckon with it now.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, Margaret, Margaret, Margaret–my soul’s soul–I +want you. I know no peace but to look into your eyes; I know no heaven but your +smile–no God but your possession, no hell but–but–this!” +He pressed her hand to his lips and moaned a kind of human bellow of unrequited +love–some long suppressed man’s courting note that we had in the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_212'></a>212</span>forest, and he +grasped her in a flood of passionate longing. She slipped away from him and +stood up before him and said: “No,–No, no, my dear–my +dear–I love you–Oh, I do love you, Tom–but +don’t–don’t.”</p> + +<p>He started after her but she pushed him back with her powerful arms and held +him. “Tom, don’t touch me. Tom,” she panted, +“Tom.” Her big meaningful eyes met his and she held him for a moment +silent. He stepped back and she smiled and kissed his forehead when he had +dropped into a chair.</p> + +<p>“Now, Tom, time is slipping by. It’s nearly midnight. We’ve +got to talk sensibly and calmly. Sit here by me and be as sane as you can. We +know we love one another. That’s been said and resaid; that’s +settled. Now shall I first break for liberty–or will you? That must all be +settled too. We can’t just let things drift. I’m twenty-seven. +You’re thirty-five. Life is passing. Now when?”</p> + +<p>They shrank before the light of a street car rounding the corner, that +gleamed into their retreat. When it had gone, the man bowed his fine, proud, +handsome head, and spoke with his eyes upon the ground:</p> + +<p>“You go first–you have the best cause!” She looked upon his +cowardly, sloping shoulders, and thought a moment. It was the tigress behind the +flame who stooped over him, pondering, feeling her way through events that she +had been going over and over in her imagination for weeks. The feline caution +that guided her, told her, as it had always told her, that his letters were +enough to damn him, but maybe not enough to hold him. She was not sure of men. +Their standards might not be severe enough to punish him; he, knowing this, +might escape. All this–this old query without answer went hurrying through +her mind. But she was young; the spirit of adventure was in her. Henry Fenn, +weak, vacillating, chivalrous, adoring Henry Fenn, had not conquered her; and +the fire in her blood, and the ambition in her brain, came over her as a spell. +She slipped to her knees, putting her head upon her lover’s breast, and +cried passionately in a guttural murmur–“Yes, I’ll go first, +Tom–now, for God’s sake, kiss me–kiss me and run.” Then +she sprang up: “Now, go–go–go, Tom–run before <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_213'></a>213</span>I take it back. +Don’t touch me again,” she cried. “Go.”</p> + +<p>She slipped back into the door, then turned and caught him again and they +stood for a terrible moment together. She whirled into the house, clicked the +door after her and left him standing a-tremble, gaping and mad in the night. But +she knew her strength, and knew his weakness and was not afraid.</p> + +<p>She let him moan a wordless lovesong, very low and terrible in the night +alone before the door, and did not answer. Then she saw him go softly down the +steps, look up and down the street, move guiltily across the yard, hiding behind +a bush at a distant footfall, and slip slowly into the sidewalk and go hurrying +away from the house. In half an hour she was waiting for Henry Fenn as a cat +might wait at a rat hole.</p> + +<p>The next day little boys followed Henry Fenn about the streets laughing; +Henry Fenn, drunken and debased, whose heart was bleeding. It was late in the +afternoon when he appeared in the Amen Corner. His shooting stars were all +exploded from their rocket and he was fading into the charred papier-mâche of +the reaction that comes from over exhilaration. So he sat on the walnut bench, +back of the newspaper counter with his hands on his knees and his eyes staring +at the floor while traffic flowed through the establishment oblivious to his +presence. Mr. Brotherton watched Fenn but did not try to make him talk. There +came a time when trade was slack that Fenn looked for a minute fixedly at Mr. +Brotherton, and finally said, shaking his head sadly:</p> + +<p>“She says I’ve got to quit!” A pause and another sigh, +then: “She says if I ever get drunk again, she’ll quit me like a +dog.” Another inspection of the floor; more lugubrious head-shaking +followed, after which the eyes closed and the dead voice spoke:</p> + +<p>“Well, here’s her chance. Say, George,” he tried to smile, +but the light only flickered in his leaden eyes. “I guess I’m +orey-eyed enough now to furnish a correct imitation of a gentleman in his +cups?”</p> + +<p>Fenn got up, took Brotherton back among the books at the rear of the store. +The drunken man took from his pocket a fountain pen incased in a silver +mounting. He held the silver trinket up and said:</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_214'></a>214</span>“Damn his +soul to hell!”</p> + +<p>“Let me see it–whose is it, Henry?” asked Brotherton. Fenn +answered, “That’s my business.” He paused; then added +“and his business.” Another undecided moment, and then Fenn +concluded: “And none of your business.”</p> + +<p>Suddenly he took his hands off the big man, and said, “I’m going +home. If she means business, here’s her chance.”</p> + +<p>Brotherton tried to stop him, but Fenn was insistent. Customers were coming +in, and so Brotherton let the man go. But all the evening he was worried about +his friend. Absentmindedly he went over his stock, straightening up +<i>Puck</i> and <i>Judge</i> and <i>Truth</i> and <i>Life</i>, and putting the +magazines in their places, sorting the new books into their shelf, putting the +standard pirated editions of English authors in their proper place and squaring +up the long rows of “The Bonnie Brier Bush” and “A Hazard of +New Fortunes” where they would catch the buyers’ eyes upon the +counter, in freshly jostled ranks, even and inviting, after the day’s +havoc in Harvey’s literary circles. But always Fenn’s face was in +Brotherton’s mind. The chatter of the evening passed without Brotherton +realizing what it was all about. As for instance, between Grant Adams and +Captain Morton over a sprocket which the Captain had invented and Henry Fenn had +patented for the Captain. Grant on the other hand kept trying to tell the +Captain about his unions organizing in the Valley, and neither was interested in +what the other said, yet each was bursting with the importance of what he was +saying. But even that comic dialogue could not take Mr. Brotherton’s mind +from the search of the sinister connection it was trying to discover, between +the fountain pen and Henry Fenn.</p> + +<p>So Brotherton, worried with the affairs of Fenn, was not interested and the +Captain peddled his dream in other marts. With Fenn’s ugly face on his +mind, Brotherton saw young Judge Van Dorn swing in lightly, go through his daily +pantomime, all so smoothly, so well oiled, so polished and polite, so courtly +and affable, that for the moment Brotherton laid aside his fears and abandoned +his suspicions. Then Van Dorn, after playing with his cigar, went to the <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_215'></a>215</span>stationery counter and +remarked casually, “By the by, George, do you keep fountain +pens?”</p> + +<p>Mr. Brotherton kept fountain pens, and Judge Van Dorn said: +“There–that one over by the ink eraser–yes, that one–the +one in the silver casing–I seem to have mislaid mine. Yale men gave it to +me at the reunion in ’91, as president of the class–had my initials on +it–ten years–yes,” he looked at the pen offered by the store +keeper. “That will do.” Mr. Brotherton watched the Judge as he put +the pen in his vest pocket, after it had been filled.</p> + +<p>The Judge picked up a Chicago paper, stowed it away with “Anglo-Saxon +Supremacy” in his green bag. Then he swung gracefully out of the shop and +left Mr. Brotherton wondering where and how Henry Fenn got that pen, and why he +did not return it to its owner.</p> + +<p>The air of mystery and malice–two unusual atmospheres for Henry Fenn to +breathe–which he had put around the pen, impressed his friend with the +importance of the thing.</p> + +<p>“A mighty smooth proposition,” said Grant Adams, sitting in the +Amen Corner reading “A Hazard of New Fortunes,” when Van Dorn had +gone.</p> + +<p>“Well, say, Grant,” returned Mr. Brotherton, pondering on the +subject of the lost pen. “Sometimes I think Tom is just a little too +oleaginous–a little too oleaginous,” repeated Mr. Brotherton, +pleased with his big word.</p> + +<p>That June night Henry Fenn passed from Congress Street and walked with a +steady purpose manifest in his clicking heels. It was not a night’s bat +that guided his feet, no festive orgy, but the hard, firm footfall of a man who +has been drunk a long time–terribly mean drunk. And terribly mean drunk he +was. His eyes were blazing, and he mumbled as he walked. Down Market Street he +turned and strode to the corner where the Traders’ National Bank sign +shone under the electrics. He looked up, saw a light burning in the office +above, and suddenly changed his gait to a tip-toe. Up the stairs he crept to a +door, under which a light was gleaming. He got a firm hold of the knob, then +turned it quickly, thrust open the door and stepped quietly into the room. He +grinned meanly at Tom Van Dorn who, glancing up over his shoulder from his book, +saw the white <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_216'></a>216</span>face +of Fenn leering at him. Van Dorn knew that this was the time when he must use +all the wits he had.</p> + +<p>“Why, hello–Henry–hello,” said Van Dorn cheerfully. +He coughed, in an attempt to swallow the saliva that came rushing into his +mouth. Fenn did not answer, but stood and then began to walk around Van +Dorn’s desk, eyeing him with glowing-red eyes as he walked. Van Dorn +tipped back his chair easily, put his feet on the desk before him, and spoke, +“Sit down, Henry–make yourself at home.” He cleared his throat +nervously. “Anything gone wrong, Henry?” he asked as the man stood +over him glaring at him.</p> + +<p>“No,” replied Fenn. “No, nothing’s gone wrong. +I’ve just got some exhibits here in a law suit. That’s +all.”</p> + +<p>He stood over Van Dorn, peering steadfastly at him. First he laid down a torn +letter. Van Dorn shuddered almost imperceptibly as he recognized in the +crumpled, wrenched paper his writing, but smiled suavely and said, +“Well?”</p> + +<p>“Well,” croaked Fenn passionately. “That’s exhibit +‘A’. I had to fight a hell-cat for it; and this,” he added as he lay +down the silver-mounted pen, “this is exhibit ‘B’. I found that in +the porch swing this morning when I went out to get my drink hidden under the +house.” He cackled and Van Dorn’s Adam’s apple bobbed like a +cork upon a wave.</p> + +<p>“And this,” cried Fenn, as he pulled a revolver, “God damn +you, is exhibit ‘C’. Now, don’t you budge, or I’ll blow you to +hell–and,” he added, “I guess I’ll do it +anyway.”</p> + +<p>He stood with the revolver at Van Dorn’s temple–stood over his +victim growling like a raging beast. His finger trembled upon the trigger, and +he laughed. “So you were going to have a convenient, inexpensive lady +friend, were you, Tom!” Fenn cuffed the powerless man’s jaw with an +open hand.</p> + +<p>“Private snap?” he sneered. “Well, damn your +soul–here’s a lady friend of mine,” he poked the cold barrel +harder against the trembling man’s temple and cried: “Don’t +wiggle, don’t you move.” Then he went on: “Kiss her, you +damned egg-sucking pup–when you’ve done flirting with this, +I’m going to kill you.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_217'></a>217</span>He emphasized +the “you,” and prodded the man’s face with the barrel.</p> + +<p>“Henry,” whispered Van Dorn, “Henry, for God’s sake, +let me talk–give me a show, won’t you?”</p> + +<p>Fenn moved the barrel of the revolver over between the man’s eyes and +cried passionately: “Oh, yes, I’ll give you a show, Tom–the +same show you gave me.”</p> + +<p>He shifted the revolver suddenly and pulled the trigger; the bullet bored a +hole through the book on “Anglo-Saxon Supremacy” on the desk.</p> + +<p>Fenn drew in a deep breath. With the shot he had spilled some vial of wrath +within him, though Van Dorn could not see the change that was creeping into +Fenn’s haggard face.</p> + +<p>“You see she’ll shoot, Tom,” said Fenn.</p> + +<p>Holding the smoking revolver to the man’s head, Fenn reached for a +chair and sat down. His rage was ebbing, and his mind was clear. He withdrew the +weapon a few inches, and cried:</p> + +<p>“Don’t you budge an inch.”</p> + +<p>His hand was limp and shaking, but Van Dorn could not see it. “Tom, +Tom,” he cried. “God help me–help me.” He repeated twice +the word “me,” then he went on:</p> + +<p>“For being what I am–only what I am–” he emphasized +the “I.”</p> + +<p>“For giving in to your devil as I give into mine–for falling as I +have fallen–on another road–I was going to kill you.”</p> + +<p>The revolver slipped from his hands. He picked it up by the barrel. He rose +crying in a weak voice,</p> + +<p>“Oh, Tom, Tom, Tom,” Van Dorn was lifting up in his chair, +“Tom, Tom, God help us both poor, hell-cursed men,” sobbed Fenn, and +then with a fearful blow he brought the weapon down and struck the white, false +forehead that gleamed beneath Fenn’s wet face.</p> + +<p>He stood watching the man shudder and close his eyes, watching the blood seep +out along a crooked seam, then gush over the face and fine, black hair and +silken mustache. A bloody flood streamed there while he watched. Then Fenn wiped +dry the butt of his revolver. He felt of the gash in the forehead, and found +that the bone was not crushed. He <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_218'></a>218</span>was sober, and an unnatural calm was upon his brain. +He could feel the tears in his eyes. He stood looking at the face of the +unconscious man a long, dreadful minute as one who pities rather than hates a +foe. Then he stepped to the telephone, called Dr. Nesbit, glanced at the +fountain pen and the crumpled letter, burst into a spasm of weeping, and tiptoed +out of the room.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_219'></a>219</span><a id='link_21'></a>CHAPTER XXI<br /><span class='h2fs'>IN WHICH WE SEE A FAT LITTLE RASCAL ON THE RACK</span></h2> + +<p>A year and a month and a day, an exceedingly hot day, after Judge Thomas Van +Dorn had fallen upon the stair leading to his office and had cut that gash in +his forehead which left the white thread of a scar upon his high, broad brow, +Judge Van Dorn sat in chambers in his office in the court house, hearing an +unimportant matter. Because the day was hot, the Judge wore a gray silk coat, +without a vest, and because the matter was unimportant, no newspaper reporters +were called in. The matter in hand was highly informal. The Judge, tilted back +in his easy chair, toyed with his silken mustache, while counsel for defendant, +standing by the desk before which the Judge’s chair was swinging, handled +the papers representing the defendant’s answer, to the plaintiff’s +pleadings. The plaintiff herself, dressed in rather higher sleeves than would +have been thought possible to put upon a human form and make them stand erect, +with a rather larger hat than one would have said might be carried by a single +human neck without bowing it; the plaintiff above mentioned was rattling the +court’s paper knife.</p> + +<p>Plaintiff’s counsel, a callow youth from the law offices of Joseph +Calvin, to be exact, Joseph Calvin, Jr., sat meekly on the edge of a small chair +in the corner and being a chip of the old block, had little to say. The court +and said hereinbefore described plaintiff talked freely between whiles as the +counsel for said defendant, Henry Fenn, ran over his papers, looking for +particular phrases, statements or exhibits which he desired to present to the +court.</p> + +<p>It appeared from the desultory reading of the papers by the attorney for the +said defendant, Henry Fenn, that he had no desire to impose upon the plaintiff, +as above described, <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_220'></a>220</span>any hardships in the matter and that the agreement +reached by counsel as to the disposition of the joint property should be carried +out as indicated in the answer submitted to the court–see folio No. 3. +Though counsel for defendant smilingly told the court that if the counsel were +Henry Fenn, he should not give up property worth at least five thousand dollars +in consideration of the cause of action being made cruelty and inhuman treatment +rather than drunkenness, but, as counsel explained and as the court agreed when +a man gets to going by the booze route he hasn’t much +sense–referring, of course, to said defendant, Henry Fenn, not present in +person.</p> + +<p>When counsel for the said defendant had finished, and had put all his papers +upon the desk in front of the court, the court reached into his desk, and handed +the counsel for defendant a cigar, which with proper apologies to the +hereinabove and before described plaintiff, counsel lighted, and said:</p> + +<p>“That’s certainly a good one.”</p> + +<p>But as the court was writing upon the back of one of the papers, the court +did not respond for a moment, but finally said absently, “Yes,–glad +you think so; George Brotherton imports them for me.”</p> + +<p>And went on writing. Still writing the court said without looking up, +“I don’t know of anything else.”</p> + +<p>And the counsel for defendant said he didn’t either and putting on his +hat, smiling at the plaintiff aforesaid, counsel for said defendant Henry Fenn +departed, and after a minute the court ceased writing, folded and blotted the +back of the paper, handed it to young Joe Calvin, sitting meekly on the edge of +the chair, saying: “Here Joey, take this to the clerk and file it,” +and Joey got up from the edge of the chair and vanished, closing the door behind +him.</p> + +<p>“Well?” said the plaintiff.</p> + +<p>“Well?” echoed the court.</p> + +<p>“Well,” reiterated the plaintiff, gazing into the eyes of the +court with somewhat more eagerness than the law requires under statute therefore +made and provided.</p> + +<p>“So it’s all over,” she continued, and added: “My +part.”</p> + +<p>She rose–this plaintiff hereinbefore mentioned, came to <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_221'></a>221</span>the desk, stood over him +a moment, and said softly, much more softly than the code prescribes, +“Tom–I hope yours won’t be any harder.”</p> + +<p>Whereupon the court, then and there being as herein above set forth, did with +premeditation, and much show of emotion look up into the eyes of said plaintiff, +said eyes being tear-dimmed and extraordinarily beautiful as to their coloring +to-wit: brown, as to their expression to-wit: sad and full of love, and +furthermore the court did with deliberation and after for a moment while he held +the heavy bejeweled hand of said plaintiff above mentioned, and did press said +hand to his lips and then did draw the said plaintiff closer and whisper:</p> + +<p>“God–God, Margaret, so do I hope so–so do I.”</p> + +<p>And perhaps the court for a second thought of a little blue-eyed, fair-haired +girl and a gentle woman who lived for him alone in all the world, and perhaps +not; for this being a legal paper may set down only such matters as are of +evidence. But it is witnessed and may be certified to that the court did drop +his eyes for a second or two, that the white thread of a scar upon the forehead +of the court did redden for a moment while he held the heavy bejewelled hand of +plaintiff, hereinbefore mentioned, and that he did draw a deep breath, and did +look out of the window, set high up in the court house, and that he did see the +elm trees covering a home which, despite all his perfidy and neglect was full of +love for him–love that needed no high sleeves nor great plumy hats, nor +twinkling silver bangles, nor jangling gold chatelaines, to make it beautiful. +But let us make it of record and set it down here, in this instrument that the +court rose, looked into the great brown eyes and the fair face, and seeing the +rich, shameless mouth and blazing color upon the features, did then and there +fall down in his heart and worship that mask, and did take the hand that he held +in both of his and standing before the woman did cry in a deep voice, full of +agony:</p> + +<p>“For God’s sake, Margaret, let me come to you +now–soon.” And she–the plaintiff in this action gazed at the +man who had been the court, but who now was man, and replied:</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_222'></a>222</span>“Only when +you may honestly–legally, Tom–it’s best for both of +us.”</p> + +<p>They walked to the door. The court pressed a button as she left, smiling, and +when a man appeared with a note book the court said: “I have something to +dictate,” and the next day young Joseph Calvin handed the following news +item to the <i>Harvey Times</i> and to the <i>South Harvey Derrick</i>.</p> + +<p>“A divorce was granted to-day by Judge Thomas Van Dorn of the district +court in chambers to Mrs. Margaret Müller Fenn, from Henry Fenn. Charges of +cruel and inhuman treatment filed by the attorneys for Mrs. Fenn were not met by +Mr. Fenn and the court granted the decree and it was made absolute. It is +understood that a satisfactory settlement of the joint property has been made. +Mrs. Fenn will continue to hold the position she has held during the year past +as chief clerk in the office of the superintendent of the Harvey Improvement +Company. Mr. Fenn is former county attorney and is now engaged in the insurance +business, having sold his real estate business to Joseph Calvin this +morning.”</p> + +<p>And thus the decree of divorce between Henry Fenn and Margaret, his wife, +whom God had joined together, was made absolute, and further deponent sayeth +not.</p> + +<p>But the town of Harvey had more or less to say about the divorce and what the +town said, more or less concerned Judge Thomas Van Dorn. For although Henry Fenn +sober would not speak of the divorce, Henry Fenn drunk, babbled many quotations +about the “rare and radiant maiden, who was lost forever more.” He +was also wont to quote the line about the lover who held his mistress +“something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse.”</p> + +<p>As for the Judge, his sensitive mind felt the disapproval of the community. +But the fighting blood in him was roused, and he fought a braver fight than the +cause justified. That summer he went to all the farmers’ picnics in his +district, spoke wherever he was invited to speak, and spoke well; whatever charm +he had he called to his aid. When the French of South Harvey celebrated the Fall +of the Bastille, Judge Van Dorn spoke most beautifully of liberty, and led off +when they sung the <i>Marseillaise</i>; on Labor Day he was <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_223'></a>223</span>the orator of the occasion, and made a +great impression among the workers by his remarks upon the dignity of labor. He +quoted Carlyle and Ruskin and William Morris, and wept when he told them how the +mob had crucified the Carpenter, who was labor’s first prophet.</p> + +<p>But one may say this for Judge Van Dorn: that with all his desire for the +approval of his fellows, even in South Harvey, even at the meetings of men who +he knew differed with him, he did not flinch from attacking on every occasion +and with all his eloquence the unions that Grant Adams was promoting. The idea +of mutual help upon which they rested seemed to make Van Dorn see red, and he +was forever going out of his way to combat the idea. So bitter was his +antagonism to the union idea that in the Valley he and Grant Adams became +dramatized in the minds of the men as opponents.</p> + +<p>But in Harvey, where men regarded Grant Adams’s activities with +tolerant indifference and his high talk of bettering industrial conditions as +the madness of youth, Judge Van Dorn was the town’s particular idol.</p> + +<p>A handsome man he was as he stood out in the open under the bower made by the +trees, and with the grace and charm of true oratory, spoke in his natural +voice–a soft, penetrating treble that reached to the furthest man in the +crowd; tall, well-built, oval-faced, commanding–a judge every inch of him, +even if a young judge–was Tom Van Dorn. And when he had finished speaking +at the Harvest Home Picnic, or at the laying of the corner stone of the new +Masonic Temple, or at the opening of the Grant County fair, men said:</p> + +<p>“Well, I know they say Tom Van Dorn is no Joseph, but all the same +I’m here to tell you–” and what they were there to tell you +would discourage ladies and gentlemen who believe that material punishments +always follow either material or spiritual transgressions.</p> + +<p>So the autumn wore into winter, and the State Bar Association promoted Judge +Van Dorn; he appeared as president of that dignified body, and thereby added to +his prestige at home. He appeared regularly at church with Mrs. Van +Dorn–going the rounds of the churches punctiliously–and gave +liberally when a subscription paper for any cause was presented. <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_224'></a>224</span>But for all this, he kept +hearing the bees of gossip buzzing about him, and often felt their sting.</p> + +<p>Day after day, through it all he never slept until in some way, by some +device, through some trumped up excuse that seemed plausible enough in itself, +he had managed to see and speak to Margaret Fenn. Whether in her office in the +Light, Heat & Power Company’s building upon a business errand, and he +made plenty of such, or upon the street, or in the court house, where she often +went upon some business of her chief, or walking home at evening, or coming down +in the morning, or upon rare occasions meeting her clandestinely for a moment, +or whether at some social function where they were both present–and it of +necessity had to be a large function in that event–for the town could +register its disapproval of the woman more easily than it could put its +opprobrium upon the man; or whether he spoke to her just a word from the +sidewalk as he passed her home, always he managed to see her. Always he had one +look into her eyes, and so during all the day, she was in his thoughts. It seems +strange that a man of great talents could keep the machinery of his mind going +and still have an ever present consciousness of a guilty intrigue. Yet there it +was. Until he had seen her and spoken to her, it was his day’s important +problem to devise some way to bring about the meeting. So with devilish caution +and ponderous circumlocution and craft he went about his daily work, serene in +the satisfaction that he was being successful in his elaborate deceit; rather +gloating at times in the iniquity of one in his position being in so low a +business. He wondered what the people would say if they really knew the depths +of his infamy, and when he sentenced a poor devil for some minor crime, he would +often watch himself as a third party and wonder if he would ever stand up and +take his sentence. But he had no fear of that. The little drama between Judge +Van Dorn, the prisoner at the bar, and the lover of Margaret Fenn, was for his +diversion, rather than for his instruction, and he enjoyed it as an artistic +travesty upon the justice he was dispensing.</p> + +<p>Thomas Van Dorn believed that the world was full of a number of exceedingly +pleasant things that might be had for the taking, and no questions asked. So +when he felt the <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_225'></a>225</span>bee sting of gossip, he threw back his head, squared +his face to the wind, put an extra kink of elegance into his raiment, a tighter +crimp into his smile and an added ardor into his hale greeting, did some +indispensable judicial favor to the old spider of commerce back of the brass +sign at the Traders National, defied the town, and bade it watch him fool it. +But the men who drove the express wagons knew that whenever they saw Judge Van +Dorn take the train for the capital they would be sure to have a package from +the capital the next day for Mrs. Fenn; sometimes it would be a milliner’s +box, sometimes a jeweler’s, sometimes a florist’s, sometimes a +dry-goods merchant’s, and always a candy maker’s.</p> + +<p>At last the whole wretched intrigue dramatized itself in one culminating +episode. It came in the spring. Dr. Nesbit had put on his white linens just as +the trees were in their first gayety of foliage and the spring blooming flowers +were at their loveliest.</p> + +<p>After a morning in the dirt and grime and misery and injustice and wickedness +that made the outer skin over South Harvey and Foley and Magnus and the mining +and smelter towns of the valley, the Doctor came driving into the cool beauty of +Quality Hill in Harvey with a middle aged man’s sense of relief. South +Harvey and its neighbors disheartened him.</p> + +<p>He had seen Grant Adams, a man of the Doctor’s own caste by birth, +hurrying into a smelter on some organization errand out of overalls in his +cheap, ill-fitting clothes, begrimed, heavy featured, dogged and rapidly +becoming a part of the industrial dregs. Grant Adams in the smelter, preoccupied +with the affairs of that world, and passing definitely into it forever, seemed +to the Doctor symbolic of the passing of the America he understood (and loved), +into an America that discouraged him. But the beauty and the calm and the +restful elm-bordered lawns of Harvey always toned up his spirits. Here, he said +to himself was the thing he had helped to create. Here was the town he had +founded and cherished. Here were the people whom he really loved–old +neighbors, old friends, dear in associations and sweet in memories.</p> + +<p>It was in a cherubic complaisance with the whole scheme of the universe that +the white-clad Doctor jogged up Elm <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_226'></a>226</span>Street behind his maternal sorrel in the phaëton, to +get his noon day meal. He passed the Van Dorn home. Its beauty fitted into this +mood and beckoned to him. For the whole joy of spring bloomed in flower and +shrub and vine that bordered the house and clambered over the wide hospitable +porch. The gay color of the spring made the house glow like a jewel. The wide +lawn–the stately trees, the gorgeous flowers called to his heart, and +seeing his daughter upon the piazza, the Doctor surrendered, drew up, tied the +horse and came toddling along the walk to the broad stone steps, waving his +hands gayly to her as he came. Little Lila, coming home from kindergarten and +bleating through the house lamb-wise: “I’m hungry,” saw her +grandfather, and ran down the steps to meet him, forgetting her pangs.</p> + +<p>He lifted her high to his shoulder, and came up the porch steps laughing: +“Here come jest and youthful jollity, my dear,” and stooping with +his grandchild in his arms, kissed the beautiful woman before him.</p> + +<p>“Some one is mighty sweet this morning,” and then seeing a +package beside her asked: “What’s this–” looking at the +address and the sender’s name. “Some one been getting a new +dress?”</p> + +<p>The child pulling at her mother’s skirts renewed her bleat for food. +When Lila had been disposed of Laura sat by her father, took his fat, pudgy hand +and said:</p> + +<p>“Father, I don’t know what to do; do you mind talking some things +over with me. I suppose I should have been to see you anyway in a few days. Have +we time to go clear to the bottom of things now?”</p> + +<p>She looked up at him with a serious, troubled face, and patted his hand. He +felt instinctively the shadow that was on her heart, and his face may have +winced. She saw or knew without seeing, the tremor in his soul.</p> + +<p>“Poor father–but you know it must come sometime. Let us talk it +all out now.”</p> + +<p>He nodded his head. He did not trust his voice.</p> + +<p>“Well, father dear,” she said slowly. She nodded at the +package–a long dress box beside the porch post.</p> + +<p>“That was sent to Margaret Fenn. It came here by +mistake–addressed to me. There were some express charges on <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_227'></a>227</span>it. I thought it was for +me; I thought Tom had bought it for me yesterday, when he was at the capital, so +I opened it. There is a dress pattern in it–yellow and black–colors +I never could wear, and Tom has an exquisite eye for those things, and also +there is a pair of silk stockings to match. On the memoranda pinned on these, +they are billed to Mrs. Fenn, but all charged to Tom. I hadn’t opened it +when I sent the expressman to Tom’s office for the express charges, but +when he finds the package has been delivered here–we shall have it +squarely before us.” The daughter did not turn her eyes to her father as +she went on after a little sigh that seemed like a catch in her side:</p> + +<p>“So there we are.”</p> + +<p>The Doctor patted his foot in silence, then replied:</p> + +<p>“My poor, poor child–my poor little girl,” and added with a +heavy sigh: “And poor Tom–Laura–poor, foolish, devil-ridden +Tom.” She assented with her eyes. At the end of a pause she said with +anguish in her voice:</p> + +<p>“And when we began it was all so beautiful–so beautiful–so +wonderful. Of course I’ve known for a long time–ever since before +Lila came that it was slipping. Oh, father–I’ve known; I’ve +seen every little giving of the tie that bound us, and in my heart deep down, +I’ve known all–all–everything–all the whole awful +truth–even if I have not had the facts as you’ve had them–you +and mother–I suppose.”</p> + +<p>“You’re my fine, brave girl,” cried her father, patting her +trembling hand. But he could speak no further.</p> + +<p>“Oh, no, I’m not brave–I’m not brave,” she +answered. “I’m a coward. I have sat by and watched it all slip away, +watched him getting further and further from me, saw my hold +slipping–slipping–slipping, and saw him getting restless. I’ve +seen one awful–” she paused, shuddered, and cried, “Oh, you +know, father, that other dreadful affair. I saw that rise, burn itself out and +then this one–” she turned away and her body shook.</p> + +<p>In a minute she was herself: “I’m foolish I suppose, but +I’ve never talked it out before. I won’t do it again. I’m all +right now.” She took his hands and continued:</p> + +<p>“Now, then, tell me–is there any way out? What shall <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_228'></a>228</span>we do to be +saved–Tom and Lila and I?” She hesitated. “I’m +afraid–Oh, I know, I know I don’t love Tom any more. How could +I–how could I? But some way I want to mother him. I don’t want to +see him get clear down. I know this woman. I know what she means. Let me tell +you, father. For two years she’s been playing with Tom like a cat. I knew +it when she began. I can’t say how I knew it; but I felt it–felt it +reflected in his moods, saw him nervous and feverish. She’s been torturing +him, father–she’s strong. Also she’s–she’s hard. +Tom hasn’t–well, I mean she’s always kept the upper hand. I +know that in my soul. And he’s stark, raving mad somewhere within +him.” A storm of emotion shook her and then she cried passionately, +“And, oh, father, I want to rescue him–not for myself. Oh, I +don’t love him any more. That’s all gone. At least not in the old +way, I don’t, but he’s so sensitive–so easy to hurt. And +she’s slowly burning him alive. It’s awful.”</p> + +<p>The little pink face of the Doctor began to harden. His big blue eyes began +to look through narrow slits in his eyelids, and the pudgy, white-clad figure +stood erect. The daughter’s voice broke and as she gripped herself the +father reached his bristling pompadour and cried in wrath, “Let him +burn–let him burn, girl–hell’s too good for him!”</p> + +<p>His voice was high and harsh and merciless. It restored the woman’s +poise and she shook her head sorrowfully as she resumed:</p> + +<p>“I can’t bear to see it; I–I want to shield him–I +must–if I can.” A tremor ran through her again. She caught hold of +herself, then went on more calmly. “But things can’t go on this way. +Here is this box–”</p> + +<p>“Child–child,” cried the Doctor angrily, “you come +right home–right home,” he piped with rising wrath. “Right +home to mother and me.”</p> + +<p>The wife shook her head and replied: “No, father, that’s the easy +road. I must take the hard road.” Her father’s mobile face showed +his pain and the daughter cried: “I know, father–I know how you +would have stopped me before I chose this way. But I did choose and now here is +Lila, and here is a home–a home–our home, father, and I +mustn’t leave it. Here is my duty, here in this home, and I must not <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_229'></a>229</span>ran away. I must work out +my life as it is–as before God and Lila–and Tom–yes, Tom, +father, as before all three, I have my responsibility. I must not put away +Tom–no matter–no matter how I feel–no matter what he has done. +I won’t,” she repeated. “I won’t.”</p> + +<p>The father turned an impatient face to his daughter, and retorted, “You +won’t–you won’t leave that miserable cur–that–that +woman hunting dog–won’t leave–”</p> + +<p>The father’s rage sputtered on his lips, but the daughter caught his +hand as it was beating his cane on the floor. “Stop, father,” she +said gently, “it’s something more than women that’s wrong with +Tom. Women are merely an outward and visible sign–it’s what he +believes–and what he does, living his creed–always following the +material thing. As a judge I thought he would see his way–must see his way +to bring justice here–” She looked into the fume stained sky above +South Harvey, and Foley and Magnus, far down the valley, and tightened her grip +on her father’s hands. “But no–no,” she cried, +“Tom doesn’t know justice–he only sees the law, the law and +profits, and prosperity–only the eternal material. He sits by and sees the +company settle for four and five hundred dollars for the lives of the men it +wasted in the mine–yes, more than sits by–he stands at the door of +justice and drives the widows and children into a settlement like an overseer. +And he and Joe Calvin have some sort of real estate partnership–Oh–I +know it’s dishonest, though I don’t know how. But it branches so +secretly into the law and it all reaches down into politics. And the whole order +here, father–Daniel Sands paying for politics, paying for government that +makes the laws, paying for mayors and governors that enforce the laws and paying +the judges to back them up–and all that poverty and wretchedness and +wickedness down there and all this beauty and luxury and material happiness up +here. It’s all, all wrong, father.” Her voice broke again in sobs, +and tears were running down her cheeks as she continued. “How can we blame +Tom for violating his vows to me? Where are all our vows to God to deal justly +with His people–the widows and orphans and helpless ones, father?” +She looked at her father through her tears, at her father, whose face was agape! +He was staring <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_230'></a>230</span>into +the wistaria vines as one who saw his world quaking. A quick bolt of sympathy +shot through the daughter’s heart. She patted his limp hands and said +softly, “So–father–I mustn’t leave Tom. He’s a +poor, weak creature–a rotten stick–and because I know it–I +must stay with him!”</p> + +<hr style='border:none; border-bottom:1px solid silver; height: 1px; width: 80%; text-align: center; margin: 10px auto;' /> + +<p>Behind the screen of matter, the lusty fates were pulling at the screws of +the rack. “Pull harder,” cried the first fate; “the little old +pot-bellied rascal–make him see it: make him see how he warned her against +the symptoms, but not the disease that was festering her lover’s +soul!”</p> + +<p>“Turn yourself,” cried the second, “make the forehead sweat +as he sees how he has been delivering laws in a basket to grind iniquity through +Tom Van Dorn’s mill! Turn–turn, turn you lout!”</p> + +<p>“And you,” cried the third fate at the screw to the first, +“twist that heart-string, twist it hard when he sees his daughter’s +broken face and hears her sobbing!”</p> + +<p>But the angels, the pitying angels, loosened the cords of the rack with their +gentle tears.</p> + +<hr style='border:none; border-bottom:1px solid silver; height: 1px; width: 80%; text-align: center; margin: 10px auto;' /> + +<p>As the taut threads of the rack slackened, he heard the soft voice of his +daughter saying: “But of course, the most important thing is +Lila–not that she means a great deal to him now. He doesn’t care +much for children. He doesn’t want them–children.”</p> + +<p>She turned upon her father and with anguished voice and with all her denied +motherhood, she cried: “O, father–I want them–lots of +them–arms full of them all the time.”</p> + +<p>She stretched out her arms. “Oh, it’s been so hard, to feel my +youth passing, and only one child–I wanted a whole house full. I’m +strong; I could bear them. I don’t mind anything–I just want my +babies–my babies that never have come.”</p> + +<p>And then the pitiless fates turned the screws of the rack again and the +father burst forth in his vain grief, with his high, soft, woman’s voice. +“I wonder–I wonder–I wonder, what God has in waiting for you +to make up for this?”</p> + +<p>Before she could answer, the telephone bell rang. The wife stepped to the +instrument. “Well,” she said when she <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_231'></a>231</span>came back. “The hour has struck; +the expressman went to Tom for the express charges; he knows the package is here +and,” she added after a sigh, “he knows that I know all about +it.” She even smiled rather sadly, “So he’s coming +out–on his wheel.”</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_232'></a>232</span><a id='link_22'></a>CHAPTER XXII<br /><span class='h2fs'>IN WHICH TOM VAN DORN BECOMES A WAYFARING MAN ALSO</span></h2> + +<p>The father rose. His head was cast down. He poked a vine curling about the +porch floor with his cane.</p> + +<p>“I wonder, my dear,” he spoke slowly, and with great gentleness, +“if maybe I shouldn’t talk with Tom–before you see +him.”</p> + +<p>He continued to poke the vine, and looked up at the daughter sadly. “Of +course there’s Lila; if it is best for her–why that’s the +thing to do–I presume.”</p> + +<p>“But father,” broke in the daughter, “Tom and I +can–”</p> + +<p>But he entreated, “Won’t you let me talk with Tom? In half an +hour–I’ll go. You and Lila slip over to mother’s for half an +hour–come back at half past twelve. I’ll tell him where you +are.”</p> + +<p>The mother and child had disappeared around the corner of the house when the +click of Van Dorn’s bicycle on the curbing told the Doctor that the young +man was upon the walk. The package from the capital still lay beside the porch +column. The Doctor did not lift his eyes from it as the younger man came +hurrying up the steps. He was flushed, bright-eyed, a little out of breath, and +his black wing of hair was damp. On the top step, he looked up and saw the +Doctor.</p> + +<p>“It’s all right, Tom–I understand things.” The +Doctor’s eyes turned to the parcel on the floor between them.</p> + +<p>The Doctor’s voice was soft; his manner was gentle, and he lifted his +blue, inquiring eyes into the young Judge’s restless black ones. Dr. +Nesbit put a fatherly hand on the young man’s arm, and said: “Shall +we sit down, Tom, and take stock of things and see where we stand? +Wouldn’t that be a good idea?”</p> + +<p>They sat down and the younger man eyed the package, turned it over, looked at +the address nervously, pulled at his <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_233'></a>233</span>mustache as he sank back, while the elder man was +saying: “I believe I understand you, Tom–better than any one else in +the world understands you. I believe you have not a better friend on earth than +I right at this minute.”</p> + +<p>The Judge turned around and said in a disturbed voice, “I am sure +that’s the God’s truth, Doctor Jim.” Then after a sigh he +added, “And this is what I’ve done to you!”</p> + +<p>“And will keep right on doing to me as long as you live,” piped +the elder man, twitching his mouth and nose contemptuously.</p> + +<p>“As long as I live, I fancy,” repeated the other. In the pause +the young man put his hands to his hips and his chin on his breast as he +slouched down in the chair and asked: “Where’s Laura?”</p> + +<p>“Over at her mother’s,” replied the father. “Nobody +will interrupt us–and so I thought we could get down to grass roots and +talk this thing out.”</p> + +<p>The Judge crossed his handsome ankles and sat looking at his trim toes.</p> + +<p>“I suppose that idea is as good as any.” He put one long, lean, +hairy hand on the short, fat knee beside him and said: “The whole trouble +with our Protestant religion is that we have no confessor. So some of us talk to +our lawyers, and some of us talk to our doctors, and in extreme unction we talk +to our newspapers.”</p> + +<p>He grinned miserably, and went on: “But we all talk to some one, and +now I’m going to talk to you–talk for once, Doctor, right out of my +soul–if I have one.”</p> + +<p>He rose nervously, obeying some purely physical impulse, and then sat down +again, with his hands in his thick, black hair, and his elbows on his bony +knees.</p> + +<p>“All right, Tom,” piped the Doctor, “go ahead.”</p> + +<p>“Well, then,” he began as he looked at the floor before him, +“do you suppose I don’t know that you know what I’m up to? Do +you think I don’t know even what the town is buzzing about? Lord, man, I +can feel it like a scorching fire. Why,” he exclaimed with emotion, +“feeling the hearts of men is my job. I’ve been at it for fifteen +years–”</p> + +<p>He broke off and looked up. “How could I get up before a jury and feel +them out man by man as I talked if I wasn’t <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_234'></a>234</span>sensitive to these things? You’ve +seen me make them cry when I was in the practice. How could I make them cry if I +didn’t feel like crying myself. You’re a doctor–you know that. +People forget what I am–what a thousand stringed instrument I am. Now, +Doctor Jim, let me tell you something. This is the bottom hard pan of the truth: +I never before really cared for these women–these other women–when I +got them. But I do care for the chase, I do care for the risk of it–for +the exhilaration of it–for the joy of it!”</p> + +<p>The Doctor’s mouth twitched and he took a breath as if about to speak. +Van Dorn stopped him: “Don’t cut in, Doc Jim–let me say it all +out. I’m young. I love the moonlight and the stars and I never go through +a wood that I do not see trysting places there–and I never see a great +stretch of prairie under the sunshine that I do not put in a beautiful woman and +go following her–not for her–Doctor Jim, but for the joy of pursuit, +for the thrill of uncovering a bared, naked soul, and the overwhelming danger of +it. God–man, I’ve stood afraid to breathe, flattened against a wall +and heard the man-beast growl and sniff, hunting me. I love to love and be +loved; but not less do I love to hunt and be hunted. I’ve hidden under +trees, I’ve skulked in the shadows, I’ve walked boldly in the +sunlight with my life in my hand to meet a woman’s eyes, to feel her +guilty shudder in my arms. Oh, Doctor Jim, you don’t understand the riot +in my blood that the moon makes shining through the trees upon the water, with +great, shadowy glades, and the tinkle of cow bells far away, and a woman afraid +of me–and I afraid of her–and nothing but the stars and the night +between us.”</p> + +<p>He rose and began pacing the piazza as he continued speaking. +“It’s always been so with me–as early as my boyhood it was so. +I often wake in the lonely nights and think of them all over again–the +days and nights, the girls and women who have flashed bright and radiant into my +life. Over and over again, I repeat to my soul their names, over and over I live +the hours we have spent together, the dangers, the delights, the cruel misery of +it all and then at the turn of the street, at the corner of a room, in the +winking of an eye I see another face, it looks a challenge at me and I am out +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_235'></a>235</span>on the high road of +another romance. I’ve got to go! It’s part of my life; it’s +the pulse of my blood.”</p> + +<p>He stood excited with his deep, beady, black eyes burning and his proud, vain +face flushed and his hands a-tremble. The Doctor saw that he was in the midst of +a physical and mental turmoil that could not be checked.</p> + +<p>Van Dorn went on: “And then you and my friends ask me to quit. Laura, +God help her–she naturally–” he exclaimed. “But is the +moon to be blotted out for me? Are the night winds to be muffled and mean no +more than the scraping of a dead twig against a rusty wire? Are flowers to lose +their scent, and grass and trees and birds to be blurred and turned drab in my +eyes? How do you think I live, man? How do you think I can go before juries and +audiences and make them thrill and clench their fists and cry like children and +breathe with my emotions, if I am to be stone dead? Do you think a wooden man +can do that? Try Joe Calvin with a jury–what does he accomplish with all +his virtue? He hasn’t had an emotion in twenty years. A pretty woman +looking at Joe in a crowd wouldn’t say anything to him with her eyes and +dilating nostrils and the swish of her body. And when he gets before a jury he +talks the law to them, and the facts to them, and the justice of the case to +them. But when I used to stand up before them, they knew I was weak, human mud. +They had heard all the stories on me. They knew me, and some of them despised +me, and all of them were watching out for me, but when I reached down in my +heart and brought up the common clay of which we all are made and molded it into +a man or an event before their eyes, then–by God they came to me. And yet +you’ve been sitting there for years, Doctor Jim Nesbit and saying +‘Tom–Tom, why don’t you quit?’”</p> + +<p>He was seated now, talking in a low, tense voice, looking the Doctor deeply +in the eyes, and as he paused, the perspiration stood out upon his scarred +forehead, and pink splotches appeared there and the veins of his temples were +big and blue. The Doctor turned away his eyes and said coldly: +“There’s Laura–Tom–Laura and little Lila.”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” he groaned, rising. “There are Laura and +Lila.”</p> + +<p>He thrust his hands deeply into his pockets and looked <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_236'></a>236</span>down at the Doctor and sneered. +“There’s the trap that snapped and took a paw, and I’m +supposed to lick it and love it and to cherish it.”</p> + +<p>He shuddered, and continued: “For once I’ll speak and tell it +all. I’ll not be a hypocrite in this hour, though ever after I may lie and +cringe. There are Laura and Lila and here am I. And out beyond is the wind in +the elms and the sunshine upon the grass and the moving odor of +flowers–flowers that are blushing with the joy of nature in her great +perennial romance–and there’s Laura and Lila and here am +I.”</p> + +<p>His passion was ebbing; his face was hardening into its wonted vain, +artificial contour, his eyes were losing their dilation, and he was sitting +rather limply in his chair, staring into space. The Doctor came at him.</p> + +<p>“You’re a fool. You had your fling; you’re along in your +thirties, nearly forty now and it’s time to stop.” The younger man +could not regain the height, but he could hide under his crust. So he parried +back suavely, with insolence in his voice:</p> + +<p>“Why stop at thirty–or even forty? Why stop at all?”</p> + +<p>“Let me tell you something, Tom,” returned the Doctor. +“It’s all very fine to talk this way; but this thing has become a +fixed habit, just like the whiskey habit; and in fifteen or twenty years more +you’ll be a chronic, physical, degenerate man. You’ll lose your +self-respect. You’ll lose your quick wits, and your whole mind and body +will be burning up with a slow fire.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, you dear old fossil,” replied Van Dorn in a hollow, dead +voice, rising and patting his tie and adjusting his coat and collar, +“I’m no fool. I know what I’m doing. I know how far to go, and +when to stop. But this game is interesting; and I’m only a man,” he +straightened up again, patted his mustache, and again tipped his hat into a +cockey angle over his forehead, and went on, “not a monk.” He +smiled, pivoted on his heel nervously and went on, “And what is more I can +take care of myself.”</p> + +<p>“Tom,” cried the Doctor in his treble, with excitement in his +voice, “you can’t take care of yourself. No man ever <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_237'></a>237</span>lived who could. You may +get away with your love affairs, and no one be the wiser; you may make a crooked +or dirty million on a stock deal and no one be the wiser; but you’ll bear +the marks to the grave.”</p> + +<p>“So,” mocked the sneering voice of the young Judge, “I +suppose you’ll carry the marks of all the men you’ve bought up in +this town for twenty years.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, Tom,” returned the Doctor pitifully, as he rose and stood +beside the preening young man, “I’ll carry ’em to the grave +with me, too; I’ve had a few stripes to-day.”</p> + +<p>“Well, anyway,” retorted Van Dorn, pulling his hat over his eyes, +restlessly, “you’re entitled to what you get in this life. And +I’m going to get all I can, money and fun, and everything else. Morals are +for sapheads. The preacher’s God says I can’t have certain things +without His cracking down on me. Watch me beat Him at his own game.” It +was all a make-believe and the Doctor saw that the real man was gone.</p> + +<p>“Tom,” sighed the Doctor, “here’s the practical +question–you realize what all this means to Laura? And Lila–why, +Tom, can’t you see what it’s going to mean to her–to all of us +as the years go by?”</p> + +<p>Their eyes met and turned to the parcel on the floor. “You can’t +afford–well, that sort of thing,” the Doctor punched the parcel +contemptuously with his cane. “It’s all bad enough, Tom, but that +way lies hell!”</p> + +<p>Van Dorn turned upon the Doctor, and squared his jaw and said: “Well +then–that’s the way I’m going–that way”–he +nodded toward the package–“lies romance for me! There is the road to +the only joy I shall ever know in this earth. There lies life and beauty and all +that I live for, and I’m going that way.”</p> + +<p>The Judge met the father’s beseeching face, with an angry +glare–defiant and insolent.</p> + +<p>The Doctor had no time to reply. There was a stir in the house, and a +child’s steps came running through the hall. Lila stopped on the porch, +hesitating between the two men. The Doctor put out his arms for her. Van Dorn +casually reached out his hand. She ran to her father and cried, <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_238'></a>238</span>“Up–Daddy–up,” and jumped to +his shoulder as he took her. The Doctor walked down the steps as his daughter +came out of the door.</p> + +<p>The man and the woman looked at one another, but did not speak. The father +put the child down and said:</p> + +<p>“Now, Lila, run with grandpa and get a cooky from granny while your +mother and I talk.”</p> + +<p>She looked up at him with her blue eyes and her sadly puckered little face, +swallowed her disappointed tears and trudged down the steps after the white-clad +grandfather who was untying his horse.</p> + +<p>When the child and the grandfather were gone the wife said in a dead, +emotionless voice, looking at the parcel on the floor, “Well, +Tom?”</p> + +<p>“Well, Laura,” he repeated, “that’s about the size of +it–there it is–and you know all about it. I shall not lie–this +time. It’s not worth while–now.”</p> + +<p>The woman sat in a porch chair. The man hesitated, and she said: “Sit +down, Tom. I don’t know what to do or what to say,” she began. +“If there were just you and me to consider, I suppose I’d say +we’d have to quit. But there’s Lila. She is here and she does love +you–and she has her right–the greatest right in the world +to–well, to us–to a home, and a home means a father and a +mother.” The man rose. He put his hands in his coat pockets and stood by +the porch column, making no reply.</p> + +<p>The wife continued, “I can’t even speak of what you have done to +me, Tom. But it will hurt when I’m an old woman–I want to hide my +face from every one–even from God–when I think of what you have used +me for.”</p> + +<p>He dropped into the chair beside her, looking at the floor. Her voice had +stirred some chord in his thousand-stringed heart. He reached out a hand to +her.</p> + +<p>“No, Tom,” said the wife, “I don’t want your +pity.”</p> + +<p>“No, Laura,” the husband returned quickly, “no, you +don’t need my pity; it’s not pity that I am trying to give you. I +only wished you to listen to what I have to say.” The wife looked at her +husband for a second in fear as she apprehended what he was about to utter. He +turned his eyes from her and went on: “It was a mistake, a very <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_239'></a>239</span>nightmare of a +mistake–my mistake–all my mistake–but still just an awful +mistake. We couldn’t make life go. All this was foredoomed, Laura, and +now–now–” his eyes were upon the parcel on the floor, +“here I am sure I have found the thing my life needs. And it is my +life–my life.” He saw his wife go pale, then flush; but he went on. +“After all, it is one’s own life that commands him, and nothing else +in the world. And now I must follow my destiny.”</p> + +<p>“But, Tom,” asked the wife, “you aren’t going to this +woman? You aren’t going to leave us? You surely won’t break up this +home–not this home, Tom?”</p> + +<p>The man hesitated before answering, then spoke directly: “I must follow +my destiny–work it out as I see it. You have no right, no one has any +right–even I have no right to compromise with my destiny. I live in this +world just once!”</p> + +<p>“But what is your destiny, Tom?” answered the wife. “Leave +me out of it: but aren’t the roots you have put down in this home, this +career you are building; our child’s normal girlhood with a father’s +care–aren’t these the big things in your destiny? Lila’s +life–growing up under the shame that follows a child of parents divorced +for such base reasons as these? Lila’s life is surely a part of your +destiny. Surely, surely you have no rights apart from her and hers!”</p> + +<p>His quick mind was ready. “I have my own life to live, my own destiny +to follow; my individual equation to solve, and for me nothing exists in the +universe. As for my career–I’ll take care of that. That’s mine +also!”</p> + +<p>The wife threw out an appealing hand. “Tom, I can’t help wanting +to pick you up and shield you. It will be awful–awful–that thing you +are trying to go into. You’ve always chosen the material thing–the +practical thing–and she–she’s a practical woman. Oh, +Tom–I’m not jealous–not a bit. If I thought she would enrich +your soul–if I thought she would give you what I’ve wanted to give +you–what I’ve prayed God night after night to let me give +you–I’d take even Lila and go away and give you your chance for a +love such as I’ve had. Can you see, Tom, I’m not jealous? I’m +not even angry.”</p> + +<p>He turned upon her suddenly and said: “You don’t <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_240'></a>240</span>know what you’re +talking about. Anyway–she suits me–she’ll enrich me as you +call it all right. I’m sure of that.”</p> + +<p>“No, Tom,” said the wife quietly, “she’ll not enrich +you–not spiritually. No one can do that–for any one. It must come +from within. I’ve poured my very heart over you, Tom, and you didn’t +want it–you only wanted–oh, God–hide my shame–my +shame–my shame.” Her voice rose for a moment and she muffled it with +her face in her arms.</p> + +<p>“Tom–” she faltered, “Tom–I am going to make +one last plea–for Lila’s sake won’t you put it all +away–won’t you?” she shuddered. “It is killing all my +self-respect, Tom–but I must. Won’t you–won’t you please +for Lila’s sake come back, break this off–and see if we can’t +patch up life?”</p> + +<p>“No,” he answered.</p> + +<p>Their eyes met; his shifting, beady eyes were held forcibly with many a +twitching, by her gray eyes. For two awful seconds they stood taking farewell of +each other.</p> + +<p>“No,” he repeated, dropping his glance.</p> + +<p>Then he put out his hand with a gesture of finality, “I’m going +now. I don’t know when–or–well, whether I’ll +come–” He picked up the package. He was going down the steps with +the package in his hands when he heard the patter of little feet and a little +voice calling:</p> + +<p>“Daddy–daddy–” and repeated, “daddy.”</p> + +<p>He did not turn, but walked quickly to the sidewalk. As far as he could hear, +that childish voice called to him.</p> + +<p>And he heard the cry in his dreams.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_241'></a>241</span><a id='link_23'></a>CHAPTER XXIII<br /><span class='h2fs'>HERE GRANT ADAMS DISCOVERS HIS INSIDES</span></h2> + +<p>Laura Van Dorn stood watching her husband pass down the street. She silenced +the child by clasping her close in the tender motherly arms. No tears rose in +the wife’s eyes, as she stood looking vacantly down the street at the +corner where her husband had turned. Gradually it came to her consciousness that +a crowd was gathering by her father’s house. She remembered then that she +had seen a carriage drive up, and that three or four men followed it on +bicycles, and then half a dozen men got out of a wagon. Even while she stared, +she saw the little rattletrap of a buggy that Amos Adams drove come tearing up +to the curb by her father’s house. Amos Adams, Jasper and little Kenyon +got out. Even amidst the turmoil of her emotions, she moved mechanically to the +street, to see better, then she clasped Lila to her breast and ran toward her +father’s home.</p> + +<p>“What is it?” she cried to the first man she met at the edge of +the little group standing near the veranda steps.</p> + +<p>“Grant Adams–we’re afraid he’s killed.” The man +who spoke was Denny Hogan. Beside him was an Italian, who said, +“He’s burned something most awful. He got it saving des feller +here,” nodding and pointing to Hogan.</p> + +<p>Laura put down her child and hurried through the house to her father’s +little office. The strong smell of an anesthetic came to her. She saw Amos Adams +standing a-tremble by the office door, holding Kenyon’s hand. Amos +answered her question.</p> + +<p>“They think he’s dying,–I knew he’d want to see +Kenyon.”</p> + +<p>Jasper, white and frightened, stood on the stairs. These details she saw at a +glance as she pushed open the office door. At first she saw great George +Brotherton and three <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_242'></a>242</span>or four white-faced, terrified working men, standing +in stiff helplessness, while like a white shuttle, among the gloomy figures the +Doctor moved quickly, ceaselessly, effectively. Then her eyes met her +father’s. He said:</p> + +<p>“Come in, Laura–I need you. Now all of you go out but George and +her.”</p> + +<p>Then, as she came into the group, Laura saw Grant Adams, sitting with agony +upon his wet face. Her father bent over him and worked on a puffy, pink, naked +arm and shoulder, and body. The man was half conscious; his face was twitching, +and when she looked again she saw where his right hand should be only a brown, +charred stump.</p> + +<p>Not looking up the Doctor spoke: “You know where things are and what I +need–I can’t get him clear under,” Every motion he made +counted; he took no false steps; he made no turn of his body or twist of his +hand that was not full of conscious purpose. He only spoke to give orders, and +when Brotherton whispered to Laura:</p> + +<p>“White hot lead pig at the smelter–Grant saw it was going to kill +Hogan and grabbed it.”</p> + +<p>The Doctor shook his head at Brotherton and for two hours that was all Laura +knew of the accident. Once when the Doctor stopped for a second to take a deep +breath, Brotherton asked, “Do you want another doctor?” the little +man shook his head again, and motioned with it at his daughter.</p> + +<p>“She’s doing well enough.” She kept her father’s +merciless pace, but always the sense of her stricken life seemed to be hovering +in the back of her consciousness, and the hours seemed ages as she applied her +bandages, and helped with the gruesome work of the knife on the charred stump of +the arm. But finally it was over and she saw Brotherton and Hogan lift Grant to +a cot, under her father’s direction, and carry him to the bedroom she had +used as a girl at home. While the Doctor and Laura had been working in his +office Mrs. Nesbit had been making the bedroom ready.</p> + +<p>It was five o’clock, and the two fagged women were in Mrs. +Nesbit’s room. The younger woman was pale and haggard and unable to relax. +The mother tried all of a mother’s wiles to bring peace to the over-strung +nerves. But the daughter paced the floor silently, or if she spoke it was to +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_243'></a>243</span>ask some trivial +question about the household–about what arrangements were made for the +injured man’s food, about Lila, about Amos Adams and Kenyon. Finally, as +she turned to leave the room, her mother asked, “Where are you +going?” The daughter answered, “Why, I’m going +home.”</p> + +<p>“But Laura,” the mother returned, “I believe your father is +expecting your help here–to-night. I am sure he will need you.” The +daughter looked steadily, but rather vacantly at her mother for a moment, then +replied: “Well, Lila and I must go now. I’ll leave her there with +the maid and I’ll try to come back.”</p> + +<p>Her hand was on the door-knob. “Well,” hesitated her mother, +“what about Tom–?”</p> + +<p>The eyes of the two women met. “Did father tell you?” asked the +daughter’s eyes. The mother’s eyes said “Yes.” Then rose +the Spartan mother, and put a kind, firm hand upon the daughter’s arm and +asked: “But Laura, my dear, my dear, you are not going back again, to +all–all that, are you?”</p> + +<p>“I am going home, mother,” the daughter replied.</p> + +<p>“But your self-respect, child?” quoted the Spartan, and the +daughter made answer simply: “I must go home, mother.”</p> + +<p>When Laura Van Dorn entered her home she began the evening’s routine, +somewhat from habit, and yet many things she did she grimly forced herself to +do. She waited dinner for her husband. She called his office vainly upon the +telephone. She and Lila ate alone; often they had eaten alone before. And as the +evening grew from twilight to dark, she put the child to bed, left one of the +maids in the child’s room, lighted an electric reading lamp in her +husband’s room, turned on the hall lamp, instructed the maid to tell the +Judge that his wife was with her father helping him with a wounded man, and then +she went out through the open, hospitable door.</p> + +<p>But all that night, as she sat beside the restless man, who writhed in his +pain even under the drug, she went over and over her problem. She recognized +that a kind of finality had come into her relations with her husband. In the +rush of events that had followed his departure, a period, definite and <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_244'></a>244</span>conclusive seemed to have +been put after the whole of her life’s adventures with Tom Van Dorn. She +did not cry, nor feel the want of tears, yet there were moments when she +instinctively put her hands before her face as in a shame. She saw the man in +perspective for the first time clearly. She had not let herself take a candid +inventory of him before. But that night all her subconscious impressions rose +and framed themselves into conscious reflections. And then she knew that his +relation with her from the beginning had been a reflex of his view of +life–of his material idea of the scheme of things.</p> + +<p>As the night wore on, she kept her nurse’s chart and did the things to +be done for her patient. For the time her emotions were spent. Her heart was +empty. Even for the shattered and suffering body before her, the tousled red +head, the half-closed, pain-bleared eyes, the lips that shielded the clenched +teeth–she felt none of that tenderness that comes from deep sympathy and +moving pity. At dawn she went home with her body worn and weary, and after the +sun was up she slept.</p> + +<p>Scarcely had the morning stir begun in the Nesbit household, before Morty +Sands appeared, clad in the festive raiment of the moment–white ducks and +a shirtwaist and a tennis racket, to be exact. He asked for the Doctor and when +the Doctor came, Morty cocked his sparrow like head and paused a moment after +the greetings of the morning were spoken. After his inquiries for Grant had been +satisfied, Morty still lingered and cocked his head.</p> + +<p>“Of course, Doctor,” Morty began diffidently, “and +naturally you know more of it than I–but–” he got no further +for a second. Then he gathered courage from the Doctor’s bland face to +continue: “Well, Doctor, last night at Brotherton’s, Tom came in and +George and Nate Perry and Kyle and Captain Morton and I were there; and +Tom–well, Doctor–Tom said something–”</p> + +<p>“He did–did he?” cut in the Doctor. “The dirty dog! +So he broke the news to the Amen Corner!”</p> + +<p>“Now, Doctor, we all know Tom,” Morty explained. “We know +Tom: but George said Laura was helping with Grant, and I just thought, certainly +I have no wish to intrude, <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_245'></a>245</span>but I just thought maybe I could relieve her myself +by sitting up with Grant, if–”</p> + +<p>The Doctor’s kindly face twitched with pain, and he cried: +“Morty, you’re a boy in a thousand! But can’t you see that +just at this time if I had half a dozen cases like Grant’s, they would be +a God’s mercy for her!”</p> + +<p>Morty could not control his voice. So he turned and tripped down the steps +and flitted away. As Morty disappeared, George Brotherton came roaring up the +hill, but no word of what Van Dorn had said in the Amen Corner did Mr. +Brotherton drop. He asked about Grant, inquired about Laura, and released a +crashing laugh at some story of stuttering Kyle Perry trying to tell deaf John +Kollander about the Venezuelan dispute. “Kyle,” said George, +“pronounces Venezuela like an atomizer!” Captain Morton rested from +his loved employ, let the egg-beater of the hour languish, and permitted stock +in his new Company to slump in a weary market while he camped on the Nesbit +veranda during the day to greet and disperse such visitors as Mrs. Nesbit deemed +of sufficiently small social consequence to receive the Captain’s +ministrations. At twilight the Captain greeted Laura coming from her home for +her night watch, and with a rather elaborate scenario of amenities, told her how +his Household Horse company was prospering, how his egg beater was going, and +asked after Lila’s health, omitting mention of the Judge with an easy +nonchalance which struck terror to the woman’s heart–terror, lest +the Captain and through him all men should know of her trouble.</p> + +<p>But deeper than the terror in her heart at what the Captain might know and +tell was the pain at the thing she knew herself–that the home which she +loved was dead. However proudly it might stand before the world, for the passing +hour or day or year, she knew, and the knowledge sickened her to her +soul’s death, that the home was doomed. She kept thinking of it as a tree, +whose roots were cut; a tree whose leaves were still green, whose comeliness +still pleased the eye but whose ugly, withered branches soon must stand out to +affront the world. And sorrowing for the beauty that was doomed she went to her +work. All night with her father she ministered to the tortured man, but in the +morning she slipped <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_246'></a>246</span>away to her home again hoping her numb vain hope, +through another weary journey of the sun.</p> + +<p>The third night found Grant Adams restless, wakeful, anxious to talk. The +opiates had left him. She saw that he was fully himself, even though conscious +of his tortured body. “Laura,” he cried in a sick man’s feeble +voice, “I want to tell you something.”</p> + +<p>“Not now, Grant,” she returned quietly. “I’d rather +hear it to-morrow.”</p> + +<p>“No,” he returned stubbornly, “I want to tell you +now.”</p> + +<p>He paused as if to catch his breath. “For I want you to know I’m +the happiest man in the world.” He set his teeth firmly. The muscles of +his jaw worked, and he smiled up at her. He questioned her with his blue eyes, +and after some assent had come into her face–or he thought it had, he went +on:</p> + +<p>“There’s a God in Israel, Laura–I know it way down in me +and all through me.”</p> + +<p>A crash of pain stopped him. He grinned at the groan, which the pain wrenched +from him, and whispered, “There’s a God in Israel–for He gave +me my chance. I saw the great white killing thing coming to do for Denny Hogan. +How I’d waited for that chance. Then when it came, I wanted to run. But I +didn’t run. There’s something in you bigger than fear. So when God +gave me my chance He put the–the–the–” pain wrenched him +again, and he said weakly, “the–I’ve got to say it, +you’ll understand–He put the–the guts in me to take +it.”</p> + +<p>When she left him a few minutes later he seemed to be asleep. But when Doctor +Nesbit came into the room an hour later Grant was wide-eyed and smiling, and +seemed so much better that as a reward of merit the Doctor brought in the +morning paper and told Grant he could look at the headings for five minutes. +There it was that he first realized what a lot of business lay ahead of him, +learning to live as a one-armed man. The Doctor saw his patient worrying with +the paper, and started to help.</p> + +<p>“No, Doctor,” said the young man, “I must begin sometime, +and now’s as good a time as any.” So he struggled with the unwieldy +sheets of paper, and finally managed to <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_247'></a>247</span>get his morning’s reading done. When the time +was up, he handed back his paper saying, “I see Tom Van Dorn is going on +his vacation–does that mean Laura, too?” The Doctor shook his head; +and by way of taking the subject away from Laura he said: “Now about your +damages, Grant–you know I’ll stand by you with the Company, +don’t you–I’m no Van Dorn, if I am Company doctor. You ought +to have good damages–for–”</p> + +<p>“Damages! damages!” cried Grant, “why, Doctor, I +can’t get damages. I wasn’t working for the smelter when it +happened. I was around organizing the men. And I don’t want damages. This +arm,” he looked lovingly at the stump beside him, “is worth more in +my business than a million dollars. For it proves to me that I am not afraid to +go clear through for my faith, and it proves me to the men! Damages! +damages?” he said grimly. “Why, Doctor, if Uncle Dan and the other +owners up town here only know what this stump will cost them, they would sue me +for damages! I tell you those men in the mine there saved my life. Ever since +then I’ve been trying to repay them, and here comes this chance to turn in +a little on account, to bind the bargain, and now the men know how seriously I +hold the debt. Damages?” There was just a hint of fanaticism in his laugh; +the Doctor looked at Grant quickly, then he sniffed, “Fine talk, Grant, +fine talk for the next world, but it won’t buy shoes for the baby in +this,” and he turned away impatiently and went into a world of reality, +leaving Grant Adams to enjoy his Utopia.</p> + +<p>That morning after breakfast, when Laura had gone home, the Doctor and his +wife sitting alone went into the matter further. “Of course,” said +the Doctor, “she’ll see that he has gone away. But when should we +tell her what he has done?”</p> + +<p>“Doctor,” said the mother, “you leave his letter here where +I can get it. I’m going over there and pack everything that rightfully may +be called hers–I mean her dresses and trinkets–and such things as +have in them no particular memory of him. They shall come home. Then I’ll +lock up the house.”</p> + +<p>The Doctor squinted up his eyes thoughtfully and said <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_248'></a>248</span>slowly, “Well, that seems kind. I +don’t suppose you need read her the whole letter. Just tell her he is +going to ask for a divorce–tell her it’s incompatibility. But his +letter isn’t important.” The Doctor sighed.</p> + +<p>“Grant ought really to stay here another week–maybe we can +stretch it to ten days–and let her have all the responsibility +she’ll take. It’ll help her over the first bridge. Kenyon is taking +care of Lila–I suppose?” The Doctor rose, stood by his wife and said +as he found her hand:</p> + +<p>“Poor Laura–poor Laura–and Lila! You know when I had her +down town with me yesterday, in the hallway leading to Joe Calvin’s +office, she met Tom–” The Doctor looked away for a moment. “It +was pretty tough–her little heartbreak when he went by her without taking +her up!” The wife did not reply. The husband with his arm about her walked +toward the door.</p> + +<p>“You can’t tell me, my dear, that Tom isn’t paying–I +know how that sort of thing gets under his skin–he’s too sensitive +not to imagine all it means to the child.” Mrs. Nesbit’s face +hardened and her husband saw her bitterness. “I know, my dear–I know +how you feel–I feel all that, and yet in my very heart I’m sorry for +poor Tom. He’s swapping substance for shadow so recklessly–not only +in this, not merely with Laura–but with +everything–everything.”</p> + +<p>“Good Lord, Jim, I don’t see how you can agonize over a wool-dyed +scoundrel like that–perhaps you have some tears for that Fenn hussy, +too!”</p> + +<p>“Well,” squeaked the Doctor soberly–“I knew her +father–a lecherous old beast who brought her up without restraint or +morals–with a greedy philosophy pounded into her by example every day of +her life until she was seventeen years old. There’s something to be +said–even for her, my dear–even for her.”</p> + +<p>“Well, Jim Nesbit,” answered his wife, “I’ll go a +long way with you in your tomfoolery, but so long as I’ve got to draw the +line somewhere I draw it right there.”</p> + +<p>The Doctor looked at the floor. “I suppose so–” he sighed, +then lifted his head and said: “I was just trying to think of all the +sorrows that come into the world, of all <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_249'></a>249</span>the tragedies I ever knew, and I have concluded that +this tragedy of divorce when it comes like this–as it has come to our +daughter–is the greatest tragedy in the world. To love as she loved and to +find every anchor to which she tied the faith of her life rotten, to have her +heart seared with faithlessness–to see her child–her flesh and blood +scorned, to have her very soul spat upon–that’s the essence of +sorrow, my dear.”</p> + +<p>He looked up into her eyes, bent to kiss her hand, and after he had picked up +his cane and his hat from the rack, toddled down the walk to the street, a sad, +thoughtful, worried little man, white-clad and serene to outward view, who had +not even a whistle nor a vagrant tune under his breath to console him.</p> + +<p>That day, after her father’s insistence, Laura Van Dorn changed from +the night watch to the day nurse, and from that day on for ten days, she +ministered to Grant Adams’ wants. Mechanically she read to him from such +books as the house afforded–Tolstoi–Ibsen, Hardy, Howells,–but +she was shut away from the meaning of what she read and even from the comments +of the man under her care, by the consideration of her own problems. For to +Laura Van Dorn it was a time of anxious doubt, of sad retrogression, of inner +anguish. In some of the books were passages she had marked and read to her +husband; and such pages calling up his dull comprehension of their beauty, or +bringing back his scoffing words, or touching to the quick a hurt place in her +heart, taxed her nerves heavily. But during the time while she sat by the +injured man’s bedside, she was glad in her heart of one thing–that +she had an excuse for avoiding the people who called.</p> + +<p>As Grant grew stronger–as it became evident that he must go soon, the +woman’s heart shrank from meeting the town, and she clung to each duty of +the man’s convalescence hungrily. She knew she must face life, that she +must have some word for her friends about her tragedy. She felt that in going +away, in suing for the divorce himself, her husband had made the break +irrevocable. There was no resentment nor malice toward him in her heart. Yet the +future seemed hopelessly black and terrible to her.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_250'></a>250</span>The afternoon +before Grant Adams was to leave the Nesbit home he was allowed to come down +stairs, and he sat with her upon the side porch, all screened and protected by +vines that led to her father’s office. Laura’s finger was in a book +they had been reading–it was “The Pillars of Society.” The day +was one of those exquisite days in mid-June, and after a cooling rain the air +was clear and seemed to put joy into one’s veins.</p> + +<p>“How modern he is–how American–how like Harvey,” said +the young man. “Ibsen might have lived right here in this town, and +written that,” he added. He started to raise his right arm, but a twinge +of pain reminded him that the stump was bound, so he raised his left and +cried:</p> + +<p>“And I tell you, Laura–that’s what I’m on earth to +fight–the whole infernal system of pocket-picking and poor-robbing, and +public gouging that we permit under the profit system.” The woman’s +thoughts were upon her own sorrow, but she called herself back to smile and +reply:</p> + +<p>“All right, Grant–I’m with you. We may have to draft father +and commandeer George Brotherton, and start out as a pirate crew–but +I’m with you.”</p> + +<p>“Let me tell you something,” said the man. “I’ve not +been loafing for the past two years. I’ve got Harvey–the men in the +mines and smelter, I mean, fairly well unionized, but the unions are +nothing–nothing ultimate–they are only temporary.”</p> + +<p>“Well,” returned the woman, soberly, “that’s +something.”</p> + +<p>The man made no answer. With his free hand he was ruffling his red hair, and +she could see the muscles of his jaw working, and she felt his great mouth +harden as he flashed his blue eyes upon her. “Laura,” he cried, +“they may whip us this year. For a while they may scare the men into +voting for prosperity, but as sure as we both live we shall see these times and +these issues and these men who are promoting this devilish conspiracy eternally +damned–all of them–the issues, the times and the men who are +leading. And I don’t want to hurt you, Laura, but,” he added +solemnly, “your husband must take his punishment with the rest.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_251'></a>251</span>They sat mute, +then each heard the plaintive cry of a child running through the house. +“She is looking for me,” said Laura. In a moment a little wet-eyed +girl was in her mother’s arms, crying:</p> + +<p>“I want my daddy–my dear daddy–I want him to come +home–where is he?”</p> + +<p>She sobbed in her mother’s arms and held up her little face to look +earnestly into the beautiful face above her, as she cried, “Is he +gone–Annie Sands’ new mamma says my papa’s never coming +back–Oh, I want my daddy–I want to go home.”</p> + +<p>She continued calling him and sobbing, and the mother rose to take the child +away.</p> + +<p>“Laura!” cried Grant, in a passionate question. He saw the +weeping child and the grief-stricken face of the mother. In an instant he held +out his bony left hand to her and said gently: “God help you–God +help you.”</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_252'></a>252</span><a id='link_24'></a>CHAPTER XXIV<br /><span class='h2fs'>IN WHICH THE DEVIL FORMALLY TAKES THE TWO HINDERMOST AND CLOSES AN ACCOUNT IN HIS LEDGER</span></h2> + +<p>Harvey tried sincerely to believe in Tom Van Dorn up to the very day when it +happened. For the town had accepted him gladly and unanimously as its most +distinguished citizen. But when the town read in the <i>Times</i> one November +day after he had come home from his political campaign through the east for +sound money and the open mills–a campaign in which Harvey had seen him +through the tinted glasses of the Harvey <i>Daily Times</i> as one of the men +who had saved the country–when the town read that cold paragraph +beginning: “A decree of divorce was issued to-day to Judge Thomas Van +Dorn, from his wife, Mrs. Laura Nesbit Van Dorn, upon the ground of +incompatibility of temperament by Judge protem Calvin in the district +court,” and ending with these words: “Mrs. Van Dorn declined through +her attorney to participate in a division of the property upon any terms and +will live for the present with her daughter, aged five, at the home of Dr. and +Mrs. James Nesbit on Elm Street”–when the town read that paragraph, +Harvey closed its heart upon Thomas Van Dorn.</p> + +<p>Only one other item was needed to steel the heart of Harvey against its idol, +and that item they found upon another page. It read, “Wanted, pupils for +the piano–Mrs. Laura Van Dorn, Quality Hill, Elm Street.”</p> + +<p>Those items told the whole story of the deed that Thomas Van Dorn had done. +If he had felt bees sting before he got his decree, he should have felt vipers +gnawing at his vitals afterward.</p> + +<p>But he was free–the burden of matrimony was lifted. He felt that the +whole world of women was his now for the choosing, and of all that world, he +turned in wanton fancy <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_253'></a>253</span>to the beckoning arms of Margaret Fenn. But the +feeling of freedom, the knowledge that he could speak to any woman as he chose +and no one could gainsay him legally, the consciousness that he had no ties +which the law recognized–and with him law was the synonym of +morality–the exuberant sense of relief from a bondage that was oppressive +to him, overbore all the influence of the town’s spirit of wrath in the +air about him.</p> + +<p>As for the morality of the town and what he regarded as its prudery–he +scorned it. He believed he could live it down; he said in his heart that it was +merely a matter of a few weeks, a few months, or a few years at most, before +they would have some fresh ox to gore and forget all about him. He was sure that +he could play upon the individual self-interest of the leaders of the community +to make them respect him and ignore what he had done. But what he had done, did +not bother him much. It was done.</p> + +<p>He seemed to be free, yet was he free?</p> + +<p>Now Thomas Van Dorn was thirty-eight years old that autumn. Whether he loved +the woman he had abandoned or not, she was a part of his life. Counting the +courtship during which he and this woman had been associated closely, nearly ten +years of his life, half of the years of his manhood–and that half the most +active and effective part, had been spent with her. A million threads of memory +in his brain led to her; when he remembered any important event in his life +during those ten years, always the chain of associated thought led back to the +image of her. There she was, fixed in his life; there she smiled at him through +every hour of those ten years of their life, married or as lovers together.</p> + +<p>For whom God had joined, not Joseph Calvin, not Joseph Calvin, sitting as +Judge protem, not Joseph Calvin vested with all the authority of the great +commonwealth in which he lived, could put asunder. That was curious. At times +Thomas Van Dorn was conscious of this phenomenon, that he was free, yet bound, +and that while there was no God, and the law was the final word, in all +considerable things, some way the brain, or the mind that is fettered to the +brain, or the soul that is built upon the aspect of the mind fettered to the +brain, held him tethered to the past.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_254'></a>254</span>For our lives +are not material, whatever our bodies may be. Our lives are the accumulations of +consciousness, the assembling of our memories, our affections, our judgments, +our aspirations, our weaknesses, our strength–the vast sum of all our +impressions, good or bad, made upon a material plate called the brain. The brain +is of the dust. The picture–which is a human life–is of the spirit. +And the spirit is of God. And when by whatever laws of chance or greed, or high +purpose or low desire two lives are joined until the cement of years has united +the myriads of daily sensations that make up a segment of these lives, they are +thus joined in the spirit forever.</p> + +<p>Now Thomas Van Dorn went about his free life day by day, glorying in his +liberty. But strands of his old life, floating idly and unnoticed through +minutes of his hourly existence, kept tripping him and bothering him. His meals, +his clothes, his fixed habits of work, the manifold creature comforts that he +prized–all the associations of his life with home–came to him a +thousand, thousand times and cut little knife-edged rents in the fabric of his +new freedom.</p> + +<p>And he would have said a year before that it was physically impossible for +one child–one small, fair-haired child of five, with pleading face and +eager eyes–to meet a man so often in a given period of time, as Lila met +him. At first he had avoided her; he would duck into stores; hurry up stairways, +or hide himself in groups of men on the sidewalk when he saw her coming. Then +there came a time when he knew that the little figure was slipping across the +street to avoid him because his presence shamed her with her playmates.</p> + +<p>He had never in his heart believed that the child meant much to him. She was +merely part of the chain that held him, and yet now that she was not of him or +his interests, it seemed to Thomas Van Dorn that she made a piteous figure upon +the street, and that the sadness that flitted over her face when she saw him, in +some way reproached him, and yet–what right had she in him–or why +should he let her annoy him, or disturb his peace and the happiness that his +freedom brought. Materially he noticed that she was well fed, well dressed, and +he knew that she was well housed. What more could she have–but that was +absurd. He <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_255'></a>255</span>couldn’t wreck his life for the mere chance +that a child should be petted a little. There was no sense in such a +proposition. And Thomas Van Dorn’s life was regulated by +sense–common sense–horse sense, he called it.</p> + +<p>It is curious–and scores of Tom Van Dorn’s friends wondered at it +then and have marveled at it since, that in the six months which elapsed between +his divorce and his remarriage, he did not fathom the shallowness and pretense +of Margaret Fenn. But he did not fathom them. Her glib talk taken mechanically +from cheap philosophy about being what you think you are, about shifting moral +responsibility onto good intentions, about living for the present and ignoring +the past with the uncertain future, took him in completely. She used to read +books to him, sitting in the glow of her red lamp-shade–a glow that +brought out hidden hints of her splendid feline body, books which soothed his +vanity and dulled his mind. In that day he fancied her his intellectual equal. +He thought her immensely strong-minded, and clear headed. He contrasted her in +thought with the wife he had put away, told Margaret that Laura was always +puling about duty and getting her conscience pinched and whining about it. They +agreed sitting there under the lamp, that they had been mates in some far-off +jungle, that they had been parted and had been seeking one another through eons, +and that when their souls met one of the equations of the physical universe was +solved, and that their happiness was the adjustment of ages of wrong. She +thought him the most brilliant of men; he deemed her the most wonderful of +women, and the devil checked off two drunken fools in his inventory.</p> + +<p>It was in those halcyon days of his courtship of Margaret Fenn, when he felt +the pride of conquest of another soul and body strongly upon him, that Judge +Thomas Van Dorn began to acquire–or perhaps to exhibit +noticeably–the turkey gobbler gait, that ever afterward went with him, and +became famous as the Van Dorn Strut. It was more than mere knee +action–though knee action did characterize it prominently. The strut +properly speaking began at the tip of his hat–his soft, black hat that sat +so cockily upon his head. His head was thrown back as though he had been pulled +by a <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_256'></a>256</span>check-rein. +His shoulders swung jauntily–more than jauntily, call it +insolently–as he walked, and his trunk swayed with some stateliness as his +proud hands and legs performed their grand functions. But withal he bowed and +smiled–with much condescension–and lifted his hat high from his +handsome head, and when women passed he doffed it like a flag in a formal +salute, and while his body spelled complacence, his face never lost the charm +and grace and courtesy that drew men to him, and held them in spite of his +faults.</p> + +<p>One bitter cold December day, when the wind was blowing sleet down Market +Street, and hardly a passer-by darkened the doors of the stores, the handsome +Judge sailed easily into the Amen Corner, fumbled over the magazines, picked out +a pocketful of cigars from the case, without calling Mr. Brotherton who was in +the rear of the store working upon his accounts, lighted a cigar, and stood +looking out of the frosted window at the deserted gray windy street, utterly +ignoring the presence of Captain Morton who was pretending to be deeply buried +in the <i>National Tribune</i>, but who was watching the Judge and trying to +summon courage to speak. The Judge unbuttoned his modish gray coat that nearly +reached his heels and put his hands behind him for a moment, as he puffed and +pondered–apparently debating something.</p> + +<p>“Judge,” said the Captain suddenly and then the Captain’s +courage fell and he added, “Bad morning.”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” acquiesced the Judge from his abstraction. In a long pause +that followed, Captain Morton swallowed at least a peck of Adam’s apples +that kept coming up to choke him, and then he cleared his throat and spoke:</p> + +<p>“Tom–Tom Van Dorn–look around here.” He lowered his +voice and went on, “I want to talk to you.” The Captain edged over +on the bench.</p> + +<p>“Sit down here a minute–I’ve been wanting to see you for a +month.” Captain Morton spoke all but in a whisper. The Adam’s apple +kept strangling him. The Judge saw that the old man was wrestling with some +heavy problem. He turned, and looking down at the little wizened man, asked: +“Well, Captain?”</p> + +<p>The Captain moistened his lips, patted his toes on the <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_257'></a>257</span>floor, and twirled his fingers. He took +a deep breath and said: “Tom, I’ve known you since you were +twenty-one years old. Do you remember how we took you in the first night you +came to town–me and mother? before the hotel was done, eh?” A smile +on the Judge’s face emboldened the Captain. “You’ve got +brains, Tom–lots of brains–I often say Tom Van Dorn will sit in the +big chair at the White House yet–what say? Well, Tom–” Now +there was the place to say it. But the Captain’s Adam’s apple bobbed +convulsively in a second silence. He decided to take a fresh start: “Tom, +you’re a sensible man–? I says to myself I’m going to have a +plain talk to that man. He’s smart; he’ll appreciate it. Just the +other day–George back there, and John Kollander and Dick Bowman and old +man Adams, and Joe Calvin, and Kyle Perry were in here talking and I +says–Gentlemen, that boy’s got brains–lots of brains–eh? +and he’s a prince; ’y gory a prince, that’s what Tom Van Dorn is, +and I can go to him–I can talk to him–what say?” The Captain +was on the brink again. Slowly there mantled over the face of the prince the +gray scum of a fear. And the scar on his forehead flashed crimson. The Captain +saw that he had been anticipated. He began patting his toes on the floor. Judge +Van Dorn’s face was set in a cement of resistance.</p> + +<p>“Well?” barked the Judge. The little man’s lips dried, he +smiled weakly, and licked his lips and said: “It was about my +sprocket–my Household Horse–I says, Tom Van Dorn understands it if +you gentlemen don’t and some day him and me will talk it over and ’y +gory–he’ll buy some stock–he’ll back me.”</p> + +<p>The Captain’s nervous voice had lifted and he was talking so that the +clerk and Mr. Brotherton both in the back part of the store might hear. The +cement of the Judge’s countenance cracked in a smile, but the gray mantle +of fear still fluttered across his eyes.</p> + +<p>“All right, Captain,” he answered, “some other +time–not now–I’m in a hurry,” and went strutting out +into the storm.</p> + +<p>Mr. Brotherton with his moon face shining into the ledger laughed a great +clacking laugh and got up from his stool to <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_258'></a>258</span>come to the cigar case, saying, “Well, +say–Cap–if you’d a’ went on with what you started out to +say, I’d a’ give fi’ dollars–say, I’d a’ +made it ten dollars–say!” And he laughed again a laugh that seemed +to set all the celluloid in the plush covered, satin lined toilet cases on the +new counter a-flutter. He walked down the store with elephantine tread, as he +laughed, and then the door opened and Dr. Nesbit came in. Five months had put a +perceptible bow into his shoulders, and an occasional cast of uncertainty into +his twinkling eyes.</p> + +<p>Mr. Brotherton called half down the store, “Say, Doc–you should +have been here a minute ago, and seen the Captain bristle up to Tom Van Dorn +about his love affair and then get cold feet and try to sell him some Household +Horse stock.” The Captain grinned sheepishly, the Doctor patted the +Captain affectionately on the shoulder and chirped.</p> + +<p>“So you went after him, did you, Ezry?” The loose skin of his +face twitched, “Poor Tom–packing up his career in a petticoat and +going forth to fuss with God–no sense–no sense,” piped the +Doctor, glancing over the headlines in his <i>Star</i>. The Captain, still +clinging to the subject that had been too much for him, remarked: +“Doc–don’t you think some one ought to tell him?” The +Doctor put down his paper, stroked his pompadour and looking over his glasses, +answered:</p> + +<p>“Ezry–if some one hasn’t told him–no one ever can. I +tried to tell him once myself. I talked pretty middlin’ plain, +Ezry.” He was speaking softly, then he piped out, “But what a +man’s heart doesn’t tell him, his friends can’t. Still, Ezry, +a strong friend is often a good tonic for a weak heart.” The Doctor looked +at the Captain, then concluded: “That was a brave, kind act you tried to +do–and I warrant you got it to him–some way. He’s a keen +one–Ezry–a mighty keen one; and he understood.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Brotherton went back to his ledger; the Doctor plunged into the +<i>Star</i>, the Captain folded up his newspaper and began studying the trinkets +in the holiday stock in the show case under the new books. A comb and brush with +tortoise shell backs seemed to arrest his eyes. “Doc,” he mused, +“Christmas never comes that I don’t think of–her–mother! +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_259'></a>259</span>I guess I’d +just about be getting that comb and brush for her.” The Doctor casually +looked through the show case and saw what had attracted the Captain. +“Doc,” again the Captain spoke, bending over the case with his face +turned from his auditor: “You’re a doctor and are supposed to know +lots. Tell me this: How does a man break it to a woman when he wants to leave +her–eh?” Without waiting for an answer the Captain went on: +“And this is what puzzles me–how does he get used to another +one–with that one still living? You tell me that. I’d think +he’d be scared all the time that he would do something the way his first +wife had trained him not to. Of course,” meditated the Captain, +“right at first, I suppose a man may feel a little coltish and all. But, +Doc, honest and true, when mother first left I kind of thought–well, I +used to enjoy swearing a little before we was married, and I says to myself I +guess I may as well have a damn or two as I go along–but, Doc, I +can’t do it. Eh? Every time I set off the fireworks–she fizzles; I +can see mother looking at me that way.” The old man went on earnestly: +“Tell me, Doc, you’re a smart man–how Tom Van Dorn can do it. +What say? ’Y gory I’d be scared–right now! And if I thought I had to +get used all over again to another woman, and her ways of doing things–say +of setting her bread Friday night, and having a hot brick for her feet and +putting her hair in her teeth when she done it up, and dosing the children with +sassafras tea in spring–I’d just naturally take to the woods, eh? +And as for learning over again all the peculiarities of a new set of kin and +what they all like to eat and died of, and how they all treated their first +wives, and who they married–Doc? Doc?” The Captain shook a dubious +and doleful head. “Fourteen years, Doc,” sighed the Captain. +“Pretty happy years–children coming on,–trouble visiting us +with the rest; sorrow–happiness–skimping and saving; her a-raking +and scraping to make a good appearance, and make things do; me trying one thing +and another, to make our fortune and her always kind and encouraging, and +hopeful; death standing between us and both of us sitting there by the kitchen +stove trying to make up some kind of prayer to comfort the other. Fourteen <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_260'></a>260</span> years of it, +Doc–her and me, and her so patient, so +forbearing–Doc–you’re a smart man–tell me, Doc, how did +Tom Van Dorn get around to actually doing it? What say?”</p> + +<p>The Doctor waved his folded paper in an impatient gesture at the Captain.</p> + +<p>“We are all products of our yesterdays, Ezry; we are what we were, and +we will be what we were. Man is queer. Sometimes out of the depth of him a god +rises–sometimes it’s a beast. I’ve sat by the bed and seen +life gasp into being; I’ve stood in the ranks and fought with men as you +have, and have seen them fight and then again have seen them turn tail like +cowards. I have sat by the bed and seen life sigh into the dust. What is +life–what is the God that quickens and directs us,–why and how and +whence?–Ezry Morton, man–I don’t know. And as for +Tom–into that roaring hell of lust and lying and cheap parching pride +where he is plunging–why, Ezry, I could almost cry for the fool; the +damned beforehand fool!”</p> + +<p>As the Doctor went whistling homeward through the storm that winter night he +wondered how many more months the black spell of grief and despair would cover +his daughter. Five months had passed since that summer day when her home had +fallen. He knew how tragic her struggle was to fit herself into her new +environment. She was dwelling, but not living in the Nesbit home. It was the +Nesbit home; a kindly abode, but not her home. Her home was gone. The severed +roots of her life kept stirring in her memory–in her heart, and outwardly, +her spirit showed a withered and unhappy being, trying to rebuild life, to +readjust itself after the shock that all but kills. The Doctor realized what an +agony the new growth was bringing, and that night, stirred somewhat to somber +meditation by Captain Morton’s reflections, the Doctor’s tune was a +doleful little tune as he whistled into the wind. Excepting Kenyon Adams, who +still came daily bringing his violin and was rapidly learning all that she knew +of the theory of music, Laura Van Dorn had no interest in life outside of her +family. When the Adamses came to dinner as frequently they came–Laura +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_261'></a>261</span>seemed to feel no +constraint with them. Grant had even made her laugh with stories of Dick +Bowman’s struggles to be a red card socialist, and to vote the straight +socialist ticket and still keep in ward politics in which he had been a local +heeler for nearly twenty years. Laura was interested in the organization of the +unions, and though the Doctor carped at it and made fun of Grant, it was largely +to stir up a discussion in which his daughter would take a vital interest.</p> + +<p>Grant was getting something more than a local reputation in labor circles as +an agitator, and was in demand as an organizer in different parts of the valley. +He worked at his trade more or less, having rigged up a steel device on the +stump of his right forearm that would hold a saw, a plane or a hammer. But he +was no longer a boss carpenter at the mines. His devotion to the men and in the +work they were doing seemed to the Nesbits to awaken in their daughter a new +interest in life, and so they made many obvious excuses to have the Adamses +about the Nesbit home.</p> + +<p>Kenyon was growing into a pale, dreamy child with wonderful eyes, lustrous, +deep, thoughtful and kind. He was music mad, and read all the poetry in the +Nesbit library–and the Doctor loved poetry as many men love wine. +Hero-tales and mythology, romances and legends Kenyon read day after day between +his hours of practice, and for diversion the boy sat before the fire or in the +sun of a chilly afternoon, retailing them in such language as little Lila could +understand. So in the black night of sorrow that enveloped her, Laura Nesbit +often spent an hour with Grant Adams, and talked of much that was near her +heart.</p> + +<p>He was strong, sometimes she thought him coarse and raw. He talked the jargon +of the agitator with the enthusiasm of a dervish and the vernacular of the mine +and the shop and the forge. But in him she could see the fire of a mad consuming +passion for humanity.</p> + +<p>During those days of shame and misery, when the old interests of life were +dying in her heart, interests upon which she had built since her +childhood–the interests of home, of children, of wifehood and motherhood, +to which in joy she <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_262'></a>262</span>had consecrated herself, she listened often to Grant +Adams. Until there came into her life slowly and feebly, and almost without her +conscious realization of it, a new vision, a new hope, a new path toward +usefulness that makes for the only happiness.</p> + +<p>As the Doctor went whistling into the storm that December night, he went over +in his mind rather seriously the meaning and the direction and the final outcome +of those small, unconscious buddings of interest in social problems that he saw +putting forth in his daughter’s mind. Above everything else, he was not a +reformer. He hated the reformer type. But he preferred to see her interested in +the work of Grant Adams–even though he considered Grant mildly cracked and +felt that his growing power in the valley was dangerous–rather than to see +her under the black pall that enveloped her.</p> + +<p>It was early in the evening as the Doctor went up the hill. He passed Judge +Van Dorn, striding along and saw him turn into Congress Street to visit his lady +love. The Judge carried a large roll of architect’s plans under his arm. +The Doctor nodded to the Judge, and the Judge rather proud that he was free and +did not have to slink to his lady’s bower, returned a gracious good +evening, and his tall, straight figure went prancing down the street. When the +Doctor entered his home, he found Laura and Lila sitting by the open fire. The +child was in her night gown and they were discussing Santa Claus. Lila was +saying:</p> + +<p>“Kenyon told me Santa Claus was your father?”</p> + +<p>Before the mother could reply the little voice went on:</p> + +<p>“I wonder if my Santa Claus will come this year–will he, +mother?–Why doesn’t father ever come to us, mother–why +doesn’t he play with me when I see him?”</p> + +<p>Now there is the story of the absent one that parents tell–the legend +about God and Heaven and the angels–a beautiful and comforting legend it +is for small minds, and being merciful, God may in His own way bring us to +realize it, in deed and in truth. When the lonely father or the broken hearted +mother tells the desolate child that legend, childhood finds surcease there for +its sorrow. But when there is no God, no Heaven, no angels to whom the absent +one has <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_263'></a>263</span>gone, what +then do deserted mothers say?–or dishonored fathers answer? What surcease +for its sorrow has the little lonely, aching heart in that sad case? What then, +“ye merry gentlemen that nothing may dismay”?</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_264'></a>264</span><a id='link_25'></a>CHAPTER XXV<br /><span class='h2fs'>IN WHICH WE SEE TWO TEMPLES AND THE CONTENTS THEREOF</span></h2> + +<p>It was an old complaint in Harvey that the Harvey <i>Tribune</i> was too much +of a bulletin of the doings of the Adams family and their friends. But when a +man sets all the type on a paper, writes all the editorials and gets all the +news he may be pardoned if he takes first such news as is near his hand. Thus in +the May that followed events set down in the last chapter we find in the +<i>Tribune</i> a few items of interest to the readers of this narrative. We +learn for instance that Captain Ezra Morton who is introducing the Nonesuch +Sewing Machine, paid his friends in Prospect school district a visit; that +Jasper Adams has been promoted to superintendent of deliveries in Wright & +Perry’s store; that Kenyon Adams entertained his friends in the Fifth +Grade of the South Harvey schools with a violin solo on the last day of school; +that Grant Adams had been made assistant to the secretary of the National +Building Trades Association in South Harvey; that Mr. George Brotherton with +Miss Emma Morton and Martha and Ruth had enjoyed a pleasant visit with the +Adamses Sunday afternoon and had resumed an enjoyable buggy ride after partaking +of a chicken dinner. In the editorial column were some reflections evidently in +Mr. Left’s most lucid style and a closing paragraph containing this: +“Happiness and character,” said the Peach Blow Philosopher, +“are inseparable: but how easy it is to be happy in a great, beautiful +house; or to be unhappy if it comes to that in a great, beautiful house: +Environment may influence character; but all the good are not poor, nor all the +rich bad. Therefore, the Peach Blow Philosopher takes to the woods. He is +willing to leave something to the Lord Almighty and the continental congress. +Selah!”</p> + +<p>As Dr. Nesbit sat reading the items above set forth upon <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_265'></a>265</span>the broad new veranda of the residence +that he was so proud to call his home, he smiled. It was late afternoon. He had +done a hard day’s work–some of it among the sick, some of it among +the needy–the needy in the Doctor’s bright lexicon being those who +tried to persuade him that they needed political offices. “I cheer up the +sick, encourage the needy, pray for ’em both, and sometimes for their own +good have to lie to ’em all,” he used to say in that day when the +duties of his profession and the care of his station as a ruling boss in +politics were oppressing him. Dr. Nesbit played politics as a game. But he +played always to win.</p> + +<p>“Old Linen Pants is a bland old scoundrel,” declared Public +Opinion, about the corridors of the political hotel at the capital. “But +he is as ruthless as iron, as smooth as oil, and as bitter as poison when he +sets his head on a proposition. Buy?–he buys men in all the ways the devil +teaches them to sell–offices, power, honor, cash in hand, promises, +prestige–anything that a man wants, Old Linen Pants will trade for, and +then get that man. Humorous old devil, too,” quoth Public Opinion. +“Laughs, quotes scripture, throws in a little Greek philosophy, and knows +all the new stories, but never forgets whose play it is, nor what cards are +out.” Thus was he known to others.</p> + +<p>But as he remained longer and longer in the game, as his fourth term as state +Senator began to lengthen, the game here and there began to lose in his mouth +something of its earlier savor. That afternoon as he sat on the veranda +overlooking the lawn shaded by the elm trees of his greatest pride, Dr. Nesbit +was discoursing to Mrs. Nesbit, who was sewing and paid little heed to his +animadversions; it was a soliloquy rather than a conversation–a soliloquy +accompanied by an obligate of general mental disagreement from the wife of his +bosom, who expressed herself in sniffs and snorts and scornful staccato +interjections as the soliloquy ran on. Here are a few bars of it transcribed for +beginners:</p> + +<p>From the Doctor’s solo: “Heigh-ho–ho hum–Two United +States Senators, one slightly damaged Governor, marked down, five congressmen +and three liars, one supreme court justice, also a liar, a working interest in a +second, <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_266'></a>266</span>and a +slight equity in a third; organization of the Senate, speaker of the +house,–forty liars and thirty thieves–that’s my political +assets, my dear.”</p> + +<p>“I wish you’d quit politics, Doctor, and attend to your +practice,” this by way of accompaniment from Mrs. Nesbit. The Doctor was +in a playful and facetious mood that pleasant afternoon.</p> + +<p>He leaned back in his chair, reached up in the air with outstretched arms, +clapped his hands three times, gayly, kicked his shoe-heels three times at the +end of his short little legs, smiled and proceeded: “Liabilities of James +Nesbit, dealer in public grief, licensed dispenser of private joy, purveyor of +Something Equally Good, item one, forty-nine gentlemen who think they’ve +been promised thirty-six jobs–but they are mistaken, they have been told +only that I’ll do what I can for them–which is true; item two, three +hundred friends who want something and may ask at any minute; item three, +seventy-five men who will be or have been primed up by the loathed opposition to +demand jobs; item four, Tom Van Dorn who is as sure as guns to think in about a +year he has to have a vindication, by running for another term; item +five–”</p> + +<p>“He can’t have it,” from Mrs. Nesbit, and then the piping +voice went on:</p> + +<p>“Item six, a big, husky fight in Greeley county for the maharaja of +Harvey and the adjoining provinces.” A deep sigh rose from the Doctor, +then followed more clapping of hands and kicking of heels and some slapping of +suspenders, as the voices of Kenyon and Lila came into the veranda from the +lawn, and the Doctor cast up his accounts: “Let’s see +now–naught’s a naught and figure’s a figure and carry six, and +subtract the profits and multiply the trouble and you have a busted community. +Correct,” he piped, “Bedelia, my dear, observe a busted community. +Your affectionate lord and master, kind husband, indulgent father, good citizen +gone but not forgotten. How are the mighty fallen.”</p> + +<p>“Doctor,” snapped Mrs. Nesbit, “don’t be a fool; tell +me, James, will Tom Van Dorn want to run again?”</p> + +<p>Making a basket with his hands for the back of his head the Doctor answered +slowly, “Ho-ho-ho! Oh, I don’t <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_267'></a>267</span>know–I should say–yes. He’ll just +about have to run–for a Vindication.”</p> + +<p>“Well, you’ll not support him! I say you’ll not support +him,” Mrs. Nesbit decided, and the Doctor echoed blandly:</p> + +<p>“Then I’ll not support him. Where’s Laura?” he asked +gently.</p> + +<p>“She went down to South Harvey to see about that kindergarten +she’s been talking of. She seems almost cheerful about the way Kenyon is +getting on with his music. She says the child reads as well as she now and plays +everything on the violin that she can play on the piano. Doctor,” added +Mrs. Nesbit meditatively, “now about those oriental rugs we were going to +put upstairs–don’t you suppose we could take the money we were going +to put there and help Laura with that kindergarten? Perhaps she’d take a +real interest in life through those children down there.” The wife +hesitated and asked, “Would you do it?”</p> + +<p>The Doctor drummed his chair arm thoughtfully, then put his thumbs in his +suspenders. “Greater love than this hath no woman shown, my +dear–that she gives up oriental rugs for a kindergarten–by all means +give it to her.”</p> + +<p>“James, Lila still grieves for her father.”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” answered the Doctor sadly, “and Henry Fenn was in +the office this morning begging me to give him something that would kill his +thirst.”</p> + +<p>The doctor brought his hands down emphatically on his chair arms. +“Duty, Bedelia, is the realest obligation in the world. Here are Lila and +Henry Fenn. What a miserable lot of tommy rot about soul-mating Tom and this +Fenn woman conjured up to get away from their duty to child and husband. They +have swapped a place with the angels for a right to wallow with the hogs; +that’s what all their fine talking amounts to.” The Doctor’s +shrill voice rose. “They don’t fool me. They don’t fool any +one; they don’t even fool each other. I tell you, my dear,” he +chirped as he rose from his chair, “I never saw one of those illicit love +affairs in life or heard of it in literature that was not just plain, old +fashion, downright, beastly selfishness. Duty is a greater thing in life than +what the romance peddlers call love.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_268'></a>268</span>The Doctor stood +looking at his wife questioningly–waiting for some approving response. She +kept on sewing. “Oh you Satterthwaites with hearts of marble,” he +cried as he patted the cast iron waves of her hair and went chuckling into the +house.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Nesbit was aroused from her reverie by the rattle of the Adams buggy. +When it drew up to the curb Laura and Grant climbed out and came up the walk. +Laura wore a simple summer dress that brought out all the exquisite coloring of +her skin, and made her light hair shine in a kind of haloed glory. It had been +months since the mother had seen in her daughter’s face such a smile as +the daughter gave to the man beside her–red-faced, angular, hard muscled, +in his dingy blue carpenter’s working clothes with his measuring rule and +pencil sticking from his apron pocket, and with his crippled arm tipped by its +steel tool-holder.</p> + +<p>“Grant is going to take that box of Lila’s toys down to the +kindergarten, mother,” she explained.</p> + +<p>When they had disappeared up the stairs Mrs. Nesbit could hear them on the +floor above and soon the heavy feet of the man carrying a burden were on the +stairs and in another minute the young woman was saying:</p> + +<p>“Leave them by the teacher’s desk, Grant,” and as he untied +the horse, she called, “Now you will get that door in to-night without +fail–won’t you? I’ll be down and we’ll put in the south +partition in the morning.” As she turned from the door she greeted her +mother with a smile and dropped wearily into a chair.</p> + +<p>“Oh mother,” she cried, “it’s going to be so fine. +Grant has the room nearly finished and he’s interesting the wives of the +union men in South Harvey and George Brotherton is going to give us every month +all the magazines and periodicals that are not returnable and George brought +down a lot of Christmas numbers of illustrated papers, and we’re cutting +the bright pictures out and pinning them on the wall and George himself worked +with us all afternoon. George says he is going to make every one of his lodges +contribute monthly to the kindergarten–he belongs to everything but the +Ladies of the G. A. R.–” she smiled and <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_269'></a>269</span>her mother smiled with +her,–“and Grant says the unions are going to pay half of the salary +of the extra teacher. That makes it easier.”</p> + +<p>“Well, Laura, don’t you think–”</p> + +<p>But her daughter interrupted her. “Now, mother,” she went on, +“don’t you stop me till I’m done–for this is the best +yet. Morty Sands came down to-day to help–” Laura laughed a little +at her mother’s surprised glance, “and Morty promised to give us +$200 for the kindergarten just as soon as he can worm it out of his father for +expense money.” She drew in a deep, tired breath, “There,” she +sighed, “that’s all.”</p> + +<p>Her own child came up and the mother caught the little girl and began playing +with her, tying her hair ribbon, smoothing out her skirts, rubbing a dirt speck +from her nose, and cuddling the little one rapturously in her arms. When the two +women were alone, Laura sat on the veranda steps with her head resting upon her +mother’s knee. The mother touched the soft hair and said: “Laura, +you are very tired.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, mother,” the daughter answered. “The mothers are so +hungry for help down there in South Harvey, and,” she added a little +drearily–“so am I; so we are speaking a common language.”</p> + +<p>She nestled her head in the lap above her. “And I’m going to find +something worth doing–something fine and good.”</p> + +<p>She watched the lazy clouds, “You know I’m glad about Morty +Sands. Grant thinks Morty sincerely wants to amount to something real–to +help and be more than a money grubber! If the old spider would just let him out +of the web!” The mother stared at her daughter a second.</p> + +<p>“Well, Laura, about the only money grubbing Morty seems to be doing is +grubbing money out of his father to maintain his race horse.”</p> + +<p>The daughter smiled and the mother went on with her work. “Mother, did +you know that little Ruth Morton is going to begin taking vocal lessons this +summer?” The mother shook her head. “Grant says Mr. +Brotherton’s paying for it. He thinks she has a wonderful +voice.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_270'></a>270</span>“Voice–” cut in Mrs. Nesbit, +“why Laura, the child’s only fourteen–voice–!”</p> + +<p>Laura answered, “Yes, mother, but you’ve never heard her sing; +she has a beautiful, deep, contralto voice, but the treble above ‘C’ is a +trifle squeaky, and Mr. Brotherton says he’s ‘going to have it +oiled’; so she’s to ‘take vocal’ regularly.”</p> + +<p>On matters musical Mrs. Nesbit believed she had a right to know the whole +truth, so she asked: “Where does Mr. Brotherton come in, Laura?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, mother, he’s always been a kind of god-father to those +girls. You know as well as I that Emma’s been playing with that funeral +choir of yours and Mr. Brotherton’s all these years, only because he got +her into it, and Grant says he’s kept Mrs. Herdicker from discharging +Martha for two years, just by sheer nerve. Of course Grant gets it from Mr. +Brotherton but Grant says Martha is so pretty she’s such a trial to Mrs. +Herdicker! I like Martha, but, mother, she just thinks she should be carried +round on a chip because of her brown eyes and red hair and dear little snubby +nose. Grant says Mr. Brotherton is trying to get the money someway to float the +Captain’s stock company and put his Household Horse on the market. I think +Mr. Brotherton is a fine man, mother–he’s always doing things to +help people.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Nesbit folded up her work, and began to rise. “George Brotherton, +Laura,” said her mother as she stood at full length looking down upon her +child, “has a voice of an angel, and perhaps the heart of a god, but he +will eat onions and during the twenty years I’ve been singing with him +I’ve never known him to speak a correct sentence. Common, +Laura–common as dishwater.”</p> + +<p>As Laura Van Dorn talked the currents of life eddying about her were +reflected in what she said. But she could not know the spirit that was moving +the currents; for with a neighborly shyness those who were gathering about her +were careful to seem casual in their kindness, and she could not know how deeply +they were moved to help her. Kindergartens were hardly in George +Brotherton’s line; yet he untied old bundles of papers, ransacked his shop +and brought a <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_271'></a>271</span>great +heap of old posters and picture papers to her. Captain Morton brought a beloved +picture of his army Colonel to adorn the room, and deaf John Kollander, who had +a low opinion of the ignorant foreigners and the riff-raff and scum of society, +which Laura was trying to help, wished none the less to help her, and came down +one day with a flag for the schoolroom and insisted upon making a speech to the +tots about patriotism. He made nothing clear to them but he made it quite clear +to himself that they were getting the flag as a charity, which they little +deserved, and never would return. And to Laura he conveyed the impression that +he considered her mission a madness, but for her and the sorrow which she was +fighting, he had appreciative tenderness. He must have impressed his emotions +upon his wife for she came down and talked elaborately about starting a cooking +school in the building, and after planning it all out, went away and forgot it. +The respectable iron gray side-whiskers of Ahab Wright once relieved the dingy +school room, when Ahab looked in and the next day Kyle Perry on behalf of the +firm of Wright & Perry came trudging into the kindergarten with a huge box +which he said contained a p-p-p-p-p-pat-a-p-p-p-pppat-pat–here he +swallowed and started all over and finally said p-p-patent, and then +started out on a long struggle with the word swing, but he never finished it, +and until Laura opened the box she thought Mr. Perry had brought her a soda +fountain. But Nathan Perry, his son, who came wandering down to the place one +afternoon with Anne Sands, put up the swing, and suggested a half dozen +practical devices for the teacher to save time and labor in her work, while Anne +Sands in her teens looked on as one who observes a major god completing a +bungling job of the angels on a newly contrived world.</p> + +<p>Sometimes coming home from his day’s work Amos Adams would drop in for +a chat with the tired teacher, and he refreshed her curiously with his quiet +manner and his unsure otherworldliness, and his tough, unyielding optimism. He +had no lectures for the children. He would watch them at their games, try to +play with them himself in a pathetic, old-fashioned way, telling them fairy +stories of an elder and a grimmer day than ours. Sometimes Doctor Nesbit, <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_272'></a>272</span>coming for Laura in his +buggy, would find Amos in the school room, and they would fall to their +everlasting debate upon the reality of time and space with the Doctor enjoying +hugely his impious attempt to couch the terminology of abstract philosophy in +his Indiana vernacular.</p> + +<p>Lida Bowman bringing her little brood sometimes would sit silently watching +the children, and look at Laura as if about to speak, but she always went away +with her mind unrelieved. Violet Hogan, who brought her beruffled and bedizened +eldest, made up for Mrs. Bowman’s reticence. Moreover Violet brought other +mothers and there was much talk on the topics of the day–talk that +revealed to Laura Nesbit a whole philosophy that was new to her–the +helpfulness of the poor to the poor.</p> + +<p>But if others brought to Laura Van Dorn material strength and spiritual +comfort in her enterprise, Grant Adams waved the wand of his steel claw over the +kindergarten and made it live. For he was a power in the Wahoo Valley. Her +friends knew that his word gave the kindergarten the endorsement of every union +there and thus brought to it mothers with children and with problems as well as +children, whom Laura Van Dorn otherwise never could have reached. The unions +made a small donation monthly to the work which gave them the feeling of +proprietorship in the place and the mothers and children came in self-respect. +But if Grant gave life to the kindergarten, he got more than he gave. For the +restraining hand of Laura Van Dorn always was upon him, and his friends in the +Valley came to realize her friendship for them and their cause. They knew that +many a venture of Grant’s Utopia would have been a wild goose chase but +for the wisdom of her counsel. And the two came to rely upon each other +unconsciously.</p> + +<p>So in the ugly little building near Dooley’s saloon in South Harvey the +two towns met and worked together; and all to heal a broken heart, a bruised +life. From out of the unexplored realm where our dreams are blooming into the +fruit of reality one evening came Mr. Left with this message: “Whoever in +the joy of service gives part of himself to the vast sum of sacrificial giving +that has remained unspent, <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_273'></a>273</span>since man began to walk erect, is adding to +humanity’s heritage, is building an unseen temple wherein mankind is +sheltered from its own inhumanity. This sum of sacrificial giving is the temple +not made with hands!”</p> + +<p>Now the foundations of that part of the temple not made with hands in South +Harvey, may be said to have been laid and the watertable set on the day when +Laura Van Dorn first laughed the bell-chime laugh of her girlhood. And that day +came well along in the summer. It was twilight and the Doctor was sitting with +his wife and daughter on their east veranda when Morty Sands came flitting +across the lawn like a striped miller moth in a broad-banded outing suit. He +waved gayly to the little company in the veranda and came up the steps at two +bounds, though he was a man of thirty-eight and just the least bit weazened.</p> + +<p>“Well,” he said, with his greetings scarcely off his lips, +“I came to tell you I’ve sold the colt!”</p> + +<p>The chorus repeated his announcement as a question.</p> + +<p>“Yes, sold the colt,” solemnly responded Morty. And then added, +“Father just wouldn’t! I tried to get that two hundred in various +ways–adding it to my cigar bill; slipping it in on my bill for raiment at +Wright & Perry’s, but father pinned Kyle down, and he stuttered out +the truth. I tried to get the horse-doctor to charge the two hundred into his +bill and when father uncovered that–I couldn’t wait any longer so +I’ve sold the colt!”</p> + +<p>“Well, Morty, what for in Heaven’s name?” asked Laura. +Morty began fumbling in his pockets before he spoke. He did not smile, but as +his hand came out of an inside pocket, he said gently: “For two hundred +and seventeen dollars and a half! I fought an hour for that half dollar!” +He handed it to the Doctor, saying: “It’s for the kindergarten. You +keep it for her, Doctor Jim!”</p> + +<p>When Morty had gone Mrs. Nesbit said: “What queer blood that Sands +blood is, Doctor. There is Mary Sands’s heart in that boy, and Daniel has +bred nothing into him. They must have been a queer breed a generation or two +back!”</p> + +<p>The Doctor did not answer. He took the money which Morty had given to him, +handed it to Laura and said: “And <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_274'></a>274</span>now my dear, accept this token of devotion from Sir +Mortimer Sands, of the golden heart and wooden head!” And then Laura +laughed, not in derision, not in merriment even, but in sheer joy that life +could mean so much. And as she laughed the temple not made with hands began to +rise strong and beautiful in her heart and in the hearts of all who touched +her.</p> + +<p>How they would have sneered at Laura Van Dorn’s niche in the temple, +those practical folk who helped her because they loved her. How George +Brotherton would have laughed; with what suspicion John Kollander would have +viewed the kindergarten, if he had been told that it was part of a temple. For +he had no sort of an idea of letting the rag-tag and bob-tail of South Harvey +into a temple; he knew very well they deserved no temple. They were shiftless +and wicked. How Wright & Perry would have sniffed at any one who would have +called the dreary little shack, where Laura Van Dorn held forth, a temple. For +they all pretended to see only the earthly dimensions of material things. But in +their hearts they knew the truth. It is the American way to mask the beauty of +our nobler selves, or real selves under a gibing deprecation. So we wear the +veneer of materialism, and beneath it we are intense idealists. And woe to him +who reckons to the contrary!</p> + +<p>Perhaps the town’s views on temples in general and Laura’s temple +in particular, was summed up by Hildy Herdicker, Prop., when she read Mr. +Left’s reflections in the <i>Tribune</i>. +“Temples–eh?–temples not made with hands–is it? Well, +Miss Laura can get what comfort she can out of her baby shop; but me? Every man +to his trade as Kyle Perry said when he tried to buy a dozen scissors and got a +sewing machine–me?–I get my heart balm selling hats, and if others +gets theirs coddling brats–’tis the good God’s wisdom that +makes us different and no business of mine so long as they bring grist to the +profit mill! The trouble with their temples is that they don’t pay +taxes!”</p> + +<p>So in the matter of putting up temples–particularly in the matter of +erecting temples not made with hands, the town worked blindly. But so far as +Laura Van Dorn was concerned, while she was working on her part of the temple, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_275'></a>275</span>she had the vision +of youth still in her heart. Youth indeed is that part of every soul that life +has not tarnished, and if we keep our faith, hold ourselves true and bow to no +circumstance however arrogant it may be, youth still will abide in our hearts +through many years. Now Laura, who was born Nesbit and became Van Dorn, was +taking up life with that large charity that comes to every unconquered soul. She +held her illusions, she believed in herself, and youth shone like a beacon from +her face and glowed in her body.</p> + +<p>For Thomas Van Dorn, who had been her husband, she had trained herself to +hold no unkind thought. She even taught Lila–when the child asked for +him–to harbor no rancor toward him. So the child turned to her father when +they met, the natural face of a child; it was a sad little face that he +saw–though no one else ever saw it sad; but the child smiled when she +spoke and looked gently at him, in the hope that some day he would come back to +her.</p> + +<p>Now it happened that on the night when Laura’s laugh first echoed +through her temple another rising temple witnessed a ceremony entirely befitting +its use.</p> + +<p>That night–late that night when a pale moon was climbing over the +valley below the town, Margaret and her lover stood alone in the great +unfinished house which they were building.</p> + +<p>Through the uncurtained windows the moonlight was streaming, making white +splashes upon the floors. Across the plank pathways they wandered locating the +halls, the great living-room, the spacious dining-room, the airy, comfortable +bedrooms exposed to the south, the library, the kitchen, and the ballroom on the +third floor. It was to be a grand house–this house of Van Dorn. And in +their fancy the man and the woman called it the temple of love erected as an +altar to the love god whom they worshiped. They peopled it with many a merry +company. They saw the rich and the great in the dining-room. They pictured in +this vision pleasure capering through the ball room. They enshrined wisdom and +contentment in the library. In the great living-room they installed elegance and +luxury, and hospitality beckoned with ostentatious pride for the coming of such +of the nobility as Harvey and its environs and the <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_276'></a>276</span>surrounding state and Nation could +produce. A grand, proud temple, a rich, beautiful temple, a strong, masterful +temple would be this temple of love.</p> + +<p>“And, dearest,” said he–the master of the house, as he held +her in his arms at the foot of the stairway that swept down into the broad hall +like the ghost of some baronial grandeur, “dearest, what do we care what +they say! We have built it for ourselves–just for you, I want +it–just for you; not friends, not children, not any one but you. This is +to be our temple of love.”</p> + +<p>She kissed him, and whined wordless assent. Then she whispered: “Just +you–you, you, and if man, woman or child come to mar our joy or to lessen +our love, God pity the intruder.” And like a flaming torch she fluttered +in his arms.</p> + +<p>The summer breeze came caressingly through an unclosed window into the +temple. It seemed–the summer breeze which fell upon their +cheeks–like the benediction of some pagan god; their god of love perhaps. +For the grand house, the rich house, the beautiful, masterful temple of their +mad love was made for summer breezes.</p> + +<p>But when the rain came, and the storms fell and beat upon that house, they +found that it was a house built upon sand. But while it stood and even when it +fell there was a temple, a real temple, a temple made with hands–a temple +that all Harvey and all the world could understand!</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_277'></a>277</span><a id='link_26'></a>CHAPTER XXVI<br /><span class='h2fs'>DR. NESBIT STARTS ON A LONG UPWARD BUT DEVIOUS JOURNEY</span></h2> + +<p>The Van Dorns opened their new house without ostentation the day after their +marriage in October. There was no reception; the handsomest hack in town waited +for them at the railway station, as they alighted from the Limited from Chicago. +They rode down Market Street, up the Avenue to Elm Crest Place, drove to the new +house, and that night it was lighted. That was all the ceremony of housewarming +which the place had. The Van Dorns knew what the town thought of them. They made +it plain what they thought of the town. They allowed no second rate people to +crowd into the house as guests while the first rate people smiled, and the third +rate people sniffed. The Judge had some difficulty keeping Mrs. Van Dorn to +their purpose. She was impatient–having nothing in particular to think +about, and being proud of her furniture. Naturally, there were calls–a +few. And they were returned with some punctiliousness. But the people whom the +Van Dorns were anxious to see did not call. In the winter, the Van Dorns went to +Florida for a fortnight, and put up at a hotel where they could meet a number of +persons of distinction whom they courted, and whom the Van Dorns pressed to +visit them. When she came home from the winter’s social excursion, Mrs. +Van Dorn went straight to the establishment of Mrs. Herdicker, Prop., and bought +a hat; and bragged to Mrs. Herdicker of having met certain New York social +dignitaries in Florida whose names were as familiar to the Harvey women as the +names of their hired girl’s beaux! Then having started this tale of her +social prowess on its career, Margaret was more easily restrained by her husband +from offering the house to the Plymouth Daughters for an entertainment. It was +in that spring that Margaret began–or <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_278'></a>278</span>perhaps they both began to put on what George +Brotherton called the “Van Dorn remnant sale.” The parade passed +down Market Street every morning at eight thirty. It consisted of one handsome +rather overdressed man and one beautiful rather conspicuously dressed woman. On +fair days they rode in a rakish-looking vehicle known as a trap, and in bad +weather they walked through Market Street. At the foot of the stairs leading to +the Judge’s office they parted with all the voltage of affection permitted +by the canons of propriety and at five in the evening, Mrs. Van Dorn reappeared +on Market Street, and at the foot of the stairs before the Judge’s office, +the parade resumed its course.</p> + +<p>“Well–say,” said George Brotherton, “right smart +little line of staple and fancy love that firm is carrying this season. Rather +nice titles too; good deal of full calf bindings–well, say–glancing +at the illustrations, I should like to read the text. But +man–say–hear your Uncle George! With me it’s always a sign of +low stock when I put it all in the window and the show case! Well, +say–” and he laughed like the ripping of an earthquake. “It +certainly looks to me as if they were moving the line for a quick turnover at a +small profit! Well say!”</p> + +<p>But without the complicated ceremony required to show the town that he was +pleased with his matrimonial bargain, the handsome Judge was a busy man. Every +time he saw Dr. Nesbit toddling up or down Market Street, or through South +Harvey, or in the remotenesses of Foley or Magnus, the Judge whipped up his +energies. For he knew that the Doctor never lost a fight through overconfidence. +So the Judge, alone for the first time in his career, set out to bring about his +nomination, where a nomination meant an election. Now a judge who showed the +courage of his convictions, as Judge Van Dorn had shown his courage in forcing +settlements in the mine accident cases and in similar matters of occasional +interest, was rather more immediately needed by the mine owners of Harvey than +the political boss, who merely used the mine owner’s money to encompass +his own ends, and incidentally work out the owner’s salvation. Daniel +Sands played both sides, which was all that Van Dorn could ask. But when the +Doctor saw that Sands <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_279'></a>279</span>was giving secret aid to Van Dorn, the +Doctor’s heart was hot within him. And Van Dorn continued to rove the +district day and night, like a dog, hunting for its buried bone.</p> + +<p>It was in the courthouse that Van Dorn made his strongest alliance–in +the courthouse, where the Doctor was supposed to be in supreme command. A +capricious fate had arranged it so that nearly all the county officers were +running for their second terms, and a second term was a time honored courtesy. +Van Dorn tied himself up with them by maintaining that his was a second term +election also,–and a second regular four year term it was. His +appointment, and his election to fill out the remainder of his +predecessor’s term, he waved aside as immaterial, and staged himself as a +candidate for his second term. The Doctor tried to break the combination between +the Judge and the second term county candidates by ruthlessly bringing out their +deputies against the second termers as candidates. But the scheme provoked +popular rebellion. The Doctor tried bringing out one young lawyer after another +against the Judge, but all had retainers from the mine owners, and no one in the +county would run against Van Dorn, so the Doctor had to pick his candidate from +outside of the county, in a judicial convention wherein Greeley County had a +majority of the votes. But Van Dorn knew that for all the strategy of the +situation, the Doctor might be able to mass the town’s disapproval of Van +Dorn, socially, into a political majority in the convention against him. So the +handsome Judge, with his matrimonial parade to give daily, his political +fortunes to consider every hour, and withal, a court to hold, and a judicial +serenity to maintain, was a busy young man–a rather more than passing busy +young man!</p> + +<p>As for the Doctor, he threw himself into the contest against Van Dorn with no +mixed motives. “There,” quoth the Doctor, to the wide world +including his own henchmen, yeomen, heralds, and outriders, “is one hound +pup I am going to teach house manners!” And failing to break Van +Dorn’s alliance in the courthouse, and failing to bulldoze Daniel Sands +out of a secret liaison with Van Dorn, failing to punish those of his courthouse +friends who permitted Van Dorn to stand with them on their convention tickets in +the <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_280'></a>280</span>primary, the +Doctor went forth with his own primary ticket, and announced that he proposed to +beat Van Dorn in the convention single handed and alone.</p> + +<p>And so quiet are the wheels of our government, that few heard them grinding +during the spring and early summer–few except the little coterie of +citizens who pay attention to the details of party politics. Yet underneath and +over the town, and through the very heart of it wherever the web of the spider +went, there was a cruel rending. Two men with hate in their hearts were pulling +at the web, wrenching its filaments, twisting it out of shape, ripping its +texture, in a desperate struggle to control the web, and with that control to +govern the people.</p> + +<p>Then Dr. Nesbit pushed his way into the very nest of the spider, and bolted +into Daniel Sands’s office to register a final protest against +Sands’s covert alliance with the Judge. He plunked angrily into the den of +the spider, shut the door, turned the spring lock, and looking around saw not +Sands, but Van Dorn himself.</p> + +<p>The Doctor burst out: “Well, young man! So you’re here, +eh!” Van Dorn nodded pleasantly, and replied graciously: “Yes, +Doctor, here I am, and I believe we have met here before–at one time or +another.”</p> + +<p>The Doctor sat down and slapping a fat hand on a chair arm, cried angrily: +“Thomas, it can’t be did–you can’t cut ’er.”</p> + +<p>Judge Van Dorn answered blandly, rather patronizingly: “Yes, Dr. Jim, +it can be done. And I shall do it.”</p> + +<p>“Have you let ’em fool you–the fellows on the +street?” asked the Doctor.</p> + +<p>Judge Van Dorn tapped on the desk beside him meditatively, then answered +slowly: “No–I should say they mostly lied to me–they’re +not for me–excepting, maybe, Captain Morton, who tried to say he was +opposed to me–but couldn’t–quite. +No–Doctor–no–Market Street didn’t fool me.”</p> + +<p>He was so suave about it, so naïve, and yet so cock-sure of his success, that +the Doctor was impatient: “Tom,” he piped, “I tell you, +they’re too strong to bluff and too many to buy. You can’t make +it.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_281'></a>281</span>The younger man +shut one eye, knocked with his tongue on the roof of his mouth, and then said as +he looked insolently into the Doctor’s face:</p> + +<p>“Well, to begin–what’s your price?”</p> + +<p>The Doctor flushed; his loose skin twitched around his nostrils, and he +gripped his chair arms. He did not answer for nearly a minute, during which the +Judge tilted back in his chair beside the desk and looked at the elder man with +some show of curiosity, if not of interest.</p> + +<p>“My price,” sneered the Doctor, “is a little mite low +to-day. It’s a pelt–a hound pup’s pelt and you are going to +furnish it, if you’ll stop strutting long enough for me to skin +you!”</p> + +<p>The two men glared at each other. Then Van Dorn, regaining his poise, +answered: “Well, sir, I’m going to win–no matter +how–I’m going to win. I’ve sat up with this situation every +night for six months–Oh, for a year. I know it backwards and forwards, and +you can’t trip me any place along the line. I’ve counted you +out.” He went on smiling:</p> + +<p>“What have I done that is not absolutely legal? This is a government of +law, Doctor–not of hysteria. The trouble with you,” the Judge +settled down to an upright position in his chair, “is that you’re an +old maid. You’re so–so” he drawled the “so” +insolently, “damn nice. You’re an old maid, and you come from a +family of old maids. I warrant your grandmother and her mother before her were +old maids. There hasn’t been a man in your family for five +generations.” The Doctor rose, Van Dorn went on arrogantly, “Doctor +James Nesbit, I’m not afraid of you. And I’ll tell you this: If you +make a fight on me in this contest, when I’m elected, we’ll see if +there isn’t one less corrupt boss in this state and if Greeley County +can’t contribute a pompadour to the rogues’ gallery and a tenor +voice to the penitentiary choir.”</p> + +<p>During the harangue of the Judge, the Doctor’s full lips had begun to +twitch in a smile, and his eyes to twinkle. Then he chirped gaily:</p> + +<p>“Heap o’ steam for the size of the load and weight of your biler, +Tom. Better hoop ’em up!”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_282'></a>282</span>And with a +laugh, shaking his little round stomach, he toddled out of the room into the +corridor, and began whistling the tune that tells what will happen when Johnny +comes marching home.</p> + +<p>So the Doctor whistled about his afternoon’s work and did not realize +that the whistling was a form of nervousness.</p> + +<p>That evening the Doctor and Laura began to read their Browning where they had +left off the night before. They were in the midst of “Paracelsus,” +when the father looked up and said:</p> + +<p>“Laura, you know I’m going to fight Tom Van Dorn for another term +as district judge?”</p> + +<p>“Why, of course you should, father–I didn’t expect +he’d ask it again!” said the daughter.</p> + +<p>“We had a row this afternoon–a miserable, bickering row. He got +on his hind legs and snarled and snapped at me, and made me mad, I guess. So I +got to thinking why I should be against him, and it came to me that a man who +had violated the decencies as he has and whose decisions for the old spider have +been so raw, shouldn’t be judge in this district. Lord, what will young +fellows think if we stand for him! So I have kind of worked myself up,” +the Doctor smiled deprecatingly, “to a place where I seem to have a sacred +duty in the matter of licking him for the sake of general decency. +Anyway,” he concluded in his high falsetto, “old Browning’s +diver, here, fits me. He goes down a pauper and, with his pearl, comes up a +prince.”</p> + +<p>“Festus,” cried the Doctor, waving the book, “I +plunge.”</p> + +<p>Thus through the pique of pride, and through the sting of scorn, a force of +righteousness came into the world of Harvey. For our miracles of human progress +are not always done with prunes and prisms. The truth does not come to men +always, nor even, generally, as they are gazing in joyful admiration at the good +and the beautiful. Sudden conversions of men to good causes are rare, and often +unstable and sometimes worthless. The good Lord would find much of the best work +of the world undone if he waited until men guided by purely altruistic motives +and inspired by new impulses to righteousness, did it. The world’s work is +done by ladies and gentlemen <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_283'></a>283</span>who, for the most part, are largely clay, working in +the clay, for clay rewards, with just enough of the divine impulse moving them +to keep their faces turned forward and not back.</p> + +<p>Public opinion in the Amen Corner, voiced by Mr. Brotherton, spoke for Harvey +and said: “Well, say–what do you think of Old Linen Pants bucking +the whole courthouse just to get the hide of Judge Van Dora? Did you ever see +such a thing in your whole life?” emphasizing the word “whole” +with fine effect.</p> + +<p>Mr. Brotherton sat at his desk in the rear of his store, contemplating the +splendor of his possessions. Gradually the rear of the shop had been creeping +toward the alley. It was filled with books, stationery, cigars and +smoker’s supplies. The cigars and smoker’s supplies were crowded to +a little alcove near the Amen Corner, and the books–school books, pirated +editions of the standard authors, fancy editions of the classics, new books +copyrighted and gorgeously bound in the fashion of the hour, were displayed +prominently. Great posters adorned the vacant spaces on the walls, and posters +and enlarged magazine covers adorned the bulletin boards in front of the store. +Piles of magazines towered on the front counters–and upon the whole, Mr. +Brotherton’s place presented a fairly correct imitation of the literary +tendencies of the period in America just before the Spanish war.</p> + +<p>Amos Adams came in, with his old body bent, his hands behind him, his +shapeless coat hanging loosely from his stooped shoulders, his little +tri-colored button of the Loyal Legion in his coat lapel, being the only speck +of color in his graying figure. He peered at Mr. Brotherton over his spectacles +and said: “George–I’d like to look at Emerson’s +addresses–the Phi Beta Kappa Address particularly.” He nosed up to +the shelves and went peering along the books in sets. “Help yourself, Dad, +help yourself–Glad you like Emerson–elegant piece of goods; wrapped +one up last week and took it home myself–elegant piece of +goods.”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” mused the reader, “here is what I want–I had a +talk with Emerson last night. He’s against the war; not that he is for +Spain, of course, but Huxley,” added Amos, as <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_284'></a>284</span>he turned the pages of his book, +“rather thinks we should fight–believes war lies along the path of +greatest resistance, and will lead to our greater destiny sooner.” The old +man sighed, and continued: “Poor Lincoln–I couldn’t get him +last night: they say he and Garrison were having a great row about the +situation.”</p> + +<p>The elder stroked his ragged beard meditatively. Finally he said: +“George–did you ever hear our Kenyon play?”</p> + +<p>The big man nodded and went on with his work. “Well, sir,” the +elder reflected: “Now, it’s queer about Kenyon. He’s getting +to be a wonder. I don’t know–it all puzzles me.” He rose, put +back the book on its shelf. “Sometimes I believe I’m a +fool–and sometimes things like this bother me. They say they are training +Kenyon–on the other side! Of course he just has what music Laura and Mrs. +Nesbit could give him; yet the other day, he got hold of a piano score of +Schubert’s Symphony in B flat and while he can’t play it, he just +sits and cries over it–it means so much to the little fellow.”</p> + +<p>The gray head wagged and the clear, old, blue eyes looked out through the +steel-rimmed glasses and he sighed: “He is going ahead, making up the most +wonderful music–it seems to me, and writing it down when he can’t +play it–writing the whole score for it–and they tell +me–” he explained deprecatingly, “my friends on the other +side, that the child will make a name for himself.” He paused and asked: +“George–you’re a hardheaded man–what do you think of it? +You don’t think I’m crazy, do you, George?”</p> + +<p>The younger man glanced up, caught the clear, kindly eye of Amos Adams +looking questioningly down.</p> + +<p>“Dad,” said Mr. Brotherton, hammering his fat fist on the desk, +“‘there’s more things in Heaven and earth than are dreamed of in +your philosophy, Horatio’–well say, man–that’s +Shakespeare. We sell more Shakespeares than all the other poets combined. Fine +business, this Shakespeare. And when a man holds the lead in the trade as this +Shakespeare has done ever since I went into the Red Line poets back in the +eighties–I’m pretty nearly going to stay by him. And when he says, +‘Don’t be too damn sure you know it all–’ or words to that +effect–and holds the trade saying <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_285'></a>285</span>it–well, say, man–your spook friends are +all right with me, only say,” Mr. Brotherton shuddered, “I’d +die if one came gliding up to me and asked for a chew of my eating +tobacco–the way they do with you!”</p> + +<p>“Well,” smiled Amos Adams, “much obliged to you, +George–I just wanted your ideas. Laura Van Dorn has sent Kenyon’s +last piece back to Boston to see if by any chance he couldn’t +unconsciously have taken it from something or some one. She says it’s +wonderful–but, of course,” the old man scratched his chin, +“Laura and Bedelia Nesbit are just as likely to be fooled in music as I am +with my controls.” Then the subject drifted into politics–the local +politics of the town, the Van Dorn-Nesbit contest.</p> + +<p>And at the end of their discussion Amos rubbed his bony, lean, hard, old +hands, and looked away through the books and the brick wall and the whole row of +buildings before him into the future and smiled. “I wonder–I wonder +if the country ever will come to see the economic and social and political +meaning of this politics that we have now–this politics that the poor man +gets through a beer keg the night before election, and that the rich man buys +with his ‘barl.’”</p> + +<p>He shook his head. “You’ll see it–you and Grant–but +it will be long after my time.” Amos lifted up his old face and cried: +“I know there is another day coming–a better day. For this one is +unworthy of us. We are better than this–at heart! We have in us the blood +of the fathers, and their high visions too. And they did not put their lives +into this nation for this–for this cruel tangle of injustice that we show +the world to-day. Some day–some day,” Amos Adams lifted up his face +and cried: “I don’t know! May be my guides are wrong but my own +heart tells me that some day we shall cease feeding with the swine and return to +the house of our father! For we are of royal blood, George–of royal +blood!”</p> + +<p>“Why, hello, Morty,” cut in Mr. Brotherton. “Come right in +and listen to the seer–genuine Hebrew prophet here–got a familiar +spirit, and says Babylon is falling.”</p> + +<p>“Well, Uncle Amos,” said Morty Sands, “let her fall!” +Old Amos smiled and after Morty had turned the talk from falling Babylon to +Laura Van Dorn’s kindergarten, Amos <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_286'></a>286</span>being reminded by Laura of Kenyon and his music, +unfolded his theory of the occult source of the child’s musical talent, +and invited George and Morty to church to hear Kenyon play.</p> + +<p>So when Sunday came, with it came full knowledge that most members of the +congregation were to hear Kenyon Adams’ new composition, which had been +rather widely advertised by his friends; and Rev. John Dexter, feeling himself a +fifth wheel, discarded his sermon and in humility and contrition submitted some +extemporaneous remarks on the passion for humanity of “Christ and him +crucified.”</p> + +<p>A little boy was Kenyon Adams–a slim, great-eyed, serious faced, little +boy in an Eton jacket and knickerbockers–not so much larger than his +violin that he carried under his arm. His little hand shook, but Grant caught +his gaze and with a tender, earnest reassurance put sinews into the small arms, +and stilled an unsteady jaw. The organ was playing the prelude, when the little +hand with the bow went out in a wide, sure, strong curve, and when the bow +touched the strings, they sang from a soul depth that no child’s +experience could know.</p> + +<p>It was the first public rendering of the now famous Adagio in C minor, known +sometimes as “The Prairie Wind,” or perhaps better as the Intermezzo +between the second and third acts of the opera that made Kenyon Adams’ +fame in Europe before he was twenty. It has been changed but little since that +first hearing there in John Dexter’s church with the Sands Memorial organ, +built in the early eighties for Elizabeth Page Sands, mother of Anne of that +tribe. The composition is simplicity itself–save for the mystical +questioning that runs through it in the sustained sevenths–a theme which +Captain Morton said always reminded him of a meadow lark’s evening song, +but which repeats itself over and over plaintively and sadly as the stately +music swells to its crescendo and dies with that unanswered cry of heartbreak +echoing in the last faint notes of the closing bar.</p> + +<p>When it was finished, those who had ears heard and understood and those who +had not said, “Well,” and waited for public opinion, unless they +were fools, in which case they said they would have preferred something to +whistle. But <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_287'></a>287</span>because the thing impressed itself upon hundreds of +hearts that hour, many in the congregation came forward to greet the child.</p> + +<p>Among these, was a tall, stately young woman in pure white with a rose upon +her hat so deeply red that it seemed guilty of a shame. But her lips were as red +as the red of the rose and her eyes glistened and her face was wrought upon by a +great storm in her heart. Behind her walked a proud gentleman, a lordly +gentleman who elbowed his way through the throng as one who touches the unclean. +The pale child stood by Grant Adams as they came. Kenyon did not see the +beautiful woman; the child’s eyes were upon the man. He knew the man; Lila +had poured out her soul to the boy about the man and in his child’s heart +he feared and abhorred the man for he knew not what. The man and woman kept +coming closer. They were abreast as they stepped into the pulpit where the child +stood. By his own music, his soul had been stirred and riven and he was nervous +and excited. As the woman beside the man stretched out her arms, with her face +tense from some inner turmoil, the child saw only the proud man beside her and +shrank back with a wild cry and hid in his father’s breast. The eyes of +Grant and Margaret met, but the child only cuddled into the broad breast before +him and wept, crying, “No–no–no–”</p> + +<p>Then the proud man turned back, spurned but not knowing it, and the beautiful +woman with red shame in her soul followed him with downcast face. In the church +porch she lifted up her face as she said with her fair, false mouth: “Tom, +isn’t it funny how those kind of people sometimes have talent–just +like the lower animals seem to have intelligence. Dear me, but that +child’s music has upset me!”</p> + +<p>The man’s heart was full of pride and hate and the woman’s heart +was full of pride and jealousy. Still the air was sweet for them, the birds sang +for them, and the sun shone tenderly upon them. They even laughed, as they went +their high Jovian way, at the vanities of the world on its lower plane. But +their very laughter was the crackling of thorns under a pot wherein their hearts +were burning.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_288'></a>288</span><a id='link_27'></a>CHAPTER XXVII<br /><span class='h2fs'>IN WHICH WE SEE SOMETHING COME INTO THIS STORY OUTSIDE OF THE MATERIAL WORLD</span></h2> + +<p>“Life,” writes Mr. Left, using the pseudonym of the Peachblow +philosopher, “disheartens us because we expect the wrong things of it. We +expect material rewards for spiritual virtues, material punishments for +spiritual transgressions; when even in the material world, material rewards and +punishments do not always follow the acts which seem to require them. Yet the +only sure thing in the world is that our spiritual lapses bring spiritual +punishments, and our spiritual virtues have their spiritual rewards.”</p> + +<p>Now these observations of Mr. Left might well be taken for the thesis of this +story. Tom Van Dorn’s spiritual transgressions had no material punishments +and the good that was in Grant Adams had no material reward. Yet the spiritual +laws which they obeyed or violated were inexorable in their rewards and +punishments.</p> + +<p>Once there entered the life of Judge Van Dorn, from the outside, the play of +purely spiritual forces, which looped him up and tripped him in another +man’s game, and Tom, poor fellow, may have thought that it was a special +Providence around with a warrant looking after him. Now this statement hangs on +one “if,”–if you can call Nate Perry a man! “One +generation passeth and another cometh on,” saith the Preacher. Perhaps it +has occurred to the reader that the love affairs of this book are becoming +exceedingly middle aged; some have only the dying glow of early reminiscence. +But here comes one that is as young as spring flowers; that is–if Nate +Perry is a man, and is entitled to a love affair at all. Let’s take a look +at him: long legged, lean faced, keen eyed, razor bodied, just back from College +where he has <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_289'></a>289</span>studied mining engineering. He is a pick and shovel +miner in the Wahoo Fuel Company’s mine, getting the practical end of the +business. For he is heir apparent of stuttering Kyle Perry, who has holdings in +the mines. Young Nate’s voice rasps like the whine of a saw and he has no +illusions about the stuff the world is made of. For him life is atoms flopping +about in the ether in an entirely consistent and satisfactory manner. Things +spiritual don’t bother him. And yet it was in working out a spiritual +equation in Nate Perry’s life that Providence tipped over Tom Van Dorn, in +his race for Judgeship.</p> + +<p>And now let us put Mr. Brotherton on the stand:</p> + +<p>“Showers,” exclaims Mr. Brotherton, “showers for Nate and +Anne,–why, only yesterday I sent him and Grant Adams over to Mrs. +Herdicker’s to borrow her pile-driver, and spanked him for canning a dog, +and it hasn’t been more’n a week since I gave Anne a rattle when her +father brought her down town the day after the funeral, as he was looking over +Wright & Perry’s clerks for the fourth Mrs. Sands–and +here’s showers! Well, say, isn’t time that blue streak! Showers! +Say, I saw Tom Van Dorn’s little Lila in the store this +morning–isn’t she the beauty–bluest eyes, and the sweetest, +saddest, dearest little face–and say, man–I do believe Tom’s +kind of figuring up what he missed along that line. He tried to talk to her this +morning, but she looked at him with those blue eyes and shrank away. Doc Jim +bought her a doll and a train of cars. That was just this morning, and well, +say–I wouldn’t be surprised if when I come down and unlock the store +to-morrow morning, some one will be telling me she’s having showers. +Isn’t time that old hot-foot?”</p> + +<p>“Showers–kitchen showers and linen showers, and silver showers +for little Anne–little Anne with the wide, serious eyes, ‘the home of +silent prayer’;–well, say, do you know who said that? It was +Tennyson. Nice, tasty piece of goods–that man Tennyson. I’ve handled +him in padded leather covers; fancy gilt cloth, plain boards, deckle-edges, wide +margins, hand-made paper, and in thirty-nine cent paper–and he is a neat, +nifty piece of goods in all of them–always easy to move and no come +backs.” After this pean to the poet, <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_290'></a>290</span>Mr. Brotherton turned again to his meditations, +“Little Anne–Why, it’s just last week or such a matter I +wrapped up Mother Goose for her–just the other day she came in when they +sent her off to school, and I gave her a diary–and now it’s +showers–” He shook his great head, “Well, say–I’m +getting on.”</p> + +<p>And while Mr. Brotherton mused the fire burned–the fire of youth that +glowed in the heart of Nathan Perry. When he wandered back from college no one +in particular had noticed him. But Anne Sands was no one in particular. And as +no one in particular was looking after Anne and her affairs, as a girl in her +teens she had focused her heart upon the gangling youth, and there grew into +life one of those matter-of-fact, unromantic love affairs that encompass the +whole heart. For they are as commonplace as light and air and are equally vital. +Because their course is smooth, such affairs seem shallow. But let unhappy +circumstance break the even surface, and behold, from their depths comes all the +beauty of a great force diverted, all the anguish of a great passion curbed and +thwarted.</p> + +<p>In this democratic age, when deep emotional experiences are not the privilege +of the few, but the lot of many, heart break is almost commonplace. We do not +notice it as it may have been noted in those chivalric days when only the few +had the finer sensibilities that may make great mental suffering possible. So +here in the commonplace town of Harvey, in their commonplace homes, amid their +commonplace friends and relatives, two commonplace hearts were aching all +unsuspected by a commonplace world. And it happened thus:</p> + +<p>Anne Sands had opinions about the renomination and reëlection of Judge Van +Dorn. For Judge Van Dorn’s divorce and remarriage had offended Anne +Sands.</p> + +<p>On the other hand, to Nathan Perry the aspirations of Judge Van Dorn meant +nothing but the ambition of a politician in politics. So when Anne and he had +fallen into the inevitable discussion of the Van Dorn case, as a part of an +afternoon’s talk, indignation flashed upon indifference and the girl saw, +or thought she saw such a defect in the character of her lover that, being what +she was, she had to protest, and he being what he was–he was hurt to the +heart. Both <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_291'></a>291</span>lovers +spoke plainly. The thing sounded like a quarrel–their first; and coming +from the Sands house into the summer afternoon, Nate Perry decided to go to +Brotherton’s. He reflected as he walked that Mr. Brotherton’s +remarks on “showers,” which had come to Anne and Nate, might +possibly be premature. And the reflection was immensely disquieting.</p> + +<p>A practical youth was Nathan Perry, with a mechanical instinct that gloried +in adjustment. He loved to tinker and potter and patch things up. Now something +was wrong with the gearing of his heart action. His theory was that Anne was for +the moment crazy. He could see nothing to get excited about over the +renomination and election of Judge Van Dorn. The men in the mine where the youth +was working as a miner hated Van Dorn, the people seemed to distrust him as a +man more or less, but if he controlled the nominating convention that ended it +with Nathan Perry. The Judge’s family affairs were in no way related to +the nomination, as the youth saw the case. Yet they were affecting the cams and +cogs and pulleys of young Mr. Perry’s love affairs, and he felt the matter +must be repaired, and put in running order. For he knew that love affair was the +mainspring of his life. And the mechanic in him–the Yankee that talked in +his rasping, high-keyed tenor voice, that shone from his thin, lean face, and +cadaverous body, the Yankee in him, the dreaming, sentimental Yankee, half poet +and half tinker, fell upon the problem with unbending will and open mind.</p> + +<p>So it came to pass that there entered into the affairs of Judge Thomas Van +Dorn, an element upon which he did not calculate. For he was dealing only with +the material elements of a material universe!</p> + +<p>When Nathan Perry came to Brotherton’s he sat down in the midst of a +discussion of the Judgeship that began in rather etherial terms. For Doctor +Nesbit was saying:</p> + +<p>“Amos, I’ve got you cornered if you consider the visible +universe. She works like a watch; she’s as predestined as a corn sheller. +But let me tell you something–she isn’t all visible. There’s +something back of matter–there’s another side to the shield. I know +mighty well there’s a time when my medicine won’t help sick +folks–and yet they get well. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_292'></a>292</span>I’ve seen a great love flame up in a +man’s heart or a woman’s heart or a child’s in a bed of +torture, and when medicine wouldn’t take hold I’ve seen love burn +through the wall between the worlds, and I have seen help come just as sure as +you see the Harvey Hook and Ladder Company coming rattling down Market Street! +Funny old world–funny old world–seventy rides around the +sun–and then the fireworks.” After puffing away to revive his pipe +he said: “I sort of got into this way of thinking recently going over this +judgeship fight.” He smoked meditatively then broke out, “Lord, +Lord, what an iron-clad, hog-tight, rock-ribbed, copper-riveted material +proposition it is that Tom is putting up. He’s bound self-interest with +self-interest everywhere. He and Joe Calvin have roped old man Sands in, and +every material interest in this whole district is tied up in the Van Dorn +candidacy. I’m a child in a cyclone in this fight. The self-interest of +the county candidates, of all the deputies who hope two years from now to be +county candidates, and all their friends, every straw boss at the shops, in the +smelters, in the mines–and all the men who are near them and want to be +straw bosses, every merchant who is caught in the old spider’s web with a +ninety-day note; every street-car conductor, every employee of the light +company, every man at the waterworks plant, every man at the gas plant, the +telephone linemen–every human being that dances in the great woof of this +little spider’s web feels the pull of devilish material power.”</p> + +<p>Amos Adams threw back his grizzled head in a laugh that failed to vocalize. +“Well, Jim, according to your account you’re liable to get burned +and singed and disfigured until you’re as useless in politics as this old +Amos Adams–the spook chaser!”</p> + +<p>There was no bitterness in Amos Adams’s voice. “It’s all +right, Jim–I have no complaint to make against life. Forty years ago Dan +Sands got the first girl I ever loved. I went to war; he paid his bounty and +married the girl. That was a long time ago. I often think of the +girl–it’s no lack of faith to Mary. And I have the memory of the +war–of that Day at Peach Tree Creek with all the wonderful exulting joy of +that charge and what God gave me to do. This button,” <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_293'></a>293</span>he put his thumb under the Loyal Legion +emblem in his warped coat lapel, “this button is more fragrant than any +flower on earth to my heart. Dan Sands has had five wives; he missed the +hardship of the war. He has a son by her. Jim,” said Amos Adams as he +opened his eyes, “if you knew how it has cut into my heart year by year to +see the beautiful soul that Hester Haley gave to Morty decay under the blight of +his father–but you can’t.” He sighed. “Yet there is +still her soul in him–gentle, kind, trying to do the right thing–but +tied and hobbled by life with his father. Grant may be wrong, Doctor,” +cried the father, raising his hand excitedly, “he may be crazy, and I know +they laugh at him up town here–for a fool and the son of a fool; he +certainly doesn’t know how he is going to do all the things he dreams of +doing–but that is not the point. The important thing is that he is having +his dream! For by the Eternal, Jim Nesbit, I’d rather feel that my boy was +even a small part of the life force of his planet pushing +forward–I’d rather be the father of that boy–I’d rather +be old Amos Adams the spook chaser–than Dan Sands with his million. +I’ve been happier, Jim, with the memory of my Mary than he with his five +wives. I’d rather be on the point of the drill of life and mangled there, +than to have my soul rot in greed.”</p> + +<p>The Doctor puffed on his pipe. “Well, Amos,” he returned quietly, +“I suppose if a man wants to get all messed up as one of the points of the +drill of life, as you call it–it’s easy enough to find a place for +the sacrifice. I admire Grant; but someway,” his falsetto broke out, +“I have thought there was a little something in the bread-and-butter +proposition.”</p> + +<p>“A little, Doctor Jim–but not as much as you’d +think!” answered Amos.</p> + +<p>“Nevertheless in this fight here in Greeley County, I’m quietly +lining up a few county delegates, and picking out a few trusty friends who will +show up at the caucuses, and Grant has a handful of crazy Ikes that I am going +to use in my business, and if we win it will be a practical proposition–my +head against Tom’s.”</p> + +<p>The Doctor rose. Amos Adams stopped him with “Don’t be too sure +of that, Jim; I got a writing from Mr. Left last night and he +says–”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_294'></a>294</span>“Hold on, +Amos–hold on,” squeaked the Doctor’s falsetto; “until +Mr. Left is registered in the Third Ward–we won’t bother with him +until after the convention.”</p> + +<p>The Doctor left the place smiling at Amos and glancing casually at young Mr. +Perry. The dissertation had been a hard strain on the practical mind of young +Mr. Perry, and while he was fumbling his way through the mazes of what he had +heard, Amos Adams left the shop and another practical man very much after Nathan +Perry’s own heart came in. Daniel Sands had no cosmic problems on his mind +with which to befuddle young Perry. Daniel Sands was a seedy little old man of +nearly three score years and ten; his dull, fishy eyes framed in red lids looked +shiftily at one as though he was forever preoccupied in casting up sums in +interest. His skin was splotched and dirty, a kind of scale seemed to be growing +over it, and his long, thin nose stuck out of his shaggy, ill-kept whiskers like +a sharp snout, attenuated by rooting in money. When he smiled, which was rarely, +the false quality of his smile seemed expressed by his false teeth that were +forever falling out of place when he loosed his facial muscles. He walked rather +stealthily back to the desk where the proprietor of the shop was working; but he +spoke loud enough for Nate Perry’s practical ear to comprehend the elder +man’s mission.</p> + +<p>“George, I’ve got to be out of town for the next ten days, and +the county convention will meet when I’m gone.” He stopped, and +cleared his throat. Mr. Brotherton knew what was coming. “I just called to +say that we’re expecting you to do all you can for Tom.” He paused. +Mr. Brotherton was about to reply when the old man smiled his false smile and +added:</p> + +<p>“Of course, we can’t afford to let our good Doctor’s family +affairs interfere with business. And George,” he concluded, “just +tell the boys to put Morty on in my place. And George, you kind of sit by Morty, +and see that he gets his vote in right. Morty’s a good boy, +George–but he someway doesn’t get interested in things as I like to +see him. He’ll be all right if you’ll just fix his ballot in the +convention and see that he votes it.” He blinked his dull, red eyes at the +book seller and dropped his voice.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_295'></a>295</span>“I noticed +your paper as I passed the note counter just now; some of it will be due while +I’m gone; I’ll tell ’em to renew it if you want it.” He +smiled again, and Mr. Brotherton answered, “Very well–I’ll see +that Morty votes right, Mr. Sands,” and solemnly went back to his ledger. +And thus the practical mind of Nathan Perry had its first practical lesson in +practical politics–a lesson which soon afterwards produced highly +practical results.</p> + +<p>Up and down Market Street tiptoed Daniel Sands that day, tightening his web +of business and politics. Busily he fluttered over the web, his water pipes, his +gas pipes, his electric wires. The pathway to the trade of the miners and the +men in the shops and smelters lay through his door. Material prosperity for +every merchant and every clerk in Market Street lay in the paunch of the old +spider, and he could spin it out or draw it in as he chose. It was not usual for +him to appear on Market Street. Dr. Nesbit had always been his vicegerent. And +often it had pleased the Doctor to pretend that he was seeking their aid as +friends and getting it solely upon the high grounds of friendship.</p> + +<p>But as the Doctor stood by his office window that day and saw the old spider +dancing up and down the web, Dr. Nesbit knew the truth–and the truth was +wormwood in his mouth–that he had been only an errand boy between greed in +the bank and self-interest in the stores. In a flash, a merciless, cynical +flash, he looked into his life in the capital, and there he saw with sickening +distinctness that with all his power as a boss, with his control over Senators +and Governors and courts and legislatures, he was still the errand +boy–that he reigned as boss only because he could be trusted by those who +controlled the great aggregations of capital in the state–the railroads, +the insurance companies, the brewers, the public service corporations. In the +street below walked a flashy youth who went in and out of the saloons in obvious +pride of being. His complacent smile, his evident glory in himself, made Dr. +Nesbit turn away and shut his eyes in shame. He had loathed the youth as a +person unspeakable. Yet the youth also was a messenger–the errand boy of +vice in South Harvey who doubtless thought himself a person of great power and +consequence. And the difference between an <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_296'></a>296</span>errand boy of greed and the errand boy of vice was +not sufficient to revive the Doctor’s spirits. So the Doctor, sadly +sobered, left the window. The gay enthusiasm of the diver plunging for the pearl +was gone from the depressed little white clad figure. He was finding his pearl a +burden rather than a joy.</p> + +<p>That evening Morty Sands, resplendent in purple and fine linen–the +purple being a gorgeous necktie, and the fine linen a most sumptuous tailor-made +shirt waist above a pair of white broadcloth trousers and silk hose, and under a +fifty dollar Panama hat, tripped into the Brotherton store for his weekly +armload of reading and tobacco.</p> + +<p>“Morty,” said Mr. Brotherton, after the young man had picked out +the latest word in literature and nicotine, “your father was in here +to-day with instructions for me to chaperone you through the county convention +Saturday,–you’ll be on the delegation.”</p> + +<p>The young man blinked good naturedly. “I haven’t got the +intellect to go through with it, George.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, yes, you have, Morty,” returned Mr. Brotherton, expansively. +“The Governor wants me to be sure you vote for Van Dorn–that’s +about all there is in the convention. Old Linen Pants is to name the delegates +to the State and congressional conventions–they’re trying to let the +old man down easy–not to beat him out of his State and congressional +leadership.”</p> + +<p>The young man thought for a moment then smiled up into the big moon-face of +Brotherton–“All right, Georgie, I suppose I’ll have to cast my +unfettered vote for Van Dorn, though as a sporting proposition my sympathies are +with the other side.”</p> + +<p>“Well, say–you orter ’a’ heard a talk I heard Doc +Nesbit give this afternoon. That old sinner will be shouting on the +mourner’s bench soon–if he doesn’t check up.”</p> + +<p>Morty looked up from his magazine to say: “George–it’s +Laura. A man couldn’t go with her through all she’s gone through +without being more of a man for it. When I took a turn in the mining business +last spring I found that the people down in South Harvey just naturally love her +to death. They’ll do more or less for Grant Adams. He’s <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_297'></a>297</span>getting the men organized +and they look up to him in a way. But they get right down on their marrow bones +and love Laura.”</p> + +<p>Morty smiled reflectively: “I kind of got the habit myself +once–and I seem someway never to have got over it–much! But, she +won’t even look my way. She takes my money–for her kindergarten. But +that is all. She won’t let me take her home in my trap, nor let me buy her +lunch–why she pays more attention to Grant Adams with his steel claw than +to my strong right arm! About all she lets me do is distribute flower seeds. +George,” he concluded ruefully, “I’ve toted around enough +touch-me-nots and coxcomb seeds this spring for that girl to paint South Harvey +ringed, streaked and striped.”</p> + +<p>There the conversation switched to Captain Morton’s stock company, and +the endeavor to get the Household Horse on the market. The young man listened +and smiled, was interested, as George Brotherton intended he should be. But +Morty went out saying that he had no money but his allowance–which was six +months overdrawn–and there the matter rested.</p> + +<p>In a few days, a free people arose and nominated their delegates to the +Greeley County convention and the night before the event excitement in Harvey +was intense. There could be no doubt as to the state of public sentiment. It was +against Tom Van Dorn. But on the other hand, no one seriously expected to defeat +him. For every one knew that he controlled the organization–even against +the boss. Yet vaguely the people hoped that their institutions would in some way +fail those who controlled, and would thus register public sentiment. But the +night the delegates were elected, it seemed apparent that Van Dorn had won. Yet +both sides claimed the victory. And among others of the free people elected to +the Convention to cast a free vote for Judge Van Dorn, was Nathan Perry. He was +put on the delegation to look after his father’s interests. Van Dorn was a +practical man, Kyle Perry was a practical man and they knew Nate Perry was a +practical youth. But while Tom Van Dorn slept upon the assurance of victory, +Nate Perry was perturbed.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_298'></a>298</span><a id='link_28'></a>CHAPTER XXVIII<br /><span class='h2fs'>WHEREIN MORTY SANDS MAKES A FEW SENSIBLE REMARKS IN PUBLIC</span></h2> + +<p>When Mortimer Sands came down town Saturday morning, two hours before the +convention met, he found the courthouse yard black with prospective delegates +and also he found that the Judge’s friends were in a majority in the +crowd. So evident was their ascendancy that the Nesbit forces had conceded to +the Judge the right to organize the convention. At eleven o’clock the +crowd, merchants, clerks, professional men, working men in their Sunday clothes, +delegates from the surrounding country towns, and farmers–a throng of +three hundred men, began to crowd into the hot “Opera House.” So +young Mr. Sands, with his finger in a book to keep his place, followed the crowd +to the hall, and took his seat with the Fourth Ward delegation. Having done this +he considered that his full duty to God and man had been performed. He found +Nathan Perry sitting beside him and said:</p> + +<p>“Well, Nate, here’s where Anne’s great heart breaks–I +suppose?”</p> + +<p>Nathan nodded and asked: “I presume it’s all over but the +shouting.”</p> + +<p>“All over,” answered the elder young man as he dived into his +book. As he read he realized that the convention had chosen Captain +Morton–a partisan of the Judge–for chairman. The hot, stifling air +of the room was thick with the smoke of cheap tobacco. Morty Sands grew nervous +and irritated during the preliminary motions of the organization. Even as a +sporting event the odds on Van Dorn were too heavy to promote excitement. He +went out for a breath of air. When he reëntered Judge Van Dorn was making the +opening speech of the convention. It was a fervid effort; <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_299'></a>299</span>the Spanish war was then in progress so +the speech was full of allusions to what the Judge was pleased to call +“libertah” and “our common countrah” and our sacred +“dutah” to “humanitah.” Naturally the delegates who were +for the Judge’s renomination displayed much enthusiasm, and it was a noisy +moment. When the Judge closed his remarks–tearfully of course–and +took his seat as chairman of the Fourth Ward delegation, which was supposed to +be for him unanimously as it was his home ward, Morty noticed that while the +Judge sat grand and austere in the aisle seat with his eyes partly closed as one +who is recovering from a great mental effort, his half-closed eyes were +following Mr. Joseph Calvin, who was buzzing about the room distributing among +the delegates meal tickets and saloon checks good for food for man and beast at +the various establishments of public entertainment.</p> + +<p>Morty learned from George Brotherton that as the county officers were to be +renominated without opposition, and as the platform had been agreed to the day +before, and as the county central committeemen had been chosen the night before +at the caucuses, the convention was to be a short horse soon curried. Of course, +Captain Morton as permanent chairman made a speech–with suitable eulogies +to the boys who wore the blue. It was the speech the convention had heard many +times before, but always enjoyed–and as he closed he asked rather grandly, +“and now what is the further pleasure of the convention?”</p> + +<p>It was Mr. Calvin’s pleasure, as expressed in a motion, that the +secretary be instructed to cast the vote of the convention for the renomination +of the entire county ticket, and further that Senator James Nesbit, in view of +his leadership of the party in the State, be requested to name the delegates to +the State and congressional conventions and that Judge Thomas Van +Dorn–cheers led by Dick Bowman–Thomas Van Dorn be requested to name +the delegates to the judicial district convention. Cheers and many cries of no, +no, no, greeted the Calvin motion. It was seconded and stated by the chair and +again cheered and roared at. Dr. Nesbit rose, and in his mild, treble voice +protested against the naming of the delegates to the State and congressional and +judicial conventions. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_300'></a>300</span>He said that while it had been the practice in the +past, he was of the opinion that the time had come to let the Convention itself +choose by wards and precincts and townships its delegates to these conventions. +He said further that as for the State and congressional delegates, they +couldn’t pick a delegation of twenty men in the room if they tried, that +would not contain a majority which he could work with. At which there was +cheering from the anti-Van Dorn crowd–but it was clear that they were in +the minority. No further discussion seemed to be expected and the Captain was +about to put the motion, when from among the delegates from South Harvey there +arose the red poll of Grant Adams. From the Harvey delegates he met the glare of +distrust due from any crowd of merchants and clerks to any labor agitator. Morty +could see from the face of Dr. Nesbit that he was surprised. Judge Van Dorn, who +sat near young Sands, looked mildly interested. After he was recognized, Grant +in an impassioned voice began to talk of the inherent right of the Nesbit +motion, providing that each precinct or ward delegation could name its own +delegates to the State, congressional and judicial conventions.</p> + +<p>If the motion prevailed, Judge Van Dorn would have a divided delegation from +Greeley county to the judicial convention, as some of the precincts and wards +were against him, though a majority of the united convention was for him. Grant +Adams, swinging his iron claw, was explaining this to the convention. He was +appealing passionately for the right of proportional representation; holding +that the minority had rights of representation that the majority should not +deny.</p> + +<p>Judge Van Dorn, without rising, had sneered across the room in a snarling +voice: “Ah, you socialist!” Once he had growled: “None of your +red mouthed ranting here!” Finally, as it was evident that Grant’s +remarks were interesting the workmen on the delegations, Van Dorn, still seated, +called out:</p> + +<p>“Here, you–what right have you to address this +convention?”</p> + +<p>“I am a regularly accredited delegate from South Harvey, holding the +proxy–”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_301'></a>301</span>He got no +further.</p> + +<p>The Van Dorn delegates roared, “Put him out. No proxies go,” and +began hooting and jeering. It was obvious that Van Dorn had the crowd with him. +He let them roar at Grant, who stood quietly, demanding from time to time that +the chair should restore order. Captain Morton hammered the table with his +gavel, but the Van Dorn crowd continued to hoot and howl. Finally Judge Van Dorn +rose and with great elaborateness of parliamentary form addressed the chair +asking to be permitted to ask his friend with a proxy one question.</p> + +<p>The two men faced each other savagely, like characters symbolizing forces in +a play; complaisance and discontent. Behind Grant was the unrest and upheaval of +a class coming into consciousness and tremendously dynamic, while Van Dorn stood +for those who had won their fight and were static and self-satisfied. He twirled +his mustache. Grant raised his steel claw as if to strike; Van Dorn spoke, and +in a barking, vicious, raucous tone intended to annihilate his adversary, +asked:</p> + +<p>“Will you tell this convention in the interest of fairness, what, if +any, personal and private motives you have in helping Dr. Nesbit inject a family +quarrel into public matters in this county?”</p> + +<p>A moment’s silence greeted the lawyer’s insolently framed +question. Mortimer Sands saw Dr. Nesbit go white, start to rise, and sit down, +and saw dawning on the face of Grant Adams the realization of what the question +meant. But before he could speak the mob broke loose; hisses, cheers and the +roar of partisan and opposition filled the room. Grant Adams tried to speak; but +no one would hear him. He started down the aisle toward Van Dorn, his red hair +flashing like a banner of wrath, menacing the Judge with the steel claw +upraised. Dr. Nesbit stopped Grant. The insult had been so covert, so cowardly, +that only in resenting its implication would there be scandal.</p> + +<p>Mortimer Sands closed his book. He saw Judge Van Dorn laugh, and heard him +say to George Brotherton who sat beside young Sands:</p> + +<p>“I plugged that damn pie-face!”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_302'></a>302</span>Nathan Perry, +the practical young man sitting in the Fourth ward delegation, heard the Judge +and nudged Morty Sands. Morty Sands’s sporting blood rose in him. +“The pup,” he whispered to Nate. “He’s taking a shot at +Laura.”</p> + +<p>The crowd gradually grew calm. There being no further discussion, Captain +Morton put the motion of Joseph Calvin to let the majority of the convention +name all delegates to the superior conventions. The roar of ayes overwhelmed the +blat of noes. It was clear that the Calvin motion had carried. The Doctor was +defeated. But before the chair announced the vote the pompadour of the little +man rose quickly as he stood in the middle aisle and asked in his piping treble +for a vote by wards and precincts.</p> + +<p>In the moment of silence that followed the Doctor’s suggestion, Nathan +Perry’s face, which gradually had been growing stony and hard, cracked in +a mean smile as he leaned over to Morty and whispered:</p> + +<p>“Morty, can you stand for that–that damned hound’s snap at +Laura Van? By grabby I can’t–I won’t!”</p> + +<p>“Well, let’s raise hell, Nate–I’m with you. I owe him +nothing,” said the guileless and amiable Morty.</p> + +<p>Judge Van Dorn rose grandly and with great elegance of diction agreed with +the Doctor’s “excellent suggestion.” So tickets were passed +about containing the words yes and no, and hats were passed down delegation +lines and the delegates put the ballots in the hats and the chairmen of +delegations appointed tellers and so the ballots were counted. When the Fourth +ward balloting was finished, Judge Van Dorn looked puzzled. He was three votes +short of unanimity. His vanity was pricked. He believed he had a solid +delegation and proposed to have it. When in the roll call the Fourth ward +delegation was reached (it was the fourth precinct on the secretary’s +roll) the Judge, as chairman of the Fourth warders, rose, blandly and +complacently, and announced: “Ward Four casts twenty-five votes +‘yes’ and three votes ‘no.’ I demand a poll of the +delegation.”</p> + +<p>George Brotherton rose when the clerk of the convention called the roll and +voted a weak, husky ‘no’ and sat down sheepishly under the Judge’s +glare.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_303'></a>303</span>Down the list +came the clerk reading the names of delegates. Finally he called “Mortimer +Sands,” and the young man rose, smiling and calm, and looking the Judge +fairly in the eye cried, “I vote no!”</p> + +<p>Then pandemonium broke loose. The convention was bedlam. The friends of the +Judge were confounded. They did not know what it meant.</p> + +<p>The clerk called Nathan Perry.</p> + +<p>“No,” he cried as he looked maliciously into the Judge’s +beady eyes.</p> + +<p>Then there was no doubt. For the relations of Wright & Perry were so +close to Daniel Sands that no one could mistake the meaning of young +Perry’s vote, and then had not the whole town read of the +“showers” for Anne Sands? Those who opposed the Judge were +whispering that the old spider had turned against the Judge. Men who were under +obligations to the Traders’ Bank were puzzled but not in doubt. There was +a general buzzing among the delegations. The desertion of Mortimer Sands and +Nathan Perry was one of those wholly unexpected events that sometimes make +panics in politics. The Judge could see that in one or two cases delegations +were balloting again. “Fifth ward,” called the clerk.</p> + +<p>“Fifth ward not ready,” replied the chairman.</p> + +<p>“Hancock township, Soldier precinct,” called the clerk.</p> + +<p>“Soldier precinct not ready,” answered the chairman.</p> + +<p>The next precinct cast its vote No, and the next precinct cast its vote 7 yes +and 10 no and a poll was demanded and the vote was a tie. The power of the name +of Sands in Greeley county was working like a yeast.</p> + +<p>“Well, boys,” whispered Mr. Brotherton to Morty as two townships +were passed while they were reballoting, “Well, boys–you sure have +played hell.” He was mopping his red brow, and to a look of inquiry from +Morty Mr. Brotherton explained: “You’ve beaten the Judge. They all +think that it’s your father’s idea to knife him, and the foremen of +the mines who are running these county delegations and the South Harvey +contingent are changing their votes–that’s how!”</p> + +<p>In another instant Morty Sands was on his feet. He <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_304'></a>304</span>stood on a seat above the crowd, a slim, +keen-faced, oldish figure. When he called upon the chairman a hush fell over the +crowd. When he began to speak he could feel the eyes of the crowd boring into +him. “I wish to state,” he said hesitatingly, then his courage came, +“that my vote against this resolution, was due entirely to the inferential +endorsement of Judge Thomas Van Dorn,” this time the anti-Van Dorn roar +was overwhelming, deafening, “that the resolution contained.”</p> + +<p>Another roar, it seemed to the Judge as from a pit of beasts, greeted this +period. “But I also wish to make it clear,” continued the young man, +“that in this position I am representing only my own views. I have not +been instructed by my father how to cast this ballot. For you know as well as I +how he would vote.” The roar from the anti-Van Dorn crowd came back again, +stronger than ever. The convention had put its own interpretation upon his +words. They knew he was merely making it plainer that the old spider had caught +Judge Van Dorn in the web, and for some reason was sucking out his vitals. Morty +sat down with the sense of duty well done, and again Mr. Brotherton leaned over +and whispered, “Well, you did a good job–you put the trimmings on +right–hello, we’re going to vote again.” Again the young man +jumped to his feet and cried amid the noise, which sank almost instantly as they +saw who was trying to speak: “I tell you, gentlemen, that so far as I know +my father is for Judge Van Dorn,” but the crowd only laughed, and it was +evident that they thought Morty was playing with them. As Morty Sands sat down +Nathan Perry rose and in his high, strong, wire-edged tenor cried: “Men, +I’m voting only myself. But when a man shows doghair as Judge Van Dorn +showed it to this convention in that question to Grant Adams–all hell +can’t hold me to–” But the roar of the crowd drowned the close +of the sentence. The mob knew nothing of the light that had dawned in Nathan +Perry’s heart. The crowd knew only that the son and the future son-in-law +of the old spider had turned on Van Dorn, and that he was marked for slaughter +so it proceeded with the butchering which gave it great personal felicity. Men +howled their real convictions and Tom <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_305'></a>305</span>Van Dorn’s universe tottered. He tried to +speak, but was howled down.</p> + +<p>“Vote–vote, vote,” they cried. The Fourth ward balloted +again and the vote stood “Yes, fifteen, no, twelve,” and the proud +face of the suave Judge Van Dorn turned white with rage, and the red scar +flickered like lightning across his forehead. The voting could not proceed. For +men were running about the room, and Joseph Calvin was hovering over the South +Harvey delegation like a buzzard. Morty Sands suspected Calvin’s mission. +The young man rose and ran to Dr. Nesbit and whispered: “Doctor, +Nate’s got seven hundred dollars in the bank–see what Calvin is +doing? I can get it up here in three minutes. Can you use it to help?”</p> + +<p>The Doctor ran his hand over his graying pompadour and smiled and shook his +head. In the din he leaned over and piped. “Touch not, taste not, handle +not, Morty–I’ve sworn off. Teetotler,” he laughed excitedly. +Young Sands saw a bill flash in Mr. Calvin’s hands and disappear in Dick +Bowman’s pockets.</p> + +<p>“No law against it,” chirped the Doctor, “except God +Almighty’s, and He has no jurisdiction in Judge Tom’s +district.”</p> + +<p>As they stood watching Calvin peddle his bills the convention saw what he was +doing. A fear seized the decent men in the convention that all who voted for Van +Dorn would be suspected of receiving bribes. The balloting proceeded. In five +minutes the roll call was finished. Then before the result was announced George +Brotherton was on his feet saying, “The Fourth ward desires to change her +vote,” and while Brotherton was announcing the complete desertion of the +Fourth ward delegation, Judge Van Dorn left the hall. Men in mob are cruel and +mad, and the pack howled at the vain man as he slunk through the crowd to the +door.</p> + +<p>After that, delegation after delegation changed its vote and before the +result was announced Mr. Calvin withdrew his motion, and the spent convention +only grunted its approval. Then it was that Mugs Bowman crowded into the room +and handed Nathan Perry this note scrawled on brown butcher’s paper in a +hand he knew. “I have this moment learned that you are a delegate and must +take a public stand. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_306'></a>306</span>Don’t let a word I have said influence you. I +stand by you whatever you do. Use your own judgment; follow your conscience and +‘with God be the rest.’” “A. S.”</p> + +<p>Nathan Perry folded the note, and as he put it in his vest pocket he felt the +proud beat of his heart. Fifteen minutes later when the convention adjourned for +noon, Nathan and Morty Sands ran plumb into Thomas Van Dorn, sitting in the back +room of the bank, wet eyed and blubbering. The Judge was slumped over the big, +shining table, his jaws trembling, his hands fumbling the ink stands and paper +weights. His eyes were staring and nervous, and beside him a whiskey bottle and +glass told their story. The man rose, holding the table, and shrieked:</p> + +<p>“You damned little fice dog, you–” this to Morty, +“you–you–” Morty dashed around the table toward the +Judge, but before he could reach the man to strike, the Judge was moving his +jaws impotently, and grasping the thin air. His mouth foamed as he fell and he +lay, a shivering, white-eyed horror, upon the floor. The bank clerks lifted the +figure to a leather couch, and some one summoned Doctor Nesbit.</p> + +<p>The Doctor saw the whiskey bottle half emptied and saw the white faced, +prostrate figure. The Doctor sent the clerks from the room as he worked with the +unconscious man, and piped to Morty as he worked, “Nothing +serious–heat–temper, whiskey–and vanity and vexation of +spirit; ‘vanity of vanities–all is vanity–saith the +preacher.’” Morty and Nathan left the room as the man’s eyes +opened and the Doctor with a woman’s tenderness brought the wretched, +broken, shattered bundle of pride back to consciousness.</p> + +<p>For years this became George Brotherton’s favorite story. He first told +it to Henry Fenn thus:</p> + +<p>“Say, Henry, lemme tell you about old man Sands. He come in here the +day after he got back from Chicago to wrestle with me for letting Morty vote +against Tom. Well–say–I’m right here to tell you that was some +do–all right, all right! You know he thought I got Morty and Nate to vote +that way and the old spider came hopping in here like a granddaddy long-legs and +the way he let out on your humble–well, say–say! +Holler–you’d orto heard him holler! Just spat pizen–wow! and +as for me who’d got the <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_307'></a>307</span>lad into the trouble–as for me,” Mr. +Brotherton paused, folded his hand over his expansive abdomen and sighed deeply, +as one who recalls an experience too deep for language. “Well, say–I +tried to tell him I didn’t have anything to do with it, but he was wound +up with an eight-day spring! I knew it was no use to talk sense to him while he +was batting his lights at me like a drunk switchman on a dark night, but when he +was clean run down I leans over the counter and says as polite as a pollywog, +‘Most kind and noble duke,’ says I, ‘you touch me deeply by your humptious +words!’ says I, ‘let me assure you, your kind and generous sentiments will +never be erased from the tablets of my most grateful memory’–just +that way.</p> + +<p>“Well, say–” and here Mr. Brotherton let out his laugh that +came down like the cataract at Ladore, “pretty soon Morty sails in fresh +as a daisy and asks:</p> + +<p>“‘Father been in here?’</p> + +<p>“‘Check one father,’ says I.</p> + +<p>“‘Raising hell?’ he asks.</p> + +<p>“‘Check one hell,’ says I.</p> + +<p>“‘Well, sir,’ says he, ‘I’m exceedingly sorry.’</p> + +<p>“‘One sorrow check,’ says I.</p> + +<p>“‘Sincerely and truly sorry, George,’ he repeats and ‘Two sorrows +check,’ I repeats and he goes on: ‘Look here, George, I know father, and +until I can get the truth into him, which won’t be for a week or two, I +suppose he may try to ruin you!’</p> + +<p>“‘Check one interesting ruin,’ says I.</p> + +<p>“But he brought down his hand on the new case till I shuddered for the +glass, and well, say–what do you think that boy done? He pulls out a roll +of money big enough to choke a cow and puts it on the case and says: ‘I sold my +launch and drew every dollar I had out of the bank before father got home. Here, +take it; you may need it in your business until father calms down.’</p> + +<p>“Wasn’t that white! I couldn’t get him to put the roll back +and along comes Cap Morton, and when I wouldn’t take it the old man glued +on to him, and I’m a goat if Morty didn’t lend it to the Captain, +with the understanding I could have it any time inside of six months, and the +Captain <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_308'></a>308</span>could use +it afterward. That’s where the Captain got his money to build his +shop.”</p> + +<p>It cost Daniel Sands five thousand dollars in hard earned money, not that he +earned the money, but it was hard-earned nevertheless, to undo the work of that +convention, and nominate and elect Thomas Van Dorn district Judge upon an +independent ticket. And even when the work was done, the emptiness of the honor +did not convince the Judge that this is not a material world. He hugged the +empty honor to his heart and made a vast pretense that it was real.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_309'></a>309</span><a id='link_29'></a>CHAPTER XXIX<br /><span class='h2fs'>BEING NOT A CHAPTER BUT AN INTERLUDE</span></h2> + +<p>Here and now this story must pause for a moment. It has come far from the +sunshine and prairie grass where it started. Tall elm trees have grown from the +saplings that were stuck in the sod thirty years before, and they limit the +vision. No longer can one see over the town across the roofs of Market Street +into the prairie. No longer even can one see from Harvey the painted sky at +night that marks South Harvey and the industrial towns of the Wahoo Valley. +Harvey is shut in; we all are sometimes by our comforts. The dreams of the +pioneers that haloed the heads of those who came to Harvey in those first +days–those dreams are gone. Here and there one is trapped in brick or wood +or stone or iron; and another glows in a child or walks the weary ways of man as +a custom or an institution or as a law that brought only a part of the blessings +which it promised.</p> + +<p>And the equality of opportunity for which these pioneers crossed the +Mississippi and came into the prairie uplands of the West–where is that +evanescent spirit? Certainly it touched Daniel Sands’s shoulder and he +followed it; it beckoned Dr. Nesbit and he followed it a part of the journey. +Surely Kyle Perry saw it for years, and Captain Morton was destined to find it, +gorgeous and iridescent. Amos Adams might have had it for the asking, but he +sought it only for others. It never came to Dooley and Hogan, and Williams and +Bowman and those who went into the Valley. Did it die, one may ask; or did it +vanish like a prairie stream under the sand to flow on subterranean and appear +again strong, purified and refreshed, a powerful current to carry mankind +forward? The world that was in the flux of dreams that day when Harvey began, +had hardened to reality thirty years after. Men were going their appointed ways +working out in circumstances the equation of their life’s philosophy.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_310'></a>310</span>And now while +the story waits, we may well look at three pictures. They do not speed the +narrative; they hardly point morals to adorn this tale. But they may show us how +living a creed consistently colors one’s life. For after all the realities +of life are from within. Events, environment, fortune good or bad do not color +life, or give it richness and form and value. But in living a creed one makes +his picture. So let us look at Thomas Van Dorn, who boasted that he could beat +God at his own game, and did. For all that he wanted came to him, wealth and +fame and power, and the women he desired.</p> + +<p>Judge and Mrs. Van Dorn and her dog are riding by in their smart rubber tired +trap, behind a highly checked horse and with the dog between them. They are not +talking. The man is looking at his gloved hands, at the horse, at the +street,–where occasionally he bows and smiles and never by any chance +misses bowing and smiling to any woman who might be passing. His wife, dressed +stiffly and smartly, is looking straight ahead, with as weary a face as that of +the Hungarian Spitz beside her. Time, in the Temple of Love on the hill has not +worn her bloom off; it is all there–and more; but the additional bloom, +the artificial bloom, is visible. When she smiles, as she sometimes smiles at +the men friends of the Judge who greet the pair, it is an elaborately mechanical +smile, with a distinct beginning, climax, and ending. Some way it fails to +convince one that she has any pleasure in it. The smile still is beautiful, +exceedingly beautiful–but only as a picture. When the smile is garnished +with words the voice is low and musical–but too low and too obviously +musical. It does not reveal the soul of Margaret Van Dorn–the soul that +glowed in the girl who came to Prospect Township fifteen years before, with +banners flying to lay siege to Harvey. The soul that glowed through those +wonderful eyes upon Henry Fenn–where is it? She has not been crossed in +any desire of her life. She has enjoyed every form of pleasure that money could +buy for her; she is delving into books that make the wrinkles come between her +eyebrows, and is rubbing the wrinkles out and the ideas from the books as fast +as they come. She is droning a formula for happiness, learned of the books that +make her head ache, <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_311'></a>311</span>and is repeating over and over, “God is good, +and I am God,” as one who would plaster truth upon his consciousness by +the mere repetition of it. But the truth does not help her. So she sits beside +her husband, a wax work figure of a woman, and he seems to treat her as a wax +figure. For he is clearly occupied with his own affairs.</p> + +<p>When he is not bowing and smiling, a sneer is on his face. And when he speaks +to the horse his voice is harsh and mean. He holds an unlighted cigar in his +mouth as a terrier might hold a loathed rat; working the muscles of his lips at +times viciously but saying nothing. The soft, black hat of his youthful days is +replaced by a high, stiff, squarely sawed felt hat which he imagines gives him +great dignity. His clothes have become so painfully scrupulous in their exact +conformation to the mode that he looks wooden. He has given so much thought to +the subject of “wherewithal shall ye be clothed,” that the thought +in some queer spiritual curdling has appeared in the unyielding texture of his +artificial tailored skin, that seems to be a part of another consciousness than +his own.</p> + +<p>Moreover, those first days he spent after the convention have chipped the +suavity from his countenance, and have written upon the bland, complacent face +all the cynicism of his nature. Triumph makes cynicism arrogant, so the man is +losing his mask. His nature is leering out of his eyes, snarling out of his +mouth, and where the little, lean lines have pared away the flesh from his nose, +a greedy, self-seeking pride is peering from behind a great masterful nose. +Thomas Van Dorn should be in the adolescence of maturity; but he is in the old +age of adolescence. His skin has no longer the soft olive texture of youth; it +is brown and mottled and leathery. His lips–his lips once full and red, +are pursing and leadening.</p> + +<p>Thus the pair go through the May twilight; and when the electric lights begin +to flash out at the corners, thus the Van Dorns ride before the big black mass +of the temple of love that looms among the young trees upon the lawn. The woman +alights from the trap. She pauses a moment upon the stone block at the curbing. +The man makes no sign of moving. She takes the dog from the seat, and puts it on +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_312'></a>312</span>the ground. The man +gathers the reins tightly in his hands, then drops them again, lights his cigar, +and says behind his hands: “I’m going back downtown.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, you are?” echoes the woman.</p> + +<p>“Yes, I am,” replies the man sharply.</p> + +<p>The woman is walking up the wide parking, with the dog. She makes no reply. +The man looks at her a second or two, and drives away, cutting the horse to a +mad speed as he rounds the corner.</p> + +<p>Through the wide doors into the broad hall, up the grand staircase, through +the luxurious rooms goes the high Priestess of the Temple of Love. It is a +lonely house. For it is still in a state of social siege. So far as Harvey is +concerned, no one has entered it. So they live rather quiet lives.</p> + +<p>On that May evening the mistress of the great house sits in her bed room by +the mild electric, trying book after book, and putting each down in disgust. +Philosophy fails to hold her attention–poetry annoys her; +fiction–the book of the moment, which happened to be “The Damnation +of Theron Ware,” makes her wince, and so she reaches under the reading +stand, and brings out from the bottom of a pile of magazines a salacious novel +filled with stories of illicit amours. This she reads until her cheeks burn and +her lips grow dry and she hears the roll of a buggy down the street, and knows +that it must be nearly midnight and that her mate is coming. She slips the book +back into its place of concealment, picks up “The Harmonious +Universe,” and walks with some show of grandeur in her trailing garments +down the stairs to greet her lord.</p> + +<p>“You up?” he asks. He glances at the book and continues: +“Reading that damn trash? Why don’t you read Browning or Thackeray +or–if you want philosophy Emerson or Carlyle? That’s rot.”</p> + +<p>He puts what scorn he can into the word rot, and in her sweetest, falsest, +baby voice the woman answers:</p> + +<p>“My soul craves communion with the infinite and would seek the deeper +harmonies. I just love to wander the wide wastes between the worlds like +I’ve been doing to-night.”</p> + +<p>The man grabs the book from her, and finding her finger in a place far beyond +the end of the cut leaves, he looks at her, <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_313'></a>313</span>and sneers a profane sneer and passes up the stairs. +She stares after him as he slowly mounts, without joy in his tread, and she +follows him lightly as he goes to his room. She pauses before the closed door +for a lonely moment and then sighs and goes her way. She mumbles, “God is +good and I am God,” many times to herself, but she lies down to sleep +wondering whimperingly in a half-doze if Pelleas and Melisande found things so +dreadfully disillusioning after all they suffered for love and for each other. +As a footnote to this picture may we not ask:</p> + +<p>Is the thing called love worth having at the cost of character? The trouble +with the poets is that they take their ladies and gentlemen of pliable virtue +and uncertain rectitude, only to the altar. One may ask with some degree of +propriety if the duplicity they practiced, the lying they did and justified by +the sacredness of their passion, the crimes they committed and the meannesses +they went through to attain their ends were after all worth while. Also one may +ask if the characters they made–or perhaps only revealed, were not such as +to make them wholly miserable when they began to “live happily ever +after”? A symposium entitled “Is Love Really Worth It?” by +such distinguished characters as Helen of Troy, Mrs. Potiphar and Cleopatra, +might be improving reading, if the ladies were capable of telling the truth +after lives of dissimulation and deceit.</p> + +<p>But let us leave philosophy and look at another picture. This time we have +the Morton family.</p> + +<p>The Captain’s feet are upon the shining fender. There is no fire in the +stove. It is May. But it is the Captain’s habit to warm his feet there +when he is in the house at night, and he never fails to put them upon the fender +and go through his evening routine. First it is his paper; then it is his feet; +then it is his apple, and finally a formal discussion of what they will have for +breakfast, with the Captain always voting for hash, and declaring that there are +potatoes enough left over and meat enough unused to make hash enough for a +regiment. But before he gets to the hash question, the Captain this evening +leads off with this:</p> + +<p>“Curious thing about spring.” The world of education, reading its +examination papers, concurs in silence. The <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_314'></a>314</span>worlds of fashion and of the fine arts also +assenting, the Captain goes on: “Down in South Harvey to-day; kind +o’ dirty down there; looks kind of smoky and tin cannery, and woe-begone, +like that class of people always looks, but ’y gory, girls, it’s just as +much spring down there as it is up here, only more so! eh? I says to Laura, +looking like a full bloom peach tree herself in her kindergarten, says I, +‘Laura, it’s terrible pretty down here when you get under the smoke and +the dirt. Every one just a lovin’,’ says I, ‘and going galloping +into life kind of regardless. There’s Nate and Anne, and there’s +Violet and Hogan, and there’s a whole mess of fresh married couples in +Little Italy, and the Huns and Belgians are all broke out with the blamedest +dose of love y’ ever see! And they’s whole rafts of ’em to be +married before June!’ Well, Laura, she laughed and if it wasn’t like +pouring spring itself out of a jug. Spring,” he mused, “ain’t +it curious about spring!”</p> + +<p>Champing his apple the Captain gesticulates slowly with his open pocket +knife, “Love”–he reflects; then backs away from his discussion +and begins anew: “Less take–say Anne and Nate, a happy +couple–him a lean, eagle-beaked New England kind of a man; her–a +little quick-gaited, big-eyed woman and sping! out of the Providence of +Goddlemighty comes a streak of some kind of creepy, fuzzy lightning and +they’re struck dumb and blind and plumb crazy–eh?”</p> + +<p>He champs for a time on the apple, “Eighteen sixty-one–May, +sixty-one–me a tidy looking young buck–girl–beautiful girl +with reddish brown hair and bluest eyes in the world. Sping! comes the +lightning, and melts us together and the whole universe goes pink and +rose-colored. No sense–neither of us–no more’n Anne and Nate, +just one idea. I can’t think of nothing but her–war isn’t +much; shackles on four millions slaves–no consequence; the Colonel caught +us kissing in his tent the day I left for the army; union forever–mere +circumstance in the lives of two crazy people–in a world mostly eyes and +lips and soft hands and whispers and flowers, eh–and–” The +Captain does not finish his sentence.</p> + +<p>He rises, puts his apple core on the table, and says after <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_315'></a>315</span>a great sigh: “And +so we bloomed and blossomed and come to fruit and dried up and blowed away, and +here they are–all the rest of ’em–ready to bloom–and may +God help ’em and keep ’em.” He pauses, “Help ’em +and keep ’em and when they have dried up and blowed away–let +’em remember the perfume clean to the end!” He turns away from the +girls, wipes his eyes with his gnarled fingers, and after clearing his throat +says: “Well, girls, how about hash for breakfast–what +say?”</p> + +<p>The wheels of the Judge’s buggy grate upon the curbing nearby and the +Captain remarks: “Judge Tom gets in a little later every night now. I +heard him dump her in at eight, and here it is nearly eleven–pretty +careless,–pretty careless; he oughtn’t to be getting in this late +for four or five years yet–what say?” Public opinion again is +divided. Fashion and the fine arts hold that it is Margaret’s fault and +that she is growing to be too much of a poseur; but the schools, which are the +bulwarks of our liberties, maintain that he is just as bad as she. And what is +more to the point–such is the contention of the eldest Miss Morton of the +fourth grade in the Lincoln school, he has driven around to the school twice +this spring to take little Lila out riding, and even though her mother has told +the teachers to let the child go if she cared to, the little girl would not go +and he was mean to the principal and insolent, though Heaven knows it is not the +principal’s fault, and if the janitor hadn’t been standing right +there–but it really makes little difference what would have happened; for +the janitor in every school building, as every one knows, is a fierce and +awesome creature who keeps more dreadful things from happening that never would +have happened than any other single agency in the world.</p> + +<p>The point which the eldest Miss Morton was accenting was this, that he should +have thought of Lila before he got his divorce.</p> + +<p>Now the worlds of fashion and the fine arts and the schools themselves, +bulwarks that they are, do not realize how keenly a proud man’s heart must +be touched if day by day he meets the little girl upon the street, sees her +growing out of babyhood into childhood, a sweet, bright, lovable <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_316'></a>316</span>child, and he yearns for +something sincere, something that has no poses, something that will love him for +himself. So he swallows a lump of pride as large as his handsome head, and +drives to the school house to see his child–and is denied. In the +Captain’s household they do not know what that means. For in the +Captain’s household which includes a six room house–not counting the +new white painted bathroom, the joint product of the toil of the handsome Miss +Morton and the eldest Miss Morton, and not counting the basket for the kitten +christened Epaminondas, and maintained by the youngest Miss Morton over family +protests–in the Captain’s household there is peace and joy, if one +excepts the numbing fear of a “step” that sometimes prostrates the +eldest Miss Morton and her handsome sister; a fear that shelters their father +against the wily designs of their sex upon a meek and defenseless and rather +obliging gentleman. So they cannot put themselves in the place of the rich and +powerful neighbors next door. The Mortons hear the thorns crackling under the +pot, but they cannot appreciate the heat.</p> + +<p>And now we come to the last picture.</p> + +<p>It is still an evening in May!</p> + +<p>“Well, how is the missionary to South Harvey,” chirrups the +Doctor as he mounts the steps, and sees his daughter, waiting for him on the +veranda. She looks cool and fresh and beautiful. Her eyes and her skin glow with +health and her face beams upon him out of a soul at peace.</p> + +<p>“She’s all right,” returns the daughter, smiling. +“How’s the khedive of Greeley county?”</p> + +<p>As the Doctor mounts the steps she continues: “Sit down, +father–I’ve something on my mind.” To her father’s +inquiring face she replied, “It’s Lila. Her father has been after +her again. She just came home crying as though her little heart would break. +It’s so pitiful–she loves him; that is left over from her babyhood; +but she is learning someway–perhaps from the children, perhaps from +life–what he has done–and when he tries to attract her–she +shrinks away from him.”</p> + +<p>“And he knows why–he knows why, Laura.” The Doctor taps the +floor softly with his cane. “It isn’t all <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_317'></a>317</span>gone–Tom’s heart, I mean. +Somewhere deep in his consciousness he is hungering for affection–for +respect–for understanding. You haven’t seen Tom’s eyes +recently?” The daughter makes no reply. “I have,” he +continues. “They’re burned out–kind of glassy–scummed +over with the searing of the hell he carries in his heart–like the +girls’ eyes down in the Row. For he is dying at the heart–burning +out with everything he has asked for in his hands, yet turning to +Lila!”</p> + +<p>“Father,” she says with her eyes brimming, “I’m not +angry with Tom–only sorry. He hasn’t hurt me–much–when +it’s all figured out. I still have my faith–my faith in +folks–and in God! Really to take away one’s faith is the only wrong +one can do to another!”</p> + +<p>The father says, “The chief wrong he did you was when he married you. +It was nobody’s fault; I might have stopped it–but no man can be +sure of those things. It was just one of the inevitable mistakes of youth, my +dear, that come into our lives, one way or another. They fall upon the just and +the unjust–without any reference to deserts.”</p> + +<p>She nods her assent and they sit listening to the sounds of the closing +day–to the vesper bell in the Valley, to the hum of the trolley bringing +its homecomers up from the town; to the drone of the five o’clock whistles +in South Harvey, to the rattle of homebound buggies. Twice the daughter starts +to speak. The second time she stops the Doctor pipes up, “Let it +come–out with it–tell your daddy if anything is on your mind.” +She smiles up into his mobile face, to find only sympathy there. So she speaks, +but she speaks hesitatingly.</p> + +<p>“I believe that I am going to be happy–really and truly +happy!” She does not smile but looks seriously at her father as she +presses his hand and pats it. “I am finding my place–doing my +work–creating something–not the home that I once hoped for–not +the home that I would have now, but it is something good and worth while. It is +self respect in me and self respect in those wives and mothers and children in +South Harvey. All over the place I find its roots–the shrivelled parching +roots of self-respect, and the aspiration that grows with self respect. +Sometimes I see it in a geranium <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_318'></a>318</span>flowering in a tomato can, set in a window; +oftentimes in a cheap lace curtain; occasionally in a struggling, stunted yellow +rose bush in the hard-beaten earth of a dooryard; or in a second hand wheezy +cabinet organ in some front bedroom–in a thousand little signs of +aspiration, I find America asserting itself among these poor people, and as I +cherish these things I find happiness asserting itself in my life. So it’s +my job, my consecrated job in this earth–to water the geranium, to prune +the rose, to mulch the roots of self-respect among these people, and I am happy, +father, happier every day that I walk that way.”</p> + +<p>She looks wistfully into her father’s face. “Father, you +won’t quite understand me when I tell you that the tomato cans with their +geraniums behind those gray lace curtains, that make Harvey people smile, are +really not tomato cans at all. They are social dynamite bombs that one day will +blow into splinters and rubbish the injustices, the cruel injustices of life +that the poor suffer at the hands of their exploiters. The geranium is the +flower, the spring flower of the divine discontent, which some day shall bear +great and wonderful fruit.”</p> + +<p>“Rather a swift pace you’re setting for a fat man, Laura,” +pipes the Doctor, adding earnestly: “There you go talking like Grant +Adams! Don’t let Grant Adams fool you, child: the end of the world +isn’t here. Grant’s a good boy, Laura, and I like him; but +he’s getting a kind of Millerite notion that we’re about to put on +white robes and go straight up to glory, politically and socially and every +which way, in a few years, and there’s nothing to it. Grant’s a good +son, and a good brother, and a good friend and neighbor, but”–the +Doctor pounds his chair arm vehemently, “there are bats, my dear, bats in +his belfry just the same. Don’t get excited when you see Grant mount his +haystack to jump into the crack o’ doom for the established +order!”</p> + +<p>The daughter smiles at him, but she answers:</p> + +<p>“Perhaps Grant is touched–touched with the mad impatience of +God’s fools, father. I don’t always follow Grant. He goes his way +and I go mine. But I am sure of this, that the thing which will really start +South Harvey, and all the South Harveys in the world out of their dirt and +misery, and <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_319'></a>319</span>vice, +is not our dreams for them, but their dreams for themselves. They must see the +vision. They must aspire. They must feel the impulse to sacrifice greatly, to +consecrate themselves deeply, to give and give and give of themselves that their +children may know better things. And it is my work to arouse their dreams, to +inspire their visions, to make them yearn for better living. I am trying to +teach them to use and to love beautiful things, that they may be restless among +ugly things. I think beauty only serves God as the handmaiden of discontent! +And, father, way down deep in my heart–I know–I know surely that I +must do this–that it is my reason for being–now that life has taken +the greater joy of home from me. So,” she concludes solemnly; “these +people whom I love, they need me, but father, God and you only know how I need +them. I don’t know about Grant,–I mean why he is going his solitary +way, but perhaps somewhere in his heart there is a wound! Perhaps all of +God’s fools–those who live queer, unnormal self-forgetting lives, +are the broken and rejected pieces of life’s masonry which the builder is +using in his own wise way. As for the plan, it is not ours. Grant and I, broken +spawl in the rising edifice, we and thousands like us, odd pieces that chink in +yet hold the strain–we must be content to hold the load and know +always–always know that after all the wall is rising! That is +enough.”</p> + +<p>And now we must put aside the pictures and get on with the story.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_320'></a>320</span><a id='link_30'></a>CHAPTER XXX<br /><span class='h2fs'>GRANT ADAMS PREACHING A MESSAGE OF LOVE RAISES THE VERY DEVIL IN HARVEY</span></h2> + +<p>The most dramatic agency in life is time–time that escapes the staged +drama. The passing years, the ceaseless chiselling of continuous events upon a +soul, the reaction of a creed upon the material routine of the days, the humdrum +living through of life that brings to it its final color and form–these +things shape us and guide us, make us what we are, and alas, the story and the +stage may only mention them. It is all very fine to say that as the years of +work and aspiration passed, Grant Adams’s channel of life grew narrower. +But what does that tell? Does it tell of the slow, daily sculpturing upon his +character of the three big, emotional episodes of his life? To be a father in +boyhood, a father ashamed, yet in duty bound to love and cherish his child; to +face death in youth horribly and escape only when other men’s courage save +him; to react upon that experience in a great spiritual awakening that all but +touched madness; and to face unspeakable pain and terror and possible death to +justify one’s fanatic consecration. Then day by day to renounce ambition, +to feel no desire for those deeper things of the heart that gather about a home +and the joys of a home; to be atrophied where others are quick and to be +supersensitive and highstrung where others are dull; these are facts of Grant +Adams’s life, but the greater facts are hidden; for they pass under the +slow and inexorably moving current of life. They are that part of the living +through of life that may not be staged nor told.</p> + +<p>But something of the living through is marked on the man. Here he stands +toward the close of the century that bore him–a tall, spare, red-haired, +flint-visaged, wire-knit man, prematurely middle-aging in late youth. Under his +high white forehead are restless blue eyes–deep, clear, challenging, <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_321'></a>321</span>combative blue eyes, a +big nose protrudes from under the eyes that marks a willful, uncompromising +creature and a big strong mouth, not finely cut, but with thick, hard lips, +often chapped, that cover large irregular teeth. The face is determined and +dogged–almost brutal sometimes when at rest; but when a smile lights it, a +charm and grace from another being illumines the solemn countenance and Grant +Adams’s heart is revealed. The face is Puritan–all Adams, dour New +England Adams, and the smile Irish–from the joyous life of Mary Sands.</p> + +<p>We may only see the face: here and there on it is the mark of the +sculptor’s tool: now and then a glare or a smile reveals what deep creases +and gashes the winds of the passing years have made in the soul behind the mask. +Here and there, as a rising strident voice in passionate exhortation lifts, we +may hear the roar of the narrowing channel into which his life is rushed with +augmented force as he hurries forward into his destiny. In that tumult, family, +home, ambition, his very child itself that was his first deep wellspring of +love, are slipping from him into the torrent. The flood washes about him; his +one idea dominates him. He is restless under it–restless even with the +employment of the hour. The unions, for which he has been working for more than +half a decade, do not satisfy him. His aim is perfection and mortality irritates +him, but does not discourage him. For even vanity is slipping from him in the +erosion of the waters rushing down their narrowing groove.</p> + +<p>But it is only his grim flint face we see; only his high strident, but often +melodiously sympathetic voice we hear; only his wiry, lank body with its stump +of a right arm that stands before us. The minutes–awful minutes some of +them–the hours, painful wrestling hours, the days, doubt-ridden days, and +the long monotonous story of the years, we may not know. For the living through +of life still escapes us, and only life’s tableau of the moment is before +us.</p> + +<hr style='border:none; border-bottom:1px solid silver; height: 1px; width: 80%; text-align: center; margin: 10px auto;' /> + +<p>Now whatever gloss of gayety Dr. Nesbit might put upon his opinion of Grant +Adams and his work in the world, it was evident that the Doctor’s opinion +of that work was not high. But it was comparatively high; for Harvey’s +opinion of Grant <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_322'></a>322</span>Adams and his work was abysmal in its depth. He was +running his life on a different motor from the motor which moved Harvey; the +town was moving after a centripetal force–every one was for himself, and +the devil was entitled to the hindermost. Grant Adams was centrifugal; he was +not considering himself particularly and was shamelessly taking heed of the +hindermost which was the devil’s by right. And so men said in their +hearts, if this man wins, there will be the devil to pay. For Grant was going +about the district spreading discontent. He was calling attention to the +violation of the laws in the mines; he was calling attention to the need of +other laws to further protect the miners and smelter men. He was going about +from town to town in the Valley building up the unions and urging the men to +demand more wages, either in actual money or in shorter hours, improved labor +conditions, and cheaper rent and better houses from the company which housed the +families of the workers.</p> + +<p>“Why,” he asked, “should labor bear the burden of industry +and take its leavings?”</p> + +<p>“Why,” he demanded, “should capital toil not nor spin and +be clothed as Solomon in his glory?”</p> + +<p>“Why,” he argued, “should the profits of toil be used to +buy more tools for toil and not more comforts for toil?”</p> + +<p>“Why, why–” he challenged Market Street, “is the +partnership of society, not a partnership, but a conspiracy?”</p> + +<p>Now Market Street had long been wrathful at that persistent Why.</p> + +<p>But when it became known that John Dexter had invited Grant Adams to occupy +the pulpit of the Congregational Church one Sunday evening to state his case, +Market Street’s wrath choked it. For several years John Dexter had been +preaching sermons that made the choir the only possible theme of conversation +between him and Ahab Wright. John Dexter had been crucified a thousand times by +the sordid greed of man in Harvey, and had cried out in the wilderness of his +pulpit against it; but his cries fell upon deaf ears, or in dumb hearts.</p> + +<p>The invitation to Grant to speak at John Dexter’s Sunday evening +service was more of a challenge to Harvey than Harvey comprehended. But even if +the town did not entirely <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_323'></a>323</span>realize the seriousness of the challenge, at least +the minister found himself summoned by Market Street to a meeting to discuss the +wisdom of his invitation. Whereupon John Dexter accepted the invitation and, +girding up his loins, went as a strong man rejoicing to run a race.</p> + +<p>To what a judgment seat they summoned John Dexter! First, up spake Commerce. +“Dr. Dexter,” said Commerce–Commerce always referred to John +Dexter as Doctor, though no Doctor was he and he knew it well, “Dr. +Dexter, we feel that your encouragement–hum–uhm–well, your +patronage of this man Adams, in his–well, shall we say +incendiary–” a harsh word is incendiary, so Commerce stopped and +touched its graying side whiskers reverently and patted its immaculate white +necktie, and then went on: “–well perhaps indiscreet will do!” +With Commerce indeed there is no vast difference between the indiscreet and the +incendiary. “–indiscreet agitation against +the–well–uhm–the way we have to conduct business, is–is +regrettable,–at least regrettable!”</p> + +<p>“Why?” interrupted John Dexter sharply, throwing Commerce sadly +out of balance. But the Law, which is the palladium of our liberties, answered +for Commerce in a slow snarling, “because he is preaching +discontent.”</p> + +<p>“But Mr. Calvin,” returned John Dexter quickly, “if any one +would come to town preaching discontent to Wright & Perry, showing them how +to make more money, to enlarge their profits, to rise among their fellow +merchants–would you refuse to give him audience in a pulpit?” The +Law did not deign to answer the preacher and then Industry took heart to say, +pulling its military goatee vigorously, and clearing its dear old throat for a +passage at arms: “’Y gory man, there’s always been a working class +and they’ve always had to work like sixty and get the worst of it, I +guess, and they always will–what say? You can’t improve on the way +the world is made. And when she’s made, she’s made–what say? I +tell you now, you’re wasting your time on that class of people.”</p> + +<p>The antagonists looked into each other’s kindly eyes. Industry +triumphing in its logic, the minister hunting in his heart for the soft answer +that would refute the logic without <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_324'></a>324</span>hurting its author. “Captain,” he said, +“there was once a wiser than we who went about preaching a new order, +spreading discontent with injustice, whose very mother was of the lowest +industrial class.”</p> + +<p>“Yes–and you know what happened to Him,” sneered the +Courts, which are the keystones of government in the structure of civilization. +“And,” continued the Courts, in a grand and superior voice, +“you can’t drag business into religion, sir. Religion is one thing +and I respect it,”–titters from the listening angels, +“–and business is another thing, and we think, sir, that you are +trying to mix the insoluble, and as business men who have our own deep religious +convictions–” inaudible guffaws from the angels, “–we +feel the sacrilege of asking this blatherskite Adams to speak on any subject in +so sacred a place as our consecrated pulpit, sir.” Hoarse hoots from the +angels.</p> + +<p>No soft benignity beamed in the preacher’s face as he turned to the +Courts. “My pulpit, Judge,” answered John Dexter sternly, +“first of all stands for the gospel of Justice between man and man. It +will afford sanctuary for the thief and the Magdalene, but only the penitent +thief and the weeping Magdalene!” And John Dexter brought down a +resounding fist on the table before him. “I believe that the first duty of +religion is to preach shame on the wicked, that they may quit their wickedness, +and if,” John Dexter’s voice rose as he went on, “in the light +of our widening intelligence we see that employers are organized wickedly to rob +their workers of justice in one way or another, I stand with those who would +make the thief disgorge for his own soul’s sake, incidentally, but chiefly +that justice may come into an evil world and men may not mock the mercy and +goodness of God by pointing at the evil men do unrebuked in His name, and under +His servants’ noses. My pulpit is a free pulpit, sir. When it is not that, +I shall leave it. And even though I do not agree sometimes with a man’s +message, so long as my pulpit is free, any man who desires to cry stop thief, in +the darkness of this world, may lift his voice there, and no man shall say him +nay! Have you gentlemen anything further to offer?”</p> + +<p>Commerce ceased rubbing its hands. Its alter ego, Business, <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_325'></a>325</span>was obviously getting +ready to say something, but was only whistling for the station, and the crowd +knew it would be a minute before his stuttering speech should arrive. Patriotism +was leaning forward with its hands back of its ears, smiling pleasantly at what +he did not understand, and Industry, who saw the strings in which his world was +wrapped up for delivery, cut, and the world sprawled in confusion before him by +the preacher’s defiance, was pulling his military goatee solemnly when +Science toddled in, white-clad, pink-faced, smoking his short pipe and clicking +his cane rather more snappily than usual. He saw that he had punctuated an +embarrassed situation. Only Religion and Patriotism were smiling. Science +brought his cane down with a whack and piped out:</p> + +<p>“So you are going to muzzle John Dexter, are you–you +witch-burning old pharisees. I heard of your meeting, and I just thought +I’d come around to the bonfire! What are you trying to do here, +anyway?”</p> + +<p>At last Business which had been whistling for the station was ready to pull +in; so it unloaded itself thus: “We are p-protesting, Doc, at th-th-th-th +m-m-m-man Adams–this l-l-labor sk-sk-skate and s-s-socialist occupying +J-J-John Dexter’s p-pulp-p-pit!”</p> + +<p>Science looked at Business a grave moment, then burst out, “What are +you all afraid of! Here you are, a lot of grown men with fat bank accounts +sitting around in a blue funk because Grant Adams does a little more or less +objectionable talking. I don’t agree with Grant much more than you do. But +you’re a lot of old hens, cackling around here because Grant Adams invades +the roost to air his views. Let him talk. Let ’em all talk. Talk is cheap; +otherwise we wouldn’t have free speech.” He grinned cynically as he +asked, “Haven’t you any faith in the Constitution of the fathers? +They were smart enough to know that free speech was a safety valve; let +’em blow off. Then go down and organize and vote ’em afterwards +according to the dictates of your own conscience. Politics is the antidote for +free speech!” The Doctor glared at the Courts, smiled amiably at Business +and winked conspicuously at Religion. Religion blushed at the blasphemy and as +there seemed to be nothing <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_326'></a>326</span>further before the house the Doctor and John Dexter +left the room.</p> + +<p>But the honest indignation of Market Street that an agitator should appear in +a pulpit–that an agitator for anything, should appear in any +pulpit–waxed strong. For it was assumed that religion had nothing to do +with social conduct; religion was solely a matter of individual salvation. +Religion was a matter concerned entirely with getting to heaven oneself, and not +at all a matter of getting others to heaven except as they took the narrow and +individual path. The idea that environment affects character and that society +through politics and social and economic institutions may change a man’s +environments and thus affect the characters and the chances for Heaven of whole +sections of the population, was an idea which had not been absorbed by Market +Street in Harvey. So Market Street raged.</p> + +<p>That evening when Grant Adams returned from work he received two significant +notes. One was from John Dexter and ran:</p> + +<p>“Dear Grant: Fearing that you may hear of the comment my invitation to +you to speak in my pulpit is causing and fearing that you may either decide at +the last minute not to come or that you will modify your remarks out of +consideration for me, I write to say that while of course I may not agree with +everything you advocate, yet my pulpit is a free pulpit and I cannot consent +that you restrict its freedom in saying your full say as a man, any more than I +could consent to have my own freedom restricted. Yours in the faith–J. +D.”</p> + +<p>The other note ran: “Father says to tell you to tone it down. I have +delivered his message. I say here is your chance to get the truth where it is +most needed, and even if for the most part it falls on stony ground–you +still must sow it.–L. N. VD.”</p> + +<p>Sunday evening saw a large congregation in the pews of the Rev. John +Dexter’s church. In the front and middle portion of the church were the +dwellers on the Hill, those whose lines fell in pleasant places. They were the +“Haves” of the town,–conspicuous and highly respectable with +rustle of silks and flutter of ribbons.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_327'></a>327</span>And back of +these sat a score of men and women from South Harvey, the +“Have-nots,” the dwellers in the dreary valley. There was Denny +Hogan, late of the mines, but now of the smelter–with his curly hair +plastered over his forehead, and with his wife, she that was Violet Mauling +holding a two-year-old baby with sweaty, curly red hair to her breast asleep; +there was Ira Dooley, also late of the mines, but now proprietor of a little +game of chance over the Hot Dog Saloon; there was Pat McCann, a pit boss and +proud of it, with Mrs. McCann–looking her eyes out at Mrs. Nesbit’s +hat. There was John Jones, in his Sunday best, and Evan Hughes and Tom Williams, +the wiry little Welsh miners who had faced death with Grant Adams five years +before. They were with him that night at the church with all the pride in him +that they could have if he were one of the real nobility, instead of a labor +agitator with a little more than local reputation. And there were Dick and his +boy Mugs and the silent Mrs. Bowman and Bennie her youngest and Mary the next to +the youngest. And Mrs. Bowman in the South Harvey colony was a person of +consequence, for she nodded to the Nesbits and the Mortons and to Laura and to +Mrs. Calvin and to all the old settlers of Harvey–rather conspicuously. +She had the gratification of noting that South Harvey saw the nobility nod back. +With the South Harvey people came Amos Adams in his rough gray clothes and rough +gray beard. Jasper Adams, in the highest possible collar, and in the gayest +possible shell-pink necktie and under the extremest clothes that it might be +possible for the superintendent of a Sunday School to wear, shared a hymnal, +when the congregation rose to sing, with the youngest Miss Morton. There were +those who thought the singing was merely a duet between young Mr. Adams and the +youngest Miss Morton–so much feeling did they put into the music. Mr. +Brotherton was so impressed, that he marked young Adams for a tryout at the next +funeral where there was a bass voice needed, making the mental reservation that +no one needed to look at the pimples of a boy who could sing like that.</p> + +<p>When the congregation sat down after the first hymn John Dexter formally +presented Grant Adams to the congregation. The young man rose, walked to the +chancel rail and stood for <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_328'></a>328</span>a moment facing his audience without speaking. The +congregation saw a tall, strong featured, uncouth man with large nose and a big +mouth–clearly masculine and not finely chiselled. In these features there +was something almost coarse and earthy; but in the man’s eyes and +forehead, there lurked the haunting, fleeting shadow of the eternal feminine in +his soul. His eyes were deep and blue and tender, and in repose always seemed +about to smile, while his forehead, high and broad, topped by a shock of red +hair, gave him a kind of intellectual charity that made his whole countenance +shine with kindness. Yet his clothes belied the promise of his brow. They were +ill-fitting, with an air of Sunday-bestness that gave him an incongruous +scarecrow effect. It was easy to see why Market Street was beginning to call him +that “Mad Adams.” As he lifted his glance from the floor, his eyes +met Laura Van Dorn’s, then flitted away quickly, and the smile she should +have had for her own, he gave to his audience. He began speaking with his arms +behind him to hide the crippled arm which was tipped with a gloved iron claw. +His voice was low and gentle, yet his hearers felt its strength in reserve.</p> + +<p>“I suppose,” he began slowly, “every man has his job in the +world, and I presume my job seems rather an unnecessary one to some of my +friends, and I can hardly blame them. For the assumption of superiority that it +may seem to require upon the whole must be distasteful to them. For as a +professional apostle of discontent, urging men to cease the worship of things as +they are, I am taking on myself a grave burden–that of leading those who +come with me, into something better. In the end perhaps, you will not be proud +of me. For my vision may be a delusion. Time may leave me naked to the cold +truth of life, and I may awaken from my dreaming to reality. That is possible. +But now I see my course; now I feel the deep call of a duty I cannot +resist.” He was speaking softly and in hardly more than a conversational +tone, with his hand at his side and his gloved claw behind him. He lifted his +hand and spoke in a deeper tone.</p> + +<p>“I have come to you–to those of you who lead sheltered lives of +comfort, amid work and scenes you love, to tell you <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_329'></a>329</span>of your neighbors; to call to you in +their name, and in the name of our common God for help. I have come from the +poor–to tell you of their sorrows, to beg of you to come over into +Macedonia and help us; for without you we are helpless. True–God knows how +true–the poor outnumber you by ten to one. True, they have the power +within them to rise, but their strength is as water in their hands. They need +you. They need your neighborly love.”</p> + +<p>As he spoke something within him, some power of his voice or of his presence +played across the congregation like a wind. The wind which at first touched a +few who bent forward to hear him, was moving every one. Faces gradually set in +attention. He went on:</p> + +<p>“How wonderful is this spirit of life that has come rolling in through +the eons, rolling in from some vast illimitable sea of life that we call God. +For ages and ages on this planet life could only give to new life the power to +feed and propagate, could only pass on to new life the heritage of instinct; +then another impulse of the outer sea washed in and there came a day when life +could imitate, could learn a little, could pass on to new life some slight power +of growth. And then came welling in from the unknown bourne another wave, and +lo! life could reason, and God heard men whisper, Father, and deep called unto +deep. Since then through the long centuries, through the gray ages, life slowly +has been rising, slowly coming in from the hidden sea that laves the world. +Millions and millions of men are doomed to know nothing of this life that gives +us joy; millions are held bound in a social inheritance that keeps them +struggling for food, over outworn paths, mere creatures of primal instinct, +whose Godhood is taken from them at birth; by you–by you who get what you +do not earn from those who earn what they do not get.”</p> + +<p>He turned to the group near the rear of the room, looked at them and +continued:</p> + +<p>“The poor need your neighborly sacrifice, and in that neighborly love +and sacrifice you will grow in stature more than they. What you give you will +keep; what you lose you will gain. The brotherhood you build up will bless and +comfort you.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_330'></a>330</span>“The +poor,” he exclaimed passionately, “need you, but how, before God you +need them! For only a loving understanding of your neighbors’ lives will +soften your calloused hearts. Long benumbing hours of grimy work, sordid homes +amid daily and hourly scenes of filth and shame!” He leaned forward and +cried: “Listen to me, Ahab Wright,” and he thrust forward his iron +claw toward the merchant while the congregation gasped, “what if you had +to strip naked and bathe in a one-roomed hut before your family every night when +you came home, dirty and coal-stained from your day’s work! the beggar and +the harlot and the thief nearby.” He moved his accusing claw and the +startled eyes of the crowd followed it as it pointed to Daniel Sands and Grant +exclaimed: “Listen, Uncle Dan Sands, how would you like to have your +daughter see the things the children see who live in your tenements next to the +Burned District, which is your property also! Poisoned food, cheap, poisoned +air, cheap, poisoned thoughts–all food and air and ideas, the cast-off +refuse of your daily lives who live in these sheltered homes. You have a +splendid sewer system up here; but it flows into South Harvey and the Valley +towns, a great open ravine, because you people sitting here who own the property +down there won’t tax yourselves to enclose those sewers that poison +us!” A faint–rather dazed smile ran over the congregation like a +wraith of smoke. He felt that the smoke proved that he had struck fire. He went +on: “Love, great aspiring love of fathers and mothers and sisters and +brothers, love stifled by fell circumstance, by cruel events, and love that +winces in agony at seeing children and father and brother go down in the muck +all around them–that is the heritage of poverty.</p> + +<p>“Hear me, Kyle Perry and John Kollander. I know you think poverty is +the social punishment of the unfit. But I tell you poverty is not the punishment +of the weak. Poverty is a social condition to which millions are doomed and from +which only hundreds escape when the doom of birth is sealed. What has Ahab +Wright given to Harvey more than James McPherson, who discovered coal here? What +has Daniel Sands done for Harvey more than Tom Williams, who has spent his life +at hard work mining coal? Is <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_331'></a>331</span>not his coal as valuable as Uncle Daniel’s +interest? Friends–think of these things!”</p> + +<p>The wraith of smoke that had appeared when Grant first began speaking +personally to the men of Harvey, in a minute had grown to a surer evidence of +fire. The smiling ceased. Angry looks began flashing over the faces before +Grant, like darts of flame. And after these looks came a great black cloud of +wrath that was as perceptible as a gust of smoke. He felt that soon the fire +would burst forth. But he hurried on with his message: “Poverty is not the +social punishment of the weak, I repeat it. Poverty is a social inheritance of +the many, a condition which holds men hard and fast–a condition that you +may change, you who have so much. All this coal and oil and mineral have +profited you greatly, oh, men of Harvey. You are rich, Daniel Sands. You are +prosperous, Ahab Wright. You have every comfort around you and yours, John +Kollander, and you, Joseph Calvin, are rearing your children in luxury compared +with Dick Bowman’s children. Hasn’t he worked as hard as you? Here +are Ira Dooley and Denny Hogan. They started as equals with you up here and have +worked as hard and have lived average lives. Yet if their share is a fair share +of the earnings of this community, you have an unfair share. How did you get +it?” He leaned out over the chancel rail, pointed a bony, accusing finger +at the congregation and glared at the eyes before him angrily. Quickly he +recovered his poise but brought his steel claw down on the pulpit beside him +with a sharp clash as he cried again, “How did you get it?”</p> + +<p>Then it was that the flame of indignation burst forth. It came first in a +hiss and another and a third–then a crackling fire of hisses greeted his +last sentence. When the hissing calmed, his voice rose slightly. He went on:</p> + +<p>“We of the middle classes–we have risen above the great mass +below us: we are permitted to learn–a little–to imitate and expand +somewhat. But above us, thank God, is another group in the social organization. +Here at the top stand the blessed, privileged few who are the world’s +prophets and dreamers and seers–they know God; they drink deep of the +rising tide of everlasting life that is booming in, flooding the <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_332'></a>332</span>world with mercy and love +and brotherhood; and what they see in one century–and die for +disclosing–we all see in the next century and fight to hold it +fast!” He stood looking at the floor, then opened wide his glaring eyes, a +fanatic’s mania blazing in them, lifted his arms and cried with a great +voice like a trumpet: “You–you–you who have known God’s +mercy and his goodness and his love–why, in the dead Christ’s name +do you sit here and let the flood of life be dammed away from your brothers, +stealing the waters of life like thieves from your brethren by your cruel laws +and customs and the chains of social circumstance!”</p> + +<p>They tried to hiss again but he hurried on as one possessed of a demon: +“A little love, a little sacrifice, a little practical brotherly care from +each of you each day would help. We don’t want your alms, we want justice. +Thousands of babies–loved just as yours are loved–are slaughtered +every month through poisoned food that comes from commercial greed. Thousands of +fathers and brothers over this land are killed every year because it is cheaper +to kill them than to protect them by machinery guarded and watched. Their blood +is upon you–for by your laws, by your middle class courts you could stop +its flowing. Thousands of mothers die every week from poor housing–you +could stop that if you would. They are stopping it by laws in other lands. +Millions of girls the world over are led like sheep to shameful lives because of +industrial conditions that your vote and voice could change; and yet,” his +voice lost its accusing tone and he spoke gently, even tenderly, “as +babies they cuddled in their mothers’ arms and roused all the hope and +inspired all the love that a soft little body may bring. Millions and millions +of mothers who clasp their children to them in hope, must see those children go +into life to be broken and crushed by the weight from above.”</p> + +<p>As Grant was speaking he noticed that Morty Sands was nodding his head off in +gorgeous approval. Then without thinking how his words might cut, he cried, +“And look at our good friend Morty Sands who enjoys every luxury and is +arrayed as the lilies of the field! What does Morty give to society that he can +promise the girl who marries him, comfort and ease and all the happiness that +physical affluence <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_333'></a>333</span>may bring? And then there sits Mugs Bowman. What can +Mugs offer his girl except a life of hard, grinding work, a houseful of children +and a death perhaps of slow disease? Yet Mugs must have his houseful of children +for they must all work to support Morty. Where is the justice in a society +organized like this?</p> + +<p>“For Christ’s living sake,” cried the man as his face +glowed in his emotion, “let life wash in from its holy source to these our +brothers. Shame on you–you greedy ones, you dollar worshipers–you +dam the stream, you muddy the waters, you poison the well of +life–shame–shame!” he cried and then paused, gloated perhaps +in his pause, for the storm he saw gathering in the crowd, to break. His face +was transfigured by the passion in his heart and seemed illumined with +wrath.</p> + +<p>“The flag–the flag!” bawled deaf John Kollander, rising, +“He is desecrating Old Glory!”</p> + +<p>Then fire met fire and the conflagration was past control. It raged over the +church noisily.</p> + +<p>“Look-a here, young man,” called Joseph Calvin, standing in his +seat.</p> + +<p>“The flag–will no one defend the flag!” bellowed John +Kollander, while Rhoda, his wife, looked on with amiable approval.</p> + +<p>“P-put him out,” stuttered Kyle Perry, and his clerks and +understrappers joined the clamor.</p> + +<p>“Well, say, men,” cried George Brotherton in the confusion of +hissing and groaning, “can’t you let the man talk? Is free speech +dead in this town?” His great voice silenced the crowd, and John Dexter +was in the pulpit holding out his hands. As he spoke the congregation grew +silent, and they heard him say:</p> + +<p>“This is a free pulpit; this man shall not be disturbed.” But +Joseph Calvin stamped noisily out of the church. John Kollander and his wife +marched out behind him with military tread and Kyle Perry and Ahab Wright with +their families followed, amid a shuffling of feet and a clamor of voices. The +men from South Harvey kept their places. There was a whispering among them and +Grant, fearing that they would start trouble, called to them sternly:</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_334'></a>334</span>“My +friends must respect this house. Let property riot–poverty can wait. It +has waited a long time and is used to it.”</p> + +<p>When Market Street was gone, the speaker drew a deep breath and said in a +low, quiet voice charged with pent-up emotion: “Now that we are alone, +friends,–now that they are gone whose hearts needed this message, let me +say just this: God has given you who live beautiful lives the keeping of his +treasure. Let us ask ourselves this: Shall we keep it to share it with our +brethren in love, or shall we guard it against our brethren in hate?”</p> + +<p>He walked back to the rear of the room and sat, with his head bowed down, +beside his friends, spent and weary while the services closed.</p> + +<p>At the church door Laura Van Dorn saw the despair that was somewhat a +physical reaction from weariness. So she cut her way through the group and went +to him, taking his arm and drawing him aside into the homebound walk, as quickly +as she could. He remained grim and spoke only in answer to challenge or question +from Laura. It was plain to her that he felt that his speech was a failure; that +he had not made himself understood; that he had overstated his case. She was not +sure herself that he had not lost more ground than he had gained in the town. +But she wrapped him about in a garment of kindness–an almost maternal +tenderness that was balm to his heart. She did not praise his speech but she let +him know that she was proud of him, that her heart was in all that he had said, +even if he felt definitely that there were places in his adventure where her +head was not ready to go. She held no check upon the words that came to her +lips, for she felt, even deeper and surer than she felt her own remoteness from +the love which her girlhood had known, that in him it was forever dead. No touch +of his hand; no look of his eye, no quality of his voice had come to her since +her childhood, in which she could find trace or suggestion that sex was alive in +him. The ardor that burned so wildly upon his face, the fire in his eyes that +glowed when he spoke of his work and his problems, seemed to have charred within +him all flower and beauty of romance. But they left with him a hunger for +sympathy. A <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_335'></a>335</span>desire +to be mothered and a longing for a deep and sweet understanding which made Laura +more and more necessary to him as he went into his life’s pilgrimage. As +they reached a corner, he left her with her family while he turned away for a +night walk.</p> + +<p>As he walked, he was continually coming upon lovers passing or meeting him in +the night; and Grant seeing them felt his sense of isolation from life renewed, +but was not stirred to change his course. For hours he wandered through the town +and out of it into the prairies, with his heart heavy and wroth at the +iniquities of men which make the inequities of life. For his demon kept him from +sleep. If another demon, and perhaps a gentler, tried to whisper to him that +night of another life and a sweeter, tried to turn him from his course into the +normal walks of man, tried to break his purpose and tempt him to dwell in the +comely tents of Kedar–if some gentler angels that would have saved him +from a harsher fate had beckoned to him and called him that night, through +passing lovers’ arms and the murmur of loving voices, his eyes were blind +and his ears were deaf and his heart was hot with another passion.</p> + +<p>Amos Adams was in bed when Grant came into the house. On the table was a +litter of writing paper. Grant sat down for a minute under the lamp. His father +in the next room stirred, and asked:</p> + +<p>“What kept you?” And then, “I had a terrific time with Mr. +Left to-night.” The father appeared in the doorway. “But just look +there what I got after a long session.”</p> + +<p>On the page were these words written in a little round, old-fashioned hand, +some one’s interminably repeated prayer. “Angels guide +him–angels strengthen him; angels pray for him.” These words were +penned clear across the page and on the next line and the next and the next to +the very bottom of the page, in a weary monotony, save that at the bottom of the +sheet the pen had literally run into the paper, so heavily was the hand of the +writer bearing down! Under that, written in the fine hand used by Mr. Left was +this:</p> + +<p>“Huxley:–On earth I wrote that I saw one angel–‘the strong, +calm angel playing for love.’ Now I see the forces of good leading the +world forward, compelling progress; all <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_336'></a>336</span>are personal–just as the Great All +Encompassing Force is personal, just as human consciousness is personal. The +positive forces of life are angels–not exact–but the best figure. So +it is true that was written, ‘there is more joy in Heaven’–and ‘the +angels sang for joy.’ This also is only a figure–but the best I can +get through to you. Angels guide us, angels strengthen us, angels pray for +us.”</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_337'></a>337</span><a id='link_31'></a>CHAPTER XXXI<br /><span class='h2fs'>IN WHICH JUDGE VAN DORN MAKES HIS BRAGS AND DR. NESBIT SEES A VISION</span></h2> + +<p>It was the last day of the last year of the Nineteenth Century–and a +fair, beautiful day it was. The sun shone over Harvey in spite of the clouds +from the smelter in South Harvey, and in spite of the clouds that were blown by +the soft, south wind up the Wahoo Valley from other smelters and other coal +mines, and a score of great smoke stacks in Foley and Magnus and Plain Valley, +where the discovery of coal and oil and gas, within the decade that was passing, +had turned the Valley into a straggling town almost twenty miles long. So high +and busy were the chimneys that when the south wind blew toward the capital of +this industrial community, often the sun was dimmed in Harvey by a haze. But on +this fair winter’s day the air was dry and cold and even in Harvey shadows +were black and clear, and the sun’s warmth had set the redbirds to singing +in the brush and put so much joy into the world that Judge Thomas Van Dorn had +ventured out with his new automobile–a chugging, clattering wonder that +set all the horses of Greeley County on their hind feet, making him a person of +distinction in the town far beyond his renown as a judge and an orator and a +person of more than state-wide reputation. But the Judge’s automobile was +frail and prone to err–being not altogether unlike its owner in that +regard. Thus many a time when it chugged out of his barn so proudly, it came +limping back behind a span of mules. And so it happened on that bright, +beautiful, December day that the Judge was sitting upon a box in Captain +Morton’s shop, while the Captain at his little forge was welding some bits +of metal together and discoursing upon the virtues of his Household <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_338'></a>338</span>Horse, which he was +assembling in small quantities–having arranged with a firm in South +Chicago to cast the two iron pieces that were needed.</p> + +<p>“Now, for instance, on a clothes wringer,” the Captain was +saying: “It’s a perfect wonder on a clothes wringer: I have the +agency of a clothes wringer that is making agents rich all over the country. But +women don’t like clothes wringers; why? Because they require such hard +work. All right–hitch on my Household Horse, and the power required is +reduced three-fifths and a day’s wash may be put on the line as easy as a +girl could play The Maiden’s Prayer on a piano–eh? Or, say, put it +on a churn–same Horse–one’s all that’s needed to a +house. Or make it an ice cream freezer or a cradle or a sewing machine, or +anything on earth that runs by a crank–and ’y gory, man, you make +housework a joy. I sold Laura one–traded her one for lessons for Ruth, and +she says wash-day at the Doctor’s is like Sunday now–what say? +Lila’s so crazy about it they can’t keep her out of the basement +while the woman works,–likes to dabble in the water you know like all +children, washing her doll clothes, what say?”</p> + +<p>But the Judge said nothing. The Captain tinkered with the metal, and dipped +it slowly in and out of a tub of dirty water to temper it, and as he tried it in +the groove where it belonged upon the automobile backed up to the shop, he found +that it was not exactly true, and went to work to spring it back into line. The +Judge looked around the shop–a barny, little place filled with all sorts +of wheels and pulleys and levers and half-finished inventions that +wouldn’t work, and that, even if they would work, would be of little +consequence. There was an attempt to make a self-oiler for buggy wheels, a +half-finished contrivance that was supposed to keep cordwood stacked in neat +rows; an automatic contraption to prevent coffeepots from burning; a cornsheller +that would all but work; a molasses faucet with an alcohol burner which was +supposed to make the sirup flow faster–but which instead sometimes blew up +and burned down grocery stores, and there were steamers and churns and household +contrivances which the Captain had introduced into the homes of Harvey in past +years, not of his invention, <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_339'></a>339</span>to be sure, but contrivances that had inspired his +eloquence, and were mute witnesses to his prowess–trophies of the chase. +Above the forge were rows of his patent sprockets, all neatly wrapped in brown +paper, and under this row of merchandise was a clipping from the <i>Times</i> +describing the Captain’s invention, and predicting–at five cents a +line–that it would revolutionize the theory of mechanics and soon become a +household need all over the world.</p> + +<p>As the Judge looked idly at the Captain’s treasures while the Captain +tinkered with the steel, he took off his hat, and the Captain, peering through +his glasses, remarked:</p> + +<p>“Getting kind of thin on top, Tom–eh? Doc, he’s leaning a +little hard on his cane. Joe Calvin, he’s getting rheumatic, and +you’re getting thin-haired. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh +away.”</p> + +<p>“So you believe the Lord runs things here in Harvey, do you, +Cap?” asked the Judge, who was playing with a bit of wire.</p> + +<p>“Well–I suppose if you come right down to it,” answered the +Captain, “a man’s got to have the consolation of religion in some +shape or other or he’s going to get mighty discouraged–what +say?”</p> + +<p>“Why,” scoffed the Judge, “it’s a +myth–there’s nothing to it. Look at my wife–I mean +Margaret–she changes religion as often as she changes dogs. Since +we’ve been married she’s had three religions. And what good does it +do her?”</p> + +<p>The Captain, sighting down the edge of the metal, shook his head, and the +Judge went on: “What good does any religion do? I’ve broken the ten +commandments, every one of them–and I get on. No one bothers me, because I +keep inside the general statutes. I’ve beat God at his own game. I tell +you, Cap, you can do what you please just so you obey the state and federal laws +and pay your debts. This God-myth amuses me.”</p> + +<p>Captain Morton did not care to argue with the Judge. So he said, by way of +making conversation for a customer, and neighbor and guest:</p> + +<p>“I hear, well, to be exact, George Brotherton was telling me and the +girls the other night that the Company is secretly <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_340'></a>340</span>dropping out the members of the unions +that Grant Adams has been organizing down in South Harvey.”</p> + +<p>“Yes–that Adams is another one of your canting, God-and-morality +fellows. Always watch that kind. I tell you, Captain,” barked the Judge, +“about the only thing my wife and I have agreed on for a year is that this +Adams fellow is a sneaking, pharisaical hound. Lord, how she hates him! +Sometimes I think women hate hard enough to compete with your God, who according +to the preachers, is always slipping around getting even with fellows for their +sins. God and women are very much alike, anyway,” sneered the Judge. In +the silence that followed, both men were attracted by a noise behind +them–the rustling of straw. They looked around and saw the figure of a +little girl–a yellow-haired, blue-eyed, shy, little girl, trying to slip +out of the place. She had evidently been in the loft gathering eggs, for her +apron was full, and she had her foot on the loft ladder.</p> + +<p>“Why, Lila, child,” exclaimed the Captain, “I clean forgot +you being up there–did you find any eggs? Why didn’t you come down +long ago?”</p> + +<p>“Come here, Lila,” called the Judge. The child stood by the +ladder hesitatingly, holding her little apron corners tightly in her teeth +basketing the eggs–too embarrassed now that she was down the ladder, to +use her hands.</p> + +<p>“Lila,” coaxed the Judge, reaching his hand into his pocket, +“won’t you let Papa give you a dollar for candy or something. Come +on, daughter.” He put out his hands. She shook her head. She had to pass +him to get to the door. “You aren’t afraid of your Papa are you, +Lila–come–here’s a dollar for you–that’s a good +girl.”</p> + +<p>Her mouth quivered. Big tears were dropping down her cheeks. The +Captain’s quick eye saw that something had hurt her. He went over to her, +put his arm about her, took the eggs from her apron, fondled her gently without +speaking. The Judge drew nearer “Lila–come–that’s a good +girl–here, take the money. Oh Lila, Lila,” he cried, +“won’t you take it for Papa–won’t you, my little +girl?”</p> + +<p>The child looked up at him with shy frightened eyes, and suddenly she put +down her head and ran past him. He tried <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_341'></a>341</span>to hold her–to put the silver into her hand, +but she shrank away and dropped the coin before him.</p> + +<p>“Shy child, Judge–very shy. Emma let her gather the eggs this +morning, she loves to hunt eggs,” chuckled the Captain, “and she +went to the loft just before you came in. I clean forgot she hadn’t come +down.”</p> + +<p>The Captain went on with his work.</p> + +<p>“I suppose, Cap,” said Van Dorn quietly, “she heard more or +less of what I said.” The Captain nodded.</p> + +<p>“How much did she understand?” the Judge asked.</p> + +<p>“More’n you’d think, Judge–more’n you’d +think. But,” added Captain Morton after a pause, “I know the little +skite like a top, Judge–and there’s one thing about her: She’s +a loyal little body. She’ll never tell; you needn’t be worrying +about that.”</p> + +<p>The Judge sighed and added sadly: “It wasn’t that, Cap–it +was–” But the Judge left his sentence in the air. The mending was +done. The Judge paid the old man and gave him a dollar more than he asked, and +went chugging off in a cloud of smoke, while the Captain, thinking over what the +Judge had said, sighed, shook his head, and bending over his work, cackled in an +undertone, snatches of a tune that told of a land that is fairer than day. He +had put together three sprockets and was working on the fourth when he looked up +and saw his daughter Emma sitting on the box that the Judge had vacated. The +Captain put his hand to his back and stood up, looking at his eldest daughter +with loving pride.</p> + +<p>“Emma,” he said at length, “Judge Tom says women are like +God.” He stood near her and smoothed her hair, and patted her cheek as he +pressed her head against his side. “I guess he’s right–eh? +Lila was in the loft getting eggs and she overheard a lot of his fool +talk.” The daughter made no reply. The Captain worked on and finally said: +“It kind of hit Tom hard to have Lila hear him; took the tuck out of him, +eh?”</p> + +<p>Emma still waited. “My dear, the more I know of women the better I +think of God, and the surer I am of God, the better I think of women–what +say?” He sat on the box beside her and took her hand in his hard, cracked, +grimy hand, “’Y gory, girl, I tell you, give me a line on a man’s +idea <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_342'></a>342</span>of God and I +can tell you to a tee what he thinks of women–eh?” The Captain +dropped the hand for a moment and looked out of the door into the alley.</p> + +<p>“Well, Father, I agree with you in general about women but in +particular I don’t care about Mrs. Herdicker and I wish Martha had another +job, though I suppose it’s better than teaching school.” The +daughter sighed. “Honest, father, sometimes when I’ve been on my +feet all day, and the children have been mean, and the janitor sticks his head +in and grins, so I’ll know the superintendent is in the building and get +the work off the board that the rules don’t allow me to put on, or one of +the other girls sends a note up to watch for my spelling for he’s cranky +on spelling to-day, I just think, ‘Lordee, if I had a job in some one’s +kitchen, I’d be too happy to breathe.’ But then–”</p> + +<p>“Yes–yes, child–I know it’s hard work now–but +’y gory, Emmy, when I get this sprocket introduced and going, I’ll buy you +six superintendents in a brass cage and let you feed ’em biled eggs to +make ’em sing–eh?” He smiled and patted his daughter’s +hair and rose to go back to work. The girl plucked at his coat and said: +“Now sit down, father, I want to talk to you,” she hesitated. +“It’s about Mr. Brotherton. You know he’s been coming out here +for years and I thought he was coming to see me, and now Martha thinks he comes +to see her, and Martha always stays there and so does Ruth, and if he is coming +to see me–” she stopped. Her father looked at her in astonishment. +“Why, father,” she went on,–“why not? I’m +twenty-five, and Martha’s twenty-two and even Ruth is seventeen–he +might even be coming to see Ruth,” she added bitterly.</p> + +<p>“Yes, or Epaminondas–the cat–eh?” cut in the old man. +Then he added, indignantly, “Well, how about this singing Jasper +Adams–who’s he coming to see? Or Amos–he comes around here +sometimes Saturday night after G. A. R. meeting, with me–what say? Would +you want us all to clear out and leave you the front room with him?” +demanded the perturbed Captain.</p> + +<p>Then the father put his arm about his child tenderly: “Twenty-five +years old–twenty-five years–why, girl, in my time a girl was an old +maid laid on the shelf at twenty-five–and <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_343'></a>343</span>here you are,” he mused, “just thinking +of your first beau and here I am needing your mother worse than I ever did in my +life. Law-see’ girl–how do I know what to do–what say?” +But he did know enough to draw her to him and kiss her and sigh. +“Well–maybe I can do something–maybe–we’ll +see.” And then she left him and he went to his work. And as he worked the +thought struck him suddenly that if he could put one of his sprockets in the +Judge’s automobile where he had seen a chain, that it would save power and +stop much of the noise. So as he worked he dreamed that his sprocket was adopted +by the makers of the new machines, and that he was rich–exceedingly rich +and that he took the girls to visit the Ohio kin, and that Emma had her trip to +the Grand Canyon, that Martha went to Europe and that Ruthie “took +vocal” of a teacher in France whose name he could not pronounce.</p> + +<p>As he hammered away at his bench he heard a shuffling at the door and looking +up saw Dr. Nesbit in the threshold.</p> + +<p>“Come in, Doctor; sit down and talk,” shrilled the Doctor before +the Captain could speak, and when the Doctor had seated himself upon the box by +the workbench, the Captain managed to say: “Surely–come right in, +I’m kind of lonesome anyhow.”</p> + +<p>“And I’m mad,” cried the Doctor. “Just let me sit +here and blow off a little to my old army friend.”</p> + +<p>“Well–well, Doctor, it’s queer to see you hot under the +collar–eh?” The Doctor began digging out his pipe and filling it, +without speaking. The Captain asked: “What’s gone wrong? Politics +ain’t biling? what say?”</p> + +<p>“Well,” returned the Doctor, “you know Laura works at her +kindergarten down there in South Harvey, and she got me to pass that +hours-of-service law for the smelter men at the extra session last summer. Good +law! Those men working there in the fumes shouldn’t work over six hours a +day–it will kill them. I managed by trading off my hide and my chances of +Heaven to get a law through, cutting them down to eight hours in smelter work. +Denny Hogan, who works on the slag dump, is going to die if he has to do it +another year on a ten-hour shift. He’s been up and down for two years +now–the Hogans live neighbors to Laura’s school and I’ve <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_344'></a>344</span>been watching him. +Well,” and here the Doctor thumped on the floor with his cane, “this +Judge–this vain, strutting peacock of a Judge, this cat-chasing Judge that +was once my son-in-law, has gone and knocked the law galley west so far as it +affects the slag dump. I’ve just been reading his decision, and I’m +hot–good and hot.”</p> + +<p>The Captain interrupted:</p> + +<p>“I saw Violet Hogan and the children–dressed like princesses, +walking out to-day–past the Judge’s house–showing it to +them–what say? My, how old she looks, Doctor!”</p> + +<p>“Well–the damned villain–the infernal +scoundrel–” piped the Doctor. “I just been reading that +decision. The men showed in their lawsuit that the month before the law took +effect the company, knowing the law had been passed, went out and sold their +switch and sold the slag dump, to a fake railroad company that bought a switch +engine and two or three cars, and incorporated as a railroad, and then–the +same people owning the smelter and the railroad, they set all the men in the +smelter that they could working on the slag dump, so the men were working for +the railroad and not for the smelter company and didn’t come within the +eight hour law. And now the Judge stands by that farce; he says that the men +working there under the very chimney of the smelter on the slag dump where the +fumes are worst, are not subject to the law because the law says that men +working for the smelters shall not work more than eight hours, and these men are +working for a cheating, swindling subterfuge of a railroad. That’s +judge-made law. That’s the kind of law that makes anarchists. Law!” +snorted the Doctor, “Law!–made by judges who have graduated out of +the employ of corporations–law!–is just what the Judge on the bench +dares to read into the statute. I tell you, Cap, if the doctors and engineers +and preachers were as subservient to greed and big money as the lawyers are, we +would soon lose our standing. But when a lawyer commits some flagrant +malpractice like that of Tom Van Dorn’s–the lawyers remind us that +the courts are sacred institutions.”</p> + +<p>The Doctor’s pipe was out and in filling it again, he jabbed viciously +at the bowl with his knife, and in the meantime the Captain was saying:</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_345'></a>345</span>“Well, I +suppose he found the body of the decisions leaning that way, Doc–you know +Judges are bound by the body of the law.”</p> + +<p>“The body of the law–yes, damn ’em, I’ve bought +’em to find the body of the law myself.”</p> + +<p>The Doctor sputtered along with his pipe and cried out in his high +treble–“I never had any more trouble buying a court than a Senator. +And lawyers have no shame about hiring themselves to crooks and notorious +lawbreakers. And some lawyers hire themselves body and soul to great +corporations for life and we all know that those corporations are merely evading +the laws and not obeying them; and lawyers–at the very top of the +profession–brazenly hire out for life to that kind of business. What if +the top of the medical profession was composed of men who devoted themselves to +fighting the public welfare for life! We have that kind of doctors–but we +call them quacks. We don’t allow ’em in our medical societies. We +punish them by ostracism. But the quack lawyers who devote themselves to +skinning the public–they are at the head of the bar. They are made judges. +They are promoted to supreme courts. A damn nice howdy-do we’re coming to +when the quacks run a whole profession. And Tom Van Dorn is a quack–a +hair-splitting, owl-eyed, venal quack–who doles out the bread pills of +injustice, and the strychnine stimulants of injustice and the deadening laudanum +of injustice, and falls back on the body of the decisions to uphold him in his +quackery. Justice demands that he take that fake corporation, made solely to +evade the law, and shake its guts out and tell the men who put up this job, that +he’ll put them all in jail for contempt of court if they try any such +shenanigan in his jurisdiction again. That would be justice. This–this +decision–is humbug and every one knows it. What’s more–it may +be murder. For men can’t work on that slag dump ten hours a day without +losing their lives.”</p> + +<p>The captain tapped away at his sprocket. He had his own ideas about the +sanctity of the courts. They were not to be overthrown so easily. The Doctor +snorted: “Burn their bodies, and blear their minds, and then wail about +our vicious lower classes–I’m getting to be an anarchist.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_346'></a>346</span>He prodded his +cane among the débris on the floor and then he began to twitch the loose skin of +his lower face and smiled. “Thank you, Cap,” he chirped. “How +good and beautiful a thing it is to blow off steam in a barn to your old army +friend.”</p> + +<p>The Captain looked around and smiled and the Doctor asked: “What was +that you were saying about Violet Hogan?”</p> + +<p>“I said I saw her to-day and she looked faded and old–she’s +not so much older than my Emma–eh?”</p> + +<p>“Still,” said the Doctor, “Violet’s had a tough +time–a mighty tough time; three children in six years. The last one took +most of her teeth; young horse doctor gave her some dope that about killed her; +she’s done all the cooking, washing, scrubbing and made garden for the +family in that time–up every morning at five, seven days in the week to +get breakfast for Dennis–Emma would look broken if she’d had +that.” The Doctor paused. “Like her +mother–weak–vain–puts all of Denny’s wages on the +children’s backs–Laura says Violet spends more on frills for those +kids than we spend for groceries–and Violet goes around herself looking +like the Devil before breakfast.” The Doctor rested his chin on his cane. +“Remember her mother–Mrs. Mauling–funny how it breeds that +way. The human critter, Cap, is a curious beast–but he does breed +true–mostly.” The Doctor loafed, whistling, around the work shop, +prodding at things with his cane, and wound up leaning against one end of the +bench.</p> + +<p>“Last day of the century,” he piped, “makes a fellow pause +and study. I’ve seen fifty-three years of the old century–seen the +electric light, the telephone, the phonograph, the fast printing press, the +transcontinental railroad, the steam thresher, the gasoline engine–and all +its wonders clear down to Judge Tom’s devil wagon. That’s a good +deal for one short life. I’ve seen industry revolutionized–leaving +the homes of the people, and herding into the great factories. I’ve seen +steam revolutionize the daily habits of men, and distort their thoughts; one man +can’t run a steam engine; it takes more than one man to own one. So have I +seen capital rise in the world until it is greater than kings, greater <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_347'></a>347</span>than courts, greater than +governments–greater than God himself as matters stand, Cap–I’m +terribly afraid that’s true.”</p> + +<p>The Doctor was serious. His high voice was calm, and he smoked a while in +peace. “But,” he added reflectively–“Cap, I want to tell +you something more wonderful than all; I’ve seen seven absolutely honest +men elected this year to the State Senate–I’ve sounded them, felt +them out, had all kinds of reports from all kinds of people on those seven men. +Each man thinks he’s alone, and there are seven.”</p> + +<p>The Doctor leaned over to the Captain and said confidentially, +“Cap–we meet next week. Listen here. I was elected without a dollar +of the old spider’s money. He fought me for that smelter law on the quiet. +Now look here; you watch my smoke. I’m going to organize those seven, and +make eight and you’re going to see some fighting.”</p> + +<p>“You ain’t going to fight the party, are you, Doc?” asked +the amazed Captain, as though he feared that the Doctor would fall dead if he +answered yes. But the Doctor grinned and said: “Maybe–if it fights +me.”</p> + +<p>“Well, Doc–” cried the Captain, “don’t you +think–”</p> + +<p>“You bet I think–that’s what’s the matter. The +smelter lawsuit’s made me think. They want to control government so they +can have a license to murder. That’s what it means. Watch ’em blight +Denny Hogan’s lungs down on the dump; watch ’em burn ’em up +and crush ’em in the mines–by evading the mining laws; watch +’em slaughter ’em on the railroads; murder is cheap in this +country–if you control government and get a slaughter license.”</p> + +<p>The Doctor laughed. “That’s the old century–and say, +Cap–I’m with the new. You know old Browning–he says:</p> + +<div class='poetry'> +<p> “It makes me mad<br />To think +what men will do an’ I am dead.”</p> </div> + +<p>The Doctor waved his cane furiously, and grinned as he threw back his head, +laughed silently, kicked out one leg, and stood with one eye cocked, looking at +the speechless Captain. “Well, Cap–speak up–what are you going +to do about it?”</p> + +<p>“’Y gory, Doc, you certainly do talk like a Populist–eh?” +was all the Captain could reply. The Doctor toddled to the <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_348'></a>348</span>door, and standing there sang back: +“Well, Cap–do you think the Lord Almighty laid off all the angels +and quit work on the world when he invented Tom Van Dorn’s +automobile–that it is the last new thing that will ever be +tried?”</p> + +<p>And with that, the Doctor went out into the alley and through his alley gate +into his house. But the Captain’s mind was set going by the Doctor’s +parting words. He was considering what might follow the invention of Tom Van +Dorn’s automobile. There was that chain, and there was his sprocket. It +would work–he knew it would work and save much power and much noise. But +the sprocket must be longer, and stronger. Then, he thought, if the wire spokes +and the ball-bearing and rubber tires of the bicycle had made the automobile +possible, and now that they were getting the gasoline engine of the automobile +perfected so that it would generate such vast power in such a small +space–what if they could conserve and apply that power through his +invention–what if the gasoline engine might not through his Household +Horse some day generate and use a power that would lift a man off the earth? +What then? As he tapped the bolts and turned the screws and put his little +device together, he dreamed big dreams of the future when men should fly, and +the boundaries of nations would disappear and tariffs would be impossible. This +shocked him, and he tried to figure out how to prevent smuggling by flying +machines; but as he could not, he dreamed on about the time when war would be +abolished among civilized men, because of his invention.</p> + +<p>So while he was dreaming in matter–forming the first vague nebulæ of +coming events, the infinite intelligence washing around us all, floating this +earth, and holding the stars in their courses, sent a long, thin fleck of a wave +into the mind of this man who stood working and dreaming in the twilight while +the old century was passing. And while he saw his vision, other minds in other +parts of the earth saw their visions. Some of these myriad visions formed part +of his, and his formed part of theirs, and all were part of the great vision +that was brooding upon the bourne of time and space. And other visions, parts of +the great vision of the Creator, were moving with quickening life in other minds +and hearts. The disturbed vision of justice that flashed <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_349'></a>349</span>through the Doctor’s mind was a +part of the vast cycle of visions that were hovering about this earth. It was +not his alone, millions held part of it; millions aspired, they knew not why, +and staked their lives upon their faith that there is a power outside ourselves +that makes for righteousness. And as the waves of infinite, resistless, +all-encompassing love laved the world that New Year’s night that cast the +new Century upon the strange shores of time, let us hope that the dreams of +strong men stirred them deeply that they might move wisely upon that mysterious +tide that is drawing humanity to its unknown goal.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_350'></a>350</span><a id='link_32'></a>CHAPTER XXXII<br /><span class='h2fs'>WHEREIN VIOLET HOGAN TAKES UP AN OLD TRADE AND MARGARET VAN DORN SEEKS A HIGHER PLANE</span></h2> + +<p>The new Century brought to Harvey such plenitude that all night and all day +the smelter fires painted the sky up and down the Wahoo Valley; all night long +and all day long the miners worked in the mines, and all through the night and +the long day the great cement factory and the glass factories belched forth +their lurid fumes. The trolley cars went creaking and moaning around the curves +through the mean, dirty, squalid, little streets of the mining and manufacturing +towns. They whined impatiently as they sailed across the prairie grass under the +befogged sunshine between the settlements, but always they brought up with their +loads at Harvey. So Harvey grew to be a prosperous inland city, and the Palace +Hotel with its onyx and marble office, once the town’s pride, found itself +with all its striving but a third-class hostelry, while the three-story building +of the Traders’ Bank looked low and squatty beside its six and seven +storied neighbors. The tin cornices of Market Street were wiped away, and yellow +brick and terra cotta and marble took the place of the old ornaments of which +the young town had been so proud. The thread of wires and pipes that made the +web of the spider behind the brass sign, multiplied and the pipes and the rails +and the cables that carried his power grew taut and strong. New people by +thousands had come into the town and gradually the big house, the Temple of Love +on Hill Crest, that had been deserted during the first years of its occupancy, +filled up. Judge Thomas Van Dorn and his handsome wife were seen in the great +hotels of New York and Boston, and in Europe more or less, though the +acquaintances they made in Europe and in the East were no longer needed to fill +their home. But the old settlers of Harvey maintained their <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_351'></a>351</span>siege. It was at a Twelfth Night +festivity when young people from all over the Valley and from all over the West +were masqueing in the great house, that Judge Van Dorn, to please a pretty girl +from Baltimore whom the Van Dorns had met in Italy, shaved his mustache and +appeared before the guests with a naked lip. The pursed, shrunken, sensuous lips +of the cruel mouth showed him so mercilessly that Mrs. Van Dorn could not keep +back a little scream of horror the first time he stood before her with his +shaved lip. But she changed her scream to a baby giggle, and he did not know how +he was revealed. So he went about ever after, preening himself that his smooth +face gave him youth, and strutting inordinately because some of the women he +knew told him he looked like a boy of twenty-five–instead of a man in his +forties. He was always suave, always creakingly debonaire, always, even in his +meannesses, punctilious and airy.</p> + +<p>So the old settlers sometimes were fooled by his attitude toward Margaret, +his wife. He bore toward her in public that shallow polish of attention, which +puzzled those who knew that they were never together by themselves when he could +help it, that he spent his evenings at the City Club, and that often at the +theater they sat almost back to back unconsciously during the whole performance. +But after the curtain was down, the polite husband was the soul of attendance +upon the beautiful wife–her coat, her opera glasses, her trappings of +various sorts flew in and out of his eager hands as though he were a conjurer +playing with them for an audience. For he was a proud man, and she was a vain +woman, and they were striving to prove to a disapproving world that the bargain +they had made was a good one.</p> + +<p>Yet the old settlers of Harvey felt instinctively that the price of their +Judge’s bargain was not so trifling a matter as at first the happy couple +had esteemed it. The older people saw the big house glow with light as the town +spread over the hill and prosperity blackened the Valley. The older people +played their quiet games of bridge, by night, and said little. Judge Van Dorn +polished the periods of his orations, kept himself like a race horse, strutted +like a gobbler, showed his naked mouth, held himself always tightly in hand, +kept his eye out for a pretty face, wherever it might be found, <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_352'></a>352</span>drank a little too much +at night at the City Club; not much too much but a very little too much–so +much that he needed something to brighten his eyes in the morning.</p> + +<p>But whatever the Judge’s views were on the chess game of the cosmos, +Margaret, his wife, had no desire to beat God at his own game. She was a seeker, +who always was looking for a new God. God after God had passed in weary review +before her. She was always ready to tune up with the infinite, and to ignore the +past–a most comfortable thing to do under the circumstances.</p> + +<p>As she turned into Market Street one February morning of the New Year in the +New Century, leading her dachshund, she was revolving a deep problem in her +head. She was trying to get enough faith to believe that her complexion did not +need a renovation. She knew that the skin-thought she kept holding was +earth-bound and she had tried to shake it, but it wouldn’t shake. She had +progressed far enough in the moment’s cult to overcome a food-thought when +her stomach hurt her, by playing a stiff game of bridge for a little stake. But +the skin-thought was with her, and she was nervous and irritable and upon the +verge of tears for nothing at all. Moreover, her dog kept pulling at his leash, +so altogether her cup was running over and she went into Mr. Brotherton’s +store to ask him to try to find an English translation of a highly improper +German book with a pious title about which she had heard from a woman from +Chicago who had been visiting her.</p> + +<p>Now Mr. Brotherton had felt the impulse of the town’s prosperity in his +business. The cigar stand was gone. In its place was a handsome plain glass case +containing expensive books–books bound in vellum, books in hand-tooled +leather, books with wide, ragged margins of heavy linen paper around deep black +types with illuminated initials at the chapter heads; books filled with +extravagant illustrations, books so beautiful that Mr. Brotherton licked his +chops with joy when he considered the difference between the cost mark and the +price mark. The Amen Corner was gone–the legend that had come down from +the pool room, “Better go to bed lonesome than wake up in debt,” had +been carted to the alley. While the corner formerly occupied by the old walnut +bench <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_353'></a>353</span>still held a +corner seat, it was a corner seat with sharp angles, with black stain upon it, +and upholstered in rich red leather, and red leather pillows lounged luxuriously +in the corners of the seat; a black, angular table and a red, angular shade over +a green angular lamp sat where the sawdust box had been. True–a green +angular smoker’s set also was upon the table–the only masculine +appurtenance in the corner; but it was clearly a sop thrown out to offended and +exiled mankind–a mere mockery of the solid comfort of the sawdust box, +filled with cigar stubs and ashes that had made the corner a haven for weary man +for nearly a score of years. Above the black-stained seat ran a red dado and +upon that in fine old English script, where once the old sign of the Corner had +been nailed, there ran this legend:</p> + +<div class='center'> +<p class='center'>“‘The sweet serenity of Books’ and +Wallpaper,<br /> +Stationery and Office Supplies.”</p> +</div> + +<p>For Mr. Brotherton’s commercial spirit could not permit him to withhold +the fact that he had enlarged his business by adding such household necessities +as wall paper and such business necessities as stationery and office supplies. +Thus the town referred ever after to Mr. Brotherton’s “Sweet +serenity of Books and Wallpaper,” and so it was known of men in +Harvey.</p> + +<p>When Mrs. Van Dorn entered, she was surprised; for while she had heard +casually of the changes in Mr. Brotherton’s establishment, she was not +prepared for the effulgence of refined and suppressed grandeur that greeted +her.</p> + +<p>Mr. Brotherton, in a three buttoned frock coat, a rich black ascot tie and +suitable gray trousers, came forward to meet her.</p> + +<p>“Ah, George,” she exclaimed in her baby voice, “really what +a lit-ry,” that also was from her Chicago friend, “what a lit-ry +atmosphere you have given us.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Brotherton’s smile pleaded guilty for him. He waved her to a seat +among the red cushions. “How elegant,” she simpered, “I just +think it’s perfectly swell. Just like Marshall Field’s. I must bring +Mrs. Merrifield in when she comes down–Mrs. Merrifield of Chicago. You +know, Mr. Brotherton,” it was the wife of the Judge who spoke, “I +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_354'></a>354</span>think we should try +to cultivate those whose wide advantages make our association with them a +liberal education. What is it Emerson says about Friendship–in that +wonderful essay–I’m sure you’ll recall it.”</p> + +<p>And Mr. Brotherton was sure he would too, and indicated as much, for as he +had often said to Mr. Fenn in their literary confidences, “Emerson is one +of my best moving lines.” And Mrs. Van Dorn continued confidentially: +“Now there’s a book, a German book–aren’t those Germans +candid–you know I’m of German extraction, and I tell the Judge +that’s where I get my candor. Well, there’s a German book–I +can’t pronounce it, so I’ve written it out–there; will you +kindly order it?” Mr. Brotherton took the slip and went to the back of the +store to make a memorandum of the order. He left the book counter in charge of +Miss Calvin–Miss Ave Calvin–yes, Miss Ave Maria Calvin, if you must +know her full name, which she is properly ashamed of. But it pleased her mother +twenty years before and as Mr. Calvin was glad to get into the house on any +terms when the baby was named, it went Ave Maria Calvin, and Ave Maria Calvin +stood behind the counter reading the <i>Bookman</i> and trying to remember the +names of the six best sellers so that she could order them for stock.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Van Dorn, who kept Mrs. Calvin’s one card conspicuously displayed +in her silver card case in the front hall, saw an opportunity to make a little +social hay, so she addressed Miss Calvin graciously: “Good morning, +Ave–how is your dear mother? What a charming effect Mr. Brotherton has +produced!” Then Mrs. Van Dorn dropped the carefully modulated voice a +trifle lower: “When the book comes that I just ordered, kindly slip it to +one side; I wouldn’t have Mr. Brotherton–he might misunderstand. But +you can read it if you wish–take it home over night. It’s very +broadening.”</p> + +<p>When Mr. Brotherton returned the baby voice prattled at him. The voice was +saying, “I was just telling Ave how dead swell it is here. I just +can’t get over it–in Harvey–dear old Harvey; do you remember +when I was a little school teacher down in the Prospect schoolhouse and you used +to order Chautauqua books–such an innocent little school <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_355'></a>355</span>girl–don’t +you remember? We wouldn’t say how long ago that was, would we, Mr. +Brotherton? Oh, dear, no. Isn’t it nice to talk over old times? Did you +know the Jared Thurstons have left Colorado and have moved to Iowa where Jared +has started another paper? Lizzie and I used to be such chums–she and +Violet and I–where is Violet now, Mr. Brotherton? Oh, yes, I remember Mrs. +Herdicker said she lives next door to the kindergarten–down in South +Harvey. Isn’t it terrible the way Anne Sands did–just broke her +father’s heart. And Nate Perry quarrelling with ten million dollars. +Isn’t this a strange world, Mr. Brotherton?”</p> + +<p>Mr. Brotherton confessed for the world and Mrs. Van Dorn shook her +over-curled head sadly. She made some other talk with Mr. Brotherton which he +paraphrased later for Henry Fenn and when Mrs. Van Dorn went out, Mr. Brotherton +left the door open to rid the room of the scent of attar of roses and said to +Miss Calvin:</p> + +<p>“Well, s–,” but checked himself and went on in his new +character of custodian of “The Sweet Serenity of Books and Wall +Paper,” but he added as a compromise:</p> + +<p>“‘And for bonnie Annie Laurie’ I certainly would make a quick +get-away!”</p> + +<p>After which reflection, Mr. Brotherton walked down the long store room to his +dark stained desk, turned on the electric under the square copper shade, and +began to figure up his accounts. But a little social problem kept revolving in +his head. It was suggested by Mrs. Van Dorn and by something she had said. +Beside Mrs. Van Dorn in her tailored gown and seal-skin, with her spanking new +midwinter hat to match her coat, dragging the useless dog after her, he saw the +picture of another woman who had come in the day before–a woman no older +than Margaret Van Dorn–yet a broken woman, with rounded shoulders who +rarely smiled, wishing to hide her broken teeth, who wheeled one baby and led +another, and shooed a third and slipped into the corner near the magazine +counter and thumbed over the children’s fashions in the +<i>Delineator</i> eagerly and looked wistfully at the beautiful things in the +store. Her red hands and brown skin showed that she had lived a rough, hard +life, and that it had spent her and wasted her and taken everything she +prized–and <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_356'></a>356</span> +given her nothing–nothing but three overdressed children and a husband +whose industrial status had put its heavy mark on her.</p> + +<p>Mr. Brotherton’s memory went back ten years, and recalled the two girls +together–Violet and Margaret. Both were light-headed and vain; so far as +their relations with Van Dorn were concerned, one was as blamable as the other. +Yet one had prospered and the other had not–and the one who had apparently +suffered most had upon the whole lived the cleaner, more normal life–and +Mr. Brotherton drummed his penholder upon the black desk before him and +questioned the justice of life.</p> + +<p>But, indeed, if we must judge life’s awards and benefits from the +material side there is no justice in life. If there was any difference between +the two women whom Tom Van Dorn had wronged–difference in rewards or +punishments, it must have been in their hearts. It is possible that in her life +of motherhood and wifehood, in the sacrifices that broke her body and scarred +her face, Violet Mauling may have been compensated by the love she bore the +children upon whom she lavished her life. For she had that love, and she did +squander–in blind vain folly–the strength of her body, afterwards +the price of her soul–upon her children. As for Margaret Van +Dorn–Mr. Brotherton was no philosopher. He could not pity her. Yet she too +had given all. She had given her mind–and it was gone. She had given her +heart and it was gone also, and she had given that elusive blending of the heart +and mind we call her soul–and that was gone, too. Mr. Brotherton could see +that they were gone–all gone. But he could not see that her loss was +greater than Violet’s.</p> + +<p>That night when Dennis Hogan came in for his weekly <i>Fireside +Companion</i> as he said, “for the good woman,” Mr. Brotherton, for +old sake’s sake, put in something in paper backs by Marie Corelli, and a +novel by Ouida; and then, that he might give until it hurt, he tied up a brand +new <i>Ladies’ Home Journal</i>, and said, as he locked up the store and +stepped into the chill night air with Mr. Hogan: “Dennis–tell +Violet–I sent ’em in return for the good turns she used to do me +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_357'></a>357</span> when I was mayor +and she was in Van Dorn’s office and drew up the city +ordinances–she’ll remember.”</p> + +<p>“Indeed she will, George Brotherton–that she will. Many’s +the night she’s talked me to sleep of them golden days of her +splendor–indeed she will.”</p> + +<p>They walked on together and Hogan said: “Well–I turn at the next +crossin’. I’m goin’ home and I’m glad of it. Up in the +mornin’ at five; off on the six-ten train, climbin’ the slag dump at +seven, workin’ till six, home on the six-fifteen train, into the house at +seven; to bed at ten, up at five, eat and work and sleep–sleep and eat and +work, fightin’ the dump by day and fightin’ the fumes in me chist by +night–all for a dollar and sixty a day; and if we jine a union, we get +canned, and if we would seek dissipation, we’re invited to go down to the +Company hall and listen to Tommy Van Dorn norate upon what he calls the +‘de-hig-nity of luh-ay-bor.’ Damn sight of dignity labor has, lopin’ +three laps ahead of the garnishee from one year’s end to the +other.”</p> + +<p>He laughed a good-natured, creaking laugh, and said as he waved his hand to +part with Mr. Brotherton–“Well, annyhow, the good woman will thank +you for the extra readin’; not that she has time to read it, God knows, +but it gives the place a tone when Laura Nesbit drops in for a bit of a word of +help about the makin’ of the little white things she’s doin’ +for the Polish family on ‘D’ Street these days.” In another minute +Brotherton heard the car moaning at the curve, and saw Hogan get in. It was +nearly midnight when Hogan got to sleep; for the papers that Brotherton sent +brought back “the grandeur that was Greece,” and he had to hear how +Mr. Van Dorn had made Mr. Brotherton mayor and how they had both made Dr. Nesbit +Senator, and how ungrateful the Doctor was to turn against the hand that fed +him, and many other incidents and tales that pointed to the renown of the +unimpeachable Judge, who for seven years had reigned in the humble house of +Hogan as a first-rate god.</p> + +<p>That night Hogan tossed as the fumes in his lungs burned the tissues and at +five he got up, made the fire, helped to dress the oldest child while his wife +prepared the breakfast. He missed the six-ten car, and being late at work +stopped in to <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_358'></a>358</span>take +a drink at the Hot Dog, near the dump on the company ground, thinking it would +put some ginger into him for the day’s work. For two hours or so the +whiskey livened him up, but as the forenoon grew old, he began to yawn and was +tired.</p> + +<p>“Hogan,” called the dump-boss, “go down to the powder house +and bring up a box of persuaders.”</p> + +<p>The slag was hard and needed blasting. Hogan looked up, said +“What?” and before the dump boss could speak again Hogan had started +down and around the dump to the powder house, near the saloon. He went into the +powder house, and then came out, carrying a heavy box. At the sidewalk edge, +Hogan, who was yawning, stumbled–they saw him stumble, two men standing in +the door of the Hot Dog saloon a block away, and they told the people at the +inquest that that was the last they saw. A great explosion followed. The men +about the dump huddled for a long minute under freight cars, then crawled out, +and the dump boss called the roll; Hogan was missing. In an hour they came and +took Mrs. Hogan to the undertaker’s room near the smelter–where so +many women had stood beside death in its most awful forms. She had her baby in +her arms, with another plucking at her skirts and she stood mutely beside the +coffin that they would not open. For she knew what other women knew about the +smelter, knew that when they will not open the coffin, it must not be opened. So +the little procession rode to the Hogan home, where Laura Van Dorn was waiting. +Perhaps it was because she could not see the face of the dead that it seemed +unreal to the widow. But she did not moan nor cry–after the first scream +that came when she knew the worst. Stolidly she went through her tasks until +after the funeral.</p> + +<p>Then she called Laura into the kitchen and said, as she pressed out her black +satin and tried to hide the threadbare seams that had been showing for years: +“Mrs. Van Dorn, I’m going to do something you won’t +like.” To Laura’s questioning eyes Violet answered: “I know +your ma, or some one else has told you all about me–but,” she shut +her mouth tightly and said slowly:</p> + +<p>“But no matter what they say–I’m going to the Judge; <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_359'></a>359</span>he’s got to make +the railroad company pay and pay well. It’s all I’ve got on +earth–for the children. We have three dollars in my pocketbook and will +have to wait until the fifteenth before I get his last month’s wages, and +I know they’ll dock him up to the very minute of the day–that day! I +wouldn’t do it for anything else on earth, Mrs. Van Dorn–wild horses +couldn’t drag me there–but I’m going to the Judge–for +the children. He can help.”</p> + +<p>So, putting on her bedraggled black picture hat with the red ripped off, +Violet Hogan mounted the courthouse steps and went to the office of the Judge. A +sorry, broken, haggard figure she cut there in the Judge’s office. She +would have told him her story–but he interrupted: “Yes, +Violet–I read it in the <i>Times</i>. But what can I do–you know +I’m not allowed to take a case and, besides, he was working for the +railroad, and you know, Violet, he assumed the risk. What do they offer +you?”</p> + +<p>“Judge–for God’s sake don’t talk that way to me. +That’s the way you used to talk to those miners’ +wives–ugh!” she cried. “I remember it all–that assumed +risk. Only this–he was working ten hours a day on a job that +wouldn’t let him sleep, and he oughtn’t to be working but eight +hours, if they hadn’t sneaked under the law. They’ve offered me five +hundred, Judge–five hundred–for a man, five hundred for our three +children–and me. You can make them do better–oh, I know you can. Oh, +please for the sake–oh!”</p> + +<p>She looked at him with her battered face, and as her mouth quivered, she +tried to hide her broken teeth. He saw she was about to give way to tears. He +dreaded a scene. He looked at her impatiently and finally gripping himself after +a decision, he said:</p> + +<p>“Now, Violet, take a brace. Five hundred is what they always give in +these cases.” He smiled suavely at her and she noticed for the first time +that his lip was bare and started at the cruel mouth that leered at her.</p> + +<p>“But,” he added expansively, “for old sake’s +sake–I’m going to do something for you.” He rose and stood +over her. “Now, Violet,” he said, strutting the diagonal of his +room, and smiling blandly at her, “we both know why I shouldn’t +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_360'></a>360</span>give you my +personal check–nor why you shouldn’t have any cash that you cannot +account for. But the superintendent of the smelter, who is also the general +manager of the railroad, is under some obligations to me, and I’ll give +you this note to him.” He sat down and wrote:</p> + +<div class='bquote'> +<p>“For good reasons I desire one hundred dollars added to your check to +the widow of Dennis Hogan who presents this, and to have the same charged to my +personal account on your books.”</p></div> + +<p>He signed his name with a flourish, and after reading the note handed it to +the woman.</p> + +<p>She looked at him and her mouth opened, showing her broken, ragged teeth. +Then she rose.</p> + +<p>“My God, Tom Van Dorn–haven’t you any heart at all! Six +hundred dollars with three little children–and my man butchered by a law +you made–oh,” she cried as she shook her head and stood dry-eyed and +agonized before him–“I thought you were a man–that you were my +friend way down deep in your heart–I thought you were a man.”</p> + +<p>She picked up the paper, and at the door turned and said: “And you +could get me thousands from the company for my hundreds by the scratch of your +pen–and I thought you were a man.” She opened the door, looked at +him beseechingly, and repeating her complaint, turned away and left him.</p> + +<p>She heard the click of the door-latch behind her and she knew that the man +behind the door in whom she had put her faith was laughing at her. Had she not +seen him laugh a score of times in other years at the misery of other women? Had +they not sat behind this door, he and she, and made sport of foolish women who +came asking the disagreeable, which he ridiculed as the impossible? Had she not +sat with him and laughed at his first wife, when she had gone away after some +protest? The thought of his mocking face put hate into her heart and she went +home hardened toward all the world. Laura Van Dorn was with the Hogan children, +and when Violet entered the house, she gathered them to her heart with a mad +passion and wept–a woman without hope–a woman spurned and mocked in +the only holy place she had in her heart.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_361'></a>361</span>Laura saw the +widowed mother hysterically fondling the children, madly caressing them, +foolishly chattering over them, and when Violet made it clear that she wished to +be alone, Laura left. But if she could have heard Violet babbling on during the +evening, of the clothes she would buy for the youngsters, about the good times +they would have with the money, about the ways they were going to spend the +little fortune that was theirs, Laura Van Dorn–thrifty, frugal, shrewd +Laura, might have helped the thoughtless woman before it was too late. But even +if Laura had interfered, it would have been but for a few months or a few years +at most.</p> + +<p>The end was inevitable–whether it had been five hundred or six hundred +or five thousand or six thousand. For Violet was a prodigal bred and born. At +first she tried to get some work. But when she found she had to leave the +children alone in the house or in care of a neighbor or on the streets, she gave +up her job. For when she came home, she found the foolish frills and starched +tucks in which she kept them, dirty and torn, and some way she felt that they +were losing social caste by the low estate of their clothes, so she bought them +silks and fine linens while her money lasted, and when it was gone in the +spring–then they were hungry, and needy; and she could not leave them by +day.</p> + +<p>If the poor were always wise, and the rich were always foolish, if hardship +taught us sense, and indulgence made us giddy, what a fine world it would be. +How virtue would be rewarded. How vice would be rebuked. But wisdom does not run +with social rank, nor with commercial rating. Some of us who are poor are +exceedingly foolish, and some of those who are rich have a world of judgment. +And Violet Hogan,–poor and mad with a mother love that was as insane as an +animal’s when she saw her children hungry and needy, knew before she knew +anything else that she must live with them by day. So she went out at +night–went out into the streets–not of South Harvey–but over +into the streets of Foley, down to Magnus and Plain Valley–out into the +dark places. There Violet by night took up the oldest trade in the world, and +came home by day a mad, half crazed mothering animal who covers her young in +dread and fear.</p> + +<p>When Laura knew the truth–knew it surely in spite of <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_362'></a>362</span>Violet’s studied +deceptions, and her outright falsehoods, the silver in the woman’s laugh +was muffled for a long time. She tried to help the mad mother; but the mother +would not admit the truth, would not confess that she needed help. Violet +maintained the fiction that she was working in the night shift at the glass +factory in Magnus, and by day she starched and ironed and pressed and washed for +the overdressed children and as she said, “tried to keep them +somebody.” Moreover, she would not let them play with the dirty children +of the neighborhood, but such is the fear of social taint among women, that soon +the other mothers called their children home when the Hogan children +appeared.</p> + +<p>When Violet discovered that her trade was branding her children–she +moved to Magnus and became part of the drab tide of life that flows by us daily +with its heartbreak unheeded, its sorrows unknown, its anguish pent up and +uncomforted.</p> + +<p>Now much meditation on the fate of Violet Hogan and upon the luck of Margaret +Van Dorn had made George Brotherton question the moral government of the +universe and, being disturbed in his mind, he naturally was moved to language. +So one raw spring day when no one was in the Amen Corner but Mr. Fenn, in a +moment of inadvertent sobriety, Mr. Brotherton opened up his heart and spoke +thus:</p> + +<p>“Say, Henry–what’s a yogi?” Mr. Fenn refused to +commit himself. Mr. Brotherton continued: “The Ex was in here the other +day and she says that she thinks she’s going to become a yogi. I asked her +to spell it, and I told her I’d be for her against all comers. Then she +explained that a yogi was some kind of an adept who could transcend space and +time, and–well say, I said ‘sure,’ and she went on to ask me if I +was certain we were not thinking matter instead of realizing it, and I says:</p> + +<p>“‘I bite; what’s the sell?’</p> + +<p>“And the Ex says–‘Now, seriously, Mr. Brotherton, something tells +me that you have in your mind, if you would only search it out, vague +intimations, left-over impressions of the day you were an ox afield.’</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_363'></a>363</span>“And, well +say, Henry, I says, ‘No, madam, it is an ass that rises in me +betimes.’</p> + +<p>“And the Ex says, ‘George Brotherton, you just never can talk +sense.’</p> + +<p>“So while I was wrapping up ‘Sappho’ and ordering her a book with +a title that sounded like a college yell, she told me she was getting on a +higher plane, and I bowed her out. Say, Hen–now wouldn’t that jar +you?–the Ex getting on a higher plane.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Fenn grinned–a sodden grin with a four days’ beard on it, and +dirty teeth, and heavy eyes, then looked stupidly at the floor and sighed and +said,</p> + +<p>“George, did you know I’ve quit?” To Mr. Brotherton’s +kindly smile the other man replied:</p> + +<p>“Yes, sir, sawed ’er right off short–St. Patrick’s Day. I +thought I’d ought to quit last Fourth of July–when I tried to eat a +live pinwheel. I thought I had gone far enough.” He lifted up his +burned-out eyes in the faded smile that once shone like an arc light, and +said:</p> + +<p>“Man’s a fool to get tangled up with liquor. George, when I get +my board bill paid–I’m going to quit the auctioning line, and go +back to law. But my landlady’s needing that money, and I’m a little +behind–”</p> + +<p>Mr. Brotherton made a motion for his pocket. “No, I don’t want a +cent of your money, George,” Fenn expostulated. “I was just telling +you how things are. I knew you’d like to know.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Brotherton came from behind the counter where he had been arranging his +stock for the night, and grasped Henry Fenn’s hand. “Say, +Henry–you’re all right. You’re a man–I’ve always +said so. I tell you, Hen, I’ve been to lots of funerals in this town first +and last as pall-bearer or choir singer–pretty nearly every one worth +while, but say, I’m right here to tell you that I have never went to one I +was sorrier over than yours, Henry–and I’m mighty glad to see +you’re coming to again.”</p> + +<p>Henry Fenn smiled weakly and said: “That’s right, +George–that’s right.”</p> + +<p>And Mr. Brotherton went on, “I claim the lady give you <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_364'></a>364</span>the final push–not +that she needed to push hard of course; but a little pulling might have held +you.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Fenn rose to leave and sighed again as he stood for a moment in the +doorway–“Yes, George, perhaps so–poor Maggie–poor +Maggie.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Brotherton looked at the man a moment–saw his round hat with +neither back nor front and only the wreck of a band around it, his tousled +clothes, his shoes with the soles curling at the sides and the frowsy face, from +which the man peered out a second and then slunk back again, and Mr. Brotherton +took to his book shelf, scratched his head and indicated by his manner that life +was too deep a problem for him.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_365'></a>365</span><a id='link_33'></a>CHAPTER XXXIII<br /><span class='h2fs'>IN WHICH THE ANGELS SHAKE A FOOT FOR HENRY FENN</span></h2> + +<p>The business of life largely resolves itself into a preparation for the next +generation. The torch of life moves steadily forward. For children primarily +life has organized itself to satisfy decently and in order, the insatiate primal +hungers that motive mankind. It was with a wisdom deeper than he understood that +George Brotherton spoke one day, as he stood in his doorway and saw Judge Van +Dorn hurrying across the street to speak to Lila. “There,” roared +Mr. Brotherton to Nathan Perry, “well, say–there’s the +substance all right, man.” And then as the Judge turned wearily away with +slinking shoulders to avoid meeting the eyes of his wife, plump, palpable, and +always personable, who came around the corner, Mr. Brotherton, with a haw-haw of +appreciation of his obvious irony, cried, “And there’s the +shadow–I don’t think.” But it was the substance and the shadow +nevertheless, and possibly the Judge knew them as the considerations of his +bargain with the devil. For always he was trying to regain the substance; to +take Lila to his heart, where curiously there seemed some need of love, even in +a heart which was consecrated in the very temple of love. Without realizing that +he was modifying his habits of life, he began to drop in casually to see the +children’s Christmas exercises, and Thanksgiving programs, and Easter +services at John Dexter’s church. From the back seat where he always sat +alone, he sometimes saw the wealth of affection that her mother lavished on +Lila, patting her ribbons, smoothing her hair, straightening her dress, fondling +her, correcting her, and watching the child with eyes so full of love that they +did not refrain sometimes from smiling in kindly appreciation into the eager, +burning, tired eyes of the Judge. The mother <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_366'></a>366</span>understood why he came to the exercises, and often +she sent Lila to her father for a word. The town knew these things, and the +Judge knew that the town knew, and even then he could not keep away. He had to +carry the torch of life, whether he would or not, even though sometimes it must +have scorched his proud, white hands. It was the only thing that burned with +real fire in his heart.</p> + +<p>With Laura Van Dorn the fact of her motherhood colored her whole life. Never +a baby was born among her poor neighbors in the valley that she did not thrill +with a keen delight at its coming, and welcome it with some small material token +of her joy. In the baby she lived over again her own first days of maternity. +But it was no play motherhood that restored her soul and refilled her receptacle +of faith day by day. The bodily, huggable presence of her daughter continually +unfolding some new beauty kept her eager for the day’s work to close in +the Valley that she might go home to drop the vicarious happiness that she +brought in her kindergarten for the real happiness of a home.</p> + +<p>Often Grant Adams, hurrying by on his lonely way, paused to tell Laura of a +needy family, or to bring a dirty, motherless child to her haven, or to ask her +to go to some wayward girl, newly caught in the darker corners of the +spider’s web.</p> + +<p>Doggedly day by day, little by little, he was bringing the workmen of the +Valley to see his view of the truth. The owners were paying spies to spy upon +him and he knew it, and the high places of his satisfaction came when, knowing a +spy and marking him for a victim, Grant converted him to the union cause. With +the booming of the big guns of prosperity in Harvey, he was a sort of undertone, +a monotonous drum, throbbing through the valley a menace beneath it all. +Once–indeed, twice, as he worked, he organized a demand for higher wages +in two or three of the mines, and keeping himself in the background, yet +cautiously managing the tactics of the demand, he won. He held Sunday meetings +in such halls as the men could afford to hire and there he talked–talked +the religion of democracy. As labor moved about in the world, and as the labor +press of the country began to know of Grant, he acquired a certain fame as a +speaker among labor leaders. And the curious situation he was creating <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_367'></a>367</span>gave him some reputation +in other circles. He was good for an occasional story in a Kansas City or +Chicago Sunday paper; and the <i>Star</i> reporter, sent to do the feature +story, told of a lonely, indomitable figure who was the idol of the laboring +people of the Wahoo Valley; of his Sunday meetings; of his elaborate system of +organization; of his peaceful demands for higher wages and better shop +conditions; of his conversion of spies sent to hinder him, of his never-ceasing +effort, unsupported by outside labor leaders, unvisited by the aristocracy of +the labor world, yet always respecting it, to preach unionism as a faith rather +than as a material means for material advancement.</p> + +<p>Generally the reporters devoted a paragraph to the question–what manner +of man is this?–and intimating more or less frankly that he was a man of +one idea, or perhaps broadening the suggestion into a query whether or not a man +who would work for years, scorning fame, scorning regular employment and +promotion, neglecting opportunities to rise as a labor leader in his own world, +was not just a little mad. So it happened that without seeking fame, fame came +to him. All over the Missouri Valley, men knew that Grant Adams, a big, +lumbering, red-polled, lusty-lunged man with one arm burned off–and the +story of the burning fixed the man always in the public heart–with a +curious creed and a freak gift for expounding it, was doing unusual things with +the labor situation in the Harvey district. And then one day a reporter came +from Omaha who uncovered this bit of news in his Sunday feature story:</p> + +<div class='bquote'> +<p>“Last week the Wahoo district was paralyzed by the announcement that +Nathan Perry, the new superintendent of the Independent mines had raised his +wage scale, and had acceded to every change in working conditions that the local +labor organizations under Adams had asked. Moreover, he has unionized his mine +and will recognize only union grievance committees in dealing with the men. The +effect of such an announcement in a district where the avowed purpose of the +mine operators is to run their own business as they please, may easily be +imagined.</p> + +<p>“Perry is a civil engineer from Boston Tech., a rich man’s son, +who married a rich man’s daughter, and then cut loose from his father and +father-in-law because of a political disagreement over the candidacy of the +famous Judge Thomas Van Dorn for a judicial nomination a few years ago. Perry +belongs to a new type in <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_368'></a>368</span>industry–rather newer than Adams’s type. +Perry is a keen eyed, boyish-looking young man who has no illusions about +Adams’s democracy of labor.</p> + +<p>“‘I am working out an engineering problem with men,’ said Perry +to a reporter to-day. ‘What I want is coal in the cage. I figure that more wages +will put more corn meal in a man’s belly, more muscle on his back, more +hustle in his legs, and more blood in his brain. And primarily I’m buying +muscle and hustle and brains. If I can make the muscle and hustle and brains I +buy, yield better dividends than the stuff my competitors buy, I’ll hold +my job. If not, I’ll lose it. I am certainly working for my +job.’</p> + +<p>“Of course the town doesn’t believe for a moment what Perry says. +The town is divided. Part of the town thinks that Perry is an Adams convert and +a fool, the other half of the town believes that the move is part of a +conspiracy of certain eastern financial interests to get control of the Wahoo +Valley properties by spreading dissension. Feeling is bitter and Adams and Perry +are coming in for considerable abuse. D. Sands, the local industrial +entrepreneur, has raised the black flag on his son-in-law, and an interesting +time looms ahead.”</p></div> + +<p>But often at night in Perry’s home in South Harvey, where Morty Sands +and Grant Adams loved to congregate, there were hot discussions on the labor +question. For Nathan Perry was no convert of Grant Adams.</p> + +<p>As the men wrangled, many an hour sat Anne Perry singing the nest song as she +made little things for the lower bureau drawer. Sometimes in the evening, Morty +would sit by the kitchen stove, sadly torn in heart, between the two debaters, +seeing the justice of Grant’s side as an ethical question, but admiring +the businesslike way in which Nathan waved aside ethical considerations, damned +Grant for a crazy man, and proclaimed the gospel of efficiency.</p> + +<p>Often Grant walked home from these discussions with his heart hot and +rebellious. He saw life only in its spiritual aspect and the logic of Nathan +Perry angered him with its conclusiveness.</p> + +<p>Often as he walked Kenyon was upon his heart and he wondered if Margaret +missed the boy; or if the small fame that the boy was making with his music had +touched her vanity with a sense of loss. He wondered if she ever wished to help +the child. The whole town knew that the Nesbits were sending Kenyon to Boston to +study music, and that Amos Adams and Grant could contribute little to the +child’s support. Grant wondered, considering the relations between <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_369'></a>369</span>the Van Dorns and +Nesbits, whether sometimes Margaret did not feel a twinge of irritation or +regret at the course of things.</p> + +<p>He could not know that even as he walked through the November night, Margaret +Van Dorn, was sitting in her room holding in her hand a tiny watch, a watch to +delight a little girl’s heart. On the inside of the back of the watch was +engraved:</p> + +<div class='poetry'> +<p>“To Lila<br />from her<br /> Father, for<br /> Her 10th +birthday.”</p> </div> + +<p>And opposite the inscription in the watch was pasted the photograph of the +unhappy face of the donor. Margaret sat gazing at the trinket and wondering +vaguely what would delight a little boy’s heart as a watch would warm the +heart of a little girl. It was not a sense of loss, not regret, certainly not +remorse that moved her heart as she sat alone holding the +trinket–discovered on her husband’s dresser; it was a weak and +footless longing, and a sense of personal wrong that rose against her husband. +He had something which she had not. He could give jeweled watches, and +she–</p> + +<p>But if she only could have read life aright she would have pitied him that he +could give only jeweled watches, only paper images of a dissatisfied face, only +material things, the token of a material philosophy–all that he knew and +all that he had, to the one thing in the world that he really could love. And as +for Margaret, his wife, who lived his life and his philosophy, she, too, had +nothing with which to satisfy the dull, empty feeling in her heart when she +thought of Kenyon, save to make peace with it in hard metal and stupid stones. +Thus does what we think crust over our souls and make us what we are.</p> + +<p>Grant Adams, plodding homeward that night, turned from the thought of +Margaret to the thought of Kenyon with a wave of joy, counting the days and +weeks and the months until the boy should return for the summer. At home Grant +sat down before the kitchen table and began a long talk that kept him until +midnight. He had undertaken to organize all the unions of the place into a +central labor council; the <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_370'></a>370</span>miners, the smeltermen, the teamsters, the cement +factory workers, the workers in the building trades. It was an experimental +plan, under the auspices of the national union officers. Only a man like Grant +Adams, with something more than a local reputation as a leader, would have been +intrusted with the work. And so, after his day’s toil for bread, he sat at +his kitchen table, elaborately working his dream into reality.</p> + +<p>That season the devil, if there is a devil who seeks to swerve us from what +we deem our noblest purposes, came to Grant Adams disguised in an offer of a +considerable sum of money to Grant for a year’s work in the lecture field. +The letter bearing the offer explained that by going out and preaching the cause +of labor to the people, Grant would be doing his cause more good than by staying +in Harvey and fighting alone. The thought came to him that the wider field of +work would give him greater personal fame, to be used ultimately for a wider +influence. All one long day as he worked with hammer and saw at his trade, Grant +turned the matter over in his mind. He could see himself in a larger canvas, +working a greater good. Perhaps some fleeting unformed idea came to him of a +home and a normal life as other men live; for at noon, without consciously +connecting her with his dream, he took his problem to Laura Van Dorn at her +kindergarten. That afternoon he decided to accept the offer, and put much of his +reason for acceptance upon Kenyon and the boy’s needs. That night he +penned a letter of acceptance to the lecture bureau and went to bed, disturbed +and unsatisfied. Before he slept he turned and twisted, and finally threshed +himself to sleep. It was a light fragmentary sleep, that moves in and out of +some strange hypnoidal state where the lower consciousness and the normal +consciousness wrestle for the control of reason. Then after a long period of +half-waking dreams, toward morning, Grant sank into a profound sleep. In that +sleep his soul, released from all that is material, rose and took command of his +will.</p> + +<p>When Grant awoke, it was still black night. For a few seconds he did not know +where he was–nor even who he was, nor what. He was a mere consciousness. +The first glimmer of identity that came to him came with a roaring <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_371'></a>371</span>“No,” that +repeated itself over and over, “No–no,” cried the voice of his +soul–“you are no mere word spinner; you are a fighter; you are +pledged, body and soul; you are bought with a price–no, no, no.”</p> + +<p>And then he knew where he was and he knew surely and without doubt or quaver +of faith that he must not give up his place in the fight. When he thought of +Kenyon living on the bounty of the Nesbits, he thought also of Dick Bowman, +ordering his own son under the sliding earth to hold the shovel over +Grant’s face in the mine.</p> + +<p>So Grant Adams bent his shoulders to this familiar burden. In the early +morning, before his father and Jasper were up, the gaunt, ungainly figure +hurried with his letter of refusal to the South Harvey Station and put the +letter on the seven-ten train for Chicago.</p> + +<p>That evening, sitting on their front porch, the Dexters talked over +Grant’s decision. “Well,” said John Dexter, looking up into +the mild November sky, and seeing the brown gray smudge of the smelter there, +“so Grant has sidled by another devil in his road. We have seen that women +won’t stop him; it’s plain that money nor fame won’t stop him, +though they clearly tore his coat tails. I imagine from what Laura says he must +have decided once to accept.”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” answered his wife, “but it does seem to me, if my +old father needed care as his does, and my brother had to accept charity, +I’d give that particular devil my whole coat and see if I couldn’t +make a bargain with him for a little money, at some small cost.”</p> + +<p>“Mother Eve–Mother Eve,” smiled the minister, “you +women are so practical–we men are the real idealists–the only +dreamers who stand by our dreams in this wicked, weary world.”</p> + +<p>He leaned back in his chair. “There is still one more big black devil +waiting for Grant: Power–the love of power which is the lust of +usefulness–power may catch Grant after he has escaped from women and money +and fame. Vanity–vanity, saith the preacher–Heaven help Grant in the +final struggle with the big, black devil of vanity.”</p> + +<p>Yet, after all, vanity has in it the seed of a saving grace that has lifted +humanity over many pitfalls in the <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_372'></a>372</span>world. For vanity is only self-respect multiplied; +and when that goes–when men and women lose their right to lift their faces +to God, they have fallen upon bad times indeed. It was even so good a man as +John Dexter himself, who tried to put self-respect into the soul of Violet +Hogan, and was mocked for it.</p> + +<p>“What do they care for me?” she cried, as he sat talking to her +in her miserable home one chill November day. “Why should I pay any +attention to them? Once I chummed with Mag Müller, before she married Henry +Fenn, and I was as good as she was then–and am now for that matter. She +knew what I was, and I knew what she was going to be–we made no bones of +it. We hunted in pairs–as women like to. And I know Mag Müller. So why +should I keep up for her?”</p> + +<p>The woman laughed and showed her hollow mouth and all the wrinkles of her +broken face, that the paint hid at night. “And as for Tom Van Dorn–I +was a decent girl before I met him, Mr. Dexter–and why in God’s name +should I try to keep up for him?”</p> + +<p>She shuddered and would have sobbed but he stopped her with: “Well, +Violet–wife and I have always been your friends; we are now. The church +will help you.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, the church–the church,” she laughed. “It +can’t help me. Fancy me in church–with all the wives looking +sideways at all the husbands to see that they didn’t look too long at me. +The church is for those who haven’t been caught! God knows if there is a +place for any one who has been caught–and I’ve been caught and +caught and caught.” She cried. “Only the children don’t +know–not yet, though little Tom–he’s the oldest, he came to me +and asked me yesterday why the other children yelled when I went out. Oh, +hell–” she moaned, “what’s the use–what’s +the use–what’s the use!” and fell to sobbing with her head +upon her arms resting upon the bare, dirty table.</p> + +<p>It was rather a difficult question for John Dexter. Only one other minister +in the world ever answered it successfully, and He brought public opinion down +on Him. The Rev. John Dexter rose, and stood looking at the shattered thing that +once had been a graceful, beautiful human body enclosing <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_373'></a>373</span>an aspiring soul. He saw what society +had done to break and twist the body; what society had neglected to do in the +youth of the soul–to guide and environ it right–he saw what poverty +had done and what South Harvey had done to cheat her of her womanhood even when +she had tried to rise and sin no more; he remembered how the court-made law had +cheated her of her rightful patrimony and cast her into the streets to spread +the social cancer of her trade; and he had no answer. If he could have put +vanity into her heart–the vanity which he feared for Grant Adams, he would +have been glad. But her vanity was the vanity of motherhood; for herself she had +spent it all. So he left her without answering her question. Money was all he +could give her and money seemed to him a kind of curse. Yet he gave it and gave +all he had.</p> + +<p>When she saw that he was gone, Violet fell upon the tumbled, unmade bed and +cried with all the vehemence of her unrestrained, shallow nature. For she was +sick and weary and hungry. She had given her last dollar to a policeman the +night before to keep from arrest. The oldest boy had gone to school without +breakfast. The little children were playing in the street–they had begged +food at the neighbors’ and she had no heart to stop them. At noon when +little Tom came in he found his mother sitting before a number of paper sacks +upon the table waiting for him. Then the family ate out of the sacks the cold +meal she had bought at the grocery store with John Dexter’s money.</p> + +<p>That night Violet shivered out into the cold over her usual route. She was +walking through the railroad yards in Magnus when suddenly she came upon a man +who dropped stealthily out of a dead engine. He carried something shining and +tried to slip it under his coat when he saw her. She knew he was stealing brass, +but she did not care; she called as they passed through the light from an arc +lamp:</p> + +<p>“Hello, sweetheart–where you going?”</p> + +<p>The man looked up ashamed, and she turned a brazen, painted face at him and +tried to smile without opening her lips.</p> + +<p>Their eyes met, and the man caught her by the arm and cried:</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_374'></a>374</span>“God, +Violet–is this you–have you–” She cut him off with:</p> + +<p>“Henry Fenn–why–Henry–”</p> + +<p>The brass fell at his feet. He did not pick it up. They stood between the box +cars in speechless astonishment. It was the man who found voice.</p> + +<p>“Violet–Violet,” he cried. “This is hell. I’m a +thief and you–”</p> + +<p>“Say it–say it–don’t spare me,” she cried. +“That’s what I am, Henry. It’s all right about me, but how +about you, how about you, Henry? This is no place for you! Why, you,” she +exclaimed–“why, you are–”</p> + +<p>“I’m a drunken thief stealing brass couplings to get another +drink, Violet.”</p> + +<p>He picked up the brass and threw it up into the engine, still clutching her +arm so that she could not run away.</p> + +<p>“But, girl–” he cried, “you’ve got to quit +this–this is no way for you to live.”</p> + +<p>She looked at him to see what was in his mind. She broke away, and scrambled +into the engine cab and put the brass where it could not fall out.</p> + +<p>“You don’t want that brass falling out, and them tracing you down +here and jugging you–you fool,” she panted as she climbed to the +ground.</p> + +<p>“Lookee here, Henry Fenn,” she cried, “you’re too +good a man for this. You’ve had a dirty deal. I knew it when she married +you–the snake; I know it–I’ve always known it.”</p> + +<p>The woman’s voice was shrill with emotion. Fenn saw that she was +verging on the hysterical, and took her arm and led her down the dark alley +between the cars. The man’s heart was touched–partly by the wreck he +saw, and partly by her words. They brought back the days when he and she had +seen their visions. The liquor had left his head, and he was a tremble. He felt +her cold, hard hand, and took it in his own dirty, shaken hand to warm it.</p> + +<p>“How are you living?” he asked.</p> + +<p>“This way,” she replied. “I got my +children–they’ve got to live someway. I can’t leave them day +times and see ’em run wild on the streets–the little girls need +me.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_375'></a>375</span>She looked up +into his face as they hurried past an arc lamp, and she saw tears there.</p> + +<p>“Oh, you got a dirty deal, Henry–how could she do it?” +cried the woman.</p> + +<p>He did not answer and they walked up a dingy street. A car came howling +by.</p> + +<p>“Got car fare,” he asked. She nodded.</p> + +<p>“Well, I haven’t,” he said, “but I’m going with +you.”</p> + +<p>They boarded the car. They were the only passengers. They sat down, and he +said, under the roar of the wheels:</p> + +<p>“Violet–it’s a shame–a damn shame, and I’m not +going to stand for it. This a Market Street car?” he asked the conductor +who passed down the aisle for their fares. The woman paid. When the conductor +was gone, Henry continued:</p> + +<p>“Three kids and a mother robbed by a Judge who knew better–just +to stand in with the kept attorneys of the bar association. He could have +knocked the shenanigan, that killed Hogan, galley west, if he’d wanted to, +and no Supreme Court would have dared to set it aside. But no–the kept +lawyers at the Capital, and all the Capitals have a mutual admiration society, +and Tom has always belonged. So he turns you and all like you on the street, and +Violet, before God I’m going to try to help you.”</p> + +<p>She looked at the slick, greasy, torn stiff hat, and the dirty, shiny clothes +that years ago had been his Sunday best, and the shaggy face and the sallow, +unwashed skin; and she remembered the man who was.</p> + +<p>The car passed into South Harvey. She started to rise. “No,” he +said, stopping her, “you come on with me.”</p> + +<p>“Where are we going?” she asked. He did not answer. She sat down. +Finally the car turned into Market Street. They got off at the bank corner. The +man took hold of the woman’s arm, and led her to the alley. She drew +back.</p> + +<p>He said: “Are you afraid of me–now, Violet?” They slinked +down the alley and seeing a light in the back room of a store, Fenn stopped and +went up to peer in.</p> + +<p>“Come on,” he said. “He’s in.”</p> + +<p>Fenn tapped on the barred window and whistled three <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_376'></a>376</span>notes. A voice inside cried, “All +right, Henry–soon’s I get this column added up.”</p> + +<p>The woman shrank back, but Fenn held her arm. Then the door opened, and the +moon face of Mr. Brotherton appeared in a flood of light. He saw the woman, +without recognizing her, and laughed:</p> + +<p>“Are we going to have a party? Come right in, +Marianna–here’s the moated Grange, all right, all right.”</p> + +<p>As they entered, he tried to see her face, but she dropped her head. Fenn +asked, “Why, George–don’t you know her? It’s +Violet–Violet Mauling–who married Denny Hogan who was killed last +winter.”</p> + +<p>George Brotherton looked at the painted face, saw the bald attempt at +coquetry in her dress, and as she lifted her glazed, dead eyes, he knew her +story instantly.</p> + +<p>For she wore the old, old mask of her old, old trade.</p> + +<p>“You poor, poor girl,” he said gently. Then continued, +“Lord–but this is tough.”</p> + +<p>He saw the miserable creature beside him and would have smiled, but he could +not. Fenn began,</p> + +<p>“George, I just got tired of coming around here every night after +closing for my quarter or half dollar; so for two or three weeks I’ve been +stealing. She caught me at it; caught me stripping a dead engine down in the +yards by the round house.”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” she cried, lifting a poor painted face, “Mr. +Brotherton–but you know how I happened to be down there. He caught me as +much as I caught him! And I’m the worst–Oh, God, when they get like +me–that’s the end!”</p> + +<p>The three stood silently together. Finally Brotherton spoke: +“Well,” he drew a long breath, “well, they don’t need +any hell for you two–do they?” Then he added, “You poor, poor +sheep that have gone astray. I don’t know how to help you.”</p> + +<p>“Well, George–that’s just it,” replied Fenn. +“No one can help us. But by God’s help, George, I can help her! +There’s that much go left in me yet! Don’t you think so, +George?” he asked anxiously. “I can help her.”</p> + +<p>The weak, trembling face of the man moved George Brotherton <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_377'></a>377</span>almost to tears. +Violet’s instinct saw that Brotherton could not speak and she cried:</p> + +<p>“George–I tell Henry he’s had a dirty deal, too–Oh, +such a dirty deal. I know he’s a man–he never cast off a +girl–like I was cast off–you know how. Henry’s a man, +George–a real man, and oh, if I could help him–if I could help him +get up again. He’s had such a dirty deal.”</p> + +<p>Brotherton saw her mouth in all its ugliness, and saw as he looked how tears +were streaking the bedaubed face. She was repulsive beyond words, yet as she +tried to hold back her tears, George Brotherton thought she was beautiful.</p> + +<p>Fenn found his voice. “Now, here, George–it’s like this: I +don’t want any woman; I’ve washed most of that monkey business out +of me with whisky–it’s not in me any more. And I know she’s +had enough of men. And I’ve brought her here–we’ve come here +to tell you that part is straight–decent–square. I wanted you to +know that–and Violet would, too–wouldn’t you, Violet?” +She nodded.</p> + +<p>“Now, then, George–I’m her man! Do you understand–her +man. I’m going to see that she doesn’t have to go on the streets. +Why, when she was a girl I used to beau her around, and if she isn’t +ashamed of a drunken thief–then in Christ’s name, I’m going to +help her.”</p> + +<p>He smiled out of his leaden eyes the ghost of his glittering, old, +self-deprecatory smile. The woman remembered it, and bent over and kissed his +dirty hand. She rose, and put her fingers gently upon his head, and sobbed:</p> + +<p>“Oh, God, forgive me and make me worthy of this!”</p> + +<p>There was an awkward pause. When the woman had controlled herself Fenn said: +“What I want is to keep right on sleeping in the basement here–until +I can get ahead enough to pay for my room. I’m not going to make any +scandal for Violet, here. But we both feel better to talk it out with +you.”</p> + +<p>They started for the back door. The front of the store was dark. Brotherton +saw the man hesitate, and look down the alley to see if any one was in +sight.</p> + +<p>“Henry,” said Brotherton, “here’s a dollar. You might +just as well begin fighting it out to-night. You go to the basement. I’ll +take Violet home.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_378'></a>378</span>The woman would +have protested, but the big man said gently: “No, Violet–you were +Denny Hogan’s wife. He was my friend. You are Henry’s ward–he +is my friend. Let’s go out the front way, Violet.”</p> + +<p>When they were gone, and the lights were out in the office of the bookstore, +Henry Fenn slipped through the alley, went to the nearest saloon, walked in, +stood looking at the whiskey sparkling brown and devilishly in the +thick-bottomed cut glasses, saw the beer foaming upon the mahogany board, +breathed it all in deeply, felt of the hard silver dollar in his pocket, shook +as one in a palsy, set his teeth and while the tears came into his eyes stood +and silently counted one hundred and another hundred; grinning foolishly when +the loafers joked with him, and finally shuffled weakly out into the night, and +ran to his cellar. And if Mr. Left’s theory of angels is correct, then all +the angels in heaven had their harps in their hands waving them for Henry, and +cheering for joy!</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_379'></a>379</span><a id='link_34'></a>CHAPTER XXXIV<br /><span class='h2fs'>A SHORT CHAPTER, YET IN IT WE EXAMINE ONE CANVAS HEAVEN, ONE REAL HEAVEN, AND TWO SNUG LITTLE HELLS</span></h2> + +<p>“The idea of hell,” wrote the Peach Blow Philosopher in the +Harvey <i>Tribune</i>, “is the logical sequence of the belief that +material punishments must follow spiritual offenses. For the wicked go unscathed +of material punishments in this naughty world. And so the idea of Heaven is a +logical sequence of the idea that only spiritual rewards come to men for +spiritual services. Not that Heaven is needed to balance the accounts of good +men after death–not at all. Good men get all that is coming to them +here–whether it is a crucifixion or a crown–that makes no +difference; crowns and crosses are mere material counters. They do not win or +lose the game–nor even justly mark its loss or winning.</p> + +<p>“The reason why Heaven is needed in the scheme of a neighborly +man,” said the Peach Blow Philosopher as he stood at his gate and reviewed +the procession of pilgrims through the wilderness, “is this: The man who +leads a decent life, is building a great soul. Obviously, this world is not the +natural final habitat of great souls; for they occur here +sporadically–though perhaps more and more frequently every trip around the +sun. But Heaven is needed in any scheme of general decency for decency’s +sake, so that the decent soul for whose primary development the earth was hung +in the sky, may have a place to find further usefulness, and a far more +exceeding glory than may be enjoyed in this material dwelling place. So as we +grow better and kinder in this world, hell sloughs off and Heaven is more +real.”</p> + +<p>There is more of this dissertation–if the reader cares to pursue it, +and it may be found in the files of the Harvey <i>Tribune</i>. It also appears +as a footnote to an article by an eminent authority on Abnormal Psychology in a +report on <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_380'></a>380</span>Mr. Left, +Vol. XXXII, p. 2126, of the Report of the Psychological Association. The remarks +of the Peach Blow Philosopher credited in the Report of the Proceedings above +noted, to Mr. Left, appeared in the Harvey <i>Tribune</i> Jan. 14, 1903. They +may have been called forth by an editorial in the Harvey <i>Times</i> of January +9 of that same year. So as that editorial has a proper place in this narrative, +it may be set down here at the outset of this chapter. The article from the +<i>Times</i> is headed: “A Successful Career” and it follows:</p> + +<p>“To-day Judge Thomas Van Dorn retires from ten years of faithful +service as district judge of this district. He was appointed by the Governor and +has been twice elected to this position by the people, and feeling that the +honor should go to some other county in the district, the Judge was not a +candidate for a third nomination or election. During the ten years of his +service he has grown steadily in legal and intellectual attainments. He has been +president of the state bar association, delegate from that body to the National +Bar Association, member of several important committees in that organization, +and now is at the head of that branch of the National Bar Association organized +to secure a more strict interpretation of the Federal Constitution, as a bulwark +of commercial liberty. Judge Van Dorn also has been selected as a member of a +subcommittee to draft a new state constitution to be submitted to the +legislature by the state bar association. So much for the recognition of his +legal ability.</p> + +<p>“As an orator he has won similar and enviable fame. His speech at the +dedication of the state monument at Vicksburg will be a classic in American +oratory for years. At the Marquette Club Banquet in Chicago last month his +oration was reprinted in New York and Boston with flattering comment. Recently +he has been engaged–though his term of service has just ended–in +every important criminal action now pending west of the Mississippi. As a jury +lawyer he has no equal in all the West.</p> + +<p>“But while this practice is highly interesting, and in a sense +remunerative, the Judge feels that the criminal practice makes too much of a +drain upon his mind and body, and while he will defend certain great lumber +operators and will <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_381'></a>381</span>appear for the defense in the famous Yarborrough +murder case, and is considering accepting an almost unbelievably large retainer +in the Skelton divorce case with its ramifications leading into at least three +criminal prosecutions, and four suits to change or perfect certain land titles, +yet this kind of practice is distasteful to the Judge, and he will probably +confine himself after this year to what is known as corporation practice. He has +been retained as general counsel for all the industrial interests in the Wahoo +Valley. The mine operators, the smelter owners, the cement manufacturers, the +glass factories have seen in Judge Van Dorn a man in whom they all may safely +trust their interests–amicably settling all differences between themselves +in his office, and presenting for the Wahoo Valley an unbroken front in all +future disputes–industrial or otherwise. This arrangement has been +perfected by our giant of finance, Hon. Daniel Sands of the Traders’ State +Bank, who is, as every one knows, heavily interested in every concern in the +Valley–excepting the Independent Coal Company, which by the way has +preferred to remain outside of the united commercial union, and do business +under its own flag–however dark that flag may be.</p> + +<p>“This new career of Judge Van Dorn will be highly gratifying to his +friends–and who is there who is not his friend?</p> + +<p>“Courteous, knightly, impetuous, gallant Tom Van Dorn? What a career he +has builded for himself in Harvey and the West.</p> + +<p>“Scorning his enemies with the quiet contempt of the intellectual +gladiator that he is, Tom Van Dorn has risen in this community as no other man +young or old since its founding. His spacious home is the temple of hospitality; +his magnificent talent is given freely, often to the poor and needy to whom his +money flows in a generous stream whenever the call comes. His shrewd investment +of his savings in the Valley have made him rich; his beautiful wife and his +widening circle of friends have made him happy–his fine, active brain has +made him great.</p> + +<p>“The <i>Times</i> extends to the Judge upon his retirement from the +bench the congratulations of an admiring community, and best wishes for future +success.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_382'></a>382</span>Now perhaps it +was not this article that inspired the Peach Blow Philosopher. It may have been +another item in the same paper hidden away in the want column.</p> + +<p>“Wanted–All the sewing and mending, quilt patching, sheet making, +or other plain sewing that the good women of Harvey have to give out. I know +certain worthy women with families, who need this work. Also wood-sawing orders +promptly filled by competent men out of work. I will bring work and the workers +together. H. Fenn, care Brotherton Book & Stationery Co., 1127 Market +Street.”</p> + +<p>Or if it was not that item, perhaps it was this one from the South Harvey +<i>Derrick</i> of January 7, that called forth the Peach Blow Philosopher’s +remarks on Heaven:</p> + +<p>“Mrs. Violet Hogan and family have rented the rooms adjoining Mrs. Van +Dorn’s kindergarten. Mrs. Hogan has made arrangements to provide ladies of +South Harvey and the Valley in general with plain sewing by the piece. A day +nursery for children has been fitted up by our genial George Brotherton, former +mayor of Harvey, where mothers sewing may leave their children in an adjoining +room.”</p> + +<p>Now the Heaven of the Peach Blow Philosopher is not gained at one bound. Even +the painted, canvas Heaven of Thomas Van Dorn cost him something–to be +exact, $100, which he took in “stock” of the +<i>Times</i> company–which always had stock for sale, issued by a Price +& Chanler Gordon job press whenever it was required. And the negotiations +for the Judge’s painted Heaven made by his partner, Mr. Joseph Calvin, of +the renewed and reunited firm of Van Dorn & Calvin, were not without their +painful moments. As, for instance, when the editor of the <i>Times</i> +complained bitterly at having it agreed that he would have to mention in the +article the Judge’s “beautiful wife,” specifically and in +terms, the editor was for raising the price to $150, by reason of the laughing +stock it would make of the paper, but compromised upon the promise of legal +notices from the firm amounting to $100 within the following six months. Also +there was a hitch in the negotiations hereinbefore mentioned when the +<i>Times</i> was required to refer to the National Bar Association meeting at +all. For it was notorious that the Judge’s flourishing signature with +“and wife” had been <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_383'></a>383</span> photographed upon the register of a New York Hotel +when he attended that meeting, whereas every one knew that Mrs. Van Dorn was in +Europe that summer, and the photograph of the Judge’s beautifully +flourishing signature aforesaid was one of the things that persuaded the Judge +to enter the active practice and leave the shades and solitudes of the bench for +more strenuous affairs. To allude to the Judge’s wife, and to mention the +National Bar Association in the same article, struck the editor of the +<i>Times</i> as so inauspicious that it required considerable persuasion on the +part of the diplomatic Mr. Calvin, to arrange the matter.</p> + +<p>So the Judge’s Heaven bellied on its canvas, full of vain east wind, +and fooled no one–not even the Judge, least of all his beautiful wife, +who, knowing of the Bar Association incident, laughed a ribald laugh. Moreover, +having abandoned mental healing for the Episcopalian faith and having killed her +mental healing dog with caramels and finding surcease in a white poodle, she +gave herself over to a riot of earth thoughts–together with language +thereunto appertaining of so plain a texture that the Judge all but limped in +his strut for several hours.</p> + +<p>But when the strut did come back, and the mocking echoes of the strident +tones of “his beautiful wife” were stilled by several rounds of +Scotch whisky at the Club, the Judge went forth into the town, waving his hands +right and left, bowing punctiliously to women, and spending an hour in police +court getting out of trouble some of his gambler friends who had supported him +in politics.</p> + +<p>He told every one that it was good to be off the bench and to be “plain +Tom Van Dorn” again, and he shook hands up and down Market Street. And as +“plain Tom Van Dorn” he sat down in the shop of the Paris Millinery +Company, Mrs. Herdicker, Prop., and talked to the amiable Prop. for half an +hour–casting sly glances at the handsome Miss Morton, who got behind him +and made faces over his back for Mrs. Herdicker’s edification.</p> + +<p>But as Mrs. Herdicker, Prop., made it a point–and kept it–never +to talk against the cash drawer, “plain Tom Van Dorn” didn’t +learn the truth from her. So he pranced up and down before his scenic +representation of Heaven in <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_384'></a>384</span>the <i>Times</i>, and did not know that the whole +town knew that his stage Heaven was the masque for as hot and cozy a little hell +as any respectable gentleman of middle years could endure.</p> + +<p>However clear he made it to the public, that he and Mrs. Van Dorn were +passionately fond of each other; however evident he intended it to be that he +was more than satisfied with the bargain that he had made when he took her, and +put away his first wife; however strongly he played the card of the gallant +husband and “dearied” her, and however she smirked at him and +“dawlinged” him in public when the town was looking, every one knew +the truth.</p> + +<p>“We may,” says the Peach Blow Philosopher in one of his +dissertations on the Illusion of Time, “counterfeit everything in this +world–but sincerity.” So Judge Thomas Van Dorn–“plain +Tom Van Dorn,” went along Market Street, and through the world, handing +out his leaden gratuities. But people felt how greasy they were, how heavy they +were, how soft they were; and threw them aside, and sneered.</p> + +<p>As for the Heaven which the Peach Blow Philosopher may have found for Henry +Fenn and Violet Hogan, it was a different affair, but of slow and uncertain +growth. Henry Fenn went into the sewer gang the day after he found Violet in the +railroad yards, and for two weeks he worked ten hours a day with the negroes and +Mexicans in the ditch. It took him a month to get enough money ahead to pay for +a room. Leaving the sewer gang, he was made timekeeper on a small paving +contract. But every day he sent through the mails to Violet enough to pay her +rent and feed the children–a little sum, but all he could spare. He did +not see her. He did not write to her. He only knew that the money he was making +was keeping her out of the night, so he bent to his work with a will.</p> + +<p>And at night,–it was not easy for Violet to stay in the house. She +needed a thousand little things–or thought she did. And there was the old +track and the easy money. But she knew what the pittance that came from Henry +Fenn meant to him, so in pride and in shame one night she turned back home when +she had slipped clear to the corner of the <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_385'></a>385</span>street with her paint on. When she got home she +threw herself upon the bed and wept like a child in anguish. But the next night +she did not even touch the rouge pot, and avoided it as though it were a poison. +Her idea was the sewing room. She wrote it all out, in her stylish, angular hand +to Mr. Brotherton, told him what it would cost, and how she believed she could +make expenses for herself and help a number of other women who, like her, were +tempted to go the wrong road. She even sent him five spoons–the last relic +of the old Mauling decency, five silver spoons dented with the tooth marks of +the Mauling children, five spoons done up in pink tissue that she had always +told little Ouida Hogan should come to her some day–she sent those spoons +to Mr. Brotherton to sell to make the start toward the sewing room.</p> + +<p>But Mr. Brotherton took the spoons to Mr. Ira Dooley’s home of the fine +arts and crafts, and then and there, mounting a lookout stand, addressed the +crowd through the smoke in simple but effective language, showing the spoons, +telling the boys at the gaming tables that they all knew Denny Hogan’s +wife and how about her; that she wanted to get in right; that the spoons were +sent to him to sell to the highest and best bidder for cash in hand. He also +said that chips would count at the market price, and lo! he got a hat full of +rattly red and white and blue chips and jingly silver dollars and a wad of +whispering five-dollar bills big enough to cork a cannon. He went back to +Harvey, spoons and all, considering deeply certain statements that Grant Adams +had made about the presence of the holy ghost in every human heart.</p> + +<p>As for the bright particular Heaven of Mr. Fenn, as hereinbefore possibly +hinted at by the Peach Blow Philosopher, these are its specifications:</p> + +<p><i>Item One.</i>Job as storekeeper at the railroad roundhouse, from which by +specific order of the master mechanic two hours a day are granted to Mr. Fenn, +to take his hat in his hand and go marching over the town, knocking at doors and +soliciting sewing for women, and wood-sawing or yard or furnace work for men; +but</p> + +<p><i>Item Two.</i>Being a generous man, Mr. Fenn is up before <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_386'></a>386</span> eight for an hour of his +work, and stays at it until seven, and thereby gets in two or three extra hours +on the job, and feels</p> + +<p><i>Item Three.</i>That he is doing something worth while;</p> + +<p><i>Item Four.</i>Upon the first of the month he has nothing;</p> + +<p><i>Item Five.</i>Balancing his books at the last of the month he has +nothing,</p> + +<p><i>Item Six.</i>And having no debt he is happy. But speaking of debt, there +is</p> + +<p><i>Item Seven.</i>In Mr. Fenn’s room a collection of receipts:</p> + +<p>(a) One from the Midland Railroad Company for brass as per statement +rendered.</p> + +<p>(b) One from the Harvey Transfer Co. for one box of cutlery marked Wright +& Perry, and</p> + +<p>(c) One–the hardest receipt of all to get–from Martha Morton for +six chickens as per account rendered. These receipts hang on a spindle in the +little room. Under the spindle is</p> + +<p><i>Item Eight.</i>A bottle of whisky–full but uncorked. He is in his +room but little. Sometimes he comes in late at night, and does not light the +lamp to avoid seeing the bottle, but plunges into bed, and covers up his head in +fear and trembling. On the day when the Peach Blow Philosopher printed his view +on Heaven, Mr. Fenn, by way of personal adornment, had purchased of Wright & +Perry</p> + +<p><i>Item Nine.</i>One new coat. He hoped and so indicated to the firm, to be +able to afford a vest in the spring and perhaps trousers by summer, and because +of the cutlery transaction above mentioned, the firm indicated</p> + +<p><i>Item Ten.</i>That Mr. Fenn’s credit was good for the whole suit. But +Mr. Fenn waved a proud hand and said he had</p> + +<p><i>Item Eleven.</i>No desire to become involved in the devious ways of high +finance, and took only the coat.</p> + +<p>But, nevertheless, no small part of his Heaven lies in the serene knowledge +that the whole suit is waiting for him, carefully put aside by the head of the +house until Mr. Fenn cares to call for it. That is perhaps a material Heaven but +it is a part of Mr. Fenn’s Heaven, and as he goes about from door to door +soliciting for sewing, the knowledge that if he should cease or falter four +women might be on the <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_387'></a>387</span>street the next night, keeps him happy, and not even +when he was county attorney or in the real estate business nor writing +insurance, nor disporting himself as an auctioneer was Mr. Fenn ever in his own +mind a person of so much use and consequence. So his Heaven needs no east wind +to belly it out. Mr. Fenn’s Heaven is full and fat and +prosperous–even on two meals a day and in a three-dollar-a-month room.</p> + +<p>And now that we may balance up the Heaven account in these books, we should +come to some conclusion as to what Heaven is. Let us call it, for the sake of +our hypothesis, the most work one can do for the least self-interest, and let it +go at that and get on with the story. For this story has to do with large and +real affairs. It must not dally here with the sordid affairs of a lady who +certainly was no better than she should be and of a gentleman who was as the +hereinbefore mentioned receipts will show, much worse than he might have +been.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_388'></a>388</span><a id='link_35'></a>CHAPTER XXXV<br /><span class='h2fs'>THE ODD SPIDER BEGINS TO DIVIDE HIS FLIES WITH OTHERS AND GEORGE BROTHERTON IS PUZZLED TWICE IN ONE NIGHT</span></h2> + +<p>Now it was in the year of these minor conquests when Henry Fenn and Violet +Hogan were enjoying their little Heavens that great things began to stir in +Harvey and the Wahoo Valley. In May a young gentleman in a high hat and a suit +of exquisite gray twill cut with a long frock coat, appeared at the Hotel +Sands–and took the bridal suite on the second floor. He brought letters to +the Traders’ Bank and from the Bank took letters to the smelters, and with +a notebook in hand the young man in exquisite gray twill went about for three or +four days smiling affably, and asking many questions. Then he left and in due +course–that is to say, in a fortnight–Mr. Sands called the managing +officials of all the smelters into his back room and read them a letter from a +New York firm offering to trade stock in a holding company, taking over smelters +of the class and kind in the Wahoo Valley for the stocks and bonds of the Harvey +Smelters Company. The letterhead was so awe-inspiring and the proposition was so +convincing by reason of the terror inherent in the letterhead that the smelters +went into the holding company, and thereafter the managing officials who had +been men of power and consequence in Harvey became clerks. About the same time +the coal properties went the same way, and the cement concerns saw their finish +as individual competing concerns. The glass factories were also gobbled up. So +when the Fourth of July came and the youngest Miss Morton, under great protest, +but at her father’s stern command, wrapped an American flag about +her–and sang the “Star Spangled Banner” to the Veterans of +Persifer F. Smith Post of the G.A.R. in Sands’</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_389'></a>389</span>Park, the land +of the free and the home of the brave in Harvey was somewhat abridged.</p> + +<p>Daniel Sands felt the abridgement more than any one else. For a generation he +had been a spider, weaving his own web for his own nest. All his webs and +filaments and wires and pipes and cables went out and brought back things for +him to dispose of. He was the center of the universe for himself and for Harvey. +He was the beginning and the end. His bank was the first and the last word in +business and in politics in that great valley. What he spun was his; what he +drew into the web was his. When he invited the fly into his parlor, it was for +the delectation of the spider, not to be passed on to some other larger web and +fatter spider. But that day as he sat, a withered, yellow-skinned, red-eyed, +rattle-toothed, old man with a palsied head that never stopped wagging, as he +sat under his skull cap, blinking out at a fat, little world that always had +been his prey, Daniel Sands felt that he had ceased to be an end, and had become +a means.</p> + +<p>His bank, his mines, his smelters, even his municipal utilities, all were +slipping from under his control. He could feel the pull of the rope from the +outside around his own foot. He could feel that he was not a generator of power. +He was merely a pumping station, gathering up all the fat of the little land +that once was his, and passing it out in pipes that ran he knew not where, to go +to some one else–he knew not whom. True, his commissions came back, and +his dividends came back, and they were rich and sweet, and worth while. +But–he was shocked when he found courage to ask it–if they did not +come back, what could he do? He was part of a great web–a little filament +in one obscure corner, and he was spinning a fabric whose faintest plan he could +not conceive.</p> + +<p>This angered him, and the spider spat in vain rage. The power he loved was +gone; he was the mere shell of a spider; he was dead. Some man might come into +the bank to-morrow and take even the semblance of his power from him. They +might, indeed, shut up every mill, close every mine, lock every factory, douse +the fire in every smelter in the Wahoo Valley, and the man who believed he had +opened the mills, dug the mines, builded the factories and lighted the smelter +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_390'></a>390</span>fires with all but +his own hands, could only rage and fume, or be polite and pretend it was his +desire.</p> + +<p>The town that he believed that he had made out of sunshine and prairie grass, +for all he could do, might be condemned as a bat roost, and the wires and +cables, that ran from his desk all over the Wahoo Valley, might grow rusty and +jangle in the prairie winds, while the pipes rotted under the sunflowers and he +could only make a wry face. Spiders must have some instinctive constructive +imagination to build their marvelous webs; surely this old spider had an +imagination that in Elizabeth’s day would have made him more than a minor +poet. Yet in the beginning of the Twentieth Century he felt himself a bound +prisoner in his decaying web. So he showed his blue mouth, and red eyelids in +fury, and was silent lest even his shadow should find how impotent a thing he +was.</p> + +<p>But he knew that one man knew. “How about your politics down +here?” asked the affable young man in exquisite gray twill, when he closed +the gas-works deal. And Dan’l Sands said that until recently he and Dr. Nesbit +had been cronies, but that some way the Doctor had been getting high notions, +and hadn’t been around the bank lately. The young man in the exquisite +gray twill asked a few questions, catalogued the Doctor, and then said:</p> + +<p>“This man Van Dorn, it appears, is local attorney for all the mines and +smelters–he hasn’t the reform bug, has he?”</p> + +<p>The old spider grinned and shook his head.</p> + +<p>“All right,” said the polite young man in the exquisite gray +twill, as he picked up his gray, high hat, and flicked a speck of dust from his +exquisite gray frock coat, “I’ll take matters of politics up with +him.”</p> + +<p>So the spider knew that the servant had been put over the master, and again +he opened his mouth in malice, but spoke no word.</p> + +<p>And thus it was that Judge Thomas Van Dorn formed a strong New York +connection that stood him in stead in after years. For the web that the old +spider of Market Street had been weaving all these years, was at its strongest +but a rope of sand compared with the steel links of the chain that was wrapped +about the town, with one end in the Judge’s <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_391'></a>391</span>hand, but with the chain reaching out +into some distant, mysterious hawser that moved it with a power of which even +the Judge knew little or nothing.</p> + +<p>So he was profoundly impressed, and accordingly proud, and added half an inch +to the high-knee action of his strut. He felt himself a part of the world of +affairs–and he was indeed a part. He was one of a thousand men who, +whether they knew it or not, had been bought, body and soul–though the +soul was thrown in for good measure in the Judge’s case–to serve the +great, greedy spider of organized capital at whatever cost of public welfare or +of private faith. He was indeed a man of affairs–was Thomas Van +Dorn–a part of a vast business and political cabal, that knew no party and +no creed but dividends and still more dividends, impersonal, automatic, +soulless–the materialization of the spirit of commerce.</p> + +<p>And strangely enough, just as Tom Van Dorn worshiped the power that bought +him, so the old spider, peering through the broken, rotting meshes of what was +once his web, felt the power to which it was fastened, felt the power that moved +him as a mere pawn in a game whose direction he did not conceive; and Dan’l +Sands, in spite of his silent rage, worshiped the power like a groveling +idolater.</p> + +<p>But the worm never lacks for a bud; that also is a part of God’s plan. +Thus, while the forces of egoism, the powers of capital, were concentrating in a +vast organization of socialized individualism, the other forces and powers of +society which were pointing toward a socialized altruism, were forming also. +There was the man in the exquisite gray twill, harnessing Judge Van Dorn and +Market Street to his will; and there was Grant Adams in faded overalls, +harnessing labor to other wheels that were grinding another grist. Slowly but +persistently had Grant Adams been forming his Amalgamation of the Unions of the +valley. Slowly and awkwardly his unwieldy machinery was creaking its way round. +In spite of handicaps of opposing interests among the men of different unions, +his Wahoo Valley Labor Council was shaping itself into an effective machine. If +the shares of stock in the mills and the mines and the smelters all ran their +dividends through one great hopper, so <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_392'></a>392</span>the units of labor in the Valley were connected with +a common source of direction. God does not plant the organizing spirit in the +world for one group; it is the common heritage of the time. So the sinister +power of organized capital loomed before Market Street with its terrible threat +of extinction for the town if the town displeased organized capital; so also +rose in the town a dread feeling of uneasiness that labor also had power. The +personification of that power was Grant Adams. And when the young man in +exquisite gray twill had become only a memory, Tom Van Dorn squarely faced Grant +Adams. Market Street was behind the Judge. The Valley was back of Grant. For a +time there was a truce, but it was not peace. The truce was a time of waiting; +waiting and arming for battle.</p> + +<p>During the year of the truce, Nathan Perry was busy. Nathan Perry saw the +power that was organizing about him and the Independent mine among the employers +in the district, and intuitively he felt the resistlessness of the power. But he +did not shrink. He advised his owners to join the combination as a business +proposition. But his advice was a dead fly fed to the old spider’s senile +vanity. For Daniel Sands had been able to dictate as a part of his acceptance of +the proposition, this one concession: That the Independent mine be kept out of +the agreement. Nathan Perry suspected this. But most of his owners were game +men, and they decided not even to apply for admission to the organization. They +found that the young man’s management of the mine was paying well; that +the labor problem was working satisfactorily; that the safety devices, while +expensive, produced a feeling of good-will among the men that was worth more +even in dividends than the interest on the money.</p> + +<p>But after he had warned his employers of the wrath to come, Nathan Perry did +not spend much time in unavailing regret at their decision. He was, upon the +whole, glad they had made it. And having a serious problem in philology to work +out–namely, to discover whether Esperanto, Chinese or Dutch is the natural +language of man, through study of the conversational tendencies of Daniel Kyle +Perry, the young superintendent of the Independent mine gave serious thought to +that problem.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_393'></a>393</span>Then, of course, +there was that other problem that bothered Nathan Perry, and being an engineer +with a degree of B. S., it annoyed him to discover that the problem +wouldn’t come out straight. Briefly and popularly stated, it is this: If +you have a boiler capacity of 200 pounds per square inch and love a girl 200 +pounds to the square inch, and then the Doctor in his black bag brings one fat, +sweaty, wrinkled baby, and you see the girl in a new and sweeter light than ever +before, see her in a thousand ways rising above her former stature to a +wonderful womanhood beyond even your dreams–how are you going to get more +capacity out of that boiler without breaking it, when the load calls for four +hundred pounds? Now these problems puzzled the young man, living at that time in +his eight-room house with a bath, and he sat up nights to work them. And some +times there were two heads at work on the sums, and once in a while three heads, +but the third head talked a various language, whose mild and healing sympathy +stole the puzzle from the problem and began chewing on it before they were +aware. So Nathan put the troubles of the mine on the hook whereon he hung his +coat at night, and if he felt uneasy at the trend of the day’s events, his +uneasiness did not come to him at home. He had heard it whispered +about–once by the men and once in a directors’ meeting–that +the clash with Grant Adams was about to come. If Nathan had any serious wish in +relation to the future, it was the ardent hope that the clash would come and +come soon.</p> + +<p>For the toll of death in the Wahoo Valley was cruel and inexorable. The +mines, the factories, the railroads, the smelters, all were death traps, and the +maimed, blind and helpless were cast out of the great industrial hopper like +chaff. Every little neighborhood had its cripple. From the mines came the +blind–whose sight was taken from them by cheap powder; from the railroad +yards came the maimed–the handless, armless, legless men who, in their +daily tasks had been crushed by inferior car couplings; the smelters sent out +their sick, whom the fumes had poisoned, and sometimes there would come out a +charred trunk that had gone into the great molten vats a man. The factories took +hands and forearms, and sometimes when an accident of <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_394'></a>394</span>unusual horror occurred in the Valley, +it would seem like a place of mourning. The burden of all this bloodshed and +death was upon the laborers. And more than that,–the burden of the widows +and orphans also was upon labor. Capital charged off the broken machinery, the +damaged buildings, the worn-out equipment to profit and loss with an easy +conscience, while the broken men all over the Valley, the damaged laborers, the +worn-out workers, who were thrown to the scrap heap in maturity, were charged to +labor. And labor paid this bill, chiefly because capital was too greedy to +provide safe machinery, or sanitary shops, or adequate tools!</p> + +<p>Nathan Perry, first miner, then pit-boss and finally superintendent, and +always member of Local Miners’ Union No. 10, knew what the men were +vaguely beginning to see and think. When some man who had been to court to +collect damages for a killed or crippled friend, some man who had heard the +Judge talk of the assumed risk of labor, some man who had heard lawyers split +hairs to cheat working men of what common sense and common justice said was +theirs, when some such man cried out in hatred and agony against society, Nathan +Perry tried to counsel patience, tried to curb the malice. But in his heart +Nathan Perry knew that if he had suffered the wrongs that such a man suffered, +he too would be full of wrath and class hatred.</p> + +<p>Sometimes, of course, men rose from the pit. Foremen became managers, +managers became superintendents, superintendents became owners, owners became +rich, and society replied–“Look, it is easy for a man to +rise.” Once at lunch time, sitting in the shaft house, Nathan Perry with +his hands in his dinner bucket said something of the kind, when Tom Williams, +the little Welsh miner, who was a disciple and friend of Grant Adams, cried:</p> + +<p>“Yes–that’s true. It is easy for a man to rise. It was easy +for a slave to escape from the South–comparatively easy. But is it easy +for the class to rise? Was it easy for the slaves to be free? That is the +problem–the problem of lifting a whole class–as your class has been +lifted, young fellow, in the last century. Why, over in Wales a century ago, a +mere tradesman’s son like you–was–was nobody. <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_395'></a>395</span>The middle classes had +nothing–that is, nothing much. They have risen. They rule the world now. +This century must see the rise of the laboring class; not here and there as a +man who gets out of our class and then sneers at us, and pretends he was with us +by accident–but we must rise as a class, boy–don’t you +see?”</p> + +<p>And so, working in the mine, with the men, Nathan Perry completed his +education. He learned–had it ground into him by the hard master of daily +toil–that while bread and butter is an individual problem that no laborer +may neglect except at his peril, the larger problems of the conditions under +which men labor–their hours of service, their factory surroundings, their +shop rights to work, their relation to accidents and to the common diseases +peculiar to any trade–those are not individual problems. They are class +problems and must be solved–in so far as labor can solve them alone, not +by individual struggle but by class struggle. So Nathan Perry came up out of the +mines a believer in the union, and the closed shop. He felt that those who would +make the class problem an individual problem, were only retarding the day of +settlement, only hindering progress.</p> + +<p>Rumor said that the truce in the Wahoo Valley was near an end. Nathan Perry +did not shrink from it. But Market Street was uneasy. It seemed to be watching +an approaching cyclone. When men knew that the owners were ready to stop the +organization of unions, the cloud of unrest seemed to hover over them. But the +clouds dissolved in rumor. Then they gathered again, and it was said that Grant +Adams was to be gagged, his Sunday meetings abolished or that he was to be +banished from the Valley. Again the clouds dissolved. Nothing happened. But the +cloud was forever on the horizon, and Market Street was afraid. For Market +Street–as a street–was chiefly interested in selling goods. It had, +of course, vague yearnings for social justice–yearnings about as distinct +as the desire to know if the moon was inhabited. But as a street, Market Street +was with Mrs. Herdicker–it never talked against the cash drawer. Market +Street, the world over, is interested in things as they are. The <i>statuo +quo</i> is God and <i>laissez faire</i> is its profit! So <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_396'></a>396</span> Market Street murmured, and +buzzed–and then Market Street also organized to worship the god of things +as they are.</p> + +<p>But Mr. Brotherton of the Brotherton Book & Stationery Company held aloof +from the Merchants’ Protective Association. Mr. Brotherton at odd times, +at first by way of diversion, and then as a matter of education for his growing +business, had been glancing at the contents of his wares. Particularly had he +been interested in the magazines. Moreover, he was talking. And because it +helped him to sell goods to talk about them, he kept on talking.</p> + +<p>About this time he affected flowing negligee bow ties, and let his thin, +light hair go fluffy and he wrapped rather casually it seemed, about his +elephantine bulk, a variety of loose, baggy garb, which looked like a circus +tent. But he was a born salesman–was Mr. Brotherton. He plastered +literature over Harvey in carload lots.</p> + +<p>One day while Mr. Brotherton was wrapping up “Little Women” and a +“Little Colonel” book and “Children of the Abbey” that +Dr. Nesbit was buying for Lila Van Dorn, the Doctor piped, “Well, George, +they say you’re getting to be a regular anarchist–the way +you’re talking about conditions in the Valley?”</p> + +<p>“Not for a minute,” answered Mr. Brotherton. “Why, man, all +I said was that if the old spider kept making the men use that cheap powder that +blows their eyes out and their hands off, and their legs off, they ought to +unionize and strike. And if it was my job to handle that powder I’d tie +the old devil on a blast and blow him into hamburger.” Mr. +Brotherton’s rising emotions reddened his forehead under his thin hair, +and pulled at his wind. He shook a weary head and leaned on a show case. +“But I say, stand by the boys. Maybe it will make a year of bad times or +maybe two; but what of that? It’ll make better times in the +end.”</p> + +<p>“All right, George–go in. I glory in your spunk!” chirped +the Doctor as he put Lila’s package under his arm. “Let me tell you +something,” he added, “I’ve got a bill I’m going to push +in the next legislature that will knock a hole in that doctrine of the assumed +risk of labor, you can drive a horse through. It makes the owners pay for the +accidents <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_397'></a>397</span>of a +trade, instead of hiding behind that theory, that a man assumes those risks when +he takes a job.”</p> + +<p>The Doctor put his head to one side, cocked one eye and cried: “How +would that go?”</p> + +<p>“Now you’re shoutin’, Doc. Bust a machine, and the company +pays for it. Bust a man, the man pays for it or his wife and children or his +friends or the county. That’s not fair. A man’s as much of a part of +the cost of production as a machine!”</p> + +<p>The Doctor toddled out, clicking his cane and whistling a merry tune and left +Mr. Brotherton enjoying his maiden meditations upon the injustices of this +world. In the midst of his meditations he found that he had been listening for +five minutes to Captain Morton. The Captain was expounding some passing dream +about his Household Horse. Apparently the motor car, which was multiplying +rapidly in Harvey, had impressed him. He was telling Mr. Brotherton that his +Household Horse, if harnessed to the motor car, would save much of the power +wasted by the chains. He was dreaming of the distant day when motor cars would +be used in sufficient numbers to make it profitable for the Captain to equip +them with his power saving device.</p> + +<p>But Mr. Brotherton cut into the Captain’s musings with: “You tell +the girls to wash the cat for I’m coming out to-night.”</p> + +<p>“Girls?–huh–girls?” replied the Captain as he looked +over his spectacles at Mr. Brotherton. “’Y gory, man, what’s the +matter with me–eh? I’m staying out there on Elm Street +yet–what say?” And he went out smiling.</p> + +<p>When the Captain entered the house, he found Emma getting supper, Martha +setting the table and Ruth, with a candy box before her at the piano, going over +her everlasting “Ah-ah-ah-ah-ahs” from “C to C” as Emma +called it.</p> + +<p>Emma took her father’s hat, put it away and said: “Well, +father–what’s the news?”</p> + +<p>“Well,” replied the Captain, with some show of deliberation, +“a friend of mine down town told me to tell you girls to wash the cat for +he’ll be along here about eight o’clock.”</p> + +<p>“Mr. Brotherton,” scoffed Ruth. “It’s up to you +two,” she cried gayly in the midst of her eternal journey from <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_398'></a>398</span>“C” to +“C.” “He never wears his Odd Fellows’ pin unless +he’s been singing at an Odd Fellows’ funeral, so that lets me out +to-night.”</p> + +<p>“Well,” sighed Emma, “I don’t know that I want him +even if he has on his Shriner’s pin. I just believe I’ll go to bed. +The way I feel to-night I’m so sick of children I believe I wouldn’t +marry the best man on earth.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, well, of course, Emma,” suggested the handsome Miss Morton, +“if you feel that way about it why, I–”</p> + +<p>“Now Martha–” cried the elder sister, “can’t +you let me alone and get out of here? I tell you, the superintendent and the +principal and the janitor and the dratted Calvin kid all broke loose to-day and +I’m liable to run out doors and begin to jump and down in the street and +scream if you start on me.”</p> + +<p>But after supper the three Misses Morton went upstairs, and did what they +could to wipe away the cares of a long and weary day. They put on their second +best dresses–all but Emma, who put on her best, saying she had nothing +else that wasn’t full of chalk and worry. At seven forty-five, they had +the parlor illuminated. As for the pictures and bric-a-brac–to-wit, a +hammered brass flower pot near the grate, and sitting on an onyx stand a picture +of Richard Harding Davis, the contribution of the eldest Miss Morton’s +callow youth, also a brass smoking set on a mission table, the contribution of +the youngest Miss Morton from her first choir money–as for the pictures +and bric-a-brac, they were dusted until they glistened, and the trap was all +set, waiting for the prey.</p> + +<p>They heard the gate click and the youngest Miss Morton said quickly: +“Well, if he’s an Odd Fellow, I guess I’ll take him. +But,” she sighed, “I’ll bet a cooky he’s an Elk and +Martha gets him.”</p> + +<p>The Captain went to the door and brought in the victim to as sweet and demure +a trio of surprised young women and as patient a cat, as ever sat beside a rat +hole. After he had greeted the girls–it was Ruth who took his coat, and +Martha his hat, but Emma who held his hand a second the longest, after she spied +the Shriner’s pin–Mr. Brotherton picked up the cat.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_399'></a>399</span>“Well, +Epaminondas,” he puffed as he stroked the animal and put it to his cheek, +“did they take his dear little kitties away from him–the horrid +things.”</p> + +<p>This was Mr. Brotherton’s standard joke. Ruth said she never felt the +meeting was really opened until he had teased them about Epaminondas’ +pretended kittens.</p> + +<p>For the first hour the talk ranged with obvious punctility over a variety of +subjects–but never once did Mr. Brotherton approach the subject of +politics, which would hold the Captain for a night session. Instead, Mr. +Brotherton spun literary tales from the shop. Then the Captain broke in and +enlivened the company with a description of Tom Van Dorn’s new automobile, +and went into such details as to cams and cogs and levers and other mechanical +fittings that every one yawned and the cat stretched himself, and the Captain +incidentally told the company that he had got Van Dorn’s permission to try +the Household Horse on the old machine before it went in on the trade.</p> + +<p>Then Ruth rose. “Why, Ruth, dear,” said Emma sweetly, +“where are you going?”</p> + +<p>“Just to get a drink, dear,” replied Ruth.</p> + +<p>But it took her all night to finish drinking and she did not return. Martha +rose, began straightening up the littered music on the piano, and being near the +door, slipped out. By this time the Captain was doing most of the talking. +Chiefly, he was telling what he thought the sprocket needed to make it work upon +an automobile. At the hall door of the dining room two heads appeared, and +though the door creaked about the time the clock struck the half hour, Mr. +Brotherton did not see the heads. They were behind him, and four arms began +making signs at the Captain. He looked at them, puzzled and anxious for a minute +or two. They were peremptorily beckoning him out. Finally, it came to him, and +he said to the girls: “Oh, yes–all right.” This broke at the +wrong time into something Mr. Brotherton was saying. He looked up astonished and +the Captain, abashed, smiled and after shuffling his feet, backed up to the base +burner and hummed the tune about the land that was fairer than day. Emma and Mr. +Brotherton began talking. Presently, the Captain picked up the <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_400'></a>400</span>spitting cat by the +scruff of the neck and held him a moment under his chin. “Well, +Emmy,” he cut in, interrupting her story of how Miss Carhart had told the +principal if “he ever told of her engagement before school was out in +June, she’d just die,” with:</p> + +<p>“I suppose there’ll be plenty of potatoes for the +hash?”</p> + +<p>And not waiting for answer, he marched to the kitchen with the cat, and in +due time, they heard the “Sweet Bye and Bye” going up the back +stairs, and then the thump, thump of the Captain’s shoes on the floor +above them.</p> + +<p>The eldest Miss Morton, in her best silk dress, with her mother’s cameo +brooch at her throat, and with the full, maidenly ripeness of twenty-nine years +upon her brow, with her hair demurely parted on said brow, where there was the +faintest hint of a wrinkle coming–which Miss Morton attributed to a person +she called “the dratted Calvin kid,”–the eldest Miss Morton, +hair, cameo, silk dress, wrinkle, the dratted Calvin kid and all, did or did not +look like a siren, according to the point of view of the spectator. If he was +seeking the voluptuous curves of the early spring of youth–no: but if he +was seeking those quieter and more restful lines that follow a maiden with a +true and tender heart, who is a good cook and who sweeps under the sofa, +yes.</p> + +<p>Mr. Brotherton did not know exactly what he desired. He had been coming to +the Morton home on various errands since the girls were little tots. He had seen +Emma in her first millinery store hat. He had bought Martha her first sled; he +had got Ruth her last doll. But he shook his head. He liked them all. And then, +as though to puzzle him more, he had noticed that for two or three years, he had +never got more than two consecutive evenings with any of them–or with all +of them. The mystery of their conduct baffled him. He sometimes wondered +indignantly why they worked him in shifts? Sometimes he had Ruth twice; +sometimes Emma and Martha in succession–sometimes Martha twice. He like +them all. But he could not understand what system they followed in disposing of +him. So as he sat and toyed with his Shriner’s pin and listened to the +tales of a tepid schoolmistress’ romance that Emma told, he wondered if +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_401'></a>401</span>after all–for +a man of his tastes, she wasn’t really the flower of the flock.</p> + +<p>“You know, George,” she was old enough for that, and at rare +times when they were alone she called him George, “I’m working up a +kind of sorrow for Judge Van Dorn–or pity or something. When I taught +little Lila he was always sending her candy and little trinkets. Now Lila is in +the grade above me, and do you know the Judge has taken to walking by the +schoolhouse at recess, just to see her, and walking along at noon and at night +to get a word with her. He has put up a swing and a teeter-totter board on the +girls’ playgrounds. This morning I saw him standing, gazing after her, and +he was as sad a figure as I ever saw. He caught me looking at him and smiled and +said:</p> + +<p>“‘Fine girl, Emma,’ and walked away.”</p> + +<p>“Lord, Emma,” said Mr. Brotherton, as he brought his big, +baseball hands down on his fat knees. “I don’t blame him. +Don’t you just think children are about the nicest things in this +world?”</p> + +<p>Emma was silent. She had expressed other sentiments too recently. Still she +smiled. And he went on:</p> + +<p>“Oh, wow!–they’re mighty fine to have around.”</p> + +<p>But Mr. Brotherton was restless after that, and when the clock was striking +ten he was in the hall. He left as he had gone for a dozen years. And the young +woman stood watching him through the glass of the door, a big, strong, handsome +man–who strode down the walk with clicking heels of pride, and she turned +away sadly and hurried upstairs.</p> + +<p>“Martha,” she asked, as she took down her hair, “was it +ordained in the beginning of the world that all school teachers would have to +take widowers?”</p> + +<p>And without hearing the answer, she put out the light.</p> + +<p>Mr. Brotherton, stalking–not altogether unconsciously down the walk, +turned into the street and as he went down the hill, he was aware that a boy was +overtaking him. He let the boy catch up with him. “Oh, Mr. +Brotherton,” cried the boy, “I’ve been looking for +you!”</p> + +<p>“Well, here I am; what’s the trouble?”</p> + +<p>“Grant sent me,” returned the boy, “to ask you if he <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_402'></a>402</span>could see you at eight +o’clock to-morrow morning at the store?”</p> + +<p>Brotherton looked the boy over and exclaimed:</p> + +<p>“Grant?” and then, “Oh–why, Kenyon, I didn’t +know you. You are certainly that human bean-stalk, son. Let’s take a look +at you. Well, say–” Mr. Brotherton stopped and backed up and paused +for dramatic effect. Then he exploded: “Say, boy, if I had you in an olive +wood frame, I could get $2.75 or $3.00 for you as Narcissus or a boy Adonis! You +surely are the angel child!”</p> + +<p>The boy’s great black eyes shone up at the man with something wistful +and dream-like in them that only his large, sensitive mouth seemed to +comprehend. For the rest of the child’s face was boy–boy in early +adolescence. The boy answered simply:</p> + +<p>“Grant said to tell you that he expects the break to-morrow and is +anxious to see you.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Brotherton looked at the boy again–the eyes haunted the +man–he could not place them, yet they were familiar to him.</p> + +<p>“Where you been, kid?” he asked. “I thought you were in +Boston, studying.”</p> + +<p>“It’s vacation, sir,” answered Kenyon.</p> + +<p>Brotherton pulled the lad up under the next corner electric lamp and again +gazed at him. Then Mr. Brotherton remembered where he had seen the eyes. The +second Mrs. Van Dorn had them. This bothered the man.</p> + +<p>The eyes of the boy that flashed so brightly into Mr. Brotherton’s +eyes, certainly puzzled him and startled him. But not so much as the news the +boy carried. For then Mr. Brotherton knew that Market Street would be buzzing in +the morning and that the cyclone clouds that were lowering, soon would break +into storm.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_403'></a>403</span><a id='link_36'></a>CHAPTER XXXVI<br /><span class='h2fs'>A LONG CHAPTER BUT A BUSY ONE, IN WHICH KENYON ADAMS AND HIS MOTHER HAVE A STRANGE MEETING, AND LILA VAN DORN TAKES A NIGHT RIDE</span></h2> + +<p>The next morning at eight o’clock, Grant Adams came hurrying into +Brotherton’s store. As he strode down the long store room, Brotherton +thought that Grant in his street clothes looked less of a person than Grant in +his overalls. But the big man rose like a frisky mountain in earthquake and +called:</p> + +<p>“Hello there, Danton–going to shake down the furnace fires of +revolution this morning, I understand.”</p> + +<p>Grant stared at Brotherton. Solemnly he said, as he stood an awkward moment +before sitting. “Well, Mr. Brotherton, the time has come, when I must +fight. To-day is the day!”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” replied Brotherton, “I heard a few minutes ago that +they were going to run you out of the district to-day. The meeting in the +Commercial Club rooms is being called now.”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said Grant, “and I’ve been asked to appear +before them.”</p> + +<p>“I guess they are going to try and bluff you out, Grant,” said +Brotherton.</p> + +<p>“I got wind of it last night,” said Grant, “when they +nailed up the last hall in the Valley against me. One after another of the +public halls has been closed to me during the past year. But to-day is to be our +first public rally of the delegates of the Wahoo Valley Trades Council. We have +rented office rooms in the second floor of the Vanderbilt House in South Harvey, +and are coming out openly as an established labor organization, ready for +business in the Valley, and we are going to have a big +meeting–somewhere–I don’t know where now, but +somewhere–” his face turned grim and a fanatic flame lighted his +eyes as he spoke. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_404'></a>404</span>“Somewhere the delegates of the Council will +meet to-night, and I shall talk to them–or–”</p> + +<p>“Soh, boss–soh, boss–don’t get excited,” +counseled Mr. Brotherton. “They’ll blow off a little steam in the +meeting this morning, and then you go on about your business.”</p> + +<p>“But you don’t know what I know, George Brotherton,” +protested Grant as he leaned forward. “I have converted enough +spies–oh, no–not counting the spies who were converted merely to +scare me–but enough real spies to know that they mean business!” He +stopped, and sitting back in his chair again, he said grimly, “And so do +I–I shall talk to the men to-night, or–”</p> + +<p>“All right, son; you’ll talk or ‘the boy, oh, where was +he?’ I’ll tell you what,” cried Mr. Brotherton; +“you’ll fool around with the buzz saw till you’ll get killed. +Now, look here, Grant–I’m for your revolution, and six buckets of +blood. But you can’t afford to lose ’em! You’re dead right +about the chains of slavery and all that sort of thing, but don’t get too +excited about it. You live down there alone with your father and he is talking +to spooks, and you’re talking to yourself; and you’ve got a kind of +ingrown idea of this thing. Give the Lord a little time, and he’ll work +out this pizen in our social system. I’ll help you, and maybe before long +Doc’ll see the light and help you; but now you need a regulator. You ought +to have a wife and about six children to hook you up to the ordinary course of +nature! And see here, Grant,” Mr. Brotherton dropped a weighty hand on +Grant’s shoulder, “if you don’t be careful you’ll +furnish the ingredients of a public funeral, and where will your revolution be +then–and the boys in the Valley and your father and Kenyon?”</p> + +<p>While Brotherton was speaking, Grant sat with an impassive face. But when +Kenyon’s name was uttered he looked up quickly and answered:</p> + +<p>“That is why I am here this morning; it’s about Kenyon. George +Brotherton, that boy is more than life to me.” The fanatic light was gone +from Grant’s eyes, and the soft glow in them revealed a man that George +Brotherton had not seen in years. “Mr. Brotherton,” continued Grant, +“father is getting too old to do much for Kenyon. The Nesbits have <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_405'></a>405</span>borne practically all the +expense of educating him. But the Doctor won’t always be here.” +Again he hesitated. Then he went ahead as if he had decided for the last time. +“George Brotherton, if I should be snuffed out, I want you to look after +Kenyon–if ever he needs it. You have no one, and–” Grant +leaned forward and grasped Brotherton’s great hands and cried, +“George Brotherton, if you knew the gold in that boy’s heart, and +what he can do with a violin, and how his soul is unfolding under the spell of +his music. He’s so dumb and tongue-tied and unformed now; and +yet–”</p> + +<p>“Well–say!” It came out of Mr. Brotherton with a crash like +a falling tree, “Grant–well, say! Through sickness and health, for +better or for worse, till death do us part–if that will satisfy +you.” He put his big paw over and grabbed Grant’s steel hook and +jerked him to his feet. “You’ve sure sold Kenyon into bondage. When +I saw him last night–honest to God, man–I thought I’d run into +a picture roaming around out of stock without a frame! Him and me together can +do Ariel and Prospero without a scratch of make-up.” Grant beamed, but +when Brotherton exclaimed as an afterthought, “Say, man, what about that +boy’s eyes?” Grant’s features mantled and the old grim look +overcast his face, as Brotherton went on: “Why, them eyes would make a +madonna’s look like fried eggs! Where did he get +’em–they’re not Sands and they’re not Adams. He must +take back to some Peri that blew into Massachusetts from an enchanted +isle.” Brotherton saw that he was annoying Grant in some way. Often he +realized that his language was not producing the desired effect; so he veered +about and said gently, “You’re not in any danger, Grant; but so long +as I’m wearing clothes that button up the front–don’t worry +about Kenyon, I’ll look after him.”</p> + +<p>Five minutes later, Grant was standing in the front door of +Brotherton’s store, gazing into Market Street. He saw Daniel Sands and +Kyle Perry and Tom Van Dorn walking out of one store and into the next. He saw +John Kollander in a new blue soldier uniform stalking through the street. He saw +the merchants gathering in small, volatile groups that kept forming and +re-forming, and he knew that Mr. Brotherton’s classic language was +approximately correct <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_406'></a>406</span>when he said there was a hen on. Grant eyed the +crowd that was hurrying past him to the meeting like a hungry hound watching a +drove of chickens. Finally, when Grant saw that the last straggler was in the +hall, he turned and stalked heavily to the Commercial Club rooms, yet he moved +with the self-consciousness of one urged by a great purpose. His head was bent +in reflection. His hand held his claw behind him, and his shoulders stooped. He +knew his goal, but the way was hard and uncertain, and he realized the peril of +a strategic misstep at the outset. Heavily he mounted the steps to the hall, +entered, and took a seat in the rear. He sat with his head bowed and his gaze on +the floor. He was aware that Judge Van Dorn was speaking; but what the Judge was +saying did not interest Grant. His mind seemed aloof from the proceedings. +Suddenly what he had prepared to say slipped out of his consciousness +completely, as he heard the Judge declare, “We deem this, sir, a life and +death struggle for our individual liberties; a life and death struggle for our +social order; a life and death struggle for our continuance to exist as +individuals.” There was a long repetition of the terms “life and +death.” They appealed to some tin-pan rhythmic sense in the Judge’s +oratorical mind. But the phrase struck fire in Grant Adams’s heart. Life +and death, life and death, rang through his soul like a clamor of bells. +“We have given our all,” bellowed the Judge, “to make this +Valley an industrial hive, where labor may find employment–all of our +savings, all of our heritage of Anglo-Saxon organizing skill, and we view this +life and death struggle for its perpetuity–” But all Grant Adams +heard of that sentence was “life and death,” as the great bell of +his soul clanged its alarm. “We are a happy, industrial family,” +intoned the Judge, the suave Judge, who was something more than owner; who was +Authority without responsibility, who was the voice of the absentee master; the +voice, it seemed to Grant, of an enchanted peacock squawking in the garden of a +dream; the voice that cried: “and to him who would overthrow all this +contentment, all this admirable adjustment of industrial equilibrium we offer +the life and death alternative that is given to him who would violate a peaceful +home.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_407'></a>407</span>But all that +Grant Adams sensed of his doom in the Judge’s pronouncement was the combat +of death with life. Life and death were meeting for their eternal struggle, and +as the words resounded again and again in the Judge’s oratory, there +rushed into Grant Adams’s mind the phrase, “I am the resurrection +and the life,” and he knew that in the life and death struggle for +progress, for justice, for a more abundant life on this planet, it would be +finally life and not death that would win.</p> + +<p>As he sat blindly glaring at the floor, there may have stolen into his being +some ember from the strange flame burning about our earth, whose touch makes men +mad with the madness that men have, who come from the wildernesses of life, from +the lowly walks and waste places–the madness of those who feed on locusts +and wild honey; who, like St. Francis and Savonarola, go forth on hopeless +quests for the unattainable ideal, or like John Brown, who burn in the scorching +flame all the wisdom of the schools and the courts, and for one glorious day +shine forth with their burning lives a beacon by which the world is lighted to +its own sad shame.</p> + +<p>Grant never remembered what he said by way of introduction as he stood +staring at the crowd. It was a different crowd from audiences he knew. To Grant +it was the market place; merchants, professional men; clerks, +bankers,–well-dressed men, with pale, upturned faces stretched before him +to the rear of the hall. It was all black and white, and as his soul cried +“life and death” back of his conscious speech, the image came to him +that all these pale, black-clad figures were in their shrouds, and that he was +talking to the visible body of death–laid out stiffly before him.</p> + +<p>What answer he made to Van Dorn does not matter. Grant Adams could not recall +it when he had finished. But ever as he spoke through his being throbbed the +electrical beat of the words, “I am the resurrection and the life.” +And he was exultant in the consciousness that in the struggle of “life and +death,” life would surely win. So he stood and spoke with a tongue of +flame.</p> + +<p>“If you have given all–and you have, we also have given all. But +our all is more vitally our all–than yours; for <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_408'></a>408</span>it is our bodies, our food and clothing; +our comfortable homes; our children’s education, our wives’ +strength; our babies’ heritage; many of us have indeed given our +sons’ integrity and our daughters’ virtue. All these we have put +into the bargain with you. We have put them into the common hopper of this +industrial life, and you have taken the grain and we the chaff. It is indeed a +life and death struggle. And this happy family, this well-balanced industrial +adjustment, this hell of labor run through your mills like grist, this is death; +death is the name for all your wicked system, that shrinks and cringes before +God’s ancient justice. ‘I am the resurrection and the life’ was not +spoken across the veil that rises from the grave. It was spoken for men here in +the flesh who shall soon come into a more abundant life. Life and death, life +and death are struggling here this very hour, and you–you,” he +leaned forward shaking his steel claw in their faces, “you and your greedy +system of capital are the doomed; you are death’s embodiment.”</p> + +<p>Then came the outburst. All over the house rose cries. Men jumped from their +chairs and waved their arms. But Judge Van Dorn quieted them. He knew that to +attack Grant Adams physically at that meeting would inflame the man’s +followers in the Valley. So he pounded the gavel for quiet. To Adams he +thundered, “Sit down, you villain!” Still the crowd hissed and +jeered. A great six-footer in new blue overalls, whom Grant knew as one of the +recent spies, one of the sluggers sent to the Valley, came crowding to the front +of the room. But Judge Van Dorn nodded him back. When the Judge had stilled the +tumult, he said in his sternest judicial manner, “Now, Adams–we have +heard enough of you. Leave this district. Get out of this Valley. You have +threatened us; we shall not protect you in life or limb. You are given two hours +to leave the Valley, and after that you stay here at your own peril. If you try +to hold your labor council, don’t ask us, whom you have scorned, to +surround you with the protection of the society you would overthrow in +bloodshed. Now, go–get out of here,” he cried, with all the fire and +fury that an outraged respectability could muster. But Grant, turning, twisted +his <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_409'></a>409</span>hook in the +Judge’s coat, held him at arm’s length, and leaning toward the +crowd, with the Judge all but dangling from his steel arm, cried: “I shall +speak in South Harvey to-night. This is indeed a life and death struggle, and I +shall preach the gospel of life. Life,” he cried with a trumpet voice, +“life–the life of society, and its eternal resurrection out of the +forces of life that flow from the everlasting divine spring!”</p> + +<p>After the crowd had left the hall, Grant hurried toward the street leading to +South Harvey. As he turned the corner, the man whom Grant had seen in the hall +met him, the man whom Grant recognized as a puddler in one of the smelters. He +came up, touched Grant on the shoulder and asked:</p> + +<p>“Adams?” Grant nodded.</p> + +<p>“Are you going down to South Harvey?”</p> + +<p>Grant replied, “Yes, I’m going to hold a meeting there +to-night.”</p> + +<p>“Well, if you try,” said the man, pushing his face close to +Grant’s, “you’ll get your head knocked off–that’s +all. We don’t like your kind–understand?” Grant looked at the +man, took his measure physically and returned:</p> + +<p>“All right, there’ll be some one around to pick it +up–maybe!”</p> + +<p>The man walked away, but turned to say:</p> + +<p>“Mind now–you show up in South Harvey, and we’ll fix you +right!”</p> + +<p>As Grant turned to board a South Harvey car, Judge Van Dorn caught his arm, +and said:</p> + +<p>“Wait a minute, the next car will do.”</p> + +<p>The Judge’s wife was with him, and Grant was shocked to see how +doll-like her face had become, how the lines of character had been smoothed out, +the eyelids stained, the eyebrows penciled, the lips colored, until she had a +bisque look that made him shudder. He had seen faces like hers, and fancied that +he knew their story.</p> + +<p>“I would like to speak with you just a minute. Come up to the office. +Margaret, dearie,” said Van Dorn, “you wait for me at +Brotherton’s.” In the office, Van Dorn squared himself before Grant +and said:</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_410'></a>410</span>“It’s no use, sir. You can’t hold +a meeting there to-night–the thing’s set against you. I can’t +stop them, but I know the rough element there will kill you if you try. +You’ve done your best–why risk your head, man–for no purpose? +You can’t make it–and it’s dangerous for you to +try.”</p> + +<p>Grant looked at Van Dorn. Then he asked:</p> + +<p>“You represent the Harvey Fuel Company, Judge?”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” replied the Judge with much pride of authority, “and +we–”</p> + +<p>Grant stopped him. “Judge,” he said, “if you blow your +horn–I’ll ring my bell and–If I don’t hold my meeting +to-night, your mines won’t open to-morrow morning.” The Judge rose +and led the way to the door.</p> + +<p>“Oh, well,” he sneered, “if you won’t take advice, +there’s no need of wasting time on you.”</p> + +<p>“No,” answered Grant, “only remember what I’ve +said.”</p> + +<p>When Grant alighted from the car in South Harvey, he found his puddler friend +waiting for him. The two went into the Vanderbilt House, where Grant greeted +Mrs. Williams, the landlady, as an old friend, and the puddler cried: +“Say, lady–if you keep this man–we’ll burn your +house.”</p> + +<p>“Well, burn it–it wouldn’t be much loss,” retorted +the landlady, who turned her back upon the puddler and said to Grant: +“We’ve given you the front room upstairs, Grant, for the committee. +It has the outside staircase. Your room is ready. You know the Local No. 10 boys +from the Independent are all coming around this afternoon–as soon as they +learn where the meeting is.”</p> + +<p>The puddler walked away and Grant went out into the street; looked up at the +wooden structure with the stairway rising from the sidewalk and splitting the +house in two. Mounting the stairs, he found a narrow hall, leading down a long +line of bedrooms. He realized that he must view his location as a general looks +over a battlefield.</p> + +<p>The closing of the public halls to Grant and his cause had not discouraged +him. He knew that he still had the great free out-of-doors, and he had thought +that an open air meeting would give the cause dramatic setting. He felt that to +be barred from the halls of the Valley helped rather than <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_411'></a>411</span>hurt his meeting. The barring proved to +the workers the righteousness of their demands. So Grant sallied forth to locate +a vacant lot; he shot out of his room full of the force of his enthusiasm, but +his force met another force as strong as his, and ruthless. God’s free out +of doors, known and beloved of Grant from his boyhood, was preëmpted: What he +found in his quest for a meeting place was a large red sign, “No +trespassing,” upon the nearest vacant lot, and a special policeman +parading back and forth in front of the lot on the sidewalk. He found a score of +lots similarly placarded and patrolled. He sent men to Magnus and Foley +scurrying like ants through the Valley, but no lot was available.</p> + +<p>Up town in Harvey, the ants also were busy. The company was sending men over +Market Street, picking out the few individuals who owned vacant lots, leasing +them for the month and preparing to justify the placarding and patrolling that +already had been done. One of the ants that went hurrying out of the Sands hill +on this errand, was John Kollander, and after he had seen Wright & Perry and +the few other merchants who owned South Harvey real estate, he encountered +Captain Ezra Morton, who happened to have a vacant lot, given to the Captain in +the first flush of the South Harvey boom, in return for some service to Daniel +Sands. John Kollander explained his errand to the Captain, who nodded wisely, +and stroked his goatee meditatively.</p> + +<p>“I got to think it over,” he bawled, and walked away, leaving +John Kollander puzzled and dismayed. But Captain Morton spent no time in +academic debate. In half an hour he was in South Harvey, climbing the stairs of +the Vanderbilt House, and knocking at Grant Adams’s door. Throwing open +the door Grant found Captain Morton, standing to attention with a shotgun in his +hands. The Captain marched in, turned a square corner to a chair, but slumped +into it with a relieved sigh.</p> + +<p>“Well, Grant–I heard your speech this morning to the +Merchants’ Association. You’re crazy as a bed bug–eh? +That’s what I told ’em all. And then they said to let you go to +it–you couldn’t get a hall, and the company could keep you off the +lots all over the Valley, and if you tried to speak <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_412'></a>412</span>on the streets they’d run you +in–what say?” His old eyes snapped with some virility, and he lifted +up his voice and cried:</p> + +<p>“But ’y gory–is that the way to do a man, I says? No–why, +that ain’t free speech! I remember when they done Garrison and Lovejoy and +those old boys that way before the war. I fit, bled and died for that, +Grant–eh? And I says to the girls this noon: ‘Girls–your pa’s +got a lot in South Harvey, over there next to the Red Dog saloon, that he got +way back when they were cheap, and now that the company’s got all their +buildings up and don’t want to buy any lots–why, they’re +cheaper still–what say?’</p> + +<p>“And ’y gory, I says to the girls–‘If your ma was living I know +what she’d say. She’d say, “You just go over there and tell +that Adams boy that lot’s hisn, and if any one tries to molest him, you +blow ’em to hell”–that’s what your ma’d +say’–only words to that effect–eh? And so by the jumping John +Rogers, Grant–here I am!”</p> + +<p>He looked at the shotgun. “One load’s bird shot–real fine +and soft, with a small charge of powder.” He put his hand to his mouth +sheepishly and added apologetically, “I suppose I won’t need +it,–but I just put the blamedest load of buck shot and powder in that +right barrel you ever saw–what say?”</p> + +<p>Grant said: “Well, Captain–this isn’t your fight. You +don’t believe in what I’m talking about–you’ve proved +your patriotism in a great war. Don’t get into this, Captain.”</p> + +<p>“Grant Adams,” barked the Captain as if he were drilling his +company, “I believe if you’re not a Socialist, you’re just as +bad. But ’y gory, I fought for the right of free speech, and free meetings, and +Socialist or no Socialist, that’s your right. I’m going to defend +you on my own lot.” He rose again, straightened up in rheumatic pain, +marched to the door, saluted, and said:</p> + +<p>“I brought my supper along with me. It’s in my coat pocket. +I’m going over to the lot and sit there till you come. I know this class +of people down here. They ain’t worth hell room, Grant,” admonished +the Captain earnestly. “But if I’m not there, the company will crowd +their men in on that lot as sure as guns, when they know you are to meet there. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_413'></a>413</span>And I’m going +there to guard it till you come. Good day–sir.”</p> + +<p>And with that he thumped limpingly down the narrow stairs, across the little +landing, out of the door and into the street.</p> + +<p>Grant stood at the top of the stairs and watched him out of sight. Then Grant +pulled himself together, and went out to see the gathering members of the Labor +Council in the hotel office and the men of Local No. 10 to announce the place of +meeting. Later in the afternoon he met Nathan Perry. When he told Nathan of the +meeting, the young man cried in his rasping Yankee voice:</p> + +<p>“Good–you’re no piker. They said they had scared the +filling out of you at the meeting this morning, and they’ve bragged they +were going to beat you up this afternoon and kill you to-night. You look pretty +husky–but watch out. They really are greatly excited.”</p> + +<p>“Well,” replied Grant grimly, “I’ll be there +to-night.”</p> + +<p>“Nevertheless,” returned Nathan, snapping off his words as though +he was cutting them with steel scissors, “Anne and I agreed to-day, that I +must come to Mrs. Williams’s and take you to the meeting. They may get +ugly after dark.”</p> + +<p>Half an hour later on the street, Grant was passing his cousin Anne, wheeling +Daniel Kyle Perry out to take the air. He checked his hurried step when he +caught her smile and said, “Well, Anne, Nate told me that you wish to send +him over to the meeting to-night, as my body guard. I don’t need a body +guard, and you keep Nate at home.” He smiled down on his cousin and for a +moment all of the emotional storm in his face was melted by the gentleness of +that smile. “Anne,” he said–“what a brick you +are!”</p> + +<p>She laughed and gave him the full voltage of her joyous eyes and +answered:</p> + +<p>“Grant, I’d rather be the widow of a man who would stand by you +and what you are doing, than to be the wife of a man who shrank from it.” +She lowered her voice, “And Grant, here’s a curious thing: this +second Mrs. Van Dorn called me up on the phone a little bit ago, and said she +knew you and I were cousins and that you and Nate were such friends, but would I +tell Nate to keep you away from any <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_414'></a>414</span>meeting to-night? She said she couldn’t tell +me, but she had just learned some perfectly awful things they were going to do, +and she didn’t want to see any trouble. Wasn’t that +queer?”</p> + +<p>Grant shook his head. “Well, what did you say?” he asked.</p> + +<p>“Oh, I said that while they were doing such perfectly awful things to +you, your friends wouldn’t be making lace doilies! And she rang off. What +do you think of it?” she asked.</p> + +<p>“Just throwing a scare into me–under orders,” responded the +man and hurried on.</p> + +<p>When Grant returned to the hotel at supper time, he found Mr. Brotherton +sitting in a ramshackle rocking chair in the upstairs bedroom, waiting.</p> + +<p>“I thought I’d come over and bring a couple of friends,” +explained Mr. Brotherton, pointing to the corner, where two shotguns leaned +against the wall.</p> + +<p>“Why, man,” exclaimed Grant, “that’s good of you, but +in all the time I’ve been in the work of organization, I’ve never +carried a gun, nor had one around. I don’t want a gun, Mr. +Brotherton.”</p> + +<p>“I do,” returned the elder man, “and I’m here to say +that moral force is a grand thing, but in these latitudes when you poke Betsy +Jane under the nose of an erring comrade, he sees the truth with much more +clearness than otherwise. I stick to the gun–and you can go in hard for +moral suasion.</p> + +<p>“Also,” he added, “I’ve just taken a survey of these +premises, and told the missus to bring the supper up here. There may be an early +curtain raiser on this entertainment, and if they are going to chase you out of +town to-night, I want a good seat at the performance.” He grinned. +“Nate Perry will join us in a little quiet social manslaughter. I called +him up an hour ago, and he said he’d be here at six-thirty. I think +he’s coming now.” In another minute the slim Yankee figure of Nathan +was in the room. It was scarcely dusk outside. Mrs. Williams came up with a tray +of food. As she set it down she said:</p> + +<p>“There’s a crowd around at the Hot Dog, you can see them through +the window.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_415'></a>415</span>Nate and Grant +looked. Mr. Brotherton went into the supper. “Crowd all right,” +assented Nate. There was no mistaking the crowd and its intention. There were +new men from the day shift at the smelter, imported by the company to oppose the +unions. A thousand such men had been brought into the district within a few +months.</p> + +<p>“There’s another saloon across the road here,” said Mr. +Brotherton, looking up from his food. “My understanding is that +they’re going to make headquarters across the street in Dick’s +Place. You know I got a pipe-line in on the enemy through the Calvin girl. She +gets it at home, and her father gets it at the office. Our estimable natty +little friend Joe will be down here–he says to keep the peace. +That’s what he tells at home. I know what he’s coming for. Tom Van +Dorn will sit in the back room of that saloon and no one will know he’s +there, and Joseph will issue Tom’s orders. Lord,” cried Mr. +Brotherton, waving a triangle of pie in his hand, “don’t I know +’em like a book.”</p> + +<p>While he was talking the crowd slowly was swelling in front of the Hot Dog +saloon. It was a drinking and noisy crowd. Men who appeared to be leaders were +taking other men in to the bar, treating them, then bringing them out again, and +talking excitedly to them. The crowd grew rapidly, and the noise multiplied. +Another crowd was gathering–just a knot of men down the street by the +Company’s store, in the opposite direction from the Hot Dog crowd. Grant +and Nate noticed the second crowd at the same time. It was Local No. 10. Grant +left the window and lighted the lamp. He wrote on a piece of paper, a few lines, +handed it to Nathan, saying:</p> + +<p>“Here, sign it with me.” It read:</p> + +<p>“Boys–whatever you do, don’t start anything–of any +kind–no matter what happens to us. We can take care of +ourselves.”</p> + +<p>Nathan Perry signed it, slipped down the stairs into the hall, and beckoned +to his men at the Company’s store. The crowd at the Hot Dog saw him and +yelled, but Evan Evans came running for the note and took it back. Little Tom +Williams came up the stairs with Nathan, saying:</p> + +<p>“Well–they’re getting ready for business. I brought a <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_416'></a>416</span>gun up to No. 3 this +afternoon. I’m with Grant in this.”</p> + +<p>The little landlord went into No. 3, appeared with a rifle, and came bobbing +into the room.</p> + +<p>Grant at the window could see the crowd marching from the Hot Dog to +Dick’s Place, yelling and cursing as it went. The group in the bedroom +over the street opened the street windows to see better and hear better. An +incandescent over the door of the saloon lighted the narrow street. In front of +the saloon and under the light the mob halted. The men in the room with Grant +were at the windows watching. Suddenly–as by some prearranged order, four +men with revolvers in their hands ran across the street towards the hotel. +Brotherton, Williams and Perry ran to the head of the stairs, guns in hand. +Grant followed them. There they stood when the door below was thrown open, and +the four men below rushed across the small landing to the bottom of the stairs. +It was dark in the upper hall, but a light from the street flooded the lower +hall. The men below did not look up; they were on the stairs.</p> + +<p>“Stop,” shouted Brotherton with his great voice.</p> + +<p>That halted them. They looked up into darkness. They could see no +faces–only four gun barrels. The men farthest up the stairs literally fell +into the arms of those below. Then the four men below scrambled down the stairs +as Mr. Brotherton roared:</p> + +<p>“I’ll kill the first man who puts his foot on the bottom step +again.”</p> + +<p>With a cry of terror they rushed out. The crowd at the Company store hooted, +and the mob before the saloon jeered. But the four men scurried across the +street, and told the crowd what had happened. For a few minutes no move was +made. Then Grant, who had left the hallway and was looking through the window, +saw the little figure of Joseph Calvin moving officiously among the men. He went +into the saloon, and came out again after a time. Then Grant cried to Brotherton +at the head of the stairs:</p> + +<p>“Watch out–they’re coming; more of them this time.” +And half a dozen armed men rushed across the street and appeared at the door of +the hallway.</p> + +<p>“Stop,” yelled Brotherton–whose great voice itself <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_417'></a>417</span>sounded a terrifying +alarm in the darkened hallway. The feet of two men were on the first steps of +the stairs–they looked up and saw three gun barrels pointing down at them, +and heard Brotherton call “one–two–three,” but before he +could say “fire” the men fell back panic stricken and ran out of the +place.</p> + +<p>The crowd left the sidewalk and moved into the saloon, and the street was +deserted for a time. Local No. 10 held its post down by the Company Store. It +seemed like an age to the men at the head of the stairs. Yet Mr. +Brotherton’s easy running fire of ribaldry never stopped. He was excited +and language came from his throat without restraint.</p> + +<p>Then Grant’s quick ear caught a sound that made him shudder. It was far +away, a shrill high note; in a few seconds the note was repeated, and with it +the animal cry one never mistakes who hears it–the cry of an angry mob. +They could hear it roaring over the bridge upon the Wahoo and they knew it was +the mob from Magnus, Plain Valley and Foley coming. On it came, with its +high-keyed horror growing louder and louder. It turned into the street and came +roaring and whining down to the meeting place at the saloon. It filled the +street. Then appeared Mr. Calvin following a saloon porter, who was rolling a +whiskey barrel from the saloon. The porter knocked in the head, and threw tin +cups to the crowd.</p> + +<p>“What do you think of that for a praying Christian?” snarled Mr. +Brotherton. No one answered Mr. Brotherton, for the whiskey soon began to make +the crowd noisy. But the leaders waited for the whiskey to make the crowd brave. +The next moment, Van Dorn’s automobile–the old one, not the new +one–came chugging up. Grant, at the window, looked out and turned deathly +sick. For he saw the puddler who had bullied him during the day get out of the +car, and in the puddler’s grasp was Kenyon–with white face, but not +whimpering.</p> + +<p>The men made way for the puddler, who hurried the boy into the saloon. Grant +did not speak, but stood unnerved and horror-stricken staring at the saloon door +which had swallowed up the boy.</p> + +<p>“Well, for God–” cried Brotherton.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_418'></a>418</span>“A +screen–they’re going to use the boy as a shield–the damn +cowards!” rasped Nathan Perry.</p> + +<p>The little Welshman moaned. And the three men stood staring at Grant whose +eyes did not shift from the saloon door. He was rigid and his face, which +trembled for a moment, set like molten bronze.</p> + +<p>“If I surrender now, if they beat me here with anything less than my +death, the whole work of years is gone–the long struggle of these men for +their rights.” He spoke not to his companions, but through them to +himself. “I can’t give up–not even for Kenyon,” he +cried. “Tom–Tom,” Grant turned to the little Welshman. +“You stood by and heard Dick Bowman order Mugs to hold the shovel over my +face! Did he shrink? Well, this cause is the life and death struggle of all the +Dicks in the Valley–not for just this week, but for always.”</p> + +<p>Below the crowd was hushed. Joe Calvin had appeared and was giving orders in +a low tone. The hulking figure of the puddler could be seen picking out his men; +he had three set off in a squad. The men in the room could see the big beads of +sweat stand out on Grant’s forehead. “Kenyon–Kenyon,” he +cried in agony. Then George Brotherton let out his bellow, +“Grant–look here–do you think I’m going to fire +on–”</p> + +<p>But the next minute the group at the window saw something that made even +George Brotherton’s bull voice stop. Into the drab street below flashed +something all red. It was the Van Dorn motor car, the new one. But the red of +the car was subdued beside the scarlet of the woman in the back seat–a +woman without hat or coat, holding something in her arms. The men at the window +could not see what those saw in the street; but they could see Joe Calvin fall +back; could see the consternation on his face, could see him waving his hands to +the crowd to clear the way. And then those at the window above saw Margaret Van +Dorn rise in the car and they heard her call, “Joe Calvin! Joe +Calvin–” she screamed, “bring my husband out from behind that +wine room door–quick–quick,” she shrieked, “quick, I +say.”</p> + +<p>The mob parted for her. The men at the hotel window could not see what she +had in her arms. She made the <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_419'></a>419</span>driver wheel, drive to the opposite side of the +street directly under the hotel window–directly in front of the besieged +door. In another instant Van Dorn, ghastly with rage, came bare-headed out of +the saloon. He ran across the street crying:</p> + +<p>“You she devil, what do you–”</p> + +<p>But he stopped without finishing his sentence. The men above looked down at +what he was looking at and saw a child–Tom Van Dorn’s child, Lila, +in the car.</p> + +<p>“My God, Margaret–what does this mean?” he almost whispered +in terror.</p> + +<p>“It means,” returned the strident voice of the woman, “that +when you sent for your car and the driver told me he was going to +Adamses–I knew why–from what you said, and now, by God,” she +screamed, “give me that boy–or this girl goes to the union men as +their shield.”</p> + +<p>Van Dorn did not speak. His mouth seemed about to begin, but she stopped him, +crying:</p> + +<p>“And if you touch her I’ll kill you both. And the child goes +first.”</p> + +<p>The woman had lost control of her voice. She swung a pistol toward the +child.</p> + +<p>“Give me that boy!” she shrieked, and Van Dorn, dumb and amazed, +stood staring at her. “Tell them to bring that boy before I count five: +One, two,” she shouted, “three–”</p> + +<p>“Oh, Joe,” called Van Dorn as his whole body began to tremble, +“bring the Adams boy quick–here!” His voice broke into a +shriek with nervous agitation and the word “here” was uttered with a +piercing yell, that made the crowd wince.</p> + +<p>Calvin brought Kenyon out and sent him across the street. Grant opened a +window and called out: “Get into the car with Lila, +Kenyon–please.”</p> + +<p>The woman in the car cried: “Grant, Grant, is that you up there? They +were going to murder the boy, Grant. Do you want his child up there?”</p> + +<p>She looked up and the arc light before the hotel revealed her tragic, +shattered face–a wreck of a face, crumpled and all out of line and focus +as the flickering glare of the arc-light fell upon it. “Shall I send you +his child?” she babbled <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_420'></a>420</span>hysterically, keeping the revolver pointed at +Lila–“His child that he’s silly about?”</p> + +<p>Van Dorn started for her car, but Brotherton at the window bellowed across a +gun sight: “Move an inch and I’ll shoot.”</p> + +<p>Grant called down: “Margaret, take Lila and Kenyon home, +please.”</p> + +<p>Then, with Mr. Brotherton’s gun covering the father in the street +below, the driver of the car turned it carefully through the parting crowd, and +was gone as mysteriously and as quickly as he came.</p> + +<p>“Now,” cried Mr. Brotherton, still sighting down the gun barrel +pointed at Van Dorn, standing alone in the middle of the street, “you make +tracks, and don’t you go to that saloon either–you go home to the +bosom of your family. Stop,” roared Mr. Brotherton, as the man tried to +break into a run. Van Dorn stopped. “Go down to the Company store where +the union men are,” commanded Mr. Brotherton. “They will take you +home.</p> + +<p>“Hey–you Local No. 10,” howled the great bull voice of +Brotherton. “You fellows take this man home to his own vine and fig +tree.”</p> + +<p>Van Dorn, looking ever behind him for help that did not come, edged down the +street and into the arms of Local No. 10, and was swallowed up in that crowd. A +rock from across the street crashed through the window where the gun barrels +were protruding, but there was no fire in return. Another rock and another came. +But there was no firing.</p> + +<p>Grant, who knew something of mobs, felt instinctively that the trouble was +over. Nathan and Brotherton agreed. They stood for a time–a long time it +seemed to them–guarding the stairs. Then some one struck a match and +looked at his watch. It was half past eight. It was too late for Grant to hold +his meeting. But he felt strongly that the exit of Van Dorn had left the crowd +without a leader and that the fight of the night was won.</p> + +<p>“Well,” said Grant, drawing a deep breath. “They’ll +not run me out of town to-night. I could go to the lot now and hold the meeting; +but it’s late and it will be better to <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_421'></a>421</span>wait until to-morrow night. They should sleep this +off–I’m going to talk to them.”</p> + +<p>He stepped to an iron balcony outside the window and putting his hands to his +mouth uttered a long horn-like blast. The men saw him across the street. +“Come over here, all of you–” he called. “I want to talk +to you–just a minute.”</p> + +<p>The crowd moved, first one or two, then three or four, then by tens. Soon the +crowd stood below looking up half curiously–half angrily.</p> + +<p>“You see, men,” he smiled as he shoved his hand in his pocket, +and put his head humorously on one side:</p> + +<p>“We are more hospitable when you all come than when you send your +delegations. It’s more democratic this way–just to kind of meet out +here like a big family and talk it over. Some way,” he laughed, +“your delegates were in a hurry to go back and report. Well, now, that was +right. That is true representative government. You sent ’em, they came; +were satisfied and went back and told you all about it.” The crowd +laughed. He knew when they laughed that he could talk on. “But you see, I +believe in democratic government. I want you all to come and talk this matter +over–not just a few.”</p> + +<p>He paused; then began again: “Now, men, it’s late. I’ve got +so much to say I don’t want to begin now. I don’t like to have Tom +Van Dorn and Joe Calvin divide time with me. I want the whole evening to myself. +And,” he leaned over clicking his iron claw on the balcony railing while +his jaw showed the play of muscles in the light from below, “what’s +more I’m going to have it, if it takes all summer. Now then,” he +cried: “The Labor Council of the Wahoo Valley will hold its meeting +to-morrow night at seven-thirty sharp on Captain Morton’s vacant lot just +the other side of the Hot Dog saloon. I’ll talk to that meeting. I want +you to come to that meeting and hear what we have to say about what we are +trying to do.”</p> + +<p>A few men clapped their hands. Grant Adams turned back into the room and in +due course the crowd slowly dissolved. At ten o’clock he was standing in +the door of the <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_422'></a>422</span>Vanderbilt House looking at his watch, ready to turn +in for the night. Suddenly he remembered the Captain. He hurried around to the +Hot Dog, and there peering into the darkness of the vacant lot saw the Captain +with his gun on his shoulder pacing back and forth, a silent, faithful sentry, +unrelieved from duty.</p> + +<p>When Grant had relieved him and told him that the trouble was over, the +little old man looked up with his snappy eyes and his dried, weazened smile and +said: “’Y gory, man–I’m glad you come. I was just a-thinking I +bet them girls of mine haven’t cooked any potatoes to go with the meat to +make hash for breakfast–eh? and I’m strong for hash.”</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_423'></a>423</span><a id='link_37'></a>CHAPTER XXXVII<br /><span class='h2fs'>IN WHICH WE WITNESS A CEREMONY IN THE TEMPLE OF LOVE</span></h2> + +<p>George Brotherton took the Captain to the street car that night. They rode +face to face and all that the Captain had seen and more, outside the Vanderbilt +House, and all that George Brotherton had seen within its portals, a street car +load of Harvey people heard with much “’Y gorying” and +“Well–saying,” as the car rattled through the fields and into +Market Street. Amiable satisfaction with the night’s work beamed in the +moon-face of Mr. Brotherton and the Captain was drunk with martial spirit. He +shouldered his gun and marched down the full length of the car and off, dragging +Brotherton at his chariot wheels like a spoil of battle.</p> + +<p>“Come on, George,” called the Captain as the audience in the car +smiled. “Young man, I need you to tell the girls that their pa ain’t +gone stark, staring mad–eh? And I want to show ’em a +hero!–What say? A genuine hee-ro!”</p> + +<p>It was half an hour after the Captain bursting upon his hearthstone like a +martial sky rocket, had exploded the last of his blue and green candles. The +three girls, sitting around the cold base burner, beside and above which Mr. +Brotherton stood in statuesque repose, heard the Captain’s tale and the +protests of Mr. Brotherton much as Desdemona heard of Othello’s perils. +And when the story was finished and retold and refinished and the Captain was +rising with what the girls called the hash-look in his snappy little eyes, +Martha saw Ruth swallow a vast yawn and Martha turned to Emma an appreciative +smile at Ruth’s discomfiture.</p> + +<p>But Emma’s eyes were fixed upon Mr. Brotherton and her face turned +toward him with an aspect of tender adoration. Mr. Brotherton, who was not +without appreciation of his own heroic caste, saw the yawn and the smile and +then he saw the face of Emma Morton.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_424'></a>424</span>It came over him +in a flash of surprise that Ruth and Martha were young things, not of his world; +and that Emma was of his world and very much for him in his world. It got to him +through the busy guard of his outer consciousness with a great rush of +tenderness that Emma really cared for the dangers he had faced and was proud of +the part he had played. And Mr. Brotherton knew that, with Ruth and Martha, it +was a tale that was told.</p> + +<p>As he saw her standing among her sisters, his heart hid from him the little +school teacher with crow’s feet at her eyes, but revealed instead the +glowing heart of an exalted woman, who did not realize that she was uncovering +her love, a woman who in the story she had heard was living for a moment in high +romance. Her beloved, imperiled, was restored to her; the lost was found and the +journey which ends so happily in lovers’ meetings was closing.</p> + +<p>His eyes filled and his voice needed a cough to prime it. The fire, glowing +in Emma Morton’s eyes, steamed up George Brotherton’s will–the +will which had sent him crashing forward in life from a train peddler to a +purveyor of literature and the arts in Harvey. Deeds followed impulses with him +swiftly, so in an instant the floor of the Morton cottage was shaking under his +tread and with rash indifference, high and heroic, ignoring with equal disdain +two tittering girls, an astonished little old man and a cold base burner, the +big man stalked across the room and cried:</p> + +<p>“Well, say–why, Emma–my dear!” He had her hands in +his and was putting his arm about her as he bellowed: “Girls–” +his voice broke under its heavy emotional load. “Why, dammit all, +I’m your long-lost brother George! Cap, kick me, kick me–me the +prize jackass–the grand sweepstake prize all these years!”</p> + +<p>“No, no, George,” protested the wriggling maiden. +“Not–not here! Not–”</p> + +<p>“Don’t you ‘no–no’ me, Emmy Morton,” roared the +big man, pulling her to his side. “Girl–girl, what do we +care?” He gave her a resounding kiss and gazed proudly around and +exclaimed, “Ruthie, run and call up the <i>Times</i> and give ’em the +news. Martha, call up old man Adams–and I’ll take a bell to-morrow +and go calling it up and down <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_425'></a>425</span> Market Street. Then, Cap, you tell Mrs. Herdicker. +This is the big news.” As he spoke he was gathering the amazed Ruth and +Martha under his wing and kissing them, crying, “Take that one for +luck–and that to grow on.” Then he let out his laugh. But in vain +did Emma Morton try to squirm from his grasp; in vain she tried to quiet his +clatter. “Say, girls, cluster around Brother George’s knee–or +knees–and let’s plan the wedding.”</p> + +<p>“You are going to have a wedding, aren’t you, Emma?” burst +in Ruth, and George cut in:</p> + +<p>“Wedding–why, this is to be the big show–the laughing show, +all the wonders of the world and marvels of the deep under one canvas. Why, +girls–”</p> + +<p>“Well, Emma, you’ve just got to wear a veil,” laughed +Martha hysterically.</p> + +<p>“Veil nothing–shame on you, Martha Morton. Why, George +hasn’t asked–”</p> + +<p>“Now ain’t it the truth!” roared Brotherton. “Why +veil! Veil?” he exclaimed. “She’s going to wear seven veils +and forty flower girls–forty–count ’em–forty! And Morty +Sands best man–”</p> + +<p>“Keep still, George,” interrupted Ruth. “Now, Emma, +when–when, I say, are you going to resign your school?”</p> + +<p>Mr. Brotherton gave the youngest and most practical Miss Morton a look of +quick intelligence. “Don’t you fret; Ruthie, I’m hog tied by +the silken skein of love. She’s going to resign her school +to-morrow.”</p> + +<p>“Indeed I am not, George Brotherton–and if you people don’t +hush–”</p> + +<p>But Mr. Brotherton interrupted the bride-to-be, incidentally kissing her by +way of punctuation, and boomed on in his poster tone, “Morty Sands best +man with his gym class from South Harvey doing ground and lofty tumbling up and +down the aisles in pink tights. Doc Jim in linen pants whistling the Wedding +March to Kenyon Adams’s violin obligato, with the General hitting the +bones at the organ! The greatest show on earth and the baby elephant in evening +clothes prancing down the aisle like the behemoth of holy writ! Well, +say–say, I tell you!”</p> + +<p>The Captain touched the big man on the shoulder apologetically. <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_426'></a>426</span>“George, of course, +if you could wait a year till the Household Horse gets going good, I could stake +you for a trip to the Grand Canyon myself, but just now, ’y gory, +man!”</p> + +<p>“Grand Canyon!” laughed Brotherton. “Why, Cap, we’re +going to go seven times around the world and twice to the moon before we turn up +in Harvey. Grand Canyon–”</p> + +<p>“Well, at least, father,” cried Martha, “we’ll get +her that tan traveling dress and hat she’s always wanted.”</p> + +<p>“But I tell you girls to keep still,” protested the bride-to-be, +still in the prospective groom’s arms and proud as Punch of her position. +“Why, George hasn’t even asked me and–”</p> + +<p>“Neither have you asked me, Emma, ’’eathen idol made of mud what +she called the Great God Buhd.’” He stooped over tenderly and when +his face rose, he said softly, “And a plucky lot she cared for tan +traveling dresses when I kissed her where she stud!” And then and there +before the Morton family assembled, he kissed his sweetheart again, a +middle-aged man unashamed in his joy.</p> + +<p>It was a tremendous event in the Morton family and the Captain felt his +responsibility heavily. The excited girls, half-shocked and half-amused and +wholly delighted, tried to lead the Captain away and leave the lovers alone +after George had hugged them all around and kissed them again for luck. But the +Captain refused to be led. He had many things to say. He had to impress upon Mr. +Brotherton, now that he was about to enter the family, the great fact that the +Mortons were about to come into riches. Hence a dissertation on the Household +Horse and its growing popularity among makers of automobiles; Nate Perry’s +plans in blue print for the new factory were brought in, and a wilderness of +detail spread before an ardent lover, keen for his first hour alone with the +woman who had touched his bachelor heart. A hundred speeches came to his lips +and dissolved–first formal and ardent love vows–while the Captain +rattled on recounting familiar details of his dream.</p> + +<p>Then Ruth and Martha rose in their might and literally dragged their father +from the room and upstairs. Half an <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_427'></a>427</span>hour later the two lovers in the doorway heard a +stir in the house behind them. They heard the Captain cry:</p> + +<p>“The hash–George, she’s the best girl–’Y gory, the +best girl in the world. But she will forget to chop the hash over +night!”</p> + +<p>As George Brotherton, bumping his head upon the eternal stars, turned into +the street, he saw the great black hulk of the Van Dorn house among the trees. +He smiled as he wondered how the ceremonies were proceeding in the Temple of +Love that night.</p> + +<p>It was not a ceremony fit for smiles, but rather for the tears of gods and +men, that the priest and priestess had performed. Margaret Van Dorn had taken +Kenyon home, then dropped Lila at the Nesbit door as she returned from South +Harvey. When she found that her husband had not reached home, she ran to her +room to fortify herself for the meeting with him. And she found her +fortifications in the farthest corner of the bottom drawer of her dresser. From +its hiding place she brought forth a little black box and from the box a brown +pellet. This fortification had been her refuge for over a year when the stress +of life in the Temple of Love was about to overcome her. It gave her courage, +quickened her wits and loosened her tongue. Always she retired to her fortress +when the combat in the Temple threatened to strain her nerves. So she had worn a +beaten path of habit to her refuge.</p> + +<p>Then she made herself presentable; took care of her hair, smoothed her face +at the mirror and behind the shield of the drug she waited. She heard the old +car rattling up the street, and braced herself for the struggle. She +knew–she had learned by bitter experience that the first blow in a rough +and tumble was half the battle. As he came raging through the door, slamming it +behind him, she faced him, and before he could speak, she sneered:</p> + +<p>“Ah, you coward–you sneaking, cur coward–who would murder a +child to win–Ach!” she cried. “You are loathsome–get +away from me!”</p> + +<p>The furious man rushed toward her with his hands clinched. She stood with her +arms akimbo and said slowly:</p> + +<p>“You try that–just try that.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_428'></a>428</span>He stopped. She +came over and rubbed her body against his, purring, with a pause after each +word:</p> + +<p>“You are a coward–aren’t you?”</p> + +<p>She put her fingers under his jaw, and sneered, “If ever you lay hands +on me–just one finger on me, Tom Van Dorn–” She did not finish +her sentence.</p> + +<p>The man uttered a shrill, insane cry of fury and whirled and would have run, +but she caught him, and with a gross physical power, that he knew and dreaded, +she swung him by force into a chair.</p> + +<p>“Now,” she panted, “sit down like a man and tell me what +you are going to do about it? Look up–dawling!” she cried, as Van +Dorn slumped in the chair.</p> + +<p>The man gave her a look of hate. His eyes, that showed his soul, burned with +rage and from his face, so mobile and expressive, a devil of malice gaped +impotently at his wife, as he sat, a heap of weak vanity, before her. He pulled +himself up and exclaimed:</p> + +<p>“Well, there’s one thing damn sure, I’ll not live with you +any more–no man would respect me if I did after to-night.”</p> + +<p>“And no man,” she smiled and said in her mocking voice, +“will respect you if you leave me. How Laura’s friends will laugh +when you go, and say that Tom Van Dorn simply can’t live with any one. How +the Nesbit crowd will titter when you leave me, and say Tom Van Dorn got just +what he had coming! Why–go on–leave me–if you dare! You know +you don’t dare to. It’s for better or worse, Tom, until death do us +part–dawling!”</p> + +<p>She laughed and winked indecently at him.</p> + +<p>“I will leave you, I tell you, I will leave you,” he burst forth, +half rising. “All the devils of hell can’t keep me here.”</p> + +<p>“Except just this one,” she mocked. “Oh, you might leave me +and go with your present mistress! By the way, who is our latest +conquest–dawling? I’m sure that would be fine. Wouldn’t they +cackle–the dear old hens whose claws scratch your heart so every +day?” She leaned over, caressing him devilishly, and cried, “For you +know when you get loose from me, you’ll pretty nearly have to marry the +other <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_429'></a>429</span>lady–wouldn’t that be nice? ‘Through +sickness and health, for good or for ill,’–isn’t it +nice?” she scoffed. Then she turned on him savagely, “So you will +try to hide behind a child, and use him for a shield–Oh, you cur–you +despicable dog,” she scorned. Then she drew herself up and spoke in a +passion that all but hissed at him. “I tell you, Tom Van Dorn, if you +ever, in this row that’s coming, harm a hair of that boy’s +head–you’ll carry the scar of that hair to your grave. I mean +it.”</p> + +<p>Van Dorn sprang up. He cried: “What business is it of yours? You she +devil, what’s the boy to you? Can’t I run my own business? Why do +you care so much for the Adams brat? Answer me, I tell you–answer +me,” he cried, his wrath filling his voice.</p> + +<p>“Oh, nothing, dawling,” she made a wicked, obscene eye at him, +and simpered: “Oh, nothing, Tom–only you see I might be his +mother!”</p> + +<p>She played with the vulgar diamonds that hid her fingers and looked down +coyly as she smiled into his gray face.</p> + +<p>“Great God,” he whispered, “were you born a–” +he stopped, ashamed of the word in his mouth.</p> + +<p>The woman kept twinkling her indecent eyes at him and put her head on one +side as she replied: “Whatever I am, I’m the wife of Judge Van Dorn; +so I’m quite respectable now–whatever I was once. Isn’t that +lawvly, dawling!” She began talking in her baby manner.</p> + +<p>Her husband was staring at her with doubt and fear and weak, footless wrath +playing like scurrying clouds across his proud, shamed face.</p> + +<p>“Oh, Margaret, tell me the truth,” he moaned, as the fear of the +truth baffled him–a thousand little incidents that had attracted his +notice and passed to be stirred up by a puzzled consciousness came rushing into +his memory–and the doubt and dread overcame even his hate for a moment and +he begged. But she laughed, and scouted the idea and then called out in +anguish:</p> + +<p>“Why–why have you a child to love–to love and live for even +if you cannot be with her–why can I have none?”</p> + +<p>Her voice had broken and she felt she was losing her grip <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_430'></a>430</span>on herself, and she knew +that her time was limited, that her fortifications were about to crumble. She +sat down before her husband.</p> + +<p>“Tom,” she said coldly, “no matter why I’m fond of +Kenyon Adams–that’s my business; Lila is your business, and I +don’t interfere, do I? Well,” she said, looking the man in the eyes +with a hard, mean, significant stare, “you let the boy alone–do you +understand? Do what you please with Grant or Jasper or the old man; but +Kenyon–hands off!”</p> + +<p>She rose, slipped quickly to the stairway, and as she ran up she called, +“Good night, dawling.” Before he was on his feet he heard the lock +click in her door, and with a horrible doubt, an impotent rage, and a mantling +shame stifling him, he went upstairs and from her distant room she heard the +bolt click in the door of his room. And behind the bolted doors stood two +ghosts–the ghosts of rejected children, calling across the years, while +the smudge of the extinguished torch of life choked two angry hearts.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_431'></a>431</span><a id='link_38'></a>CHAPTER XXXVIII<br /><span class='h2fs'>GRANT ADAMS VISITS THE SONS OF ESAU</span></h2> + +<p>“My dear,” quoth the Doctor to his daughter as he sat poking his +feet with his cane in her little office at the Kindergarten, after they had +discussed Lila’s adventure of the night before, “I saw Tom up town +this morning and he didn’t seem to be exactly happy. I says, ‘Tom, I hear +you beat God at his own game last night!’ and,” the Doctor chuckled, +“Laura, do you know, he wouldn’t speak to me!” As he laughed, +the daughter interrupted:</p> + +<p>“Why, father–that was mean–”</p> + +<p>“Of course it was mean. Why–considering everything, I’d +lick a man if he’d talk that mean to me. But my Eenjiany devil kind of got +control of my forbearing Christian spirit and I cut loose.”</p> + +<p>The daughter smiled, then she sighed, and asked: “Father–tell me, +why did that woman object to Tom’s use of Kenyon in the riot last +night?”</p> + +<p>Doctor Nesbit opened his mouth as if to answer her. Then he smiled and said, +“Don’t ask me, child. She’s a bad egg!”</p> + +<p>“Lila says,” continued the daughter, “that Margaret appears +at every public place where Kenyon plays. She seems eager to talk to him about +his accomplishments, and has a sort of fascinated interest in whatever he does, +as nearly as I can understand it? Why, father? What do you suppose it is? I +asked Grant, who was here this morning with a Croatian baby whose mother is in +the glass works, and Grant only shook his head.” The father looked at his +daughter over his glasses and asked:</p> + +<p>“Croatians, eh? That’s what the new colony is down in Magnus. +Well, we’ve got Letts and Lithuanians and why <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_432'></a>432</span>not Croatians? What a mix we have here +in the Valley! I wouldn’t wash ’em for ’em!”</p> + +<p>“Well, father, I would. And when you get the dirt off they’re +mostly just folks–just Indiany, as you call it. They all take my flower +seeds. And they all love bright colors in their windows. And they are spreading +the glow of blooms across the district, just as well as the Germans and the +French and the Belgians and the Irish. And they are here for exactly the same +thing which we are here for, father. We’re all in the same +game.”</p> + +<p>He looked at her blankly, and ventured, “Money?”</p> + +<p>“No–you stupid. You know better. It’s children. +They’re here for their children–to lift their children out of +poverty. It’s the children who carry the banner of civilization, the hope +of progress, the real sunrise. These people are all confused and more or less +dumb and loggy about everything else in life but this one thing; they all hope +greatly for their children. For their children they joyfully endure the +hardships of poverty; the injustice of it; to live here in these conditions that +seem to us awful, and to work terrible hours that their children may rise out of +the worse condition that they left in Europe. And they have left Europe, father, +spiritually as well as physically. Here they are reborn into America. The first +generation may seem foreign, may hold foreign ways–on the outside. But +these American born boys and girls, they are American–as much as we are, +with all their foreign names. They are of our spirit. When America calls they +will hear and follow. Whatever blood they will shed will be real American blood, +because as children, born under the same aspiring genius for freedom under which +we were born, as children they became Americans. Oh, father, it’s for the +children that these people here in Harvey–these exploited people +everywhere in this country,–plant the flowers and brighten up their homes. +It’s for their children that they are going with Grant to organize for +better things. The fire of life runs ahead of us in hope for our children, and +if we haven’t children or the love of them in our hearts–why, +father, that’s what’s eating Tom’s heart out, and blasting +this miserable woman’s life! Grant said to-day: ‘This baby here symbolizes +all <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_433'></a>433</span>that I stand +for, all that I hope to do, all that the race dreams!”</p> + +<p>The Doctor had lighted his pipe, and was puffing meditatively. He liked to +hear his daughter talk. He took little stock in what she said. But when she +asked him for help–he gave it to her unstinted, but often with a large, +tolerant disbelief in the wisdom of her request. As she paused he turned to her +quickly, “Laura–tell me, what do you make out of Grant?”</p> + +<p>He eyed her sharply as she replied: “Father, Grant is a lonely soul +without chick or child, and I’m sorry for him. He goes–”</p> + +<p>“Well, now, Laura,” piped the little man, “don’t be +too sorry. Sorrow is a dangerous emotion.”</p> + +<p>The daughter turned her face to her father frankly and said: “I realize +that, father. Don’t concern yourself about that. But I see Grant some way, +eating the locusts and wild honey in the wilderness, calling out to a +stiff-necked generation to repent. His eyes are focussed on to-morrow. He +expects an immediate millennium. But he is at least looking forward, not back. +And the world back of us is so full of change, that I am sure the world before +us also must be full of change, and maybe sometime we shall arrive at +Grant’s goal. He’s not working for himself, either in fame or in +power, or in any personal thing. He’s just following the light as it is +given him to see it, here among the poor.”</p> + +<p>The daughter lifted a face full of enthusiasm to her father. He puffed in +silence. “Well, my dear, that’s a fine speech. But when I asked you +about Grant I was rising to a sort of question of personal privilege. I thought +perhaps I would mix around at his meeting to-night! If you think I should, just +kind of stand around to give him countenance–and,” he chuckled and +squeaked: “To bundle up a few votes!”</p> + +<p>“Do, father–do–you must!”</p> + +<p>“Well,” squeaked the little voice, “so long as I must +I’m glad to know that Tom made it easy for me, by turning all of Harvey +and the Valley over to Grant at the riot last night. Why, if Tom tried to stop +Grant’s meeting to-night Market Street itself would mob Tom–mob the +very Temple of Love.” The Doctor chuckled and returned to his own <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_434'></a>434</span>affairs. “Being on +the winning side isn’t really important. But it’s like carrying a +potato in your pocket for rheumatism: it gives a feller confidence. And after +all, the devil’s rich and God’s poor have all got votes. And votes +count!” He grinned and revived his pipe.</p> + +<p>He was about to speak again when Laura interrupted him, “Oh, +father–they’re not God’s poor, whose ever they are. +Don’t say that. They’re Daniel Sands’s poor, and the Smelter +Trust’s poor, and the Coal Trust’s poor, and the Glass and Cement +and Steel company’s poor. I’ve learned that down here. Why, if the +employers would only treat the workers as fairly as they treat the machines, +keeping them fit, and modern and bright, God would have no poor!”</p> + +<p>The Doctor rose and stretched and smiled indulgently at his daughter. +“Heigh-ho the green holly,” he droned. “Well, have it your +way. God’s poor or Dan’s poor, they’re my votes, if I can get +’em. So we’ll come to the meeting to-night and blow a few mouthfuls +on the fires of revolution, for the good of the order!”</p> + +<p>He would have gone, but his daughter begged him to stay and dine with her in +South Harvey, before they went to the meeting. So for an hour the Doctor sat in +his daughter’s office by the window, sometimes giving attention to the +drab flood of humanity passing along the street as the shifts changed for +evening in the mines and smelters, and then listening to the day’s +stragglers who came and went through his daughter’s office: A father for +medicine for a child, a mother for advice, a breaker boy for a book, a little +girl from the glass works for a bright bit of sewing upon which she was working, +a woman from Violet Hogan’s room with a heartbreak in her problem, a group +of women from little Italy with a complaint about a disorderly neighbor in their +tenement, a cripple from the mines to talk over his career, whether it should be +pencils or shoe strings, or a hand organ, or some attempt at handicraft; the +head of a local labor union paying some pittance to Laura, voted by the men to +help her with her work; a shy foreign woman with a badly spelled note from her +neighbor, asking for flower seeds and directions translated by Laura into the +woman’s own language telling how to plant the seeds; a belated working +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_435'></a>435</span>mother calling for +the last little tot in the nursery and explaining her delay. Laura heard them +all and so far as she could, she served them all. The Doctor was vastly proud of +the effective way in which she dispatched her work.</p> + +<p>It was six o’clock, but the summer sun still was high and the traffic +in the street was thick. For a time, while a woman with a child with shriveled +legs was talking to Laura about the child’s education, the Doctor sat +gazing into the street. When the room was empty, he exclaimed, “It’s +a long weary way from the sunshine and prairie grass, child! How it all has +changed with the years! Ten years ago I knew ’em all, the men and the +employers. Now they are all newcomers–men and masters. Why, I don’t +even know their nationalities; I don’t even know what part of the earth +they come from. And such sad-faced droves of them; so many little scamps, +underfed, badly housed for generations. The big, strapping Irish and Germans and +Scotch and the wide-chested little Welshmen, and the agile French–how few +of them there are compared with this slow-moving horde of runts from God knows +where! It’s been a long time since I’ve been down here to see a +shift change, Laura. Lord–Lord have mercy on these people–for no one +else seems to care!”</p> + +<p>“Amen, and Amen, father,” answered the daughter. “These are +the people that Grant is trying to stir to consciousness. These are the people +who–”</p> + +<p>“Well, yes,” he turned a sardonic look upon his daughter, +“they’re the boys who voted against me the last time because Tom and +Dan hired a man in every precinct to spread the story that I was a teetotaler, +and that your mother gave a party on Good Friday–and all because Tom and +Dan were mad at me for pushing that workingmen’s compensation bill! But +now I look at ’em–I don’t blame ’em! What do they know +about workingmen’s compensation!” The Doctor stopped and chuckled; +then he burst out: “I tell you, Laura, when a man gets enough sense to +stand by his friends–he no longer needs friends. When these people get +wise enough not to be fooled by Tom and old Dan, they won’t need Grant! In +the meantime–just look at ’em–look at ’em paying twice +as much for rent as they pay up town: <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_436'></a>436</span>gouged at the company stores down here for their +food and clothing; held up by loan sharks when they borrow money; doped with +aloes in their beer, and fusil oil in their whiskey, wrapped up in shoddy +clothes and paper shoes, having their pockets picked by weighing frauds at the +mines, and their bodies mashed in speed-up devices in the mills; stabled in +filthy shacks without water or sewers or electricity which we uptown people +demand and get for the same money that they pay for these hog-pens–why, +hell’s afire and the cows are out–Laura! by Godfrey’s +diamonds, if I lived down here I’d get me some frisky dynamite and blow +the whole place into kindling.” He sat blinking his indignation; then +began to smile. “Instead of which,” he squeaked, “I shall +endeavor by my winning ways to get their votes.” He waved a gay hand and +added, “And with God be the rest!”</p> + +<p>Towering above a group of workers from the South of Europe–a delegation +from the new wire mill in Plain Valley, Grant Adams came swinging down the +street, a Gulliver among his Lilliputians. Although it was not even twilight, it +was evident to the Doctor that something more than the changing shifts in the +mills was thickening the crowds in the street. Little groups were forming at the +corners, good-natured groups who seemed to know that they were not to be +molested. And the Doctor at his window watched Grant passing group after group, +receiving its unconscious homage; just a look, or a waving hand, or an +affectionate, half-abashed little cheer, or the turning of a group of heads all +one way to catch Grant’s eyes as he passed.</p> + +<p>At the Captain’s vacant lot, Grant rose before a cheering throng that +filled the lot, and overflowed the sidewalk and crowded far down the street. Two +flickering torches flared at his head. An electric in front of the Hot Dog and a +big arc-light over the door of the smelter lighted the upturned faces of the +multitude. When the crowd had ceased cheering, Grant, looking into as many eyes +of his hearers as he could catch, began:</p> + +<p>“I have come to talk to Esau–the disinherited–to Esau who +has forfeited his birthright. I am here to speak to those who are toiling in the +world’s rough work unrequited–I am here, one of the poor to talk to +the poor.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_437'></a>437</span>His voice held +back so much of his strength, his gaunt, awkward figure under the uncertain +torches, his wide, impassioned gestures, with the carpenter’s nail claw +always before his hearers, made him a strange kind of specter in the night. Yet +the simplicity of his manner and the directness of his appeal went to the hearts +of his hearers. The first part of his message was one of peace. He told the +workers that every inch they gained they lost when they tried to overcome +cunning with force. “The dynamiter tears the ground from under +labor–not from under capital; he strengthens capital,” said Grant. +“Every time I hear of a bomb exploding in a strike, or of a scab being +killed I think of the long, hard march back that organized labor must make to +retrieve its lost ground. And then,” he cried passionately, and the mad +fanatic glare lighted his face, “my soul revolts at the iniquity of those +who, by craft and cunning while we work, teach us the false doctrine of the +strength of force, and then when we use what they have taught us, point us out +in scorn as lawbreakers. Whether they pay cash to the man who touched the fuse +or fired the gun or whether they merely taught us to use bombs and guns by the +example of their own lawlessness, theirs is the sin, and ours the punishment. +Esau still has lost his birthright–still is disinherited.”</p> + +<p>He spoke for a time upon the aims of organization, and set forth the doctrine +of class solidarity. He told labor that in its ranks altruism, neighborly +kindness that is the surest basis of progress, has a thousand disintegrated +expressions. “The kindness of the poor to the poor, if expressed in terms +of money, would pay the National debt over night,” he said, and, letting +out his voice, and releasing his strength, he begged the men and women who work +and sweat at their work to give that altruism some form and direction, to put it +into harness–to form it into ranks, drilled for usefulness. Then he spoke +of the day when class consciousness would not be needed, when the unions would +have served their mission, when the class wrong that makes the class suffering +and thus marks the class line, would disappear just as they have disappeared in +the classes that have risen during the last two centuries.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_438'></a>438</span>“Oh, +Esau,” he cried in the voice that men called insane because of its +intensity, “your birthright is not gone. It lies in your own heart. +Quicken your heart with love–and no matter what you have lost, nor what +you have mourned in despair, in so much as you love shall it all be restored to +you.”</p> + +<p>They did not cheer as he talked. But they stood leaning forward intently +listening. Some of his hearers had expected to hear class hatred preached. +Others were expecting to hear the man lash his enemies and many had assumed that +he would denounce those who had committed the mistakes of the night before. +Instead of giving his hearers these things, he preached a gospel of peace and +love and hope. His hearers did not understand that the maimed, lean, red-faced +man before them was dipping deeply into their souls and that they were +considering many things which they had not questioned before.</p> + +<p>When he plunged into the practical part of his speech, an explanation of the +allied unions of the Valley, he told in detail something of the ten years’ +struggle to bring all the unions together under one industrial council in the +Wahoo Valley, and listed something of the strength of the organization. He +declared that the time had come for the organization to make a public fight for +recognition; that organization in secret and under cover was no longer +honorable. “The employers are frankly and publicly allied,” said +Grant. “They have their meetings to talk over matters of common interest. +Why should not the unions do the same thing? The smelter men, the teamsters, the +miners, the carpenters, the steel workers, the painters, the glass workers, the +printers–all the organized men and women in this district have the same +common interests that their employers have, and we should in no wise be ashamed +of our organization. This meeting is held to proclaim our pride in the common +ground upon which organized labor stands with organized capital in the Wahoo +Valley.”</p> + +<p>He called the rolls of the unions in the trades council and for an hour men +stood and responded and reported conditions among workers in their respective +trades. It was an impressive roll call. After their organization had been +completed, <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_439'></a>439</span>a great +roar of pride rose and Grant Adams threw out his steel claw and leaning forward +cried:</p> + +<p>“We have come to bring brotherhood into this earth. For in the union +every man sacrifices something to the common good; mutual help means mutual +sacrifice, and self-denial is brotherly love. Fraternity and democracy are +synonymous. We must rise together by self-help. I know how easy it is for the +rich man to become poor. I know that often the poor man becomes rich. But when +Esau throws off the yoke of Jacob, when the poor shall rise and come into their +own, the rise shall not be as individuals, but as a class. The glass workers are +better paid than the teamsters; but their interests are common, and the better +paid workers cannot rise except their poorly paid fellow workmen rise with them. +It is a class problem and it must have a class solution.”</p> + +<p>Grant Adams stood staring at the crowd. Then he spread out his two gaunt arms +and closed his eyes and cried: “Oh, Esau, Esau, you were faint and hungry +in that elder day when you drank the red pottage and sold your birthright. But +did you know when you bartered it away, that in that bargain went your +children’s souls? Down here in the Valley, five babies die in infancy +where one dies up there on the hill. Ninety per cent. of the boys in jail come +from the homes in the Valley and ten per cent. from the homes on the hill. And +the girls who go out in the night, never to come home–poor girls always. +Crime and shame and death were in that red pottage, and its bitterness still +burns our hearts. And why–why in the name of our loving Christ who knew +the wicked bargain Jacob made–why is our birthright gone? Why does Esau +still serve his brother unrequited?” Then he opened his eyes and cried +stridently–“I’ll tell you why. The poor are poor because the +rich are rich. We have been working a decade and a half in this Valley, and +profits, not new capital, have developed it. Profits that should have been +divided with labor in wages have gone to buy new machines–miles and miles +of new machines have come here, bought and paid for with the money that labor +earned, and because we have not the machines which our labor has bought, we are +poor–we <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_440'></a>440</span>are +working long hours amid squalor surrounded with death and crime and shame. Oh, +Esau, Esau, what a pottage it was that you drank in the elder day! Oh, Jacob, +Jacob, wrestle, wrestle with thy conscience; wrestle with thy accusing Lord; +wrestle, Jacob, wrestle, for the day is breaking and we will not let thee go! +How long, O Lord, how long will you hold us to that cruel bargain!”</p> + +<p>He paused as one looking for an answer–hesitant, eager, expectant. Then +he drew a long breath, turned slowly and sadly and walked away.</p> + +<p>No cheer followed him. The crowd was stirred too deeply for cheers. But the +seed he had sown quickened in a thousand hearts even if in some hearts it fell +among thorns, even if in some it fell upon stony ground. The sower had gone +forth to sow.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_441'></a>441</span><a id='link_39'></a>CHAPTER XXXIX<br /><span class='h2fs'>BEING NO CHAPTER AT ALL BUT AN INTERMEZZO BEFORE THE LAST MOVEMENT</span></h2> + +<p>The stage is dark. In the dim distance something is moving. It is a world +hurrying through space. Somewhat in the foreground but enveloped in the murk sit +three figures. They are tending a vast loom. Its myriad threads run through +illimitable space and the woof of the loom is time. The three figures weaving +through the dark do not know whence comes the power that moves the loom +eternally. They have not asked. They work in the pitch of night.</p> + +<p>From afar in the earth comes a voice–high-keyed and gentle:</p> + +<p><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>A Voice</span>, <i>pianissimo</i>:</p> + +<p>“This business of governing a sovereign people is losing its savor. I +must be getting some kind of spiritual necrosis. Generally speaking, about all +the real pleasure a grand llama of politics finds in life, is in counting his +ingrates–his governors and senators and congressmen! Why, George, +it’s been nearly ten years since I’ve cussed out a senator or a +governor, yet I read Browning with joy and the last time I heard +Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, I went stark mad. But woe is me, George! Woe +is me. When the Judge and Dan Sands named the postmaster last month without +consulting me, I didn’t care. I tell you, George, I must be getting +old!”</p> + +<p><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Second Voice</span>, +<i>fortissimo</i>:</p> + +<p>“No, Doc–you’re not getting old–why, you’re not +sixty–a mere spring chicken yet–and Dan Sands is seventy-five if +he’s a day. What’s the matter with you in this here Zeitgeist that +Carlyle talks about! It’s this restless little time spirit that’s +the matter with you. You’re all broke <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_442'></a>442</span>out and sick abed with the Zeitgeist. You’ve +got no more necrosis than a Belgian hare’s got paresis–I’m +right here to tell you and my diagnosis goes.”</p> + +<p><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Third Voice</span>, <i>adagio</i>:</p> + +<p>“James, my guides say that we’re beginning a great movement from +the few to the many. That is their expression. Cromwell thinks it means economic +changes; but I was talking with Jefferson the other night and he says +no–it means political changes in order to get economic. He says Tilden +tells him–”</p> + +<p><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The Second Voice</span>, +<i>fortissimo</i>:</p> + +<p>“Who cares what Tilden says! My noodle tells me that there’s to +be a big do in this world, and my control tinkles the cash register, pops into +the profit account, eats up ten cent magazines, and gets away with five feet of +literary dynamite fuse every week. I’m that old Commodore Noah +that’s telling you to get out your rubbers for the flood.”</p> + +<p><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The First Voice</span>, <i>andante con +expression</i>:</p> + +<p>“It’s a queer world–a mighty queer world. Here’s +Laura’s kindergarten growing until it joins with Violet Hogan’s day +nursery and Laura’s flower seeds splashing color out of God’s +sunshine in front yards clear down to Plain Valley. Money coming in about as +they need it. Dan Sands and Morty, Wright and Perry and the Dago saloon keeper, +Joe Calvin, John Dexter and the gamblers–all the robbers, high and low, +dividing their booty. With all the prosperity we are having, with all the +opening of mills and factories–it’s getting easier to make money and +consequently harder to respect it. The more money there is, the less it buys, +and that is true in public sentiment just as it is in groceries and furniture. +Do you fellows realize that it’s been ten years since the <i>Times</i> has +run any of those ‘Pen Portraits of Self-Made Men’?” A silence, then +the voice continues:</p> + +<p>“George, I honestly believe, if money keeps getting crowded farther and +farther into the background of life–we’ll develop an honest +politician. We know that to give a bribe is just as bad as to take one. Think of +the men debauched with money disguised as campaign expenses, or with offices or +with franks and passes and pull and power! Think of all the bad government +fostered, all the injustices legalized, <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_443'></a>443</span>just to win a sordid game! The best I can do now is +to cry, ‘Lord have mercy on me, a sinner! The harlot and the thief are my +betters.’”</p> + +<p>The <i>voices</i> cease. The earth whirls on. The brooding spirits at the loom +muse in silence, for they need no voices.</p> + +<p><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The First Fate</span>: “The +birds! The birds! I seemed to hear the night birds twittering to bring in the +dawn.”</p> + +<p><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The Second Fate</span>: “The +birds do not bring in the dawn. The dawn comes.”</p> + +<p><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The First Fate</span>: “But +always and always before the day, we hear these voices.”</p> + +<p><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The Third Fate</span>: “World +after world threads its time through our loom. We watch the pattern grow. Days +and eras and ages pass. We know nothing of meanings. We only weave. We know that +the pattern brightens as new days come and always voices in the dark tell us of +the changing pattern of a new day.”</p> + +<p><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The First Fate</span>: “But the +birds–the birds! I seem to hear the night birds’ voices that make +the dawn.”</p> + +<p><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The Second Fate</span>: “They are +not birds calling, but the whistle of shot and shell and the shrill, far cries +of man in air. But still I say the dawn comes, the voices do not bring +it.”</p> + +<p><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The Third Fate</span>: “We do not +know how the awakening voices in the dark know that the light is coming. We do +not know what power moves the loom. We do not know who dreams the pattern. We +only weave and muse and listen for the voices of change as a world threads its +events through the woof of time on our loom.”</p> + +<hr style='border:none; border-bottom:1px solid silver; height: 1px; width: 80%; text-align: center; margin: 10px auto;' /> + +<p>The stage is dark. The weavers weave time into circumstances and in the +blackness the world moves on. Slowly it grays. A thousand voices rise. Then +circumstance begins to run brightly on the loom, and a million voices join in +the din of the dawn. The loom goes. The weavers fade. The light in the world +pales the thread of time and the whirl of the earth no longer is seen. But +instead we see only a town. Half of it shines in the morning sun–half of +it hides in the smoke. In the sun on the street is a man.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_444'></a>444</span><a id='link_40'></a>CHAPTER XL<br /><span class='h2fs'>HERE WE HAVE THE FELLOW AND THE GIRL BEGINNING TO PREPARE FOR THE LAST CHAPTER</span></h2> + +<p>A tall, spare, middle-aged person was Thomas Van Dorn in the latter years of +the first decade of the twentieth century; tall and spare and tight-skinned. The +youthful olive texture of the skin was worn off and had been replaced by a +leathery finish–rather reddish brown in color. The slight squint of his +eyes was due somewhat to the little puffs under them, and a suspicious, crafty +air had grown into the full orbs, which once glowed with emotion, when the +younger man mounted in his oratorical flights. His hands were gloved to match +his exactly formal clothes, and his hat–a top-hat when Judge Van Dorn was +in the East, and a sawed-off compromise with the local prejudice against +top-hats when he was in Harvey–was always in the latest mode. Often the +hat was made to match his clothes. He had become rigorous in his taste in +neckties and only grays and blacks and browns adorned the almost monkish +severity of his garb. Harsh, vertical lines had begun to appear at the sides of +the sensuous mouth, and horizontal lines–perhaps of hurt pride and +shame–were pressed into his wide, handsome forehead and the zigzag scar +was set white in a reddening field.</p> + +<p>All these things a photograph would show. But there was that about his +carriage, about his mien, about the personality that emerged from all these +things which the photograph would not show. For to the eyes of those who had +known him in the flush of his youth, something–perhaps it was time, +perhaps the burden of the years–seemed to be sapping him, seemed to be +drying him out, fruitless, pod-laden, dry and listless, with a bleached soul, +naked to the winds that blow across the world. The myriad criss-crosses of +minute red veins that marked his cheek often were wet with water from <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_445'></a>445</span>the eyes that used to +glow out of a very volcano of a personality behind them. But after many hours of +charging up and down the earth in his great noisy motor, red rims began to form +about the watery eyes and they peered furtively and savagely at the world, like +wolves from a falling temple.</p> + +<p>As he stood by the fire in Mr. Brotherton’s sanctuary, holding his +<i>Harper’s Weekly</i> in his hand, and glancing idly over the new books +carelessly arranged on the level of the eye upon the wide oak mantel, the Judge +came to be conscious of the presence of Amos Adams on a settee near by.</p> + +<p>“How do you do, sir?” The habit of speaking to every one +persisted, but the suave manner was affected, and the voice was mechanical. The +old man looked up from his book–one of Professor Hyslop’s volumes, +and answered, “Why, hello, Tom–how are you?” and ducked back +to his browsing.</p> + +<p>“That son of yours doesn’t seem to have set the Wahoo afire with +his unions in the last two or three years, does he?” said Van Dorn. He +could not resist taking this poke at the old man, who replied without looking +up:</p> + +<p>“Probably not.”</p> + +<p>Then fearing that he might have been curt the old man lifted his eyes from +his book and looking kindly over his glasses continued: “The Wahoo +isn’t ablaze, Tom, but you know as well as I that the wage scale has been +raised twice in the mines, and once in the glass factory and once in the smelter +in the past three years without strikes–and that’s what Grant is +trying to do. More than that, every concern in the Valley now recognizes the +union in conferring with the men about work conditions. That’s +something–that’s worth all his time for three years or so, if he had +done nothing else.”</p> + +<p>“Well, what else has he done?” asked Van Dorn quickly.</p> + +<p>“Well, Tom, for one thing the men are getting class conscious, and in a +strike that will be a strong cement to make them stick.”</p> + +<p>Van Dorn’s neck reddened, as he replied: “Yes–the damn +anarchists–class consciousness is what undermines patriotism.”</p> + +<p>“And patriotism,” replied the old man, thumbing the <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_446'></a>446</span>lapel of his coat that +held his loyal legion button, “patriotism is the last resort–of +plutocrats!”</p> + +<p>He laughed good-naturedly and silently. Then he rose and said as he started +to go:</p> + +<p>“Well, Tom,–we won’t quarrel over a little thing like our +beloved country. Why, Lila–” the old man looked up and saw the girl, +“bless my eyes, child, how you do grow, and how pretty you look in your +new ginghams–just like your mother, twenty years ago!” Amos Adams +was talking to a shy young girl–blue-eyed and brown-haired, who was +walking out of the store after buying a bottle of ink of Miss Calvin. Lila spoke +to the old man and would have gone with him, but for the booming voice of Mr. +Brotherton, the gray-clad benedict, who looked not unlike the huge, pot-bellied +gray jars which adorned “the sweet serenity of books and wall +paper.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Brotherton had glanced up from his ledger at Amos Adams’s mention +of Lila’s name. Coming forward, he saw her in her new dress, a bright +gingham dress that reached so nearly to her shoe tops that Mr. Brotherton cried: +“Well, look who’s here–if it isn’t Miss Van Dorn! And a +great pleasure it is to see and know you, Miss Van Dorn.”</p> + +<p>He repeated the name two or three times gently, while Lila smiled in shy +appreciation of Mr. Brotherton’s ambushed joke. Her father, standing by a +squash-necked lavender jug in the “serenity,” did not entirely grasp +Mr. Brotherton’s point. But while the father was groping for it, Mr. +Brotherton went on:</p> + +<p>“Miss Van Dorn, once I had a dear friend–such a dear little +friend named Lila. Perhaps you may see her sometimes? Maybe sometimes at night +she comes to see you–maybe she peeps in when you are alone and asks to +play. Well, say–Lila,” called Mr. Brotherton as gently as a fog horn +tooting a nocturne, “if she ever comes, if you ever see her, will you give +her my love? It would be highly improper for a married gentleman with asthmatic +tendencies and too much waistband to send his love or anything like it to Miss +Van Dorn; it would surely cause comment. But if Lila ever comes, Miss Van +Dorn,” frolicked the elephant, “give her my love and tell her that +often here in the <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_447'></a>447</span>serenity, I shut my eyes and see her playing out on +Elm Street, a teenty, weenty girl–with blue hair and curly eyes–or +maybe it was the other way around,” Mr. Brotherton heaved a prodigious +sigh and waved a weary, fat hand–“and here, my lords and gentlemen, +is Miss Van Dorn with her dresses down to her shoe tops!”</p> + +<p>The girl was smiling and blushing, sheepishly and happily, while Mr. +Brotherton was mentally calculating that he would be in his middle fifties +before a possible little girl of his might be putting on her first long dresses. +It saddened him a little, and he turned, rather subdued, and called into the +alcove to the Judge and said:</p> + +<p>“Tom, this is our friend, Miss Van Dorn–I was just sending a +message by her to a dear–a very dear friend I used to have, named Lila, +who is gone. Miss Van Dorn knows Lila, and sees her sometimes. So now that you +are here, I’m going to send this to Lila,” he raised the +girl’s hand to his lips and awkwardly kissed it, as he said clumsily, +“well, say, my dear–will you see that Lila gets that?”</p> + +<p>Her father stepped toward the embarrassed girl and spoke:</p> + +<p>“Lila–Lila–can’t you come here a moment, +dear?”</p> + +<p>He was standing by the smoldering fire, brushing a rolled newspaper against +his leg. Something within him–perhaps Mr. Brotherton’s awkward kiss +stirred it–was trying to soften the proud, hard face that was losing the +mobility which once had been its charm. He held out a hand, and leaned toward +the girl. She stepped toward him and asked, “What is it?”</p> + +<p>An awkward pause followed, which the man broke with, +“Well–nothing in particular, child; only I thought maybe you’d +like–well, tell me how are you getting along in High School, little +girl.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, very well; I believe,” she answered, but did not lift her +eyes to his. Mr. Brotherton moved back to his desk. Again there was silence. The +girl did not move away, though the father feared through every painful second +that she would. Finally he said: “I hear your mother is getting on +famously down in South Harvey. Our people down there say she is doing wonders +with her cooking club for girls.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_448'></a>448</span>Lila smiled and +answered: “She’ll be glad to know it, I’m sure.” Again +she paused, and waited.</p> + +<p>“Lila,” he cried, “won’t you let me help you–do +something for you?–I wish so much–so much to fill a father’s +place with you, my dear–so much.”</p> + +<p>He stepped toward her, felt for her hand, but could not find it. She looked +up at him, and in her eyes there rose the old cloud of sadness that came only +once in a long time. It was a puzzled face that he saw looking steadily into +his.</p> + +<p>“I don’t know what you could do,” she answered simply.</p> + +<p>Something about the pathetic loneliness of his unfathered child, evidenced by +the sadness that flitted across her face, touched a remote, unsullied part of +his nature, and moved him to say:</p> + +<p>“Oh, Lila–Lila–Lila–I need you–I need +you–God knows, dear, how I do need you. Won’t you come to me +sometimes? Won’t your mother ever relent–won’t she? If she +knew, she would be kind. Oh, Lila, Lila,” he called as the two stood +together there in the twilight with the glow of the coals in the fireplace upon +them, “Lila, won’t you let me take you home even–in my car? +Surely your mother wouldn’t care for that, would she?”</p> + +<p>The girl looked into the fire and answered, “No,” and shook her +head. “No–mother would be pleased, I think. She has always told me +to be kind to you–to be respectful to you, sir. I’ve tried to be, +sir?”</p> + +<p>Her voice rose in a question. He answered by taking her arm and pleading, +“Oh, come–won’t you let me take you home in my car, +Lila–it’s getting late–won’t you, Lila?”</p> + +<p>But the girl turned away; he let her arm drop. She answered, shaking her +head:</p> + +<p>“I think, sir, if you don’t mind–I’d rather +walk.”</p> + +<p>In another second she was gone. Her father leaned against the mantel and the +dying coals warmed tears in his hungry, furtive eyes, and his face twitched for +a moment before he turned, and walked with some show of pride to his grand car. +Half an hour later he was driving homeward, looking neither to the right nor to +the left, when his ear caught the word, “Lila,” in a girlish treble +near him. He looked up to see a young miss–a Calvin young miss, in <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_449'></a>449</span>fact–running and +waving her hands toward a group of boys and girls in their middle teens and late +teens, trooping up the hill along the sidewalk. They were neighborhood children, +and Lila seemed to be the center of the circle. He slowed down his car to watch +them. Near Lila was Kenyon Adams, a tall, beautiful youth, fiddle box in hand, +but still a boy even though he was twenty. Other boys played about the group and +through it, but none was so striking as Kenyon, tall, lithe, with a beautifully +poised head of crinkly chestnut hair, who strode gayly among the youths and +maidens and yet was not quite of them. Even the Judge could see that Kenyon did +not exactly belong–that he was rare and exotic. But as her father’s +car crept unnoticed past the group, he could see that Lila belonged. She was in +no way exotic among the Calvins and Kollanders and the Wrights, and the children +of the neighbors in Elm Street. Lila’s clear, merry laugh–a laugh +that rang like an old bell through Tom Van Dorn’s heart–rose above +the adolescent din of the group and to the father seemed to be the dominant note +in the hilarious cadenza of young life. It struck him that they were like +fireflies, glowing and darting and disappearing and weaving about.</p> + +<p>And fireflies indeed they were. For in them the fires of life were just +beginning to sparkle. Slowly the great bat of a car moved up past them, then +darted around the block like the blind creature that it was, and whirling its +awkward circle came swooping up again to the glowing, animated stars that held +him in a deadly fascination. For those twinkling, human stars playing like +fireflies in exquisite joy at the first faint kindling in their hearts of the +fires that flame forever in the torch of life, might well have held in their +spell a stronger man than Thomas Van Dorn. For the first evanescent fires of +youth are the most sacred fires in the world. And well might the great, black +bat of a car circle again and again and even again around and come always back +to the beautiful light.</p> + +<p>But Thomas Van Dorn came back not happily but in sad unrest. It was as though +the black bat carried captive on its back a weary pilgrim from the Primrose +Hunt, jaded and spent and dour, who saw in the sacred fires what he had <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_450'></a>450</span>cast away, what he had +deemed worthless and of a sudden had seen in its true beauty and in its real +value. Once again as the fireflies played their ceaseless game with the ever +flickering glow of youth shining through eyes and cheeks from their hearts, the +great bat carrying its captive swooped around them–and then out into the +darkness of his own charred world.</p> + +<p>But the fireflies in the gay spring twilight kept darting and criss-crossing +and frolicking up the walk. One by one, each swiftly or lazily disappeared from +the maze, and at last only two, Kenyon and Lila, went weaving up the lawn toward +the steps of the Nesbit house.</p> + +<p>It had been one of those warm days when spring is just coming into the world. +All day the boy had been roaming the wide prairies. The voices of the wind in +the brown grass and in the bare trees by the creek had found their way into his +soul. A curious soul it was–the soul of a poet, the soul of one who felt +infinitely more than he knew–the soul of a man in the body of a callow +youth.</p> + +<p>As he and Lila walked up the hill, all the dreams that had swept across him +out in the fields came to him. They sat on the south steps of the Nesbit house +watching the spring that was trying to blossom in the pink and golden sunset. +The girl was beginning to look at the world through new, strange eyes, and out +on the hills that day the boy also had felt the thrill of a new heaven and a new +earth.</p> + +<p>Their talk was finite and far short of the vision of warm, radiant life-stuff +flowing through the universe that had thrilled Kenyon in the hills. Out there, +looking eastward over the prairies checked in brown earth, and green wheat, and +old grass faded from russet to lavender, with the gray woods worming their way +through the valleys, he had found voice and had crooned melodies that came out +of the wind and sun, and satisfied his soul. Over and over he had repeated in +various cadences the words:</p> + +<p>“I will lift up mine eyes to the hills, whence cometh my +help.”</p> + +<p>And he had seemed to be forming a great heart-filling anthem. It was all on +his tongue’s tip, with the answering chorus coming from out of some vast +mystery, “Behold, thou <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_451'></a>451</span>art fair, my love–behold, thou art +fair–thou hast dove’s eyes.” There in the sunshine upon the +prairie grass it was as real and vital a part of his soul’s aspiration as +though it had been reiterated in some glad symphony. But as he sat in the sunset +trying to put into his voice the language that stirred his heart, he could only +drum upon a box and look at the girl’s blue eyes and her rosebud of a face +and utter the copper coins of language for the golden yearning of his soul. She +answered, thrilled by the radiance of his eyes:</p> + +<p>“Isn’t the young spring beautiful–don’t you just love +it, Kenyon? I do.”</p> + +<p>He rose and stood out in the sun on the lawn. The girl got up. She was +abashed; and strangely self-conscious without reason, she began to pirouette +down the walk and dance back to him, with her blue eyes fastened like a mystic +sky-thread to his somber gaze. A thousand mute messages of youth twinkled across +that thread. Their eyes smiled. The two stood together, and the youth kicked +with his toes in the soft turf.</p> + +<p>“Lila,” he asked as he looked at the greening grass of spring, +“what do you suppose they mean when they say, ‘I will lift up mine eyes to +the hills’? The line has been wiggling around in my head all morning as I +walked over the prairie, that and another that I can’t make much of, +about, ‘Behold, thou art fair, my love–behold, thou art fair.’ Say, +Lila,” he burst out, “do you sometimes have things just pop into +your head all fuzzy with–oh, well, say feeling good and you don’t +know why, and you are just too happy to eat? I do.”</p> + +<p>He paused and looked into her bright, unformed face with the fleeting cloud +of sadness trailing its blind way across her heart.</p> + +<p>“And say, Lila–why, this morning when I was out there all alone I +just sang at the top of my voice, I felt so bang-up dandy–and–I tell +you something–honest, I kept thinking of you all the time–you and +the hills and a dove’s eyes. It just tasted good way down in me–you +ever feel that way?”</p> + +<p>Again the girl danced her answer and sent the words she could not speak +through her eyes and his to his innermost consciousness.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_452'></a>452</span>“But +honest, Lila–don’t you ever feel that way–kind of creepy with +good feeling–tickledy and crawly, as though you’d swallowed a candy +caterpillar and was letting it go down slow–slow, slow, to get every bit +of it–say, honest, don’t you? I do. It’s just fine–out +on the prairie all alone with big bursting thoughts bumping you all the +time–gee!”</p> + +<p>They were sitting on the steps when he finished and his heel was denting the +sod. She was entranced by what she saw in his eyes.</p> + +<p>“Of course, Kenyon,” she answered finally. “Girls +are–oh, different, I guess. I dream things like that, and sometimes +mornings when I’m wiping dishes I think ’em–and drop +dishes–and whoopee! But I don’t know–girls are not so woozy +and slazy inside them as boys. Kenyon, let me tell you something: Girls pretend +to be and aren’t–not half; and boys pretend they aren’t and +are–lots more.”</p> + +<p>She gazed up at him in an unblinking joy of adoration as shameless as the +heart of a violet baring itself to the sun. Then she shut her eyes and the lad +caught up his instrument and cried:</p> + +<p>“Come on, Lila,–come in the house. I’ve got to play out +something–something I found out on the prairie to-day about ‘mine eyes +unto the hills’ and ‘the eyes of the dove’ and the woozy, fuzzy, +happy, creepy thoughts of you all the time.”</p> + +<p>He was inside the door with the violin in his hands. As she closed the door +he put his head down to the brown violin as if to hear it sing, and whispered +slowly:</p> + +<p>“Oh, Lila–listen–just hear this.”</p> + +<p>And then it came! “The Spring Sun,” it is known popularly. But in +the book of his collected music it appears as “Allegro in B.” It is +the throb of joy of young life asking the unanswerable question of God: what +does it mean–this new, fair, wonderful world full of life and birth, and +joy; charged with mystery, enveloped in strange, unsolved grandeur, like the +cloud pictures that float and puzzle us and break and reform and paint all +Heaven in their beauty and then resolve themselves into nothing. Many people +think this is Kenyon Adams’s most beautiful and poetic message. Certainly +in the expression of the gayety and the weird, <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_453'></a>453</span>vague mysticism of youth and poignant joy he never +reached that height again. Death is ignored; it is all life and the aspirations +of life and the beckonings of life and the bantering of life and the deep, +awful, inexorable call of life to youth. Other messages of Kenyon Adams are more +profound, more comforting to the hearts and the minds of reasoning, questioning +men. But this Allegro in B is the song of youth, of early youth, bidding +childhood adieu and turning to life with shining countenance and burning +heart.</p> + +<p>When he had finished playing he was in tears, and the girl sitting before him +was awestricken and rapt as she sat with upturned face with the miracle of song +thrilling her soul. Let us leave them there in that first curious, unrealized +signaling of soul to soul. And now let us go on into this story, and remember +these children, as children still, who do not know that they have opened the +great golden door into life!</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_454'></a>454</span><a id='link_41'></a>CHAPTER XLI<br /><span class='h2fs'>HERE WE SEE GRANT ADAMS CONQUERING HIS THIRD AND LAST DEVIL</span></h2> + +<p>In the ebb and flow of life every generation sees its waves of altruism +washing in. But in the ebb of altruism in America that followed the Civil War, +Amos Adams’s ship of dreams was left high and dry in the salt marsh. +Finally a time came when the tide began to boom in. But in no substantial way +did his newspaper feel the impulse of the current. The <i>Tribune</i> was an old +hulk; it could not ride the tide. And its skipper, seedy, broken with the years, +always too gentle for the world about him, even at his best, ever ready to stop +work to read a book, Amos Adams, who had been a crank for a third of a century, +remained a crank when much that he preached in earlier years was accepted by the +multitude.</p> + +<p>Amos Adams might have made the Harvey <i>Tribune</i> a financial success if he +could have brought himself to follow John Kollander’s advice. But Amos +could not abide the presence much less the counsel of the professional patriot, +with his insistent blue uniform and brass buttons. Under an elaborate pretense +of independence, John Kollander was a limber-kneed time-server, always keen-eyed +for the crumbs of Dives’ table; odd jobs in receiverships, odd jobs in +lawsuits for Daniel Sands–as, for instance, furnishing unexpected +witnesses to prove improbable contentions–odd jobs in his church, odd jobs +in his party organization, always carrying a per diem and expenses; odd jobs for +the Commercial Club, where the pay was sure; odd jobs for Tom Van Dorn, +spreading slander by innuendo where it would do the most good for Tom in his +business; odd jobs for Tom and Dick and for Harry, but always for the immediate +use and benefit of John Kollander, his heirs and assigns. But if Amos Adams ever +thought of himself, it was by inadvertence. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_455'></a>455</span> He managed, Heaven only knows how, to keep the +<i>Tribune</i> going. Jasper bought back from the man who foreclosed the +mortgage, his father’s homestead. He rented it to his father for a dollar +a year and ostentatiously gave the dollar to the Lord–so ostentatiously, +indeed, that when Henry Fenn gayly referred to Amos, Grant and Jasper as Father, +Son and Holy Ghost, the town smiled at his impiety, but the holy Jasper boarded +at the Hotel Sands, was made a partner at Wright & Perry’s, and became +a bank director at thirty. For Jasper was a Sands!</p> + +<p>The day after Amos Adams and Tom Van Dorn had met in the Serenity of Books +and Wallpaper at Brotherton’s, Grant was in the <i>Tribune</i> office. +“Grant,” the father was getting down from his high stool to dump his +type on the galley; “Grant, I had a tiff with Tom Van Dorn yesterday. +Lord, Lord,” cried the old man, as he bent over, straightening some type +that his nervous hand had knocked down. “I wonder, Grant”–the +father rose and put his hand on his back, as he stood looking into his +son’s face–“I wonder if all that we feel, all that we believe, +all that we strive and live for–is a dream? Are we chasing shadows? +Isn’t it wiser to conform, to think of ourselves first and others +afterward–to go with the current of life and not against it? Of course, my +guides–”</p> + +<p>“Father,” cried Grant, “I saw Tom Van Dorn yesterday, too, +in his big new car–and I don’t need your guides to tell me who is +moving with the current and who is buffeting it. Oh, father, that hell-scorched +face–don’t talk to me about his faith and mine!” The old man +remounted his printer’s stool for another half-hour’s work before +dusk deepened, and smiled as he pulled his steel spectacles over his clear old +eyes.</p> + +<p>One would fancy that a man whose face was as seamed and scarred with time and +struggle as Grant Adams’s face, would have said nothing of the +hell-scorched face of Tom Van Dorn. Yet for all its lines, youth still shone +from Grant Adams’s countenance. His wide, candid blue eyes were still +boyish, and a soul so eager with hope that it sometimes blazed into a mad +intolerance, gazed into the world from behind them. Even his arm and claw became +an animate <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_456'></a>456</span>hand +when Grant waved them as he talked; and his wide, pugnacious shoulders, his +shock of nonconforming red hair, his towering body, and his solid +workman’s legs, firm as oak beams,–all,–claw, arms, shoulders, +trunk and legs,–translated into human understanding the rebel soul of +Grant Adams.</p> + +<p>Yet the rebellion of Grant Adams’s soul was no new thing to the world. +He was treading the rough road that lies under the feet of all those who try to +divert their lives from the hard and wicked morals of their times. For the +kingdoms of this earth are organized for those who devote themselves chiefly, +though of course not wholly, to the consideration of self. The world is still +vastly egoistic in its balance. And the unbroken struggle of progress from Abel +to yesterday’s reformer, has been, is, and shall be the battle with the +spirit that chains us to the selfish, accepted order of the passing day. So +Grant Adams’s face was battle scarred, but his soul, strong and exultant, +burst through his flesh and showed itself at many angles of his being. And a +grim and militant thing it looked. The flinty features of the man, his coarse +mouth, his indomitable blue eyes, his red poll, waving like a banner above his +challenging forehead, wrinkled and seamed and gashed with the troubles of harsh +circumstance, his great animal jaw at the base of the spiritual tower of his +countenance–all showed forth the warrior’s soul, the warrior of the +rebellion that is as old as time and as new as to-morrow.</p> + +<p>Working with his hands for a bare livelihood, but sitting at his desk four or +five days in the week and speaking at night, month after month, year after year, +for nearly twenty years, without rest or change, had taken much of the bounce of +youth from his body. He knew how the money from the accumulated dues was piling +up in the Labor Union’s war chest in the valley. He had proved what a +trade solidarity in an industrial district could do for the men without strikes +by its potential strength. Black powder, which killed like the pestilence that +stalketh in darkness, was gone. Electric lights had superseded torches in the +runways of the mines. Bathhouses were found in all the shafts. In the smelters +the long, killing hours were abandoned and a score of safety <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_457'></a>457</span>devices were introduced. +But each gain for labor had come after a bitter struggle with the employers. So +the whole history of the Wahoo Valley was written in the lines of his broken +face.</p> + +<p>The reformer with his iridescent dream of progress often hangs its +realization upon a single phase of change. Thus when Grant Adams banished black +powder from the district, he expected the whole phantasm of dawn to usher in the +perfect day for the miners. When he secured electric lights in the runways and +baths in the shaft house, he confidently expected large things to follow. While +large things hesitated, he saw another need and hurried to it.</p> + +<p>Thus it happened, that in the hurrying after a new need, Grant Adams had +always remained in his own district, except for a brief season when he and Dr. +Nesbit sallied forth in a State-wide campaign to defend the Doctor’s law +to compel employers to pay workmen for industrial accidents, as the employers +replace broken machinery–a law which the Doctor had pushed through the +Legislature and which was before the people for a referendum vote. When Grant +went out of the Wahoo Valley district he attracted curious crowds, crowds that +came to see the queer labor leader who won without strikes. And when the crowds +came under Grant’s spell, he convinced them. For he felt intensely. He +believed that this law would right a whole train of incidental wrongs of labor. +So he threw himself into the fight with a crusader’s ardor. Grant and the +Doctor journeyed over the State through July and August; and in September the +wily Doctor trapped Tom Van Dorn into a series of joint debates with Grant that +advertised the cause widely and well. From these debates Grant Adams emerged a +somebody in politics. For oratory, however polished, and scholarship, however +plausible, cannot stand before the wrath of an indignant man in a righteous +cause who can handle himself and suppress his wrath upon the platform.</p> + +<p>As the week of the debate dragged on and as the pageant of it trailed clear +across the State, with crowds hooting and cheering, Doctor Nesbit’s cup of +joy ran over. And when Van Dorn failed to appear for the Saturday meeting at the +capital, the Doctor’s happiness mounted to glee.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_458'></a>458</span>That night, long +after the midnight which ended the day’s triumph, Grant and the Doctor +were sitting on a baggage truck at a way station waiting for a belated train. +Grant was in the full current of his passion. Personal triumph meant little to +him–the cause everything. His heart was afire with a lust to win. The +Doctor kept looking at Grant with curious eyes–appraising eyes, +indeed–from time to time as the younger man’s interminable stream of +talk of the Cause flowed on. But the Doctor had his passion also. When it burst +its bonds, he was saying: “Look here, you crazy man–take a reef in +your canvas picture of jocund day upon the misty mountain tops–get down to +grass roots.” Grant turned an exalted face upon the Doctor in +astonishment. The Doctor went on:</p> + +<p>“Grant, I can give the concert all right–but, young man, you are +selling the soap. That’s a great argument you have been making this week, +Grant.”</p> + +<p>“There wasn’t much to my argument, Doctor,” answered Grant, +absently, “though it was a righteous cause. All I did was to make an +appeal to the pocketbooks of Market Street all over the State, showing the +merchants and farmers that the more the laboring man receives the more he will +spend, and if he is paid for his accidents he will buy more prunes and calico; +whereas, if he is not paid he will burden the taxes as a pauper. Tom +couldn’t overcome that argument, but in the long run, our cause will not +be won permanently and definitely by the bread and butter and taxes argument, +except as that sort of argument proves the justice of our cause and arouses love +in the hearts of you middle-class people.”</p> + +<p>But Dr. Nesbit persisted with his figure. “Grant,” he piped, +“you certainly can sell soap. Why don’t you sell some soap on your +own hook? Why don’t you let me run you for +something–Congress–governor, or something? We can win hands +down.”</p> + +<p>Grant did not wait for the Doctor to finish, but cried in violent protest: +“No, no, no–Doctor–no, I must not do that. I tell you, man, I +must travel light and alone. I must go into life as naked as St. Francis. The +world is stirring as with a great spirit of change. The last night <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_459'></a>459</span>I was at home, up stepped +a little Belgian glassblower to me. I’d never seen him before. I said, +‘Hello, comrade!’ He grasped my hands with both hands and cried ‘Comrade! +So you know the password. It has given me welcome and warmth and food in France, +in England, in Australia, and now here. Everywhere the workers are +comrades!’ Everywhere the workers are comrades. Do you know what that +means, Doctor?”</p> + +<p>The Doctor did not answer. His seventy years, and his habit of thinking in +terms of votes and parties and factions, made him sigh.</p> + +<p>“Doctor,” cried Grant, “electing men to office won’t +help. But this law we are fighting for–this law will help. Doctor, +I’m pinning the faith of a decade of struggle on this law.”</p> + +<p>The Doctor broke the silence that followed Grant’s declaration, to say: +“Grant, I don’t see it your way. I feel that life must crystallize +its progress in institutions–political institutions, before progress is +safe. But you must work out your own life, my boy. Incidentally,” he +piped, “I believe you are wrong. But after this campaign is over, +I’m going up to the capital for one last fling at making a United States +Senator. I’ve only a dozen little white chips in the great game, five in +the upper house and seven in the lower house. But we may deadlock it, and if we +do,–you’ll see thirty years drop off my head and witness the +rejuvenation of Old Linen Pants.”</p> + +<p>Grant began walking the platform again under the stars like an impatient +ghost. The Doctor rose and followed him.</p> + +<p>“Grant, now let me tell you something. I am half inclined at times to +think it’s all moonshine–this labor law we’re working to +establish. But Laura wants it, and God knows, Grant, she has little enough in +her life down there in the Valley. And if this law makes her +happy–it’s the least I can do for her. She hasn’t had what she +should have had out of life, so I’m trying to make her second choice worth +while. That’s why I’m on the soap wagon with you!” He would +have laughed away this serious mood, but he could not.</p> + +<p>Grant stared at the Doctor for a moment before answering: “Why, of +course, Dr. Nesbit, I’ve always known that.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_460'></a>460</span>“But–I–Doctor–I am +consecrated to the cause. It is my reason for living.”</p> + +<p>The day had passed in the elder’s life when he could rise to the +younger man’s emotions. He looked curiously at Grant and said softly:</p> + +<p>“Oh, to be young–to be young–to be young!” He rose, +touched the strong arm beside him. “‘And the young men shall see +visions.’ To be young–just to be young! But ‘the old men shall dream +dreams.’ Well, Grant, they are unimportant–not entirely pleasant. We +young men of the seventies had a great material vision. The dream of an empire +here in the West. It has come true–increased one hundred fold. Yet it is +not much of a dream.”</p> + +<p>He let the arm drop and began drumming on the truck as he concluded: +“But it’s all I have–all the dream I have now. ‘All of which I +saw, and part of which I was,’ yet,” he mused, “perhaps it +will be used as a foundation upon which something real and beautiful will be +builded.”</p> + +<p>Far away the headlight of their approaching train twinkled upon the prairie +horizon. The two men watched it glow into fire and come upon them. And without +resuming their talk, each went his own wide, weary way in the world as they lay +in adjoining berths on the speeding train.</p> + +<p>At the general election the Doctor’s law was upheld by a majority of +the votes in the State, but the Doctor himself was defeated for reëlection to +the State Senate in his own district. Grant Adams waited, intently and with fine +faith, for this law to bring in the millennium. But the Doctor had no millennial +faith.</p> + +<p>He came down town the morning after his defeat, gay and unruffled. He went +toddling into the stores and offices of Market Street, clicking his cane busily, +thanking his friends and joking with his foes. But he chirruped to Henry Fenn +and Kyle Perry whom he found in the Serenity at the close of the day: +“Well, gentlemen, I’ve seen ’em all! I’ve taken my +medicine like a little man; but I won’t lick the spoon. I +sha’n’t go and see Dan and Tom. I’m willing to go as far as +any man in the forgiving and forgetting business, but the Lord himself +hasn’t quit on them. Look at ’em. The devil’s mortgage is +recorded all over their faces and he’s getting <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_461'></a>461</span>about ready to foreclose on old Dan! And +every time Dan hears poor Morty cough, the devil collects his compound interest. +Poor, dear, gay Morty–if he could only put up a fight!”</p> + +<p>But he could not put up a fight and his temperature rose in the afternoon and +he could not meet with his gymnasium class in South Harvey in the evening, but +sent a trainer instead. So often weeks passed during which Laura Van Dorn did +not see Morty and the daily boxes of flowers that came punctiliously with his +cards to the kindergarten and to Violet Hogan’s day nursery, were their +only reminders of the sorry, lonely, footless struggle Morty was making.</p> + +<p>It was inevitable that the lives of Violet Hogan and Laura Van Dorn in South +Harvey should meet and merge. And when they met and merged, Violet Hogan found +herself devoting but a few hours a day to her day nursery, while she worked six +long, happy hours as a stenographer for Grant Adams in his office at the +Vanderbilt House. For, after all, it was as a stenographer that she remembered +herself in the grandeur and the glory of her past. So Henry Fenn and Laura Van +Dorn carried on the work that Violet began, and for them souls and flowers and +happiness bloomed over the Valley in the dark, unwholesome places which death +had all but taken for his own.</p> + +<p>It was that spring when Dr. Nesbit went to the capital and took his last +fling at State politics. For two months he had deadlocked his party caucus in +the election of a United States Senator with hardly more than a dozen +legislative votes. And he was going out of his dictatorship in a golden glow of +glory.</p> + +<p>And this was the beginning of the golden age for Captain Morton. The +Morton-Perry Axle Works were thriving. Three eight-hour shifts kept the little +plant booming, and by agreement with the directors of the Independent mine, +Nathan Perry spent five hours a day in the works. He and the Captain, and the +youngest Miss Morton, who was keeping books, believed that it would go over the +line from loss to profit before grass came. The Captain hovered about the plant +like an earth-bound spirit day and night, interrupting the work of the men, +disorganizing the system that <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_462'></a>462</span>Nathan had installed, and persuading himself that +but for him the furnaces would go dead and the works shut down.</p> + +<p>It was one beautiful day in late March, after the November election wherein +the Doctor’s law had won and the Doctor himself had lost, that Grant Adams +was in Harvey figuring with Mr. Brotherton on supplies for his office. Captain +Morton came tramping down the clouds before him as he swept into the Serenity +and jabbed a spike through the wheels of commerce with the remark: “Well, +George–what do you think of my regalia–eh?”</p> + +<p>Mr. Brotherton and Grant looked up from their work. They beheld the Captain +arrayed in a dazzling light gray spring suit–an exceedingly light gray +suit, with a hat of the same color and gloves and shoe spats to match, with a +red tie so red that it all but crackled. “First profits of the business. +We got over the line yesterday noon, and I had a thousand to go on, and this +morning I just went on this spree–what say?”</p> + +<p>“Well, Cap, when Morty Sands sees you he will die of envy. You’re +certainly the lily of the Valley and the bright and morning star–the +fairest of ten thousand to my soul! Grant,” said Brotherton as he turned +to his customer, “behold the plute!”</p> + +<p>The Captain stood grinning in pride as the men looked him over.</p> + +<p>“’Y gory, boys, you’d be surprised the way that Household Horse +has hit the trade. Orders coming in from automobile makers, and last week we +decided to give up making the little power saver and make the whole rear axle. +We’re going to call it the Morton-Perry Axle, and put in a big plant, and +I was telling Ruthy this morning, I says, ‘Ruth,’ says I, ‘if we make the +axle business go, I’ll just telephone down to Wright & Perry and have +them send you out something nobby in husbands, and, ’y gory, a nice +thousand-mile wedding trip and maybe your pa will go along for +company–what say?’”</p> + +<p>He was an odd figure in his clothes–for they were ready-made–made +for the figure of youth, and although he had been in them but a few hours, the +padding was bulging at the wrong places; and they were wrinkled where they +should <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_463'></a>463</span>be tight. +His bony old figure stuck out at the knees, and the shoulders and elbows, and +the high collar would not fit his skinny neck. But he was happy, and fancied he +looked like the pictures of college boys in the back of magazines. So he +answered Mr. Brotherton’s question about the opinion of the younger +daughter as to the clothes by a profound wink.</p> + +<p>“Scared–scared plumb stiff–what say? I caught Marthy +nodding at Ruth and Ruthy looking hard at Marthy, and then both of ’em +went to the kitchen to talk over calling up Emmy and putting out fly poison for +the women that are lying in wait for their pa. Scared–why, scared’s +no name for it–what say?”</p> + +<p>“Well, Captain,” answered Mr. Brotherton, “you are +certainly voluptuous enough in your new stage setting to have your picture on a +cigar box as a Cuban beauty or a Spanish señorita.”</p> + +<p>The Captain was turning about, trying to see how the coat set in the back and +at the same time watching the hang of the trousers. Evidently he was satisfied +with it. For he said: “Well–guess I’ll be going. I’ll +just mosey down to Mrs. Herdicker’s to give Emmy and Marthy and Ruthy +something to keep ’em from thinking of their real +troubles–eh?” And with a flourish he was gone.</p> + +<p>When Grant’s order was filled, he said, “Violet will call for +this, George; I have some other matters to attend to.”</p> + +<p>As he assembled the goods for the order, Mr. Brotherton called out, +“Well, how is Violet, anyway?” Grant smiled. “Violet is doing +well. She is blooming over again, and when she found herself before a +typewriter–it really seemed to take the curve out of her back. Henry +declares that the typewriter put ribbon in her hair. Laura Van Dorn, I believe, +is responsible for Violet’s shirt waists. Henry Fenn comes to the office +twice a day, to make reports on the sewing business. But what he’s really +doing, George, is to let her smell his breath to prove that he’s sober, +and so she runs the two jobs at once. Have you seen Henry recently?”</p> + +<p>“Well,” replied Brotherton, “he was in a month or so ago to +borrow ten to buy a coat–so that he could catch up <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_464'></a>464</span>with the trousers of that suit before +they grew too old. He still buys his clothes that way.”</p> + +<p>Grant threw back his red head and grinned a grim, silent grin: “Well, +that’s funny. Didn’t you know what is keeping him away?” Again +Grant grinned. “The day he was here he came wagging down with that +ten-dollar bill, but his conscience got the best of him for lavishing so much +money on himself, so he slipped it to Violet and told her to buy her some new +teeth–you know she’s been ashamed to open her mouth now for years. +Violet promised she would get the teeth in time for Easter. And pretty soon in +walks Mrs. Maurice Stromsky–who scrubs in the Wright & Perry Building, +whose baby died last summer and had to be buried in the Potter’s +field–she came in; and she and Violet got to talking about the +baby–and Violet up and gave that ten to Mrs. Stromsky, to get the baby out +of the Potter’s field.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Brotherton laughed his great laugh. Grant went on:</p> + +<p>“But that isn’t all. The next day in walks Mrs. Maurice Stromsky, +penitent as a dog, and I heard her squaring herself with Violet for giving that +old saw-buck of yours to the Delaneys, whose second little girl had diphtheria +and who had no money for antitoxin. I never saw your ten again, George,” +said Grant. “It seemed to be going down for the last time.” He +looked at Brotherton quizzically for a second and asked:</p> + +<p>“So old Henry hasn’t been around since–isn’t that +joyous? Well–anyway, he’ll show up to-day or to-morrow, for +he’s got the new coat; he got it this morning. Jasper was telling +me.”</p> + +<p>In an hour Grant, returning after his morning’s errands, was standing +by the puny little blaze that John Dexter had stirred out of the logs in the +Serenity. The two were standing together. Mr. Brotherton, reading his Kansas +City paper at his desk, called to them: “Well, I see Doc Jim’s still +holding his deadlock and they can’t elect a United States Senator without +him!”</p> + +<p>A telegraph messenger boy came in, looked into the Serenity, and said, +“Mr. Adams, I was looking for you.”</p> + +<p>Grant signed the boy’s book, read the telegram, and stood dumbly gazing +at the fire, as he held the sheet in his hand.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_465'></a>465</span>The fire popped +and snapped and the little blaze grew stronger when a log dropped in two. A +customer came in–picked up a magazine–called, “Charge it, +please,” then went out. The door slammed. Another customer came and went. +Miss Calvin stepped back to Mr. Brotherton. The bell of the cash register +tinkled. Then Grant Adams turned, looked at the minister absently for a moment, +and handed him the sheet. It read:</p> + +<div class='bquote'> +<p>“I have pledged in writing five more votes than are needed to make you +the caucus nominee and give you a majority on the joint ballot to-night for +United States Senator. Come up first train.”</p></div> + +<p>It was signed “James Nesbit.” The preacher dropped his hand still +holding the yellow sheet, and looked into the fire.</p> + +<p>“Well?” asked Grant.</p> + +<p>“You say,” returned John Dexter, and added: “It would be a +great opportunity–give you the greatest forum for your cause in +Christendom–give you more power than any other labor advocate ever held in +the world before.”</p> + +<p>He said all this tentatively and as one asking a question. Grant did not +reply. He sat pounding his leg with his claw, abstractedly.</p> + +<p>“You needn’t be a mere theorist in the Senate. You could get +labor laws enacted that would put forward the cause of labor. Grant, really, it +looks as though this was your life’s chance.”</p> + +<p>Grant reached for the telegram and read it again. The telegram fluttering in +his hands dropped to the floor. He reached for it–picked it up, folded it +on his claw carefully, and put it away. Then he turned to the preacher and said +harshly:</p> + +<p>“There’s nothing in it. To begin: you say I’ll have more +power than any other labor leader in the world. I tell you, labor leaders +don’t need personal power. We don’t need labor laws–that is, +primarily. What we need is sentiment–a public love of the under dog that +will make our present laws intolerable. It isn’t power for me, it +isn’t clean politics for the State, it isn’t labor laws that’s +my job. My job, <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_466'></a>466</span>dearly beloved,” he hooked the +minister’s hand and tossed it gently, “my job, oh, thou of little +faith,” he cried, as a flaming torch of emotion seemed to brush his face +and kindle the fanatic glow in his countenance while his voice lifted, “is +to stay right down here in the Wahoo Valley, pile up money in the war chest, +pile up class feeling among the men–comradeship–harness this love of +the poor for the poor into an engine, and then some day slip the belt on that +engine–turn on the juice and pull and pull and pull for some simple, +elemental piece of justice that will show the world one phase of the truth about +labor.”</p> + +<p>Grant’s face was glowing with emotion. “I tell you, the day of +the Kingdom is here–only it isn’t a kingdom, it’s +Democracy–the great Democracy. It’s coming. I must go out and meet +it. In the dark down in the mines I saw the Holy Ghost rise into the lives of a +score of men. And now I see the Holy Ghost coming into a great class. And I must +go–go with neither purse nor script to meet it, to live for it, and maybe +to die for it.” He shook his head and cried vehemently:</p> + +<p>“What a saphead I’d be if I fell to that bait!” He turned +to the store and called to Miss Calvin. “Ave–is there a telegraph +blank in the desk?”</p> + +<p>Mr. Brotherton threw it, skidding, across the long counter. Grant fumbled in +his vest for a pen, held the sheet firmly with his claw and wrote:</p> + +<div class='bquote'> +<p>“You are kindness itself. But the place doesn’t interest me. +Moreover, no man should go to the Senate representing all of a State, whose job +it is to preach class consciousness to a part of the State. Get a bigger man. I +thank you, however, with all my heart.”</p></div> + +<p>Grant watched the preacher read the telegram. He read it twice, then he said: +“Well–of course, that’s right. That’s right–I can +see that. But I don’t know–don’t you think–I mean +aren’t you kind of–well, I can’t just express it; +but–”</p> + +<p>“Well, don’t try, then,” returned Grant.</p> + +<p>However, Doctor Nesbit, having something rather more <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_467'></a>467</span>than the ethics of the case at stake, +was aided by his emotions in expressing himself. He made his views clear, and as +Grant sat at his desk that afternoon, he read this in a telegram from the +Doctor:</p> + +<div class='bquote'> +<p>“Well, of all the damn fools!”</p></div> + +<p>That was one view of the situation. There was this other. It may be found in +one of those stated communications from perhaps Ruskin or Kingsley, which the +Peach Blow Philosopher sometimes vouchsafed to the earth and it read:</p> + +<p>“A great life may be lived by any one who is strong enough to fail for +an ideal.”</p> + +<p>Still another view may be had by setting down what John Dexter said to his +wife, and what she said to him. Said he, when he had recounted the renunciation +of Grant Adams:</p> + +<p>“There goes the third devil. First he conquered the temptation to marry +and be comfortable; next he put fame behind him, and now he renounces +power.”</p> + +<p>And she said: “It had never occurred to me to consider Laura Van Dorn, +or national reputation, or a genuine chance for great usefulness as a devil. +I’m not sure that I like your taste in devils.”</p> + +<p>To which answer may be made again by Mr. Left in a communication he received +from George Meredith, who had recently passed over. It was verified by certain +details as to the arrangement of the books on the little table in the little +room in the little house on a little hill where he was wont to write, and it ran +thus:</p> + +<div class='bquote'> +<p>“Women, always star-hungry, ever uncompromising in their demand for +rainbows, nibbling at the entre’ and pushing aside the roast, though often +adoring primitive men who gorge on it, but ever in the end rewarding abstinence +and thus selecting a race of spiritually-minded men for mates, are after all the +world’s materialists.”</p></div> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_468'></a>468</span><a id='link_42'></a>CHAPTER XLII<br /><span class='h2fs'>A CHAPTER WHICH IS CONCERNED LARGELY WITH THE LOVE AFFAIRS OF “THE FULL STRENGTH OF THE COMPANY”</span></h2> + +<p>This story, first of all, and last of all, is a love story. The emotion +called love and its twin desire hunger, are the two primal passions of life. +From love have developed somewhat the great altruistic institutions of +humanity–the family, the tribe, the State, the nation, and the varied +social activities–religion, patriotism, philanthropy, brotherhood. While +from hunger have developed war and trade and property and wealth. Often it +happens in the growth of life that men have small choice in matters of living +that are motived by hunger or its descendant concerns; for necessity narrows the +choice. But in affairs of the heart, there comes wide latitudes of choice. It is +reasonably just therefore to judge a man, a nation, a race, a civilization, an +era, by its love affairs. So a book that would tell of life, that would paint +the manners of men, and thus show their hearts, must be a love story. “As +a man thinketh in his heart, so is he,” runs the proverb, and, mind you, +it says heart–not head, not mind, but heart; as a man thinketh in his +heart, in that part of his nature where reside his altruistic emotions–so +is he.</p> + +<p>It is the sham and shame of the autobiographies that flood and dishearten the +world, that they are so uncandid in their relation of those emotional episodes +in life–episodes which have to do with what we know for some curious +reason as “the softer passions.” Cæsar’s Gaelic wars, his +bridges, his trouble with the impedimenta, his fights with the +Helvetians–who cares for them? Who cares greatly for Napoleon’s +expedition against the Allies? Of what human interest is Grant’s tale of +the Wilderness fighting? But to know of Calpurnia, of her predecessors, and her +heirs and assigns in <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_469'></a>469</span>Cæsar’s heart; to know the truth about +Josephine and the crash in Napoleon’s life that came with her +heartbreak–if a crash did come, or if not, to know frankly what did come; +to know how Grant got on with Julia Dent through poverty and riches, through +sickness and in health, for better or for worse–with all the strain and +stress and struggle that life puts upon the yoke that binds the commonplace man +to the commonplace woman rising to eminence by some unimportant quirk of his +genius reacting on the times–these indeed would be memoirs worth +reading.</p> + +<p>And whatever worth this story holds must come from its value as a +love-story,–the narrative of how love rose or fell, grew or withered, +bloomed and fruited, or rotted at the core in the lives of those men and women +who move through the scenes painted upon this canvas. After all, who cares that +Thomas Van Dorn waxed fat in the land, that he received academic degrees from +great universities which his masters supported, that he told men to go and they +went, to come and they came? These things are of no consequence. Men are doing +such things every minute of every day in all the year.</p> + +<p>But here sits Thomas Van Dorn, one summer afternoon, with a young broker from +New York–one of those young brokers with not too nice a conscience, who +laughs too easily at the wrong times. He and Thomas Van Dorn are upon the east +veranda of the new Country Club building in Harvey–the pride of the +town–and Thomas is squinting across the golf course at a landscape rolling +away for miles like a sea, a landscape rich in homely wealth. The young New +Yorker comes with letters to Judge Van Dorn from his employers in Broad Street, +and as the two sip their long cool glasses, and betimes smoke their long black +cigars, the former judge falls into one of those self-revealing philosophical +moods that may be called the hypnoidal semi-conscious state of common sense. +Said Van Dorn:</p> + +<p>“Well, boy–what do you think of the greatest thing in the +world?” And not waiting for an answer the older man continued as he held +his cigar at arm’s length and looked between his elevated feet at the +landscape: “‘Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick +of love.’ Great <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_470'></a>470</span>old lover–Solomon. Rather out of the amateur +class–with his thousand wives and concubines; perhaps a virtuous man +withal, but hardly a fanatic on the subject; and when he said he was sick of +love–probably somewhere in his fifties,–Solomon voiced a profound +man’s truth. Most of us are. Speaking generally of love, my boy, I am with +Solomon. There is nothing in it.”</p> + +<p>The cigar in his finely curved mouth–the sensuous mouth of youth, that +had pursed up dryly in middle age–was pointed upward. It stood out from a +reddish lean face and moved when the muscles of the face worked viciously in +response to some inward reflection of Tom Van Dorn.</p> + +<p>He drawled on, “Think of the time men fool away chasing calico. +I’ve gone all the gaits, and I know what I’m talking about. Ladies +and Judy O’Gradies, married and single, decent and indecent–it’s all +the same. I tell you, young man, there’s nothing in it! Love,” he +laughed a little laugh: “Love–why, when I was in the +business,” he sniffed, “I never had any trouble loving any lady I +desired, nor getting her if I loved her long enough and strong enough. When I +was a young cub like you,” Van Dorn waved his weed grandly toward the +young broker, “I used to keep myself awake, cutting notches in my +memory–naming over my conquests. But now I use it as a man does the sheep +over the fence, to put me to sleep, and I haven’t been able to pass my +fortieth birthday in the list for two years, without snoozing. What a fool a man +can make of himself over calico! The ladies, God bless ’em, have got old +John Barleycorn beaten a mile, when it comes to playing hell with a man’s +life. Again speaking broadly, and allowing for certain exceptions, I should +say–” he paused to give the judicial pomp of reflection to his +utterances–“the bigger fool the woman is, the greater fool a man +makes of himself for her. And all for what?”</p> + +<p>His young guest interjected the word “Love?” in the pause. The +Judge made a wry face and continued:</p> + +<p>“Love? Love–why, man, you talk like a school girl. There is no +love. Love and God are twin myths by which we explain the relation of our fates +to our follies. The only thing about me that will live is the blood I transmit +to my <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_471'></a>471</span>children! We +live in posterity. As for love and all the mysteries of the +temple–waugh–woof!” he shuddered.</p> + +<p>He put back his cigar into the corner of his hard mouth. He was squinting +cynically across the rolling golf course. What he saw there checked his talk. He +opened his eyes to get a clearer view. His impression grew definite and +unmistakable. There, half playing and half sporting, like young lambs upon the +close-cropped turf, were Kenyon Adams and Lila Van Dorn! They were unconscious +of all that their gay antics disclosed. They were happy, and were trying only to +express happiness as they ran together after the ball, that flew in front of +them like a mad butterfly. But in the sad lore of his bleak heart, the father +read the meaning of their happiness. Youth in love was never innocent for him. +Looking at Lila romping with her lover, he turned sick at heart. But he held +himself in hand. Only the zigzag scar on his forehead flashing white in the pink +of his brow betrayed the turmoil within him. He tried to keep his eyes off the +golf course. A sharp dread that he might transmit himself in nature to posterity +only through the base blood of the Adamses, struck him. He closed his eyes. But +the wind brought to him the merriment of the young voices. A jealousy of Kenyon, +and an anger at him, flared up in the father. So Tom Van Dorn drew down the +corners of his mouth–and batted his furtive eyes, and put on his bony knee +a mottled, nervous hand, with brown splotches at the wrist, coming up over the +veined furrows that led to his tapering fingers, as he cried harshly in a tone +that once had been soft and mellifluous, and still was deep and chesty: +“Still me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of +love!”</p> + +<p>He would have gone away from the torture that came, as he stared at the +lovers, but his devil held him there. He was glad when a noise of saw and hammer +at the lake drowned the voices on the lawn. His gladness lasted but a moment. +For soon he saw the young people quit chasing their crazy butterfly of a golf +ball, and wander half way up the hill from the lake, to sit in the snug shade of +a wide-spreading, low-branched elm tree. Then the father was nervous, because he +could not hear their voices. As he sat with the young broker, snarling at the +anonymous phantoms of his past which were <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_472'></a>472</span>bedeviling him, a gray doubt kept brushing across +his mind. He realized clearly that he had no legal right to question +Lila’s choice of companions. He understood that the law would not justify +anything that he might do, or say, or think, concerning her and her fortunes. +Yet there unmistakably was the Van Dorn set to her pretty head and a Van Dorn +gesture in her gay hands that had come down from at least four generations in +family tradition. And he had no right even to be offended when she would merge +that Van Dorn blood with the miserable Adams heredity. His impotence in the +situation baffled him, and angered him. The law was final to his mind; but it +did not satisfy his wrathful questioning heart. For in his heart, he realized +that denial was not escape from the responsibility he had renounced when he +tripped down the steps of their home and left Lila pleading for him in her +mother’s arms. He bit his ragged cigar and cursed his God, while the young +man with Tom Van Dorn thought, “Well, what a dour old Turk he +is!”</p> + +<p>The hammering and sawing, which drowned the voices of the young people under +the tree, came from the new bathing pavilion near by. Grant Adams was working on +a two days’ job putting up the pavilion for the summer. He was out of Van +Dorn’s view, facing another angle of the long three-faced veranda. Grant +saw Kenyon lying upon the turf, slim and graceful and with the beauty of youth +radiating from him, and Grant wondered, as he worked, why his son should be +there playing among the hills, while the sons of other men, making much more +money than he–much more money indeed than many of the others who flitted +over the green–should toil in the fumes of South Harvey and in the great +industrial Valley through long hard hours of work, that sapped their heads and +hearts by its monotony of motion, and lack of purpose. As he gazed at the +lovers, their love did not stick in his consciousness–even if he realized +it. Their presence under the elm tree at midday rose as a problem which deepened +a furrow here and there in his seamed face and he hammered and sawed away with a +will, working out in his muscles the satisfaction which his mind could not bring +him.</p> + +<p>As the two fathers from different vistas looked upon their <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_473'></a>473</span>children, Kenyon and Lila +beneath the elm tree were shyly toying with vagrant dreams that trailed across +their hearts. He was looking up at her and saying:</p> + +<p>“Lila–who are we–you and I? I have been gazing at you three +minutes while you were talking, and I see some one quite different from the you +I knew before. Looking up at you, instead of down at you, is like transposing +you. You are strangely new in this other key.”</p> + +<p>The girl did not try to respond in kind–with her lips at least. She +began teasing the youth about his crinkly hair. Breaking a twig as she spoke, +she threw it carelessly at his hair, and it stuck in the closely curled locks. +She laughed gayly at him. Perhaps in some way rather subtly than suddenly, as by +a ghostly messenger from afar, he may have been made aware of her beautiful +body, of the exquisite lines of her figure, of the pink of her radiant skin, or +the red of her girlish lips. For the consciousness of these things seemed to +spend his soul in joy.</p> + +<p>The blazing eyes of Tom Van Dorn, squinting down upon the couple under the +tree, could see the grace that shone from a thousand reactions of their bodies +and faces. He opened his mouth to voice something from the bitterness of his +heart but did not speak. Instead he yawned and cried: “And so we rot and +we rot and we rot.”</p> + +<p>Now it matters little what the lovers chattered about there under the elm +tree, as they played with sticks and pebbles. It was what they would have said +that counts–or perhaps what they should have said, if they had been able +to voice their sense of the gift which the gods were bestowing. But they were +dumb humans, who threw pebbles at each other’s toes, though in the deep +places of their souls, far below the surface waves of bashful patter, heart +might have spoken to heart in passing thus:</p> + +<p>“Oh, Lila, what is beauty? What is it in the soul, running out glad to +meet beauty, whether of line, of tone, of color, of form, of motion, of +harmony?”</p> + +<p>And the answer might have been trumpeted back through the deep:</p> + +<p>“Maybe beauty is the God that is everywhere and everything, releasing +himself in matter. Perhaps for our eyes and <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_474'></a>474</span>ears and fingers, the immanent God had an equation, +whose answer is locked in our souls that are also a part of God–created in +his image. And when in curve or line, in sequence of notes or harmony, or in +thrilling touch sense, the equation is stated in terms of radiation, God seeking +our soul’s answer, speaks to us.”</p> + +<p>But none of this trumpet call of souls reached the two fathers who were +watching the lovers. For one man was too old in selfishness to understand, and +the other had grown too old in bearing others’ burdens to know what voices +speak through the soul’s trumpet, when love first comes into the heart. So +the hammers hammered and the saws groaned in the pavilion, and a hard heart +hammered and a soul groaned and a tongue babbled folly on the veranda. But under +the elm tree, eyes met, and across space went the message that binds lives +forever. She picked up a twig longer than most twigs about her, reached with it +and touched his forehead furtively, stroked his crinkled hair, blushing at her +boldness. His head sank to the earth, he put his face upon the grass, and for a +second he found joy in the rush of tears. They heard voices, bringing the planet +back to them; but voices far away. On the hill across the little valley they +could see two earnest golfers, working along the sky-line.</p> + +<p>The couple on the sky-line hurried along in the heat. The man mopped his +face, and his brown, hairy arms, and his big sinewy neck. The woman, rather +thin, but fresh and with the maidenly look of one who isn’t entirely sure +what that man will do next, kept well in the lead.</p> + +<p>“Well, Emma–there’s love’s young dream all +right.” He stopped to puff, and waved at the couple by the tree. Then he +hitched up his loose, baggy trousers, gave a jerk to his big flowing blue +necktie, let fly at the ball and cried “Fore.” When he came up to +the ball again, he was red and winded. “Emma,” he said, +“let’s go have something to eat at the house–my +figure’ll do for an emeritus bridegroom–won’t it?” And +thus they strolled over the fields and out of the game.</p> + +<p>But on another hill, another couple in the midst of a flock of children +attracted by one of Mr. Brotherton’s smashing laughs, looked down and saw +Lila and Kenyon. The quick <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_475'></a>475</span>eyes of love caught the meaning of the figures under +the tree.</p> + +<p>“Look, mamma–look,” said Nathan Perry, pointing toward the +tree.</p> + +<p>“Oh, Nate,” cried Anne, “–isn’t it nice! Lila +and Kenyon!”</p> + +<p>“Well, mamma–are you happy?” asked Nathan, as he leaned +against the tree beside her. She nodded and directed their glances to the +children and said gently, “And they justify it–don’t +they?”</p> + +<p>He looked at her for a moment, and said, “Yes, dear–I suppose +that’s what the Lord gave us love for. That is why love makes the world go +around.”</p> + +<p>“And don’t the people who don’t have them miss it–my! +Nate, if they only knew–if these bridge-playing, childless ones knew how +dear they are–what joy they bring–just as children–not for +anything else–do you suppose they would–”</p> + +<p>“Oh, you can’t tell,” answered the young father. +“Perhaps selfish people shouldn’t have children; or perhaps +it’s the children that make us unselfish, and so keep us happy. Maybe +it’s one of those intricate psychical reactions, like a chemical +change–I don’t know! But I do know the kids are the best things in +the world.”</p> + +<p>She put her hand in his and squeezed it. “You know, Nate, I was just +thinking to-day as I put up the lunch–I’m a mighty lucky woman. +I’ve had all these children and kept every one so far; I’ve had such +joy in them–such joy, and we haven’t had death. Even little +Annie’s long sickness, and everything–Oh, dear, Nate–but +isn’t she worth it–isn’t she worth it?”</p> + +<p>He kissed her hand and replied, “You know I’m so glad we went +down to South Harvey to live, Anne. I can see–well, here’s the way +it is. Lots of families down there–families that didn’t have any +more to go on than we had then, started out, as we did. They had a raft of +kids–” he laughed, “just as we did. But, +mamma–they’re dead–or worse, they’re growing up +underfed, and are hurrying into the works or the breaker bins. I tell you, +Anne–here’s the thing. Those fathers and mothers didn’t have +any more money than <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_476'></a>476</span>we had–but we did have more and better +training than they had. You knew better than to feed our kids trash, you knew +how to care for them–we knew how to spend our little, so that it would +count. They didn’t. We have ours, and they have doctors’ and +undertakers’ bills. It isn’t blood that counts so much–as the +difference in bringing up. We’re lovers because of our bringing up. +Otherwise, we’d be fighting like cats and dogs, I’d be drinking, +you’d be slommicking around in wrappers, and the kids would be on the +streets.”</p> + +<p>The children playing on the gravel bank were having a gay time. The mother +called to them to be careful of their clothes, and then replied:</p> + +<p>“Nate, honestly I believe if I had two or three million dollars, and +could give every girl in South Harvey a good education–teach her how to +cook and keep house and care for babies before she is eighteen, that we could +change the whole aspect of South Harvey in a generation. If I had just two or +three million dollars to spend–I could fill that town just as full as +Harvey of happy couples like us. Of course there’d be the other +kind–some of them–just as there are the other kind in +Harvey–people like the Van Dorns–but they would be the exception in +South Harvey, as the Van Dorns are the exception in Harvey. And two or three +million dollars would do it.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, mamma,–that’s the hell of it–the very hell of +it that grinds my gizzard–your father and my father and the others who +haven’t done a lick of the work–and who are entitled only to a +decent interest and promoters’ profits, have taken out twenty million +dollars from South Harvey in dividends in the last thirty years–and this +is the result. Hell for forty thousand people down there, and–you and I +and a few dozen educated happy people are the fruit of it. Sometimes, Anne, I +look at our little flock and look at you so beautiful, and think of our life so +glorious, and wonder how a just God can permit it.”</p> + +<p>They looked at the waving acres of blue-grass, dotted with trees, at the +creek winding its way through the cornfields, dark green and all but ready to +tassle, then up at the clear sky, untainted with the smoke of Harvey.</p> + +<p>Then they considered the years that lay back of them. <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_477'></a>477</span>“I think, Nate,” she +answered, “that to love really and truly one man or one woman makes one +love all men and women. I feel that way even about the little fellow +that’s coming. I love him so, that even he makes me love everything. And +so I can’t just pray for him–I have to pray for all the mothers +carrying babies and all the babies in the world. I think when love comes into +the world it is immortal. We die, but the sum of love we live, we leave; it goes +on; it grows. It is the way God gets into the world. Oh, Nate,” she cried, +“I want to live in the next world–personally–with you–to +know the very you. I don’t want the impersonal immortality–I want +just you. But, dear–I–why, I’d give up even that if I could be +sure that the love we live would never leave this earth. Think what the love of +Christ did for the earth and He is still with us in spirit. And I know when we +go away–when any lovers go away, the love they have lived will never leave +this earth. It will live and joy–yes, and agonize too at the injustice of +the world–live and be crucified over and over again, so long as injustice +exists. Only as love grows in the world, and is hurt–is +crucified–will wrongs be righted, will the world be saved.”</p> + +<p>He patted her hand for a minute.</p> + +<p>“Kyle, Nate, Annie–come here, children,” cried the father. +After some repetition of the calling, they came trooping up, asking: “What +is it?”</p> + +<p>“Nothing at all,” answered the father, “we just wanted to +kiss you and feel and see if your wings were sprouting, so that we could break +them off before you fly away,” whereupon there was a hugging bee all +around, and while every one was loving every one else, a golf ball flew by them, +and a moment later the white-clad, unbent figure of Mrs. Bedelia Satterthwaite +Nesbit appeared, bare-headed and bare-armed, and behind her trotted the devoted +white figure of the Doctor, carrying two golf sticks.</p> + +<p>“Chained to her chariot–to make a Roman holiday,” piped the +Doctor. “She’s taking this exercise for my health.”</p> + +<p>“Well, James,” replied his wife rather definitely, “I know +you need it!”</p> + +<p>“And that settles it,” cried the little man shrilly, “say, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_478'></a>478</span>Nate, if we men +ever get the ballot, I’m going to take a stand for liberty.”</p> + +<p>“I’m with you, Doctor,” replied the young man.</p> + +<p>“Nate,” he mocked in his comical falsetto, “as you grow +older and get further and further from your mother’s loving care, +you’ll find that there was some deep-seated natural reason why we men +should lead the sheltered life and leave the hurly-burly of existence to the +women.”</p> + +<p>From long habit, in such cases Mrs. Nesbit tried not to smile and, from long +habit, failed. “Doctor Jim,” she cried as he picked up her ball, and +set it for her, “don’t make a fool of yourself.”</p> + +<p>The little man patted the earth under the ball, and looked up and said as he +took her hand, and obviously squeezed it for the spectators, as he rose.</p> + +<p>“My dear–it’s unnecessary. You have made one of me every +happy minute for forty years,” and smiling at the lovers and their +children, he took the hand held out for him after she had sent the ball over the +hill, and they went away as he chuckled over his shoulder and cheeped: +“Into the twilight’s purple rim–through all the world she +followed him,” and trotting behind her as she went striding into the +sunset, they disappeared over the hill.</p> + +<p>When they had disappeared Anne began thinking of her picnic. She and Nathan +left the children at the lake, and walked to the club house for the baskets. On +the veranda they met Captain Morton in white flannels with a gorgeous purple +necktie and a panama hat of a price that made Anne gasp. He came bustling up to +Anne and Nathan and said:</p> + +<p>“Surprise party–I’m going to give the girls a little +surprise party next week–next Tuesday, and I want you to come–what +say? Out here–next Tuesday night–going to have all the old +friends–every one that ever bought a window hanger, or a churn, or a +sewing machine, or a Peerless cooker, or a Household Horse–but keep it +quiet–surprise on the girls, eh?”</p> + +<p>When they had accepted, the Captain lowered his voice and said mysteriously: +“’Y gory–the old man’s got some ginger in him +yet–eh?” and bustled away with a card in <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_479'></a>479</span>his hands containing the names of the +invited guests, checking the Perrys from the list as he went.</p> + +<p>As Captain Morton rounded the corner of the veranda and came into the +out-of-door dining room, he found Margaret Van Dorn, sitting at a table by a +window with Ahab Wright–flowing white side whiskers and white necktie +inviolate and pristine in their perfection. Ahab was clearly confused when the +Captain sailed into the room. For there was a breeziness about the +Captain’s manner, and although Ahab respected the Captain’s new +wealth, still his years of poverty and the meanness of his former calling as a +peddler of insignificant things, made Ahab Wright feel a certain squeamishness +when he had to receive Captain Morton upon the term which, in Ahab’s mind, +a man of so much money should be received.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Van Dorn was using her eyes on Ahab. Perhaps they cast the spell. She +was leaning forward with her chin in her hands, with both elbows on the table, +and Ahab Wright, of the proud, prosperous and highly respectable firm of Wright +& Perry, was in much the mental and moral attitude of the bird when the cat +creeps up to the tree-trunk. He was not unhappy; not terrorized–just +curious and rather resistless, knowing that if danger ever came he could fly. +And Mrs. Van Dorn, who had tired of the toys at hand, was adventuring rather +aimlessly into the cold blue eyes of Ahab, to see what might be in them.</p> + +<p>“For many years,” she was saying, and pronounced it +“yee-ahs,” having remembered at the moment to soften her +“r’s,” “I have been living on a highah plane wheyah one +ignoahs the futuah and foahgets the pahst. On this plane one rises to his full +capacity of soul strength, without the hampah of remoahs or the terror of a +vindictive Providence.”</p> + +<p>She might as well have been reciting the alphabet backwards so far as Ahab +understood or cared what she said. He was fascinated by her resemblance to a +pink and white marshmallow–rather over-powdered. But she was still +fortifying herself from that little black box in the farthest corner in the +bottom drawer of her dresser–and fortifying herself with two brown pellets +instead of one. So she ogled <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_480'></a>480</span>Ahab Wright by way of diversion, and sat in the +recesses of her soul and wondered what she would say next.</p> + +<p>The Captain pulling his panama off made a tremendous bow as Margaret was +saying: “Those who grahsp the great Basic Truths in the Science of +Being–” and just as the Captain was about to open his mouth to +invite Ahab Wright to his party, plumb came the ghastly consciousness to him +that the Van Dorns were not on his list. For the Van Dorns, however securely +they were entrenched socially among the new people who had no part in the +town’s old quarrel with Tom, however the oil and gas and smelter people +and the coal magnates may have received the Van Dorns–still they were +under the social ban of the only social Harvey that Captain Morton knew. So as a +man falling from a balloon gets his balance, the Captain gasped as he came up +from his low bow and said:</p> + +<p>“Madam, I says to myself just now as I looks over to that elm tree +yonder,” he pointed to the place where Kenyon and Lila were sitting, +“soon we’ll be having the fourth generation here in Harvey, and I +says, that will interest Tom! An ’y gory, ma’am, as I saw you sitting +here, I says as it was well in my mind, ‘Here’s Tom’s lady love, and +I’ll just go over and pass my congratulations on to Tom through the apple +of his eye, as you may say, and not bother him and the young man around the +corner there in their boss trade, eh?’ What say?” He was flushed and +red, and he did not know exactly where to stop, but it was out–and after a +few sparring sentences, he broke away from the clutch of his bungling intrusion +and was gone. But as the Captain left the couple at the table, the spell was +broken. Life had intruded, and Ahab rose hastily and went his way.</p> + +<p>Margaret Van Dorn sat looking out at a dreary world. Even the lovers by the +elm tree did not quicken her pulse. Scarcely more did they interest her than her +vapid adventure with Ahab Wright. All romantic adventure, personal or vicarious, +was as ashes on her lips. But emotion was not all dead in her. As she gazed at +Lila and Kenyon, Margaret wondered if her husband could see the pair. Her first +emotional reaction was a gloating sense that he would be boiling with +humiliation and rage when he saw his child so obviously <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_481'></a>481</span>and publicly, even if unconsciously, +adoring an Adams. So she exulted in the Van Dorn discomfiture. As her first +spiteful impulse wore away, a sense of desolation overcame Margaret Van Dorn. +Probably she had no regrets that she had abandoned Kenyon. For years she had +nursed a daily horror that the door which hid her secret might swing open, but +that horror was growing stale. She felt that the door was forever sealed by +time. So in the midst of a world at its spring, a budding world, a world of +young mating, a gay world going out on its vast yearly voyage to hunt new life +in new joy, a quest for ever new yet old as God’s first smile on a world +unborn, this woman sat in a drab and dreary desolation. Even her spite withered +as she sat playing with her tall glass. And as spite chilled, her loneliness +grew.</p> + +<p>She knew better than any one else in Harvey–better even than the +Nesbits–what Kenyon Adams really promised in achievement and fame. They +knew that he had some European recognition. Margaret in Europe had been amazed +to see how far he was going. In New York and Boston, she knew what it meant to +have her son’s music on the best concert programs. Her realization of her +loss increased her loneliness. But regret did not produce remorse. She was +always and finally glad that the door was inexorably sealed upon her secret. She +saw only her husband angered by her son’s association with her +husband’s daughter, and when malice spent itself, she was weary and lonely +and out of humor, and longed to retire to her fortification.</p> + +<p>After Captain Morton had bowed himself away from Margaret Van Dorn, he stood +at the other end of the veranda looking down toward the lake. The carpenters +were quitting work for the day on the new bathing pavilion and he saw the tall +figure of Grant Adams in the group. He hurried down the steps near by, and came +bustling over to Grant.</p> + +<p>“Just the man I want to see! I saw Jap chasing around the golf course +with Ruthie and invited him, but he said your pa wasn’t very spry and +mightn’t be uptown to-morrow, so you just tell him for me that you and he +are to come to my party here next Tuesday night–surprise party for the +girls–going to break something to them they don’t know anything +about–what say? Tell your pa that <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_482'></a>482</span>his old army friend is going to send his +car–my new car–great, big, busting gray battleship for your +pa–makes Tom’s car look like an ash cart. Don’t let your pa +refuse. I want to bring you all up here to the party in that car in +style–you and Amos and Jap and Kenyon! eh? Say, Grant–tell +me–” he wagged his head at Kenyon and Lila still loitering by the +tree. “What’s Kenyon’s idea in loafing around so much here in +Harvey? He’s old enough to go to work. What say?” Grant tried to get +it to the Captain that Kenyon’s real job in the world was composing music, +and that sometimes he tired of cities and came down to Harvey to get the +sunshine and prairie grass and the woods and the waters of his childhood into +his soul. But the Captain waved the idea aside, “Nothing in the fiddling +business, Grant–two dollars a day and find yourself, is all the best of +’em make,” protested the Captain. “Let him do like I +done–get at something sound and practical early in life and ’y gory, +man–look at me. What say?”</p> + +<p>Grant did not answer, but when the Captain veered around to the subject of +his party, Grant promised to bring the whole Adams family. A moment later the +Captain saw the Sands’s motor car on the road before them, and said:</p> + +<p>“Excuse me, Grant–here are the Sandses–I’ve got to +invite them–Hi there, Dan’l, come alongside.” While the Captain was +inviting Daniel Sands, the Doctor’s electric came purring up the hill to +the club house driven by Laura Van Dorn. Grant was trotting ahead to join the +other carpenters who were going to the street-car station, when Laura passing, +hailed him:</p> + +<p>“Wait a minute, Grant, till I take this to father, and I’ll go +with you.”</p> + +<p>As Laura Van Dorn turned her car around the club house, she stopped it under +the veranda overlooking the golf course and the rolling prairie furrowed by the +slowly winding stream. The afternoon sun slanting upon the landscape brought out +all its beauty–its gay greens, its somber, contrasting browns, and its +splashing of color from the fruit trees across the valley that blushed pink and +went white in the first unsure ecstasies of new life. Then she saw Kenyon and +Lila slowly walking up the knoll to the road. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_483'></a>483</span>The mother noted with quick instinct the way their +hands jostled together as they walked. The look that flashed from their eyes +when their hands touched–the look of proprietorship in each +other–told Laura Van Dorn that her life’s work with Lila was +finished. The daughter’s day of choice had come; and whatever of honesty, +whatever of sense, and sentiment, whatever of courage or conscience the mother +had put into the daughter’s heart and mind was ready for its lifelong +test. Lila had embarked on her own journey; and motherhood was ended for Laura +Van Dorn.</p> + +<p>As she looked at the girl, the mother saw herself, but she was not embittered +at the sad ending of her own journey along the road which her daughter was +taking. For years she had accepted as the fortunes of war, what had come to her +with her marriage, and because she had the daughter, the mother knew that she +was gainer after all. For to realize motherhood even with one child, was to +taste the best that life held. So her face reflected, as a cloud reflects the +glory of the dawn, something of the radiance that shone in the two young faces +before her; and in her faith she laid small stress upon the particular one +beside her daughter. Not his growing fame, not his probable good fortune, +inspired her satisfaction. When she considered him at all as her +daughter’s lover, she only reflected on the fact that all she knew of +Kenyon was honest and frank and kind. Then she dismissed him from her +thoughts.</p> + +<p>The mother standing on the hillock looking at the youth and maiden sauntering +toward her, felt the serene reliance in the order of things that one has who +knows that the worst life can do to a brave, wise, kind heart, is not bad. For +she had felt the ruthless wrenches of the senseless wheels of fate upon her own +flesh. Yet she had come from the wheels bruised, and in agony, but not broken, +not beaten. Her peace of mind was not passive. It amounted to a militant pride +in the strength and beauty of the soul she had equipped for the voyage. Laura +Van Dorn was sure of Lila and was happy. Her eyes filled with grateful tears as +she looked down upon her daughter.</p> + +<p>Her father, toddling ahead of Mrs. Nesbit a hundred paces, reached the car +first. She nodded at the young people <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_484'></a>484</span>trudging up the slope. “Yes,” said the +Doctor, “we have been watching them for half an hour. Seems like the voice +of the turtle is heard in the land.”</p> + +<p>The daughter alighted from the runabout, her father got in and waited for his +wife. The three turned their backs on the approaching lovers and pretended not +to see them. As Laura walked around the corner of the house, she found Grant +waiting for her at the car station, and the two having missed the car that the +other carpenters had taken, stood under the shed waiting.</p> + +<p>“Well–Laura,” he asked, “are you leaving the idle +rich for the worthy poor?” She laughed and explained:</p> + +<p>“The electric was for father and mother, and so long as I have to go +down to my girls’ class in South Harvey this evening for their picnic, +I’m going to ride in your car, if you don’t mind?”</p> + +<p>The street car came wailing down on them and when they had taken a rear seat +on the trailer together, Grant began: “I’m glad you’ve come +just now–just to-night. I’ve been anxious to see you. I’ve got +some things to talk over–mighty big things–for me. In the first +place–”</p> + +<p>“In the first place and before I forget it, let me tell you the good +news. A telegram has just come from the capital to father, saying that the State +supreme court had upheld his labor bill–his and your bill that went +through the referendum.</p> + +<p>“‘Referendum J.’ probably was the judge who wrote the +opinion,” said Grant grimly. He took off his hat, and the cooling breeze +of the late afternoon played with his hair, without fluttering the curly, wiry +red poll, turning light yellow with the years. “Well, whoever influenced +the court–I’m glad that’s over. The men have been grumbling +for a year and more because we couldn’t get the benefits of the law. But +their suits are pending–and now they ought to have their money.”</p> + +<p>As the car whined along through the prairie streets, Grant, who had started +to speak twice, at last said abruptly, “I’ve got to cut +loose.” He turned around so that his eyes could meet hers and went on: +“Your father and George Brotherton and a lot of our people seem to think +that we can patch <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_485'></a>485</span>things up–I mean this miserable profit system. +They think by paying the workmen for accidents and with eight hours, a living +wage, and all that sort of thing, we can work out the salvation of labor. I used +to think that too; but it won’t do, Laura–I’ve gone clean to +the end of that road, and there’s nothing in it. And I’m going to +cut loose. That’s what I want to see you about. There’s nothing in +this step-at-a-time business. I’m for the revolution!”</p> + +<p>She showed clearly that she was surprised, and he seemed to find some +opposition in her countenance, for he hurried on: “The Kingdom–I +mean the Democracy of labor–is at hand; the day is at its dawn. I want to +throw my weight for the coming of the Democracy.”</p> + +<p>His voice was full of emotion as he cried:</p> + +<p>“Laura–Laura, I know what you think; you want me to wait; you +want me to help on the miserable patchwork job of repairing the profit system. +But I tell you–I’m for the revolution, and with all the love in my +heart–I’m going to throw myself into it!”</p> + +<p>No one sat in the seat before them, as they whirled through the lanes leading +to town, and he rested his head in his hand and put his elbow on the forward +seat.</p> + +<p>“Well, what do you think of it?” he asked, looking anxiously into +her troubled face. “I have been feeling strongly now for a +month–waiting to see you–also waiting to be dead sure of myself. Now +I am sure!” The mad light in his eye and the zealot’s enthusiasm +flaming in his battered face, made the woman pause a moment before she +replied:</p> + +<p>“Well,” she smiled as she spoke, “don’t you think you +are rather rushing me off my feet? I’ve seen you coming up to it for some +time–but I didn’t know you were so far along with your +conviction.”</p> + +<p>She paused and then: “Of course, Grant, the Socialists–I mean the +revolutionary group–even the direct action people–have their proper +place in the scheme of things–but, Grant–” she looked +earnestly at him with an anxious face, “they are the scouts–the +pioneers ahead of the main body of the troops! And, Grant,” she spoke +sadly, “that’s a hard place–can’t you find enough +fighting back with the main body of the troops–back with the +army?”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_486'></a>486</span>He beat the seat +with his iron claw impatiently and cried: “No–no–I’m +without baggage or equipment. I’m traveling light. I must go forward. They +need me there. I must go where the real danger is. I must go to point the +way.”</p> + +<p>“But what is the way, Grant–what is it? You don’t +know–any more than we do–what is beyond the next decade’s +fight! What is the way you are going to point out so fine and gay–what is +it?” she cried.</p> + +<p>“I don’t know,” he answered doggedly. “I only know I +must go. The scouts never know where they are going. Every great movement has +its men who set out blindly, full of faith, full of courage, full of joy, happy +to fail even in showing what is not the way–if they cannot find the path. +I must go,” he cried passionately, “with those who leave their homes +to mark the trail–perhaps a guide forward, perhaps as a warning +away–but still to serve. I’m going out to preach the revolution for +I know that the day of the Democracy of labor is at hand! It is all but +dawning.”</p> + +<p>She saw the exultation upon him that hallowed his seamed features and she +could not speak. But when she got herself in hand she said calmly: “But, +Grant–that’s stuff and nonsense–there is no revolution. There +can be no Democracy of labor, so long as labor is what it is. We all want to +help labor–we know that it needs help. But there can be no Democracy of +labor until labor finds itself; until it gets capacity for handling big affairs, +until it sees more clearly what is true and what is false. Just now labor is +awakening, is growing conscious–a little–but, Grant, come now, my +good friend, listen, be sensible, get down to earth. Can’t you see your +fine pioneering and your grand scouting won’t help–not +now?”</p> + +<p>“And can’t you understand,” he replied almost angrily, +“that unless I or some one else who can talk to these people does go out +and preach a definite ideal, a realizable hope–even though it may not be +realized, even though it may not take definite shape–they will never wake +up? Can’t you see, girl, that when labor is ready for the +revolution–it won’t need the revolution? Can’t you see that +unless we preach the revolution, they will never be ready for it? When the <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_487'></a>487</span>workers can stand +together, can feel class consciousness and strike altogether, can develop +organizing capacity enough to organize, to run their own affairs–then the +need for class consciousness will pass, and the demand for the revolution will +be over? Can’t you see that I must go out blindly and cry discontent to +these people?”</p> + +<p>She smiled and shook her head and answered, “I don’t know, +Grant–I don’t know.”</p> + +<p>They were coming into town, and every few blocks the car was taking on new +passengers. She spoke low and almost whispered when she answered:</p> + +<p>“I only know that I believe in you–you are my faith; you are my +social gospel.” She paused, hesitated, flushed slightly, and said, +“Where you go I shall go, and your people shall be my people! Only +do–Oh, do consider this well before you take the final step.”</p> + +<p>“Laura, I must go,” he returned stubbornly. “I am going to +preach the revolution of love–the Democracy of labor founded on the theory +that the Holy Ghost is in every heart–poor as well as rich–rich as +well as poor. I’m not going to preach against the rich–but against +the system that makes a few men rich without much regard to their talent, at the +expense of all the rest, without much regard to their talents.”</p> + +<p>The woman looked at him as he turned his blue eyes upon her in a kind of +delirium of conviction. He hurried on as their car rattled through the town:</p> + +<p>“We must free master as well as slave. For while there is +slavery–while the profit system exists–the mind of the slave and the +mind of the master will be cursed with it. There can be no love, no justice +between slave and master–only deceit and violence on each side, and +I’m going out to preach the revolution–to call for the end to a +system that keeps love out of the world.”</p> + +<p>“Well, then, Grant,” said the woman as the car jangled its way +down Market Street, “hurrah for the revolution.”</p> + +<p>She smiled up at him, and they rode without speaking until they reached South +Harvey. He left her at the door of her kindergarten, and a group of young girls, +waiting for her, surrounded her.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_488'></a>488</span>When he reached +his office, he found Violet Hogan working at her desk.</p> + +<p>“You’ll find all your mail opened, and I’ve noted the +things that have been attended to,” she said, as she turned to him. +“I’m due over to the girls’ class with Miss +Laura–I’m helping her to-night with her picnic.”</p> + +<p>Grant nodded, and fell to his work. Violet went on:</p> + +<p>“The letters for your signature are here on my desk. Money seems to be +coming in. New local showing up down in Magnus–from the tile works.” +She rose, put on her coat and hat, and said as she stood in the door, +“To-morrow will be your day in–won’t it?” He nodded at +his work, and she called out, “Well,–bye, bye–I’ll be in +about noon.”</p> + +<p>Daylight faded and he turned on the electric above his desk and was going +over his work, making notations on letters for Violet, when he heard a footstep +on the stairs. He recognized the familiar step of Henry Fenn.</p> + +<p>“Come in–come in, Henry,” cried Grant.</p> + +<p>Fenn appeared, saw Grant at his work, slipped into a chair, and said:</p> + +<p>“Now go right on–don’t mind me, young man.” Fenn +pulled a newspaper from his cheap neat coat, and sat reading it, under a light +that he made for himself at Violet’s desk. The light fell on his thin +whitening hair–still coarse, and close cropped. In his clean, washed-out +face there was the faded glow of the man who had been the rising young attorney +thirty years before. Grant knew that Fenn did not expect the work to stop, so he +went on with it. “I’m going to supper about eight +o’clock,” said Grant, and asked: “Will that be all +right?”</p> + +<p>“Don’t mind me,” returned Fenn, and smiled with a dim +reflection of the old incandescence of his youth.</p> + +<p>Fenn’s hands trembled a little, but his eyes were steady and his voice +clear. His clothes were shabby but decent, and his whole appearance was that of +one who is making it a point to keep up. When Grant had finished his +correspondence, and was sealing up his letters, Fenn lent a hand and began:</p> + +<p>“Well, Grant, I’m in trouble–Oh, it’s not +that,” he <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_489'></a>489</span>laughed as Grant looked quickly into the clean, +alert old face. “That’s not bothered me for–Oh, for two years +now. But it’s Violet–she wants me to marry her.” He blurted it +out as if it had been pent in, and was hard to hold.</p> + +<p>“Why–well–what makes you–well, has she proposed, +Henry?” asked the younger man.</p> + +<p>“Naw–of course not,” answered Fenn. “Boy, you +don’t know anything about women.”</p> + +<p>Fenn shook his head knowingly, and winked one eye slowly. +“Children–she’s set the children on me. You know, +Grant–” he turned his smile on with what candlepower he could +muster, “that’s my other weakness–children. And they’re +the nicest children in the world. But I can’t–I tell you, man, I +can’t,” protested Mr. Fenn, as if he believed Grant in league with +the woman to kidnap him.</p> + +<p>“Well, then, don’t,” said Grant, rising and gathering up +his mail.</p> + +<p>“But how can I help it?” Fenn cried helplessly. “What can a +man do? Those kids need a father. I need a family–I’ve always needed +a family–but I don’t want Violet–nor any one else.” +Grant towed him along to the restaurant, and they sat alone. After Grant had +ordered his supper he asked, “Henry–why can’t you marry +Violet? She’s a sensible, honest woman–she’s got over her +foolishness; what’s wrong with her?”</p> + +<p>“Why, of course, she is a good woman. If you’d see her chasing +out nights–picking up girls, mothering ’em, loving ’em, +working with ’em–she knows their language; she can talk to ’em +so they get it. And I’ve known her time and again to get scent of a new +girl over there at Bessie Wilson’s and go after her and pull her out and +start her right again. I tell you, Grant, Violet has her weaknesses–as to +hair ribbons and shirtwaists and frills for the kids–but she’s got a +heart, Grant–a mighty big heart.”</p> + +<p>“Then why not marry her?” persisted Grant.</p> + +<p>“That’s just it,” answered Fenn.</p> + +<p>He looked hopelessly at Grant and finally said as he reached his hands across +the table and grasped Grant’s big flinty paw, “Grant–let me +tell you something–it’s Margaret. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_490'></a>490</span>I’m a fool–a motley fool i’ the +forest, Grant, but I can’t help it; I can’t help it,” he +cried. “So long as she lives–she may need me. I don’t trust +that damn scoundrel, Grant. She may need me, and I stand ready to go to hell +itself with her if I live a thousand years. It’s not that I want her any +more; but, Grant–maybe you know her; maybe you understand. She used to +hate you for some reason, and maybe that will help you to know how I feel. +But–I know I’m weak–God knows I’m putty in my soul. And +I’m ashamed. But I mustn’t get married. It wouldn’t be fair. +It wouldn’t be square to Violet, nor the kids, nor to any one. So long as +Margaret is on this earth–it’s my job to stand guard and wait till +she needs me.”</p> + +<p>He turned a troubled, heartbroken face up to the younger man and concluded, +“I know she despises me–that she loathes me. But I can’t help +it, Grant–and I came to you to kind of help me with Violet. It +wouldn’t be right to–well, to let this thing go on.” He heaved +a deep sigh, then he added as he fumbled with the red tablecloth, “What a +fool a man is–Lord, what a fool!”</p> + +<p>In the end, Grant had to agree to let Violet know, by some round about +procedure devised by Mr. Fenn’s legal mind, that he was not a marriageable +person. At the same time, Grant had to agree not to frighten away the Hogan +children.</p> + +<p>The next morning as Grant and his father rode from their home into town, +Grant told his father of the invitation to the Captain’s party.</p> + +<p>“If your mother could have lived just to see the Captain on his grand +plutocratic spree, Grant–” said his father. He did not finish the +sentence, but cracked the lines on the old mare’s back and looked at the +sky. He turned his white beard and gentle eyes upon his son and said, +“There was a time last night, before you came in, when I thought I had +her. Some one was greatly interested in you and some new project you have in +mind. Emerson thinks well of it,” said Amos, “though,” he +added, “Emerson thinks it won’t amount to much–in practical +immediate results. But I think, Grant, now of course, I can’t be +sure,” the father rubbed his jaw and shook a meditative head, “it +certainly did seem to me mother was there for a time. Something kept <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_491'></a>491</span>bothering +Emerson–calling Grantie–the way she used to–all the time he +was talking!”</p> + +<p>The father let Grant out of the buggy at the Vanderbilt House in South +Harvey, and the old mare and her driver jogged up town to the +<i>Tribune</i> office. There he creaked out of the buggy and went to his work. It +was nine o’clock before the Captain came capering in, and the two old +codgers in their seventies went into the plot of the surprise party with the +enthusiasm of boys.</p> + +<p>After the Captain had explained the purpose of the surprise, Amos Adams sat +with his hands on his knees and smiled. “Well–well, Ezry–I +didn’t realize it. Time certainly does fly. And it’s all +right,” he added, “I’m glad you’re going to do it. She +certainly will approve it. And the girls–” the old man chuckled, +“you surely will settle them for good and all.”</p> + +<p>He laughed a little treble laugh, cracked and yet gleeful. “Nice +girls–all of ’em. But Grant says Jap’s a kind of shining +around your Ruth–that’s the singing one, isn’t it? Well, I +suppose, Ezry, either of ’em might do worse. Of course, this singing one +doesn’t remember her mother much, so I suppose she won’t be much +affected by your surprise?” He asked a question, but after his manner went +on, “Well, maybe it was Jap and Ruth that was bothering Mary last night. I +kind of thought someway, for the first time maybe I’d get her. But nothing +much came of it,” he said sadly. “It’s funny about the way +I’ve never been able to get her direct, when every one else +comes–isn’t it?”</p> + +<p>The Captain was in no humor for occult things, so he cut in with: “Now +listen here, Amos–what do you think of me asking Mrs. Herdicker to sit at +one end of the table, eh? Of course I know what the girls will think–but +then,” he winked with immense slyness, “that’s all right. I +was talking to her about it, and she’s going to have a brand new +dress–somepin swell–eh? By the jumping John Rogers, +Amos–there’s a woman–eh?”</p> + +<p>And tightening up his necktie–a scarlet creation of much pride–he +pulled his hat over his eyes, as one who has great affairs under it, and marched +double-quick out of the office.</p> + +<p>You may be sure that some kind friend told the Morton <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_492'></a>492</span>girls of what was in store for them, the +kind friend being Mr. George Brotherton, who being thoroughly married, regarded +any secret from his wife in the light of a real infidelity. So he told her all +that he and Market Street knew. Now the news of the party–a party in whose +preparations they were to have no share, roused in the Misses Morton, and their +married sister, jointly and severally, that devil of suspicion which always +tormented their dreams.</p> + +<p>“And, Emma,” gasped Martha, when Emma came over for her daily +visit, “just listen! Mrs. Herdicker is having the grandest dress made for +the party! She told the girls in the store she had twenty-seven dollars’ +worth of jet on it–just jet alone.” Here the handsome Miss Morton +turned pale with the gravity of the news. “She told the girls to-day, this +very afternoon, that she was going to take the three o’clock morning train +right after the party for New York to do her fall buying. Fall buying, indeed! +Fall buying,” the handsome Miss Morton’s voice thickened and she +cried, “just because papa’s got a little money, she +thinks–”</p> + +<p>But what she thought Miss Morton never said, for Mrs. Brotherton, still +familiar with the gossip of the schoolhouse, cut in to say: “And, Martha, +what do you think those Copini children say? They say father’s got their +father’s orchestra to practice all the old sentimental music you ever +heard of–‘Silver Threads Among the Gold,’ and ‘Do You Love Me, Molly +Darling,’ and ‘Lorena,’ and ‘Robin Adair,’–and +oh,” cried Mrs. Brotherton, shaking a hopeless head, “I don’t +know what other silly things.”</p> + +<p>“And yes, girls,” exclaimed the youngest Miss Morton flippantly, +“he’s sent around to the Music School for Miss Howe to come and sing +‘O Promise Me’!”</p> + +<p>“The idea!” cried the new Mrs. Brotherton.</p> + +<p>“Why, the very idea!” broke out the handsome Miss Morton, sitting +by the dining-room table.</p> + +<p>“The idea!” echoed the youngest Miss Morton, putting away her +music roll, and adding in gasping excitement: “And that isn’t the +worst. He sent word for her to sing it just after the band had finished playing +the wedding march!”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_493'></a>493</span>Now terror came +into the house of Morton, and when the tailor’s boy brought home a +package, the daughters tore it open ruthlessly, and discovered–as they sat +limply with it spread out in its pristine beauty on the sofa before them–a +white broadcloth dinner suit–with a watered silk vest. Half an hour later, +when a pleated dress shirt with pearl buttons came, it found three daughters +sitting with tight lips waiting for their father–and six tigers’ +eyes glaring hungrily at the door through which he was expected. At six +o’clock, when they heard his nimble step on the porch, they looked at one +another in fear, and as he burst into the room, each looked decisively at the +other as indicating a command to begin.</p> + +<p>He came in enveloping them in one all-encompassing hug and cried:</p> + +<p>“Well ’y gory, girls, you certainly are the three graces, the three +fates, and the world, the flesh and the devil all in one–what +say?”</p> + +<p>But the Morton daughters were not to be silenced. Ruth took in a deep breath +and began:</p> + +<p>“Well, now see here, father, do you know what people are saying +about–”</p> + +<p>“Of course–I was just coming to that, Ruthie,” answered the +Captain. “Amos Adams he says, ‘Well, Cap,’ say he, ‘I was talking to +Cleopatra and she says Queen Victoria had a readin’ to the effect that +there was a boy named Amos Ezra Morton Adams over on one of the stars in the +southwest corner of the milky way that would be busting into this part of the +universe in about three years, more or less’–what say?”</p> + +<p>The old man laughed and Ruth flushed red, and ran away. The Captain saw his +suit lying on the sofa.</p> + +<p>“Somepin new–” interjected the Captain. “Thought +I’d kind o’ bloom out; sort o’ to let folks know that the old +man had a little kick in him yet–eh? And now, girls–listen; +let’s all go out to the Country Club for dinner to-night, and I’ll +put on my new suit and you kind of rig up in your best, and we’ll make +what George calls a killing–what say?” He put his hands in his +pockets and looked critically at his new clothes. The flight of Ruth had quieted +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_494'></a>494</span>Emma, but Martha +came swooping down on him with “Now, father–look here–about +that Country Club party–”</p> + +<p>The Captain shot a swift glance at Martha, and saw Emma looking at him from +the kitchen door.</p> + +<p>“What party?” he exclaimed. “Can’t I ask my girls out +for a little innocent dinner without its being called a party–eh? Now, you +girls get your things on and come on. As for me, the limousine will be at the +door at eight!”</p> + +<p>He disappeared up the stairs and in the Morton household, two young women, +woeful and heavy hearted, went about their toilets, while in the Brotherton +establishment, one large fat man in suspenders felt the rush of sudden tears on +his shirt front and marveled at the ways of the sex. When the Mortons were in +the midst of their moist and lugubrious task, the thin, cracked little voice of +the Captain called out:</p> + +<p>“Girls–before you go, don’t forget to put that cold beef on +and stew it to-night for hash in the morning–eh?”</p> + +<p>It was a beautiful party that Captain Morton gave at the Country Club house +that evening. And at the end of a most gorgeously elaborate dinner, wherein were +dishes whose very names the Captain did not know, he rose among his guests +seated at the U-shaped table in the big dining room with the heavy brown beams +in the ceiling, a little old man by his big chair, which stood beside a chair +unoccupied.</p> + +<p>“Friends,” he said, “when a man gets on in his seventies, +at that uncertain time, when he does not know whether to be ashamed of his years +or proud of his age,” he smiled at Daniel Sands, who clicked his +false-teeth in appreciation of the phrase, “it would seem that thoughts of +what the poet calls ‘the livelier iris’ on the ‘burnished dove’ +would not inconvenience him to any great extent–eh? At seventy-five a +young fellow’s fancy ought to be pretty well done lightly turning to +thoughts of love–what say? But by cracky–they +don’t.”</p> + +<p>He paused. The Morton girls in shame looked at their plates. “So, I +just thought I’d have this little party to tell you about it. I wanted to +surprise the girls.” There was only a faint clapping of hands; for tears +in the eyes of the three Morton daughters discouraged merriment.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_495'></a>495</span>“A man, as +I was saying, never gets too old–never gets too crabbed, for what my +friend Amos’s friend Emerson calls ‘a ruddy drop of manly +blood’–eh? So, when that ‘ruddy drop of manly blood’ comes a +surging up in me, I says I’ll just about have a party for that drop of +manly blood! I’m going to tell you all about it. There’s a woman in +my mind–a very beautiful woman; for years–a feller just as well +breakdown and confess–eh?–well for years she’s been in my mind +pretty much all the time–particularly since Ruthie there was a baby and +left alorn and alone–as you may say–eh? And so,” he reached +down and grasped a goblet of water firmly, and held it before him, “and +so,” he repeated, and his old eyes glistened and his voice broke, +“as it was just fifty years ago to-night that heaven opened and let her +come to me, before I marched off to war–so,” he hurried along, +“I give you this toast–the vacant chair–may it always, always, +always be filled in my heart of hearts!”</p> + +<p>He could not drink, but sank with his head on his arms, and when they had +ceased clapping their hands, the old man looked up, signaled to the orchestra, +and cried in a tight, cracked voice, “Now, dern ye–begin yer +fiddlin’!”</p> + +<p>Whereupon the three Morton daughters wept and the old ladies gathered about +them and wept, and Mrs. Hilda Herdicker’s ton of jet heaved as in a tidal +wave, and the old men dried their eyes, and only Lila Van Dorn and Kenyon Adams, +holding hands under the table, really knew what it was all about.</p> + +<p>Now they have capered through these pages of this chapter–all of the +people in this story in their love affairs. Hand in hand, they have come to the +footlights, hand in hand they have walked before us. We have seen that love is a +passion with many sides. It varies with each soul. In youth, in maturity, in +courtship, in marriage, in widowhood, in innocence, and in the wisdom of +serpents, love reflects the soul it shines on. For love is youth in the +heart–youth that always beckons, that always shapes our visions. Love ever +sheens and shimmers brightly from within us; but what it shows to the +world–that is vastly different with each of us. For that is the shadow of +his inmost being.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_496'></a>496</span><a id='link_43'></a>CHAPTER XLIII<br /><span class='h2fs'>WHEREIN WE FIND GRANT ADAMS CALLING UPON KENYON’S MOTHER, AND DARKNESS FALLS UPON TWO LOVERS</span></h2> + +<p>Once in a while an item appeared in the Harvey <i>Tribune</i> that might have +been found nowhere else, and for reasons. For instance, the issue of the +<i>Tribune</i> that contained the account of the Captain’s party also +contained this item, which Daniel Sands had kept out of every other paper in +town:</p> + +<div class='bquote'> +<p>“Mortimer Sands, son of D. Sands of the Traders’ Bank, has +returned from Arizona, where he has been seeking health. He is hopeful of +ultimate recovery.”</p></div> + +<p>Another item of interest appeared in the same issue of the paper. It related +that T. Van Dorn, former Judge of the District Court, is in Washington, D. C., +on legal business.</p> + +<p>The Adams family item, which the paper never failed to contain, was this:</p> + +<div class='bquote'> +<p>“K. Adams will leave next week for New York, where his new opera, +‘Rachel,’ will have its first appearance next autumn. He will be missed in +our midst.”</p></div> + +<p>And for a paper with no subscribers and no patronage, it is curious to note +that the <i>Tribune</i> carried the news above mentioned to all of Harvey, and +all of Harvey discussed the news. Not that the town did not know more or less of +the facts as hereinabove related; but when a fact is read in print it becomes +something different from a fact. It becomes a public matter, an episode in the +history of the world.</p> + +<p>In the same issue of the paper was a statement from Grant Adams that he had +decided to throw his life with the Socialists <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_497'></a>497</span>and with that group known as the revolutionary +Socialists. Grant was enough of a personage, and the declaration was short +enough and interesting enough, to give it a place in the newspapers of the +country for a day. In the State where he lived, the statement created some +comment–mostly adverse to Dr. Nesbit, whose political association with +Grant Adams had linked the Doctor’s name with Grant’s. Being out of +power, Dr. Nesbit felt these flings. So it happened that when, the Sunday +following the announcement, Grant came with his father and Kenyon in the +rattling old buggy up to the Nesbit home on Elm Street, Amos Adams found a +rollicking, frivolous, mischievous host–but Grant Adams found a natty, +testy, sardonic old man, who made no secret of his ill-humor.</p> + +<p>Kenyon found Lila, and the two with their music indoors made a background for +the talk on the veranda. Nathan Perry, who came up for a pill or a powder for +one of his flock, sat for a time on the veranda steps. For all his frivoling +with the elder Adams, Nathan could see by the way the loose, wrinkled skin on +the Doctor’s face kept twitching when Grant spoke, that the old man had +something on his mind.</p> + +<p>“Grant,” cried the Doctor, in his excited treble, “do you +realize what an ornate, unnecessary, unmitigated conspicuous, and elaborate jack +you’ve made of yourself? Do you–young man? Well, you have. Your +revolution–your revolution!” shrilled the old man. “Damn sight +of revolution you’ll kick up charging over the country with your +water-tank patriots–your–your box-car statesmen–now, +won’t you?”</p> + +<p>“Here–Doctor,–come–be–”</p> + +<p>But the Doctor would not let Grant talk. The chirrup of the shrill old voice +bore in upon the younger man’s protest with, “Now, you let me say my +say. The world’s moving along–moving pretty fast and generally to +one end, and that end is to put food in the bellies, clothes on the back, and +brains in the head of the working man. The whole trend of legislation all over +the world has gone that way. Hell’s afire, Grant–what more do you +want? We’ve given you the inheritance tax and the income tax and direct +legislation to manipulate it, and, by Ned, instead of staying with the game +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_498'></a>498</span>and helping us work +these things out in wise administration, you fly the coop, and go squawking over +the country with your revolution and leave me–damn it, Grant,” piped +the little, high voice, sputtering with rage, “you leave me–with my +linen pants on a clothes-line four miles from home!”</p> + +<p>Then slowly the little lines began to break in his loose skin. A faint smile, +then a grin and then a laugh, spread over the old face, and he wiped his +watering eyes as he shook his head mournfully.</p> + +<p>Grant was gathering himself to reply when Nate Perry rasped in with his +high-keyed Yankee voice: “I guess that about covers my views, +Grant–if any one should ask you.”</p> + +<p>The crusader rose in Grant: “It’s you men who have no +sense,” he cried. “You think because I declare war on the profit +system that I propose to sail out and overturn it with a few bombs over night. +Look here, men; what I propose to do is to demonstrate right here in the Wahoo +Valley, where there are all sorts of laboring people, skilled, unskilled, +continuous, overpaid and underpaid, foreign and American–utterly unlike, +incoherent, racially and industrially–that they have in them capacities +for organizing; unused abilities, untried talents that will make them worthy to +take a higher place in the economic scale than they now have. If I can +amalgamate them, if I can weld them into a consistent, coherent labor +mass–the Irish, the Slav, the Jews, the Italians, the Poles, the French, +the Dutch, the Letts, and the Mexicans–put to some purpose the love of the +poor for the poor, so that it will count industrially, you can’t stop the +revolution.” He was wagging his head, waving his stump of an arm and his +face showed the temperamental excitement that was in him.</p> + +<p>“Go ahead, Grant,” said Perry. “Play out all your +line–show us your game.”</p> + +<p>“Well, then–here’s my game. For five years we’ve been +collecting a district strike fund–all our own, that doesn’t belong +to any other organization or federation anywhere. It’s ours here in the +Wahoo. It’s independent of any state or national control. I’ve +collected it. It’s been paid because these men here in the Valley have +faith in me. We have practically never spent a penny of it. There are about +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_499'></a>499</span>ten thousand +workers in the Valley–some, like the glassblowers, are the aristocracy of +labor; others, like the breaker boys, are at the bottom of the scale. But +we’ve kept wages up, kept conditions as high as they are anywhere in the +country–and we’ve done it without strikes. They have faith in me. So +we’ve assessed them according to their wages, and we have on hand, with +assessments and interest, over a third of a million dollars.”</p> + +<p>He looked at Perry, and nodded his head at the Doctor. “You fellows +think I’m a cream-puff reformer. I’m not. Now, then–I’ve +talked it over with our board–we are going to invest that money in land up +and down the Valley–put the women and children and old men on it–in +tents–during the growing season, and cultivate that land in three-acre +tracts intensively. Our Belgian glassblowers and smelter men have sent for their +gardeners to teach us. Now it’s merely a question of getting the land and +doing the preliminary organization. We want to get as much land as we can. Now, +there’s my game. With that kind of a layout we can win any strike we call. +And we can prove to the world that labor has the cohesive coöperating faculty +required to manage the factories–to take a larger share of the income of +industry, if you please. That’s my revolution, gentlemen. And it’s +going to begin right here in the Wahoo Valley.”</p> + +<p>“Well,” returned Nate Perry, “your revolution looks +interesting. It’s got some new gears, at least.”</p> + +<p>“Go it while you’re young,” piped the Doctor. “In +just about eighteen months, you will be coming to me to go on your bond–to +keep out of jail. I’ve seen new-fangled revolutions peter out +before.”</p> + +<p>“Just the same,” replied Grant, “I’ve pinned my faith +to these men and women. They are now working in fear of poverty. Give them hope +of better things instead of fear and they will develop out of poverty, just as +the middle class came out under the same stimulus.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know anything about that,” interrupted Perry, +“but I do know that I could take that money and put three thousand +families to work on the land in the Wahoo Valley and develop the best labor in +the country.”</p> + +<p>He laughed, and Grant gazed, almost flared, so eager was <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_500'></a>500</span>his look, at Perry for a moment, and +said: “When the day of the democracy of labor comes–and it will come +and come soon–men like you will take leadership.”</p> + +<p>There was more high talk, and Nathan Perry went home with his pill.</p> + +<p>When he was gone, the music from indoors came to the three men. +“That’s from his new opera, father,” said Grant, as his +attention was attracted to the violin and piano.</p> + +<p>“Good Lord,” exclaimed the Doctor, “I’ve heard so +much of that opera that I caught myself prescribing a bar from the opening +chorus for the grip the other day!”</p> + +<p>The two elder men looked at each other, and the Doctor said, “Well, +Amos–that’s mostly why I asked you to come up to-day. It +wasn’t for the society of your amateur revolutionist–you may be sure +of that.”</p> + +<p>The Doctor tempered his words with a smile, but they had pricks, and Grant +winced. “I suppose we may as well consider Lila and Kenyon as before the +house?”</p> + +<p>“Kenyon came to me last night,” said Grant, “wanting to +know whether he should come to father first, or go to Dr. Nesbit, or–well, +he wondered if it would be necessary to talk with Lila’s own +father.” All the grimness in Grant’s countenance melted as he spoke +of Kenyon and the battered features softened.</p> + +<p>“And that is what I wish to talk about, Grant,” said the Doctor +gently. “They don’t know who Kenyon is–I mean, they +don’t know about his parentage.” Grant looked at the floor. Slowly +as the old shame revived in him, its flush rose from his neck to his face and +met his tousled hair. The two old men looked seriously at one another. The +Doctor emphasized the solemnity of the occasion by lighting a pipe.</p> + +<p>“I don’t know–I really don’t know what is right +here,” he said finally. “Is it fair to Laura to let her daughter +marry the son of a woman who, more than any other woman in the world, has +wronged her? I’m sure Laura cherishes no malice toward Kenyon’s +mother. Yet, of course,” the Doctor spoke deliberately and puffed between +his words, “blood is blood. But I don’t know how much blood is +blood, I mean how much of what we call heredity in human beings is due to actual +blood transmission of traits, and how much <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_501'></a>501</span>is due to the development of traits by family +environment. I’m not sure, Amos, that this boy’s bad blood has not +been entirely eliminated by the kindly, beautiful family environment he has had +with you and yours. There seems to be nothing of the Müllers in him, but his +face and his music–I take it his music is of German origin.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know–I don’t know, Doctor,” answered +Amos. “I’ve tried to take him apart, and put him together again, but +I can’t find where the parts belong.”</p> + +<p>And so they droned on, those three wiseacres–two oldish gentlemen and a +middle-aged man, thinking they could change or check or dam the course of true +love. While inside at the piano on the tide of music that was washing in from +God only knows what bourne where words are useless and passions speak the +primitive language of souls, Lila and Kenyon were solving all the problems set +for them by their elders and betters. For they lived in another world from those +who established themselves in the Providence business out on the veranda. And on +this earth, even in the same houses, and in the same families, there is no +communication between the worlds. With our powerful lenses of memory we men and +women in our forties gaze earnestly and long at the distant planets of youth, +wondering if they are really inhabited by real people–or mere animals, +perchance–if they have human institutions, reasonable aspirations or +finite intelligences. We take temperatures, make blood counts and record blood +pressure, reckon the heart-beats, and think we are wondrous wise. But wig-wag as +we may, signal with what mysterious wireless of evanescent youth-fire we still +hold in our blood, we get nothing but vague hints, broken reminiscences, and a +certain patchwork of our own subconscious chop logic of middle age in return. +There is no real communication between the worlds. Youth remains another +planet–even as age and childhood are other planets.</p> + +<p>Now, after the three wise men had considered the star glowing before them, +they decided thus:</p> + +<p>“Well,” quoth the Doctor, “it seems absolutely just that +Lila should know who her husband is, and that Laura should know whom her child +is marrying. So far as I am concerned, I know this Adams blood; I’ll trust +it to breed out <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_502'></a>502</span>any +taint; but I have no right to decide for Lila; I have no right to say what Laura +will do–though, Grant, I know in my heart that she would rather have her +child marry yours than to have anything else come about that the world could +hold for her. And yet–she should know the truth.”</p> + +<p>Grant sat with his head bowed, and his eyes on the floor, while the Doctor +spoke. Without looking up, he said: “There’s some one else to +consider, Doctor–there’s Margaret–after all, it’s her +son; it’s her secret. It’s–I don’t know what her rights +are–perhaps she’s forfeited them. But she is at least physically his +mother.”</p> + +<p>The Doctor looked up with a troubled face. He ran his hand over the place +where his pompadour once used to rise, and where only a fuzz responded to the +stroke of his dry palm, and answered:</p> + +<p>“Grant–through it all–through all the tragedy that she has +brought here, I’ve kept that secret for Margaret. And until she releases +me, I can never break my silence. A doctor–one of the right +sort–never could. Whatever you feel are her rights–you and she must +settle. It must be you, not I, to tell this story, even to my own flesh and +blood, Grant.”</p> + +<p>Grant rose and walked the long, straight stretch of the veranda. His +shoulders, pugnacious, aggressive, and defiant, swayed as he walked heavily and +he gazed at the floor as one in shame. Finally he whirled toward the Doctor and +said:</p> + +<p>“I’m going to his mother. I’m going now. She may have +mighty few rights in this matter–she cast him off shamefully. But she has +just one right here–the right to know that I shall tell her secret to +Laura, and I’m going to talk to her before I tell Laura. Even if Margaret +clamors against what I think is right, I shall not stop. But I’m not going +to sneak her secret away without her knowing it. I suppose that’s about +the extent of her rights in Kenyon: to know before I tell his wife who he really +is, so that Margaret will know who knows and who does not know her relation to +him. It seems to me that is about the justice of the case.” The Doctor +puffed at his pipe, and nodded a slow assent.</p> + +<p>“Now’s as good a time as any,” answered the Doctor, and +added: “By the way, Amos–I had a telegram from Washington <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_503'></a>503</span>this morning, saying that +Tom is to be made Federal judge in the new district. That’s what +he’s doing in Washington just now. He is one of those ostensible +fellows,” piped the Doctor. “Ostensibly he’s there trying to +help land another man; but Tom’s the Van Dorn candidate.”</p> + +<p>He smoked until his pipe revived and added, “Well, Tom can afford it; +he’s got all the money he needs.”</p> + +<p>Grant, who heard the Doctor’s news, did not seem to be disturbed by it. +His mind was occupied with more personal matters. He stood by a pillar, looking +off into the summer day.</p> + +<p>“Well, I suppose,” he looked at his clothes, brushed the dust +from the top of his shoes by rubbing them separately against the calves of his +legs, straightened his ready-made tie and felt of the buttons on his vest, +“I suppose,” he repeated, “I may just as well go now as at any +other time,” and he strode down the steps and made straight for the Van +Dorn home.</p> + +<p>When he came to the Van Dorn house he saw Margaret sitting alone in the deep +shade of a vine-screened piazza. She wore a loose flowing purple house garment, +of a bizarre pattern which accented her physical charms. But not until he had +begun to mount the steps before her did he notice that she was sound asleep in a +gaping and disenchanting stupor. Yet his footstep aroused her, and she started +and gazed wildly at him: “Why–why–you–why, +Grant!”</p> + +<p>“Yes, Margaret,” he answered as he stood hat in hand on the top +step before her, ignoring her trembling and the terror in her eyes. +“I’ve come to have a talk with you–about Kenyon.”</p> + +<p>She looked about her, listened a second, shuddered, and said with quivering +facial muscles and shaky voice, “Yes–oh, yes–about +Kenyon–yes–Kenyon Adams. Yes, I know.”</p> + +<p>The eyes she turned on him were dull and her face was slumped, as though the +soul had gone from it. A tremor was visible in her hands, and the color was gone +from her drooping lips. She stared at him for a moment, stupidly, then +irritation came into her voice, as he sat unbidden in a porch chair near her. +“I didn’t tell you to sit down.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_504'></a>504</span>“No.” He turned his face and caught her +eyes. “But I’ll be comfortable sitting down, and we’ve got +more or less talking to do.”</p> + +<p>He could see that she was perturbed, and fear wrote itself all over her face. +But he did not know that she was vainly trying to get control of herself. The +power of the little brown pellets left her while she slept, and she was +uncertain of herself and timid. “I–I’m +sick–well–I–I–why, I can’t talk to you now. Go +’way,” she cried. “Go ’way, won’t you, please–please go +’way, and come some other time.”</p> + +<p>“No–now’s as good a time as any,” he replied. +“At any rate, I’ll tell you what’s on my mind. Mag, now pay +attention.” He turned his face to her. “The time has come when Lila +Van Dorn and her mother must know who Kenyon is.”</p> + +<p>She looked vacantly at him, then started and chattered, +“Wh-wh-wh-wha-what are you s-s-sas-saying–do you mean?”</p> + +<p>She got up, closed the door into the house, and came tottering back and stood +by her chair, as the man answered:</p> + +<p>“I mean, Maggie, exactly what I said. Kenyon wants to marry Lila. But I +think, and Doctor Nesbit thinks, that before it is settled, Lila and her mother, +and you might as well include Mrs. Nesbit, must know just who their daughter is +marrying–I mean what blood. Now do you get my idea?”</p> + +<p>As he spoke, the woman, clutching at her chair back, tried to quiet her +fluttering hands. But she began panting and a sickly pallor overcame her and she +cried feebly: “Oh, you devil–you devil–will you never let me +alone?”</p> + +<p>He answered, “Look here, Mag–what’s the matter with you? +I’m only trying to play fair with you. I wouldn’t tell ’em +until you–”</p> + +<p>“Ugh!” She shut her eyes. “Grant–wait a minute. I +must get my medicine. I’ll be back.” She turned to go. “Oh, +wait a minute–I’ll be back in five minutes–I promise, honest +to God, I’ll be right back, Grant.” She was at the door. As she +fumbled with the screen, he nodded his assent and smiled grimly as he said, +“All right, Maggie.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_505'></a>505</span>When he was +alone, he looked about him, at the evidence of the Van Dorn money in the temple +of Love. The outdoor room was furnished with luxuries he had never seen. He +sniffed as though he smelled the money that was evident everywhere. Beside +Margaret’s chair, where she had dropped it when she went to sleep, was a +book. It was a beautifully bound copy of the Memoirs of some titled harlot of +the old French court. He was staring absent-mindedly at the floor where the book +lay when she came to the door.</p> + +<p>She came out, sat down, looked steadily at him and began calmly: “Now, +what is it you desire?”</p> + +<p>She said “desiah,” and Grant grunted as she went on: +“I’m shuah no good can come and only hahm, great suffering–and +Heaven knows what wrong, by this–miserable plan. What good can it +do?”</p> + +<p>Her changed attitude surprised him. “Well, now, Maggie,” he +returned, “since you want to talk it over sensibly, I’ll tell you +how we feel–at least how I feel. The chief business of any proper marriage +is children. This marriage between Kenyon and Lila–if it +comes–should bring forth fruit. I claim Lila has a right to know that he +has my blood and yours in him before she goes into a life partnership with +him.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, Grant, Grant,” cried Margaret passionately, “the sum +of your hair-splitting is this: that you bring shame upon your child’s +mother, and then cant like a Pharisee about its being for a good purpose. +That’s the way with you–you–you–” She could not +quite finish the sentence.</p> + +<p>She sat breathing fast, waiting for strength to come to her from the +fortifying little pill. Grant picked up his hat. “Well–I’ve +told you. That’s what I came for.”</p> + +<p>She caught his arm and cried, “Sit down–haven’t I a right +to be heard? Hasn’t a mother any rights–”</p> + +<p>“No,” cut in Grant, “not when she strangles her +motherhood!”</p> + +<p>“But how could I take my motherhood without disgracing my boy?” +she asked.</p> + +<p>He met her eyes. They were steady eyes, and were brightening. The man stared +at her and answered: “When I brought him to you after mother died, a +little, toddling, <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_506'></a>506</span>motherless boy, when I wanted you to come with us to +mother him–and I didn’t want you, Maggie, any more than you wanted +me, but I thought his right to a mother was greater than either of our rights to +our choice of mates–then and there, you made your final choice.”</p> + +<p>“What does God mean,” she whined, “by hounding me all my +life for that one mistake!”</p> + +<p>“Maggie–Maggie,” answered the man, sitting down as she sank +into a chair, “it wasn’t the one mistake that has made you +unhappy.”</p> + +<p>“That’s twaddle,” she retorted, “sheer twaddle. +Don’t I know how that child has been a cancer in my very +heart–burning and gnawing and making me wretched? Don’t I +know?”</p> + +<p>“No, you don’t, Mag. If you want the truth,” replied Grant +bluntly, “you looked upon the boy as a curse. He has threatened you every +day of your life. The very love you think you have for him, which I don’t +doubt for a minute, Mag, made you do a mad, foolish, infinitely cruel, spiteful +thing–that night at the South Harvey riot. Perhaps you might care for +Kenyon’s affection now, but you can’t have that even remotely. For +all his interest in you is limited by the fact that you robbed Lila of her +father. All your cancer and heart burnings, Mag, have been your own selfishness. +Lord, woman–I know you.”</p> + +<p>He turned his hard gaze upon her and she winced. But she clearly was enjoying +the quarrel. It stimulated her taut nerves. The house behind her was empty. She +felt free to brawl.</p> + +<p>“And you? And you?” she jeered. “I suppose he’s made +a saint of you.”</p> + +<p>The man’s face softened, as he said simply, “I don’t claim +to be a saint, Mag. But I owe Kenyon everything I am in the +world–everything.”</p> + +<p>“Well, it isn’t much of a debt,” she laughed.</p> + +<p>“No,” he repeated, “it’s not much of a debt.” +After a moment he added, “Doctor Nesbit has kept this secret all these +years. Now it’s time to let these people know. You can see why, and the +only reason I came to you–”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_507'></a>507</span>“You came +to me, Grant,” she cried, “to tell me you were going to shame me +before that–that–before her–that old, yellow-haired tabby, who +goes around doing good! Ugh–”</p> + +<p>Grant stared at her blankly a full, uncomprehensive minute. Finally Margaret +went on: “And I suppose the next thing you long-nosed busybodies will do +will be to get chicken hearted about Tom Van Dorn’s rights in the matter. +Ah, you hypocrites!” she cried.</p> + +<p>“Well, I don’t know,” answered Grant sternly; “if +Lila should go to her father for advice–why shouldn’t he have all +the facts?”</p> + +<p>Margaret rose. Her bright, glassy eyes flashed. Anger colored her face. Her +bosom rose and fell as she exclaimed: “But she’ll not go to him. Oh, +he’s perfectly foolish about her. Every time a photographer in this town +takes her picture, he snoops around and gets one. He has her picture in his +watch, in which he thinks she looks like the Van Dorns. When he goes away he +takes her picture in a leather frame and puts it on his table in the +hotel–except when I’m around.” She laughed. “Ain’t +it funny? Ain’t it funny,” she chattered hysterically, “him +doddering the way he does about her, and her freezing the life out of +him?” She shook with mirth, and went on: “Oh, the devil’s +coming round for Tom Van Dorn’s soul–and all there is of +it–all there is of it is the little green spot where he loves this brat. +The rest’s all rotted out!”</p> + +<p>She laughed foolishly. Then Grant said:</p> + +<p>“Well, Mag–I must be going. I just thought it would be square to +tell you before I go any further. About the other–the affair of Lila and +her father is no concern of mine. That’s for Lila and her mother to +settle. But you and I and Kenyon are bound together by the deepest tie in the +world, Maggie. And I had to come to you.” She stared into his gnarled +face, then shut her eyes, and in an instant wherein they were closed she lapsed +into her favorite pose and disappeared behind her mask.</p> + +<p>“Vurry kind of you, I’m shuah. Chahmed to have this little talk +again.”</p> + +<p>He gazed at the empty face, saw the drugged eyes, and <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_508'></a>508</span>the smirking mouth, and felt infinitely +sad as a flash of her girlhood came back to his memory. “Well, good-by, +Mag,” he said gently, and turned and went down the steps.</p> + +<p>The messenger boy whom Grant Adams passed as he went down the walk to the +street from the Van Dorn home, put a telegram into Mrs. Van Dorn’s lap. It +was from Washington and read:</p> + +<div class='bquote'> +<p>“Appointment as Federal Judge assured. Notify Sands. Have Calvin +prepare article for Monday’s <i>Times</i> and other papers.”</p> +</div> + +<p>She re-read it, held it in her hand for a time as she looked hungrily into +the future.</p> + +<p>While Grant Adams and Margaret were talking, the two old men on the porch, +who once would have grappled with the problems of the great first cause, dropped +into cackling reminiscences of the old days of the sixties and seventies when +they were young men in their twenties and Harvey was an unbleached yellow pine +stain on the prairie grass. So they forgot the flight of time, and forgot that +indoors the music had stopped, and that two young voices were cooing behind the +curtains. Upstairs, Laura Van Dorn and her mother, reading, tried with all their +might and main to be oblivious to the fact that the music had stopped, and that +certain suppressed laughs and gasps and long, silent gaps in the irregular +conversation meant rather too obvious love-making for an affair which had not +been formally recognized by the family. Yet the formality was all that was +lacking. For if ever an affair of the heart was encouraged, was promoted, was +greeted with everything but hurrahs and hosannas by the family of the lady +thereunto appertaining, it was the love affair of Kenyon Adams and Lila Van +Dorn.</p> + +<p>The youth and the maiden below stairs were exceedingly happy. They went +through the elaborate business of love-making, from the first touch of thrilling +fingers to such passionately rapturous embraces as they might steal half watched +and half tolerated, and the mounting joy in their hearts left no room for fear +of the future. As they sat toying and frivoling behind the curtains of the wide +living room in the Nesbit home, they saw Grant Adams’s big, awkward <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_509'></a>509</span>figure hurrying across +the lawn. He walked with stooping shoulders and bowed head, and held his claw +hand behind him in his flinty, red-haired hand.</p> + +<p>“Where has he been?” asked Kenyon, as he peered through the open +curtain, with his arm about the girl.</p> + +<p>“I don’t know. The Mortons aren’t at home this afternoon; +they all went out in the Captain’s big car,” answered the girl.</p> + +<p>“Well,–I wonder–” mused the youth.</p> + +<p>Lila snatched the window curtain, and closing it, whispered: +“Quick–quick–we don’t care–quick–they may +come in when he gets on the porch.”</p> + +<p>Through a thin slit in the closed curtains they watched the gaunt figure +climb the veranda steps and they heard the elders ask:</p> + +<p>“Well?” and the younger man replied, +“Nothing–nothing–” he repeated, “but +heartbreak.”</p> + +<p>Then he added as he walked to the half-open door, “Doctor–it +seems to me that I should go to Laura now; to Laura and her mother.”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” returned the Doctor, “I suppose that is the thing to +do.”</p> + +<p>Grant’s hand was on the door screen, and the Doctor’s eyes grew +bright with emotion, as he called:</p> + +<p>“You’re a trump, boy.”</p> + +<p>The two old men looked at each other mutely and watched the door closing +after him. Inside, Grant said: “Lila–ask your mother and grandmother +if they can come to the Doctor’s little office–I want to speak to +them.” After the girl had gone, Grant stood by Kenyon, with his arm about +the young man, looking down at him tenderly. When he heard the women stirring +above on the stairs, Grant patted Kenyon’s shoulder, while the man’s +face twitched and the muscles of his hard jaw worked as though he were chewing a +bitter cud.</p> + +<p>The three, Grant and the mother and the mother’s mother, left the +lovers in such awe as love may hold in the midst of its rapture, and when the +office door had closed, and the women were seated, Grant Adams, who stood +holding to a chair back, spoke:</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_510'></a>510</span>“It’s about Kenyon. And I don’t +know, perhaps I should have spoken sooner. But I must speak now.”</p> + +<p>The two women gazed inquiringly at him with sympathetic faces. He was deeply +embarrassed, and his embarrassment seemed to accentuate a kind of caste +difference between them.</p> + +<p>“Yes, Grant,” said Mrs. Nesbit, “of course, we know about +Lila and Kenyon. Nothing in the world could please us more than to see them +happy together.”</p> + +<p>“I know, ma’am,” returned Grant, twirling his chair +nervously. “That’s just the trouble. Maybe they can’t be happy +together.”</p> + +<p>“Why, Grant,” exclaimed Laura, “what’s to +hinder?”</p> + +<p>“Stuff!” sniffed Mrs. Nesbit.</p> + +<p>He looked up then, and the two women could see that he flinched.</p> + +<p>“Well,–I don’t know how to say it, but you must know +it.” He stopped, and they saw anguish in his face. “But +I–Laura,” he turned to the younger woman and made a pitiful gesture +with his whole hand, “do you remember back when you were a girl away at +school and I stopped writing to you?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, Grant,” replied Laura, “so well–so well, and +you never would say–”</p> + +<p>“Because I had no right to,” he cut in, “it was not my +secret–to tell–then.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Nesbit sat impatiently on her chair edge, as one waiting for a foolish +formality to pass. She looked at the clumsy, bulky figure of a man in his +ill-fitting Sunday clothes, and obviously was rather irritated at his ill-timed +interjection of his own childhood affair into an entirely simple problem of true +love running smoothly. But her daughter, seeing the anguish in the man’s +twisted face, was stricken with a terror in her heart. Laura knew that no light +emotion had grappled him, and when her mother said, “Well?” sharply, +the daughter rose and went to him, touching his hand gently that had been +gripping the chair-back. She said, “Yes, Grant, but why do you have to +tell it now?”</p> + +<p>“Because,” he answered passionately, “you should know, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_511'></a>511</span>and Lila should +know and your mother should know. Your father and I and my father all think +so.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Nesbit sat back further in her chair. Her face showed anxiety. She +looked at the two others and when Laura’s eyes met her mother’s, +there was a warning in the daughter’s glance which kept her mother +silent.</p> + +<p>“Grant,” said Laura, as she stood beside the gaunt figure, on +which a mantle of shame seemed to be falling, “there is nothing in the +world that should be hard for you to tell me–or mother.”</p> + +<p>“It isn’t you,” he returned, and then lifting his face and +trying to catch the elder woman’s eyes, he said slowly:</p> + +<p>“Mrs. Nesbit–I’m Kenyon’s father.”</p> + +<p>He caught Laura’s hand in his own, and held her from stepping back. +Laura did not speak. Mrs. Nesbit gazed blankly at the two and in the silence the +little mantel clock ticked into their consciousnesses. Finally the elder woman, +who had grown white as some old suspicion or fatal recollection flashed through +her mind, asked in an unsteady voice: “And his mother?”</p> + +<p>“His mother was Margaret Müller, Mrs. Nesbit,” answered the +man.</p> + +<p>Then anger glowed in the white face as Mrs. Nesbit rose and stepped toward +the downcast man. “Do you mean to tell me you–” She did not +finish, but began again, not noticing that the door behind her had let in her +husband: “Do you mean to say that you have let me go on all these years +nursing that–that, that–creature’s child and–”</p> + +<p>“Yes, my dear,” said the Doctor, touching her arm, and taking her +hand, “I have.” She turned on her husband her startled, hurt face +and exclaimed, “And you, Jim–you too–you too?”</p> + +<p>“What else could I do in honor, my dear? And it has been for the +best.”</p> + +<p>“No,” she cried angrily; “no, see what you have brought to +us, Jim–that hussy’s–her, why, her very–”</p> + +<p>The years had told upon Doctor Nesbit. He could not rise to the struggle as +he could have risen a decade before. His hands were shaking and his voice broke +as he replied: “Yes, my dear–I know–I know. But while she bore +him, <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_512'></a>512</span>we have formed +him.” To her darkening face he repeated: “You have formed +him–and made him–you and the Adamses–with your love. And +love,” his soft, high voice was tender as he concluded, “love purges +everything–doesn’t it, Bedelia?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, father,–love is enough. Oh, Grant, Grant–it +doesn’t matter–not to me. Poor–poor Margaret, what she has +lost–what she has lost!” said the younger woman, as she stood close +to Grant and looked deeply into his anguished face. Mrs. Nesbit stood wet-eyed, +and spent of her wrath, looking at the three before her.</p> + +<p>“O God–my God, forgive me–but I can’t–Oh, +Laura–Jim–I can’t, I can’t, not that +woman’s–not her–her–” She stopped and cried +miserably, “You all know what he is, and whose he is.” Again she +stopped and looked beseechingly around. “Oh, you won’t let +Lila–she wouldn’t do that–not take that +woman’s–that woman who disgraced Lila’s mother–Lila must +not take her child–Oh, Jim, you won’t let that–”</p> + +<p>As she spoke Mrs. Nesbit sank to a sofa near the door, and turned her face to +the pillow. The three who watched her turned blank, inquiring faces to one +another.</p> + +<p>“Perhaps,” the Doctor began hesitatingly and impotently, +“Lila should–”</p> + +<p>“What does she know–what can a child of twenty know,” +answered the grandmother from her pillow, “of the taint of that blood, of +the devil she will transmit? Why, Jim–Oh, Jim–Lila’s not old +enough to decide. She mustn’t–she mustn’t–we +mustn’t let her.” Mrs. Nesbit raised her body and asked as one who +grasps a shadow, “Won’t you ask her to wait–to wait until she +can understand?”</p> + +<p>A question passed from face to face among those who stood beside the elder +woman, and Dr. Nesbit answered it. Strength–the power that came from a +habit of forty years of dominating situations–came to him and he stepped +to his wife’s side. The two stood together, facing the younger pair. The +Doctor spoke, not as an arbiter, but as an advocate:</p> + +<p>“Laura, your mother has her right to be considered here. <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_513'></a>513</span>All three of you; Kenyon +himself, and you and Lila–she has reared. She has made you all what you +are. Her wishes must be regarded now.” Mrs. Nesbit rose while the Doctor +was speaking. He took her hand as was his wont and turned to her, saying: +“Mother, how will this do: Let’s do nothing now, not to-day at any +rate. You must all adjust yourselves to the facts that reveal this new relation +before you can make an honest decision. When we have done that, let Laura and +her mother tell Lila the truth, and let each tell the child exactly how she +feels; and then, if you can bring yourself to it, leave it to her; if she will +wait for a time until she understands her grandmother’s point of +view–very well. If not–”</p> + +<p>“If not, mother, Lila’s decision must stand.” This came +from Laura, who stepped over and kissed her mother’s hand. The father +looked tenderly at his daughter and shook his head as he answered softly: +“If not–no, I shall stand with mother–she has her +right–the realest right of all!”</p> + +<p>And so it came to pass that the course of true love in the hearts of Lila Van +Dorn and Kenyon Adams had its first sharp turning. And all the world was +overclouded for two souls. But they were only two souls and the world is full of +light. And the light falls upon men and women without much respect for class or +station, for good deeds or bad deeds, for the weak or for the strong, for saints +or sinners. For know well, truly beloved, that chance and circumstance fall out +of the great machine of life upon us, hodge podge and helter skelter; good is +not rewarded by prizes from the wheel of fortune nor bad punished by its +calamities. Only as our hearts react on life, do we get happiness or misery, not +from the events that follow the procession of the days.</p> + +<p>Now for a moment let us peep through the clouds that lowered over the young +souls aforesaid. Clouds in youth are vastly black; but they are never thick. And +peering through those clouds, one may see the lovers, groping in the umbrage. It +does not matter much to us, and far less does it matter to them how they have +made their farewell meeting. It is night and they are coming from Captain +Morton’s.</p> + +<p>Hand in hand they skip across the lawn, and soon are hidden <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_514'></a>514</span>in the veranda. They sit +arm in arm, on a swinging porch chair, and have no great need for words. +“What is it–what is the reason?” asked the youth.</p> + +<p>“Well, dear”–it is an adventure to say the word out loud +after whispering it for so many days–“dear,” she repeated, and +feels the pressure of his arm as she speaks, “it’s something about +you!”</p> + +<p>“But what?” he persisted.</p> + +<p>“We don’t know now,” she returns. “And really what +does it matter, only we can’t hurt grandma, and it won’t be for +long. It can’t be for long, and then–”</p> + +<p>“We don’t care now,–not to-night, do we?” She lifts +her head from his shoulder, and puts up her lips for the answer. It is all +new–every thrill of the new-found joy of one another’s being is +strange; every touch of the hands, of cheeks, every pressure of arms–all +are gloriously beautiful.</p> + +<p>Once in life may human beings know the joy these lovers knew that night. The +angels lend it once and then, if we are good, they let us keep it in our +memories always. If not, then God sends His infinite pity instead.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_515'></a>515</span><a id='link_44'></a>CHAPTER XLIV<br /><span class='h2fs'>IN WHICH WE SUFFER LITTLE CHILDREN, WITH GEORGE BROTHERTON, AND IN GENERAL CONSIDER THE HABITANTS OF THE KINGDOM</span></h2> + +<p>Mr. Brotherton had been pacing the deck of his store like the captain of a +pirate ship in a storm. Nothing in the store suited him; he found Miss +Calvin’s high façade of hair too rococo for the attenuated lines of gray +and lavender and heliotrope that had replaced the angular effects in red and +black and green and brown of former years. He had asked her to tone it down to +make it match the long-necked gray jars and soft copper vases that adorned the +gray burlapped Serenity, and she had appeared with it slopping over her ears, +“as per yours of even date!” And still he paced the deck.</p> + +<p>He picked up Zola’s “Fecundité,” which he had taken from +stock; tried to read it; put it down; sent for “Tom Sawyer”; got up, +went after Dickens’s “Christmas Books,” and put them down; +peeped into “Little Women,” and watched the trade, as Miss Calvin +handled it, occasionally dropping his book for a customer; hunted for “The +Three Bears,” which he found in large type with gorgeous pictures, read +it, and decided that it was real literature.</p> + +<p>Amos Adams came drifting in to borrow a book. He moved slowly, a sort of gray +wraith almost discarnate and apart from things of the earth. Brotherton, looking +at the old man, felt a candor one might have in addressing a state of mind. So +the big voice spoke gently:</p> + +<p>“Here, Mr. Adams,” called Brotherton. “Won’t you come +back here and talk to me?” But the shopkeeper felt that he should put the +elder man at his ease, so he added: “You’re a wise guy, as the Latin +fathers used to say. Anyway, if Jasper ever gets to a point where he thinks +marriage will pay six per cent. over and above losses, you may be a <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_516'></a>516</span>kind of step-uncle-in-law +of mine. Tell me, Mr. Adams–what about children–do they pay? You +know, I’ve always wanted children. But now–well, you see, I never +thought but that people just kind of picked ’em off the bushes as you do +huckleberries. I’m getting so that I can’t look at a great crowd of +people without thinking of the loneliness, suffering and self-denial that it +cost to bring all of them into the world. Good Lord, man, I don’t want +lots of children–not now. And yet, children–children–why, if +we could open a can and have ’em as we do most things, from sardines to +grand opera, I’d like hundreds of them. Yet, I dunno,” Mr. +Brotherton wagged a thoughtful head.</p> + +<p>But Amos Adams rejoined: “Ah, yes, George, but when you think of what +it means for two people to bring a child into the world–what the journey +means–the slow, inexorable journey into the valley of the shadow means for +them, close together; what tenderness springs up; what sacrifices come forth; +what firm knitting of lives; what new kind of love is bred–you are +inclined to think maybe Providence knew what it was about when it brought +children into life by the cruel path.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Brotherton nodded a sympathetic head.</p> + +<p>“Let me tell you something, George,” continued Amos. +“It’s through their hope of bettering the children that Grant has +moved his people in the Valley out on the little garden plots. There they +are–every warmish day thousands of mothers and children and old men, +working their little plots of ground, trudging back to the tenements in the +evening. The love of children is the one steady, unswerving passion in these +lives, and Grant has nearly harnessed it, George. And it’s because Nate +Perry has that love that he’s giving freely here for those poor folks a +talent that would make him a millionaire, and is running his mines, and his big +foundry with Cap Morton besides. It’s perfectly splendid to see the way a +common fatherhood between him and the men is making a brotherhood. Why, +man,” cried Amos, “it refreshes one’s faith like a +tragedy.”</p> + +<p>“Hello, Aunt Avey,” piped the cheery voice of the little old +Doctor, as he came toddling through the front door. “It’s a +boy–Joe Calvin the Third.” The Doctor came back <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_517'></a>517</span>to the desk where Amos was standing and +took a chair, and as Amos drifted out of the store as impersonally as he came, +the Doctor began to grin.</p> + +<p>“We were just talking of children,” said Brotherton with studied +casualness. “You know, Doctor,” Brotherton smiled abashed, +“I’ve always thought I’d like lots of children. But +now–”</p> + +<p>“I see ’em come, and I see ’em go every day. I’m kind +of getting used to death, George. But the miracle of birth grows stranger and +stranger.”</p> + +<p>“So young Joe Calvin’s a proud parent, is he? Boy, you +say?”</p> + +<p>“Boy,” chuckled the Doctor, “and old Joe’s out there +having a nervous breakdown. They’ve had ten births in the Calvin family. +I’ve attended all of ’em, and this is the first time old Joe’s +ever been allowed in the house. To-day the old lady’s out there with a +towel around her head, practically having that baby herself. The poor +daughter-in-law hasn’t seen it. You’d think she was only invited in +as a sort of paying guest. And old lady Calvin comes in every few minutes and +delivers homilies on the joys of large families!”</p> + +<p>The Doctor laughed until his blue old eyes watered, and he chirped when he +had his laugh out: “How soon we forget! Which, I presume, is one of +God’s semi-precious blessings!”</p> + +<p>When the Doctor went out, Brotherton found the store deserted, except for +Miss Calvin, who was in front. Brotherton carried a log to the fireplace, +stirred up the fire, and when he had it blazing, found Laura Van Dorn standing +beside him.</p> + +<p>“Well, George,” she said, “I’ve just been stealing +away from my children in the Valley for a little visit with Emma.”</p> + +<p>“Very well, then,” said Mr. Brotherton, “sit down a minute +with me. Tell me, Laura–about children–are they worth it?”</p> + +<p>She was a handsome woman, with youth still in her eyes and face, who sat +beside George Brotherton, looking at the fire that March day. +“George–good old friend,” she said <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_518'></a>518</span>gently, “there’s nothing +else in the world so worth it as children.”</p> + +<p>She hesitated before going so deeply into her soul, perhaps picking her +verbal way. “George–no man ever degraded a woman more than I was +degraded. Yet I brought Lila out of it, and I thank God for her, and I +don’t mind the price–not now.” She turned to look at Mr. +Brotherton inquiringly as she said: “But what I come in to talk to you +about, George, was Grant. Have you noticed in the last few months–that +growing–well–it’s more than enthusiasm, George; it’s a +fanaticism. Since he has been working on the garden plan–Grant has been +getting wilder and wilder in his talk about the Democracy of labor. Have you +noticed it–or am I oversensitive?”</p> + +<p>Brotherton, poking idly in the fire, did not answer at once. At length he +said:</p> + +<p>“Grant’s a zealot. He’s full of this prisms, prunes and +peace idea, this sweetness and light revolution, this notion of hitching their +hop-dreams to these three-acre plots, and preaching non-resistance. It’s +coming a little fast for me, Laura–just a shade too many at times. But, on +the other hand–there’s Nate Perry. He’s as cold-blooded a +Yankee as ever swindled a father–and he’s helping with the scheme. +He’s–”</p> + +<p>“He has no faith in the Democracy of Labor. He hoots,” +interrupted Laura. “What he’s doing is working for a more efficient +lot of laboring men, so that when the time comes when the unions shall ask and +get more definite control of the factories and mines, in the way of +wage-setting, and price-making, they will bring some sense with their control. +He’s merely looking after himself–in the last analysis; but +Grant’s going mad. George, he actually believes that when this thing wins +here in the Valley–the peaceful strike, the rise of labor, and the theory +of non-resistance–he’s going over the world, and in a few years will +have labor emancipated. Have you heard him–that is, recently?”</p> + +<p>“Well, yes, a week or so ago,” answered Brotherton, “and he +was going it at a pretty fair clip for a minute then. Well, say–I +mean–what should we do?” he asked, drumming with the poker on the +hearth. “Laura,” Brotherton <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_519'></a>519</span>ran his eyes from the poker until they met her +frank, gray eyes, “Grant would listen to you before he would listen to any +one else on earth or in Heaven–I’m sure of that.”</p> + +<p>“Then what shall we do?” she asked. “We mustn’t let +him wreck himself–and all these people? What ought I–”</p> + +<p>A shadow fell across the door, and in another moment there stood in the +opening of the alcove the tall, lean figure of Thomas Van Dorn.</p> + +<p>When Laura was gone, Van Dorn, after more or less polite circumlocution, +began to unfold a plan of Market Street to buy the <i>Daily Times</i> and bring +Jared Thurston back to Harvey to run it in the interests of the property owners +in the town and in the Valley. Incidentally he had come to warn George on behalf +of Market Street that he was harboring Grant Adams, contrary to the judgment of +Market Street. But George Brotherton’s heart was far from Market Street; +it was out on the hill with Emma, his wife, and his mouth spoke from the place +of his treasure.</p> + +<p>“Tom–tell me, as between man and man, what do you think of +children? You’re sort of in the outer room of the Blue Lodge of +grandfatherdom, with Lila and Kenyon getting ready for the preacher, and you +ought to know, Tom–honest, man, how about it?”</p> + +<p>A wave of self-pity enveloped the Judge. His voice broke as he answered: +“George, I haven’t any little girl–she never even has spoken +to me about this affair that the whole town knows about. Oh, I haven’t any +child at all.”</p> + +<p>He looked a miserable moment at Brotherton, perhaps reviewing the years which +they had lived and grown from youth to middle age together and growled: +“Not a thing–not a damned thing in it–George, in all this +forty years of fighting to keep ahead of the undertaker! Not a God damned +thing!” And so he left the Sweet Serenity of Books and Wall Paper and went +back to the treadmill of life, spitting ashes from his gray lips!</p> + +<p>And then Daniel Sands toddled in to get the five-cent cigars which he had +bought for a generation–one at a time every day, and Brotherton came to +Daniel with his problem.</p> + +<p>The old man, whose palsied head forever was denying <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_520'></a>520</span>something, as if he had the assessor +always in his mind, shut his rheumy eyes and answered: “My +children–bauch–” He all but spat upon their names. +“Morty–moons around reading Socialist books, with a cold in his +throat and dishwater in his brains. And the other, she’s married a dirty +traitor and stands by him against her own flesh and blood. Ba-a-a-ch!” He +showed his blue, old mouth, and cried:</p> + +<p>“I married four women to give those children a home–and what +thanks do I get? Ingrates–one a milk-sop–God, if he’d only be +a Socialist and get out and throw dynamite; but he won’t; he won’t +do a thing but sit around drooling about social justice when I want to eat my +meals in peace. And he goes coughing all day and night, and grunting, and now +he’s wearing a pointed beard–he says it’s for his throat, but +I know–it’s because he thinks it’s romantic. And that +Anne–why, she’s worse,” but he did not finish the sentence. +His old head wagged violently. Evidently another assessor had suddenly pounced +in upon his imagination. For he shuffled into the street.</p> + +<p>Mr. Brotherton sat by the fire, leaning forward, with his fingers locked +between his knees. The warning against Grant Adams that Tom Van Dorn had given +him had impressed him. He knew Market Street was against Grant Adams. But he did +not realize that Market Street’s attitude was only a reflex of the stir in +the Valley. All Market streets over the earth feel more or less acutely changes +which portend in the workshops, often before those changes come. We are indeed +“members one of another,” and the very aspirations of those who +dream of better things register in the latent fears of those who live on trade. +We are so closely compact in our organization that a man may not even hope +without crowding his neighbor. And in that little section of the great world +which men knew as Market Street in Harvey, the surest evidence of the changing +attitude of the men in the Valley toward their work, was found not in the crowds +that gathered in Belgian Hall week after week to hear Grant Adams, not in the +war-chest which was filling to overflowing, not in the gardens checkered upon +the hillsides, but rather in the uneasiness of Market Street. The reactions were +different in Market Street and in the Valley; <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_521'></a>521</span>but it was one vision rising in the same body, each +part responding according to its own impulses. Of course Market Street has its +side, and George Brotherton was not blind to it. Sitting by his fire that raw +March day, he realized that Market Street was never a crusader, and why. He +could see that the men from whom the storekeepers bought goods on ninety +days’ time, 3 per cent. off for cash, were not crusaders. When a man +turned up among them with a six-months’ crusade for an evanescent +millennium, flickering just a few years ahead, the wholesalers of the city and +the retailers of Market Street nervously began thumbing over their rapidly +accumulating “bills payable” and began using crisp, scratchy +language toward the crusader.</p> + +<p>It made Brotherton pause when he thought how they might involve and envelop +him–as a family man. For as he sat there, the man’s mind kept +thinking of children. And his mind wandered to the thought of his wife and his +home–and the little ones that might be. As his mind clicked back to Amos +Adams, and to the strange family that would produce three boys as unlike as +Grant and Jasper and Kenyon, he began to consider how far Kenyon had come for a +youth in his twenties. And Brotherton realized that he might have had a child as +old as Kenyon. Then Mr. Brotherton put his hands over his face and tried to stop +the flying years.</p> + +<p>A shadow fell, and Brotherton greeted Captain Morton, in a sunburst of mauve +tailoring. The Captain pointed proudly to a necktie pin representing a horse +jumping through a horseshoe, and cried: “What you think of it? Real +diamond horseshoe nails–what say?”</p> + +<p>“Now, Captain, sit down here,” said Mr. Brotherton. +“You’ll do, Captain–you’ll do.” But the subject +nearest the big man’s heart would not leave it. “Cap,” he +said, “what about children–do they pay?”</p> + +<p>“That’s just it,” put in the Captain. “That’s +just what I said to Emmy this morning. I was out to see her after you left and +stayed until Laura Van Dorn came and chased me off. Emmy’s mighty happy, +George–mighty, mighty happy–eh? Her mother always was that way. I +was the one that was scared.” George nodded assent. “But +to-day–well, we just sat there and cried–she’s so happy about +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_522'></a>522</span>it–eh? +Wimmin, George, ain’t scared a bit. I know ’em. I’ve been in +their kitchins for thirty years, George, and let me tell you somepin +funny,” continued the Captain. “Old Ahab Wright has taken to smoking +in public to get the liberal vote! Let me tell you somepin else. They’ve +decided to put the skids under Grant Adams and his gang down in the Valley, and +the other day they ran into a snag. You know Calvin & Calvin are +representing the owners since Tom’s got this life job, though he’s +got all his money invested down there and still advises ’em. Well, anyway, +they decided to put a barbed-wire trocha around all the mines and the factories. +Well, four carloads of wire and posts shows up down in the Valley this week, +and, ’y gory, man,–they can’t get a carpenter in town or down there +to touch it. Grant’s got ’em sewed up. But Tom says he’ll fix +’em one of these days, if they get before him in his court–what +say?”</p> + +<p>“I suppose he will, Captain,” replied Mr. Brotherton, and took up +his theme. “But getting back to the subject of children–I’ve +been talking all morning about ’em to all kinds of folks, and I’ve +decided the country’s for ’em. Children, Cap,” Mr. Brotherton +rose, put on his coat and took the Captain’s arm, “children, +Captain,” he repeated, as they reached the sidewalk and were starting for +the street car, “children, I figure it out–children are the see-ment +of civilization! Well, say–thus endeth the reading of the first +lesson!”</p> + +<p>As they stood in the corner transfer shed waiting for the car, Grant Adams +came up. “Say, Grant,” called Brotherton, “what you +goin’ to do about that barbed wire trocha?”</p> + +<p>“Oh,” smiled Grant, “I’ve just about settled it. The +boys will begin on it this afternoon. A lot of them were angry when they heard +what the owners were up to, but I said, ‘Here: we’ve got justice on our +side. We claim a partnership interest in all those mines and factories down +there. We contend that we who labor there now are the legatees of all the labor +that’s been killed and maimed and cheated by long hours and low wages down +in the Valley for thirty years, and if we have a partnership right in those +mines and factories, it’s our business to protect them.’ So I <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_523'></a>523</span>talked the boys into +putting up the trocha. I tell you, George,” said Grant, and the tremor of +emotion strained his voice as he spoke, “it won’t be long until +we’ll have a partnership in that trocha, just as we’ll have an +interest in every hammer and bolt, and ledge and vein in the Valley. It’s +coming, and coming fast–the Democracy of Labor. I have faith, the men and +women have faith–all over the Valley. We’ve found the right +way–the way of peace. When labor has proved its +efficiency–”</p> + +<p>“Ah–you’re crazy, Grant,” snapped the Captain. +“This class of people down here–these ignorant foreigners–why, +they couldn’t run a peanut stand–eh?”</p> + +<p>Dick Bowman and his son came up, and not knowing a discussion was in the +wind, Dick shook hands around. And after the Captain had taken his uptown car, +Grant stood apart, lost in thought, but Dick said: “Well, Benny, we got +here in time for the car!” Then craning his long neck, the father laughed: +“Ben, here’s a laboring man and his shift goes on at one–so +he’s in a hurry, but we’ll make it.”</p> + +<p>“Dick,” began Brotherton, looking at the thin shadow of a man who +was hardly Brotherton’s elder by half a dozen years. “Dick, +you’re a kind of expert father, you and Joe Calvin, and to-day Joe’s +a granddaddy–tell me about the kiddies–are they worth it?”</p> + +<p>Bowman threw his head back and craned his long neck. “Not for +us–not for us poor–maybe for you people here,” said Bowman, +who paused and counted on his fingers: “Eight born, three +dead–that’s too many. Joe Calvin, he’s raised all his and +they’re doing fairly well. That’s his girl in here–ain’t +it?” Bowman sighed. “Her and my Jean played together back in their +little days; before we moved to South Harvey.” He lowered his voice.</p> + +<p>“George, mother hasn’t heard from Jean for going on two year, +now. She went off with a fellow; told us she married him–she was just a +child–but had been working around in the factories–and, well, I +don’t say so, but I guess she just has got where she’s ashamed to +write–maybe.”</p> + +<p>His voice rose in anger as he cried: “Why didn’t she have a show, +like this girl of Joe’s? He’s no better than I. And you know my +wife–well, she’s no Mrs. Joe Calvin–she’s <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_524'></a>524</span>been as happy about +’em when they came as if they were princes of the blood.” He +stopped.</p> + +<p>“Then there’s Mugs–I dunno, George,–it seems like we +tried with Mugs, but all them saloons and–well, the gambling and the women +under his nose from the time he was ten years old–well, I can’t make +him work. Little Jack is steady enough for a boy of twenty–he’s in +the Company mines, and we’ve put Ben in this year. He is +twelve–though, for Heaven’s sake, don’t go blabbing it; +he’s supposed to be fourteen. And little Betty, she’s in school yet. +I don’t know how she’ll turn out. No, George,” he went on, +“children for us poor, children’s a mighty risky, uncertain crop. +But,” he smiled reflectively, “I’m right here to tell you +they’re lots of fun as little shavers–growing up. Why, George, you +ought to hear Benny sing. Them Copinis of the Hot Dog found he had a voice, and +they’ve taught him some dago songs.” Ben was a bright-faced boy of +twelve–big for his age, with snappy, brown eyes and apples of cheeks and +curly hair. He slipped away to look into a store window, leaving the two men +alone. Mr. Brotherton was in a mellow mood. He put his great paw on the small +man’s shoulder and said huskily:</p> + +<p>“Say, Dick, honest, I’d rather have just one boy like that than +the whole damn Valley–that’s right!”</p> + +<p>The car came bowling up and the South Harvey people boarded it. Grant Adams +rode down into the Valley with great dreams in his soul. He talked little to the +Bowmans, but looked out of the window and saw the dawn of another day. It is the +curse of dreamers that they believe that when they are convinced of a truth, +they who have pursued it, who have suffered for it, who have been exalted by it, +they have only to pass out their truth to the world to remake the universe. But +the world is made over only when the common mind sees the truth, and the common +heart feels it. So the history of reform is a history of disappointment. The +reform works, of course. But in working it does only the one little trick it is +intended to do, and the long chain of incidental blessings which should follow, +which the reformers feel must inevitably follow, wait for other reformers to +bring them into being. So there is always <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_525'></a>525</span>plenty of work for the social tinker, and no one man +ever built a millennium. For God is ever jealous for our progeny, and leaves an +unfinished job always on the work bench of the world.</p> + +<p>Grant Adams believed that he had a mission to bring labor into its own. The +coming of the Democracy of Labor was a real democracy to him–no mere +shibboleth. And as he rode through the rows of wooden tenements, where he knew +men and women were being crushed by the great industrial machine, he thought of +the tents in the fields; of the women and children and of the old and the sick +going out there to labor through the day to piece out the family wage and secure +economic independence with wholesome, self-respecting work. It seemed to him +that when he could bring the conditions that were starting in Harvey, to every +great industrial center, one great job in the world would be done forever.</p> + +<p>So he drummed his iron claw on the seat before him, put his hard hand upon +his rough face, and smiled in the joy of his high faith.</p> + +<p>Dick Bowman and his boy left Grant at the car. He waved his claw at little +Ben when they parted, and sighed as he saw the little fellow scampering to shaft +No. 3 of the Wahoo Fuel Company’s mines. There Grant lost sight of the +child, and went to his work. In two hours he and Violet Hogan had cleaned off +his desk. He had promised the Wahoo Fuel Company to see that the work of +constructing the trocha was started that afternoon, and when Violet had +telephoned to Mechanics’ Hall, Grant and a group of men went to the mines +to begin on the trocha. They passed down the switch into the yards, and Grant +heard a brakeman say:</p> + +<p>“That Frisco car there has a broken brake–watch out for +her.”</p> + +<p>And a switchman reply:</p> + +<p>“Yes–I know it. I tried to get the yardmaster not to send her +down. But we’ll do what we can.”</p> + +<p>The brakeman on the car signaled for the engineer to pull the other cars +away, and leave the Frisco car at the top of a slight grade, to be shoved down +by the men when another car was needed at the loading chute. Grant walked <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_526'></a>526</span>toward the loading chute, +and a roar from the falling coal filled his ears. He saw little Ben under a car +throwing back the coal falling from the faulty chute on to the ground.</p> + +<p>Through the roar Grant heard a yell as from a man in terror. He looked back +of him and saw the Frisco car coming down the grade as if shot from a monster +catapult!</p> + +<p>“The boy–the boy–!” he heard the man on the car +shriek. He tried to clamber over the coal to the edge of the car, but before he +could reach the side, the Frisco car had hit the loading car a terrific blow, +sending it a car length down the track.</p> + +<p>One horrible scream was all they heard from little Ben. Grant was at his side +in a moment. There, stuck to the rail, were two little legs and an arm. Grant +stooped, picked up the little body, pulled it loose from the tracks, and carried +it, running, to the company hospital.</p> + +<p>As Grant ran, tears fell in the little, coal-stained face, and made white +splotches on the child’s cheeks.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_527'></a>527</span><a id='link_45'></a>CHAPTER XLV<br /><span class='h2fs'>IN WHICH LIDA BOWMAN CONSIDERS HER UNIVERSE AND TOM VAN DORN WINS ANOTHER VICTORY</span></h2> + +<p>For a long and weary night and a day of balancing doubt, and another dull +night, little Ben Bowman lay limp and crumpled on his cot–a broken lump of +clay hardly more than animate. Lida Bowman, his mother, all that time sat in the +hall of the hospital outside the door of his room. The stream of sorrow that +winds through a hospital passed before her unheeded. Her husband came, sat with +her silently for a while, went, and came again, many times. But she did not go. +In the morning of the second day as she stood peering through the door crack at +the child she saw his little body move in a deep sigh, and saw his black eyes +open for a second and close as he smiled. Dr. Nesbit, who stood beside her, +grasped her hand and led her away.</p> + +<p>“I think the worst is over, Lida,” he said, and held her hand as +they walked down the hall. He sat with her in the waiting room, into which the +earliest tide of visitors had not begun to flow, and promised her that if the +child continued to rally from the shock, she might stand by his bed at noon. +Then for the first time she wept. He stood by the window looking out at the +great pillars of smoke that were smudging the dawn, at the smelter fumes that +were staining the sky, at the hurrying crowd of men and women and children going +into the mines, the mills, the shops, hurrying to work with the prod of fear +ever in their backs–fear of the disgrace of want, fear of the shame of +beggary, fear to hear some loved one ask for food or warmth or shelter and to +have it not. When the great motherly body had ceased its paroxysms, he went to +Mrs. Bowman and touched her shoulder.</p> + +<p>“Lida,” he said, “it isn’t much–but I’m +glad of one <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_528'></a>528</span>thing. +My bill is on the statutes to give people who are hurt, as Ben was, their money +from the company without going to law and dividing with the lawyers. It is on +the books good and tight; referred to the people and approved by them and ground +clear through the state supreme court and sustained. It isn’t much, +Lida–Heaven knows that–but little Ben will get his money without +haggling and that money will help to start him in life.”</p> + +<p>She turned a tear-swollen face to him, but again her grief overcame her. He +stood with one wrinkled hand upon her broad shoulder, and with the other patted +her coarse hair. When she looked up at him, again he said gently:</p> + +<p>“I know, Lida, that money isn’t what you mothers +want–but–”</p> + +<p>“But we’ve got to think of it, Doc Jim–that’s one of +the curses of poverty, but, oh, money!–It won’t bring them back +strong and whole–who leave us to go to work, and come back all torn and +mashed.”</p> + +<p>She sat choking down the sobs that came surging up from her great bosom, and +weaving to and fro as she fought back her tears. The Doctor sat beside her and +took her red unshapely hands unadorned except by the thin gold wedding ring that +she had worn in toil for over thirty years.</p> + +<p>“Lida, sometimes I think only God and the doctors know how heavy +women’s loads are,” said the Doctor.</p> + +<p>“Ain’t that so–Doc Jim!” she cried. +“Ain’t that the truth? I’ve had a long time to think these two +days and nights–and I’ve thought it all over and all out. Here I am +nearly fifty and eight times you and I have fought it out with death and brought +life into this world. I’m strong–I don’t mind that. I joyed at +their coming, and made the others edge over at the table, and snuggle up in the +bed, and we’ve been happy. Even the three that are dead–I’m +glad they came; I’m thankful for ’em. And Dick he’s been so +proud of each one, and cuddled it, and muched it–”</p> + +<p>Her voice broke and she sobbed, “Oh, little Ben–little Ben, how +pappy made over his hair–he was born with hair–don’t you mind, +Doc Jim?”</p> + +<p>The Doctor laughed and looked into the past as he piped, “Curliest +headed little tyke, and don’t you remember Laura <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_529'></a>529</span>gave him Lila’s baby things +she’d saved for all those years?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, Doc Jim–don’t I? God knows, Doc, she’s been a +mother to the whole Valley–when I got up I found I was the twentieth woman +up and down the Valley she’d given Lila’s little things +to–just to save our pride when she thought we would not take ’em any +other way. Don’t I know–all about it–and she’s still +doing it–God bless her, and she’s been here every morning, noon and +night since–since–she came with a little beef tea, or some of her +own wine, or a plate of hot toast in her basket–that she made me eat. Why, +if it wasn’t for her and Henry and Violet and Grant–what would +God’s poor in this Valley do in trouble–I sure dunno.”</p> + +<p>There came an unsteady minute, when the Doctor stroked her hand and piped, +“Well, Lida–you folks in the Valley don’t get half the fun out +of it that the others get. It’s pie for them.”</p> + +<p>The woman folded her hands in her lap and sighed deeply. “Doc +Jim,” she began, “eight times I’ve brought life into this +world. The three that went, went because we were poor–because we +couldn’t buy life for ’em. They went into the mills and the mines +with Dick’s muscle. One is at home, waiting till the wheels get hungry for +her. Four I’ve fed into the mills that grind up the meat we mothers +make.” She stared at him wildly and cried “O God–God, Doc +Jim–what justice is there in it? I’ve been a kind of brood-mare +bearing burden carriers for Dan Sands, who has sold my blood like cheese in his +market. My mother sent three boys to the war who never came back and I’ve +heard her cry and thank God He’d let her. But my flesh and blood–the +little ones that Dick and me have coddled and petted and +babied–they’ve been fed into the wheels to make +profits–profits for idlers to squander–profits to lure women to +shame and men to death. That’s what I’ve been giving my body and +soul for, Doc Jim. Little Ben up there has given his legs and his arms–oh, +those soft little arms and the cunning little legs I used to kiss–for +what? I’ll tell you–he’s given them so that by saving a +day’s work repairing a car, some straw boss could make a showing to a +superintendent, and the superintendent could make a record for economy <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_530'></a>530</span>to a president, and a +president could increase dividends–dividends to be spent by idlers. And +idleness makes drunkards who make harlots who make hell–and all my little +boy’s arms and legs will go for is for sin and shame.”</p> + +<p>The Doctor returned to the window and she cried bitterly: “Oh, you know +that’s the truth–the God’s truth, Doc Jim. Where’s my +Jean? She went into the glass factory–worked twelve hours a day on a job +that would have crippled her for life in another year, and then went away with +that Austrian blower–and when he threw her out, she was ashamed to +write–and for a long time now I’ve read the city papers of them +women who kill themselves–hoping to find she was dead. And Mugs–you +know what South Harvey’s made of him–”</p> + +<p>She rose and walked to the window. Standing beside him she cried:</p> + +<p>“I tell you, Doc Jim–I hate it.” She pointed to the great +black mills and mine shafts and the piles of brick and lumber and sheet iron +that stretched before her for a mile. “I hate it, and I’m going to +hit it once before I die. Don’t talk peace to me. I’ve got a right +to hit it and hit it hard–and if my time ever comes–”</p> + +<p>A visitor was shown into the room, and Mrs. Bowman ceased speaking. She was +calm when the Doctor left her and at noon she stood beside the cot, and saw +little Ben smile at her. Then she went away in tears. As she passed out of the +door of the hospital into the street, she met Grant Adams coming in to inquire +about little Ben.</p> + +<p>“He knows me now,” she said. “I suppose he’ll get +well–without legs–and with only one arm–I’ve seen them +on the street selling pencils–oh, little Ben!” she cried. Then she +turned on Grant in anger. “Grant Adams–go on with your revolution. +I’m for it–and the quicker the better–but don’t come +around talking peace to me. Us mothers want to fight.”</p> + +<p>“Fighting, in the long run, will do no good, Mrs. Bowman,” said +Grant. “It will hurt the cause.</p> + +<p>“But it will do us good,” she answered.</p> + +<p>“Force against force and we lose–they have the guns,” he +persisted.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_531'></a>531</span>“Well, +I’d rather feed my babies to good merciful guns than to wheels,” she +replied, and then softened as she took his hand.</p> + +<p>“I guess I’m mad to-day, Grant. Go on up. Maybe they’ll let +you look at him. He smiled at me–just as he did when Doctor Nesbit showed +him to me the day he was born.”</p> + +<p>She kept back her tears with an effort, and added, “Only the Doc tried +to tell me that babies don’t smile. But I know better, Ben +smiled–just like the one to-day.”</p> + +<p>“Well, Mrs. Bowman,” rejoined Grant, “there’s one +comfort. Dr. Nesbit’s law makes it possible for you to get your damages +without going to law and dividing with some lawyer. However the Doctor and I may +differ–we down here in the mines and mills must thank him for +that.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, Doc Jim’s all right, Grant,” answered Mrs. Bowman, +relapsing into her lifetime silence.</p> + +<p>It was nearly three months later and spring was at its full, before they +discharged little Ben from the hospital. But the last fortnight of his stay they +had let him visit outside the hospital for a few hours daily. And to the joy of +a great crowd in the Hot Dog saloon, he sat on the bar and sang his little heart +out. They took him down to Belgian hall at noon, and he sang the +“Marseillaise” to the crowd that gathered there. In the hospital, +wherever they would let him, after he had visited the Hot Dog, he +sang–sang in the big ward where he sat by a window, sang in the corridors, +whenever the patients could hear him, and sang Gospel hymns in his cot at +bedtime.</p> + +<p>He was an odd little bundle, that Henry Fenn carried into the offices of the +Wahoo Valley Fuel Company one afternoon in early June, with Dick Bowman +following proudly, as they made the proof of the claim for compensation for the +accident. The people in the offices were kind and tenderly polite to the little +fellow. Henry saw that all the papers were properly made out, and the clerk in +the office told Dick and Henry to call for the check next day but +one–which was pay day.</p> + +<p>So they carried little Ben away and Mrs. Bowman–though it was barely +five o’clock–began fixing Ben up for <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_532'></a>532</span>the wedding of Jasper Adams and Ruth +Morton. It was the first public appearance as a singer that little Ben had made +in Harvey. His appearance was due largely to the notion of Captain Morton, +supported and abetted by George Brotherton. So little Ben Bowman was smuggled +behind a palm in the choir loft and permitted to sing “O Promise Me” +during the services.</p> + +<p>“Not,” explained the Captain to Mr. Brotherton in the barn where +he was smoking, the afternoon before the ceremony, “not that I cared a +whoop in Texas about Ben–though ’y gory, the boy sings like a canary; but +it was the only excuse I could find for slipping a hundred dollars to the Bowman +family, without making Dick and Lida think it was charity–eh?”</p> + +<p>The wedding made a dull evening for Grant. He carried little Ben in his arms +out of the crowd at the church, and gathering up the Bowmans and his father, +went home without stopping for the reception or for the dance or for any of the +subsidiary attractions of the ceremony which Jasper and the Captain, each +delighting in tableaux and parades, had arranged for. Little Ben’s arm was +clinging to Grant’s neck as he piloted his party to the street car. They +passed the Van Dorn house and saw old Daniel Sands come tottering down the walk +from the Van Dorn home, between Ahab Wright and young Joe Calvin. Daniel Sands +stumbled as he shuffled past Amos Adams and Amos put out an arm to catch Daniel. +He regained his balance and without recognizing who had helped him, cackled:</p> + +<p>“Tom’s a man of his word, boys–when he promises–that +settles it. Tom never lies.” And his senile voice shrilled in a laugh. +Then the old banker recognized Amos Adams with Grant in the moonlight. +“Hi, old spook chaser,” he chirped feebly, still holding to Amos +Adams’s arm; “sorry I couldn’t get to my nevvy’s +wedding–Morty went–Morty’s our social man,” he laughed +again. “But I had some other important matters–business–very +important business.”</p> + +<p>The Sands’ party was moving toward the Sands’ limousine, which +stood purring at the curb. Ahab Wright and young Joe Calvin boosted the +trembling old man into the car, and <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_533'></a>533</span>Ahab Wright slipped back and returned to the wedding +reception, from which he had stolen away. Ahab was obviously embarrassed at +being caught in the conference with Sands and Van Dorn, but Daniel Sands as he +climbed into the car, sinking cautiously among the cushions and being swathed in +robes by the chauffeur, was garrulous. He kept carping at Amos Adams who stood +by with his son and the Bowmans, waiting for the street car.</p> + +<p>“Lost your only sane son, Amos,” he said. “The fool takes +after you, and the fiddler after his mother–but Jap–he’s real +Sands–he’s like me.”</p> + +<p>He laughed at his joke, and when his breath came back he went on.</p> + +<p>“There’s Morty–he’s like both the fool and the +fiddler–both the fool and the fiddler–and not a bit like +me.”</p> + +<p>“Morty isn’t very well, Daniel,” said Amos Adams, ignoring +all that the old man had said. “Don’t you think, Daniel, +you’re letting that disease get too deep a hold on Morty? With all your +money, Dan, I think you’d–”</p> + +<p>“With all my money–with all my money, Amos,” cried the old +man, shaking his hands, “with all my money–I can just stand and +wait. Amos–he’s a fool, I know–but he’s the only boy +I’ve got–the only boy. And with all my money–what good will it +do me? Anne won’t have it–and Morty’s all I’ve got and +he’s going before I do. Amos–Amos–tell me, Amos–what +have I done to deserve this of God? Haven’t I done as I ort? Why is this +put on me?” He sat panting and blinking and shaking his ever-denying, +palsied head. Amos did not reply. The chauffeur was taking his seat in the car. +“Ain’t I paid my share in the church? Ain’t I give parks to +the city? Ain’t I had family prayers for fifty years? Ain’t I been a +praying member all my life nearly? Ain’t I supported missions? Why,” +he panted, “is it put on me to die without a son to bear my name and take +care of my property? I made over two millions to him the other day. But why, +Amos,” the old man’s voice was broken and he whimpered, “has +the Lord sent this to Morty?”</p> + +<p>Amos did not reply, but the big voice of Grant spoke very softly: +“Uncle Dan, Morty’s got tuberculosis–you know <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_534'></a>534</span>that. Tuberculosis has +made you twenty per cent. interest for twenty years–those hothouses for +consumption of yours in the Valley. But it’s cost the poor scores and +scores of lives. Morty has it.” Grant’s voice rose solemnly. +“Vengeance is mine sayeth the Lord, I will repay. You’ve got your +interest, and the Lord has taken his toll.”</p> + +<p>The old man showed his colorless gums as he opened a raging mouth.</p> + +<p>“You–you–eh, you blasphemer!” He shook as with a +chill and screamed, “But we’ve got you now–we’ll fix +you!”</p> + +<p>The car for Harvey came, and the Adamses climbed in.</p> + +<p>Amos Adams, sitting on the hard seat of the street car looking into the +moonlight, considered seriously his brother-in-law, and his low estate. That he +had to be helped into his limousine, that he had to be wrapped up like a baby, +that his head was palsied and his hands fluttering, seemed strange and rather +inexplicable to Amos. He counted Daniel a young man, four years his junior, +barely seventy-nine; a man who should be in his prime. Amos did not realize that +his legs had been kept supple by climbing on and off a high printer’s +stool hourly for fifty years, and that his body had buffeted the winds of the +world unprotected all those years and had kept fit. But Daniel Sands’s sad +case seemed pathetic to the elder Adams and he cut into some rising stream of +conversation from Grant and the Bowmans inadvertently with: “Poor +Daniel–Morty doomed, and Daniel himself looking like the breaking up of a +hard winter–poor Daniel! He doesn’t seem to have got the hang of +things in this world; he can’t seem to get on some way. I’m sorry +for Daniel, Grant; he might have made quite a man if he’d not been fooled +by money.”</p> + +<p>Clearly Amos was meditating aloud; no one replied and the talk flowed on. But +the old man looked into the moonlight and dreamed dreams.</p> + +<p>The next day was Grant’s day at his carpenter’s bench, and when +he came to his office with his kit in his hands at five o’clock in the +afternoon, he found Violet Hogan waiting with the letters he was to sign, and +with the mail opened and sorted. As he was signing his letters Violet gave him +the news of the day:</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_535'></a>535</span>“Dick +Bowman ran in at noon and asked me to see if I could get Dr. Nesbit and George +Brotherton and Henry Fenn down here this evening to talk over his investment of +little Ben’s money. The check will come to-morrow.” Grant looked up +from his desk, but before he could ask a question Violet answered: +“They’ll be down at eight. The Doctor is that proud! And Mr. +Brotherton is cutting lodge–the Shriners, themselves–to come +down.”</p> + +<p>It was a grave and solemn council that sat by Grant Adams’s desk that +evening discussing the disposal of little Ben’s five thousand. Excepting +Mr. Brotherton, no one there had ever handled that much money at one time. For +though the Doctor was a man of affairs the money he handled in politics came +easy and went easy, and the money he earned Mrs. Nesbit always had invested for +him. So he and Lida Bowman sat rather apart while Dick and Brotherton considered +the safety of bonds and mortgages and time deposits and other staple methods of +investing the vast sum which was about to be paid to them for Ben’s +accident. They also considered plans for his education–whether he should +learn telegraphy or should cultivate his voice, or go to college or what not. In +this part of the council the Doctor took a hand. But Lida Bowman kept her wonted +silence. The money could not take the bitterness from her loss; though it did +relieve her despair. While they talked, as a mere incident of the conversation, +some one spoke of having seen Joe Calvin come down to the Wahoo Fuel +Company’s offices that day in his automobile. Doctor Nesbit recalled +having seen Calvin conferring with Tom Van Dorn and Daniel Sands in Van +Dorn’s office that afternoon. Then Dick Bowman craning his neck asked for +the third time when Henry Fenn would show up; and for the third time it was +explained that Henry had taken the Hogan children to the High School building in +Harvey to behold the spectacle of Janice Hogan graduating from the eighth grade +into the High School. Then Dick explained:</p> + +<p>“Well, I just thought Henry would know about this paper I got to-day +from the constable. It’s a legal document, and probably has something to +do with getting Benny’s money or something. I couldn’t make it out +so I thought I’d just let <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_536'></a>536</span>Henry figure on it and tell me what to do.” +And when a few minutes later Fenn came in, with a sense of duty to the Hogans +well done, Dick handed Fenn the paper and asked with all the assurance of a man +who expects the reassurance of an affirmative answer:</p> + +<p>“Well, Henry–she’s all right, ain’t she? Just some +legal formality to go through, I suppose?”</p> + +<p>Henry Fenn took the document from Bowman’s hand. Henry stood under the +electric, read it and sat thinking for a few seconds, with widely furious +eyes.</p> + +<p>“Well,” he said, “they’ve played their trump, boys. +Doc Jim–your law’s been attacked in the federal court–under +Tom Van Dorn–damn him!”</p> + +<p>The group barked a common question in many voices. Fenn replied: “As I +make it out, they got a New York stockholder of the Wahoo Valley Fuel Company to +ask for an injunction against paying little Ben his money to-morrow, and the +temporary injunction has been granted with the hearing set for June +16.”</p> + +<p>“And won’t they pay us without a suit?” asked Bowman. +“Why, I don’t see how that can be–they’ve been paying +for accidents for a year now.”</p> + +<p>“Why, the law’s through all the courts!” queried +Brotherton.</p> + +<p>“The state courts–yes,” answered Fenn, “but they +didn’t own the federal court until they got Tom in.”</p> + +<p>Bowman’s jaw began to tremble. His Adam’s apple bobbed like a +cork, and no one spoke. Finally Dr. Nesbit spoke in his high-keyed voice: +“I presume legal verbiage is all they talk in hell!” and sat +pondering.</p> + +<p>“Is there no way to beat it?” asked Brotherton.</p> + +<p>“Not in this court, George,” replied Fenn, “that’s +why they brought suit in this court.”</p> + +<p>“That means a long fight–a big law suit, Henry?” asked +Bowman.</p> + +<p>“Unless they compromise or wear you out,” replied the lawyer.</p> + +<p>“And can’t a jury decide?”</p> + +<p>“No–it’s an injunction. It’s up to the court, and the +court is Tom Van Dorn,” said Fenn.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_537'></a>537</span>Then Dick Bowman +spoke: “And there goes little Ben’s school and a chance to make +something out of what’s left of him. Why, it don’t look right when +the legislature’s passed it, and the people’s confirmed it and nine +lawyers in all the state courts have said it’s law,–for the attorney +for the company holding a job as judge to turn over all them forms of law. +Can’t we do something?”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” spoke the big voice of Grant Adams for the first time +since Fenn made his announcement, “we can strike–that’s one +thing we can do. Why,” he continued, full of emotion, “I could no +more hold those men down there against a strike when they hear this than I could +fly. They’ll have to fight for this right, gentlemen!”</p> + +<p>“Be calm now, Grant,” piped the Doctor; “don’t go off +half cocked.”</p> + +<p>Grant’s eyes flared–his nose dilated and the muscles of his heavy +jaw worked and knotted. He answered in a harsh voice:</p> + +<p>“Oh, I’ll be calm all right, Doctor. I’m going down in the +morning and plead for peace. But I know my people. I can’t hold +’em.”</p> + +<p>Those in the room stood for a moment in dazed silence; then the Doctor and +Brotherton, realizing the importance of further discussion that night, soon +withdrew from the room, leaving Dick voluble in his grief and Lida, his wife, +stony and speechless beside him. She shook no sympathizing hand, not even +Grant’s, as the Bowmans left for home. But she climbed out of the chair +and down the stairs on tired, heavy feet.</p> + +<p>In the morning there was turmoil in the Valley. In the <i>Times</i>Jared +Thurston, with the fatuous blundering which characterizes all editors of papers +like his, printed the news that little Ben Bowman would be denied his rights, as +a glorious victory over the reformers. In an editorial, written in old Joe +Calvin’s best style, the community was congratulated upon having one judge +at last who would put an end to the socialistic foolishness that had been +written by demagogues on the state statute books, and hinting rather broadly +that the social labor program adopted by the people at the last election through +the direct vote would go the way of the <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_538'></a>538</span> fool statute under which the Bowman lad hoped to +cheat the courts of due process of law.</p> + +<p>In vain did Grant Adams try to rally carpenters to the trocha. He pleaded +with the men to raise a special fund to take little Ben’s case through the +federal courts; but he failed.</p> + +<p>The Wahoo Valley saw in the case of little Ben Bowman the drama of greed +throttling poverty, all set forth in stark, grim terms that no one could +question. The story appealed directly to the passions of the Valley and the +Valley’s voice rose in the demand to resort to its last weapon of defense. +The workers felt that they must strike or forfeit their self-respect. And day by +day the <i>Times</i>, gloating at the coming downfall in Van Dorn’s +program of labor-repression, threw oil on the flaming passions of the Valley, so +labor raged and went white hot. The council of the Wahoo Valley Trades Workers +came together to vote on the strike. Every unit of seven was asked to meet and +vote. Grant sat in his office with the executive committee a day and a night +counting the slowly returning votes. Grant had influence enough to make them +declare emphatically for a peaceful strike. But the voice of the Valley was for +a strike. The spring was at its full. The little garden plots were blooming. The +men felt confident. A conference of the officials of the council was called to +formulate the demands. Grant managed to put off the strike until the hearing on +the temporary injunction, June 16, was held. But the men drew up their demands +and were ready for the court decision which they felt would be finally against +them.</p> + +<p>The Wahoo Valley was stirred deeply by the premonitions of the coming strike. +It was proud of its record for industrial peace, and the prospect of war in the +Valley overturned all its traditions.</p> + +<p>Market Street had its profound reaction, too. Market Street and the Valley, +each in its own way, felt the dreaded turmoil coming, knew what commercial +disaster the struggle meant, but Market Street was timid and powerless and +panic-stricken. Yet life went on. In the Valley there were births and deaths and +marriages, and on the hill in Harvey, Mrs. Bedelia Nesbit was working out her +plans to make over <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_539'></a>539</span>the Nesbit house, while Lila, her granddaughter, was +fluttering about in the seventh Heaven, for she was living under the same sky +and sun and stars that bent over Kenyon, her lover, home from Boston for the +Morton-Adams wedding. He might be hailed as a passing ship once or twice a day, +if she managed to time her visits to Market Street properly, or he might be seen +from the east veranda of her home at the proper hour, and there was a throb of +joy that blotted out all the rest of the pale world. There was one time; two +times indeed they were, and a hope of a third, when slipping out from under the +shadow of her grandmother’s belligerent plumes, Lila had known the actual +fleeting touch of hands; the actual feasting of eyes and the quick rapture of +meeting lips at a tryst. And when Mrs. Nesbit left for Minneapolis to consult an +architect, and to be gone two weeks–Harvey and the Valley and the strike +slipped so far below the sky-line of the two lovers that they were scarcely +aware that such things were in the universe.</p> + +<p>Kenyon could not see even the grim cast of decision mantling Grant’s +face. Day by day, while the votes assembled which ordered the strike, the deep +abiding purpose of Grant Adams’s soul rose and stood ready to master him. +He and the men seemed to be coming to their decision together. As the votes +indicated by a growing majority their determination, in a score of ways Grant +made it evident to those about him, that for him time had fruited; the day was +ready and the hour at hand for his life plans to unfold. Those nearest him knew +that the season of debate for Grant Adams had passed. He was like one whose +sails of destiny are set and who longs to put out into the deep and let down his +nets. So he passed the long days impatiently until the hearing of the injunction +in little Ben’s suit arrived, and every day burned some heavier line into +his face that recorded the presence of the quenchless fire of purpose in his +heart.</p> + +<p>A smiling, affable man was Judge Thomas Van Dorn in his court the morning of +June 16. He had his ticket bought for Chicago and a seat in the great convention +of his party assured. He walked through the court room, rather dapperly. He put +his high silk hat on the bench beside him, by way of adding a certain air of +easy informality to the proceedings. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_540'></a>540</span>His red necktie brought out every thin wrinkle in +his burnished brown face and upon the pink brow threaded by a chain lightning of +a scar. The old mushy, emotional voice of his youth and maturity had thickened, +and he talked loudly. He listened to arguments of counsel. Young Joe Calvin, +representing the Fuel Company, was particularly eloquent. Henry Fenn knew that +his case was hopeless, but made such reply as he could.</p> + +<p>“Well,” cut in the court before Fenn was off his feet at the +close of his argument, “there’s nothing to your contention. The +court is familiar with those cases, cited by counsel. Either the constitution +means what it says or it doesn’t. This court is willing to subscribe to a +fund to pay this Bowman child a just compensation. This is a case for charity +and the company is always generous in its benevolence. The Socialists may have +the state courts, and the people are doubtless crazy–but this court will +uphold the constitution. The injunction is made permanent. The court stands +adjourned.”</p> + +<p>The crowd of laborers in the court room laughed in the Judge’s face. +They followed Grant Adams, who with head bowed in thought walked slowly to the +street car. “Well, fellows,” said Grant, “here’s the +end. As it stands now, the law considers steel and iron in machinery more sacred +than flesh and blood. The court would have allowed them to appropriate money for +machines without due process of law; but it enjoins them from appropriating +money for flesh and blood.” He was talking to the members of the Valley +Labor Council as they stood waiting for a car. “We may as well miss a car +and present our demands to the Calvins. The sooner we get this thing moving, the +better.”</p> + +<p>Ten minutes later the Council walked into the office of Calvin and Calvin. +There sat Joseph Calvin, the elder, a ratty little man still, with a thin +stringy neck and with a bald head. His small, mousy eyes blinked at the workmen. +He was exceedingly polite. He admitted that he was attorney for the +owners’ association in the Valley, that he could if he chose speak for +them in any negotiations they might desire to make with their employees, but +that he was authorized to say that the owners were not ready to consider or even +to receive any communication from the men upon <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_541'></a>541</span>any subject–except as individual employees +might desire to confer with superintendents or foremen in the various mines and +mills.</p> + +<p>So they walked out. At labor headquarters in South Harvey, Nathan Perry came +sauntering in.</p> + +<p>“Well, boys–let’s have your agreement–I think I know +what it is. We’re ready to sign.”</p> + +<p>In an hour men were carrying out posters to be distributed throughout the +Valley, signed by Grant Adams, chairman of the Wahoo Valley Trades +Workers’ Council. It read:</p> + +<div class='center'> +<p class='center'>STRIKE STRIKE STRIKE</p> +</div> + +<div class='bquote'> +<p>The managers of our mines and mills in the Wahoo Valley have refused to +confer with representatives of the workers about an important matter. Therefore +we order a general strike of all workers in the mines and mills in this +District. Workers before leaving will see that their machines are carefully +oiled, covered, and prepared to rest without injury. For we claim partnership +interest in them, and should protect them and all our property in the mines and +mills in this Valley. During this strike, we pledge ourselves.</p> + +<p>To orderly conduct.</p> + +<p>To keep out of the saloons.</p> + +<p>To protect our property in the mines and mills.</p> + +<p>To use our influence to restrain all violence of speech or conduct. And we +make the following demands:</p> + +<p>First. That prices of commodities turned out in this district shall not be +increased to the public as a result of concessions to us in this strike, and to +that end we demand.</p> + +<p>Second. That we be allowed to have a representative in the offices of all +concerns interested, said representative to have access to all books and +accounts, guaranteeing to labor such increases in wages as shall be evidently +just, allowing 8 per cent. dividends on stock, the payment of interest on bonds, +and such sums for upkeep, maintenance, and repairs as shall not include the +creation of a surplus or fund for extensions.</p> + +<p>Third, we demand that the companies concerned shall obey all laws enacted by +the state or nation to improve conditions of industry until such laws have been +passed upon by the supreme courts of the state and of the United States.</p> + +<p>Fourth, we demand that all negotiations between the employers and the workers +arising out of the demands shall be conducted on behalf of the workers by the +Trades Workers’ Council of the Wahoo Valley or their accredited +representatives.</p> + +<p>During this strike we promise to the public righteous peace; after the strike +we promise to the managers of the mines and mills efficient labor, and to the +workers always justice.</p></div> + +<div class='center'> +<p class='center'>STRIKE STRIKE STRIKE</p> +</div> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_542'></a>542</span>At two +o’clock that June afternoon the whistle of the big engine in the smelter +in South Harvey, the whistle in the glass factory at Magnus, and the siren in +the cement mill at Foley blew, and gradually the wheels stopped, the machines +were covered, the fires drawn, the engines wiped and covered with oil, and the +men marched out of all the mills and mines and shops in the district. There was +no uproar, no rioting, but in an hour all the garden patches in the Valley were +black with men. The big strike of the Wahoo Valley was on.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_543'></a>543</span><a id='link_46'></a>CHAPTER XLVI<br /><span class='h2fs'>WHEREIN GRANT ADAMS PREACHES PEACE AND LIDA BOWMAN SPEAKS HER MIND</span></h2> + +<p>A war, being an acute stage of discussion about the ownership of property, is +a war even though “the lead striker calls it a strike,” and even +though he proposes to conduct the acute stage of the discussion on high moral +grounds. The gentleman who is being relieved of what he considers at the moment +his property, has no notion of giving it up without a struggle, no matter how +courteously he is addressed, nor upon what exalted grounds the discussion is +ranging. It is a world-old mistake of the Have-nots to discount the value which +the Haves put upon their property. The Have-nots, generally speaking, hold the +property under discussion in low esteem. They have not had the property in +question. They don’t know what a good thing it is–except in theory. +But the Haves have had the property and they will fight for it, displaying a +degree of feeling that always surprises the Have-nots, and naturally weakens +their regard for the high motives and disinterested citizenship of the +Haves.</p> + +<p>Now Grant Adams in the great strike in the Wahoo Valley was making the +world-old mistake. He was relying upon the moral force of his argument to +separate the Haves from their property. He had cared little for the property. +The poor never care much for property–otherwise they would not be poor. So +Grant and his followers in the Valley–and all over the world for that +matter,–(for they are of the great cult who believe in a more equitable +distribution of property, through a restatement of the actual values of various +servants to society), went into their demands for partnership rights in the +industrial property around them, in a sublime and beautiful but untenable faith +that the righteousness of their <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_544'></a>544</span>cause would win it. The afternoon when the men +walked out of the mines and mills and shops, placards covered the dead walls of +the Valley and the hired billboards in Harvey setting forth the claims of the +men. They bought and paid for twenty thousand copies of Amos Adams’s +<i>Tribune</i>, and distributed it in every home in the district, setting forth +their reasons for striking. Great posters were spread over the town and in the +Valley declaring “the rule of this strike is to be square, and to be +square means that the strikers will do as they would be done by. There will be +no violence.”</p> + +<p>Now it would seem that coming to the discussion with these obviously high +motives, and such fair promises, the strikers would have been met by similarly +altruistic methods. But instead, the next morning at half past six, when a +thousand strikers appeared bearing large white badges inscribed with the words, +“We stand for peace and law and order,” and when the strikers +appeared before the entrance to the shaft houses and the gates and doors of the +smelters and mills, to beg men and women not to fill the vacant places at the +mills and mines, the white-badged brigade was met with five hundred policemen +who rudely ordered the strikers to move on.</p> + +<p>The Haves were exhibiting feeling in the matter. But the mines and mills did +not open; not enough strike-breakers appeared. So that afternoon, a great +procession of white-badged men and white-clad women and children, formed in +South Harvey, and, headed by the Foley Brass Band, marched through Market Street +and for five miles through the streets of Harvey singing. Upon a platform +carried by eight white-clad mothers, sat little Ben Bowman swathed in white, +waving a white flag in his hand, and leading the singing. Over the chair on +which he sat were these words on a great banner. “For his legal rights and +for all such as he we demand that the law be enforced.”</p> + +<p>For two hours the procession wormed through Harvey. The streets were crowded +to watch it. It made its impression on the town. The elder Calvin watched it +with Mayor Ahab Wright, in festal side whiskers, from the office of Calvin & +Calvin. Young Joe Calvin from time to time came and looked over their shoulders. +But he was for the most part too busily engaged, making out commissions for +deputy sheriffs and <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_545'></a>545</span>extra policemen, to watch the parade. As the parade +came back headed for South Harvey, the ear of the young man caught a familiar +tune. He watched Ahab Wright and his father to see if they recognized it. The +placid face of the Mayor betrayed no more consciousness of the air than did his +immaculate white necktie. The elder Calvin’s face showed no appreciative +wrinkles. The band passed down the street roaring the battle hymn of labor that +has become so familiar all over the world. The great procession paused uncovered +in the street, while Little Ben waved his flag and raised his clear, boyish +voice with its clarion note and sang, as the procession waved back. And at the +spectacle of the crippled child, waving his one little arm, and lifting his +voice in a lusty strain, the sidewalk crowd cheered and those who knew the tune +joined.</p> + +<p>Young Joe Calvin stood with his hands on the shoulders of the two sitting +men. “Mr. Mayor, do you know that tune?” said Young Joe.</p> + +<p>Mr. Mayor, whose only secular tune was “Yankee Doodle,” confessed +his ignorance. “Listen to the words,” suggested Young Joe. Old Joe +put his hand to his right ear. Ahab Wright leaned forward, and the words of the +old, old cry of the Reds of the Midi came surging up:</p> + +<div class='poetry'> +<p>“To arms! to arms!–ye brave!<br /> The avenging +sword unsheathe!<br /> March on! March on! all hearts resolved<br /> + On victory or death.”</p> </div> + +<p>When Ahab Wright caught the words he was open mouthed with astonishment. +“Why–why,” he cried, “that–why, that is sedition. +They’re advocating murder!”</p> + +<p>Young Joe Calvin’s face did not betray him, and he nodded a warning +head. Old Joe looked the genuine consternation which he felt.</p> + +<p>“We can’t have this, Ahab–this won’t do–a few +days of this and we’ll have bloodshed.”</p> + +<p>It did not occur to Ahab Wright that he had been singing “Onward, +Christian Soldiers,” and “I Am a Soldier of the Cross,” and +“I’ll Be Washed in the Blood of the Lamb,” all of his pious +life, without ever meaning anything particularly <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_546'></a>546</span>sanguinary. He heard the war song of the +revolution, and being a literal and peth-headed man, prepared to defend the flag +with all the ardor that had burned in John Kollander’s heart for fifty +years.</p> + +<p>“I tell you, Mr. Mayor, we need the troops. The Sheriff agrees with +me–now you hear that,” said young Joe. “Will you wait until +some one is killed or worse, until a mine is flooded, before sending for +them?”</p> + +<p>“You know, Ahab,” put in old Joe, “the Governor said on the +phone this morning, not to let this situation get away from you.”</p> + +<p>The crowd was joining the singing. The words–the inspiring words of the +labor chant had caught the people on the sidewalk, and a great diapason was +rising:</p> + +<div class='poetry'> +<p>“March on! March on!–all hearts resolved<br /> On +victory or death.”</p> </div> + +<p>“Hear that–hear that, Ahab!” cried old Joe. “Why, the +decent people up town here are going crazy–they’re all singing +it–and that little devil is waving a red flag with the white +one!”</p> + +<p>Ahab Wright looked and was aghast. “Doesn’t that mean +rebellion–anarchy–and bloodshed?” he gasped.</p> + +<p>“It means socialism,” quoth young Joe, laconically, “which +is the same thing.”</p> + +<p>“Well, well! my! my! Dear me,” fretted Ahab, “we +mustn’t let this go on.”</p> + +<p>“Shall I get the Governor on the phone–you know we have the +Sheriff’s order here–just waiting for you to join him?” asked +young Joe.</p> + +<p>The Haves were moving the realm of the discussion about their property from +pure reason to the baser emotions.</p> + +<p>“Look, look!” cried the Mayor. “Grant Adams is standing on +that platform–and those women have to hold him up–it’s +shameful. Listen!”</p> + +<p>“I want to say to my old neighbors and friends here in Harvey,” +cried Grant, “that in this strike we shall try with all our might, with +all our hearts’ best endeavors, to do unto others as we would have them do +unto us. Our property in the mines and mills in this Valley, we shall protect, +just as <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_547'></a>547</span>sacredly as +our partners on Wall Street would protect it. It is our property–we are +the legatees of the laborers who have piled it up. You men of Harvey know that +these mines represent little new capital. They were dug with the profits from +the first few shafts. The smelters rose from the profits of the first smelters +in the district. Where capital has builded with fresh investment–we make +no specific claim, but where capital has builded here in this district from +profits made in the district–profits made by reason of cheating the +crippled and the killed, profits made by long deadly hours of labor, profits +made by cooking men’s lungs on the slag dump, profits made by choking men +to death, unrequited, in cement dust, profits sweated out of the men at the +glass furnaces–where capital has appropriated unjustly, we expect to +appropriate justly. We shall take nothing that we do not own. This is the +beginning of the rise of the Democracy of Labor–the dawn of the new +day.” He waved his arm and his steel claw and chanted:</p> + +<div class='poetry'> +<p>“March on!–March on!–all hearts resolved,”</p></div> + +<p>And in a wave of song the response came</p> + +<div class='poetry'> +<p>“To victory or death.”</p></div> + +<p>Grant Adams flaunted his black slouch hat; then he sprang from the platform, +and hurried to the front of the procession. The band struck up a lively tune and +the long trail of white-clad women and white-badged men became animate.</p> + +<p>“Well, Ahab–you heard that? That is rebellion,” said old +Joe, squinting his mole-like eyes. “What are you going to do about +that–as the chief priest of law and order in this community?”</p> + +<p>Five minutes later Ahab Wright, greatly impressed with the dignity of his +position, and with the fact that he was talking to so superior a person as a +governor, was saying:</p> + +<p>“Yes, your excellency–yes, I wanted to tell you of our conditions +here in the Valley. It’s serious–quite serious.” To the +Governor’s question the Mayor replied:</p> + +<p>“No–no–not yet, but we want to prevent it. This man +Adams–Grant Adams, you’ve heard about him–”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_548'></a>548</span>And then an +instant later he continued, “Yes–that’s the man, +Governor–Dr. Nesbit’s friend. Well, this man Adams has no respect +for authority, nor for property rights, and he’s stirring up the +people.”</p> + +<p>Young Joe Calvin winked at his father and said during the pause,</p> + +<p>“That’s the stuff–the old man’s coming across like a +top.”</p> + +<p>Ahab went on: “Exactly–‘false and seditious doctrines,’ and +I’m afraid, Governor, that it will be wise to send us some +troops.”</p> + +<p>The Calvins exchanged approving nods, and young Joe, having the enthusiasm of +youth in his blood, beat his desk in joyous approval of the trend of events.</p> + +<p>“Oh, I don’t know as to that,” continued Ahab, answering +the Governor. “We have about four thousand men–perhaps a few more +out. You know how many troops can handle them.”</p> + +<p>“Tell him we’ll quarter them in the various plants, Ahab,” +cut in old Joe, and Ahab nodded as he listened.</p> + +<p>“Well, don’t wait for the tents,” he said. “Our +people will quarter the men in the buildings in the centers of the disturbance. +Our merchants can supply your quartermaster with everything. We have about a +thousand policemen and deputy sheriffs–”</p> + +<p>While the Mayor was listening to the Governor, Calvin senior said to his son, +“Probably we’d better punch him up with that promise about the provo +marshal,” and young Joe interrupted:</p> + +<p>“And, Mr. Mayor, don’t forget to remind him of the promise he +made to Tom Van Dorn,–about me.”</p> + +<p>Ahab nodded and listened. “Wait,” he said, putting his hand over +the telephone receiver, and added in a low voice to those in the room: “He +was just talking about that and thinks he will not proclaim martial law until +there is actual violence–which he feels will follow the coming of the +troops, when the men see he is determined. He said then that he expected Captain +Calvin of the Harvey Company to take charge, and the Governor will speak to the +other officers <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_549'></a>549</span>about it.” Ahab paused a moment for further +orders. “Well,” said the elder Calvin, “I believe that’s +all.”</p> + +<p>“Will there be anything else to-day, Joe?” asked Ahab, +unconsciously assuming his counter manner to young Joe Calvin, who replied +without a smile:</p> + +<p>“Well–no–not to-day, thank you,” and Ahab went back +to the Governor and ended the parley.</p> + +<p>The <i>Times</i> the next morning with flaring headlines announced that the +Governor had decided to send troops to the Wahoo Valley to protect the property +in the mines and mills for the rightful owners and to prevent any further +incendiary speaking and rioting such as had disgraced Market Street the day +before. In an editorial the Governor was advised to proclaim martial law, as +only the strictest repression would prevent the rise of anarchy and open +rebellion to the authorities.</p> + +<p>The troops came on the early morning trains, and filed into the sheds +occupied by the workmen before the strike. The young militiamen immediately +began pervading South Harvey, Foley and Magnus, and when the strikers lined up +before the gates and doors of their former working places at seven o’clock +that morning they met a brown line of youths–devil-may-care young fellows +out for a lark, who liked to prod the workmen with their bayonets and who +laughingly ordered the strikers to stop trying to keep the strike-breakers from +going to work. The strikers were bound by their pledges to the Trades Council +not to touch the strike-breakers under any circumstances. The +strikers–white-badged and earnest-faced–made their campaign by +lining up five on each side of a walk or path through which the strike-breakers +would have to pass to their work, and crying:</p> + +<p>“Help us, and we’ll help you. Don’t scab on us–keep +out of the works, and we’ll see that you are provided for. Join +us–don’t turn your backs on your fellow workers.”</p> + +<p>They would stretch out their arms in mute appeal when words failed, and they +brought dozens of strike-breakers away from their work. And on the second +morning of the strike not a wheel turned in the district.</p> + +<p>All morning Grant Adams moved among the men. He <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_550'></a>550</span>was a marked figure–with his steel +claw–and he realized that he was regarded by the militiamen as an ogre. A +young militiaman had hurt a boy in Magnus–pricked him in the leg and cut +an artery. Grant tried to see the Colonel of the company to protest. But the +soldier had been to the officer with his story, and Grant was told that the boy +attacked the militiaman–which, considering that the boy was a child in his +early teens and the man was armed and in his twenties, was unlikely. But Grant +saw that his protests would not avail. He issued a statement, gave it to the +press correspondents who came flocking in with the troops, and sent it to the +Governor, who naturally transferred it back to the militiamen.</p> + +<p>In the afternoon the parade started again–the women and children in +white, and the men in white coats and white working caps. It formed on a common +between Harvey and South Harvey, and instead of going into Harvey turned down +into the Valley where it marched silently around the quiet mills and shafts and +to the few tenements where the strike-breakers were lodged. A number of them +were sitting at the windows and on the steps and when the strikers saw the men +in the tenements, they raised their arms in mute appeal, but spoke no word. Down +the Valley the procession hurried and in every town repeated this performance. +The troops had gathered in Harvey and were waiting, and it was not until after +three o’clock that they started after the strikers. A troop of cavalry +overtook the column in Foley, and rode through the line a few times, but no one +spoke, and the cavalrymen rode along the line but did not try to break it. So +the third day passed without a fire in a furnace in the district.</p> + +<p>That night Grant Adams addressed the strikers in Belgian Hall in South +Harvey, in Fraternity Hall in Magnus and on a common in Foley. The burden of his +message was this: “Stick–stick to the strike and to our method. If +we can demonstrate the fact that we have the brains to organize, to abandon +force, to maintain ourselves financially, to put our cause before our fellow +workers so clearly that they will join us–we can win, we can enter into +the partnership in these mills that is ours by right. The Democracy of Labor is +a <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_551'></a>551</span>Democracy of +Peace–only in peace, only by using the higher arts of peace under great +provocation may we establish that Democracy and come into our own. +Stick–stick–stick to the strike and stick to the ways of peace. Let +them rally to their Colonels and their tin soldiers–and we shall not +fear–for we are gathered about the Prince of Peace.”</p> + +<p>The workmen always rose to this appeal and in Foley where the Letts had +worked in the slag-dump, one of them, who did not quite understand the +association of words implied by the term the Prince of Peace, cried:</p> + +<p>“Hurrah for Grant, he is the Prince of Peace,” and the good +natured crowd laughed and cheered the man’s mistake.</p> + +<p>But the <i>Times</i> the next morning contained this head:</p> + +<div class='bquote'> +<p>“Shame on Grant Adams, Trying to Inflame Ignorant Foreigners. Declares +he is the Prince of Peace and gets Applause from his Excited Dupes–Will he +Claim to be Messiah?”</p></div> + +<p>It was a good story–from a purely sensational viewpoint, and it was +telegraphed over the country, that Grant Adams, the labor leader, was claiming +to be a messiah and was rallying foreigners to him by supernatural powers. The +<i>Times</i> contained a vicious editorial calling on all good citizens to stamp +out the blasphemous cult that Adams was propagating. The editorial said that the +authorities should not allow such a man to speak on the streets maintained by +tax-payers, and that with the traitorous promises of ownership of the mines and +mills backing up such a campaign, rebellion would soon be stalking the street +and bloodshed such as had not been seen in America for a generation would +follow. The names which the <i>Times</i> called Grant Adams indicated so much +malice, that Grant felt encouraged, and believed he had the strike won, if he +could keep down violence. So triumph flambeaued itself on his face. For two +peaceful days had passed. And peace was his signal of victory.</p> + +<p>But during the night a trainload of strike-breakers came from Chicago. They +were quartered in the railroad yards, and Grant ordered a thousand pickets out +to meet the men at daybreak. Grant called out the groups of seven and each +lodging house, tenement and car on the railroad siding was parceled out to a +group. Moreover, Grant threw his army <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_552'></a>552</span>into action by ordering twenty groups into Sands +Park, through which the strike-breaking smelter men would pass after the pickets +had spoken to the strike-breakers in their door yards. Lining the park paths, +men stood in the early morning begging working men not to go into the places +made vacant by the strike. In addition to this, he posted other groups of +strikers to stand near the gates and doors of the working places, begging the +strike-breakers to join the strikers.</p> + +<p>Grant Adams, in his office, was the motive power of the strike. By telephone +his power was transferred all over the district. Violet Hogan and Henry Fenn +were with him. Two telephones began buzzing as the first strikers went into +Sands Park. Fenn, sitting by Grant, picked up the first transmitter; Violet took +the other. She took the message in shorthand. Fenn translated a running jargon +between breaths.</p> + +<p>“Police down in Foley–Clubbing the Letts.–No +bloodshed.–They are running back to their gardens.”</p> + +<p>“Tell the French to take their places,” said +Grant–“There are four French sevens–tell him to get them out +right away–but not to fight the cops. Militia there?”</p> + +<p>“No,” answered Fenn, “they are guarding the mill doors, and +this happened in the streets near the lodging houses.”</p> + +<p>“Mr. Adams,” said Violet, reading, “there’s some kind +of a row in Sands Park. The cavalry is there and Ira Dooley says to tell you to +clear out the Park or there will be trouble.”</p> + +<p>“Get the boys on the phone, Violet, and tell them I said leave the +Park, then, and go to the shaft houses in Magnus–but to march in +silence–understand?”</p> + +<p>Fenn picked up the transmitter again, “What’s +that–what’s that–” he cried. Then he mumbled on, +“He says the cops have ax-handles and that down by the smelters they are +whacking our people right and left–Three in an ambulance?–The Slavs +won’t take it? Cop badly hurt?” asked Fenn.</p> + +<p>Grant Adams groaned, and put his head in his hand, and leaned on the desk. He +rose up suddenly with a flaming face and said: “I’m going down +there–I can stop it.”</p> + +<p>He bolted from the room and rattled down the stairs. In <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_553'></a>553</span>a minute he came running up. +“Violet–” he called to the woman who was busy at the +telephone–“shut that man off and order a car for me +quick–they’ve stolen my crank and cut every one of my tires. For +God’s sake be quick–I must get down to those Slavs.”</p> + +<p>In a moment Violet had shut off her interviewer, and was calling the South +Harvey Garage. Henry Fenn, busy with his phone, looked up with a drawn face and +cried:</p> + +<p>“Grant–the Cossacks–the Cossacks are riding down those +little Italians in Sands Park–chasing them like dogs from the +paths–they say the cavalry is using whips!”</p> + +<p>Grant stood with bowed head and arched shoulders listening. The muscles of +his jaw contracted, and he snapped his teeth.</p> + +<p>“Any one hurt?” he asked. Fenn, with the receiver to his ear went +on, “The Dagoes are not fighting back–the cavalrymen are shooting in +the air, but–the lines are broken–the scabs are marching to the +mines through a line of soldiers–we’ve stopped about a third from +the cars–they are forming at the upper end of the Park–our men, +they–”</p> + +<p>“Good-by,” shouted Grant, as he heard a motor car whirring in the +distance.</p> + +<p>Turning out of the street he saw a line of soldiers blocking his way. He had +the driver turn, and at the next corner found himself blocked in. Once more he +tried, and again found himself fenced in. He jumped from the car, and ran, head +down, toward the line of young fellows in khaki blocking the street. As he came +up to them he straightened up, and, striking with his hook a terrific blow, the +bayonet that would have stopped him, Grant caught the youth’s coat in the +steel claw, whirled him about and was gone in a second.</p> + +<p>He ran through alleys and across commons until he caught a street car for the +smelters. Here he heard the roar of the riot. He saw the new ax-handles of the +policemen beating the air, and occasionally thudding on a man’s back or +head. The Slavs were crying and throwing clods and stones. Grant ran up and +bellowed in his great voice:</p> + +<p>“Quit it–break away–there, you men. Let the cops alone. Do +you want to lose this strike?”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_554'></a>554</span>A policeman put +his hand on Grant’s shoulder to arrest him. Grant brushed him aside.</p> + +<p>“Break away there, boys,” he called. The Slavs were standing +staring at him. Several bloody faces testified to the effectiveness of the +ax-handles.</p> + +<p>“Stand back–stand back. Get to your lines,” he called, +glaring at them. They fell under his spell and obeyed. When they were quiet he +walked over to them, and said gently:</p> + +<p>“It’s all right, boys–grin and bear it. We’ll win. +You couldn’t help it–I couldn’t either.” He smiled. +“But try–try next time.” The strike-breakers were huddled back +of the policemen.</p> + +<p>“Men,” he shouted to the strike-breakers over the heads of the +policemen, “this strike is yours as well as ours. We have money to keep +you, if you will join us. Come with us–comrades–Oh, comrades, stand +with us in this fight! Go in there and they’ll enslave +you–they’ll butcher you and kill you and offer you a lawsuit for +your blood. We offer you justice, if we win. Come, come,” he cried, +“fellow workers–comrades, help us to have peace.”</p> + +<p>The policemen formed a line into the door of the shaft house. The +strike-breakers hesitated. Grant approached the line of policemen, put up his +arm and his maimed hand, lifted his rough, broken face skyward and cried, +“O–O–O, God, pour Thy peace into their hearts that they may +have mercy on their comrades.”</p> + +<p>A silence fell, the strike-breakers began to pass through the police lines to +join the strikers. At first only one at a time, then two. And then, the line +broke and streamed around the policemen. A great cheer went up from the street, +and Grant Adams’s face twitched and his eyes filled with tears. Then he +hurried away.</p> + +<p>It was eight o’clock and the picketing for the day was done, when Grant +reached his office.</p> + +<p>“Well,” said Fenn, who had Violet’s notes before him, +“it’s considerably better than a dog fall. They haven’t a +smelter at work. Two shafts are working with about a third of a force, and we +feel they are bluffing. The glass works <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_555'></a>555</span>furnaces are cold. The cement mills are dead. They +beat up the Italians pretty badly over in the Park.”</p> + +<p>The <i>Times</i> issued a noon extra to tell of the incident in front of the +smelter, and expatiated upon the Messianic myth. A tirade against Grant Adams in +black-faced type three columns wide occupied the center of the first page of the +extra, and in Harvey people began to believe that he was the “Mad +Mullah” that the <i>Times</i> said he was.</p> + +<p>When Dr. Nesbit drove his electric home that noon, he found his daughter +waiting for him. She stood on the front porch, with a small valise beside her. +She was dressed in white and her youthful skin, fresh lips, glowing eyes and +heightened color made her seem younger than the woman of forty that she was. Her +father saw in her face the burning purpose to serve which had come to indicate +her moments of decision. The Doctor had grown used to that look of decision and +he knew that it was in some way related to South Harvey and the strike. For +during her years of work in the Valley, its interests had grown to dominate her +life. But the Valley and its interests had unfolded her soul to its widest +reach, to its profoundest depths. And in her features were blazoned, at times, +all the love and joy and strength that her life had gathered. These were the +times when she wore what her father called “the Valley look.” She +had “the Valley look” in her face that day when she stood waiting +for her father with the valise beside her–a beautiful woman.</p> + +<p>“Father–now don’t stop me, dear. I’m going to Grant. +Mother will be home in a few days. I’ve told Lila to stay with Martha +Morton when you are not here. It’s always secure and tranquil up here, you +know. But I’m going down in the Valley. I’m going to the +strike.”</p> + +<p>“Going to the strike?” repeated her father.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” she answered, turning her earnest eyes upon him as she +spoke. “It’s the first duty I have on earth–to be with my +people in this crisis. All these years they have borne me up; have renewed my +faith; they have given me courage. Now is my turn, father. Where they go, I go +also.” She smiled gently and added, “I’m going to +Grant.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_556'></a>556</span>She took her +father’s hands. “Father–Oh, my good friend–you +understand me–Grant and me?–don’t you? Every man in the crisis +of his life needs a woman. I’ve been reading about Grant in the papers. I +can see what really has happened. But he doesn’t understand how what they +say happens, for the next few days or weeks or months, while this strike is on, +is of vastly more importance than what really happens. He lacks perspective on +himself. A woman, if she is a worthy friend–gives that to a man. I’m +going to Grant–to my good friend, father, and stand with him–very +close, and very true, I hope!”</p> + +<p>Trouble moved over the Doctor’s face in a cloud. “I don’t +know about Grant, Laura,” he said. “All this Messiah and Prince of +Peace tomfoolery–and–”</p> + +<p>“Why, you know it never happened, don’t you, father? You know +Grant is not a fool–nor mad?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I suppose so, Laura–but he approximates both at +times,” piped the father raspingly.</p> + +<p>“Father–listen here–listen to me, dear. I know +Grant–I’ve known him always. This is what is the matter with Grant. +I don’t think one act in all his life was based on a selfish or an +ulterior motive. He has spent his life lavishly for others. He has given himself +without let or hindrance for his ideals–he gave up power and personal +glory–all for this cause of labor. He has been maimed and broken for +it–has failed for it; and now you see what clouds are gathering above +him–and I must go to him. I must be with him.”</p> + +<p>“But for what good, Laura?” asked her father impatiently.</p> + +<p>“For my own soul’s good and glory, dear,” she answered +solemnly. “To live my faith; to stand by the people with whom I have cast +my lot; to share the great joy that I know is in Grant’s heart–the +joy of serving; to triumph in his failure if it comes to that!–to be +happy–with him, as I know him no matter what chance and circumstance +surround him. Oh–father–”</p> + +<p>She looked up with brimming eyes and clasped his hand tightly while she +cried: “I must go–Oh, bless me as I go–” And the father +kissed her forehead.</p> + +<p>An hour later, while Grant Adams, in his office, was giving <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_557'></a>557</span>directions for the +afternoon parade a white-clad figure brightened the doorway.</p> + +<p>“Well, Grant, I have come to serve,” she smiled, “under +you.”</p> + +<p>He turned and rose and took her hands in his one flinty hand and said +quietly: “We need you–we need you badly right this +minute.”</p> + +<p>She answered, “Very well, then–I’m ready!”</p> + +<p>“Well, go out and work–talk peace, don’t let them fight, +hold the line calm and we’ll win,” he said.</p> + +<p>She started away and he cried after her, “Come to Belgian Hall +to-night–we may need you there. The strike committee and the leader of +each seven will be there. It will be a war council.”</p> + +<p>Out to the works went Laura Van Dorn. Mounted policemen or mounted deputies +or mounted militiamen stood at every gate. As the strike-breakers came out they +were surrounded by the officers of the law, who marched away with the strangers. +The strikers followed, calling upon their fellow workers, stretching out +pleading arms to them and at corners where the strikers were gathered in any +considerable numbers, the guards rode into the crowd waving their whips. At a +corner near the Park a woman stepped from the crowd and cried to the +officers:</p> + +<p>“That’s my boy in there–I’ve got a right to talk to +him.”</p> + +<p>She started to crowd between the horses, and the policemen thrust her +back.</p> + +<p>“Karl–Karl,” she cried, “you come out of there; what +would papa say–and you a scab.”</p> + +<p>She lifted her arms beseechingly and started toward the youth. A policeman +cursed her and felled her with a club.</p> + +<p>She lay bleeding on the street, and the strikers stood by and ground their +teeth. Laura Van Dorn stooped over the woman, picked her up and helped her to +walk home. But as she turned away she saw five men walk out of the ranks of the +strike-breakers and join the men on the corner. A cheer went up, and two more +came.</p> + +<p>Belgian Hall was filled with workers that night–men and women. In front +of the stage at a long table sat the strike committee. Before them sat the +delegates from the <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_558'></a>558</span>various “locals” and the leaders of the +sevens. A thousand men and women filled the hall–men and women from every +quarter of the globe. That night they had decided to admit the Jews from the +Magnus paint works–the Jews whom the Russians scorned, and the Lettish +people distrusted. Behind all of the delegates in a solid row around the wall +stood the police, watching Grant Adams. He did not sit with the strike committee +but worked his way through the crowd, talking to a group here and encouraging a +man or woman there–but always restless, always fearing trouble. It was +nine o’clock when the meeting opened by singing “The +International.” It was sung in twenty tongues, but the chorus swelled up +and men and women wept as they sang.</p> + +<div class='poetry'> +<p>“Oh, the Brotherhood of men<br /> Shall be the human +race.”</p> </div> + +<p>Then the delegates reported. A Greek woman told how she had been chased by +men on horseback through the woods, in the Park. A Polack man showed a torn hand +that had come under an ax-handle. A Frenchman told how he had been pursued by a +horseman while going for medicine for his sick child. A Portuguese told how he +had brought from the ranks of the strike-breakers a big fellow worker whom he +knew in New Jersey. The Germans reported that every one of their men in the +Valley was out and working in his garden. Over and over young girls told of +insults they had received. A mania of brutality seemed to have spread through +the officers of the law. A Scotch miner’s daughter showed a tear in her +dress made by a soldier’s bayonet–</p> + +<p>“‘In fun,’ he said, but I could see na joke.”</p> + +<p>In all the speeches there was a spirit of camaraderie–of fellowship, of +love. “We are one blood now,” a Danish miner cried, in broken +English, “we are all Americans, and America will be a brotherhood–a +brotherhood in the Democracy of Labor, under the Prince of Peace.” A great +shout arose and the crowd called:</p> + +<p>“Grant–Grant–Brother Grant.”</p> + +<p>But he stood by the table and shook his head. After a girl picket and a +woman–one a Welsh girl, the other a Manx miner’s mother–had +told how they were set upon in the <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_559'></a>559</span>Park by the soldiers, up rose a pale, trembling +woman from among the Hungarians, her brown, blotched face and her big body made +the men look down or away. She spoke in broken, uncertain English.</p> + +<p>“We haf send to picket our men and yet our boys, and they beat them +down. We haf our girls send, and they come home crying. But I say to God this +evening–Oh, is there nothing for me–for me carrying child, and He +whisper yais–these soldiers, he haf wife, he haf mother.” She paused +and shook with fear and shame. “Then I say to you–call home your +man–your girl so young, and we go–we women with child–we with +big bellies, filled with unborn–we go–O, my God, He say we go, and +this soldier–he haf wife, he haf mother–he will +see;–we–we–they will not strike us down. Send us, oh, Grant, +Prince of Peace, to the picket line next morning.”</p> + +<p>Her voice broke and she sat down covering her head with her skirt and weeping +in excitement.</p> + +<p>“Let me go,” cried a clear voice, as a brown-eyed Welsh woman +rose. “I know ten others that will go.”</p> + +<p>“I also,” cried a German woman. “Let us organize to-night. +We can have two hundred child-bearing women!”</p> + +<p>“Yes, men,” spoke up a trim-looking young wife from among the +glassworkers, “we of old have been sacred–let us see if capital +holds us sacred now–before property.”</p> + +<p>Grant leaned over to Laura and asked, “Would it do? Wouldn’t they +shame us for it?”</p> + +<p>The eyes of Laura Van Dorn were filled with tears. They were streaming down +her face.</p> + +<p>“Oh, yes,” she cried, “no deeper symbol of peace is in the +earth than the child-bearing woman. Let her go.”</p> + +<p>Grant Adams rose and addressed the chair: “Mr. Chairman–I move +that all men and all women except those chosen by these who have just spoken, be +asked to keep out of the Park to-morrow morning, that all the world may know how +sacred we hold this cause and with what weapons of peace we would win +it.”</p> + +<p>So it was ordered, and the crowd sang the International Hymn again, and then +the Marseillaise, and went home dreaming high dreams.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_560'></a>560</span>As Grant and +Laura walked from the hall, the last to leave the meeting, after the women had +finished making out their list of pickets, the streets were empty and they +met–or rather failed to meet, Mrs. Dick Bowman, with Mugs in tow, who +crossed the street obviously to avoid Grant and his companion.</p> + +<p>Grant and Laura, walking briskly along and planning the next day’s +work, passed the smelters where the soldiers were on sentry duty. They passed +the shaft houses where Harvey militiamen were bunked and guarded by sentinels. +They passed the habiliments of war in a score of peaceful places.</p> + +<p>“Grant,” cried Laura, “I really think now we’ll +win–that the strike of peace will prove all that you have lived +for.”</p> + +<p>“But if we fail,” he replied, “it proves +nothing–except perhaps that it was worth trying, and will be worth trying +and trying and trying–until it wins!”</p> + +<p>It was half past twelve. Grant Adams, standing before the Vanderbilt House, +talking with Henry Fenn, was saying, “Well, Henry, one week of +this–one week of peace–and the triumph of peace will +be–”</p> + +<p>A terrific explosion shut his mouth. Across the night he saw a red glare a +few hundred feet away. An instant later it was dark again. He ran toward the +place where the glare had winked out. As he turned a corner, he saw stars where +there should have been shaft house No. 7 of the Wahoo Fuel Company’s +mines, and he knew that it had been destroyed. In it were a dozen sleeping +soldiers of the Harvey Militia Company, and it flashed through his mind that +Lida Bowman at last had spoken.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_561'></a>561</span><a id='link_47'></a>CHAPTER XLVII<br /><span class='h2fs'>IN WHICH GRANT ADAMS AND LAURA VAN DORN TAKE A WALK DOWN MARKET STREET AND MRS. NESBIT ACQUIRES A LONG LOST GRANDSON-IN-LAW</span></h2> + +<p>Grant Adams and Henry Fenn were among the first to arrive at the scene of the +explosion. Henry Fenn had tried to stop Grant from going so quickly, thinking +his presence at the scene would raise a question of his guilt, but he cried:</p> + +<p>“They may need me, Henry–come on–what’s a quibble of +guilt when a life’s to save?”</p> + +<p>When they came to the pile of débris, they saw Dick Bowman coming +up–barefooted, coatless and breathless. Grant and Fenn had run less than +fifteen hundred feet–Dick lived a mile from the shaft house. Grant +Adams’s mind flashed suspicion toward the Bowmans. He went to Dick across +the wreckage and said:</p> + +<p>“Oh, Dick–I’m sorry you didn’t get here +sooner.”</p> + +<p>“So am I–so am I,” cried Dick, craning his long neck +nervously.</p> + +<p>“Where is Mugs?” asked Grant, as the two worked with a beam over +a body–the body of handsome Fred Kollander–lying near the edge of +the litter.</p> + +<p>“He’s home in bed and asleep–and so’s his mother, +too, Grant, sound asleep.”</p> + +<p>During the first minutes after the explosion, men near by like Grant and Fenn +came running to the scene of the wrecked shaft by the scores, and as Grant and +Dick Bowman spoke the streets grew black with men, workmen, policemen, soldiers, +citizens, men by the hundreds came hurrying up. The great siren whistles of the +water and light plants began to bellow; fire bells and church bells up in Harvey +began to ring, and Grant knew that the telephone was alarming the town. Ten +minutes after the explosion, while Grant was <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_562'></a>562</span>ordering his men in the crowd to organize for the +rescue, a militia colonel appeared, threw a cordon of men about the ruins and +the police and soldiers took charge, forcing Grant and his men away. The first +few moments after he had been thrust out of the relief work, Grant spent sending +his men in the crowd to summon the members of the Council; then he turned and +hurried to his office in the Vanderbilt House. For an hour he wrote. Henry Fenn +came, and later Laura Van Dorn appeared, but he waved them both to silence, and +without telling them what he had written he went with them to the hall where the +Valley Council was waiting in a turmoil of excitement. It was after two +o’clock. South Harvey was a military camp. Thousands of citizens from +Harvey were hurrying about. As he passed along the street, the electric lights +showed him little groups about some grief-stricken parent or brother or sister +of a missing militiaman. Automobiles were roaring through the streets carrying +officers, policemen, prominent citizens of Harvey. Ahab Wright and Joe Calvin +and Kyle Perry were in a car with John Kollander who had come down to South +Harvey to claim the body of his son, Fred. Grant saw the Sands’s car with +Morty in it supporting a stricken soldier. The car was halted at the corner by +the press of traffic, and as Grant and Laura and Henry passed, Morty said under +the din: “Grant–Grant, be careful–they are turning Heaven and +earth to find your hand in this; it will be only a matter of days–maybe +only hours, until they will have their witnesses hired!”</p> + +<p>Grant nodded. The car moved on and Grant and his friends pressed through the +throng to the hall where the Valley Council was waiting. There Grant stood and +read what he had written. It ran thus:</p> + +<p>“For the death by dynamite of the militiamen who perished at midnight +in shaft No. 7 of the Wahoo Fuel Company’s mines, I take full +responsibility. I have assumed a leadership in a strike which caused these +deaths. I shirk no whit of my share in this outrage. Yet I preached only peace. +I pleaded for orderly conduct. I appealed to the workers to take their own not +by force of arms but by the tremendous force of moral right. That ten thousand +workers respected this appeal, I am exceedingly proud. That one out of <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_563'></a>563</span>all the ten thousand was +not convinced of the justice of our cause and the ultimate triumph by the force +of righteousness I am sorry beyond words. I call upon my comrades to witness +what a blow to our cause this murder has been and to stand firm in the faith +that the strike must win by ways of peace.</p> + +<p>“Yet, whoever did this deed was not entirely to blame–however it +may cripple his fellow-workers. A child mangled in the mines denied his legal +damages; men clubbed for telling of their wrongs to their fellow-laborers who +were asked to fill their places; women on the picket line, herded like deer +through the park by Cossacks whipping the fleeing creatures mercilessly; these +things inflamed the mind of the man who set off the bomb; these things had their +share in the murder.</p> + +<p>“But I knew what strikes were. I know indeed what strikes still are and +what this strike may be. I sorrow with those families whose boys perished by the +bomb in shaft house No. 7. I grieve with the families of those who have been +beaten and broken in this strike. But by all this innocent blood–blood +shed by the working people–blood shed by those who ignorantly +misunderstand us, I now beg you, my comrades, to stand firm in this strike. Let +not this blood be shed in vain. It may be indeed that the men of the master +class here have not descended as deeply as we may expect them to descend. They +may feel that more blood must be spilled before they let us come into our own. +But if blood is shed again, we must bleed, but let it not be upon our hands.</p> + +<p>“Again, even in this breakdown of our high hopes for a strike without +violence, I lift my voice in faith, I hail the coming victory, I proclaim that +the day of the Democracy of Labor is at hand, and it shall come in peace and +good will to all.”</p> + +<p>When he had finished reading his statement, he sat down and the Valley +Council began to discuss it. Many objected to it; others wished to have it +modified; still others agreed that it should be published as he had read it. In +the end, he had his way. But in the hubbub of the discussion, Laura Van Dorn, +sitting near him, asked:</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_564'></a>564</span>“Grant, +why do you take all this on your shoulders? It is not fair, and it is not +true–for that matter.”</p> + +<p>He answered finally: “Well, that’s what I propose to +do.”</p> + +<p>He was haggard and careworn and he stared at the woman beside him with +determination in his eyes. But she would not give up. Again she insisted: +“The people are inflamed–terribly inflamed and in the morning they +will be in no mood for this. It may put you in jail–put you where you are +powerless.”</p> + +<p>He turned upon her the stubborn, emotional face that she rarely had seen but +had always dreaded. He answered her:</p> + +<p>“If anything were to be gained for the comrades by +waiting–I’d wait.” Then his jaws closed in decision as he +said: “Laura, that deed was done in blind rage by one who once risked his +life to save mine. Then he acted not blindly but in the light of a radiance from +the Holy Ghost in his heart! If I can help him now–can even share his +shame with him–I should do it. And in this case–I think it will help +the cause to make a fair confession of our weakness.”</p> + +<p>“But, Grant,” cried the woman, “Grant–can’t you +see that the murder of these boys–these Harvey boys, the boys whose +mothers and fathers and sweethearts and young wives and children are going about +the streets as hourly witnesses against you and our fellow-workers +here–will arouse a mob spirit that is dangerous?”</p> + +<p>“Yes–I see that. But if anything can quell the mob spirit, frank, +open-hearted confession will do it.” He brushed aside her further protests +and in another instant was on his feet defending his statement to the Valley +Council. Ten minutes later the reporters had it.</p> + +<p>At six o’clock in the morning posters covered South Harvey and the +whole district proclaiming martial law. They were signed by Joseph Calvin, Jr., +provost marshal, and they denied the right of assembly, except upon written +order of the provost marshal, declared that incendiary speech would be stopped, +forbade parades except under the provost marshal’s inspection, and said +that offenders would be tried by court-martial for all disobediences to the +orders of the proclamation. The proclamation was underscored in its requirements +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_565'></a>565</span>that no meeting of +any kind might be held in the district or on any lot or in any building except +upon written consent of the owner of the lot or building and with the permission +of the provost marshal. Belgian Hall was a rented hall, and the Wahoo Fuel +Company controlled most of the available town lots, leaving only the farms of +the workers, that were planted thick with gardens, for even the most inoffensive +meeting.</p> + +<p>And at ten o’clock Grant Adams had signed a counter proclamation +declaring that the proclamation of martial law in a time of peace was an +usurpation of the constitutional rights of American citizens, and that they must +refuse to recognize any authority that abridged the right of free assemblage, a +free press, free speech and a trial by jury. Amos Adams sent the workers an +invitation to meet in the grove below his house. Grant called a meeting for +half-past twelve at the Adams homestead. It was a direct challenge.</p> + +<p>The noon extra edition of the <i>Times</i>, under the caption, “The +Governor Is Right,” contained this illuminating editorial:</p> + +<div class='bquote'> +<p>“Seven men dead–dynamited to death by Grant Adams; seven men +dead–the flower of the youth of Harvey; seven men dead for no crime but +serving their country, and Grant Adams loose, poisoning the minds of his dupes, +prating about peace in public and plotting cowardly assassination in private. Of +course, the Governor was right. Every good citizen of this country will commend +him for prompt and vigorous action. In less than an hour after the bomb had sent +the seven men of the Harvey Home Guards to eternity, the Governor had proclaimed +martial law in this district, and from now on, no more incendiary language, no +more damnable riots, miscalled parades will menace property, and no more +criminal acts done under the cover of the jury system will disgrace this +community under the leadership of this creature Adams.</p> + +<p>“In his manifesto pulingly taking the blame for a crime last night so +obviously his that mere denial would add blood to the crime itself, Adams says +in extenuation that ‘women were herded before the Cossacks like deer in the +park,’ while they were picketing. But he does not say that in the shameful +cowardice so characteristic of his leadership in this labor war, he forced, by +his own motion, women unfit to be seen in public, much less to fight his +battles, under the hoofs of the horses in Sands Park this morning, and if the +Greek woman, who claims she was dragooned should die, the fault, the crime of +her death in revolting circumstances, will be upon Grant Adams’s +hands.</p> + +<p>“When such a leader followed by blind zealots like the riff-raff who +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_566'></a>566</span>are insanely +trailing after this Mad Mullah who claims divine powers–save the +mark–when such leaders and such human vermin as these rise in a community, +the people who own property, who have built up the community, who have spent +their lives making Harvey the proud industrial center that she is–the +people who own property, we repeat, should organize to protect it. The Governor +suspending while this warlike state exists the right of anarchists who turn it +against law and order, the right of assembling, and speech and trial by jury, +has set a good example. We hear from good authority that the Adams anarchists +are to be aided by another association even more reckless than he and his, and +that Greeley county will be flooded by bums and thugs and plug-uglies who will +fill our jails and lay the burden of heavy taxes upon our people pretending to +defend the rights of free speech.</p> + +<p>“A law and order league should be organized among the business men of +Harvey to rid the county of these rats breeding social disease, and if +courageous hearts are needed, and extraordinary methods necessary–all +honest people will uphold the patriots who rally to this cause.”</p></div> + +<p>At twelve o ’clock crowds of working people began to swarm into Adams’s +grove. Five hundred horsemen were lined up at the gate. Around a temporary +speaker’s stand a squad of policemen was formed. The crowd stood waiting. +Grant Adams did not appear. The crowd grew restless; it began to fear that he +had been arrested, that there had been some mishap. Laura Van Dorn, sensing the +uncertainty and discouragement of the crowd, decided to try to hold it. It +seemed to her as she watched the uneasiness rising slowly to impatience in the +men and women about her, that it was of much importance–tremendous +importance indeed–to hold these people to their faith, not especially in +Grant, though to her that seemed necessary, too, but at bottom to hold their +faith firm in themselves, in their own powers to better themselves, to rise of +their own endeavors, to build upon themselves! So she walked quickly to the +policeman before the steps leading to the stand and said smilingly:</p> + +<p>“Pardon me,” and stepped behind him and was on the stand before +he realized that he had been fooled. Her white-clad figure upon the platform +attracted a thousand eyes in a second, and in a moment she was speaking:</p> + +<p>“I am here to defend our ancient rights of meeting, speaking, and trial +by jury.” A policeman started for her. She <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_567'></a>567</span>smiled and waved him back with such a +dignity of mien that her very manner stopped him.</p> + +<p>When he hesitated, knowing that she was a person of consequence in Harvey, +she went on: “No cause can thrive until it maintains anew its right to +speech, to assemble and to have its day in court before a jury. Every cause must +fight this world-old fight–and then if it is a just cause, when it has won +those ancient rights–which are not rights at all but are merely ancient +battle grounds on which every cause must fight, then any cause may stand a +chance to win. I think we should make it clear now that as free-born Americans, +no one has a right to stop us from meeting and speaking; no one has a right to +deny us jury trials. I believe the time has come when we should ignore rather +definitely–” she paused, and turned to the policeman standing beside +her, “we should ignore rather finally this proclamation of the provost +marshal and should insist rather firmly that he shall try to enforce +it.”</p> + +<p>A policeman stepped suddenly and menacingly toward her. She did not flinch. +The dignity of five generations of courtly Satterthwaites rose in her as she +gazed at the clumsy officer. She saw Grant Adams coming up at a side entrance to +the grove. The policeman stopped. She desired to divert the policeman and the +crowd from Grant Adams. The crowd tittering at the quick halt of the policeman, +angered him. Again he stepped toward her. His face was reddening. The +Satterthwaite dignity mounted, but the Nesbit mind guided her, and she said +coldly: “All right, sir, but you must club me. I’ll not give up my +rights here so easily.”</p> + +<p>Three officers made a rush for her, grabbed her by the arms, and, struggling, +she went off the platform, but she left Grant Adams standing upon it and a +cheering crowd saw the ruse.</p> + +<p>“I’m here,” he boomed out in his great voice, +“because ‘the woods were man’s first temples’ and we’ll +hold them for that sacred right to-day.” The police were waiting for him +to put his toe across the line of defiance. “We’ll transgress this +order of little Joe Calvin’s–why, he might as well post a trespass +notice against snowslides as against this forward moving cause of labor.” +His voice rose, “I’m here to tell <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_568'></a>568</span>you that under your rights as citizens of this +Republic, and under your rights in the coming Democracy of Labor, I bid you tear +up these martial law proclamations to kindle fires in your stoves.”</p> + +<p>He glared at the policemen and held up his hand to stop them as they came. +“Listen,” he cried, “I’m going to give you better +evidence than that against me. I, as the leader of this strike–take this +down, Mr. Stenographer, there–I’ll say it slowly; I, as the leader +of this movement of the Democracy of Labor, as the preacher preaching the era of +good will and comradeship all over the earth, bid you, my fellow-workers, meet +to preach Christ’s workingman’s gospel wherever you can hire a hall +or rent a lot, to parade your own streets, and to bare your heads to clubs and +your breasts to bullets if need be to restore in this district the right of +trial by jury in times of peace. And now,”–the crowd roared its +approval. He glared defiance at the policemen. He raised his voice above the +din, “And now I want to tell you something more. Our property in these +mills and mines–” again the crowd bellowed its joyous approval of +his words and Grant’s face lighted madly, “our property–the +property we have earned, we must guard against the violence of the very master +class themselves; for under this infernal Russian ukase of little Joe Calvin, +the devil only knows what arson and loot and murder–” the crowd +howled wildly; a policeman blew his whistle and when the mêlée was over Grant +Adams was in the midst of the blue-coated squad marching toward the gate.</p> + +<p>At the gate, on a pawing white horse, sat young Joe Calvin. The crowd, +following the officers, came upon the first squad of policemen–the squad +that took Laura Van Dorn from the stand. The two squads joined with their +prisoners, and back of the officers came the yelling, hooting crowd, pushing the +officers along. As the officers came up, the provost marshal cried:</p> + +<p>“Turn them over to my men here. Men, handcuff them together.” In +an instant it was done.</p> + +<p>Then the cavalry formed in two lines, and between them marched Laura Van Dorn +and Grant Adams, manacled together. Up through the weed-grown commons between +South <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_569'></a>569</span>Harvey and +the big town they marched under the broiling sun. The crowd trudged after +them–trailing behind for the most part, but often running along by the +horsemen and calling words of sympathy to Grant or reviling the soldiers.</p> + +<p>Down Market Street they all came–soldiers, prisoners and straggling +crowd. The town, prepared by telephone for the sight, stood on the streets and +hurrahed for Joe Calvin. He had brought in his game, and if one trophy was a +trifle out of caste for a prisoner, a bit above her station, so much the worse +for her. The blood of the seven dead soldiers was crying for vengeance in +Harvey–the middle-class nerve had been touched to the quick–and +Market Street hooted at the prisoners, and hailed Joe Calvin on his white +charger as a hero of the day.</p> + +<p>For the mind of a crowd is a simple mind. It draws no fine distinctions. It +has no memory. It enjoys primitive emotions, and takes the most rudimentary +pleasures. The mind of the crowd on Market Street in Harvey that bright, hot +June day, when Joe Calvin on his white steed at the head of his armed soldiers +led Grant Adams and Laura Van Dorn up the street to the court house, saw as +plainly as any crowd could see anything that Grant Adams was the slayer of seven +mangled men, whose torn bodies the crowd had seen at the undertaker’s. It +saw death and violation of property rights as the fruit of Grant Adams’s +revolution, and if this woman, who was of Market Street socially, cared to lower +herself to the level of assassins and thugs, she was getting only her +deserts.</p> + +<p>So Grant and Laura passed through the ranks of men and women whom they knew +and saw eyes turned away that might have recognized them, saw faces averted to +whom they might have looked for sympathy–and saw what power on a white +horse can make of a mediocre man!</p> + +<p>But Grant was not interested in power on a white horse, nor was he interested +in the woman who marched with him. His face kept turning to the crowd from South +Harvey that straggled beside him outside of the line of horsemen about him. Now +and then Grant caught the eyes of a leader or of a friend and to such a one he +would speak some earnest word <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_570'></a>570</span>of cheer or give some belated order or message. Only +once did Laura divert him from the stragglers along the way. It was when Ahab +Wright ducked his head and drew down his office window in the second story of +the Wright & Perry building. “At least,” said Laura, +“it’s a lesson worth learning in human nature. I’ll know how +much a smile is worth after this or the mere nod of a head. Not that I need it +to sustain me, Grant,” she went on seriously, “so far as I’m +concerned, but I can feel how it would be to–well, to some one who needed +it.”</p> + +<p>Under the murmur of the crowd, Laura continued: “I know exactly with +what emotion pretty little Mrs. Joe Calvin will hear of this episode.”</p> + +<p>“What?” queried Grant absently. His attention left her again, for +the men from South Harvey at whom he was directing volts of courage from his +blazing eyes.</p> + +<p>“Well–she’ll be scared to death for fear mother and I will +cut her socially for it! She’s dying to get into the inner circle, and +she’ll abuse little Joe for this–which,” smiled Laura, +“will be my revenge, and will be badly needed by little Joe.” But +she was talking to deaf ears.</p> + +<p>A street car halted them before Brotherton’s store for a minute. Grant +looked anxiously in the door way, and saw only Miss Calvin, who turned away her +head, after smiling at her brother.</p> + +<p>“I wonder where George can be?” asked Grant.</p> + +<p>“Don’t you know?” replied Laura, looking wonderingly at +him. “There’s a little boy at their house!”</p> + +<p>The crowd was hooting and cheering and the procession was just ready to turn +into the court house corner, when Grant felt Laura’s quick hand clasp. +Grant was staring at Kenyon, white and wild-eyed, standing near them on the +curb.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” he said in a low voice, “I see the poor +kid.”</p> + +<p>“No–no,” she cried, “look down the block–see +that electric! There comes father, bringing mother back from the depot–Oh, +Grant–I don’t mind for me, I don’t mind much for +father–but mother–won’t some one turn them up that street! Oh, +Grant–Grant, look!”</p> + +<p>Less than one hundred feet before them the electric runabout <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_571'></a>571</span>was beginning to wobble +unsteadily. The guiding hand was trembling and nervous. Mrs. Nesbit, leaning +forward with horror in her face, was clutching at her husband’s arm, +forgetful of the danger she was running. The old Doctor’s eyes were wide +and staring. He bore unsteadily down upon the procession, and a few feet from +the head of the line, he jumped from the machine. He was an old man, and every +year of his seventy-five years dragged at his legs, and clutched his shaking +arms.</p> + +<p>“Joe Calvin–you devil,” he screamed, and drew back his +cane, “let her go–let her go.”</p> + +<p>The crowd stood mute. A blow from the cane cracked on the young legs as the +Doctor cried:</p> + +<p>“Oh, you coward–” and again lifted his cane. Joe Calvin +tried to back the prancing horse away. The blow hit the horse on the face, and +it reared, and for a second, while the crowd looked away in horror, lunged above +the helpless old man. Then, losing balance, the great white horse fell upon the +Doctor; but as the hoofs grazed his face, Kenyon Adams had the old man round the +waist and flung him aside. But Kenyon went down under the horse. Calvin turned +his horse; some one picked up the fainting youth, and he was beside Mrs. Nesbit +in the car a moment later, a limp, unconscious thing. Grant and Laura ran to the +car. Dr. Nesbit stood dazed and impotent–an old man whose glory was of +yesterday–a weak old man, scorned and helpless. He turned away trembling +with a nervous palsy, and when he reached the side of the machine, his daughter, +trying to hide her manacled hand, kissed him and said soothingly:</p> + +<p>“It’s all right, father–young Joe’s vexed at +something I said down in the Valley; he’ll get over it in an hour. Then +I’ll come home.”</p> + +<p>“And,” gasped Mrs. Nesbit, “he–that +whippersnapper,” she gulped, “dared–to lay hands on you; +to–”</p> + +<p>Laura shook her head, to stop her mother from speaking of the +handcuff,–“to make you walk through Market +Street–while,” but she could get no further. The crowd surrounded +them. And in the midst of the jostling and milling, the Doctor’s instinct +rose stronger than his rage. He was fumbling for his medicine case, and trying +to find something <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_572'></a>572</span>for Kenyon. The old hands were at the young pulse, +and he said unsteadily:</p> + +<p>“He’ll be around in a few minutes.”</p> + +<p>Some one in the crowd offered a big automobile. The Doctor got in, waved to +his daughter, and followed Mrs. Nesbit up the hill.</p> + +<p>“You young upstart,” he cried, shaking his fist at Calvin as the +car turned around, “I’ll be down in ten minutes and see to +you!” The provost marshal turned his white steed and began gathering up +his procession and his prisoners. But the spell was broken. The mind of the +crowd took in an idea. It was that a shameful thing was happening to a woman. So +it hissed young Joe Calvin. Such is the gratitude of republics.</p> + +<p>In the court house, the provost marshal, sitting behind an imposing desk, +decided that he would hold Mrs. Van Dorn under $100 bond to keep the peace and +release her upon her own recognizance.</p> + +<p>“Well,” she replied, “Little Joe, I’ll sign no peace +bond, and if it wasn’t for my parents–I’d make you lock me +up.”</p> + +<p>Her hand was free as she spoke. “As it is–I’m going back to +South Harvey. I’ll be there until this strike is settled; you’ll +have no trouble in finding me.” She hurried home. As she approached the +house, she saw in the yard and on the veranda, groups of sympathetic neighbors. +In the hall way were others. Laura hurried into the Doctor’s little office +just as he was setting Kenyon’s broken leg and had begun to bind the +splints upon it. Kenyon lay unconscious. Mrs. Nesbit and Lila hovered over him, +each with her hands full of surgical bandages, and cotton and medicine. Mrs. +Nesbit’s face was drawn and anxious.</p> + +<p>“Oh, mamma–mamma–I’m so sorry–so +sorry–you had to see.” The proud woman looked up from her work and +sniffed:</p> + +<p>“That whippersnapper–that–that–” she did not +finish. The Doctor drew his daughter to him and kissed her. “Oh, my poor +little girl–they wouldn’t have done that ten years +ago–”</p> + +<p>“Father,” interrupted the daughter, “is Kenyon all +right?”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_573'></a>573</span>“Just one +little bone broken in his leg. He’ll be out from under the ether in a +second. But I’ll–Oh, I’ll make that Calvin outfit sweat; +I’ll–”</p> + +<p>“Oh, no, you won’t, father–little Joe doesn’t know +any better. Mamma can just forget to invite his wife to our next +party–which I won’t let her do–not even that–but it +would avenge my wrongs a thousand times over.”</p> + +<p>Lila had Kenyon’s hand, and Mrs. Nesbit was rubbing his brow, when he +opened his eyes and smiled. Laura and the Doctor, knowing their wife and mother, +had left her and Lila together with the awakening lover. His eyes first caught +Mrs. Nesbit’s who bent over him and whispered:</p> + +<p>“Oh, my brave, brave boy–my noble–chivalrous +son–”</p> + +<p>Kenyon smiled and his great black eyes looked into the elder woman’s as +he clutched Lila’s hand.</p> + +<p>“Lila,” he said feebly, “where is it–run and get +it.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, it’s up in my room, grandma–wait a +minute–it’s up in my room.” She scurried out of the door and +came dancing down the stairs in a moment with a jewel on her finger. The +grandmother’s eyes were wet, and she bent over and kissed the young, full +lips into which life was flowing back so beautifully.</p> + +<p>“Now–me!” cried Lila, and as she, too, bent down she felt +the great, strong arms of her grandmother enfolding her in a mighty hug. There, +in due course, the Doctor and Laura found them. A smile, the first that had +wreathed his wrinkled face for an hour, twitched over the loose skin about his +old lips and eyes.</p> + +<p>“The Lord,” he piped, “moves in a mysterious way–my +dear–and if Laura had to go to jail to bring it–the Lord giveth and +the Lord taketh away–blessed be–”</p> + +<p>“Well, Kenyon,” the grandmother interrupted the Doctor, stooping +to put her fingers lovingly upon his brow, “we owe everything to you; it +was fine and courageous of you, son!”</p> + +<p>And with the word “son” the Doctor knew and Laura knew, and Lila +first of all knew that Bedelia Nesbit had surrendered. And Kenyon read it in +Lila’s eyes. Then they all fell to telling Kenyon what a grand youth he +was and how he had saved the Doctor’s life, and it ended as those <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_574'></a>574</span>things do, most +undramatically, in a chorus of what I saids, and you saids to me, and I thought, +and you did, and he should have done, until the party wore itself out and +thought of Lila, sitting by her lover, holding his hands. And then what with a +pantomime of eyes from Laura and the Doctor to Mrs. Nesbit, and what with an +empty room in a big house, with voices far–exceedingly far–obviously +far away, it ended with them as all journeys through this weary world end, and +must end if the world wags on.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_575'></a>575</span><a id='link_48'></a>CHAPTER XLVIII<br /><span class='h2fs'>WHEREIN WE ERECT A HOUSE BUILT UPON A ROCK</span></h2> + +<p>That evening in the late twilight, two women stood at the wicket of a cell in +the jail and while back of the women, at the end of a corridor, stood a curious +group of reporters and idlers and guards, inside the wicket a tall, middle-aged +man with stiff, curly, reddish hair and a homely, hard, forbidding face stood +behind the bars. The young woman put her hand with the new ring on it through +the wicket.</p> + +<p>“It’s Kenyon’s ring–Kenyon’s,” smiled +Lila, and to his questioning look at her mother, the daughter answered: +“Yes, grandma knows. And what is more, grandpa told us both–Kenyon +and me–what was bothering grandma–and it’s +all–all–right!”</p> + +<p>The happy eyes of Laura Van Dorn caught the eyes of Grant as they gazed at +her from some distant landscape of his turbulent soul. She could not hold his +eyes, nor bring them to a serious consideration of the occasion. His heart +seemed to be on other things. So the woman said: “God is good, +Grant.” She watched her daughter and cast a glance at the shining ring. +Grant Adams heard and saw, but while he comprehended definitely enough, what he +saw and heard seemed remote and he repeated:</p> + +<p>“God is good–infinitely good, Laura!” His eyes lighted up. +“Do you know this is the first strike in the world–I believe, indeed +the first enterprise in the world started and conducted upon the fundamental +theory that we are all gods. Nothing but the divine spark in those men would +hold them as they are held in faith and hope and fellowship. Look at +them,” he lifted his face as one seeing Heavenly legions, “ten +thousand souls, men and women and children, cheated for years of their rights, +and when they ask for them in <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_576'></a>576</span>peace, beaten and clubbed and killed, and still they +do not raise their hands in violence! Oh, I tell you, they are getting +ready–the time must be near.” He shook his head in exultation and +waved his iron claw.</p> + +<p>Laura said gently, “Yes, Grant, but the day always is near. Whenever +two or three are gathered–”</p> + +<p>“Oh, yes–yes,” he returned, brushing her aside, “I +know that. And it has come to me lately that the day of the democracy is a +spiritual and not a material order. It must be a rising level of souls in the +world, and the mere dawn of the day will last through centuries. But it will be +nonetheless beautiful because it shall come slowly. The great thing is to know +that we are all–the wops and dagoes and the hombres and the +guinnies–all gods! to know that in all of us burns that divine spark which +environment can fan or stifle–that divine spark which makes us one with +the infinite!” He threw his face upward as one who saw a vision and cried: +“And America–our America that they think is so sordid, so crass, so +debauched with materialism–what fools they are to think it! From all over +the world for three hundred years men and women have been hurrying to this +country who above everything else on earth were charged with aspiration. They +were lowly people who came, but they had high visions; this whole land is a +crucible of aspirations. We are the most sentimental people on earth. No other +land is like it, and some day–oh, I know God is charging this battery full +of His divine purpose for some great marvel. Some time America will rise and +show her face and the world will know us as we are!”</p> + +<p>The girl, with eyes fascinated by her engagement ring, scarcely understood +what the man was saying. She was too happy to consider problems of the divine +immanence. There was a little mundane talk of Kenyon and of the Nesbits and then +the women went away.</p> + +<p>An hour later an old man sitting in the dusk with a pencil in his left hand, +was startled to see these two women descending upon him, to tell him the news. +He kissed them both with his withered lips, and rubbed the soft cheek of the +maiden against his old gray beard.</p> + +<p>And when they were gone, he picked up the pencil again, <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_577'></a>577</span>and sat dumbly waiting, while in his +heart he called eagerly across the worlds: “Mary–Mary, are you +there? Do you know? Oh, Mary, Mary!”</p> + +<p>The funeral of the young men killed in the shaft house brought a day of +deepening emotion to Harvey. Flags were at half mast and Market Street was +draped in crape. The stores closed at the tolling of bells which announced the +hour of the funeral services. Two hundred automobiles followed the soldiers who +escorted the bodies to the cemetery, and when the bugle blew taps, tears stood +in thousands of eyes.</p> + +<p>The moaning of the great-throated regimental band, the shrilling of the fife +and the booming of the drum; the blare of the bugle that sounded taps stirred +the chords of hate, and the town came back from burying its dead a vessel of +wrath. In vain had John Dexter in his sermon over Fred Kollander tried to turn +the town from its bitterness by preaching from the text, “Ye are members +one of another,” and trying to point the way to charity. The town would +have no charity.</p> + +<p>The tragedy of the shaft house and the imprisonment of Grant Adams had staged +for the day all over the nation in the first pages of the newspapers an +interesting drama. Such a man as Grant Adams was a figure whose jail sentence +under military law for defending the rights of a free press, free speech, free +assemblage and trial by jury, was good for a first page position in every +newspaper in the country–whatever bias its editorial columns might take +against him and his cause. Millions of eyes turned to look at the drama. But +there were hundreds among the millions who saw the drama in the newspapers and +who decided they would like to see it in reality. Being foot loose, they came. +So when the funeral procession was hurrying back into Harvey and the policemen +and soldiers were dispersing to their posts, they fell upon half a dozen +travel-stained strangers in the court house yard addressing the loafers there. +Promptly the strangers were haled before the provost marshal, and promptly +landed in jail. But other strangers appeared on the streets from time to time as +the freight trains came clanging through town, and by sundown a score of young +men were in the town <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_578'></a>578</span>lockup. They were happy-go-lucky young blades; +rather badly in need of a bath and a barber, but they sang lustily in the +calaboose and ate heartily and with much experience of prison fare. One read his +paperbound Tolstoy; another poured over his leaflet of Nietzsche, a third had a +dog-eared Ibsen from the public library of Omaha, a fourth had a socialist +newspaper, which he derided noisily, as it was not his peculiar cult of +discontent; while others played cards and others slept, but all were reasonably +happy. And at the strange spectacle of men jail-bound enjoying life, Harvey +marveled. And still the jail filled up. At midnight the policemen were using a +vacant storeroom for a jail. By daybreak the people of the town knew that a +plague was upon them.</p> + +<p>Every age has its peculiar pilgrims, whose pilgrimages are reactions of life +upon the times. When the shrines called men answered; when the new lands called +men hastened to them; when wars called the trumpets woke the sound of hurrying +feet–always the feet of the young men. For Youth goes out to meet Danger +in life as his ancient and ever-beloved comrade. So in that distant epoch that +closed half a decade ago, in a day when existence was easy; when food was always +to be had for the asking, when a bed was never denied to the weary who would beg +it the wide land over, there arose a band of young men with slack ideas about +property, with archaic ideas of morality–ideas perhaps of property and +morals that were not unfamiliar to their elder comrades of the quest and the +joust, and the merry wars. These modern lads, pilgrims seeking their olden, +golden comrade Danger, sallied forth upon the highroads of our civilization, and +as the grail was found, and the lands were bounded and the journeys over and the +trumpets seemed to be forever muffled, these hereditary pilgrims of the vast +pretense, still looking for Danger, played blithely at seeking justice. It was a +fine game and they found their danger in fighting for free speech, and free +assemblage. They were tremendously in earnest about it, even as the good Don +Quixote was with his windmills in the earlier, happier days. They were of the +blithe cult which wooes Danger in Folly in times of Peace and in treason when +war comes.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_579'></a>579</span>And so Harvey in +its wrath, in its struggle for the divine right of Market Street to rule, Harvey +fell upon these blithe pilgrims with a sad sincerity that was worthy of a better +cause. And the more the young men laughed, the more they played tricks upon the +police, reading the Sermon on the Mount to provoke arrest, reading the +Constitution of the United States to invite repression, even reading the riot +act by way of diversion for the police, the more did the wooden head of Market +Street throb with rage and the more did the people imagine a vain thing.</p> + +<p>And when seventy of them had crowded the jail, and their leaders blandly +announced that they would eat the taxes all out of the county treasury before +they stopped the fight for free speech, Market Street awoke. Eating taxes was +something that Market Street could understand. So the police began clubbing the +strangers. The pilgrims were meeting Danger, their lost comrade, and +youth’s blood ran wild at the meeting and there were riots in Market +Street. A lodging house in the railroad yards in South Harvey was raided one +night–when the strike was ten days old, and as it was a +railroadmen’s sleeping place, and a number of trainmen were staying there +to whom the doctrines of peace and non-resistance did not look very attractive +under a policeman’s ax-handle–a policeman was killed.</p> + +<p>Then the Law and Order League was formed. Storekeepers, clerks, real estate +men, young lawyers, the heart of that section of the white-shirted population +whom Grant Adams called the “poor plutes,” joined this League. And +deaf John Kollander was its leader. Partly because of his bereavement men let +him lead, but chiefly because his life’s creed seemed to be vindicated by +events, men turned to him. The bloodshed on Market Street, the murder of a +policeman and the dynamiting of the shaft house with their sons inside, had +aroused a degree of passion that unbalanced men, and John Kollander’s +wrath was public opinion dramatized. The police gave the Law and Order League +full swing, and John Kollander was the first chief in the city. Prisoners +arrested for speaking without a permit were turned over to the Law and Order +League at night, and taken in the city auto-truck to the far limits of the city, +and there–a mile <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_580'></a>580</span>from the residential section, in the high weeds that +fringed the town and confined the country, the Law and Order League lined up +under John Kollander and with clubs and whips and sticks, compelled the +prisoners to run a gauntlet to the highroad that leads from Harvey. Men were +stripped, and compelled to lean over and kiss an American flag–spread upon +the ground, while they were kicked and beaten before they could rise. This was +to punish men for carrying a red flag of socialism, and John Kollander decreed +that every loyal citizen of Harvey should wear a flag. To omit the flag was to +arouse suspicion; to wear a red necktie was to invite arrest. It was a merry day +for blithe devotees of Danger; and they were taking their full of her in +Harvey.</p> + +<p>The Law and Order League was one of those strange madnesses to which any +community may fall a victim. Kyle Perry and Ahab Wright–with Jasper Adams +a nimble echo, church men, fathers, husbands, solid business men, were its +leaders.</p> + +<p>They endorsed and participated in brutalities, cowardly cruelties at which in +their saner moments they could only shudder in horror. But they made Jared +Thurston chairman of the publicity committee and the <i>Times</i>, morning after +morning, fanned the passions of the people higher and higher. “Skin the +Rats,” was the caption of his editorial the morning after a young fellow +was tarred and feathered and beaten until he lost consciousness and was left in +the highway. The editorial under this heading declared that anarchy had lifted +its hydra head; that Grant Adams preaching peace in the Valley was preparing to +let in the jungle, and that the bums who were flooding the city jail were +Adams’s tools, who soon would begin dynamiting and burning the town, when +it suited his purpose, while his holier-than-thou dupes in the Valley were +conducting their goody-goody strike.</p> + +<p>Plots of dynamiting were discovered. Hardly a day passed for nearly a week +that the big black headlines of the <i>Times</i> did not tell of dynamite found +in obviously conspicuous places–in the court house, in the Sands opera +house, in the schoolhouses, in the city hall. So Harvey grew class conscious, +property conscious, and the town went stark mad. <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_581'></a>581</span> It was the gibbering fear of those who +make property of privilege, and privilege of property, afraid of losing +both.</p> + +<p>But for a week and a day the motive power of the strike was Grant +Adams’s indomitable will. Hour after hour, day after day he paced his iron +floor, and dreamed his dream of the conquest of the world through fellowship. +And by the power of his faith and by the example of his imprisonment for his +faith, he held his comrades in the gardens, kept the strikers on the picket +lines and sustained the courage of the delegates in Belgian Hall, who met inside +a wall of blue-coated policemen. The mind of the Valley had reached a place +where sympathy for Grant Adams and devotion to him, imprisoned as their leader, +was stronger than his influence would have been outside. So during the week and +a day, the waves of hate and the winds of adverse circumstance beat upon the +house of faith, which he had builded slowly through other years in the Valley, +and it stood unshaken.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_582'></a>582</span><a id='link_49'></a>CHAPTER XLIX<br /><span class='h2fs'>HOW MORTY SANDS TURNED AWAY SADLY AND JUDGE VAN DORN UNCOVERED A SECRET</span></h2> + +<p>Grant Adams sat in his cell, with the jail smell of stone and iron and damp +in his nostrils. As he read the copy of Tolstoy’s “The +Resurrection,” which his cell-mate had left in his hurried departure the +night before, Grant moved unconsciously to get into the thin direct rays of the +only sunlight–the early morning sunlight, that fell into his cage during +the long summer day. The morning <i>Times</i> lay on the floor where Grant had +dropped it after reading the account of what had happened to his cell-mate when +the police had turned him over to the Law and Order League, at midnight. To be +sure, the account made a great hero of John Kollander and praised the patriotism +of the mob that had tortured the poor fellow. But the fact of his torture, the +fact that he had been tarred and feathered, and turned out naked on the golf +links of the country club, was heralded by the <i>Times</i> as a warning to +others who came to Harvey to preach Socialism, and flaunt the red flag. Grant +felt that the jailer’s kindness in giving him the morning paper so early +in the day, was probably inspired by a desire to frighten him rather than to +inform him of the night’s events.</p> + +<p>Gradually he felt the last warmth of the morning sun creep away and he heard +a new step beside the jailer’s velvet footfall in the corridor, and heard +the jailer fumbling with his keys and heard him say: “That’s the +Adams cell there in the corner,” and an instant later Morty Sands stood at +the door, and the jailer let him in as Grant said:</p> + +<p>“Well, Morty–come right in and make yourself at home.”</p> + +<p>He was not the dashing young blade who for thirty years had been the Beau +Brummel of George Brotherton’s establishment; <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_583'></a>583</span>but a rather weazened little man whose +mind illumined a face that still clung to sportive youth, while premature age +was claiming his body.</p> + +<p>He cleared his throat as he sat on the bunk, and after dropping Grant’s +hand and glancing at the book title, said: “Great, isn’t it? +Where’d you get it?”</p> + +<p>“The brother they ran out last night. They came after him so suddenly +that he didn’t have time to pack,” answered Grant.</p> + +<p>“Well, he didn’t need it, Grant,” replied Morty. “I +just left him. I got him last night after the mob finished with him, and took +him home to our garage, and worked with him all night fixing him up. Grant, +it’s hell. The things they did to that fellow–unspeakable, and +fiendish.” Morty cleared his throat again, paused to gather courage and +went on. “And he heard something that made him believe they were coming +for you to-night.”</p> + +<p>The edge of a smile touched the seamed face, and Grant replied: +“Well–maybe so. You never can tell. Besides old John Kollander, who +are the leaders of this Law and Order mob, Morty?”</p> + +<p>“Well,” replied the little man, “John Kollander is the +responsible head, but Kyle Perry is master of ceremonies–the stuttering, +old coot; and Ahab gives them the use of the police, and Joe Calvin backs up +both of them. However,” sighed Morty, “the whole town is with them. +It’s stark mad, Grant–Harvey has gone crazy. These tramps filling +the jails and eating up taxes–and the <i>Times</i> throwing scares into the +merchants with the report that unless the strike is broken, the smelters and +glassworks and cement works will move from the district–it’s awful! +My idea of hell, Grant, is a place where every man owns a little property and +thinks he is just about to lose it.”</p> + +<p>The young-old man was excited, and his eyes glistened, but his speech brought +on a fit of coughing. He lifted his face anxiously and began: +“Grant,–I’m with you in this fight.” He paused for +breath. “It’s a man’s scrap, Grant–a man’s fight +as sure as you’re born.” Grant sprang to his feet and threw back his +head, as he began pacing the narrow cell. As he threw out his arms, his claw +clicked <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_584'></a>584</span>on the +steel bars of the cell, and Morty Sands felt the sudden contracting of the cell +walls about the men as Grant cried–</p> + +<p>“That’s what it is, Morty–it’s a man’s +fight–a man’s fight for men. The industrial system to-day is rotting +out manhood–and womanhood too–rotting out humanity because +capitalism makes unfair divisions of the profits of industry, giving the workers +a share that keeps them in a man-rotting environment, and we’re going to +break up the system–the whole infernal profit system–the blight of +capitalism upon the world.” Grant brought down his hand on Morty’s +frail shoulder in a kind of frenzy. “Oh, it’s coming–the +Democracy of Labor is coming in the earth, bringing peace and hope–hope +that is the ‘last gift of the gods to men’–Oh, it’s coming! +it’s coming.” His eyes were blazing and his voice high pitched. He +caught Morty’s eyes and seemed to shut off all other consciousness from +him but that of the idea which obsessed him.</p> + +<p>Morty Sands felt gratefully the spell of the strong mind upon him. Twice he +started to speak, and twice stopped. Then Grant said: “Out with it, +Morty–what’s on your chest?”</p> + +<p>“Well,–this thing,” he tapped his throat, “is going +to get me, Grant, unless–well, it’s a last hope; but I +thought,” he spoke in short, hesitating phrases, then he started again. +“Grant, Grant,” he cried, “you have it, this thing they call +vitality. You are all vitality, bodily, mentally, spiritually. Why have I been +denied always, everything that you have! Millions of good men and bad men and +indifferent men are overflowing with power, and I–I–why, why +can’t I–what shall I do to get it? How can I feel and speak and live +as you? Tell me.” He gazed into the strong, hard visage looking down upon +him, and cried weakly: “Grant–for God’s sake, help me. Tell +me–what shall I do to–Oh, I want to live–I want to live, +Grant, can’t you help me!”</p> + +<p>He stopped, exhausted. Grant looked at him keenly, and asked gently,</p> + +<p>“Had another hemorrhage this morning–didn’t you?”</p> + +<p>Morty looked over his clothes to detect the stain of blood, and nodded. +“Oh, just a little one. Up all night working with Folsom, but it +didn’t amount to anything.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_585'></a>585</span>Grant sat beside +the broken man, and taking his white hand in his big, paw-like hand:</p> + +<p>“Morty–Morty–my dear, gentle friend; your trouble is not +your body, but your soul. You read these great books, and they fascinate your +mind. But they don’t grip your soul; you see these brutal injustices, and +they cut your heart; but they don’t reach your will.” The strong +hand felt the fluttering pressure of the pale hand in its grasp. Morty looked +down, and seemed about to speak.</p> + +<p>“Morty,” Grant resumed, “it’s your money–your +soul-choking money. You’ve never had a deep, vital, will-moving conviction +in your life. You haven’t needed this money. Morty, Morty,” he +cried, “what you need is to get out of your dry-rot of a life; let the +Holy Ghost in your soul wake up to the glory of serving. Face life barehanded, +consecrate your talents–you have enough–to this man’s fight +for men. Throw away your miserable back-breaking money. Give it to the poor if +you feel like it; it won’t help them particularly.” He shook his +head so vigorously that his vigor seemed like anger, and hammered with his claw +on the iron bunk. “Money,” he cried and repeated the word, +“money not earned in self-respect never helps any one. But to get rid of +the damned stuff will revive you; will give you a new interest in +life–will change your whole physical body, and then–if you live one +hour in the big soul-bursting joy of service you will live forever. But if you +die–die as you are, Morty–you’ll die forever. Come.” +Grant reached out his arms to Morty and fixed his luminous eyes upon his friend, +“Come, come with me,” he pleaded. “That will cure your +soul–and it doesn’t matter about your body.”</p> + +<p>Morty’s face lighted, and he smiled sympathetically; but the light +faded. He dropped his gaze to the floor and sighed. Then he shook his head +sadly. “It won’t work, Grant–it won’t work. I’m +not built that way. It won’t work.”</p> + +<p>His fine sensitive mouth trembled, and he drew a deep breath that ended in a +hard dry cough. Then he rose, held out his hand and said:</p> + +<p>“Now you watch out, Grant–they’ll get you yet. I tell you +it’s awful–that’s the exact word–the way hate has driven +this town mad.” He shook the cage door, and the <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_586'></a>586</span>jailer came from around a corner, and +unlocked the door, and in a moment Morty was walking slowly away with his eyes +on the cold steel of the cell-room floor.</p> + +<p>When his visitor was gone, Grant Adams went back to his book. At the end of +an hour he went to the slit in his cell, which served as window, and looked on a +damp courtyard that gave him a narrow slice of Market Street and the Federal +court house in the distance. Men and women walking in and out of the little +stereoscopic view he had of the street, seemed to the prisoner people in a play, +or in another world. They were remote from him. At the gestures they made, the +gaits they fell into, the errands they were going upon, the spring that +obviously moved them, he gazed as one who sees a dull pantomime. During the +middle of the morning, as he looked, he saw Judge Van Dorn’s big, black +motor car roll up to the curb before the Federal court house and unload the +spare, dried-up, clothes-padded figure of the Judge, who flicked out of +Grant’s eyeshot. A hundred other figures passed, and Ahab Wright, with his +white side-whiskers bristling testily, came bustling across the stereopticon +screen and turned to the court house and was gone. Young Joe Calvin, dismounting +from his white horse, came for a second into the picture, and soon after the +elder Calvin came trotting along beside Kyle Perry with his heavy-footed gait, +and the two turned as the Judge had turned–evidently into the court house, +where the Judge had his office.</p> + +<p>Grant took up his book. After noon the jailer came with Henry Fenn, who, as +Adams’ attorney, visited him daily. But the jailer stood by while the +lawyer talked to the prisoner through the bars. Henry Fenn wore a troubled face +and Grant saw at once that his friend was worried. So Grant began:</p> + +<p>“So you’ve heard my cell-mate’s message–eh, Henry? +Well, don’t worry. Tell the boys down in the Valley, whatever they +do–to keep off Market Street and out of Harvey to-night.”</p> + +<p>The listening jailer looked sharply at Fenn. It was apparent the jailer +expected Fenn to protest. But Fenn turned his radiant smile on the jailer and +said: “The smelter men say they could go through this steel as if it was +pasteboard <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_587'></a>587</span>in ten +minutes–if you’d say the word.” Fenn grinned at the prisoner +as he added: “If you want the boys, all the tin soldiers and fake cops in +the State can’t stop them. But I’ve told them to stay away–to +stay in their fields, to keep the peace; that it is your wish.”</p> + +<p>“Henry,” replied Grant, “tell the boys this for me. +We’ve won this fight now. They can’t build a fire, strike a pick, or +turn a wheel if the boys stick–and stick in peace. I’m satisfied +that this story of what they will do to me to-night, while I don’t +question the poor chap who sent the word–is a plan to scare the boys into +a riot to save me and thus to break our peace strike.”</p> + +<p>He walked nervously up and down his cell, clicking the bars with his claw as +he passed the door. “Tell the boys this. Tell them to go to bed to-night +early; beware of false rumors, and at all hazards keep out of Harvey. I’m +absolutely safe. I’m not in the least afraid–and, Henry, +Henry,” cried Grant, as he saw doubt and anxiety in his friend’s +face, “what if it’s true; what if they do come and get me? They +can’t hurt me. They can only hurt themselves. Violence always reacts. +Every blow I get will help the boys–I know this–I tell +you–”</p> + +<p>“And I tell you, young man,” interrupted Fenn, “that right +now one dead leader with a short arm is worth more to the employers than a ton +of moral force! And Laura and George and Nate and the Doctor and I have been +skirmishing around all day, and we have filed a petition for your release on a +habeas corpus in the Federal court–on the ground that your imprisonment +under martial law without a jury trial is unconstitutional.”</p> + +<p>“In the Federal court before Van Dorn?” asked Grant, +incredulously.</p> + +<p>“Before Van Dorn. The State courts are paralyzed by young Joe +Calvin’s militia!” returned Fenn, adding: “We filed our +petition this morning. So, whether you like it or not, you appear at +three-thirty o’clock this afternoon before Van Dorn.”</p> + +<p>Grant smiled and after a moment spoke: “Well, if I was as scared as you +people, I’d–look here. Henry, don’t lose your nerve, +man–they can’t hurt me. Nothing on this <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_588'></a>588</span>earth can hurt me, don’t you see, +man–why go to Van Dorn?”</p> + +<p>Fenn answered: “After all, Tom’s a good lawyer in a life job and +he doesn’t want to be responsible for a decision against you that will +make him a joke among lawyers all over the country when he is reversed by +appeal.” Grant shook his dubious head.</p> + +<p>“Well, it’s worth trying,” returned Fenn.</p> + +<p>At three o’clock Joseph Calvin, representing the employers, notified +Henry Fenn that Judge Van Dorn had been called out of town unexpectedly and +would not be able to hear the Adams’ petition at the appointed time. That +was all. No other time was set. But at half-past five George Brotherton saw a +messenger boy going about, summoning men to a meeting. Then Brotherton found +that the Law and Order League was sending for its members to meet in the Federal +courtroom at half-past eight. He learned also that Judge Van Dorn would return +on the eight o’clock train and expected to hear the Adams’ petition +that night. So Brotherton knew the object of the meeting. In ten minutes Doctor +Nesbit, Henry Fenn and Nathan Perry were in the Brotherton store.</p> + +<p>“It means,” said Fenn, “that the mob is going after Grant +to-night and that Tom knows it.”</p> + +<p>“Why?” asked the thin, sharp voice of Nathan Perry.</p> + +<p>“Otherwise he would have let the case go over until morning.”</p> + +<p>“Why?” again cut in Perry.</p> + +<p>“Because for the mob to attack a man praying for release under habeas +corpus in a federal court might mean contempt of court that the federal +government might investigate. So Tom’s going to wash his hands of the +matter before the mob acts to-night.”</p> + +<p>“Why?” again Perry demanded.</p> + +<p>“Well,” continued Fenn, “every day they wait means +accumulated victory for the strikers. So after Tom refuses to release Grant, the +mob will take him.”</p> + +<p>“Well, say–let’s go to the Valley with this story. We can +get five thousand men here by eight o’clock,” cried Brotherton.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_589'></a>589</span>“And +precipitate a riot, George,” put in the Doctor softly, “which is one +of the things they desire. In the riot the murder of Grant could be easily +handled and I don’t believe they will do more than try to scare him +otherwise.”</p> + +<p>“Why?” again queried Nathan Perry, towering thin and nervous +above the seated council.</p> + +<p>“Well,” piped the Doctor, with his chin on his cane, +“he’s too big a figure nationally for murder–”</p> + +<p>“Well, then–what do you propose, gentlemen?” asked Perry +who, being the youngest man in the council, was impatient.</p> + +<p>Fenn rose, his back to the ornamental logs piled decoratively in the +fireplace, and answered:</p> + +<p>“To sound the clarion means riot and bloodshed–and failure for +the cause.”</p> + +<p>“To let things drift,” put in Brotherton, “puts Grant in +danger.”</p> + +<p>“Of what?” asked the Doctor.</p> + +<p>“Well, of indignities unspeakable and cruel torture,” returned +Brotherton.</p> + +<p>“I’m sure that’s all, George. But can’t we–we +four stop that?” said Fenn. “Can’t we stand off the mob? A +mob’s a coward.”</p> + +<p>“It’s the least we can do,” said Perry.</p> + +<p>“And all you can do, Nate,” added the Doctor, with the weariness +of age in his voice and in his counsel.</p> + +<p>But when the group separated and the Doctor purred up the hill in his +electric, his heart was sore within him and he spoke to the wife of his bosom of +the burden that was on his heart. Then, after a dinner scarcely tasted, the +Doctor hurried down town to meet with the men at Brotherton’s.</p> + +<p>As Mrs. Nesbit saw the electric dip under the hill, her first impulse was to +call up her daughter on the telephone, who was at Foley that evening. For be it +remembered Mrs. Nesbit in the days of her prime was dubbed “the +General” by George Brotherton, and when she saw the care and hovering fear +in the pink, old face of the man she loved, she was not the woman to sit and +rock. She had to act and, because she feared she would be stopped, she did not +pick up the telephone receiver. She went to the library, where Kenyon <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_590'></a>590</span>Adams with his broken leg +in splints was sitting while Lila read to him. She stood looking at the lovers +for a moment.</p> + +<p>“Children,” she said, “Grant Adams is in great danger. We +must help him.”</p> + +<p>To their startled questions, she answered: “He is asking your father, +Lila, to release him from the prison to-night. If he is not released, a mob will +take Grant as they took that poor fool last night and–” She stopped, +turned toward them a perturbed and fear-wrinkled face. Then she said quickly: +“I don’t know that I owe Grant Adams anything but–you children +do–” She did not complete her sentence, but burst out: “I +don’t care for Tom Van Dorn’s court, his grand folderol and mummery +of the law. He’s going to send a man to death to-night because his masters +demand it. And we must stop it–you and Lila and I, Kenyon.”</p> + +<p>Kenyon reached out, tried to rise and failed, but grasped her strong, +effective hand, as he cried: “What can we do–what can I +do?”</p> + +<p>She went into the Doctor’s office and brought out two old crutches.</p> + +<p>“Take these,” she said, “then I’ll help you down the +porch steps–and you go to your mother! That’s what you can do. Maybe +she can stop him–she has done a number of other worse things with +him.”</p> + +<p>She literally lifted the tottering youth down the veranda steps and a few +moments later his crutches were rattling upon the stone steps that rose in front +of the proud house of Van Dorn. Margaret had seen him coming and met him before +he rang the bell.</p> + +<p>She looked the dreadful wonder in her mind and as he took her hand to steady +himself, he spoke while she was helping him to sit.</p> + +<p>“You are my mother,” he said simply. “I know it now.” +He felt her hand tighten on his arm. She bent over him and with finger on lips, +whispered: “Hush, hush, the maid is in there–what is it, +Kenyon?”</p> + +<p>“I want you to save Grant.”</p> + +<p>She still stood over him, looking at him with her glazed eyes shot with the +evidence of a strong emotion.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_591'></a>591</span>“Kenyon, +Kenyon–my boy–my son!” she whispered, then said greedily: +“Let me say it again–my son!” She whispered the word +“son” for a moment, stooping over him, touching his forehead gently +with her fingers. Then she cried under her breath: “What about that +man–your–Grant? What have I to do with him?”</p> + +<p>He reached for her hands beseechingly and said: “We are asking your +husband, the Judge, to let him out of jail to-night, for if the Judge +doesn’t release Grant–they are going to mob him and maybe kill him! +Oh, won’t you save him? You can. I know you can. The Judge will let him +out if you demand it.”</p> + +<p>“My son, my son!” the woman answered as she looked vacantly at +him. “You are my son, my very own, aren’t you?”</p> + +<p>She stooped to look into his eyes and cried: “Oh, you’re +mine”–her trembling fingers ran over his face. “My eyes, my +hair. You have my voice–O God–why haven’t they found it +out?” Then she began whispering over again the words, “My +son.”</p> + +<p>A clock chimed the half-hour. It checked her. “He’ll be back in +half an hour,” she said, rising; then–“So they’re going +to mob Grant, are they? And he sent you here asking me for mercy!”</p> + +<p>Kenyon shook his head in protest and cried: “No, no, no. He +doesn’t even know–”</p> + +<p>She looked at the young man and became convinced that he was telling the +truth; but she was sure that Laura Van Dorn had sent him. It was her habit of +mind to see the ulterior motive. So the passion of motherhood flaring up after +years of suppression quickly died down. It could not dominate her in her late +forties, even for the time, nor even with the power which held her during the +night of the riot in South Harvey, when she was in her thirties. The passion of +motherhood with Margaret Van Dorn was largely a memory, but hate was a lively +and material emotion.</p> + +<p>She fondled her son in the simulation of a passion that she did not +feel–and when in his eagerness he tried vainly to tie her to a promise to +help his father, she would only reply:</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_592'></a>592</span>“Kenyon, +oh, my son, my beautiful son–you know I’d give my life for +you–”</p> + +<p>The son looked into the dead, brassy eyes of his mother, saw her drooping +mouth, with the brown lips that had not been stained that day; observed the +slumping muscles of her over-massaged face, and felt with a shudder the caress +of her fingers–and he knew in his heart that she was deceiving him. A +moment after she had spoken the automobile going to the station for the Judge +backed out of the garage and turned into the street.</p> + +<p>“You must go now,” she cried, clinging to him. “Oh, +son–son–my only son–come to me, come to your mother sometimes +for her love. He is coming now in a few minutes on the eight o’clock +train. You must not let him see you here.”</p> + +<p>She helped Kenyon to rise. He stumbled across the floor to the steps and she +helped him gently down to the lawn. She stood play-acting for him a moment in +whisper and pantomime, then she turned and hurried indoors and met the +inquisitive maid servant with:</p> + +<p>“Just that Kenyon Adams–the musician–awfully dear boy, but +he wanted me to interfere with the Judge for that worthless brother, Grant. The +Nesbits sent him. You know the Nesbit woman is crazy about that anarchist. Oh, +Nadine, did Chalmers see Kenyon? You know Chalmers just blabs everything to the +Judge.”</p> + +<p>Nadine indicated that Chalmers had recognized Kenyon as he crawled up the +veranda steps and Mrs. Van Dorn replied: “Very well, I’ll be ready +for him.” And half an hour later, when the Judge drove up, his wife met +him as he was putting his valise in his room:</p> + +<p>“Dahling,” she said as she closed the door, “that Kenyon +Adams was over here, appealing to me for his brother, Grant.”</p> + +<p>“Well?” asked the Judge contemptuously.</p> + +<p>“You have him where we want him now, dahling,” she answered. +“If you refuse him his freedom, the mob will get him. And oh, oh, +oh,” she cried passionately, “I hope they’ll hang him, hang +him, higher’n Haman. That will take the tuck out of the old Nesbit cat and that +other, his–his <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_593'></a>593</span>sweetheart, to have her daughter marrying the +brother of a man who was hanged! That’ll bring them down.”</p> + +<p>A flash across the Judge’s face told the woman where her emotion was +leading her. It angered her.</p> + +<p>“So that holds you, does it? That binds the hands of the Judge, does +it? This wonderful daughter, who snubs him on the street–she mustn’t +marry the brother of a man who was hanged!” Margaret laughed, and the +Judged glowered in rage until the scar stood white upon his purple brow.</p> + +<p>“Dahling,” she leered, “remember our little discussion of +Kenyon Adams’s parentage that night! Maybe our dear little girl is going +to marry the son, the son,” she repeated wickedly, “of a man who was +hanged!”</p> + +<p>He stepped toward her crying: “For God’s sake, quit! +Quit!”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I hope he’ll hang. I hope he’ll hang and you’ve +got to hang him! You’ve got to hang him!” she mocked exultingly.</p> + +<p>The man turned in rage. He feared the powerful, physical creature before him. +He had never dared to strike her. He wormed past her and ran slinking down the +hall and out of the door–out from the temple of love, which he had +builded–somewhat upon sand perhaps, but still the temple of love. A rather +sad place it was, withal, in which to rest the weary bones of the hunter home +from the hills, after a lifelong ride to hounds in the primrose hunt.</p> + +<p>He stood for a moment upon the steps of the veranda, while his heart pumped +the bile of hate through him; and suddenly hearing a soft footfall, he turned +his head quickly, and saw Lila–his daughter. As he turned toward her in +the twilight it struck him like a blow in the face that she in some way +symbolized all that he had always longed for–his unattainable ideal; for +she seemed young–immortally young, and sweet. The grace of maidenhood +shone from her and she turned an eager but infinitely wistful face up to his, +and for a second the picture of the slim, white-clad figure, enveloping and +radiating the gentle eagerness of a beautiful soul, came to him like the +disturbing memory of some vague, lost dream and confused him. While she spoke he +groped back to the moment blindly and heard her say:</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_594'></a>594</span>“Oh, you +will help me now, this once, this once when I beg it; you will help me?” +As she spoke she clutched his arm. Her voice dropped to a whisper. +“Father, don’t let them murder him–don’t, oh, please, +father–for me, won’t you save him for me–won’t you let +him out of jail now?”</p> + +<p>“Lila, child,” the Judge held out his hand unsteadily, +“it’s not what I want to do; it’s the law that I must follow. +Why, I can’t do–”</p> + +<p>“If Mr. Ahab Wright was in jail as Grant is and the workmen had the +State government, what would the law say?” she answered. Then she gripped +his hands and cried: “Oh, father, father, have mercy, have mercy! We love +him so and it will kill Kenyon. Grant has been like a father to Kenyon; he has +been–”</p> + +<p>“Tell me this, Lila,” the Judge stopped her; he held her hands in +his cold, hard palms. “Who is Kenyon–who is his father–do you +know?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, I know,” the daughter replied quietly.</p> + +<p>“Tell me, then. I ought to know,” he demanded.</p> + +<p>“There is just one right by which you can ask,” she began. +“But if you refuse me this–by what other right can you ask? Oh, +daddy, daddy,” she sobbed. “In my dreams I call you that. Did you +ever hear that name, daddy, daddy–I want you–for my sake, to save +this man, daddy.”</p> + +<p>The Judge heard the words that for years had sounded in his heart. They cut +deep into his being. But they found no quick.</p> + +<p>“Well, daughter,” he answered, “as a father–as a +father who will help you all he can–I ask, then, who is Kenyon +Adams’s father?”</p> + +<p>“Grant,” answered the girl simply.</p> + +<p>“Then you are going to marry an illegitimate–”</p> + +<p>“I shall marry a noble, pure-souled man, father.”</p> + +<p>“But, Lila–Lila,” he rasped, “who is his +mother?”</p> + +<p>Then she shrank away from him. She shook her head sadly, and withdrew her +hands from his forcibly as she cried:</p> + +<p>“O father–father–daddy, have you no heart–no heart at +all?” She looked beseechingly up into his face and before he could reply, +she seemed to decide upon some further <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_595'></a>595</span>plea. “Father, it is sacred–very sacred +to me, a beautiful memory that I carry of you, when I think of the word +‘Daddy.’ I have never, never, not even to mother, nor to Kenyon spoken of +it. But I see you young, and straight and tall and very handsome. You have on +light gray clothes and a red flower on your coat, and I am in your arms hugging +you, and then you put me down, and I stand crying ‘Daddy, daddy,’ after +you, when you are called away somewhere. Oh, then–then, oh, I know that +then–I don’t know where you went nor anything, but then, then when I +snuggled up to you, surely you would have heard me if I had asked you what I am +asking now.”</p> + +<p>The daughter paused, but the father did not answer at once. He looked away +from her across the years. In the silence Lila was aware that in the doorway +back of her father, Margaret Van Dorn stood listening. Her husband did not know +that she was there.</p> + +<p>“Lila,” he began, “you have told me that Kenyon’s +father is Grant Adams, why do you shield his mother?”</p> + +<p>The daughter stood looking intently into the brazen eyes of her father, +trying to find some way into his heart. “Father, Grant Adams is before +your court. He is the father of the man whom I shall marry. You have a right to +know all there is to know about Grant Adams.” She shook her head +decisively. “But Kenyon’s mother, that has nothing to do with what I +am asking you!” She paused, then cried passionately: “Kenyon’s +mother–oh, father, that’s some poor woman’s secret, which has +no bearing on this case. If you had any right on earth to know, I should tell +you; but you have no right.”</p> + +<p>“Now, Lila,” answered her father petulantly–“look +here–why do you get entangled with those Adamses? They are a low lot. +Girl, a Van Dorn has no business stooping to marry an Adams. Miserable mongrel +blood is that Adams blood child. Why the Van Dorns–” but +Lila’s pleading, wistful voice went on:</p> + +<p>“In all my life, father, I have asked you only this one thing, and this +is just, you know how just it is–that you keep my future husband’s +father from a cruel, shameful death. And–now–” her voice was +quivering, near the <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_596'></a>596</span>breaking point, and she cried: “And now, now +you bring in blood and family. What are they in an hour like this! Oh, +father–father, would my daddy–the fine, strong, loving daddy of my +dreams do this? Would he–would he–oh, +daddy–daddy–daddy!” she cried, beseechingly.</p> + +<p>Perhaps he could see in her face the consciousness that some one was behind +him, for he turned and saw his wife standing in the doorway. As he saw her, +there rose in him the familiar devil she always aroused, which in the first +years wore the mask of love, but dropped that mask for the sneer of hate. It was +the devil’s own voice that spoke, quietly, suavely, and with a hardness +that chilled his daughter’s heart. “Lila, perhaps the secret of +Kenyon’s mother is no affair of mine, but neither is Grant Adams’s +fate after I turn him back to the jailer, an affair of mine. But you make +Grant’s affair mine; well, then–I make this secret an affair of +mine. If you want me to release Grant Adams–well, then, I insist.” +The gray features of his wife stopped him; but he smiled and waved his hand +grandly at the miserable woman, as he went on: “You see my wife has +bragged to me once or twice that she knows who Kenyon’s mother is, Lila, +and now–”</p> + +<p>The daughter put her hands to her face and turned away, sick with the horror +of the scene. Her heart revolted against the vile intrigue her father was +proposing. She turned and faced him, clasping her hands in her anguish, lifted +her burning face for a moment and stared piteously at him, as she sobbed: +“O dear, dear God–is this my father?” and shaking with shame +and horror she turned away.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_597'></a>597</span><a id='link_50'></a>CHAPTER L<br /><span class='h2fs'>JUDGE VAN DORN SINGS SOME MERRY SONGS AND THEY TAKE GRANT ADAMS BEHIND A WHITE DOOR</span></h2> + +<p>After arguments of counsel, after citation of cases, after the applause of +Market Street at some incidental <i>obiter dicta</i> of Judge Van Dorn’s +about the rights of property, after the court had put on its tortoise-shell +rimmed glasses, which the court had brought home from its recent trip to Chicago +to witness the renomination of President Taft, after the court, peering through +its brown-framed spectacles, was fumbling over its typewritten opinion from the +typewriter of the offices of Calvin & Calvin, written during the afternoon +by the court’s legal <i>alter ego</i>, after the court had cleared its +throat to proceed with the reading of the answer to the petition in habeas +corpus of Grant Adams, the court, through its owlish glasses, saw the eyes of +the petitioner Adams fixed, as the court believed, malignantly on the court.</p> + +<p>“Adams,” barked the court, “stand up!” With his black +slouch hat in his hand, the petitioner Adams rose. It was a hot night and he +wiped his brow with a red handkerchief twisted about his steel claw.</p> + +<p>“Adams,” began the court, laying down the typewritten manuscript, +“I suppose you think you are a martyr.”</p> + +<p>The court paused. Grant Adams made no reply. The court insisted:</p> + +<p>“Well, speak up. Aren’t you a martyr?”</p> + +<p>“No,” meeting the eye of the court, “I want to get out and +get to work too keenly to be a martyr.”</p> + +<p>“To get to work,” sneered the court. “You mean to keep +others from going to work. Now, Adams, isn’t it true that you are trying +to steal the property of this district from its legal owners by riot and set +yourself up as the head of your Democracy of Labor, to fatten on the folly of +the working <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_598'></a>598</span>men?” The court did not pause for a reply, but +continued: “Now, Adams, there is no merit to the contentions of your +counsel in this hearing, but, even if there was mere technical weight to his +arguments, the moral issues involved, the vast importance of this ease to the +general welfare of this Republic, would compel this court to take judicial +notice of the logic of its decision in your favor. For it would release anarchy, +backed by legal authority, and strike down the arm of the State in protecting +property and suppressing crime.”</p> + +<p>The court paused, and, taking its heavy spectacles in its fingers, twirled +them before asking: “Adams, do you think you are a God? What is this rot +you’re talking about the Prince of Peace? What do you mean by saying +nothing can hurt you? If you know nothing can hurt you, why do you let your +attorney plead the baby act and declare that, if you are not released to-night, +a mob will wait on you? If you are a God, why don’t you help +yourself–quell the mob, overcome the devil?”</p> + +<p>The crowd laughed and the court perfunctorily rapped for order. The laugh was +frankincense and myrrh to the court. So the court clearly showed its +appreciation of its own fine sarcasm as it rapped for order and continued +insolently: “See here, Adams, if you aren’t crazy, what are you +trying to do? What do you expect to get out of all this glib talk about the +power of spiritual forces and the peaceful revolution and the power greater than +bullets and your fanatical ranting about the Holy Ghost in the dupes you are +inciting to murder? Come now, maybe you are crazy? Maybe if you’d talk and +not stand there like a loon–”</p> + +<p>Again the crowd roared and again the court suppressed its chuckle and again +order was restored. “Maybe if you’d not stand there grouching, +you’d prove to the court that you are crazy, and on the grounds of +insanity the court might grant your prayer. Come, now, Adams, speak up; go the +whole length. Give us your creed!”</p> + +<p>“Well,” began Adams, “since you want–”</p> + +<p>“Don’t you know how to address a court?” The court +bellowed.</p> + +<p>“To say ‘Your honor’ would be a formality which even <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_599'></a>599</span>your friends would laugh +at,” replied Grant quietly. The crowd hissed; the court turned purple. +Grant Adams stood rigid, with white face and quivering muscles. His jaws knotted +and his fist clenched. Yet when he spoke he held his voice down. In it was no +evidence of his tension. Facing for the first few moments of his speech the +little group of his friends–Dr. Nesbit, George Brotherton, Captain Morton, +Nathan Perry and Amos Adams–who sat at the lawyers’ table with Henry +Fenn, Grant Adams plunged abruptly into his creed: “I believe that in +every human adult consciousness there is a spark of altruism, a divine fire, +which marks the fatherhood of God and proves the brotherhood of man. Environment +fans that spark or stifles it. Its growth is evidenced in human institutions, in +scales and grades of civilization. Christ was a glowing flame of this +fire.” The court gave a knowing wink to Ahab Wright, who grinned at the +court’s keen sense of humor. Adams saw the wink, but proceeded: +“That is what He means when He says: ‘I am the resurrection and the +life,’ for only as men and nations, races and civilization by their +institutions fan that spark to fire, will they live, will they conquer the +forces of death ever within them.”</p> + +<p>Thus far Grant Adams had been speaking slowly, addressing himself more to his +friends and the court stenographer than the crowd. Now he faced the crowd +defiantly as he let his voice rise and cried: “This is no material world. +Humanity is God trying to express Himself in terms of justice–with the sad +handicap of time and space ever holding the Eternal Spirit in check. We are all +Gods.”</p> + +<p>Again Market Street, which worshiped the god material, hissed. Grant turned +to the men in the benches a mad, ecstatic face and throwing his crippled arm +high above his head, cried aloud:</p> + +<p>“O men of Harvey, men with whom I have lived and labored, I would give +my life if you could understand me; if you could know in your hearts how +passionately I yearn to get into your souls the knowledge that only as you give +you will have, only as you love these men of the mines and mills, only as you +are brothers to these ginks and wops and guinnies, will prosperity come to +Harvey. ‘I am the resurrection <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_600'></a>600</span>and the life’ should ring through your souls; +for when brotherhood, expressed in law and customs, gives these men their +rightful share in the products of their labor, our resurrected society will +begin to live.” He stopped dead still for a moment, gazing, almost +glaring, into the eyes of the crowd. Ahab Wright dropped his gaze. But John +Kollander, who heard nothing, glared angrily back. Then leaning forward and +throwing out his claw as if to grapple them, Grant Adams, let out his great +voice in a cry that startled Market Street into a shudder as he spoke. +“Come, come, come with us and live, oh, men of Market Street, you who are +dead and damned! Come with us and live. ‘I am the way and the +life.’” He checked his rising voice, then said: “Come, let us +go forward together, for only then will God, striving for justice in humanity, +restore your dead and atrophied souls. Have faith that as you give you will +have; as you love, will you live.” His manner changed again. The court was +growing restless. Grant’s voice was low pitched, but it showed a heavy +tension of emotion. He stretched his hand as one pleading: “Oh, come with +us. Come with us–your brothers. We are one body, why should we have +different aims? We are ten thousand here, you are many more. Perhaps we are only +dreaming a mad dream, but if you come with us we shall all awake from our dream +into a glorious reality.”</p> + +<p>Market Street laughed. John Kollander bawled: “He’s an +anarchist–a socialist!” Grant looked at the deaf old man in his blue +coat and brass buttons adorned with many little flags, to advertise his +patriotism. Taking a cue from John Kollander, Grant cried: “I am moving +with the current of Heavenly love, I am a part of that love that is washing into +this planet from the infinite source of life beyond our ken. I am moved, I know +not how. I am inspired to act, I know not whence. I go I know not +where–only I have faith, faith that fears nothing, faith that tells me +that insomuch as I act in love, I am a part of the Great Purpose moving the +universe, immortal, all powerful, vital, the incarnation of Happiness! I am +trying–trying–ah, God, how I am trying, to bring into the world all +the love that my soul will carry. I am–”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_601'></a>601</span>“That’s enough,” snapped the +court; and turning to Joseph Calvin, Judge Van Dorn said: “That +man’s crazy. This court has no jurisdiction over the insane. His family +can bring a proceeding in habeas corpus before the probate court of the county +on the ground of the prisoner’s insanity. But I have no right to take +judicial notice of his insanity.” The Judge folded up his opinion, twirled +his heavy glasses a moment, blinked wisely and said: “Gentlemen, this is +no case for me. This is a crazy man. I wash my hands of the whole +business!”</p> + +<p>He rose, put away his glasses deliberately, and was stepping from his dais, +when up rose big George Brotherton and cried:</p> + +<p>“Say, Tom Van Dorn–if you want this man murdered, say so. If you +want him saved, say so. Don’t polly-fox around here, dodging the issue. +You know the truth of the matter as well as–”</p> + +<p>The court smiled tolerantly at the impetuous fellow, who was clearly in +contempt of court. The crowd waited breathlessly.</p> + +<p>“Well, George,” said the suave Judge with condescension in his +tone as he strutted into the group of lawyers and reporters about him, “if +you know so much about this case, what is the truth?” The crowd roared its +approval. “But hire a hall, George–don’t bother me with it. +It’s out of my jurisdiction.”</p> + +<p>So saying, he elbowed his way out of the room into his office and soon was in +his automobile, driving toward the Country Club. He had agreed to be out of +reach by telephone during the evening and that part of the agreement he decided +to keep.</p> + +<p>After the Judge left the room Market Street rose and filed out, leaving Grant +standing among the little group of his friends. The sheriff stood near by, +chatting with the jailer and as Brotherton came up to bid Grant good-night, +Brotherton felt a piece of paper slip into his hands, when he shook hands with +Grant. “Don’t let it leave your pocket until you see me +again,” said Grant in a monotone, that no one noticed.</p> + +<p>The group–Dr. Nesbit, Nathan Perry, George Brotherton <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_602'></a>602</span>and Captain +Morton–stood dazed and discouraged about Grant. No one knew exactly what +note to strike–whether of anger or of warning or of cheer. It was Captain +Morton who broke the silence.</p> + +<p>“’Y gory, man–free speech is all right, and I’m going to +stay with you, boy, and fight it out; but, Grant, things do look mighty shaky +here, and I wonder if it’s worth it–for that class of people, +eh?”</p> + +<p>From the Captain, Nathan Perry took his cue. “I should say, Grant, that +they’ll make trouble to-night. Shouldn’t we call out the boys from +the Valley, and–”</p> + +<p>Grant cut in:</p> + +<p>“Men, I know what you fear,” he said. “You are afraid they +will kill me. Why, they can’t kill me! All that I am that is worth living +is immortal. What difference does it make about this body?” His face was +still lighted with the glow it wore while he was addressing the court. +“Ten thousand people in the Valley have my faith. And now I know that even +this strike is not important. The coming Democracy of Labor is a spiritual +caste. And it has been planted in millions of minds. It can never die. It too is +immortal. What have guns and ropes and steel bars to do with a vision like +this?” He threw back his head, his blue eyes blazed and he all but chanted +his defiance of material things: “What can they do to me, to my faith, to +us, to these Valley people, to the millions in the world who see what we see, +who know what we know and strive for what we cherish? Don’t talk to me +about death–there is no death for God’s truth. As for this miserable +body here–” He gazed at his friends for a moment, shook his head +sadly and walked to the jailer.</p> + +<p>For an hour after the sheriff took Grant to his cell as the town went home +and presumably to bed, George Brotherton with Henry Fenn and Nathan Perry, +rolled his car around the court house square in the still, hot June night. The +Doctor stood by his electric runabout, for half an hour or more. Then, the +Doctor feeling that a false alarm had been spread, whirred up the hill. The +younger men stayed on Market Street. They left it long after midnight, deserted +and still.</p> + +<p>As the watching party broke up, a telephone message from <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_603'></a>603</span>the offices of Calvin & Calvin +winged its way to Sands Park, and from the shades there came silently a great +company of automobiles with hooded lights. One separated from the others and +shot down into the Valley of the Wahoo. The others went into Market Street.</p> + +<p>At three o’clock the work there was done. The office of the Harvey +<i>Tribune</i> was wrecked, and in one automobile rode Amos Adams, a prisoner, +while before him, surrounded by a squad of policemen, rode Grant Adams, bound +and gagged.</p> + +<p>Around the policemen the mob gathered, and at the city limits the policemen +abandoned Grant and Amos. Their instructions were to take the two men out of +town. The policemen knew the mob. It was not Market Street. It was the thing +that Market Street had made with its greed. The ignorance of the town, the scum +of the town–men, white and black, whom Market Street, in thoughtless greed +the world over, had robbed as children of their birthright; men whose chief joy +was in cruelty and who lusted for horror. The mob was the earth-bound demon of +Market Street. Only John Kollander in his brass buttons and blue soldier clothes +and stuttering Kyle Perry and one or two others of the town’s +respectability were with the mob that took Grant Adams and his father after the +policemen released the father and son at the city limits. The respectables +directed; the scum and the scruff of the town followed, yelping not unlike a +pack of hungry dogs.</p> + +<p>John Kollander led the way to the country club grounds. There was a wide +stretch of rolling land, quiet, remote from passing intruders, safe; and there +great elm trees cast their protecting shade, even in the starlight, over such +deeds as men might wish to do in darkness.</p> + +<p>It was nearly four o’clock and the clouds, banked high in the west, +were flaming with heat lightning.</p> + +<p>On the wide veranda of the country club alone, with a siphon and a fancy, +square, black bottle, sat Judge Thomas Van Dorn. He was in his shirt sleeves. +His wilted collar, grimy and bedraggled, lay on the floor beside him. He was +laughing at something not visible to the waiter, who sat drowsing in the door of +the dining room, waiting for the Judge either to go to sleep or to leave the +club in his car. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_604'></a>604</span>The Judge had been singing to himself and laughing +quietly at his own ribaldry for nearly an hour. The heat had smothered the poker +game in the basement and except for the Judge and the waiter the club house was +deserted. The Judge hit the table with the black bottle and babbled:</p> + +<div class='poetry'> +<p>“Dog bit a rye straw,<br /> Dog bit a riddle-O!<br /> +Dog bit a little boy<br /> Playing on a fiddle-O!”</p> +</div> + +<p>Then he laughed and said to the sleepy waiter: “Didn’t know I +could sing, did you, Gustave!”</p> + +<p>The waiter grinned. The Judge did not hear a footstep behind him. The waiter +looked up and saw Kyle Perry.</p> + +<div class='poetry'> +<p>“Oh, I know a maid<br /> And she’s not +afraid<br /> To face–</p> </div> + +<p>“Why, hello Kyle, you old stuttering scoundrel–have one on +me–cleanses the teeth–sweetens the breath and makes hair grow on +your belly!”</p> + +<p>He laughed and when Kyle broke in:</p> + +<p>“S-s-say, T-T-Tom, the f-f-fellows are all over in the g-g-golf +l-l-links.”</p> + +<p>“The hell they are, Kyle,” laughed the Judge. “Tell +’em to come over and have a cold one on me–Gustave, you +go–”</p> + +<p>“B-b-but they d-don’t want a drink. The p-p-poker b-b-bunch said +you were here and th-th-they s-s-sent m-m-me to–”</p> + +<p>“S-s-s-sure they d-d-did, Kyle,” interrupted Van Dorn. +“They sent you to read the Declaration of Independence to-morrow and +wanted you to begin now and get a g-g-good st-st-start!” He broke into +song:</p> + +<div class='poetry'> +<p>“Oh, there was an old man from Dundee<br /> Who got on a +hell of a spree,<br /> Oh, he wound up the clock,<br /> + With–</p> </div> + +<p>“Say, Kyle,” the Judge looked up foolishly, “you +didn’t know that I was a cantatrice.” He laughed and repeated the +last word slowly three times and then giggled.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_605'></a>605</span>“Still +sober. I tell Mrs. Van Dorn that when I can say cantatrice or +specification,” he repeated that word slowly, “I’m fit to hold +court.”</p> + +<div class='poetry'> +<p>“Oh, the keyhole in the door–<br />The keyhole in the +door–”</p> </div> + +<p>he bellowed.</p> + +<p>“Now, l-l-listen, T-T-Tom,” insisted Perry. “I t-t-tell you +the bunch has g-g-got Grant Adams and the old man out there in the g-g-golf +l-links and they heard you were h-h-here and they s-s-sent me to tell you they +were g-g-going to g-g-give him all the d-d-degrees and they w-w-want to t-t-tie +a s-s-sign on him when they t-t-turn him loose and h-h-head him for +Om-m-ma-h-ha–”</p> + +<p>“B-b-better h-h-h-head him for h-h-hell,” mocked the Judge.</p> + +<p>“Well, they’ve g-got an iron b-b-band they’ve b-b-bound on +h-h-him and they’ve got a b-b-board and some t-t-tar and they w-w-want a +m-motto.”</p> + +<p>The Judge reached for his fountain pen in his white vest and when the waiter +had brought a sheet of paper, he scribbled while he sang sleepily:</p> + +<div class='poetry'> +<p>“Oh, there was a man and he could do,<br />He could do–he could +do;</p> </div> + +<p>“Here,” he pushed the paper to Perry, who saw the words:</p> + +<div class='poetry'> +<p>“Get on to the Prince of Peace,<br />Big Boss of the Democracy of +Labor.”</p> </div> + +<p>“That’s k-k-kind of t-t-tame, don’t y-y-you think?” +said Kyle.</p> + +<p>“That’s all right, Kyle–anyway, what I’ve written +goes:</p> + +<div class='poetry'> +<p>“Oh, there was an old woman in Guiana.”</p></div> + +<p>He sang and waved Kyle proudly away. And in another hour the waiter had put +him to bed.</p> + +<hr style='border:none; border-bottom:1px solid silver; height: 1px; width: 80%; text-align: center; margin: 10px auto;' /> + +<p>It was nearly dawn when George Brotherton had told his <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_606'></a>606</span>story to Laura. They sat in the little, +close, varnish-smelling room to which he called her.</p> + +<p>She had come through rain from Harvey. As she came into the dreary, shabby, +little room in South Harvey, with its artificial palms and artificial +wreaths–cheap, commercial habiliments of ostentatious mourning, Laura Van +Dorn thought how cruel it was that he should be there, in a public place at the +end, with only the heavy hands of paid attendants to do the last earthly +services for him–whose whole life was a symbol of love.</p> + +<p>But her heart was stricken, deeply, poignantly stricken by the great peace +she found behind the white door. Yet thus the dust touches our souls’ +profoundest depths–always with her memory of that great peace, comes the +memory of the odor of varnish and carbolic acid and the drawn, spent face of +George Brotherton, as he stood before her when she closed the door. He gazed at +her piteously, a wreck of a man, storm-battered and haggard. His big hands were +shaking with a palsy of terrible grief. His moon face was inanimate, and vagrant +emotions from his heart flicked across his features in quivers of anguish. His +thin hair was tousled and his clothes were soiled and disheveled.</p> + +<p>“I thought you ought to know, Laura–at once,” he said, +after she had closed the white door behind her and sat numb and dumb before him. +“Nate and Henry and I got there about four o’clock. Well, there they +were–by the big elm tree–on the golf course. His father was there +and he told me coming back that when they wanted Grant to do anything–they +would string up Amos–poor old Amos! They made Grant stoop over and kiss +the flag, while they kicked him; and they made him pull that machine gun around +the lake. The fools brought it up from the camp in South Harvey.” +Brotherton’s face quivered, but his tears were gone. He continued: +“They strung poor old Amos up four times, Laura–four times, he +says.” Brotherton looked wearily into the street. “Well, as we came +down the hill in our car, we could see Grant. He was nearly naked–about as +he is now. We came tearing down the hill, our siren screaming and Nate and me +yelling and waving our guns. At the first scream of our siren, there was an +awful roar and <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_607'></a>607</span>a +flash. Some one,” Brotherton paused and turned his haggard eyes toward +Laura–“it was deaf John Kollander, he turned the lever and fired +that machine gun. Oh, Laura, God, it was awful. I saw Grant wilt down. I +saw–”</p> + +<p>The man broke into tears, but bit his lips and continued: “Oh, they ran +like snakes then–like snakes–like snakes, and we came crashing down +to the tree and in a moment the last machine had piked–but I know +’em, every man-jack!” he cried. “There was the old man, tied +hand and foot, three yards from the tree, and there, half leaning, half sitting +by the tree, the boy, the big, red-headed, broken and crippled boy–was +panting his life out.” Brotherton caught her inquiring eyes. “It was +all gone, Laura,” he said softly, “all gone. He was the boy, the +shy, gentle boy that we used to know–and always have loved. All this other +that the years have brought was wiped from his eyes. They were so tender +and–” He could go no further. She nodded her understanding. He +finally continued: “The first thing he said to me was, ‘It’s all +right, George.’ He was tied, they had pulled the claw off and his poor +stumped arm was showing and he was bleeding–oh, Laura.”</p> + +<p>Brotherton fumbled in his pocket and handed an envelope to her.</p> + +<p>“‘George,’ he panted, as I tried to make him +comfortable–‘have Nate look after father.’ And when Nate had gone he +whispered between gasps, ‘that letter there in the court room–’ He +had to stop a moment, then he whispered again, ‘is for her, for Laura.’ He +tried to smile, but the blood kept bubbling up. We lifted him into an easier +position, but nothing helped much. He realized that and when we quit he +said:</p> + +<p>“‘Now then, George, promise me this–they’re not to blame. +John Kollander isn’t to blame. It was funny; Kyle Perry saw him as I did, +and Kyle–’ he almost laughed, Laura.</p> + +<p>“‘Kyle,’ he repeated, ‘tried to yell at old John, but got so +excited stuttering, he couldn’t! I’m sure the fellows didn’t +intend–’ he was getting weak; ‘this,’ he said.</p> + +<p>“‘Promise me and make–others; you won’t tell. I know +father–he won’t. They’re not–it’s–society. +Just that,’ <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_608'></a>608</span>he said. ‘This was society!’ He had to stop. I +felt his hand squeeze. ‘I’m–so–happy,’ he said one word +at a time, gripping my hand tighter and tighter till it ached.” Brotherton +put out his great hand, and looked at it impersonally, as one introducing a +stranger for witness. Then Brotherton lifted his eyes to Laura’s and took +up his story:</p> + +<p>“‘That’s hers,’ he said; ‘the letter,’ and then ‘my +messages–happy.’”</p> + +<p>The woman pressed her letter to her lips and looked at the white door. She +rose and, holding her letter to her bosom, closed her eyes and stood with a hand +on the knob. She dropped her hand and turned from the white door. The dawn was +graying in the ugly street. But on the clouds the glow of sunrise blushed in +promise. She walked slowly toward the street. She gazed for a moment at the +glorious sky of dawn.</p> + +<p>When her eyes met her friend’s, she cried:</p> + +<p>“Give me your hand–that hand!”</p> + +<p>She seized it, gazed hungrily at it a second, then kissed it passionately. +She looked back at the white door, and shook with sobs as she cried:</p> + +<p>“Oh, you don’t think he’s there–there in the +night–behind the door? We know–oh, we do know he’s out +here–out here in the dawn.”</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_609'></a>609</span><a id='link_51'></a>CHAPTER LI<br /><span class='h2fs'>IN WHICH WE END AS WE BEGAN AND ALL LIVE HAPPILY EVER AFTER</span></h2> + +<p>The great strike in the Wahoo Valley now is only an episode in the history of +this struggle of labor for its rights. The episode is receding year by year +further and more dimly into the past and is one of the long, half-forgotten +skirmishes wherein labor is learning the truth that only in so far as labor +dares to lean on peace and efficiency can labor move upward in the scale of +life. The larger life with its wider hope, requires the deeper fellowship of +men. The winning or losing of the strike in the Wahoo meant little in terms of +winning or losing; but because the men kept the peace, kept it to the very end, +the strike meant much in terms of progress. For what they gained was permanent; +based on their own strength, not on the weakness of those who would deny +them.</p> + +<p>But the workers in the mines and mills of the Wahoo Valley, who have gone to +and from their gardens, planting and cultivating and harvesting their crops for +many changing seasons, hold the legend of the strong man, maimed and scarred, +who led them in that first struggle with themselves, to hold themselves worthy +of their dreams. In a hundred little shacks in the gardens, and in dingy rooms +in the tenements may be found even to-day newspaper clippings pinned to the wall +with his picture on them, all curled up and yellow with years. Before a +wash-stand, above a bed or pasted over the kitchen stove, soiled and begrimed, +these clippings recall the story of the man who gave his life to prove his +creed. So the fellowship he brought into the world lives on.</p> + +<p>And the fellowship that came into the world as Grant Adams went out of it, +touched a wider circle than the group with whom he lived and labored. The sad +sincerity with <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_610'></a>610</span>which he worked proved to Market Street that the man +was consecrated to a noble purpose, and Market Street’s heart learned a +lesson. Indeed the lives of that long procession of working men who have given +themselves so freely–where life was all they had to give–for the +freedom of their fellows from the bondage of the times, the lives of these men +have found their highest value in making the Market Street eternal, realize its +own shame. So Grant Adams lay down in the company of his peers that Market +Street might understand in his death what his fellows really hoped for. He was a +seed that is sown and falls upon good ground. For Market Street after all is not +a stony place; seeds sown there bring forth great harvests. And while the +harvest of Grant Adams’s life is not at hand; the millennium is not here; +the seed is quickening in the earth. And great things are moving in the +world.</p> + +<hr style='border:none; border-bottom:1px solid silver; height: 1px; width: 80%; text-align: center; margin: 10px auto;' /> + +<p>Of course, there came a time in Harvey, even in the house of Nesbit, when +there was marrying and giving in marriage. It was on a winter’s night when +the house inside the deep, dark Moorish verandas, celebrating Mrs. +Nesbit’s last bout with the spirit of architecture, glowed with a jewel of +light.</p> + +<p>And in due course they appeared, Rev. Dr. John Dexter leading the way, +followed by a thin, dark-skinned young man with eyes to match and a rather +slight, shortish girl, blond and pink with happy trimmings and real pearls on +her eyelashes. The children jabbered, and the women wept and the men wiped their +eyes, and it was altogether a gay occasion. Just as the young people were ready +to look the world squarely in the face, George Brotherton, thinking he heard +some one moving outside in the deep, dark veranda, flicked on the porch light, +and through the windows he saw–and the merry company could not help seeing +two faces–two wan, unhappy faces, staring hungrily in at the bridal pair. +They stood at different corners of the house and did not seem to know of one +another’s presence until the light revealed them. Only an instant did +their faces flash into the light, as John Dexter was reading from the Bible a +part of the service that he loved to put in, “and <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_611'></a>611</span>forbid them not, for of such is the +kingdom of Heaven.” The faces vanished, there was a scurrying across the +cement floor of the veranda and two figures met on the lawn in shame and +anger.</p> + +<p>But they in the house did not know of the meeting. For everybody was kissing +everybody else, and the peppermint candy in little Grant Brotherton’s +mouth tasted on a score of lips in three minutes, and a finger dab of candy on +Jasper Adams’s shirt front made the world akin.</p> + +<p>After the guests had gone, three old men lingered by the smoldering logs. +“Well, now, Doc Jim,” asked Amos, “why shouldn’t I? +Haven’t I paid taxes in Greeley County for nearly fifty years? +Didn’t I make the campaign for that home in the nineties, when they called +it the poor house–most people call it that now. I only stay there when I +am lonesome and I go out in a taxi-cab at the county’s expense like a +gentleman to his estate. And I guess it is my estate. I was talking to Lincoln +about it the other night, and he says he approves. Ruskin says I am living my +religion like a diamond in the rock.”</p> + +<p>To the Captain’s protest he answered, “Oh, yes, I know +that–but that would be charity. My pencils and shoestrings and collar +buttons and coat hangers keep me in spending money. I couldn’t take +charity even from you men. And Jasper’s money,” the gray poll +wagged, and he cried, “Oh, no–not Ahab Wright’s and Kyle +Perry’s–not that money. Kenyon is forever slipping me fifty. But I +don’t need it. John Dexter keeps a room always ready for me, and I like it +at the Dexters’ almost as much as I do at the county home. So I +don’t really need Kenyon’s money, however much joy he takes in +giving it. And I raise the devil’s own fuss to keep him from doing +it.”</p> + +<p>The Doctor puffed, and the Captain in his regal garments paraded the long +room, with his hands locked under his coattails.</p> + +<p>“But, Amos,” cried the Captain, “under the law, no man +wearing that button,” and the Captain looked at the tri-color of the Loyal +Legion, proudly adorning the shiny coat, “no soldier under the law, has to +go out there. They’ve <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_612'></a>612</span>got to keep you here in town, and besides +you’re entitled to a whopping lot of pension money for all these unclaimed +years.”</p> + +<p>The white old head shook and the pursed old lips smiled, as the thin little +voice replied, “Not yet, Ezra–not yet–I don’t need the +pension yet. And as for the Home–it’s not lonesome there. A lot of +’em are bedfast and stricken and I get a certain amount of +fun–chirping ’em up on cloudy days. They like to hear from Emerson +and John A. Logan, and Sitting Bull and Huxley and their comrades. So I guess +I’m being more or less useful.” He stroked his scraggy beard and +looked at the fire. “And then,” he added, “she always seems +nearer where there is sorrow. Grant, too, is that way, though neither of +’em really has come.”</p> + +<p>The Captain finding that his money was ashes in his hands, and not liking the +thought and meditation of death, changed the subject, and when the evening was +old, Amos Adams called a taxi-cab, and at the county’s expense rode +home.</p> + +<p>At the end of a hard winter day, descending tardily into the early spring, +they missed him at the farm. No one knew whether he had gone to visit the +Dexters, as was his weekly wont, or whether he was staying with Captain Morton +in town, where he sometimes spent Saturday night after the Grand Army +meeting.</p> + +<p>The next day the sun came out and melted the untimely snow banks. And some +country boys playing by a limestone ledge in a wide upland meadow above the +Wahoo, far from the smoke of town, came upon the body of an old man. Beside him +was strewn a meager peddler’s kit. On his knees was a tablet of paper; in +his left hand was a pencil tightly gripped. On the tablet in a fine, even hand +were the words: “I am here, Amos,” and his old eyes, stark and wide, +were drooped, perhaps to look at the tri-color of the Loyal Legion that shone on +his shrunken chest and told of a great dream of a nation come true, or perhaps +in the dead, stark eyes was another vision in another world.</p> + +<p>And so as in the beginning, there was blue sky and sunshine and prairie grass +at the end.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_613'></a>613</span><a id='link_52'></a>CHAPTER LII<br /><span class='h2fs'>NOT EXACTLY A CHAPTER BUT RATHER A Q E D OR A HIC FABULA DOCET</span></h2> + +<p>“And the fool said in his heart, there is no God!” And this fable +teaches, if it teaches anything, that the fool was indeed a fool. Now do not +think that his folly lay chiefly in glutting his life with drab material things, +with wives and concubines, with worldly power and glory. That was but a small +part of his folly. For that concerned himself. That turned upon his own little +destiny. The vast folly of the fool came with his blindness. He could not see +the beautiful miracle of progress that God has been working in this America of +ours during these splendid fifty years that have closed a great epoch.</p> + +<p>And what a miracle it was! Here lay a continent–rich, crass, material, +beckoning humanity to fall down and worship the god of gross and palpable +realities. And, on the other hand, here stood the American spirit–the +eternal love of freedom, which had brought men across the seas, had bid them +fight kings and principalities and powers, had forced them into the wilderness +by the hundreds of thousands to make of it “the homestead of the +free”; the spirit that had called them by the millions to wage a terrible +civil war for a great ideal.</p> + +<p>This spirit met the god of things as they are, and for a generation grappled +in a mighty struggle.</p> + +<p>And men said: The old America is dead; America is money mad; America is a +charnel house of greed. Millions and millions of men from all over the earth +came to her shores. And the world said: They have brought only their greed with +them. And still the struggle went on. The continent was taken; man abolished the +wilderness. A new civilization rose. And because it was strong, the world said +it <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_614'></a>614</span>was not of the +old America, but of a new, soft, wicked order, which wist not that God had +departed from it.</p> + +<p>Then the new epoch dawned; clear and strong came the call to Americans to go +forth and fight in the Great War–not for themselves, not for their own +glory, nor their own safety, but for the soul of the world. And the old spirit +of America rose and responded. The long inward struggle, seen only by the wise, +only by those who knew how God’s truth conquers in this earth, working +beneath the surface, deep in the heart of things, the long inward struggle of +the spirit of America for its own was won.</p> + +<p>So it came to pass that the richness of the continent was poured out for an +ideal, that the genius of those who had seemed to be serving only Mammon was +devoted passionately to a principle, and that the blood of those who came in +seeming greed to America was shed gloriously in the high emprise which called +America to this new world crusade. Moses in the burning bush speaking with God, +Saul on the road to Damascus, never came closer to the force outside ourselves +which makes for righteousness,–the force that has guided humanity upward +through the ages,–than America has come in this hour of her high resolve. +And yet for fifty years she has come into this holy ground steadily, and +unswervingly; indeed, for a hundred years, for three hundred years from Plymouth +Rock to the red fields of France, America has come a long and perilous +way–yet always sure, and never faltering.</p> + +<p>To have lived in the generation now passing, to have seen the glory of the +coming of the Lord in the hearts of the people, to have watched the steady +triumph in our American life of the spirit of justice, of fellowship over the +spirit of greed, to have seen the Holy Ghost rise in the life of a whole nation, +was a blessed privilege. And if this tale has reflected from the shallow paper +hearts of those phantoms flitting through its pages some glimpse of their joy in +their pilgrimage, the story has played its part. If the fable of Grant +Adams’s triumphant failure does not dramatize in some way the victory of +the American spirit–the Puritan conscience–in our generation, then, +alas, this parable has fallen short of its aim. But most of all, if the story +has not shown how <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_615'></a>615</span>sad a thing it is to sit in the seat of the +scornful, and to deny the reality of God’s purpose in this world, even +though it is denied in pomp and power and pride, then indeed this narrative has +failed. For in all this world one finds no other place so dreary and so desolate +as it is in the heart of a fool.</p> + +<p class='tp' style='margin-top:2ex;'>THE END</p> + +<p class='tp' style='font-size:smaller;margin-top:4ex;'>PRINTED IN THE UNITED +STATES OF AMERICA</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> + +<p>The following pages contain advertisements of Macmillan books by the same +author.</p> + +<div class='adpage'> +<hr class='pb' /> + +<p class='tp' style='font-size:1.2em;'><i>BY THE SAME AUTHOR</i></p> + +<p>God’s Puppets</p> + +<p><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>By WILLIAM ALLEN WHITE</span></p> + +<p><i>Cloth, 12mo, with Frontispiece, $1.35</i></p> + +<p>“Five capital stories full of scorn for hypocrisy, meanness and +anti-social types of character, and of equal admiration for men who are clean, +straight and generous. The book has the tone and purpose of Mr. White’s ‘A +Certain Rich Man.’ It has also humor and a closely drawn picture of small +town conditions in the Middle West.”–<i>Outlook.</i></p> + +<p>“Literature that is lifelike in essence, moral without being +hypocritical, dramatic without being theatricalized, inspiring without being +preachy.”–<i>New York Sun.</i></p> + +<p>The Old Order Changeth</p> + +<p><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>By WILLIAM ALLEN WHITE</span></p> + +<p><i>Cloth, 12mo, $1.25</i></p> + +<p>This is a collection of stirring essays on topics of present-day interest. +Opening with a discussion of the former democracy of this country, the author +considers the beginnings of the change, the cause and certain definite +tendencies in American democracy.</p> + +<p class='tp' style='font-size:smaller;'>THE MACMILLAN +COMPANY<br />Publishers 64-66 Fifth +Avenue New York</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> + +<p class='tp' style='font-size:1.2em;'><i>NEW FALL FICTION</i></p> + +<p><i>H. G. WELLS’ NEW NOVEL.</i></p> + +<p>JOAN AND PETER. “The Story of an Education.”</p> + +<p>By H. G. Wells. With frontispiece.</p> + +<p>$1.75.</p> + +<p><i>A NEW NOVEL BY WILLIAM ALLEN WHITE.</i></p> + +<p>IN THE HEART OF A FOOL. By William Allen White, author of “A Certain +Rich Man.”</p> + +<p>With frontispiece. $1.60.</p> + +<p><i>EDEN PHILLPOTTS’ NEW NOVEL.</i></p> + +<p>THE SPINNERS. By Eden Phillpotts, author of “Brunel’s +Tower,” “Old Delabole,” etc.</p> + +<p><i>NEW JACK LONDON STORIES.</i></p> + +<p>THE RED ONE. By Jack London, author of “The Call of the Wild,” +etc. With frontispiece.</p> + +<p><i>A SEA STORY BY MCFARLAND.</i></p> + +<p>SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS. By Raymond McFarland. With frontispiece. +$1.50.</p> + +<p><i>A NOVEL BY ZÖE BECKLEY.</i></p> + +<p>A CHANCE TO LIVE. By Zoë Beckley. With illustrations.</p> + +<p>ONCE ON THE SUMMER RANGE. By Francis Hill. Illustrated.</p> + +<p class='tp' style='font-size:smaller;'>THE MACMILLAN +COMPANY<br />Publishers 64-66 Fifth +Avenue New York</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> + +<p class='tp' style='font-size:1.2em;'>The Martial Adventures of Henry and +Me</p> + +<p class='tp'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>By WILLIAM ALLEN +WHITE</span></p> + +<p><i>Cloth, $1.50</i></p> + +<p>“A jolly book ... truly one of the best that has yet come down +war’s grim pike.”–<i>New York Post.</i></p> + +<p>“Honest from first to last.... Resembles ‘Innocents Abroad’ in +scheme and laughter ... a vivid picture of Europe at this hour. Should be thrice +blessed, for man and book light up a world in the gloom of +war.”–<i>New York Sun.</i></p> + +<p>“A unique chronicle, genuine and sincere.”–<i>New York +Times.</i></p> + +<p>Here is a book of truth and humor. One of the first stories by an American +that tell what America has done and is doing “over there.” It is a +tale such as Mark Twain would have written had he lived to do his bit in +France.</p> + +<p>Two “short, fat, bald, middle-aged, inland Americans” cross over +to France with commissions from the Red Cross. Their experiences are told in a +bubbling humor that is irresistible. The sober common sense and the information +about the work going on in France–the way our men take hold and the French +respond–go to make this the book all Americans have long been waiting +for.</p> + +<p>The inimitable sketches of Tony Sarg, distributed throughout, lend a clever, +human atmosphere to the text.</p> + +<p class='tp' style='font-size:smaller;'>THE MACMILLAN +COMPANY<br />Publishers 64-66 Fifth +Avenue New York</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> + +<p class='tp' style='font-size:1.2em;'>A Certain Rich Man</p> + +<p class='tp'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>By WILLIAM ALLEN +WHITE</span></p> + +<p class='tp'>Author of “What’s the Matter with Kansas?”</p> + +<p><i>Cloth, 12mo, $1.50</i></p> + +<p>The absorbing story of the career of a remarkable money-maker and his +associates. A powerful book full of United States life and colour, taking front +rank among the best modern novels.</p> + +<p>“It pulsates with humour, interest, passionate love, adventure, +pathos–every page is woven with threads of human nature, life as we know +it, as it is, and above it all a spirit of righteousness, true piety, and heroic +patriotism. These inspire the author’s genius and fine literary quality, +thrilling the reader with tenderest emotion, and holding to the end his +unflagging and absorbing interest.”–G. W. O. in <i>Philadelphia +Public Ledger</i>.</p> + +<p>“This novel has a message for to-day, and for its brilliant character +drawing, and that gossipy desultory style of writing that stamps Mr. +White’s literary work, will earn a high place in fiction. It is good and +clean and provides a vacation from the cares of the hour. It resembles a Chinese +play, because it begins with the hero’s boyhood, describes his long, busy +life, and ends with his death. Its tone is often religious, never flippant, and +one of its best assets is its glowing descriptions of the calm, serene beauties +of nature. Its moral is that a magnate never did any real good with +money.”–<i>Oregonian</i>, Portland, Oregon.</p> + +<p class='tp' style='font-size:smaller;'>THE MACMILLAN +COMPANY<br />Publishers 64-66 Fifth +Avenue New York</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> + +<p class='tp' style='font-size:larger;'><i>Other Books by William Allen +White</i></p> + +<p>COURT OF BOYVILLE</p> + +<p><i>Illustrated</i> <i>Cloth</i> <i>12mo</i> <i>$1.50</i></p> + +<p>There are few men in the world who have pictured that strange creation, the +Boy, as he actually is. One of these men is Mr. White. His Kansas boys are a +delight, and the recollections they will awaken in the mind of any man will +cause him to congratulate himself for having read the book.</p> + +<p>IN OUR TOWN</p> + +<p><i>Illustrated</i> <i>Cloth</i> <i>12mo</i> <i>$1.50</i></p> + +<p>Mr. White suggests Barrie more than any other living writer. His new book +does for the daily life of a modern Kansas town just what Barrie has done for a +Scotch town in “A Window in Thrums.”</p> + +<p>“It is ‘Boyville’ grown up; better because more skilfully and +deftly done; riper, because ‘Bill’ is a bigger boy now than he was five +years ago, and more human. No writer to-day handles the small town life to +compare with White, and this is the best book he has yet +done.”–<i>Los Angeles Herald.</i></p> + +<p>STRATAGEMS AND SPOILS</p> + +<p><i>Illustrated</i> <i>Cloth</i> <i>12mo</i> <i>$1.50</i></p> + +<p>There are hours and days and long years in the lives of men and women wherein +strong passions are excited and great human interests are at stake. The ambition +for power, the greed for money, the desire to win the game, the hunger for fame, +parental love, anger, friendship, hate, and revenge–the primitive passions +that move men and the world powerfully–certainly these deserve as +important a place in the chronicles of the human animal as does the mating +instinct. It is with this idea in mind that Mr. White has set the stories in +this volume in the field of American politics, where every human emotion finds +free play.</p> + +<p>THE REAL ISSUE</p> + +<p><i>Cloth</i> <i>12mo</i> <i>$1.25</i></p> + +<p>“It pulsates with humor, interest, passionate love, adventures, +pathos–every page is woven with threads of human nature, life as we know +it, life as it is, and above it all a spirit of righteousness, true piety, and +heroic patriotism. These inspire the author’s genius and fine literary +quality, thrilling the reader with tenderest emotion, and holding to the end his +unflagging, absorbing interest.”–<i>The Public Ledger</i>, +Philadelphia.</p> + +<p class='tp' style='font-size:smaller;'>PUBLISHED BY<br />THE MACMILLAN +COMPANY<br />Publishers 64-66 Fifth +Avenue New York</p> +</div> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's In the Heart of a Fool, by William Allen White + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IN THE HEART OF A FOOL *** + +***** This file should be named 30627-h.htm or 30627-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/0/6/2/30627/ + +Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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