Cowperwood’s eyes glowed like a large, genial collie’s. There was a suggestion of sympathetic appeal in them, rich and deep, and, even more than that, a philosophic perception of ineffable things. Swanson arose. “You really don’t mean to say that you are trying to bribe me openly, do you?” he inquired. In spite of a conventional impulse to burst forth in moralistic denunciation, solemnly phrased, he was compelled for the moment to see the other man’s viewpoint. They were working in different directions, going different ways, to what ultimate end?
“Mr. Cowperwood,” continued the governor, his face a physiognomy out of Goya, his eye alight with a kind of understanding sympathy, “I suppose I ought to resent this, but I can’t. I see your point of view. I’m sorry, but I can’t help you nor myself. My political belief, my ideals, compel me to veto this bill; when I forsake these I am done politically with myself. I may not be elected governor again, but that does not matter, either. I could use your money, but I won’t. I shall have to bid you good morning.”
He moved toward the safe, slowly, opened it, took out the bag and brought it over.
“You must take that with you,” he added.
The two men looked at each other a moment curiously, sadly—the one with a burden of financial, political, and moral worry on his spirit, the other with an unconquerable determination not to be worsted even in defeat.
“Governor,” concluded Cowperwood, in the most genial, contented, undisturbed voice, “you will live to see another legislature pass and another governor sign some such bill. It will not be done this session, apparently, but it will be done. I am not through, because my case is right and fair. Just the same, after you have vetoed the bill, come and see me, and I will loan you that one hundred thousand if you want it.”
Cowperwood went out. Swanson vetoed the bill. It is on record that subsequently he borrowed one hundred thousand dollars from Cowperwood to stay him from ruin.
CHAPTER LVI.
The Ordeal of Berenice
At the news that Swanson had refused to sign the bill and that the legislature lacked sufficient courage to pass it over his veto both Schryhart and Hand literally rubbed their hands in comfortable satisfaction.
“Well, Hosmer,” said Schryhart the next day, when they met at their favorite club—the Union League—“it looks as though we were making some little progress, after all, doesn’t it? Our friend didn’t succeed in turning that little trick, did he?”