In three weeks, the head of the agency reported to Allan with immense satisfaction. Allan had immediately gone to see the senior senator from Pennsylvania, a good and devoted friend of the deWitts, an intelligent, able, and conservative man who owed his election to the family.
Then Allan had asked Patrick Peale to see him privately, and at once, on a matter of the most extreme seriousness. Patrick, who was at home, agreed in spite of some disdainful hesitation, and asked Allan to come to his secluded office. The senior Peale, now the Secretary of State, was in Washington, and there would be no interference. Patrick was much annoyed, and taken aback, when Allan arrived with the senior senator, a Mr. Horace Thornton.
Allan had come to the point at once. “Mr. Thornton has come with me because he is disturbed by the amendment to the act regulating the railroads that you propose to submit during the next session.”
Patrick had raised polite eyebrows and had bowed to his senior. “I am sorry,” he said, “but I intend to do what I believe is right.”
“The amendment will be laughed out of the Senate,” said Mr. Thornton. “You know that, Patrick.”
“Possibly it will,” returned the younger man, frowning. “It is very revolutionary, and, candidly, I do not believe it will be adopted. However, the people will be fully informed through the papers of what we have in mind, if not immediately, then for the future. Public sentiment, especially among the workers, will be aroused. And public sentiment, at first nebulous, can become later an irresistible force.”
“True,” said Allan, looking at Patrick with fierce eyes. “And that is why you are not going to propose this demented amendment.”
Patrick gave Allan a faint, aristocratic smile. “Who is going to prevent me?” he asked.
“You are.”
The two young men looked at each other in a sudden and vibrating silence. Then Patrick laughed a little, gently. “Are you going to attempt to bribe me, Allan?” His voice was disbelieving, and even contained a trace of the pity which men who believe they are superior reserve for those whom they are convinced are inferior.
“Bribe you?” Allan had shown all his teeth in a genuine smile. “I wouldn’t dream of it. I am just going to present certain facts to you which might force your resignation from the Senate, and which will make every word you say quoted with ridicule and contempt in the newspapers. It is only regard for the family, and for your wife, who is the niece of Mr. deWitt, which prevents me from giving all my facts to the newspapers now without offering you an opportunity to withdraw your amendment voluntarily, and keep silent about it forever after.” He added, “I’m being generous. Don’t press my generosity too far, Pat.”
Patrick Peale became deadly white. Anger flared into his eyes, then increased to rage. His first impulse was to order Allan out of his office. But normal human curiosity, and something like dread, halted him.
“Are you trying to blackmail me?” he demanded, incredulous. “And if so, with what? There is nothing in my life. …”
“That is true,” Allan conceded quietly.
“Then, you can do nothing,” said Patrick with another faint smile. His color was returning. He glanced at his senior colleague courteously, ignoring Allan. “I am sorry, sir, that you are so strongly opposed to my amendment, but I cannot help that.”
Senator Thornton sighed. “I, too, am sorry, Pat. And for you. I think you are dangerous—please forgive me. However, I feel it my duty, in my sworn capacity as a defender of the Constitution, to warn you that should you continue on your disastrous path I shall bring up—certain matters. … I loathe the idea; I sicken at it. But sometimes a man must use a dirty sword to protect his country.”
“I do not understand.” Patrick’s voice was stifled. His new color was fading again. “My amendment—what do you mean, “warn’ me?—a ‘dirty sword’?”
“We are not here to debate your amendment with you,” said Allan. “You wouldn’t be moved by any argument; you are too much of a fool. You are, in your way, even an evil man. But that’s too subtle for you.” He smiled at Senator Thornton, who looked momentarily confused. “An intangible, sir, and a very vital one.” He returned to Patrick. “It is true, as I admitted, that there is nothing in your life which could disgrace or ruin you. But there is in your father’s life—your father, the Secretary of State, and held in national esteem. I understand you have a great attachment to your father.”
Patrick half-rose in his chair, and now his face was a blaze of wrath and powerful repudiation. “How dare you speak of my father! You! What has my father to do with this?”
He was outraged and aghast, and Allan understood why with answering rage. These fastidious and expensively educated idealists were all the same, nursing in themselves a secret contempt for the “self-made” man, despising the life-force that had catapulted him from his original low estate because they knew they had no such dynamism, and though they prated of the “majesty of labor and the nobility of toil,” they disdained the vigorous men who had had to acquire position by hard work, and knowledge by sheer determination. Allan had come here with the resolve that nothing would provoke him, but he said now, “You are a whitehanded hypocrite, Peale, a moral snob, a liar who does not know he lies.”
“My dear young men,” said Senator Thornton in dismay, as he saw the violence in the two faces. He said to Allan, “You are unjust to Patrick.”
“No,” said Allan, still staring at the man he hated, “I just detest, and know, his kind. He reaches intellectual conclusions, which never include human imponderables. He’s arrogant, and an egotist, and so he’ll never be reached by anything except something which strikes at him through those qualities.” He leaned toward Patrick, who gazed at him in pale and formidable silence. “I came to use a weapon against you, and I didn’t like the idea. But I do now.”
“State your business and get out,” said Patrick in a constricted voice.
Allan leaned back in his chair and took his time lighting a cigarette. “I’m going to refresh your memory. Two years ago an undersecretary at the French Embassy shot and killed his wife, then committed suicide. She was a pretty woman, Madam Giroud. Perhaps you met her.”
“I did.” Patrick shifted, and his mouth was carved contemptuously beneath his sharp nose. “No one ever knew why it happened.”
“I do,” said Allan. “I think the matter was dismissed, as the French say, as a crime passionnel. It was. But the other man in the triangle was never discovered. Until three weeks ago.”
Patrick laughed slightly. He picked up a pen and played with it. His brown eyes rested on Allan as they might have rested on a servant who was being insolent. “Well? Should I be interested?”
“You should. He was your father.”
Patrick did not speak. The pen fell from his fingers, rolled a little, then dropped to the floor. It made a small click in the silence. All the life was leaving Patrick’s face; slowly, it was becoming deathlike. His jaw bone, sharp under the flesh, gleamed white.
Allan, watching him and speaking musingly, said, “Your father—he is about sixty, isn’t he? And Madame Giroud was only thirty, her husband thirty-eight. A very attractive and amiable pair, and popular. Washington was shocked. So was Paris. It was quite a scandal, nationwide, for they were the favorites of the President, who entertained them frequently.” He laid a thick packet on the desk near Patrick’s stiffened hand. “Newspaper clippings, from all over the country. Some as recent as three months ago, commenting on the ‘mystery.’ It isn’t a mystery any longer, at least to the three of us in this room. The Secretary of State—and the Girouds.”
“Slander,” whispered Patrick.
“Not slander. The truth.” Allan laid a thinner packet on top of the other. “I have had it all thoroughly investigated. You might take these papers to your father, and ask him, yourself.”
“You are trying to destroy my father, who gave you your first opportunity.” Patrick was still whispering.
“I don’t want to hurt Mr. Pe
ale, and I don’t intend to. It’s in your hands. Just in those hands of yours, there. If I give the matter to the press, it is you who will have forced me to do so.”
“Lies,” said Patrick, and with an uncontrollable gesture he pushed the packets to the floor. “You are a liar.”
Allan’s mouth tightened. “I think not.”
“If you dare—I know the law—you will be arrested.” Patrick was having obvious difficulty in breathing.
Mr. Thornton spoke reluctantly. “Then you’ll have to swear out a warrant for me, too, Pat. If you force Allan to act, I’ll have to mention it to the senators. It’s a moral obligation. After all, I voted to confirm your father’s nomination as Secretary of State.”
The white Puritan! thought Allan. But Puritans are proud and jealous of honor. If he were a normally ambitious man, a realistic and expedient man, he would tell me to get the hell out of here, and his father be damned or take the consequences of his own acts. But personal honor is another matter.
Allan stood up. “I suggest you take this information and show it to your father. In Washington. I’ll give you four days. After that, it’ll be too late, no matter what your decision is.”
“Merciless devil,” said Patrick.
“On the contrary, I’m merciful. I haven’t given out the news to the papers. Whether or not I do rests entirely on your own decision.”
Mr. Thornton got wearily to his feet, and he was full of pity for the stricken young senator. “Believe me, it’s all true, Patrick. I’m sorry you had to know. And it may seem strange to you, but Allan is acting on principle, and not on mere selfinterest as the son-in-law of Rufus deWitt.”
“Principle,” repeated Patrick, with sick emphasis.
“Yes,” said Allan. “Principle. The upholding of a system of government which protects all Americans from men like you. But you’ll never understand that. It’s beyond your ability.”
Patrick left for Washington that night. Two nights later the Portersville papers had black and excited headlines. The Secretary of State, Mr. Peale, had suffered a sudden stroke, which had paralyzed his right side. His son had been with him when the calamity had occurred, and when Mr. Peale was able to travel his son would bring him home. Young Mrs. Peale had left for her Washington house to be with her husband.
Allan had received a telegram from Patrick. “I have withdrawn the amendment.”
“What was it that you used as a lever?” Rufus had asked his son-in-law avidly. “I love a scandal, what else is scandal for?”
But Allan never told anyone. He knew he could trust Mr. Thornton. He was honestly disturbed about Mr. Peale, whom he had respected and whom he had liked. He hated Patrick, now, with an implacable hatred. The cursed Pharisee must have given the old man a very bad time.
At midnight, Cornelia, with a minimum of pain, gave birth to a boy and a girl, as she had prophesied. They were thin and pretty children, with hair like silver, and with large blue eyes. Cornelia had yelped boisterously when she had seen them. “Changelings!” she had cried, pretending to reject them. “They look like my sister,” Lydia said. “And like my little Ruthie.” “But where is my red hair, and Allan’s eyes?” Cornelia had jocosely demanded. She had actually sat up to stare with amusement at the babies. The first kiss she had received was not from Allan, but from her father, who radiated pleasure and warmth like the sun. He was proud and delighted, and was unwilling to move aside either for his daughter’s mother or for her husband.
He said, “My boy. My girl. I am going to deposit one million dollars tomorrow to their personal account. One million dollars!”
Estelle came in on time to hear this joyous announcement. She had given Rufus two sons, yet he had done nothing for them like this.
“And a million dollars’ worth of stock for me,” Cornelia said with complacence. “After all, it was I who gave these rascals to you.” She added, “Really, Papa, the nurses have to take them away now.”
Dr. Schwartz was rewarded with a staggering fee and much emotion from Mr. deWitt. It was not for two hours that Allan was remembered by his father-in-law.
In due time the babies were christened in the church where their parents had been married, and by the minister who had married them. The girl was called Dolores, the boy, Rufus Anthony Marshall. Newspapers all over the country gave a prominent place to the arrival of the new heirs to the deWitt fortune and position. Allan’s parents gave no sign. But Michael wrote to his brother: “Let me quote a letter written by Fra Giovanni in 1513: ‘I salute you. I am your friend, and my love for you goes deep. There is nothing I can give you which you have not got; but there is much, very much, that while I cannot give it, you can take. No heaven can come to us unless our hearts find rest in today—No peace lies in the future which is not hidden in this precious little instant. Take peace!’”
35
Though Allan had had some idea of the vast interlocking management of a great railway company, he realized, as the years passed, that his original conception had been very restricted and narrow. Each railroad was an empire, complete in itself. There was the president, the treasurer, and the secretary (now himself, in 1895). Below these personages was the board of directors, elected by the stockholders at annual meetings. There were seemingly endless departments, interlocking yet independent, each under the charge of a vice-president. The operating department was headed by a vice-president and general manager, to whom were entrusted the maintenance of ways, structures, and equipment, the operation of yards, trains, and stations. The traffic department was directed by a vice-president and traffic manager, empowered to fix rates and solicit traffic. Allan remained the head of the legal department, which furnished advice to the officers of the board, the president, and all other officers of all other departments, dealt with the regulatory authority, instituted any legal proceedings, and handled claims against the company. A vicepresident headed the department of accounting and finance, assisted by one or two general auditors, and a treasurer. This department had full control of funds and made disbursements drawn by authorized officers and approved by comptrollers. Purchasing agents, storekeepers, general managers, comptrollers, chief engineers, assigned to construction and the formulation of standards and instructions governing maintenance of way and structures, were part of the beehive which created the golden combs of the company, not to mention vice-presidents in charge of personnel, an executive in charge of public relations and the study of the views of changing politicians.
These men were the hierarchy. But the Interstate Railroad Company, like its sister railroads, was divided into districts, for operating purposes, and each district was partitioned into divisions. So there were general superintendents and division superintendents, division engineers, division master mechanics, trainmasters, station agents, and yardmasters.
This tremendous structure was almost self-operating, and needed Rufus deWitt’s attention only occasionally, for authority was delegated and assigned only to the most competent men. However, as head of the constantly expanding legal staff, Allan, as secretary, was the keeper of the corporate records, and attended meetings of the board and the annual meetings of the company. Grimly conscientious as he was in matters of business, it was hard for him to delegate responsibility, and his natural mistrust of the intelligence and integrity of others prevented him from enjoying the lighter aspects of personal living. Though never underestimating the perspicacity and power of Rufus deWitt, it seemed to him that his father-in-law was sometimes unduly casual about the empire he controlled, and he often found it hard to arouse Rufus to any anxiety or alarm.
“But, my dear boy,” Rufus would sometimes say with indulgence, “we have a veritable kingdom here, run by princes and nobles and lesser men. I can’t keep my finger on every damned yardmaster and little lawyer or vice-president or chief engineer or general manager. When my father started out, with about two dozen men, and when I was a boy, things were simpler. You could be everywhere at once. Everything was under your eye and your hand.
It is different now.” He would twinkle at Allan. “Suppose, for instance, I examined every little voucher for whistles or bells. Suppose, for instance, I scrutinized every small decision by our immense legal staff, and consulted with you on every item? You see how absure it all is! Important decisions? We have important men handling them. When it comes, however, to major matters, I am right there, as president of the board. Are you trying to kill yourself, by any chance?”
In 1894 Allan had a collapse, and was ill for three months. He was ordered to Europe for a long rest and “complete relaxation.” He went—for six weeks. When he returned, Rufus noted that he appeared to have gained “Some sense.” He drove himself, as always, but he had become more indifferent to details. This determined attitude was, in itself, a strain on his temperament. “You are only a man,” Rufus said affectionately. “You will notice that the railroad did not disintegrate during your absence, and that while some of the more important legal matters awaited your return, the country did not fall apart while they waited.”
“An organism without a head will sometimes decay,” Allan replied.
“But not a hydra-headed organism, each complete and self-operating. Remember that every man we have is working solely for his own advantage, and in doing so he is working expertly for the company. That is the unassailable structure of free enterprise, and that is why privately owned industries will always be run efficiently, and as economically as possible. Each man working as best he can for himself inadvertently works best for all other men. Self-interest leads to universal improvement. This is the most irrefutable argument against those idealists and irresponsibles who declare that men should be, and can be, induced to ignore their own immediate interests in favor of what they call ‘the welfare of everybody.’ The profit motive, the self-interest motive, has given us what civilization we possess. Man must always have inspiration to accomplish anything, and if he has no rewards he will have no inspiration. And that brings us, as usual, to Pat Peale. You will notice that though he is a member of the board he does not usually challenge anything which would challenge his own fortune.”