“Spirits of old that bore me,
And set me, meek of mind,
Between great deeds before me,
And deeds as great behind,
Knowing Humanity my star
As forth of old I ride,
O help me wear with every scar
Honor at eventide.”
THE REBEL DISCOVERS THAT ADHESION IS A PROPERTY OF MUD; ALSO THAT A SOLDIER MUST SOMETIMES TURN HIS BACK AND BURN THE BRIDGES BEHIND HIM
The fight for the control of the state developed unprecedented bitterness. The big financial interests back of the political machines poured out money like water to elect a ticket that would be friendly to capital. An eight-hour-day bill to apply to miners and underground workers had been passed by the last legislature and a supreme court must be elected to declare this law unconstitutional. Moreover, a United States senator was to be chosen, so that the personnel of the assembly was a matter of great importance.
Through the subsidized columns of the Advocate and the Herald all the venom of outraged public plunder was emptied on the heads of Jeff Farnum and Captain Chunn. They were rebels, blackmailers, and anarchists. Jeff's life was held up to public scorn as dissolute and licentious. He had been expelled from college and consorted only with companions of the lowest sort. A free thinker and an atheist, he wanted to tear down the pillars which upheld society. Unless Verden and the state repudiated him and his gang of trouble breeders the poison of their opinions would infect the healthy fabric of the community.
There was about Jeff a humility, a sort of careless generosity, that could take with a laugh a hit at himself. But in the days that followed he was often made to wince when good men drew away from him as from a moral pervert. Twice he was hissed from the stage when he attempted to talk, or would have been, if he had not quietly waited until the indignant protesters were exhausted. It amused him to see that his old college acquaintance “Sissie” Thomas and Billy Gray, the ballot box stuffer of the Second Ward, were among the most vehement of those who thus scorned him. So do the extremes of virtue and vice find common ground when the blasphemer raises his voice against intrenched capital.
The personal calumny of the enemy showed how hard hit the big bosses were, how beneath their feet they felt the ground of public opinion shift. It had been only a year since Big Tim O'Brien, boss of the city by permission of the public utility corporations, had read Jeff's first editorial against ballot box stuffing. In it the editor of the World had pledged that paper never to give up the fight for the people until such crookedness was stamped out. Big Tim had laughed until his paunch shook at the confidence of this young upstart and in impudent defiance had sent him a check for fifty dollars for the Honest Election League.
Neither Big Tim nor the respectable buccaneers back of him were laughing now. They were fighting with every ounce in them to sweep back the wave of civic indignation the World had gathered into a compact aggressive organization.
Young Ned Merrill, who represented the interests of the allied corporations, had Big Tim on the carpet. The young man had not been out of Harvard more than three years, but he did not let any nonsense about fair play stand in his way. In spite of the clean-cut look of him—he was broadshouldered and tall, with an effect of decision in the square cleft chin that would some day degenerate into fatness—Ned Merrill played the game of business without any compunctions.
“You're making a bad fight of it, O'Brien. Old style methods won't win for us. These crank reformers have got the people stirred up. Keep your ward workers busy, but don't expect them to win.” He leaned forward and brought his fist down heavily on the desk. “We've got to smash Farnum—discredit him with the bunch of sheep who are following him.”
“What more do youse want? We're callin' him ivery black name under Hiven.”
Merrill shook his head decisively. “Not enough. Prove something. Catch him with the goods.”
“If youse'll show me how?”
“I don't care how, You've got detectives, haven't you? Find out all about him, where he comes from, who his people were. Rake his life with a fine tooth comb from the day he was born. He's a bad egg. We all know that. Dig up facts to prove it.”
Within the hour detectives were set to work. One of them left next day for Shelby. Another covered the neighborhoods where Jeff had lived in Verden. Henceforth wherever he went he was shadowed.
It was about this time that Samuel Miller lost his place in the city library on account of his political opinions. For more than a year he and Jeff had roomed together at a private boarding house kept by a Mrs. Anderson. Within twenty-four hours of his dismissal Miller was on the road, sent out by the campaign committee of his party to make speeches throughout the state.
Jeff himself was speaking nearly every night now that the day of election was drawing near. This, together with the work of editing the paper and the strain of the battle, told heavily on a vitality never too much above par. He would come back to his rooms fagged out, often dejected because some friend had deserted to the enemy.
One cold rainy evening he met Nellie Anderson in the hall. She had been saying good-bye to some friends who had been in to call on her.
“You're wet, Mr. Farnum,” the young woman said.
“A little.”
She stood hesitating in the doorway leading to the apartment of herself and her mother, then yielded shyly to a kindly impulse.
“We've been making chocolate. Won't you come in and have some? You look cold.”
Jeff glimpsed beyond her the warm grate fire in the room. He, too, yielded to an impulse. “Since you're so good as to ask me, Miss Nellie.”
She took charge of his hat and overcoat, making him sit down in a big armchair before the fire. He watched her curiously as she moved lightly about waiting on him. Nellie was a soft round little person with constant intimations of a childhood not long outgrown. Jeff judged she must be nineteen or twenty, but she had moments of being charmingly unsure of herself. The warm color came and went in her clear cheeks at the least provocation.
“Mother's gone to bed. She always goes early. You don't mind,” she asked naively.
Jeff smiled. She was, he thought, about as worldly wise as a fluffy kitten. “No, I don't mind at all,” he assured her.
Nor did he in the least. His weariness was of the spirit rather than the body, and he found her grace, her shy sweetness, grateful to the jaded senses. It counted in her favor that she was not clever or ultra-modern. The dimpling smiles, the quick sympathy of this innocent, sensuous young creature, drew him out of his depression. When he left the pleasant warmth of the room half an hour later it was with a little glow at the heart. He had found comfort and refreshment.
How it came to pass Jeff never quite understood, but it soon was almost a custom for him to drop into the living room to get a cup of chocolate when he came home. He found himself looking forward to that half hour alone with Nellie Anderson. Whoever else criticized him, she did not. The manner in which she made herself necessary to his material comfort was masterly. She would be waiting, eager to help him off with his overcoat, hot chocolate and sandwiches ready for him in the cozy living-room. To him, who for years had lived a hand-to-mouth boarding house existence, her shy wholesome laughter made that room sing of home, one which her personality fitted to a dot. She was always in good humor, always trim and neat, always alluring to the eye. And she had the pretty little domestic ways that go to the head of a bachelor when he eats alone with an attractive girl.
Their intimacy was not exactly a secret. Mrs. Anderson, who was rather deaf and admitted to being a heavy sleeper, knew that Jeff dropped in occasionally. He suspected she did not know how regularly, but she was one of that large class of American mothers who let their daughters arrange their own love affairs and would not have interfered had she known.
Once or twice it flashed upon Jeff that this ought not to go on. Since he had no intention of marrying Nell he must not let their relationship reach the emotional climax toward which he guessed it was racing. But his experience in such matters was limited. He did not know how to break off their friendship without hurting her, and he was eager to minimize the possibility of danger. His modesty made this last easy. Out of her kindness she was good to him, but it was not to be expected that so pretty a girl would fall in love with a man like him.
The most potent argument for letting things drift was his own craving for her. She was becoming necessary to him. Whenever he thought of her it was with a tender glow. Her soft long-lashed eyes would come between him and the editorial he was writing. A dozen times a day he could see a picture of the tilted little coaxing mouth. The gurgle of her laughter called to him for hours before he left the office.
He got into the habit of talking to her about the things that were troubling him—the tactics of the enemy, the desertion of friends, the dubious issue of the campaign. Curled up in a big chair, her whole attention absorbed in what he was saying Nellie made a good listener. If she did not show a full understanding of the situation, he could always sense her ready sympathy. Her naive, indignant loyalty was touching.
“I read what the Advocate said about you today,” she told him one night, a tide of color in her cheeks. “It was horrid. As if anybody would believe it.”
“I'm afraid a good many people do,” he said gravely.
“Nobody who knows you,” she protested stoutly.
“Yes, some who know me.”
He let his eyes dwell on her. It was easy to see how undisciplined of life she was, save where its material aspects had come into impact with her on the economic side.
“None of your real friends.”
“How many real friends has a man—friends who will stand by him no matter how unpopular he is?”
“I don't know. I should think you'd have lots of them.”
He shook his head, a hint of a smile in his eyes. “Not many. They keep their chocolate and sandwiches for folks whose trolley do'esn't fly the wire.”
“What wire?” she asked, her forehead knitted to a question.
“Oh, the wire that's over the tracks of respectability and vested interests and special privilege.”
She had been looking at him, but now her gaze went to the fire with that slow tilt of the chin he liked. Another color wave swept the oval of the soft cheeks.
“You've got more friends than you think,” she said in a low voice.
“I've got one little friend I wouldn't like to lose.”
She did not speak and his hand moved forward to cover hers. Instantly a wild and insurgent emotion tingled through him. He felt himself trembling and could not steady his nerves.
Without a word Nellie looked up and their eyes met. Something electric flashed from one to another. Her shy fear of him was adorable.
“Oh, don't, don't!” she murmured. “What will you think of me now?”
He had leaned forward and kissed her on the lips.
Jeff sprang to his feet, the muscles in his lean cheeks standing out. Some bell of warning was ringing in him. He was a man, young and desirous, subject to all the frailties of his sex, holding experiences in his past that had left him far from a puritan. And she was a woman, of unschooled impulses, with unsuspected banked passions, an innocent creature in whom primeval physical life rioted.
He moved toward the door, his left fist beating into the palm of his right hand. He must protect her, against himself—and against her innocent affection for him.
She fluttered past him, barring the way. Her cheeks were flaming with shame.
“You despise me. Why did I let you?” A sob swelled up into her soft round throat.
“You blessed lamb,” he groaned.
“You're going to leave me. You—you don't want me for a friend any longer.”
Her lips trembled—the red little lips that always reminded him of a baby's with its Cupid's bow. She was on the verge of breaking down. Jeff could not stand that. He held out his hands, intending to take hers and explain that he was not angry or disappointed at her. But somehow he found her in his arms instead, supple and warm, vital youth flowing in the soft cheeks' rich coloring and in the eyes quick and passionate with the tender abandon of her sex.
He set his teeth against the rush of desire that flooded him as her soft body clung to his. The emotional climax he had vaguely feared had leaped upon them like an uncaged tiger. He fought to stamp down the fires that blazed up in him. Time to think—he must have time to think.
“You don't despise me then,” she cried softly, a little catch in her breath.
“No,” he protested, and again “No.”
“But you think I've done wrong.”
“No. I've been to blame. You're a dear girl—and I've abused your kindness. I must go away—now.”
“Then you—you do hate me,” she accused with a quivering lip.
“No... no. I'm very fond of you.”
“But you're going to leave me. It's because I've done wrong.”
“Don't blame yourself, dear. It has been all my fault. I ought to have known.”
Her hands fell from him. The life seemed to die out of her whole figure. “You do despise me.”
Desire of her throbbed through him, but he spoke very quietly. “Listen, dear. There is nobody I respect more... and none I like so much. I can't tell you how... fond of you I am. But I must go now. You don't understand.”
She bit her lip to repress the sobs that would come and turned away to hide her shame. Jeff caught her in his arms, kissed her passionately on the lips, the eyes, the soft round throat.
“You do... like me,” she purred happily.
Abruptly he pushed her from him. Where were they drifting? He must get his anchors down before it was too late.
Somehow he broke away, leaving her there hurt and bewildered at his apparent fickleness, at the stiffness with which he had beaten back the sweet delight inviting them.
Jeff went to his rooms, his mind in a blind chaotic surge. He sat before the table for hours, fighting grimly to persuade himself he need not put away this joy that had come to him. Surely friendship was a good thing... and love. A man ought not to turn his back on them.
It was long past midnight when he rose, took his father's sword from the wall where it hung, and unsheathed it. A vision of an open fireplace in a log house rose before him, his father in the foreground looking like a picture of Stonewall Jackson. The kind brave eyes that were the soul of honor gazed at him.
“You damned scoundrel! You damned scoundrel!” Jeff accused himself in a low voice.
He knew his little friend was good and innocent, but he knew too she had inherited a temperament that made her very innocence a anger to her. Every instinct of chivalry called upon him to protect her from the weakness she did not even guess. She had given him her kindness and her friendship, the dear child! It was up to him to be worthy of them. If he failed her he would be a creature forever lost to decency.
There was a sob in his throat as Jeff pushed the blade back into the worn scabbard and rehung the sword upon the wall. But the eyes in his lifted face were very bright. He too would keep his sword unstained and the flag of honor flying.
All through the next day and the next his resolution held. He took pains not to see her alone, though there was not an hour of the day when he could get away from the thought of her. The uneasy consciousness was with him that the issue was after all only postponed, that decisions of this kind must be made again and again so long as opportunity and desire go together. And there were moments of reaction when his will was like a rope of sand, when the longing for her swept over him like a great wave.
As Jeff slipped quietly into the hall the door of her room opened. Their eyes met, and presently hers fell. She was troubled and ashamed at what she had done, but plainly eager in her innocence to be forgiven.
Jeff spoke gently. “Nellie.”
Her eyes suddenly filled with tears. “Aren't we ever going to be friends again?”
Through the open door he could see the fire glowing in the grate and the chocolate set on the little table. He knew she had prepared for his coming and how greatly she would be hurt if he rejected her advances.
“Of course we're friends.”
“Then you'll come in, just for a few minutes.”
He hesitated.
“Please,” she whispered. “Or I'll know you don't like me any more.”
Jeff followed her into the room and closed the door behind him.
Two days before the election Big Tim's detective wired from Shelby, Tennessee, the outline of a story that got two front page columns in both the Advocate and the Herald. Jefferson Davis Farnum was the son of a thief, of a rebel soldier who had spent seven years in the penitentiary for looting the bank of which he was cashier. In addition to featuring the news story both papers handled the subject at length in their editorial columns. They wanted to know whether the people of this beautiful state were willing to hand over the Commonwealth to be plundered by the reckless gang of which this son of a criminal was the head.
The paper reached Jeff at his rooms in the morning. He had lately taken the apartments formerly occupied by his cousin, James moving to Mrs. Anderson's until after the election. The exchange had been made at the suggestion of the editor, who gave as a reason that he wanted to be close to his work until the winter was past. It happened that James was just now very glad to get a cheaper place. He was very short of funds and until after the election had no time for social functions. All he needed with a room was to sleep in it.
Jeff was still reading the story from Shelby when his cousin came in hurriedly. James was excited and very white.
“My God, Jeff! It's come at last. I knew it would ruin me some day,” the lawyer cried, after he had carefully closed the door of the bedroom.
“It won't ruin you, James. Your name isn't mentioned yet. Perhaps it may not be. It can't hurt you, even if it is.”
“I tell you it will ruin me both socially and politically. Once it gets out nobody will trust me. I'll be the son of a thief,” James insisted wildly.
“You're the son of a man who made a slip and has paid for it,” answered Jeff steadily. “Don't let your ideas get warped. This town is full of men who have done wrong and haven't paid for it.”
“That's one of your fool socialist theories.” James spoke sharply and irritably. “No man's guilty till the law says so. They haven't been in the penitentiary. He has. That's what damns me if it gets out.”
Jeff laid a hand affectionately on his cousin's shoulder. “Don't you believe it for a moment. There's no moral distinction between the man who has paid and the man who hasn't paid for his sins toward society. There is good and there is bad in all of us, closely intertwined, knit together into the very warp and woof of our lives. We're all good and we're all bad.”
It was with James a purely personal equation. He could not forget its relation to himself.
“My name is to be voted on at the University Club next month. I'll be blackballed to a dead certainty,” he said miserably.
“Probably, if the story gets out. It's tough, I know.” Jeff's eyes gleamed angrily. “And why should they? You're just as good a man to-day as you were yesterday. But there's nothing so fettering, so despicable as good form. It blights. Let a man bow down to the dead hand of custom and he can never again be true to what he thinks and knows. His judgment gets warped. Soon Madame Grundy does his thinking for him, along well-grooved lines.”
“Oh, well! That's just talk. What am I to do?” James broke out nervously.
“I know what I would do in your case.”
“What?”
“Come out with a short statement telling the exact facts. I'd make no apologies or long explanation. Just the plain story as simply as you can.”
“Well, I'll not,” the lawyer broke out. “Easy enough for you to say what I ought to do. Look at who my friends are—the Fromes and the Merrills and the Gilmans. Best set in town. I strained a point when I broke loose from them to take up this progressive fight. They'd cut me dead if a story like this came out.”
“I daresay. Communities are loaded to the guards with respectable cowards. But if you stand on your own feet like a man they'll think more of you for it. Most of them will be glad to know you again inside of five years. For you're going to be successful, and people like the Merrills and the Gilmans bow down to success.”
The lawyer shook his head doggedly. “I'm not going to tell a thing I don't have to tell. That's settled.” He hesitated a moment before he went on. “I've got a reason why I want to stand well with the Fromes, Jeff. I'm not in a position to risk anything.”
Jeff waited. He thought he knew that reason.
“I'm going to marry Alice Frome if I can.”
“You've asked her.” Jeff's voice sounded to himself as if it belonged to another man.
“No. Not yet. Ned Merrill's in the running. Strong, too. He's being backed by his father and old P. C. Frome. The idea is to consolidate interests by this marriage. But I've got a fighting chance. She likes me. Since I went into this political fight against her father she's taken pains to show me how friendly she feels. But if this story gets out—I'm smashed. That's all.”
“Go to her. Tell her the truth. She'll stand by you,” his cousin urged.
“You don't understand these people, Jeff. I do. Even if she wanted to stand by me she couldn't. They wouldn't let her. Right now I'm carrying all the handicap I can.”
Jeff walked to the window and stood looking out with his hands in his pockets. The hum of the busy street rose to his ears, but he did not hear it. Nor did he see the motor cars whizzing past, the drays lumbering along, the thronged sidewalks of Powers Avenue. A door that had for years been ajar in his heart had swung to with a crash. The incredible folly of his dream was laid bare to him. Despised, distrusted and disgraced, there was no chance that he might be even a friend to her. She moved in another world, one he could not reach if he would and would not if he could. All that he believed in she had been brought up to disregard. Much that was dear to her he must hammer down so long as there was life in him.
But James—he had fought his way up to her. Why shouldn't he have his chance? Better—far better James than Ned Merrill. He had heard the echoes of a disgraceful story about that young man in his college days, the story of how he had trampled down a working girl for his pleasure. James was clean and honorable... and she loved him. Jeff's mind fastened on that last as a thing assured. Had he not seen her with starry eyes fixed on her hero, held fast as a limed bird? She too was entitled to her chance, and there was a way he could give it to her.
He turned back to James, who was sitting despondently at the managing editor's desk, jabbing at the blotting sheet with a pencil.
Jeff touched the Advocate he still held in his hand. “Did you read this story carefully?”
“No. I just ran my eye down it. Why?”
“Whoever dug it up has made a mistake. He has jumped to the conclusion that I'm Uncle Robert's son. Why not let it go at that?”
His cousin looked up with a flash of eager hope. “You mean—”
“I might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb. Let it go the way they have it.”
The lawyer's heart leaped, but he could not let this go without a protest. “No, I—I couldn't do that. It's awfully good of you, Jeff.”
The managing editor smiled in his whimsical way. “My reputation has long been in tatters. A little more can't hurt it.”
James conceded a reflective assent with a manner of impartiality. “Of course your friends wouldn't think any the less of you. They're not so—so—”
“respectable as yours,” Jeff finished for him.
“I was going to say so hidebound.”
“All the same, isn't it?”
“But it would be a sacrifice for you. I recognize that. And I'm not sure that I could accept it. I will have to think that over,” the lawyer concluded magnanimously.
“You'll find it is best. But I think I would tell Miss Frome, even if I didn't tell anybody else. She has a right to know.”
“You may depend upon me to do whatever is best about that.”
James was hardly out of the office before Captain Chunn blew in like a small tornado. He was boiling with rage.
“What's this infernal lie about you being the son of a convict, David?” he demanded, waving a copy of the Herald.
“Sit down, Captain. I'll tell you the story because you're entitled to it. But I shall have to speak in confidence.”
“Confidence! Dad burn it, what are you talking about? Are you trying to tell me that Phil Farnum was a thief and a convict?”
Jeff's steel-blue eyes looked straight into his. “Nothing so impossible as that, Captain. I'm going to tell you the story of his brother.”
Jeff told it, but he and the owner of the World disagreed radically about the best way to answer the attack.
“Why must you always stand between that kid glove cousin of yours and trouble? Let him stand the gaff himself. It will do him good,” Chunn stormed.
But Jeff had his way. The World made no denial of the facts charged. In a statement on the front page that covered less than three sticks he told the simple story of the defalcation of Robert Farnum. One thing only he added to the account given in the opposition papers. This was that during the past two years the shortage of the bank cashier had been paid in full to the Planters' First National at Shelby.
There were many forecasts as to what the effect of the Farnum story would be on the election returns. It is enough to say that the ticket supported by the World was chosen by a small majority. James was elected to the legislature by a plurality of fifteen hundred votes over his antagonist, a majority unheard of in the Eleventh District.
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