II
That same evening Carrington and McDermott, the Democratic leader, met by appointment in the former's law-offices. McDermott was a wealthy steel-manufacturer who had held various state and national offices. As a business man his policy was absolute honesty. He gave liberal wages, met his men personally, and adjusted their differences. There were as many Republicans as Democrats in his employ. Politics never entered the shop. Every dollar in his business had been honestly earned. He was a born leader, kindly, humorous, intelligent. But once he put on his silk hat and frock coat, a metamorphosis, strange and incomprehensible, took place. He became altogether a different man; cold, purposeful, determined, bitter, tumbling over obstacles without heart or conscience, using all means to gain his devious ends; scheming, plotting, undermining this man or elevating that, a politician in every sense of the word; cunning, astute, long-headed, far-seeing. He was not suave like his old enemy, the senator; he was blunt because he knew the fullness of his power. But for all his bluntness, he was, when need said must, a diplomat of no mean order. If he brought about a shady election, he had the courage to stand by what he had done. He was respected and detested alike.
The present incumbent in the city hall was no longer of use to him. He was wise enough to see that harm to his power would come about in case the reform movement got headway; he might even be dethroned. So his general's eye had lighted on Carrington, as the senator's had lighted on Williard; only he had mistaken his man where the senator had not.
"My boy," he began, "I'm going to lecture you."
"Go ahead," said Carrington. "I know what the trouble is. I crossed out Mr. Murphy's name from the list you fixed up for my inspection."
"And his name must go back,"—smiling. "We can't afford to turn him down at this late day."
"I can," said the protégé imperturbably and firmly.
For a moment their glances met and clashed.
"You must always remember the welfare of the party,"—gently.
"And the people," supplemented the admonished one.
"Of course,"—with thin lips. "But Murphy's name must stand. We depend upon the eighth ward to elect you, and Murphy holds it in his palm. Your friend Williard will be forced to accept Matthews for the same reason. It's a game of chess, but a great game."
"Matthews? I don't believe it. Williard would not speak to him on the street, let alone put him on the ticket."
"Wait and see."
"He's a blackleg, a gambler, worse than Murphy."
"And what is your grievance against Murphy? He has always served the party well."
"Not to speak of Mr. Murphy."
"What has he done?"
"He has sold his vote three times in the common council. He sold it once for two thousand dollars in that last pavement deal. I have been rather observant. Let him remain alderman; I can not see my way clear to appoint him to a position in the city hall."
McDermott's eyes narrowed. "Your accusations are grave. If Murphy learns, he may make you prove it."
Carrington remained silent for a few minutes, his face in thoughtful repose; then having decided to pursue a certain course, he reached into a pigeon-hole of his desk and selected a paper which he gave to McDermott. The latter studied the paper carefully. From the paper his glance traveled to the face of the young man opposite him. He wondered why he hadn't taken more particular notice of the cleft chin and the blue-gray eyes. Had he made a mistake? Was the young fellow's honesty greater than his ambition? McDermott returned the paper without comment.
"Is that proof enough?" Carrington asked, a bit of raillery in his tones.
"You should have told me of this long ago."
"I hadn't the remotest idea that Murphy's name would turn up. You can very well understand that I can not consider this man's name as an appointee."
"Why hasn't it been turned over to the district attorney?"
"The plaintiff is a patient man. He left it to me. It is a good sword, and I may have to hold it over Mr. Murphy's neck."
McDermott smiled.
"The Democratic party in this county needs a strong tonic in the nature of a clean bill. I want my appointees men of high standing; I want them honest; I want them not for what they have done, but what they may do."
McDermott smiled again. "I have made a mistake in not coming to you earlier. There is a great future for a man of your kidney, Carrington. You have a genuine talent for politics. You possess something that only a dozen men in a hundred thousand possess, a tone. Words are empty things unless they are backed by a tone. Tone holds the auditor, convinces him, directs him if by chance he is wavering. You are a born orator. Miller retires from Congress next year. His usefulness in Washington has passed. How would you like to succeed him?"
Insidious honey! Carrington looked out of the window. Washington! A seat among the Seats of the Mighty! A torch-light procession was passing through the street below, and the noise of the fife and drum rose. The world's applause; the beating of hands, the yells of triumph, the laudation of the press,—the world holds no greater thrill than this. Art and literature stand pale beside it. But a worm gnawed at the heart of this rose, a cancer ate into the laurel. Carrington turned. He was by no means guileless.
"When I accepted this nomination, I did so because I believed that the party was in danger, and that, if elected, I might benefit the people. I have remained silent; I have spoken but little of my plans; I have made few promises. Mr. McDermott, I am determined, first and foremost, to be mayor in all the meaning of the word. I refuse to be a figure-head. I have crossed out Murphy's name because he is a dishonest citizen. Yes, I am ambitious; but I would forego Washington rather than reach it by shaking Murphy's hand." The blood of the old war-governor tingled in his veins at that moment.
"It must be replaced,"—quietly.
"In face of that document?"
"In spite of it."
"I refuse!"
"Listen to reason, my boy; you are young, and you have to learn that in politics there's always a bitter pill with the sweet. To elect you I have given my word to Murphy that he shall have the office."
"You may send Mr. Murphy to me," said Carrington curtly. "I'll take all the blame."
"This is final?"
"It is. And I am surprised that you should request this of me."
"He will defeat you."
"So be it."
McDermott was exceedingly angry, but he could not help admiring the young man's resoluteness and direct honesty.
"You are making a fatal mistake. I shall make an enemy of the man, and I shall not be able to help you. I have a great deal at stake. If we lose the eighth, we lose everything, and for years to come."
"Perhaps. One dishonest step leads to another, and if I should sanction this man, I should not hesitate at greater dishonesty. My honesty is my bread and butter ... and my conscience."
"Corporations have no souls; politics has no conscience. Williard...."
"My name is Carrington,"—abruptly. "In a matter of this kind I can not permit myself to be subjected to comparisons. You brought about my present position in municipal affairs."
"We had need of you, and still need you," confessed the other reluctantly. "The party needs new blood."
"You are a clever man, Mr. McDermott; you are a leader; let me appeal to your better judgment. Murphy is a blackguard, and he would be in any party, in any country. In forcing him on me, you rob me of my self-respect."
McDermott shrugged. "In this case he is a necessary evil. The success of the party depends upon his good will. Listen. Will you find, in all this wide land, a ruling municipality that is incorrupt? Is there not a fly in the ointment whichever way you look? Is not dishonesty fought with dishonesty; isn't it corruption against corruption? Do you believe for a minute that you can bring about this revolution? No, my lad; no. This is a workaday world; Utopia is dreamland. You can easily keep your eye on this man. If he makes a dishonest move, you can find it in your power to remove him effectually. But I swear to you that he is absolutely necessary."
"Well, I will assume the risk of his displeasure."
"Show him your document, and tell him that if he leaves you in the lurch at the polls, you'll send him to prison. That's the only way out." McDermott thought he saw light.
"Make a blackmailer of myself? Hardly."
"I am sorry." McDermott rose. "You are digging a pit for a very bright future."
"Politically, perhaps."
"If you are defeated, there is no possible method of sending you to Washington in Miller's place. You must have popularity to back you. I have observed that you are a very ambitious young man."
"Not so ambitious as to obscure my sense of right."
"I like your pluck, my boy, though it stands in your own light. I'll do all I can to pacify Murphy. Good night and good luck to you." And McDermott made his departure.
Carrington remained motionless in his chair, studying the night. So much for his dreams! He knew what McDermott's "I'll do what I can" meant. If only he had not put his heart so thoroughly into the campaign! Was there any honesty? Was it worth while to be true to oneself? Murphy controlled nearly four hundred votes. For six years the eighth ward had carried the Democratic party into victory. Had he turned this aside? For years the elections had been like cheese-parings; and in ten years there hadn't been a majority of five hundred votes on either side. If Murphy was a genuine party man, and not a leech, he would stand square for his party and not consider personal enmity. What would he do when he heard from McDermott that he (Carrington) had deliberately crossed him off the ticket of appointees?
From among some old papers in a drawer Carrington produced the portrait of a young girl of sixteen in fancy dress. When he had studied this a certain length of time, he took out another portrait: it was the young girl grown into superb womanhood. The eyes were kind and merry, the mouth beautiful, the brow fine and smooth like a young poet's, a nose with the slightest tilt; altogether a high-bred, queenly, womanly face, such as makes a man desire to do great things in the world. Carrington had always loved her. He had gone through the various phases: the boy, the diffident youth, the man. (Usually it takes three women to bring about these changes!) There was nothing wild or incoherent in his love, nothing violent or passionate; rather the serene light, the steady burning light, that guides the ships at sea; constant, enduring, a sure beacon.
As he studied the face from all angles, his jaws hardened. He lifted his chin defiantly. He had the right to love her; he had lived cleanly, he had dealt justly to both his friends and his enemies, he owed no man, he was bound only to his mother, who had taught him the principles of manly living. He had the right to love any woman in the world.... And there was Williard,—handsome, easy-going old Dick! Why was it written that their paths must cross in everything? Yes, Dick loved her, too, but with an affection that had come only with majority. Williard had everything to offer besides. Should he step down and aside for his friend? Did friendship demand such a sacrifice? No! Let Williard fight for her as he (Carrington) intended to fight for her; and if Williard won, there would be time then to surrender.
It was almost twelve when the scrub-woman aroused him from his reveries. He closed his desk and went home, his heart full of battle. He would put up the best fight that was in him, for love and for fame; and if he lost he would still have his manhood and self-respect, which any woman might be proud to find at her feet, to accept or decline. He would go into Murphy's own country and fight him openly and without secret weapons. He knew that he held it in his power to coerce Murphy, but that wasn't fighting.
Neither of the candidates slept well that night.
So the time went forward. The second Tuesday in November was but a fortnight off. Carrington fought every inch of ground. He depended but little, if any, upon McDermott's assistance, though that gentleman came gallantly to his rescue, as it was necessary to save his own scalp. It crept into the papers that there was a rupture between Murphy and the Democratic candidate. The opposition papers cried in glee; the others remained silent. Murphy said nothing when questioned; he simply smiled. Carrington won the respect of his opponents. The laboring classes saw in him a Moses, and they hailed him with cheers whenever they saw him.
There were many laughable episodes during the heat of the campaign; but Carrington knew how and when to laugh. He answered questions from the platform, and the ill-mannered were invariably put to rout by his good-natured wit. Once they hoisted him on top of a bar in an obscure saloon. His shoulders touched the gloomy ceiling, and he was forced to address the habitués, with his head bent like a turtle's, his nose and eyes offended by the heat and reek of kerosene and cheap tobacco. They had brought him there to bait him; they carried him out on their shoulders. To those who wanted facts he gave facts; to some he told humorous stories; and to others he spoke his sincere convictions.
Meantime Williard took hold of affairs, but in a bored fashion. He did the best he knew how, but it wasn't the best that wins high places in the affections of the people.
The betting was even.
Election day came round finally—one of those rare days when the pallid ghost of summer returns to view her past victories, when the broad wings of the West go a-winnowing the skies, and the sun shines warm and grateful. On that morning a change took place in Carrington's heart. He became filled with dread. After leaving the voting-polls early in the morning, he returned to his home and refused to see any one. He even had the telephone wires cut. Only his mother saw him, and hovered about him with a thousand kindly attentions. At the door she became a veritable dragon; not even telegraph messengers could pass her or escape her vigilance.
At six in the evening Carrington ordered around his horse. He mounted and rode away into the hill country south of the city, into the cold crisp autumn air. There was fever in his veins that needed cooling; there were doubts and fears in his mind that needed clearing. He wanted that sense of physical exhaustion which makes a man indifferent to mental blows.
The day passed and the night came. Election night! The noisy, good-natured crowds in the streets, the jostling, snail-moving crowds! The illuminated canvas-sheets in front of the newspaper offices! The blare of horns, the cries, the yells, the hoots and hurrahs! The petty street fights! The stalled surface-cars, the swearing cabbies, the venders of horns and whistles, the newsboys hawking their extras! It is the greatest of all spectacular nights; humanity comes out into the open.
The newspaper offices were yellow with lights. It was a busy time. There was a continuous coming and going of messengers, bringing in returns. The newspaper men took off their coats and rolled up their sleeves. Figures, figures, thousands of figures to sift and resift! Filtering through the various noises was the maddening click of the telegraph instruments. Great drifts of waste paper littered the floors. A sandwich man served coffee and sandwiches. The chief distributed cigars. Everybody was writing, writing. Five men were sent out to hunt for Carrington, but none could find him. His mother refused to state where he had gone; in fact, she knew nothing save that he had gone horseback riding.
At nine there was a gathering at the club. Williard was there, and all who had charge of the wheels within wheels. They had ensconced themselves in the huge davenports in the bow-window facing the street, and had given orders to the steward to charge everything that night to Senator Gordon. A fabulous number of corks were pulled; but gentlemen are always orderly.
Williard, however, seemed anything but happy. He had dined at the senator's that evening, and something had taken place there which the general public would never learn. He was gloomy, and the wine he drank only added to his gloom.
The younger element began to wander in, carrying those execrable rooster-posters. A gay time ensued.
Carrington had ridden twelve miles into the country. At eight o'clock the temperature changed and it began to snow. He turned and rode back toward the city, toward victory or defeat. Sometimes he went at a canter, sometimes at a trot. By and by he could see the aureola from the electric lights wavering above the city. Once he struck a wind-match and glanced at his watch. Had he lost or had he won? A whimsical inspiration came to him. He determined to hear victory or defeat from the lips of the girl he loved. The snow fell softly into his face and melted. His hair became matted over his eyes; his gauntlets dripped and the reins became slippery; a steam rose from the horse's body, a big-hearted hunter on which he had ridden many a mile.
"Good boy!" said Carrington; "we'll have it first from her lips."
Finally he struck the asphalt of the city limits, and he slowed down to a walk. He turned into obscure streets. Whenever he saw a bonfire, he evaded it.
It was ten o'clock when he drew up in front of the Gordon home. He tied his horse to the post with the hitching-chain and knotted the reins so that they would not slip over the horse's head, wiped his face with his handkerchief, and walked bravely up to the veranda. There were few lights. Through the library window he saw the girl standing at the telephone. He prayed that she might be wholly alone. After a moment's hesitation he pressed the button and waited.
Betty herself came to the door. She peered out.
"What is it?" she asked.
"I did not expect that you would recognize me," said Carrington, laughing.
"John? Where in the world did you come from?"—taking him by the arm and dragging him into the hall. "Good gracious!"
"The truth is, Betty, I took to my heels at six o'clock, and have been riding around the country ever since." He sent her a penetrating glance.
"Come in to the fire," she cried impulsively. "You are cold and wet and hungry."
"Only wet," he admitted as he entered the cheerful library. He went directly to the blazing grate and spread out his red, wet, aching hands. He could hear her bustling about; it was a pleasant sound. A chair rolled up to the fender; the rattle of a tea-table followed. It was all very fine. "I ought to be ashamed to enter a house in these reeking clothes," he said; "but the temptation was too great."
"You are always welcome, John,"—softly.
His keen ear caught the melancholy sympathy in her tone. He shrugged. He had lost the fight. Had he won, she would already have poured forth her congratulations.
"Sit down," she commanded, "while I get the tea. Or would you prefer brandy?"
"The tea, by all means. I do not need brandy to bolster up my courage." He sat down.
She left the room and returned shortly with biscuit and tea. She filled a cup, put in two lumps of sugar, and passed the cup to him.
"You've a good memory," he said, smiling at her. "It's nice to have one's likes remembered, even in a cup of tea. I look as if I had been to war, don't I?"
She buttered a biscuit. He ate it, not because he was hungry, but because her fingers had touched it. It was a phantom kiss. He put the cup down.
"Now, which is it; have I been licked, or have I won?"
"What!" she cried; "do you mean to tell me you do not know?" She gazed at him bewilderedly.
"I have been four hours in the saddle. I know nothing, save that which instinct and the sweet melancholy of your voice tell me. Betty, I've been licked, haven't I, and old Dick has gone and done it, eh?"
The girl choked for a moment; there was a sob in her throat.
"Yes, John."
Carrington reached over and tapped the hearth with his riding-crop, absent-mindedly. The girl gazed at him, her eyes shining in a mist of unshed tears.... She longed to reach out her hand and smooth the furrows from his care-worn brow, to brush the melting crystals of snow from his hair; longed to soothe the smart of defeat which she knew was burning his heart. She knew that only strong men suffer in silence.
From a half-opened window the night breathed upon them, freighted with the far-off murmur of voices.
"I confess to you that I built too much on the outcome. I am ambitious; I want to be somebody, to take part in the great affairs of the world. I fought the very best I knew how. I had many dreams. Do you recollect the verses I used to write to you when we were children? There was always something of the poet in me, and it is still there, only it no longer develops on paper. I had looked toward Washington ... even toward you, Betty."
Silence. The girl sat very still. Her face was white and her eyes large.
"I am honest. I can see now that I have no business in politics...." He laughed suddenly and turned toward the girl. "I was on the verge of wailing. I'm licked, and I must begin all over again. Dick will make a good mayor, that is, if they leave him alone.... Whimsical, wasn't it, of me, coming here to have you tell me the news." He looked away.
The girl smiled and held out her hand to him, and as he did not see it, laid it gently on his sleeve.
"It does not matter, John. Some day you will realize all your ambitions. You are not the kind of man who gives up. Defeat is a necessary step to greatness; and you will become great. I am glad that you came to me." She knew now; all her doubts were gone, all the confusing shadows.
Carrington turned and touched her hand with his lips.
"Why did you come to me?" she asked with fine courage.
His eyes widened. "Why did I come to you? If I had won I should have told you. But I haven't won; I have lost."
"Does that make the difference so great?"
"It makes the difficulty greater."
"Tell me!"—with a voice of command.
They both rose suddenly, rather unconsciously, too. Their glances held, magnet and needle-wise. Across the street a bonfire blazed, and the ruddy light threw a mellow rose over their strained faces.
"I love you," he said simply. "That is what drew me here, that is what has always drawn me here. But say nothing to me, Betty. God knows I am not strong enough to suffer two defeats in one night. God bless you and make you happy!"
He turned and took a few steps toward the door.
"If it were not defeat ... if it were victory?" she said, in a kind of whisper, her hands tense on the back of her chair.
The senator came in about midnight. He found his daughter asleep in a chair before a half-dead fire. There was a tender smile on her lips. He touched her gently.
"It is you, daddy?" Her glance traveled from his florid countenance to the clock. "Mercy! I have been dreaming these two hours."
"What do you suppose Carrington did to-night?"—lighting a cigar.
"What did he do?"
"Came into the club and congratulated Williard publicly."
"He did that?" cried the girl, her cheeks dyeing exquisitely.
"Did it like a man, too." The senator dropped into a chair. "It was a great victory, my girl."
Betty smiled. "Yes, it was."