3 A Session of the House

Guthrie was early in his attendance at the next morning’s session of the Legislature, and but few members were present when he arrived. It was a cold day, and the boughs of the trees on the state-house lawn crackled in the dry, bitter wind; but inside all was snug and warm. The vast fireplaces, built before the days of steam-pipes, were filled with hickory logs, which, under the great blaze, kept up a crackling fire, like the popping of small shot.

It was his custom to go first into the House, where his desk, like that of the other correspondents, stood at the foot of the Speaker’s dais, facing the members, and he did not depart from it this morning. The members greeted him in pleasant fashion. Somehow they always glided into a great family there, and the correspondents were looked upon, too, in a semidetached way as members, with certain obligations due to fellowship in the band. For these reasons, Guthrie always found it hard to criticise men for whom he might have the greatest personal liking, save when they were Republican; in this, a partisan State, it was deemed not only a right but a duty to attack the politics of the other side: a man praised by one of the opposite party would have feared treachery.

After the familiar words, Guthrie took off his overcoat, and warmed his fingers by the great open fire. The wine of life was full of sparkle that morning, and he looked forward to a day’s good work. The Speaker himself, Mr. Carton, a young man not over thirty, entered at that moment, and, like Guthrie, warmed his hands before the great blaze.

“Do you expect anything lively to-day, Mr. Carton?” asked Guthrie.

The Speaker’s face clouded a little.

“I’m afraid Pursley is going to call up the ‘United’ to-day,” he replied. “He’s loaded for a big speech, and you know that demagogic plea of his is bound to count with lots of people up in the City and throughout the State, too.”

Guthrie glanced toward the eastern side of the house near the great window where Pursley was already in his seat. The “United” was merely a short term for the United Electric Gas, Power, Light, and Heating Bill with which Pursley had come down from the “City”—and “City” here meant the metropolis of the State, which is six or seven times the size of any other place in it, and therefore looms large in the affairs of the Legislature.

“Is there no way to head him off?” asked Guthrie.

“None whatever,” replied the Speaker; “the bill has advanced so far that he has the right to call it up, and well—there’s Pursley—he’s as obstinate as a mule and as thick-skinned as a rhinoceros: besides he knows what he wants, and that’s always no small advantage.”

Guthrie glanced again at Pursley, the gentleman from the Third Legislative District in the City. Pursley’s face was bent over his desk as he examined some papers, but his features were not hidden. They were heavy and coarse, but the small, close-set eyes did not lack intelligence, even though the intelligence in this case might be classified under the unfavourable name of “cunning,” and the long jaw and thick neck denoted obstinacy.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Carton,” said Guthrie. “It will be a costly fight to you to keep him down.”

“But you’ll give us all the help you can, Billy?” said Carton.

“Oh, yes, of course!” replied Guthrie.

Other members from the “City” were entering and taking their seats, and Guthrie regarded them with a disapproving eye. It seemed to him that the city members, with one or two exceptions, were on a lower moral and intellectual plane than those from the country. The country members, whether right or wrong in their ideas, were truly representative of the people who sent them, while those from the city seemed to have behind them some organisation or agency, vague but powerful.

“I wish I knew who your best friends are,” said Guthrie to himself as he looked at Pursley.

His face brightened when Jimmy Warfield, who also represented a “city” district, entered. Jimmy was exceptional; no one could look into his open face and say that he was not straightforward and honest. His friendships were with the other members rather than with those from the city. Warfield caught Guthrie’s eyes, and nodded. Then he took his seat two desks away from Pursley, and began to write.

A quorum was soon present, and the Speaker called the House to order. It is the custom always to open the sessions with prayer, and as there is no regular chaplain, a visiting minister or one from the capital officiates. This morning the minister did not enter until the last moment, and it was the Bishop. Guthrie looked up and met his eye. It was grave and reproachful, and Guthrie flushed a little, but he returned the old man’s gaze steadily.

All stood, and the Bishop prayed for the blessing of God upon those who were assembled there to make laws for the people. His fine voice filled the great room, and Guthrie, looking at his face, admired, as he had admired so many times before, the nobility, dignity, and charity of his features.

The Bishop after the prayer paused a few moments by the fire before going out into the cold. The mails from the metropolis bringing the morning’s important newspapers always arrive at this moment, and the boy came in with them, distributing to each member and to each correspondent his share. One of the members courteously handed his Times to the Bishop.

“Perhaps Europe has furnished us with a new war-cloud in the Balkans,” he said.

The Bishop smiled, and opened his newspaper, but he did not look for the “war-cloud in the Balkans.” His mind was upon a thousand-word despatch sent the night before by young Mr. Guthrie, whose action he could not approve. Guthrie, from his desk, was watching him closely, and he saw him turn page after page until he came to the last, and then go back to the first page, scrutinising them all again. The Bishop’s look of disapproval changed to one of perplexity and then to one of relief, though still retaining a tinge of perplexity. He folded the paper, and handed it back to the obliging member with a quiet “thank you;” then he walked over to the correspondent and whispered, “may I see you a moment, Mr. Guthrie?”

Guthrie arose at once, and went with the Bishop to the fireplace, where they were, in a sense, detached from the business of the House.

“I have looked carefully through the Times for the news about young Templeton, and I do not find it,” said the Bishop. “What does it mean, Mr. Guthrie? You told me that you sent the despatch.”

“I told you the truth,” replied Guthrie, meeting the Bishop’s eye unflinchingly.

“I never for a moment doubted that,” said the Bishop. “I wish to know, not because it is my affair, but because of our previous conversation, why it was not published.”

“I suppose they did not think it worth while,” replied Guthrie vaguely. The Bishop shook his head.

“I do not think that is the reason, Mr. Guthrie,” he said. “If you described your managing editor to me correctly, and I am sure you did, he never would have left it out. I think you are the cause of its omission.”

Guthrie flushed, and looked embarrassed. Bishop waited, and Guthrie saw that he expected him to speak.

“When I sent my despatch, I forwarded another telegram also,” he said reluctantly. “It was a personal one to Mr. Stetson, our editor—there was a chance that he might be in the city—asking him to suppress my news, if he could.”

“Well?” said the Bishop.

“It seems,” continued Guthrie, “that he was there—and suppressed the news. Mr. Stetson is the editor, and, if he wanted to do it, he could he’s the judge of his duty to the public.”

There was a new warmth in the Bishop’s tone when he spoke again, and he put his hand on Guthrie’s shoulder in a fatherly manner.

“Mr. Guthrie,” he said, “last night I thought you hard, even cruel, but I change my opinion to-day. Why didn’t you tell me that you had sent this personal telegram to your editor?”

Guthrie hesitated.

“Because I thought I ought to be judged according to my conception of my duty,” he replied at length, “and not by some qualifying action. And then the chances were at least five to one that Mr. Stetson would not be there.”

The Bishop looked puzzled, then smiled.

“Billy,” he said “you are a most obstinate boy. But let us be friends again.”

“If you will permit it,” said Guthrie.

The Bishop patted him on the shoulder, and in a few moments left the house. Guthrie returned to his desk, and resumed his notes. His mind was easier, but he feared that he had shown what might at least be called an amiable weakness. He had not looked at the newspaper, but he had known from the expression on the Bishop’s face as he glanced down the columns that the despatch was suppressed. He thought of Templeton’s mother and sister they were saved from grief and shame, but only for the present. The crash was sure to come, and would be all the greater from the delay and he was not convinced that he had done right. But his thoughts soon turned from Templeton to another and vital question.

The session was not an hour old before he noticed that it was under the influence of a suppressed but keen excitement. Although the House was droning out nothing but routine business, the members were closely watching the Speaker, who apparently was unconcerned, his left hand lightly resting on the handle of the gavel, and his right hand turning the pages of some letters which he was reading, seemingly with more interest than he gave to the House.

Guthrie, even if he had not been warned would have known that something was going to happen. Long habit had made him familiar with these periods of expectancy in a crowd—the decrease of noise, the leaning forward of heads and the exchange of glances. He looked across at Pursley, but the “Champion of the people”—as he often called himself—was still bending his heavy face over legal-looking documents that he read attentively.

Guthrie concluded that Pursley was not yet ready to spring his mine, and decided to go into the Senate for a while.

“If anything happens while I’m in the other chamber, let me know, won’t you?” he said to Charlton, the correspondent who sat next to him.

“All right,” replied Charlton, “but I don’t see why you want to waste time over there; nothing ever happens in the Senate.”

Guthrie crossed the hall and joined the older and more dignified body. The change in atmosphere was apparent at once. The House has over a hundred members, the Senate less than forty, and the smaller number began to wear more the aspect of a club. Besides brown hair was predominant in the House, gray hair here; men spoke quickly there, slowly here. Old Senator Wells from the mountains had taken his boots off to ease his aged feet and his gray home-knit, yarn socks, undoubtedly the work of his wife, were exposed for all to see. There were only eight Republican senators—too small a number to be troublesome—and while rated severely in speeches they were privately great favourites, because they had nothing to ask and nothing to expect from the administration or the majority; therefore they gave no trouble.

Guthrie took the vacant seat beside Senator Wells.

“Any news here this morning, Mr. Wells?” he asked.

“News, my boy?” replied the old senator with a soundless little laugh. “You shouldn’t expect news here. Why the Senate’s too respectable for that. You must go back to the House if you want it.”

“Oh! I don’t know,” said Guthrie. “I thought that perhaps the Republican minority was trying some wicked scheme in here.”

“We can’t, we are surrounded by the enemy,” replied Mr. Wells, waving his hand at the long array of Democratic senators.

They were passing local bills, of interest only to particular members, and Senator Cobb moved into the vacant seat on the other side of Mr. Wells.

“I hear that there is going to be a stir in the House to-day,” he said to Guthrie.

“Yes,” replied Guthrie, “Pursley expects to call up the ‘United’ bill and to attack the Speaker because he smothered it so long in the Committee.”

“I’m sorry Carton did that,” said Senator Cobb. “I like Carton and I don’t like Pursley, but Pursley is right in this matter; that bill hits at the corporations and it ought to pass.”

Guthrie said nothing because they were old men and of official position, but he could not agree with Mr. Cobb.

“Carton is going to find himself in serious trouble,” continued the senator.

“That ought to gratify Pursley,” commented Guthrie. He spoke with some resentment because he liked and admired Carton, and he did not wish to see a young man with such fine qualities and prospects pulled down by a Pursley.

“How will the Times stand on the bill?” asked Mr. Cobb of Guthrie.

“I think it will oppose it,” replied Guthrie.

“Your owner, of course, has a lot of gas and electric light stocks,” said Senator Wells, half in jest, half in earnest.

Guthrie flushed.

“Not that I know of,” he replied. “I don’t think he paid any attention to the bill until I wrote to him at length about it, and described what I thought to be its nature. I think I can rightfully claim the credit or discredit of the Times’ opposition.”

“I am sorry, my son,” said Senator Cobb. “City life has influenced you without your knowing it. This bill ought to pass.”

Guthrie said no more on the subject but listened to the old men as they discussed it. His visit in the Senate was really to sound the senators in regard to the bill, and he found that a majority there as in the House were in favour of it. He had hoped that, if Carton let the bill pass in the House, it might be defeated in the Senate, and thus the purpose would be achieved without expense to the Speaker; but it required only a few minutes to tell him the plan was useless. The Senate was with the House, and the battle would have to be fought out in the latter.

He arose presently and went back into the House where dull business was still going on, but the lobbies had filled up in his absence. Mrs. Dennison, the govvernor’s wife, and their friends were there. The rumour that it was going to be an interesting session of the House had spread somehow in the capital, and visitors could never afford to miss anything of that nature.

Mrs. Dennison sat with Miss Ransome on her right and Miss Pelham, a visitor from the largest city of the rich lowland region, on her left. Guthrie saw the Speaker glance at Miss Pelham, then smile and bow and he felt sorry for Carton whom all the capital knew to be in love with Mary Pelham. But the Speaker was a self-made man and yet poor, while Miss Pelham was the daughter of a great land-owner, and her family had been furnishing governors and United States senators for three generations. Moreover, Guthrie knew what the young Speaker would soon have to face.

His own glance passed soon from Miss Pelham to Miss Ransome, to whom he bowed and from whom he received a slight bow in return. But her face was cold and not without a supercilious touch. The interest that he had been able to rouse the night before in her about her native State, its people and its ways, seemed to have passed. “Doubtless,” reflected Guthrie, “much of this must seem commonplace and dull to her.” But he made the angry addition: “She should like it because it is our own people—and her’s.”

He folded up his notes and joined the visitors in the lobby.

“We hear that there is likely to be a scene, Mr. Guthrie, is it true?” asked Miss Ransome.

“I should hardly call it a ‘scene’” replied Guthrie quietly.

She flushed a little, then laughed lightly.

“I accept the correction,” she said. “I did not know the right word. I merely meant that something stirring is going to happen—so we heard. What is it?”

“Do you see the heavy-faced man over there near the east window?” said Guthrie. “Well, that’s Pursley; he’s one of the members from the city districts. He is expected to make a vicious attack to-day on the Speaker.”

He glanced from Miss Ransome to Mary Pelham, when he said “the Speaker.” Miss Pelham moved slightly but showed no other emotion and inquired in an even voice:

“Why should he attack Mr. Carton and what has Mr. Carton to fear from an attack by him?”

Guthrie was attached to Carton and he thought to serve him. She must know what was threatening him and it was best for her to be prepared. He might be able to create a prepossession in Carton’s favour.

“There is a powerful organisation behind this bill,” he replied, “all the more powerful because it is vague and in a way secret. So far, Mr. Carton has been its most successful opponent, and—well—Pursley will leave the inference that Mr. Carton is interested.”

An indignant flush reddened the cheeks of Mary Pelham.

“No one could believe such a thing of Mr. Carton!” she exclaimed.

“Not I, certainly,” replied Guthrie, and then he added with perhaps less emphasis: “nor you, nor anyone else who knows the Speaker, but there is a power in reiteration, an incessant implication—implication of the light, indirect kind that seems unintentional. It creates an atmosphere, so to speak.”

“I thought you told me that political life here was not corrupt, or at least not more corrupt than it is elsewhere!” said Clarice Ransome, looking at him with bright, ironical eyes.

“It is not,” replied Guthrie with conviction. “There is merely plainer speaking and more of it. Nor does it follow because a charge has been made that it is true.”

“I cannot believe any ill of Mr. Carton,” said Mrs. Dennison.

“A more honest man never breathed the breath of life,” said Guthrie.

He glanced again at Mary Pelham, but seemingly she took no note of his zealous defence, gazing calmly over the rows of members.

The Speaker from his desk looked at her again, but her eyes did not meet his and he turned back in disappointment to his work.

Guthrie was watching Pursley who now glanced up frequently from his papers and always at the Speaker. These movements, so Guthrie knew, foreboded action, and the strained and silent attention of the House showed that the members knew it, too. At this moment a thin, quiet man, his face blue with close shaving, entered and modestly took a seat in the farthest corner of the lobby. It was Mr. Caius Marcellus Harlow who was not attached to the Legislature in any capacity, but who was a frequent attendant upon its sessions. Guthrie sought to read Mr. Harlow’s face and to tell what his interest in pending events might be, but the result was nothing. Then he turned his attention back to the Speaker.

He admired Carton’s coolness and courage. The Speaker knew perfectly well that an attack upon himself was coming and that it would be of a most vicious nature, but no sign of uneasiness showed in his manner. His voice as he made his rulings was as steady and full as ever, and the hand that wielded the gavel never trembled.

Pursley glanced once toward the lobby, and Guthrie thought he saw a faint look like a signal pass between him and the quiet Harlow, but he was not sure. Then Pursley half arose as if to make a motion and called “Mr. Speaker,” but Carton’s eye passed on and caught another member who had also called “Mr. Speaker.”

“The gentleman from Mary County,” said Carton, and the “gentleman from Mary County” was not Pursley, but Mr. Harman, an amiable and long-winded member who was devoted to a bill regulating the liquor traffic, now among those before the House. Harman would speak two hours, nothing could check the even, monotonous flow of his words, and Pursley sank back with a smothered but angry exclamation of disgust. But Guthrie looking at Mr. Harlow could not see his face change by a single quiver.

Mr. Harman spoke without effort and the members turned to the reading of newspapers or the writing of letters. There was all the rustle and noise of an ordinary session. It was not necessary to pay close attention to the gentleman from Mary County who, absorbed in his own words, would not notice, and would not be offended if he did. Various members also drifted to the lobbies where they talked to the ladies and Guthrie went with them.

“You told me something interesting was going to happen,” said Miss Ransome to him. “Instead I am only listening to a very dull speech.”

“A speech of any other kind is an exception,” replied Guthrie smiling, though secretly he was resentful. “Mr. Pursley missed his chance and we shall have to wait. Nothing can happen now until the afternoon session, because Mr. Harman will certainly talk us into luncheon. But it gives a good chance for conversation.”

Guthrie was right, because when Mr. Harman came to the end all were tired and hungry, and the House adjourned until 2 P. M., when the lobbies were again filled with visitors, hoping to witness incidents of spirit and edge. Mrs. Dennison, Mrs. Hastings and their friends occupied the same position in the group, and the bright tints of their dresses made a vivid splash of colour against the dark background of the House. And now Mr. Pursley was too late a second time. Another member secured the floor, was recognised and began to discuss a bill relating to the codification of the State’s laws.

“A duller subject than ever!” said Miss Ransome, and Miss Pelham agreed with her.

Guthrie watched the Speaker closely, and seeing a little defiant gleam in his eyes, he surmised that Mr. Carton was resolved to give his enemies as much trouble as possible. The bill must come up sooner or later, its consideration could not be postponed forever, but these men should know that the Speaker was armed and ready to give them trouble, since they chose to do as much for him. At least, Guthrie so construed Mr. Carton’s look and he gave him his full sympathy.

Mr. Harlow was also in the lobby as usual. He occupied a seat at the rear. Mr. Harlow was a modest man, smooth of speech, never pushing hard against obstacles and content with an obscure place; but here, owing to the upward slope of the lobby, the last row of seats furnished the best view of the House, and there was not a member whom he could not see clearly.

Mr. Harlow seemed to know by instinct or acute observation, which is akin to it, when the member who had the floor was going to finish, and he caught Mr. Pursley’s eye; the same faint almost imperceptible signal passed between them, and Mr. Pursley was on his feet just as the other man concluded, calling: “Mr. Speaker! Speaker!” There was nothing to do but to recognise him, and Mr. Carton did it easily and gracefully.

Mr. Pursley standing solidly upon his feet swept the House with a long semicircular smile of triumph, and a thrill ran through members and lobby alike. The expected moment had come and the young Speaker was about to go under fire. All were anxious to see how he would take it, and some hoped that he would take it ill. There were men who resented his superiority, his rapid advance and his personal aloofness so far as they were concerned, because the young Speaker was in a sense fastidious and did not choose the commonplace or the splenetic for associates.

A dozen senators, hearing that Pursley had got the floor, abandoned their own chamber and came in to hear the attack. Guthrie saw Mr. Cobb and Mr. Wells sitting together.

Mr. Pursley began in a voice which was not without a certain power and effect, and he showed that he did not lack courage and resolution as he faced the House boldly.

He said that his had been the honour to present a bill which would be of vast benefit to the great city from which he came, and by example to the public everywhere It was a bill that struck directly at three monopolies, three powerful corporations which were oppressing two hundred and fifty thousand people.

Guthrie glanced at Mr. Cobb and Mr. Wells, and saw approving looks on their faces. Both took fire readily at the sound of the words “corporations” and “monopolies.”

Mr. Pursley continued. “This bill,” he said, “had met with universal favour, had appealed strongly to the people of his city, but some malign influence had been directed against it. It had been referred to a committee and this committee had taken a very long time in acting upon it and reporting it. Even now it had been almost impossible for him to get it before the House and secure its free discussion.”

Here Mr. Pursley paused and again that thrill of expectation ran through the House. He was about to come to names, and names are always so much more interesting than abstractions.

“I have worked hard for this bill,” continued Mr. Pursley, “because I know it is in the interest of the common people; but that malign influence of which I spoke has constantly opposed me, and until the present with success. It is with reluctance that I make charges; I do not wish to asperse the motives of anybody; far be it from me to attack a reputation, but every member of this House knows that there is only one person who can hold back a bill—who can, from term to term, prevent its consideration, and that man is the Speaker. Now I ask why?”

Again he paused and swept the house with his long, semicircular glance. A dark flush crept over the face of the Speaker, but he made no other sign.

Up sprang Jimmy Warfield, calling: “Mr. Speaker!”

“The gentleman from Hamilton County,” said Mr. Carton in an unmoved voice.

“As a member of this honourable body,” said Mr. Warfield, “I demand a clear and explicit statement. The gentleman from the Third District has stated that an undue influence was brought to bear against his bill and he has mentioned names. Now, does he charge the Speaker of this House with a personal interest in the defeat of his bill?”

A buzz ran through the House and the lobby. Mr. Warfield stood expectant, his good-humoured face for once frowning, and his chin thrust forward like the curve of an eagle’s beak. But Mr. Pursley was not daunted.

“I state facts,” he said, “and I leave it to the members of this house to draw whatever inferences they choose. This bill was introduced nearly a month ago; every one here knows that, and you know, too, with what difficulty I have been able to call it up to-day. It has been said, ‘hew to the line, let the chips fall where they may,’ and, gentlemen, I am trying to hew to the line!”

He paused again, and once more looked about the House to find many an approving face. The country members who were in a great majority, dwelt in constant fear of corporations and monopolies, and to mention such things was like the sound of a trumpet calling them to war. And no doubt, too, Mr. Carton had impeded the passage of the bill. His best friends could not disprove it.

Out in the lobby Mary Pelham was saying impatiently to Clarice Ransome:

“Why does not Mr. Carton deny it, at once? I should think that a man would not be able to restrain his indignation at such a charge!”

Clarice recognised the anger in Miss Pelham’s voice, and she knew why it was there and against whom it was directed. Suddenly she felt a new interest and a new sympathy in the life outspread before her.

“Perhaps it is because his dignity forbids,” she replied, “or maybe the rules require that he shall first hear formal charges. But I know I do not like the looks of that Mr. Pursley.”

Miss Pelham said nothing more but gazed straight at the Speaker, and by and by he raised his eyes to hers. His was a glance of proud defiance; he seemed to ask of her neither mercy nor forgiveness, he seemed to say he was choosing the right and if she could not believe him, well—he must endure it as best he could. Guthrie saw it all, and his heart thrilled with pride in his friend whom he knew to be a fighter as resolute as he was honest. Then Jimmy Warfield, the champion of the Speaker, arose again. He said that he, too, like the gentleman from the Third, came from the metropolis; he had studied this bill, and if the Speaker opposed the measure, it was because it was a bad bill and ought not to pass; of that he was convinced, and their chief was merely trying to defeat an organised attempt to plunder.

A hum of approval arose, but it was from the minority. The majority sat in cold silence and Senator Cobb frowned visibly. A member suggested that in view of the gravity of the charge a committee be formed to investigate, and the motion being carried without opposition, the Speaker said that inasmuch as he was concerned, the chair must be taken temporarily by someone else who should name the committee.

Mr. Harman was put in the chair and he at once selected a committee of five non-partisan men.

Then the House adjourned amid much suppressed excitement, and members and visitors passed out together.

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