5 In the Governor’s House

The Speaker had come. He had chosen to face the public. Guthrie had not dreamed of his doing otherwise. Here among his friends, or those whom he wished to be his friends, he showed no sign of diffidence or discouragement. In such a society as this he was at his best, his manner all ease and lightness and gayety. Clarice Ransome, looking at him, could not believe—such was the influence of her European education—that he was of obscure birth, a poor country boy who had raised himself so high, and who had the bearing that a nobleman is supposed to have. And she wondered, too, if he were innocent of the charge brought against him. Mr. Guthrie believed in him, but an easy manner did not always hide an innocent heart.

Clarice noticed a slight constraint on the part of Senator Cobb, Mary Pelham, and one or two others. They did not seem to approve wholly of the Speaker and his light manner at such a moment, and she began to watch them covertly but none the less keenly.

Clarice Ransome was surprised and perhaps a little disappointed to find that she was beginning to take a great interest in these men, their ambitions and their fortunes—ambitions and fortunes, too, in which the women were interwoven. It gave her at first a sense of aloofness, as if she had no part in this fresh active life so full of youthful zeal and energy, and the thought was not pleasant to her. Here all the men were masculine and all the women feminine, and she was in the midst of affairs. The talk for this night, at least, was not of trivialities, but of things intimately concerning the life of the State.

She was in this frame of mind when the drift of the guests from point to point brought to her side old Senator Cobb, a man for whom she felt a spontaneous liking because of his noble, old-fashioned courtesy and deference to women—a manner which she knew to be the result of feeling and not of purpose.

“You have been talking to Mr. Guthrie,” said the senator, “a fine young man, though swayed too much perhaps by city and aristocratic influences. He and I don’t agree often, but I can’t keep from liking him.”

She wondered why he had spoken to her of Guthrie, and then concluded that it was a mere chance. But she did not care to show great interest in Guthrie and she responded a trifle coldly:

“He seems to be a favourite here and I have wondered why; in Europe—I was educated abroad you know—representatives of the press are not such familiar figures in official life.”

The eyes of the old senator sparkled. She had touched him all unconsciously upon one of his sensitive points.

“This is a democracy, Miss Ransome,” he said, “and we should resist any attempt to create an exclusive class of any kind. Public officials, no matter how high, are no better than anybody else. The President of the United States is merely one of many millions of our citizens.”

Meanwhile the governor had drawn Guthrie to a small apartment opening from the drawing-room where Jimmy Warfield and two or three others were looking at a newspaper spread upon a table. It was an afternoon extra from the second city of the State not more than forty miles away, and the entire first page was occupied with a florid account of the sensational scene in the House.

Guthrie looked at the array of headlines and the leaded columns, and the whole was distinctly unfavourable to Carton.

“And see,” said Jimmy Warfield in despair, “here’s Carton’s denial at the end—just a few lines, stiff, defiant, no explanation at all. I wish the man weren’t so high and haughty! One ought not to be a demagogue, but neither ought one to make enemies gratuitously!”

The governor frowned. Guthrie saw clearly that he did not approve of Carton’s course and that he foresaw the gravest consequences.

“He ought to have gone into details,” said the governor, shaking his head. “This shows how it is possible for an innocent man to appear guilty.”

“But not to himself,” said Carton over their shoulders. “A man conscious of his own innocence does not need to plead before others.”

He had entered, unintentionally, without being heard. Guthrie quietly closed the door.

Carton’s face was flushed and his eyes sparkled with anger. He glanced once at the glaring headlines and then gazed squarely at the governor.

“Hastings,” he said, “it was wrong in me to have come here, and I am sorry that I did it. I do not wish to imperil the political future of anybody by any social intimacy of mine.”

The governor’s face flushed in turn and into his eyes, too, came an angry light.

“Carton,” he said, “in five minutes you will be ready to apologise to me for that!”

“You’ll do it in one minute, Phil, if you’ve got any sense of decency left!” said Jimmy Warfield, drumming on the table with his fingers.

The red passed out of Carton’s face and his eyes fell. Then he held out his hand to the governor who took it in a firm clasp.

“Paul,” he said, “I wronged you. I spoke from a hasty temper and I beg your pardon.”

“That’s the first sensible thing you’ve done to-day, Phil,” said Jimmy Warfield.

And while not going so far as Jimmy Warfield, Guthrie felt nevertheless that he was on the trail of the truth.

“Carton,” said Mr. Hastings with dignity, and yet not without warmth and sympathy for the man who had apologised to him, “this house is always open to you at any time, and not only is it open to you, but I shall be glad to see you enter it.”

“I know it, Paul, I know it,” said Carton.

Guthrie quietly opened the door again and the hum of voices came once more from the drawing-room. An unpleasant incident had passed off better than he had hoped.

“I’m going back to the ladies,” he said, “and I think that the rest of you had better come, too, or I won’t know how to apologise for you.”

The governor thrust the newspaper into his pocket and followed Guthrie, who joined Mary Pelham for the first time that evening. That the Speaker was attentive to Mary Pelham was a secret to few in the capital, and the ill-natured, while not denying her beauty and charm, said that part of her attraction for him lay in the great family connection and political power that she could bring to him.

Guthrie found her animated by an artificial gayety, an almost feverish glitter shining in her eyes, and her conversation having the slightest touch of volubility. He could not doubt that she had been deeply stirred by the attacks on Carton. He knew, too, her critical nature; in the course of things she must have heard the insinuations against Carton’s devotion to her, and she could not help being affected to some extent by them; that feeling would lend colour in her mind to the present charges against his integrity. Guthrie, although he did not speak directly of Carton, found that his surmise was true; she would glance now and then in a questioning or disparaging way at the Speaker. Guthrie wished to speak in behalf of his friend, to say something in his praise, but he did not dare; it would be too obvious—she would take fire both at the defence of Carton and the impeachment of her own faith in him. He could see that her pride on her own account and his was deeply touched, and Guthrie began to feel as much sorrow for her as he did for Carton.

It was one of Mrs. Hastings’ Wednesday Evenings and there was a stream of callers—she was the governor’s wife, and she was highly popular too for her own sake—and the rooms began to be crowded. Many of those who came were official enemies alike of the governor and the Speaker and among such were the Republicans. But the Republicans socially were no trouble because their political hostility was taken for granted, and it rather lent a zest to private friendship. It was the enemies within the party, among the Democrats themselves who could bring social constraint. But it was the custom of a century, now a rigid law, for the governor and his wife to invite all members of the Senate and the House to their receptions, and they were coming.

Senator Dennison and his wife were present, and the senator was making himself agreeable to these legislators who in another year or two would vote on his reelection. There were also two or three members of the Lower House of Congress, and among them Henry Clay Warner, the member from Guthrie’s own district, the Fifth, who had not turned out as well as the voters had hoped.

Everybody noted the presence of the Speaker and his high manner. Carton seemed to have forgotten the incident in the smaller room where he allowed his pride to carry him too far, at first, and once more he was haughty and defiant. Guthrie exchanged a glance with Jimmy Warfield; Jimmy was frowning, and his look said clearly that Carton was inviting more enmity. Warfield himself was so unsuspicious, so genial in manner and such a believer in human nature that he liked most men and most men naturally liked him; hence he could not understand Carton’s course and he did not allow for the difference in temperament.

There was a slight stir near the door, a suppressed exclamation of surprise from Warfield, and Guthrie turning about saw entering the Honourable Mr. Pursley in evening dress, a great diamond stud glittering on the white expanse of his shirt-bosom. Guthrie was with Miss Ransome at that moment and she expressed astonishment.

“I did not think he would come here to-night,” she said.

“He has the right,” replied Guthrie. “The unwritten law gives it to him and the Honourable Alfred Lyttleton Pursley is the man to come.”

Mr. Pursley was not abashed. No scruples disturbed his delicate soul. He advanced boldly to the centre of the room, dispensing greetings to right and left in suave, expansive manner. He bowed to Guthrie and also extended a polite hand.

“Ah, the press is always present,” he said ingratiatingly.

“But off duty now, don’t be afraid, Mr. Pursley,” replied Guthrie.

Mr. Pursley laughed, and lingered, looking admiringly at Miss Ransome, and Guthrie was forced to introduce him. Mr. Pursley strove to be impressive. He had heard that Miss Ransome had just returned to her own country after many years spent abroad, and he desired to show her one of the finest flowers of free institutions. He spoke with much emphasis, adding to his expressiveness with an occasional gesture, and at last became oratorical. But in a few minutes he passed on. Mr. Pursley was too much of a diplomatist to allow one person, even a beautiful girl, to monopolise his time, when there were present many others worthy of his attention.

“Is he one of our typical public men?” asked Clarice with sly irony, after Mr. Pursley had gone.

“No, thank God!” replied Guthrie with devout emphasis. “That is one of our exceptions. But look! He and Carton are about to meet!”

Clarice gazed with increased interest. Mr. Pursley in his triumphal progress had been moving unconsciously toward Carton who was standing at the far side of the room. The people opened for him a lane that led toward the Speaker, and he did not notice where it was carrying him. He spoke suavely to Senator Cobb and then looking up found himself face to face with the Speaker. Mr. Pursley started and despite his assurance his red face turned redder. The Speaker gave him a surprised and angry glance. Clarice watching them was trembling with interest.

“What will he do?” she asked.

“Who? The Speaker? I don’t know myself,” replied Guthrie.

But Mr. Carton, after his momentary surprise, showed his quality. He was there, a guest, and it behooved the courteous man of the world not to make even the faintest semblance of a scene in the house of his host. He felt, too, that the eyes of fifty people were upon him and that they would tell the whole State how he bore himself.

“Good evening, Mr. Pursley,” he said with easy grace. “All of us like to come here and get fresh inspiration for the next day’s labours, don’t we?”

“Right you are,” replied Mr. Pursley. “Beauty always appeals to me, Mr. Carton. You wouldn’t think it of a man like myself, all for business and may be, as the world sees me, a little hard, but it’s a fact on my honour.”

Mr. Pursley made an inclusive bow to everybody, especially to the ladies under his general head of “Beauty.” A smile passed over fifty faces and Mr. Pursley sought less embarrassing company.

Guthrie uttered a low “Ah!” of relief.

“Why do you say that?” asked Miss Ransome.

“Because Philip Carton has done better than I hoped he would,” replied Guthrie. “He has been able to swallow a little of his awful pride and to show some tact.”

Guthrie saw that the Speaker had raised himself in the opinion of every one present, and a few minutes later Lucy Hastings confided to him her relief.

“I was afraid that he would turn his back on Mr. Pursley,” she said frankly, “and then I should not have known what to do. But I feel so sorry for Mr. Carton!”

“So do I,” said Guthrie frankly. “He will have a hard row to hoe.”

The crucial tests of the evening were now over, and it passed on pleasantly. Mr. Pursley still coruscated, and he was endured because he was a part of the Government of the State, and had a right there by ancient custom. Carton became more flexible, although he did not unbend fully, and Guthrie saw him and Mary Pelham together for a little while; but their manner indicated nothing. He looked at his watch by and by, and decided that it was time to go to the telegraph office and send the brief additional despatch to the Times which he had indicated was to come. Jimmy Warfield heard the light snap of the closing watch, and turning asked:

“Are you going, Billy?”

“Yes, I must,” replied Guthrie; “I have a little work to do.”

“Then wait a moment; Carton and I are leaving, too, and we can walk along together.”

The three saying their good nights passed into the street, Carton in the centre and Guthrie and Warfield on either side. Guthrie noticed how Carton took the centre as his right.

The three were silent as they walked toward the hotel—both Carton and Warfield had rooms there, too. The capital was not brilliantly lighted, and the darkness lay over it like a blanket, with stars twinkling through holes, and the circle of hills looming vaguely.

“Well, boys,” said Carton at last, “I did not expect to meet Pursley there, but, when I did meet him, I felt as I used to do sometimes when I was a boy and angry at another boy: I wanted to strike him in the face!”

“‘But when I became a man, I put away childish things,’” said Jimmy Warfield.

Carton said nothing, and they reached the flight of stone steps leading up to the lobby of the hotel. A man was standing there, wrapped in a long black overcoat, the silk hat on his head tipped slightly to one side. When the stranger heard the footsteps beside him, he turned and disclosed the face of Pursley.

“Well, Mr. Speaker,” said the member cheerily, “the spirit moved our feet about the same time and in the same direction, didn’t it?”

By the electric light flaring from the hotel, Guthrie saw Carton’s face flame into red. He could put the rein upon his temper in the house of the Governor where they were both friends, but here he let it go.

“Pursley, you infernal scoundrel, don’t you ever speak to me again!” he exclaimed.

Mr. Pursley’s cheeks turned purple, but his control over himself was better than Carton’s.

“Mr. Carton,” he replied, “what I said about you, I said on the floor of the House, of which I am a member, and where I have the privilege. I don’t let my political quarrels become personal, and I give you this piece of advice without charge: don’t you do it, either!”

So speaking, Mr. Pursley marched into the hotel.

“You let him score on you there, Phil,” said Jimmy Warfield in the light and careless tone with which he knew how to speed a rebuke.

“What do you take me for?” exclaimed Carton angrily. “Am I to smile and shake hands, as if I liked him, with a man who has called me a thief and a blackmailer?”

“‘When I became a man I put away childish things,’” again quoted Jimmy Warfield softly.

Carton, leaving his friends, stalked angrily into the hotel, passed without a word through the lobby where many men yet lingered, and went to his room. “He’ll be hard to manage, Billy,” said Jimmy Warfield, as he looked after the Speaker’s form disappearing up the stairway.

“Very,” said Guthrie emphatically. “I wonder if we couldn’t get old Senator Dennison to take hold of him.”

“We might later on, but not yet. Better let him alone for the present. He’s too sensitive just now, and would resent anything.”

Guthrie, bidding Warfield good night, sent his brief despatch, and went to bed.

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