II
Three days of floundering through the mud between Lumalitas andRosewater exhausted Gwynne's patience, and he engaged a furnished suiteof rooms on Main Street, moved in his law library, Imura KisaburoHinomoto, and several easy-chairs, invested in a red wall-paper for hissitting-room, and was immediately so comfortable, and so relieved to berid of his dripping sighing trees and flooded valley, that he was almosthappy. As he looked down from his window upon the slope of the streetcrowded with muddy wagons and men in oil-skins and high rubber boots, herecalled the ironical picture Isabel had drawn, that memorable night atCapheaton, of his own future appearance; and as he could not ride out toOld Inn in any other garb, an excess of vanity deterred him from goingat all. To be sure he could drive out in a closed surrey, but he wouldhave felt equally ridiculous, and Isabel, beyond doubt, would scorn him.Better let her think him indifferent for a while; it might do her good.He could save himself from discourtesy by telephoning occasionally, and,for the matter of that, the less he thought of her at present thebetter.
For the first time he came intimately in contact with the men ofRosewater: "leading citizens" too busy to call upon him at Lumalitas, orto sit down in their places of business for a chat during the day, andtoo well trained to ask strangers home for dinner, were any hospitableinstincts left in them. But they soon discovered that his rooms werevery comfortable and inviting, his whiskey and tobacco "above par." Thehomeless citizens of Rosewater, while their wives wrangled at bridge orfive-hundred, fell into the habit of "dropping in at Gwynne's," insteadof going to the Lodge or the dingy back room of some saloon or lawyer'soffice. They were at liberty to take off their coats and put their feeton the railing surrounding the large iron stove that sat well out intothe room. There were even spittoons for such as clung to the oldtradition; and in a short time the large newly built, almost luxuriousroom took on somewhat of the character of that forum of an older time,the corner grocery. Judge Leslie seldom honored these assemblies, as hewas tired at night and rejoiced in a comfortable home; nor did TomColton, whose domestic virtues were pronounced; but Mr. Wheaton came,and Mr. Haight, Mr. Boutts, and other solid business men old enough tobe Gwynne's father; and they were all deeply interested in Rosewaterfirst, State politics second, and national affairs once in four years;or oftener if there was any pyrotechnical departure from routine.European politics interested them not at all, and if they had anysuspicion of Gwynne's real status, they were too accustomed to mindingtheir own business to take any liberties with his reserve.
But they were fully alive to the importance of his addition to thecommunity. He was a large landholder, selling many small farms toacceptable persons; he spent money freely, buying everything he neededfor his household and farm in Rosewater, instead of sending to the city;he was studying law with a view to practising in their midst; and nowthat Judge Leslie--who proclaimed him a marvel--was threatening toretire, his keen and cautious fellow-citizens needed nothing more than aman of first-class legal ability to take care of their great and variedinterests and defend them against the corporation bogie. They foundthemselves hinting that he should engage in politics as well, when hisprobationary years were over.
When Gwynne shrugged his shoulders one night and remarked bluntly thathe had no desire to work with either of the California machines, andwould unquestionably come a howling cropper if he worked against either,Mr. Wheaton answered with the nimbleness of a mind already made up, thathe could be sent to Sacramento on an independent ticket--manipulated bythe honest men of Rosewater--to fight such of the frauds and tyranniesas the State was suffering acutely from at the moment. During reformspasms the machines were practically powerless, and with the brilliantabilities he would be able to display as soon as he entered public life,and backed by a powerful influence, he could win his way to higherthings before the wave subsided. They wanted a senator in Washington whowas for his State first and himself next, even more than they wanted alawyer; and for that matter he could serve their anti-corporationinterests better there than here. Meanwhile he would have manyopportunities to speak and show the stuff that was in him, draw convertsto himself with his fiery eloquence and hard practicality, inculcate thedesire for better things, and the necessity for reducing the influenceof the army of petty professional politicians to a minimum, make ofhimself so central and inspiriting a figure that when his time came thebest element of both parties throughout the State would form anindependent body under his leadership.
This was an alluring picture, but if Mr. Wheaton, who had had as littleto do with politics as possible, was a bit of a dreamer, there was noquestion that his dreams were shared by more practical men at thepresent moment than for many years past; and that his theories weresound, however formidable the alert, resourceful, enormously capitalizedarmy which stood between them and execution. His idol was AbrahamLincoln, and in consequence he "banked" on the good in human nature as afactor, which, in sudden recrudescences of indignant energy,accomplished revolutions of far greater moment than the overthrowing ofpolitical machines.
Mr. Wheaton had launched forth upon one particularly stormy night whenhe happened to be Gwynne's only guest. The host, not to be outdone, wassitting with his feet on the railing of the stove, but as far from thespittoon as possible. He had listened to the long monologue, whichinvolved a sketch of Lincoln's varied career, with more attention thanmight have been inferred from his half-closed eyes, and his pipe hadgone out. It was only recently that any of his neighbors, barring JudgeLeslie and Tom Colton, who shared his secret, had definitely proposed apolitical career to him, in other words divined his abilities andambitions. But Mr. Wheaton had once been young and adventurous himself,and much if not all of his success in life was due to his shrewddivination of human nature. No man could drive a harder bargain than"Wash" Wheaton (he was named for the father of his country), but he hadnever been wanting in a vein of humorous sympathy, nor in a faircapacity for friendship as well as enmity.
He raised his eyes from the coals and looked directly at Gwynne, who wasrelighting his pipe.
"I don't like Tom Colton," he said, abruptly. "And it's not so muchbecause he is the son of that old skinflint, neither. He is a little toomuch the product of the times--a sort of polished up descendant of thathoodlum element that terrorized San Francisco in the Seventies. Hestarted out as a mere or'nary politician, but the Democratic Boss tookhim up and his ambitions are growing. What with the money he has andwill inherit, and the devilish gall of him, he can play a deep game, andhis chances of winning look a little too fair to suit a good many of us.He's nothing better than an anarchist, and without the excuse of thecommon anarchist--who, at the worst--or his own best--risks his life.Tom Colton and men of his stamp wouldn't risk the skin of their littlefingers. All they do is to build a red-hot fire under the politicalcaldron, stir it up with a big stick until it doesn't know where it isat or what it is made of, and then float into power on the steam. Thishas been one of the rottenest States in the Union for a good many years,and no wonder such men as Tom think they can about do as they please;but a good many are getting pretty damned tired of it, and there's asort of reform mutter going on here and there that will gather and swellif skilfully manipulated. We've been talking you over, and haveconcluded to back you up for all we are worth as soon as you areready--that is to say we would but for one drawback--your friendshipwith Colton."
"If you choose to call it that. I have told him in as plain English ashe will ever hear what I think of his politics, and that if I ever enterpublic life myself I shall devote my energies to running him and hislike out of it. He is too good-natured and too sure of himself--and hisState!--to mind. Moreover, he has four years the start of me. It ispossible that I shall go to Sacramento with, and even speak for, him;but he understands perfectly that I am only after experience, willadvocate nothing I disapprove of--he actually has certain reforms in hispolitical basket, and whatever may be his intention to compromise whenhe reaches Sacramento, I, at least, can advocate them in all sincerity;and furth
er open the eyes of all these people to what they ought to wantand to have. All this is perfectly understood between us. I, and thehonest public clamoring for its rights, do not weigh a feather in thescale, in his opinion, against the might of organization."
"Very good. I suspicioned something of the sort. He can't corrupt you,and you couldn't get a better insight into corruption than through him;so fire away. What's your program, anyhow?"
"It's too soon to make one--be sure that I am willing to return yourconfidence with my own"--as the sharp china-blue eyes oppositecontracted; "but I can do little now except win the confidence of thefarmers in this district and of men like yourself. But if a reform partydoes achieve power, if only for a term, the first thing for it to do isto overhaul the ballot system. Before we reformed ours we were as deepin the mire as yourselves. When the American voter is under thesupervision of an honest judiciary, a general system of local reformswill follow as a matter of course."
Mr. Wheaton sighed. "You would have to begin with the judiciary. If youreformed them, and had any strength left, and then reformed the ballotin the manner of your own country, I guess you'd get about anything youwanted. But you'll need a tidal reform wave, I'm afraid. However, younever can tell what one year will bring forth in this country. On theother hand, the results of certain reforms, fought and died for, havedone as much to make us pessimists as any of the immovable abuses. Takethe question of Civil Service Reform, for instance. In the old days whenyou wanted to induce a man to give you the benefit of his abilities andinfluence during an election, you held out hopes of preferment, and hetook your word if he knew your word was good, and worked with a decentsort of ambition--all things being relative. What happens now? Few findanything promising or attractive in the competitive examination. You aska man--the professional politician he is now, sure enough--to help youget your candidate, or yourself, in, and what happens? The gentlemancoolly demands, 'How much?' and holds out his hand. You fill it or heturns his back and walks off. There is just that much less of good leftto appeal to in this particular brand of human nature. Ours is a muchmore complicated civilization than yours, Mr. Gwynne. You were dealingwith Britishers only, in 1832. We are trying to digest the riffraff ofthe world, and can't do it, in spite of such incorrigible optimists asJudge Leslie. Immigrants in the first generation have just about as muchfeeling for the American flag as a chicken has for Rosewater. They lookupon vote-selling as a legitimate way of improving their fortunes, andthey are the easy prey of such agitators as Colton, because they hadnothing in their own countries, and want the earth in this. Of coursetheir children go to the public schools, and become Americans, but wealways have the problem of fresh hordes to deal with. And new andold--it is easy to plant the weevil in their brains that the rich havecorralled all the money, and the laborer--even in California, where hegets the highest wages paid on this earth--is a miserable victim, andentitled to all he doesn't make. They never remember that nearly everycapitalist in the country has risen from their own ranks, and that theirdreams are mainly occupied with doing the same. But you might as welltalk to the trade-winds, especially with such men as Tom Colton stirringthe caldron. 'Get rich quick; and selling votes is as good a starter asany.' There you have the moral sickness of the country in a nutshell.And few professions pay better than that of the politician. The pettiestdivision leader, who does the Boss's dirtiest work, and has fewerredeeming virtues than the midnight burglar, makes such a good thing outof it that the prettiest Salvation Army lass couldn't convince him ofthe error of his ways. And he enjoys himself. To hang around saloons,prize-fights, help out shyster lawyers with their tricks, and play thegame hard during election times--that satisfies him until he sees achance of stepping into a bigger pair of boots of the same make. But,thank God, there are more honest men out of politics than in. That isthe trouble, but there they are, and it will be a part of your businessto round them up. Well, I guess I've held forth long enough. I'll sendyou round a few volumes from my Lincoln library to-morrow. I always goto it when I lose my faith in human nature. Good-night."
And he gathered up his long legs and went out.
* * * * *
In his many talks with his friends in San Francisco, Gwynne had receivedpractically the same suggestions. The lawyer who advised this group inits necessarily intermittent campaign against the San Franciscopoliticians was one of the ablest in the United States. He had offeredGwynne a place in his office, a 'courtesy partnership,' when he wasready to move to the city. But Gwynne deliberately remained undecidedfor the present, although half inclined to practise in the country forsome years. If he could not have the inestimable education of the olddays, when lawyers jogged about the country with the circuit judges formonths at a time, he could at least get into close contact with theplain people in a manner that in a city would be practically impossible.Until the rains began, and after his definite understanding with Colton,he had, during his hours of exercise, formed the habit of "dropping in"upon the small farmers of his political district, under pretence ofasking their advice; gauging and sowing. Upon the men that had boughtland of him he was able to bestow many small favors, and his oldexperience with the tenantry of Capheaton gave him an instinctiveknowledge of their wants that added to the sum of his popularity. To hisinferiors he had never shown the arrogance of his nature, and hewelcomed these small toilers as a substitute for his old tenants; for hehad missed the poor that kept the sympathies quick--and, perhaps, gavericher shadows to life.
His long lank American figure and slight resemblance to Hiram Otis, whohad been an institution if not a favorite, his readiness to stand drinksto his farmer acquaintances, and others, whom he happened to meet inMain Street, the approachableness he had cultivated with some effort,combined with the subtle suggestion that he would not permit a liberty;a characteristic that every true man respects; his reputation for being"dead straight," and his insistence upon receiving his just dues--"allthat was coming to him"--in spite of the easy terms he made with severalto whom he sold land; all this, in addition to the dignity of being thelargest rancher in the county, and a law partner of Judge Leslie, hadquickly made him a marked as well as a popular figure. Even his accentwas unnoted in that State of many accents.
He had thought out for himself all that Mr. Wheaton had suggested, andif he still had his moments of depression and disgust, and even ofrevolt, much of his old confidence was returning; although he sometimesreflected, with a sort of whimsical bitterness, upon the difficulty ofsustaining an impression of innate greatness unaided by an occasionaldemonstration. But he had, at least, learned to see people merely ashuman beings without taking their shells into account; and he alsorealized that in those storms of spirit, which, at the time, he haddeprecated as ebullitions from a too mercurial nature, he had developedmore rapidly and precisely than many a man does by the exteriorcatastrophe. And impersonally his admiration for the land of one set offorefathers grew, although personally he remained cold. But hecultivated all sorts and conditions of men, and hopefully trainedhimself for the enthusiastic moment.
There were even times when, surrounded by his Rosewater friends, withtheir lapses into quaint American speech and their intense localism, theold Otis blood stirred in him very strongly; he caught himself usingphrases and figures that no doubt were an inheritance with his braincells. When the walls and furnishings of his room were obscured bysmoke, and there were half a dozen pairs of boots against his stove, itwas not difficult to fancy himself back in the old corner grocery on awinter's night: his companions drinking apple cider, instead of ryewhiskey, and the orator of the moment sitting, by preference, on abarrel, and munching crackers.
In San Francisco, which he visited twice a week on his return fromBerkeley, when alone in the long sloping streets swept with thewind-driven rain, when the gutters roared and the houses looked asdeserted as their huddled beaten gardens, stories Isabel had told him ofthe days of the Argonauts rose like ghosts in his brain, and he wouldsuddenly experience an overwhelm
ing sensation of being at home. Hismother promptly dispelled these visions.
On the whole his time was too fully occupied to leave him more thanstray moments for the subtler mood; but as day after day, finally weekafter week passed, with no prospect of fair weather, the monotony andconfinement affected his nerves, he tired of the unrelievedcompanionship of men, and wished that Isabel would move in to Rosewaterfor the winter months. He rang her up, when this brilliant idea occurredto him, but was informed by Chuma that she was not in the house. On thefollowing day he telephoned again, and learned that she slept, on thethird that she was engaged in the delicate operation of extracting somedeleterious substance from the crop of a valuable hen. Whereupon heswore vigorously, and vowed that he would forget her until the skiescleared. But "the skies they were ashen and sober," and he caughthimself dreaming over his "Torts," or during one of Mr. Boutts'secstatic visions of Rosewater with a great hotel in the style of the oldMissions, and an electric railway. (Mr. Boutts, by-the-way, neverelevated his feet to the railing of the stove, but always sat on theedge of his chair, a hand on either knee.) He took the train impulsivelyto San Francisco, one afternoon, and talked of reinforced concrete withhis contractor, and San Francisco politics with Hofer. He even calledupon several young ladies, who interested him less than ever, andreturned to Rosewater at the end of four days with a sense of dutiesneglected and a slip in his self-mastery. This put him in such a badhumor that he directed his Asiatic to refuse him to the members of hisinformal Club, and wished he were back in San Francisco doing the townwith Stone.