Part 7

Where Sayler fell short of greatness was in that near-sightedness which prevented him from seeing the big truths that dominate the horizon of life--such truths as that the high happiness is not of the give-and-take variety but is the capacity for sheer giving. The deep and serene joy of Helm, secure from all surface storms, was the possession of a nature capable of _giving_.

Helm had not accomplished his only object. He had simply convinced Sayler of his value, not in the least of his inflexibility. Sayler prided himself on thorough knowledge of human nature. Convictions were, in his opinion, merely the creatures of circumstances. Change Helm’s circumstances, change his outlook upon the world from the uncomfortable to the comfortable, and he would become a tower of strength for the existing order, for the guardianship of the masses by the upper class--a service for which the masses ought to be glad to pay with part of their only asset, their labor.

At the suburban house he had taken for that legislature session, Sayler put Helm--not into the library; he was too tactful to make such a blunder as to give him the reminiscent surroundings of the previous evening--but into a home-like little smoking-room, next to the billiard room. Then he went in search of Eleanor.

Not often is a man able to gratify so many widely differing tastes as was Sayler by bringing together Helm and Eleanor. It pleased his natural amiability, his sentimentality, his love of mischief, his passion for political scheming, his impatience with the pompous and wearisome pretensions of her father, and several other minor tastes. Perhaps, as he entered the upstairs sitting-room where Eleanor was giving orders to her maid, amiability was uppermost in his mind. Amiability was one of his strongest traits; it is always a strong trait in the characters of politicians, and expands with use and with pretense. Said he when the maid had gone:

“George Helm is down stairs.”

Before she could control herself, she had betrayed herself by looking wildly round to escape.

Sayler ignored and went tranquilly on:

“I told him I was sure you’d be glad to see him. I know what a good judge of character you are. You must have seen what a remarkable man he is--about the strongest I’ve come across, among the younger men. He’ll be nominated for governor next fall--and elected, I suspect. And he’ll go up--and up. _There’s_ the sort of man you ought to marry, Eleanor.”

“I don’t want to marry _anybody_,” cried she with the pettish anger of a child.

Sayler made mental note of this sign of nervous tension, and proceeded:

“You are always saying that a husband who had already arrived would be uninteresting in comparison with one who had the makings of a career in him, and whom the wife could help--could work with, and go up with. Here’s your chance--and as good a one as ever was offered a woman.”

Eleanor was listening--was looking at the wily schemer with wistful eyes. “You’re not joking?” said she.

“I’m disappointed in you,” said Sayler. “You’re not so big or so clever as I fancied. You’re just ordinary woman, after all.”

Eleanor blushed, and her eyes sank.

“I thought you were big enough to see _him_,” proceeded Sayler. “But you saw only what you shallow women are able to see--the fit of his clothes, the absence of a valet, the lessons in manners he has yet to learn and will learn soon enough. You don’t want the man with the career to make. You want the ready-made man. You want to have nothing to do but shine by his light, be his trivial ornament and plaything. Oh, you women!” He laughed with good-humored mockery. “What frauds you are--and how little you count for.”

“I am engaged to him,” said Eleanor quietly--with a look that ludicrously mingled pride and fear and apology.

Sayler shrugged his shoulders. “An impulse you’ve repented,” said he.

“I think I must have been crazy,” said she.

“I think _he_ must have been crazy,” retorted Sayler. “But he has come to his senses. He’s here to release you.”

Eleanor’s eyes flashed.

“He was caught for the moment by your looks,” Sayler went on, with quick raillery. “But he is too intelligent to be ruled by such an impulse. Shallow men are, but not such men as George Helm. They assign women their proper place in the life of a man with something to do in the world and the ability to do it.” Sayler’s raillery veered to a sarcasm none the less stinging for its cloak of politeness and good humor. “_You_ sized _him_ up--and accepted him. As soon as _he_ sized _you_ up--you under the glamor of that charming exterior of yours and that very deceptive cleverness--as soon as he saw _you_, he wanted to release you.”

The girl’s beautiful face, frankly expressing her emotions, gave Sayler the pleasure of delighting in his skill as a player upon that interesting instrument, human nature. A woman--especially a young woman--brought up in the false education custom imposes upon our comfortable classes, rarely has the intelligence clearly to distinguish a formable man in his early formative period. Or, if her woman’s instinct for the real thing in manhood does by chance lead her aright, the courage to act is lacking. Eleanor had seen the man in George Helm--a degree, a kind even, of manliness which she recognized as unique. But she had acted upon, had yielded to only his peculiar, his irresistible physical charm for her. Who, looking at his rough and rugged exterior and hers so fine and delicate, would have suspected the possibility of the existence of such a charm? She would not have admitted to any one--least of all to herself--that the male exterior that best pleased her was not the “polished gentleman,” the flower of culture, but one exactly its opposite--primitive, rough of skin, direct and crude of manner. If Helm had been brutal she would have loathed him. But he was so gentle and tender--and what wonderful eyes, and what a magic voice!

Sayler laughed to himself. Here again was an instance of a phenomenon he amused himself by observing as he strolled through life. Time spent by a man in primping to catch a woman, unless she had been thoroughly vulgarized and snobified, was time wasted. He would better have spent it on training his voice.

Said Eleanor: “Of course I’ll release him. I was going to write him from home. Do you think I’d best see him? Won’t I spare him pain--” She flushed, as Sayler began to smile--“I don’t mean that he especially cares about me. Simply that he’ll be terribly embarrassed.”

“Oh, if you’re _afraid_,” said Sayler, “you can send down some excuse.”

“That would be cowardly,” said Eleanor promptly, “and insulting to him.”

“He’s in the little room off the billiard room,” said Sayler, departing.

Curiously enough, it was not Helm but Eleanor who was embarrassed when they were face to face. Her lips were burning--the lips he had kissed so tenderly yet so passionately. What a strong, simple _man_ of a man! If she had given way to her impulse, she would have burst out crying and flung herself into those long arms of his that had seemed to enfold her against all the ills of life. She could not meet the gentle, sad look those magnetic eyes of his bent upon her.

Said he:

“Miss Clearwater, I’ve come to do what I know you want me to do. I’ve come to release you.”

“Thank you,” she said stammeringly, without looking up.

“I don’t know what possessed me. I took advantage of--of your kindness and liking. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

“I knew you didn’t mean what you said,” murmured she, meaning nothing but simply trying to prevent a painful silence.

“You’re mistaken there, ma’am,” said he. “I spoke from my heart. I love you very dearly. I don’t see how I’m going to get along without you. There’s only one thing in the world that’d be harder.”

She was looking at him now--was looking at his rugged, kind face--the face of a man born to suffer and born to bear without crying out. Such a lonely man--one of those large, simple, lonely souls. Said she:

“I meant what I said too. Just as much as you did. But--I--I--didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“You haven’t hurt me, Miss Clearwater,” protested he earnestly. “You’ve done me only good--given me only happiness. I’ll always remember--last night--and it’ll make me happy. I oughtn’t to have said what I did about your letting me take advantage of your liking. It wasn’t the truth, and I knew it. You are honest and good--and what you did was from the heart.”

“As nothing I ever did before,” said she.

“But you know as well as I do, that the hardest thing of all would be for us to be together. We ain’t in any way suitable to each other. You’re too fine and delicate for me.”

“Please don’t say that sort of thing,” cried she. “It isn’t like you--those snobbish ideas.”

A puzzled expression came into his face. Then he smiled slightly. “You misunderstood,” said he. “I didn’t mean exactly that. I meant that you hadn’t been brought up right--according to my notion. So--you’d be miserable as my wife, and a burden on me. Anyhow, it always seemed to me that I wasn’t made to be a married man. The ladies never seemed to care much about me, and I guess that got me into the way of arranging to get along without them.”

As he stood there, rugged and powerful, his sincere face made tragic by the look of lonely melancholy that was habitual to it in repose, she was so moved that she knew she ought not to trust herself to speak. But she did--and her voice was shaking with sobs as she said:

“I know I’m not worthy of you. I’m so poor that I haven’t anything that you need. I’m only fit for a very inferior sort of man. Oh, how vain and silly I’ve been--to imagine I was worth a man’s while.”

“Now, I didn’t mean _that_--not at all,” cried he. “I don’t know how to talk to women.”

“Indeed you don’t!” retorted she. “You don’t understand them, at all.”

“I see I’ve offended you, Miss Clearwater. I didn’t mean to.”

“_Don’t_ call me Miss Clearwater,” cried she desperately. He had not moved, but she had--unconsciously--drawn much nearer to him--almost within his reach. “And don’t--” with a hysterical little laugh--“_don’t_ call me ma’am.”

He smiled with a kind of grim humor. “I don’t see that it matters what I call you,” said he, “as long as I can’t call you mine.”

She trembled. “Oh, _won’t_ you understand?” cried she. And she looked at him with eyes shining with passion.

He shook his head slowly. “Well--I must be going.” With a sudden change to a look of terrific power. “If I stay here a minute longer, I’ll not be able to keep my hands off you. I love you, Ellen--and it’s stronger than I am.”

“Why should you go?” said she, boldly. Her glowing heart told her it was no time for trifling, for maidenly pretense of coyness. That sort of game was all very well, with men who understood it--and men one didn’t especially care about. But this man didn’t understand it--and he was tremendously worth-while. Plain speaking, or he would be lost forever. She did not see how she was to marry him; but to lose him--that would be frightful. “Why should you go?” she said boldly. “Don’t you want me, George?”

He put his hands behind his back. He grew pale; his eyes seemed deeper set than ever.

“No man ever made me feel, but you,” she went on. “I belong to you. If you cast me off----”

He had her in his arms--not because of what she had said but because he could withstand no longer. “I’ve gone crazy again,” he said, as he kissed her--as she kissed him--“but you know as well as I do that we can’t be anything to each other.”

“Don’t think of that,” pleaded she. “Let’s be happy while we can--and let’s hope.”

“There’s nothing to hope for,” said he, drawing away from her. “I’m ashamed of myself. I love you, but it isn’t the kind of love a man gives a woman that he wants to live his life with.”

“Take me, George,” said she. “I’ll be what you want. You can teach me. I’ll learn. Don’t shut affection and love out of your life. You can’t be half the man without them that you’ll be with them. Oh, you don’t understand women. You don’t know what women are for--what a woman is for--what your woman is for in your life.”

The look of resolution had gone; the look of melancholy had come in its place.

“I know we can’t marry right away,” she went on. “I’ve got a lot to do, first. You are poor in one way, and I in another. We’ve got to wait and work.” She looked up at him, smiling, pleading, her hand touching his arm. “Don’t you think it’s worth doing, dear?”

He dropped to a chair. “I’ve fooled myself,” he said gloomily. “I thought I was coming here to give you up. Instead, I came to get you.”

She laughed merrily, her delicate hand tingling as it touched his shock of hair that grew in such disorderly fashion yet exactly suited the superb contour of his head. Said she:

“Well, you’ve got what you came for.”

He smiled grimly. “How am I going to think straight and do what’s right for both of us, with you touching me?”

“You don’t want me to touch you?”

With a strong sweeping gesture, he drew her against him, as she stood beside him, he sitting.

“You know we might as well say we’re going to wait for each other,” proceeded she. It is astonishing--and enlightening--how well women argue when they wish to. “You know we’ll do it, anyhow. You won’t marry any other woman?”

“There isn’t but one woman for me,” said he, with an accent that thrilled her.

“Do you think _I_ could let any other man _touch_ me?” demanded she.

There was a delightfully ferocious jealousy in the sudden tightening of the arm about her waist. He said:

“I guess we’re in for it, Ellen.”

Her arm went round his shoulders. Said she laughingly: “Women aren’t so _very_ hard to understand--are they?”

He eyed her shrewdly. “Not when they’re willing to be understood.... You are _sure_ you want to wait?”

“I’m sure I’ve _got_ to,” replied she, simply.

He suddenly stood up, drawing away from her. She was in a tremor of alarm--which was not decreased by his resolute expression, until he said:

“I must get to work. I’ve got to hurry things. You understand, you’re entirely free until I’m able to come for you?”

“If it helps you to think so,” she answered. “But--I’m not that kind of girl, George.”

A look of tenderness flooded her and he said: “I didn’t mean that. Of course you aren’t. You’re--mine.”

And she was crying with happiness.

* * * * *

Sayler understood as soon as he saw her face. And he felt that he had won. George Helm, on his way to the triumphant class--was it not a fundamental law of human nature that a human being could not be _in_ a class without becoming _of_ it, of its ideas, feelings, attitude toward other classes? George Helm, marrying a girl of the triumphant class. Could he, however tenacious, resist the influences, the subtle influences, insistent, incessant, unconsciously exerted, unconsciously yielded to--the influences of a loved wife of the triumphant class from birth?

“He shall be the next governor of this state,” Sayler said to himself; and a smile more amiably generous than his never glorified human visage.

Helm saw “Ellen” only three times in the remainder of that week, and then for but a few minutes. He set to work with an energy that made his previous toiling seem a species of languor. He decided that Ellen had been right when she told him he did not appreciate the part of woman in the life of man. And when the legislature adjourned he went on a tour of the cities and towns and villages as a lecturer, and built for himself that only solid fame--a personal fame which future assaults from a subsidized hostile press could not destroy. The people would have seen him, heard him, looked into his eyes, touched his hand. Sayler, away from the scene, and kept informed of events by lieutenants with lieutenant-brains, did not get the true meaning of Helm’s tour, but assumed that making a living was his sole object. However, if Sayler had known--had even been able to read Helm’s thoughts, he would not have been disturbed. Circumstances of class-association had made George Helm what he was; circumstances of class-association would re-make him.

Nor was Hazelrigg moved to suspicion by the enthusiasm with which the boom of Helm for governor was received, as soon as launched--nor by Helm’s memorable campaign--nor by the overturn on election day that swept Helm into office by a majority such as the Democrats had never dreamed of. In Hazelrigg’s opinion it was all clever machine manipulation by Sayler’s men of the Republican machine and by himself and his lieutenants. Helm had shown himself sensible and manageable in everything pertaining to the practical side of the campaign work; Hazelrigg began to suspect there was a secret understanding between him and Sayler. “That man Sayler,” said Hazelrigg to himself, with a grin, “he’s a deep one. He’s the best in the country at the game.”

Helm was, of course, at home in Harrison for the election--was at Mrs. Beaver’s boarding-house, in the attic room still, though he had nearly thirty-five hundred dollars, the savings from the lecture tour. Mrs. Beaver had tried to induce him to take the best room in the house, at the attic price if that would be an inducement.

“No, thank you, ma’am,” said Helm. “I’m very comfortable. Why should I move?”

Many people thought this sticking to his attic was shrewd politics. It may be that a desire to show _his_ class that he was still with them had something to do with his refusal to move. But the chief, the deciding reason was the one he gave. He had lived in that little room long. He had got used to it. He liked it, felt at home in it, would have felt strange without it to come home to and live in. Helm was one of those men--and Sayler, had he been entirely great, would have looked into this before completing his estimate of his character--Helm was of those men--and there are women of the same sort--who care nothing for luxury, even for the comforts that soon seem necessary to people who get the smallest chance to expand.

To him heat and cold were matters of indifference. He had ploughed and mowed in the broiling sun; he had slept under thin covers, with snow sifting through the roof, had brushed the snow off his skin when he got ready to rise. He had eaten all kinds of difficult, not to say impossible, fried food--and had not known what he was eating, or cared. He was so profoundly inured to hardship that he was unaware of it--and was unaware of comfort when he, by chance, got it. Hardened against hardship; hardened also against comfort and luxury. That last peculiarity was probably the most significant factor in his make-up. Yet no one had noted it; he himself not only had not noted it but never would. When one considers how powerful in effect upon human character is love of the softer side of life, and desire for it and clinging to it and respecting it and its possessors, one begins to comprehend how far-reaching was the importance of George Helm’s unique hardiness.

Eleanor Clearwater was visiting in the hill top part of Harrison--was visiting the Hollisters, where she could stop whenever she wished, and as long as she wished, without any one’s thinking of the matter. Helm--regarded with respect by the better class at Harrison, now that he was so high in public life--had arranged to receive the returns at Hollister’s. Bart Hollister, without a suspicion that Eleanor had “managed” him, invited Helm--and was as astonished as pleased by his prompt acceptance. So sweeping was the victory that his election was conceded by the Republicans before he finished supper at Mrs. Beaver’s.

“A governor gets eight thousand a year, doesn’t he?” said Miss Shaler, the sentimental, be-wigged old maid of the boarding-house circle. “You’ll certainly pick on some nice girl and be getting married now, Mr. Helm.”

“_Governor_ Helm,” corrected Mrs. Beaver, proudly.

“Yes, I’m sure there’ll soon be a Mrs. Governor Helm,” said Miss Shaler, with the soft hysterical giggle with which she accompanied all her frequent remarks on the one subject that interested her.

Helm surprised them all--threw them into a ferment of curiosity--by saying with bold, emphatic, even noisy energy, unbelievable in so shy a man:

“Yes, indeed, ma’am. She and I’ll be inaugurated together.”

He laughed with a gayety that seemed a little foolish in a grave governor-elect. He gave them no chance to devise ways round the inflexible rule against direct questions as to that one subject. He rose and went forth to claim his bride.

V

SEEING HER FATHER

On the second floor of the Washington house of George Clearwater, lumber king and United States Senator, there was a small room whose windows commanded the entrance. They gave upon one of those useless and never used balconies wherewith architects strive to conceal the feebleness of their imagination and the poverty of their invention. Of that particular balcony some facetious congressman said that Clearwater might one day find it convenient--“when he needs a place to stand and explain to the mob how he happens to be so rich.” The remark got round to Clearwater, and he never looked at the little balcony without recalling it. The multimillionaire, constantly enveloped by his crowd of sycophants, soon tends to become paranoiac, soon fancies that everybody is thinking about him all the time--about him and his money, which are one and the same thing, for he feels that he is his money and his money he. Also, as his dominant passion has always been wealth, he assumes that it is the universal passion raging in all hearts as firmly as in his; that therefore he must be the object of malignant envy; that those myriad eyes ever fixed upon him are as covetous as his own. Thus Clearwater took that facetious remark seriously--read the distorted tales of the French revolution, discussed the ferocity and restlessness of the masses quite as if he had never been a farm hand, one of those same masses, and had never known the truth about them--their ass-like patience, their worm-like meekness.

He was looking at this balcony and was thinking of the “menacing popular unrest” when George Helm’s name was brought up to him. He was still looking and thinking when Helm himself entered the small room. At the sound of his step, Clearwater turned and greeted him with friendly constraint. Helm looked wretched with embarrassment.

“Ah--Mr. Helm--pardon me, Governor Helm,” said Clearwater who had long since effaced all traces of the farm hand and of the stages intermediate to his arrival at the American business man’s heaven, the plutocracy. “Much has happened since we met last winter.”

Much had indeed happened, but the only blessed thing of it Helm could remember at the moment was the collar he had been beguiled into buying that morning. It was too high for him, and it squeaked. Also, Helm had on a new suit of clothes; he had bought it only a few days before. He had not yet got used to it, but it looked as if he had slept in it. That was the way clothes always acted with George--and being elected governor had made no change. In answer to the senator’s amiable remark he managed to utter--with a violent squeak and creak of the collar--a timid “Yes.”

“It is no small honor to be the youngest governor in the United States,” pursued Clearwater. “Won’t you sit down?”

George looked at him as if “sit down” were a new and puzzling idea to him. Then he looked about at the furniture as if he had small and wanting confidence in it. However, as Clearwater sat, he ventured a nervous imitation and drew out his handkerchief.

A great misfortune--no, a fresh calamity. The handkerchief had been bought with the collar. It did not squeak; worse, it rustled. The collar creaked, the handkerchief rustled, the new suit caught him under the arms.

Said Clearwater:

“My daughter--Eleanor--she has--has rather prepared me for your visit.”

George feebly echoed Clearwater’s amiable laugh.