“To shift discussion,” said Morton lightly, “a discussion that would seem academic rather than practical, and coming to the City and what you call its appetites, let me suggest this: Much of that trouble of which you speak arises by faults of politics as the latter science is practiced by the parties. Take yourself and our silent friend.” Here Morton indicated me: “Take the two parties you represent. Neither was ever known to propose an onward step. Each of you has for his sole issue the villainies of the other fellow; the whole of your cry is the iniquity of the opposition; it is really! I'll give both of you this for a warning. The future is to see the man who, leaving a past to bury a. past, will cry 'Public Ownership!' or some equally engaging slogan. Gad! old chap, with that, the rabble will follow him as the rats followed the pied piper of Hamelin. The moralist and the grafter will both be left, don't y' know!” Morton here returned into that vapidity from which, for the moment, he had shaken himself free. “Gad!” he concluded, “you will never know what a passion to own things gnaws at your peasant in his blouse and wooden shoes until some prophetic beggar shouts 'Public Ownership!' you won't, really!”
“Sticking to what you term the practical,” said the Reverend Bronson, “tell me wherein our reform administration has weakened itself.”
“As I've observed,” responded Morton, “you pick out a law and make a pet of it, to the neglect of criminal matters more important. It is your fad—your vanity of party, to do this. Also, it is your heel of Achilles, and through it will come your death-blow.” Then, as if weary of the serious, Morton went off at a lively tangent: “Someone—a very good person, too, I think, although I've mislaid his name—observed: 'Oh, that mine enemy would write a book!' Now I should make it: 'Oh, that mine enemy would own a fad!' Given a fellow's fad, I've got him. Once upon a time, when I had a measure of great railway moment—really! one of those measures of black-flag millions, don't y' know!—pending before the legislature at Albany, I ran into a gentleman whose name was De Vallier. Most surprising creature, this De Vallier! Disgustingly honest, too; but above all, as proud as a Spanish Hidalgo of his name. Said his ancestors were nobles of France under the Grand Monarch, and that sort of thing. Gad! it was his fad—this name! And the bitterness wherewith he opposed my measure was positively shameful. Really, if the floor of the Assembly—the chap was in the Assembly, don't y' know—were left unguarded for a moment, De Vallier would occupy it, and call everybody but himself a venal rogue of bribes. There was never anything more shocking!
“But I hit upon an expedient. If I could but touch his fad—if I might but reach that name of De Vallier, I would have him on the hip. So with that, don't y' know, I had a bill introduced to change the fellow's name to Dummeldinger. I did, 'pon my honor! The Assembly adopted it gladly. The Senate was about to do the same, when the horrified De Vallier threw himself at my feet. He would die if he were called Dummeldinger!
“The poor fellow's grief affected me very much; my sympathies are easily excited—they are, really! And Dummeldinger was such a beastly name! I couldn't withstand De Vallier's pleadings. I caused the bill changing his name to be withdrawn, and in the fervor of his gratitude, De Vallier voted for that railway measure. It was my kindness that won him; in his relief to escape 'Dummeldinger,' De Vallier was ready to die for me.”
It was evening, and in the younger hours I had pulled my chair before the blaze, and was thinking on Apple Cheek, and how I would give the last I owned of money and power to have her by me. This was no uncommon train; I've seen few days since she died that did not fill my memory with her image.
Outside raged a threshing storm of snow that was like a threat for bitterness, and it made the sticks in the fireplace snap and sparkle in a kind of stout defiance, as though inviting it to do its worst.
In the next room were Anne and Blossom, and with them young Van Flange. I could hear the murmur of their voices, and at intervals a little laugh from him.
An hour went by; the door between opened, and young Van Flange, halting a bit with hesitation that was not without charm, stepped into my presence. He spoke with grace and courage, however, when once he was launched, and told me his love and asked for Blossom. Then my girl came, and pressed her face to mine. Anne, too, was there, like a blessing and a hope.
They were married:—my girl and young Van Flange. Morton came to my aid; and I must confess that it was he, with young Van Flange, who helped us to bridesmaids and ushers, and what others belong with weddings in their carrying out. I had none upon whom I might call when now I needed wares of such fine sort; while Blossom, for her part, living her frightened life of seclusion, was as devoid of acquaintances or friends among the fashionables as any abbess might have been.