CHAPTER I
THE STATEMENT OF THE CASE
There is a certain circle so well-to-do that it is occupied chiefly inguarding its property and maintaining its exclusiveness. There is a cityso small, politically, that it is buttoned in one man's pocket. Thesecond of these is the direct consequence of the first. Leading familieslead little except the cotillion, parvenus crowd in, and things are doneat which no gentleman will soil his gloves.
In the course of time, such a community might develop a strong activeclass and a superb set of figureheads, if only the two sorts would leteach other alone. But the one will envy and the other sneer; the onewill long for ornament and the other will meddle. A desire to sparklemeets the desire to appear to do, or at times encounters the genuinelonging to do. Dirty hands will wish to be clean; clean hands must havea little honest dirt.
The city of Stirling lies in New England; it is one among those whichlook to Boston for supplies and to New York for fashions. Its historygoes back to colonial times: hence those beautiful estates in theresidential section and the air of pride in the scions of the oldfamilies. These said scions collect much rent and control muchwater-power, yet an inquirer imbued with the modern spirit might askthem to give an account of themselves. Their forefathers settled thecountry, fought in the Revolution, and helped to build the nation andthe State, but now people whisper of degeneration. In the old citymodern men have risen to power, control the franchises, manage the localgovernment, and are large in the public eye.
Or perhaps it is more accurate to say that one man does this. Ellis thepromoter, Stephen F. Ellis, has grown from nothing to everything, hasconsolidated businesses, mastered the city affairs, holds all the reins,pulls all the wires. The reform politicians have never harmed him. Thefashionable people, according to their wont, for years have avoidedpublicity and let things go. The man among them who, in a generation,alone has ventured into the field of thoroughly modern enterprise, hasfailed signally, though most gallantly, and in the prime of his youthstands amid the ruins of a career. The very honour which was hisinheritance brought him low.
He had been a contrast to Ellis in the openness of his methods and therapidity of his success. To organise all the street-railways of hiscity, to force his personality upon the stockholders of three lines, andto weld the old clumsy systems into one efficient whole--that was GeorgeMather's achievement. To be head and shoulders above all others of hisyears as the street-railway president, yes, and as the man in whom thereform politicians built their best hopes--that was his pride, and hisclass was proud of him. But his strength was his weakness, for he usedno trickery and he kept his word. Therefore by a business strokeundertaken against him in the face of an agreement, a method not soanalogous to a stab in the back as to the adroit administering of poisonin a loving-cup, Mather was upon a certain spring morning, at a certainstock-holders' meeting, by a small but neat majority voted out ofoffice, and stood robbed of the best fruits of his labours.
Those who saw him that afternoon upon the golf-course marvelled as heplayed his match with the precision of a machine. Had the man no nerves?But though thus he proved--to others, not to himself--that he could bearmisfortune without flinching, it was with unspeakable relief that atlast he slipped away into an empty corner of the club-house, whence hecould hear only the buzz of the Saturday crowd on the grounds outside.The tension of the last few hours relaxed suddenly, and now that he wasfreed from the gaze of others he gave way almost to despair.
The silver cup which he had won he tossed upon the table, and droppinghis clubs upon the floor he threw himself into a chair. Beaten! To havestood so high in the little city, to fall so suddenly, and to lose somuch! True, he had made money; he had gained the support of the rich menof his class, who had assured him that they would wait their chance toset him again in his place. But it was Ellis who had seized that place:when had Ellis ever given up anything which he had gained? Yet it wasnot Mather's fall, nor the hurt to his pride, nor even the loss of thechance to carry out his plans, which shook him most, but the danger tostill dearer hopes. And the young man, almost groaning, dropped his headupon his breast.
A girl entered the room suddenly, and stood startled at the sight ofhim, but she was not heard. She wished to withdraw, yet feared to rousehim, and his deep frown fascinated her. Staring downward, scowling withhis thoughts, his face had at first expressed anger, but now showedpain. Judith, too, he was thinking--had she changed to him? When hehurried to her after this morning's meeting, so soon as he could freehimself from his friends, already she had heard the news. She had notlet him speak with her alone, but though she must have known his wishshe kept her father in the room. If with her ambitions she feltdisappointed in him, if she rejected him--well, he could bear even that!The girl who was watching saw his expression change to determination,and then suddenly he roused himself. No one should find him brooding. Ashe raised his eyes from the carpet she turned to escape, but he saw herand sprang to his feet.
"Judith!" She stopped; perceiving her desire he added: "Don't let mekeep you."
Then she came to him directly. "I thought you were outdoors. Every onewas congratulating you; the club has never seen such golf. It wassplendid!"
He smiled, indifferent to the praise, and picking up the cup from thetable, looked at it carelessly. "Only for that."
"And Jim Wayne would give his head for it," she said.
Disdainfully, he shifted the cup into his palm, and with a single effortcrushed it out of shape. "See," and he meant to personify himself, "itis only silver; it lacks strength."
"Ah," she answered, "don't be bitter. Come, forget the street-railroad,forget you ever were its president, forget everything except yourfriends."
"Judith," he returned with meaning, "can _you_ forget what I have lost?"
She drew back, flushing. "George!"
"Oh," he cried, "I know I am rude! But to-day when I came to see you,you knew what had happened to me. If ever I needed comfort it was then,and you knew it. There was only one consolation that would help me, andyou knew that, but you denied me. Judith, have I lost my chance withyou?"
She flushed, as if conscience drove home a rebuke. "I did not mean to beunkind." But then she looked about uneasily, at the door at her back,and at the curtains which shut off the adjoining room. "I--I think Imust go."
"No," he protested. "Let us have it out; no one is near. Give me mysentence, Judith. You know I've loved you for years. It was for you Ibuilt up the railroad; you are the impelling cause of all my work. Thiswinter I thought I had pleased you. Is there any hope for me?"
He spoke without a tremor of the voice, but he clenched his hands as hewaited for her answer, and his eyes were eager. Before them she droppedher own. "Not now," she answered.
"Tell me," he asked almost gently, "why you have changed."
She stood silent, with her eyes still downcast, but her mouth grewharder.
"No, don't explain," he said quickly. "I understand. I understood when Ileft your house to-day. Judith, don't you know that I have learned toread you? This morning I was beaten, and you require of a man that heshall succeed."
Her eyes flashed up at him. "Well," she demanded, "and if I do? Can I bedifferent from what I am?"
"We make ourselves," he replied.
Her defiance was brief, and she asked earnestly: "Why have you let meplague you so? Choose again, some softer woman."
"My choice is fixed," he answered simply.
"Then at least," she said, "we will remain friends?"
His face cleared, and he smiled. "So far as you permit."
"But without enthusiasm," she reproached him.
"Ah, Judith," he answered, "you know you don't require it."
"And we won't speak of this again?" she asked.
"Just these last words," he said. "Remember that this defeat is not theend of me; I shall yet give an account of myself." She saw how resolutewere his eyes, but then his look again became gentle as he added: "Andthis, too. The world fascinates you
. But Judith, it is very big, andstrong, and merciless!"
Was it not a beaten man who spoke? She answered, "I do not fear it," andstudied him to find his meaning.
But with a steadiness which allowed no further show of feeling hereplied: "If ever you do, then turn to me."
They finished without words of parting; she quitted him abruptly, hetook up the caddy-bag and stuffed the ruined cup in among the clubs.Though she paused an instant at the door, there was nothing more to besaid. Regretfully he watched her go: bright, fearless, and inquisitiveas she was, where was her nature leading her? He knew her restlessenergy, and at the moment feared for her more than for himself.
As for her, he had pricked her deeply by his warning. The world wouldnever be too much for her. Let it be however big and strong, she admiredit, must learn about it! She would never cry for mercy. The thought didnot cross her mind that he knew the world better than she, that althoughdefeated he was more its master. At twenty-three one is confident.
And as for his charge that she thought less of him, she told herselfthat it was not his disaster that separated them. Rather it was thequality which the disaster had but emphasised in him--theself-confidence, real or counterfeit, with which he had always assumedthat he could go his own way in making a home in which to take care ofher. How he mistook her! She did not ask for safety from the world; itwas the key to her whole character that she wished to be more than amere comfort to a man. Should she ever accept a husband, she must be anactive rather than a passive element in his strength, counselling,inspiring, almost leading him. Between herself and Mather there was anunremitting conflict of will. She left the club-house, and went out uponthe lawn with her cheeks a little redder than usual, her black eyebrighter, her head held still more high.
Men came instantly about her--young men eager to please. But with herthoughts still busy, she measured them and found them lacking; they hadnever done anything--they had not yet arrived. The most masterly of themall she had left in the club-house, and he, after climbing to highplace, had fallen. Was it possible that the only men of power were olderstill? Then she progressed to a still more searching question. Couldthis vapid and ambitionless assembly produce real men?