"Well, if he persisted against the new law, it would be a pretty hard position for any fair person to defend," admitted the young man.
"I think we may depend on it that this young person, admittedly 'fair'—at my age I can be allowed to bestow that compliment—will respect your integrity. I do not command you to do the service—I cannot do that. But I shall be disappointed if you allow personal reasons to interfere with your public duties. I have depended on you to do it. I have only a few that I can trust."
At that instant, in the presence of this man who had sacrificed so much,
Harlan felt that his own interests were too petty for consideration.
He put the document into his pocket.
"Forgive me for hesitating, Governor Waymouth. I'm afraid I'll never make a very good public servant. But I'll try to hold my eyes straight ahead after this."
"Keep the paper in your pocket. Think it all over. You're at the place every man reaches. What you want to do and what you ought to do split very sharply sometimes. I'll let you decide. I have no more to say."
Harlan walked back to the hotel, trying to adjust himself to this new phase of the question. Once more he had been called upon to lead the charge of the forlorn hope. He had not the same thrill of zealous loyalty as before. He was a little hurt because the Governor had made the affairs of his heart of so small importance. An old man's austerity could not understand, perhaps, but nevertheless Harlan felt that he was entitled to some consideration. He had not acquired an old man's calm poise—he was not entirely willing to put politics ahead of everything else, now that he found there were so many other things in life. Was it not true that the mass preferred to pay court to high ideals in the abstract, and bitterly resented any attempt by sincere individuals to enforce the actual? He understood rather vaguely that he would be applauded by the radicals—he had met their leaders and did not like them—he would get the applause the mob gives to "a well-meaning fellow," but more than all he would be sneered at behind his back as "a crank trying to reorganize human nature," and therefore to be shunned. He had been mingling intimately with the chief men of the State; he knew what kind of comment they had for others. Most of all, he knew that the mild applause of the mob would not be loud enough to drown out those familiar voices nearest him—he had heard those voices many times before: there was his grandfather, there was Luke Presson, there were the political associates with whom he had already begun to train on the basis of compromise.
There was Luke Presson's daughter!
He strode into the lobby of the hotel, his face gloomy and his thoughts dark. Linton stepped forward to meet him, hat and overcoat on. It was evident that he had been waiting. The sight of him did not improve Harlan's temper. From the first day of the session they had eyed each other malevolently. They had bristled at every possible point of contact. Linton's last exploit had been a speech favoring the railroad tax rebate, a speech in which he scored those who opposed it as enemies to the development of the State. The fervor of his eloquence had made even Harlan Thornton doubt, sourly, whether a constitution that was framed before the exigencies of progress were dreamed of should be too rigidly construed. That was still another point where he and his grandfather disagreed, and the cogent speech of Linton had been the cause of further dispute between them. The Duke was disgusted because his grandson could be so scrupulous that he could not be progressive. For Harlan the straight path of rectitude was fringed with signs set there by friends, every sign inscribed "Fool." From the first, Linton had seemed to aggravate his difficulties, politically and personally.
"Can you give me a few minutes of your time?" he asked, stiffly.