CHAPTER XXIV
On caucus days or election days it had been Zaanan Frame’s custom to sit in his office and receive his friends. There were few who did not take that opportunity to shake Zaanan’s hand, to show themselves at his levee. Most came because it was their pleasure to do so; some came because they regarded it as the part of wisdom.
But on this caucus day Zaanan sat alone. Outside on the steps was Dolf Springer, taciturn, doleful. That was all. The old man was deserted. Diversity had forsaken him on the day of his downfall. The power he had wielded for more than a generation had dropped from him, leaving in the place of the political dictator merely a tired, weary, disappointed old man.
He had taken some comfort in that greatest of all books, the Justices’ Guide. Now he laid it aside and rose.
“Dolf,” he called.
The one faithful retainer entered.
“Calc’late we’ll be startin’ for the op’ry-house, Dolf.”
On other years this had been a sort of triumphal procession. Zaanan had marched to the opera-house surrounded by his friends. Now he looked quizzically at Dolf.
“Seems like we was sort of scarce this mornin’, Dolf, eh?”
“Doggone ’em!” said Dolf, vindictively.
They started, a pitiful procession. As they made their progress there were eyes that turned away with a feeling of shame; other eyes stared gleefully. Here was ocular evidence that Zaanan Frame was beaten; that they, the sovereign voters of Diversity, had been able thus easily to reach out and pluck him down.
When Zaanan arrived the opera-house was full. Zaanan, who had for years been given a conspicuous place of honor, found a seat with difficulty. He sank listlessly into his chair, slid forward with extended legs, and let the brush of his beard rest on the bosom of his shirt. He did not look about him.
Had he studied the hall, he must have been surprised, not alone at the numbers present, but at the composition of the spectators. In Diversity women were accustomed to take no part in politics—even that slight part of watching their men functioning in caucus or convention. But this morning was presented a condition abnormal. The gallery, usually occupied by a sprinkling of loafers, was filled with women. Not ten women or a score of women, but row after row of women; the mothers and wives of Diversity in a body.
Others had been surprised by it. Not a few husbands had remarked upon it to wives as they left their housework and departed. Some wives had evaded questions; the bolder ones and the majority did not hesitate to inform their husbands, in words easily understood, that their reasons for going to the caucus were nobody’s business but their own.
The monotonous routine of organization was completed. Throughout, Peleg Goodwin had been in the public eye. He was a figure of importance. He already assumed the dignity of the office which was to be his as it had once been Zaanan’s. Peleg had views as to his future. What Zaanan had done Peleg could do. True, Moran was putting him where he was; but later—Peleg would see to that. His bearing was feudal.
The gallery had watched impatiently, if silently. So this was polities? So these futilely buzzing, smoking, lounging male creatures below were actually their husbands exercising a high rite of citizenship! It was monotonous. It even moved some of them to giggles. Many of them had invested the caucus with the dignity of mystery, with a certain pomp and regality. Now they saw it as it was, in no wise different from a casual gathering round the wood-stove in the post-office on any day in winter.
“So that’s how it’s done,” said the Widow Stickney. “Huh! ’Tain’t much more glitterin’ than peelin’ potaters. And I doubt if it’s as useful.”
But when the moment arrived for nominations for the office of justice of the peace, the women leaned forward, interested, not to miss a phase of it.
Young Lawyer Bourne placed Peleg in nomination, did so noisily, flamboyantly, with waving of arms and screaming of eagle. He mentioned Peleg as Peleg had never been mentioned before. If the young man had not mentioned Peleg’s name at the outset, that worthy candidate would not himself have recognized the subject of the speech. But Peleg enjoyed it. Maybe that’s what he really was and hadn’t realized it; maybe that’s what his fellow-men had been thinking about him for years, wasted years. Why, with such regard he might have risen to the Governor’s chair!
“Look at Peleg,” whispered the widow. “If somebody don’t tie a strap round his chist he’s a-goin’ to bust.”
Peleg’s nomination was duly seconded, not by Michael Moran, for Moran’s residence was elsewhere, but to Moran’s satisfaction. He sat on the aisle, well toward the front, and had been the recipient of much attention. Easily Moran was the dominant figure of the body. Why should he not be, on this his day of victory over his enemies?
Zaanan sat motionless, spoke to no one, paid no attention to what went forward. He was there, that was all. It seemed as if he had come from, habit, not from interest. After the first few moments he was forgotten, unnoticed. Zaanan had been moved on to oblivion.
Bob Allen nominated Zaanan. He made no speech, simply mounted the platform and announced that he placed the name of Zaanan Frame before the caucus as a candidate for the justiceship. It was a form, that was all. Then he stepped down.
“Any secondin’ speech?” asked the chairman—a form, too.
“Calc’late there is,” said a voice at the rear of the hall, and Steve Gilders arose, for once detached from the rifle which had grown to be as much a part of him as his arms.
As Steve walked forward, indeed, as the first of his words fell on the ears of the body, it became silent. Men looked at one another, felt a tenseness in the air, an apprehension. A small boy walked by Steve’s side, his hand in Steve’s.
Together they mounted the platform, stood facing the hall.
“I’m here to second that there nomination,” Steve said, harshly. “Bein’s I haint taught in speech-makin’ I fetched help. But I figger the boy and me’ll be able to make out.”
He got down on one knee so his face was on a level with the child’s.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Steve,” said the little one.
“What’s your other name?”
“Hain’t got none.”
Every man, every woman, in the house was straining forward. Here was something not to be expected by any; something fraught with meaning. Michael Moran was of those whose eyes were fixed on the two figures. He half arose to his feet, then sank back, face distorted, fists clenched.
“Who was your ma?” Steve asked, in a voice that chilled.
“Susie Gilders.”
“Where is she?”
“She’s dead.”
“What killed her?”
“She did,” said the child, his lips quivering.
“Why?”
“On account of me.”
The gallery became audible—it gasped once, then was silent again.
“Who is your pa?” Steve went on, inexorably.
“Michael Moran.”
“Who do you hate?”
“Michael Moran.”
Steve arose, lifted the child above his head.
“Look at him, folks,” he said; “he’s secondin’ the nomination of Zaanan Frame.”
He turned, now leading the boy, descended from the platform, passed down the aisle toward the rear of the hall. The child’s coat brushed Moran’s sleeve, unconscious of whom it passed. Moran shrank away from the touch.
Nobody spoke, nobody moved, save Moran. He leaped to his feet, face working with rage, with shame, with the ignominy of it.
“It’s a lie!” he shouted.
“It’s the truth!” Steve Gilders said over his shoulder.
In the gallery a woman stood. She pointed downward to an individual on the floor.
“Tom Samson,” she said, shrilly, “you’re goin’ to vote now. Vote right or don’t come home to me.”
Another woman dared equally. “You, too, George Perkins.”
Woman after woman was on her feet, singling out her man, letting him hear her voice in this matter.
The vote was taken in silence, counted in silence. The hall awaited its announcement in silence. Three votes were cast for Peleg Goodwin, the rest for Zaanan Frame.
There was a cheer, but it came not from the floor, not from the men folk. It was shriller than a cheer by the men would have been, for it came from the throats of the wives and mothers of them. Women not accustomed to politics had taken a hand in that game. Women not granted the suffrage by our laws had by their mere presence wielded the powers of the suffrage. They had not voted in person for Zaanan Frame; they had exerted no prior influence; but they had at the moment of action shown their men what was in their hearts, and the men voted in accord with it. The women of Diversity had shown there was a force, a power resident within them, that was capable of ruling when it sought to rule. Men versed in the law tell us that in every state the supreme power must lie definitely in some individual or some group of individuals. Where autocracy, absolutism, obtains, the supreme fountainhead of authority is in the autocrat; in a republic it abides in the citizens. The women of Diversity had made apparent where resided the ultimate authority in their village.
Moran had left the opera-house.
Scatteringly at first, then with volume, arose shouts for Zaanan. Shamefaced men bellowed his name, at first because they were ashamed, afraid, to do otherwise, then with an infection of enthusiasm, perhaps with a clearness of vision they had been deprived of hitherto. Zaanan walked forward slowly, gravely, with no indication of elation in his face. From the platform he eyed them sternly.
“Folks,” he began, presently, “I can’t say I take any pride in this. I don’t feel like I’d been honored. No, I hain’t been honored, except by them that hadn’t votes to vote. My heart hain’t so old but it kin appreciate bein’ trusted and respected by them that sits in the gallery. They stayed by me when you forsook me. You men, ’tain’t on your accounts I’m takin’ this place agin; it’s because of them women that I’ve seen babies in their cradles, and for the babies that is in their cradles to-day.”
He stopped to remove his spectacles.
“I should ’a’ let you have a dose of Peleg and Moran. It would ’a’ been good for you. But I seen you didn’t have sense nor judgment to know what you was doin’, so I done what I’ve had to do before. I took things into my own hands, and for another spell things’ll go on as they did before. I was hopin’ you’d learned. I was hopin’, when I come to step out for good, that you’d be fit to handle the job yourselves. I’m disapp’inted in that, so I’ll hang on as long as I can.”
He stopped again and tugged at his beard, and glowered at the men as one might glower at refractory children.
“Some of you men that’s here to-day has money in your pockets that don’t b’long there. It’s Michael Moran’s money. For a dollar or two, that’ll be spent and forgot in a week, you sold somethin’ that’s next worse to sell than the decency of your homes. You sold somethin’ that men have fought for and give their all for. The whole of this here nation’s built up on you and others like you. You’re a part of the Gov’ment; the nation trusts each feller to do his votin’ and his politics to the best of his judgment. But you hain’t done that. You’ve up and sold your votes. I calc’late I hain’t never been more ashamed. At the door of this op’ry-house is Dolf Springer holdin’ a bushel basket. He’s holdin’ it in plain sight of all. If you that’s took money hopes to have my respect, and the respect of your wives and mothers and daughters, you’ll rise now and march past Dolf, and you’ll chuck into that basket the Judas-money that’s soilin’ your pockets. Now, I’m waitin’.”
They looked at one another shamefaced, each man afraid to be the first to rise.
“Tom Samson,” came his wife’s voice, “you head that percession.”
There was the hint of a nervous laugh from the men, but Tom got to his feet.
“Zaanan,” he said, shakily, “I’m a dum sight more ashamed ’n you be of me,” and he marched to make his deposit in Dolf’s basket.
It was a procession. Men formed in line behind Tom, and there were leathery faces that felt for the first time in many years the down-trickle of tears. Zaanan was wiping his eyes unashamed. Audible sobs descended from the gallery. The atmosphere was that of a revival—it was a revival, a moment of regeneration, a moment that would linger in the minds of those men as long as mind and body remained bound together. The line filed past Dolf and the men returned to their seats.
“I calc’late the business of this caucus is about over,” Zaanan said. “When what’s left to be done is over I wisht Parson Bloom ’u’d say a benediction. ’Tain’t usual at sich meetin’s, but ’twon’t do any harm.”
So it was done. Aged Parson Bloom mounted the platform, his silvery head bared, and held his arms extended over them. His words were few, simple:
“‘The Lord watch between me and thee, when we are absent one from another.’”
Then they passed out, leaving Zaanan alone on the platform, seated in a huge arm-chair, his head bent wearily, his face in his hands.