The Old, Old Story
The trial which followed was perhaps the most exciting event in the history of Roma. The indictment of Mann involved that of eight others, all more or less prominent in city politics; and when the facts became known with regards to Mann's connection with all the events narrated by Fitzgerald, the citizens were unanimous in demanding his punishment.
Although the documental evidence in the city hall had all been destroyed or secreted, there were plenty of witnesses ready to testify to what they knew, as soon as they felt safe in doing so; and although the stenographer's notes and Mary Snow's record of what took place while she was secreted in the closet during Vickery's proposals of graft to the mayor were not to be found, Mary's testimony was admitted. Gertrude Van Deusen and Newton Fitzgerald were the chief witnesses, however, and there were few of Mann's minions brave enough to stand by him in this emergency. The trial was not long, the jury was out fifteen minutes and the verdict was "guilty."
When the judge pronounced the penalty, "Ten years in state's prison and the restitution of every dollar you have taken from or through the city," Mann collapsed from the red-faced, pompous official, into the pitiable wretch; and there were few to say a good word for him when court adjourned and the people gathered in knots to talk over the trial. The judge's sentence for the rest of the grafters—from one to ten years' imprisonment and complete restitution—met with hearty approval; and from that day municipal grafting suddenly declined in Roma, and honest politics began to be recognized.
Vickery was heard from soon after in Japan, but the chief offenders having been convicted, there was no further interest in bringing him—an outsider and a tool—to justice. The Boulevard Railway scheme was never heard of more.
As soon as the trial was fairly over and the delinquents safely lodged in jail, the Mayor called a meeting of the remaining councilmen. There were six vacancies—that number of Roma's aldermen being behind the bars of justice; and their places had to be filled.
"How shall this be done?" she asked of them, after calling the meeting to order and stating its object. "The city charter provides for the filling of vacancies by the mayor; but the fathers who framed this charter could never have dreamed of this wholesale demand. I place it before you. Shall we select the best men for the places ourselves—for I should not dream of appointing any without suggestions from you—or shall we call a special election, and let these aldermen be chosen by the people for the unexpired term?"
There were good arguments on both sides, and every man spoke his mind—for once, without fear or favor. At last Geoffrey Mason made the decisive speech:
"We have come to the crisis of our municipal history. We have rid our local government of some of the worst demagogues with which any city ever was cursed; consequently, it is most important that we fill their places with men of wide views, unusual intelligence and absolute fearlessness. We are not sure of what the voters may do if an election be called just now; but we are reasonably sure that we can pick out six men who will help make our system of government a model of its kind instead of a reproach and a by-word. Let us make our own selections—or, rather, help our mayor to make hers—and show this town what can be done with an honest and sane council, every man of whom has at heart the framing of a model municipality and the development of an ideal city. To this end, I move that the mayor, assisted by the entire council, shall fill the vacancies in our board."
This motion was carried without further debate, and some of the best and most public-spirited men in Roma were put into the vacant places. At last Gertrude had a city council which was in full sympathy with her, and ready to further every good project she had under consideration.
At the first meeting of the completed council, they voted to adopt the new ordinance which was to provide for open bids on all contracts, to be signed by the mayor in the presence of his council; and also to pass others vital to the best interests of the city. It would be impossible, when they should have finished remodeling their city charter, for City Hall to be again the temple of the money-changers.
"We are going to experience a spasm of virtue now that will astonish the world," said Armstrong, as he sat at lunch with Allingham at the Union Club next day. "Let's hope it will swing the whole length of the pendulum from the point where it started last January. You must confess, the experiment of putting in a woman for mayor has been rather a successful one, on the whole."
"I do," answered Allingham. "I'll admit it freely. But then, Gertrude Van Deusen is an exceptional woman."
"One of the greatest," said Bailey.
"Shall I offer my congratulations now?" asked Allingham, after a slight pause.
"How did you hear?" said Bailey, quickly. "Who told you?"
"I've seen it all along," answered Allingham. "No one has told me. Yes, she's a fine woman—the noblest I ever saw."
"Mary?—yes," said Bailey. "As fine as Gertrude, every bit."
"What?" gasped the other; "Mary Snow?"
"Why, yes, man," retorted Bailey. "What's the matter with you? Of course it's Mary Snow."
"Not Gertrude—Miss Van Deusen?" said Allingham, in strained tones.
"Well, for one who is so sharp as to 'see it all along,' I must say you're a little off the mark," answered Bailey. "I've been engaged to Mary Snow ever since the night we found them in the flat, but she's determined not to have it announced until her time is up at City Hall. Gertrude?—yes, she's pure gold. I thought once I loved her, but she was wiser than I. Mary is the only woman in the world for me." Then, seeing the look on his friend's face, he exclaimed:
"See here, Jack, what's the matter? I never dreamed it."
"Do you believe, Bailey, I stand any show? I confess I"—Allingham stopped; he could not talk about it, even to Armstrong in this hour of confidence.
"'A woman-mayor? In Roma? I'm afraid it wouldn't do!'" quoted Bailey, teasingly.
"O, quit," answered Allingham. "That was before I knew her—knew anything."
"'A woman's place is at home with her husband,'" Bailey went on with a wicked glee.
"And that's where I would put her!" retorted Allingham, with spirit. "At least, I'd give her the chance."
"Go in, my boy," said Bailey, reaching out his hand to grasp his friend's, "I don't know how she feels—she's not easily won, I know; but try it. Go in and win."
That afternoon the opportunity presented itself. Allingham walked home with the Mayor. She usually drove home, but the clear, cool air of the closing autumn day, coming after long hours in office, had tempted her to test her pedestrian powers, and she had left City Hall alone. Allingham, however, appeared at the gates and asked permission to join her.
"If you care for a brisk walk of two miles," she answered, genially. "Or even if you give out and desert me on the road, you may begin. O, how good it is to shake off the dust of City Hall and take a bit of good, healthful exercise. Walking is the best way I know to keep the cobwebs from your mental sky, or to restore your tired nerves and overworked brain to normal condition."
"I walk five or six miles every morning," answered Allingham. "I believe it's the way God meant human beings to get over the ground."
"Yes," she added. "Mother Nature invented walking, while man invented carriages and cars and motors. How are Blatchley and Watts getting on with—but there, I chose to walk just to get away from the cares of office; and here I am bringing them along with me. Let's be just a boy and girl walking home from school together," she added, whimsically.
"Or man and woman walking through life together," he amended quickly.
She did not answer. The crises of her life did not usually find her so unprepared. They walked a little way in silence; then he spoke again.
"I love you, I want you. Won't you walk with me 'still farther on?'"
They had come to a shaded walk across a little bridge, and by a common impulse they lingered a little here. While she waited, a sudden vision came before her eyes—and her heart, which had been in a tumult at his first words, grew calm and cold. She saw, not the impassioned, tender man on the bridge, speaking in low, musical tones of love and devotion and his need of her; but the strong, self-sufficient, young chairman in his office of the Municipal League—the man who had seemed to her to have the least comprehension of the complex modern woman of anyone she had ever met.
"No, no," she said, drawing away from hm. "You do not know what you are saying. It cannot be."
"I know that our lives can never be complete while they run apart," he answered from the depths of his emotion. "I know that you need me as much as I need you—and because we are meant for each other: because God made us for each other."
"You do not know what you are saying," she replied, moving on briskly in the direction of home. "You happen to be drawn towards me now—by force of propinquity, perhaps; or because you were good enough to worry about me during my exile—"
"As though I could help it," he cried; "O, God, those days and nights of uncertainty!"
"But when you go home and think this over, you will thank me," she went on. "We are not fitted for each other. We are not meant for each other. I am what you call an advanced woman—your women-folks go farther and call me strong-minded. I have been brought up that way, and all my associations in life have developed that spirit within me. You have always looked upon women as inferior beings—Oh, yes, you have. You, too, were brought up that way. Even now you would tell me I am an exceptional woman—if I let you."
"You are," interrupted Allingham. "By Heaven, you are."
"But if I were to marry you," she pursued, still talking to the young man she had seen that morning a year ago in the Municipal League rooms, "you would soon resent my attitude towards life; you would want to restrict my life, to surround me with invisible limitations, such as you believe all femininity should be hedged with. I couldn't endure it. I never had to, and I couldn't submit to being estimated every day and in the intimacy of home life—according to the old-fashioned standards that narrow a woman's heart and mind until they hold nothing but pettiness and smallness and meanness of spirit. Because I couldn't, I should make you the most unhappy of men."
"But, Gertrude, hear me," he pleaded. "The past year has been a revelation. You have been a revelation to me."
"Yes, I," she retorted. "Not the eternal principles of manhood and womanhood, walking together—different and yet alike—only I—"
"I swear to you," he cried, "I have come to see that a woman may be all womanly and yet be as much a power and a worker in the world as her husband; that her place is where she can be of the greatest help to humanity."
"No," said Gertrude firmly, for his expression as he spoke the last sentence, was that of the man who had scorned the proposition of a woman for mayor—"no; we are radically opposed to each other. We are not just a boy and girl who might grow together in spite of all differences. We are a man and woman of strong opinions, just as unlike as possible. We should quarrel fearfully; and life is given us for something better than bickering and growing to hate each other. No, I say—no."
"Perhaps I'd better leave you here," said Allingham, coldly, when she stopped. And raising his hat, he turned down a side street. Somehow the charm of the long walk had fled and Gertrude hurried her steps, too, taking the shortest route to Van Deusen Hall. But when she was safely sheltered by the four walls of her own room, the strong-willed mayor of Roma threw herself on the bed and indulged in a good cry. For deep down in her heart, she knew she had done wrong—a wrong to the man who loved her—a wrong to her own better nature.
Later she went down to her dinner and faced the world again, cool and dignified; and no one could have dreamed that under her smiling exterior she was hiding a heartache.