14 Guthrie’s Despatch

The next morning was full of vivid suspense at the little capital one thousand miles away. The great snow was gone, and the south wind still blew. Tender shoots of young grass were appearing in sheltered nooks on the hillsides. Spring was not far away.

All steps tended toward the senate-chamber. The evidence was all in, most of the speeches had been made, and in the afternoon at three o’clock, the time already being set, the Senate would come to a vote on the great Carton case which for weeks had rent the State into factions, and which had aroused new passions in a commonwealth already taking its politics very seriously. Some of the leaders may have known in advance how the vote would stand, but the public did not, and the uncertainty of the result lent an added lustre to a case already possessing so many vital claims to popular interest.

The House held a very brief session, not more than half an hour long, and then the members went in to the Senate to listen to the close of the famous case. Jimmy Warfield was with the crowd, but he was constantly turning in his mind a great secret—a secret it was, too, to himself as well as to others and he could not rest. He read Guthrie’s message over and over again, and he had the utmost confidence in Guthrie. He told himself that he could never doubt his friend’s promise, but as the time drew near he was a prey to nervous apprehension. He hired a boy to wait at the railroad station, and to hurry to him as quickly as possible when the time came. Then he compelled himself to take a seat in the senate-chamber beside a Senator who was an avowed Carton adherent. Extra chairs had been brought in, and, to the members of the House, seats on the floor of the Senate were courteously given.

The galleries were crowded, largely with ladies, beginning to show touches of spring colours now in their costumes, their faces bright and eager. Nearly all of them were in sympathy with Carton. Warfield saw in one group Mrs. Hastings, Mrs. Dennison, the Pelhams and the Ransomes. Mary Pelham’s face was white and cold, and there was the least touch of a dark ring, under her eyes. Warfield knew how she suffered, and he knew, too, that, if she had followed her feelings, she would have stayed away that day, but her pride would not let her.

Back of the ladies were the officials of the Government packed in a dense mass, and back of these were other curious spectators and the floating population. Suddenly a thrill showing itself in a curious flutter ran through the whole assemblage; Carton was coming in. “Just like him,” thought Warfield; “he was sure to wait until everybody was here, and then enter in defiance of all his enemies.”

Carton’s face was stern and high, and, taking a seat near the dais of the Lieutenant-Governor, he looked up and bowed to three or four friends in the balconies. There was no effusive demonstration of indifference, but his bearing was so quietly firm and defiant that a murmur of applause started in the balconies, and began to rise, but the Lieutenant-Governor sternly checked it.

The face of the Lieutenant-Governor was inscrutable; if he knew how the vote was going, he made no sign; if it should be a tie, he must cast the deciding ballot, but he had presided throughout the long and bitter trial with an absolute impartiality and justice that had now the applause of the whole State, Carton and anti-Carton.

Senator Cobb sat at one of the front desks, his face quite stern, and it was known that he would vote against Carton. He had opposed to the uttermost the calling of the vote—in fact, he blocked it until the return of Mr. Pike; but, that duty done, he resumed his place with the anti-Carton forces. It had been shown that the Speaker had referred the bill for the “United” to a hostile committee purposely chosen by himself; that, at his suggestion, the committee had delayed the report for weeks; that all efforts of the friends of the bill to get it before the House had failed for a long time because he would not recognise a member who arose to make such a motion, recognising somebody else instead. By such tactics, he had fought off a measure that was obviously, so many said, in the interest of the public and against monopoly.

Senator Cobb did not believe that Carton had profited financially by the use of such tactics, but he did believe him to be the indirect agent of the “money power,” because he was allied with that power by tastes and sympathy. But Mr. Pursley, sitting only a few chairs away, had stated openly and many times his belief that Carton’s pockets were lined with ill-gotten gains. Now Mr. Pursley’s face was shining with triumph. Carton, whom he hated for his superiority and who had insulted him, was about to go down in disgrace, and he, Mr. Pursley, would appear as the tribune of the people. Near Mr. Pursley sat the Honourable Henry Clay Warner, the member of Congress for Guthrie’s own district, the famous old Fourth. He too claimed to be a tribune of the people, and he had come on from Washington to witness the conclusion of the great trial, and incidentally to shed opinion on the duties of a public man. He was not less rubicund than Mr. Pursley, and his heavy figure sprawled awkwardly in his chair.

Three chairs farther on was Mr. Pike. He had taken little part in the great debate, but his short and few sentences had been incisive. He had called attention to Carton’s lofty character as attested by numerous proofs, and he thought that the Speaker of the House had a right to hold back the bill by all means in his power if he believed it to be introduced for corrupt purposes. For the other side, he had little severe criticism; to them he too ascribed honest opinions. Men said that the character of the mountain Senator had become singularly mellowed.

There was one speech yet to be made for the prosecution by a senator who dealt much in fierce invectives, and he began shortly after the entrance of the members from the House. He had much to say about the liberties of freemen and the corrupting influence of the money power working through insidious agents. Jimmy Warfield paid little attention to what he was saying, but, being restless went into the lobby and joined the group about the Governor’s wife. He sat down by Clarice, and she noticed his face with an indirect but keen glance.

“You look cheerful, Mr. Warfield, as if you expected something,” she said. “What do you think will be the result of the vote?”

“Carton’s enemies claim that it will expel him,” replied Warfield, in so low a tone that Mary Pelham could not hear.

“What a shame! I do not believe that Mr. Carton ever did a dishonourable thing!”

“Neither do I,” said Jimmy emphatically.

“If the vote is to go against him, how can you see any cause for cheerfulness, Mr. Warfield?”

“‘While’s there’s life, there’s hope,’” quoted Warfield.

He excused himself in a moment, and went back to his seat on the floor. The speaker for the prosecution was making points, and, despite the presiding officer’s gavel, applause arose now and then from the anti-Carton crowd.

Jimmy Warfield, notwithstanding his light manner, was a man of great strength of mind, but he found it hard to control his impatience. He moved in his seat; he looked at his watch, and he listened eagerly for something that he did not hear. The prosecuting senator soared on and on, pouring out his philippic. Carton in his seat near the lieutenant-governor’s dais never stirred, and the calm expression of his face did not change.

A faint note of a whistle from the hills to the west of the Capitol came to the listening ear of Jimmy Warfield, and he stirred again in his seat. The whistle was swiftly followed by the rumble and roar of the arriving train, and then in a few moments by another rumble and roar, as it disappeared in the east.

Jimmy did not move now. He listened, but he did not hear a word of the senator who was on the rising side of a period. He turned in his wheeled chair presently, and gazed at the door, and his face was illumined in a most wonderful manner when he saw a little ragged boy appear at the entrance of the senate-chamber, and hand to a page a small package in a paper wrapper. The page tiptoed down the aisle, and gave the package to Warfield.

Warfield fingered the bundle nervously. He knew perfectly well that it contained his copy of the morning’s issue of the Times, delivered to him a little ahead of the others. But what would the Times contain?

He tore off the wrapper, and dropped it on the floor; then he opened the newspaper, and swept the first page with a comprehensive glance. Then Jimmy Warfield uttered a low cry of exultation that, low as it was, startled the Senate, stopped the orator, and drew all eyes to him.

But Jimmy Warfield was not abashed. Rising to his feet, the outspread paper with its great, black headlines, and its columns and columns of a leaded despatch spreading over the first page and beyond, held firmly in his hand, he thus addressed the Senate:

“Gentlemen, I am not a member of this body, and I am present upon the floor by courtesy; but something of the greatest importance bearing directly upon the case before you has just come into my hands. I, therefore, request the gentleman from Warner County to bring it to the attention of the Senate.”

He handed the Times to Senator Cobb, who glanced over the first page. As he did so, Warfield saw a startled look appear on his face. But in a moment Senator Cobb rose to his feet, and said:

“Fellow senators, Mr. Warfield has given into my hand a document that changes the whole aspect of this case. I ask that the clerk of the Senate read it aloud at once.”

An indescribable thrill ran through the lobbies as the Senator spoke. There was a hum, a murmur, the noise of many people moving, and then the dead silence of expectation. Jimmy Warfield saw the deep red flush come into Mary Pelham’s cheeks, and then retreat, leaving them marble-white. Mr. Pursley, too, turned white, but for another reason. Warfield saw a single questioning look appear in the eye of Carton, and then the face of the Speaker became as stern and expressionless as ever.

“Read! Read!” cried the senators, and the paper was hurriedly taken by a page to the clerk’s desk.

The clerk of the Senate was a big man with a big voice, and, in the attentive silence, he read first the headlines, his deep bass notes filling all the room:

The Clerk paused for a moment after reading the headlines.

“By Jove, that head-liner understood his business!” murmured Jimmy Warfield in devout thankfulness. Then there came a sudden burst of applause like the crackle of guns. Carton’s face turned red; Warfield saw his lips moving, and he knew how deep and intense was the Speaker’s relief. The presiding officer was beating with his gavel for order, and in a few moments it was restored.

“Continue the reading, Mr. Clerk,” said the Lieutenant-Governor.

Then the Clerk read in his full, clear voice that slurred no word. Guthrie’s account began at the beginning. It described the office of Messrs. Purvis & Eaton, its position in New York, and the character of the business that the firm did. He told how they employed skilled lobbyists in distant western and southern states—especially in those where the feeling against corporations ran the highest—and how they had prepared the bill for the “United.” He told of the printing of the stocks and bonds by the order of Messrs. Purvis & Eaton; how they had paid lobbyists at the capital to work for it, and the total absence of any preparations to erect plants in case the bill should become a law. Everything was laid bare, every detail was clear; the listening people involuntarily pictured to themselves how the plot was formed in the office of the bankers, the vision of great profits, the employment of shrewd agents, the arousing of the Legislature and the people by the cry of “Down with the monopolies!” and the purchase, perhaps, of a few corrupt members to work night and day for the bill—here eyes, as if by a common impulse were bent upon Mr. Pursley, and he turned white again—then the opposition of the powerful Speaker, followed by the plan of the conspirators to break and ruin him.

The Clerk read on in his clear, full voice, but long before he was half-way through there were a hundred more copies of the Times inside the senate-chamber, and many people were quietly reading for themselves. Guthrie’s name in full was signed to the despatch, and people began to whisper to each other: “He did it alone!” “What a debt Carton owes to him!” “And what a debt the State owes him, too!” But the look upon Mary Pelham’s face was one that Clarice will always remember; she seemed suddenly to be released from some great strain like unto the fear of death. A devout thankfulness shone in her eyes, and the countenance, ordinarily so cold and fixed, smiled as a young girl’s should. Once her eyes and those of Carton met, and a single swift lightning glance that only Jimmy Warfield saw passed between them; it told of mountains that had been rolled away; but after that the face of each became cold.

The reading went on, and the crowd listened, absorbed. Mr. Pursley, by and by, quietly left the senate-chamber. In the lobbies, they still whispered Guthrie’s name admiringly, but Mrs. Ransome looked scornful. “I do not see what is so wonderful in it!” she said. “Anybody could have gone to New York, and could have done the same thing.”

Then Lucy Hastings turned, fire in her eyes.

“But nobody else went,” she said shortly.

Mrs. Ransome did not pursue the subject. It was not her purpose to arouse antagonisms.

Jimmy Warfield presently went over to Carton, and whispered:

“Phil, you owe Billy Guthrie a debt you can never pay!”

“I know it, Jimmy.”

“It was a close shave; three hours more, and they would have taken a vote expelling you by a majority of two my figures are right and, no matter if you had been proved innocent later on, that vote of expulsion would have ruined you forever.”

“I know it, Jimmy, and to tell you the truth, I expected to be expelled.”

Again the Senate relapsed into intense silence, save for the deep voice of the Clerk, and now and then a sigh of relief that ran through the lobbies. Suddenly, the people discovered that their sympathies were with Carton. How handsome and heroic he looked! How little he had complained! And nothing thrills the popular heart more than a youth on the edge of conviction suddenly found innocent. Even old General Pelham melted, and, leaning over his daughter, he whispered, “Mary, I thank God for this day!” She said nothing, but put her hand for a moment in her mother’s.

The Clerk finished at last, and the case lay plain before them all. There was a moment of hesitation, and then Senator Cobb rose to his feet again, his face full of purpose.

“Fellow senators,” he said, “the document that has just been read to us is not a legal exhibit in this case. Nevertheless, it is testimony of the most vital and compelling nature. All of us know the writer of that article, and all of us know his high character, his absolute truthfulness and honesty. Until I heard the reading of the despatch, I was convinced that Mr. Carton had improperly used his office as Speaker of the House, and, therefore, deserved impeachment; now I know that he did what he did for the public good, and that he is a hero and almost a martyr. I shall vote for him, and I ask that the vote on the impeachment proceedings be taken at once.”

“I second the motion,” exclaimed Senator Pike.

“All who are in favour of taking the vote now will please say ‘Aye,’” said the Lieutenant-Governor.

There was a roar of “Ayes!”

“All who are against it say ‘No.’”

There was not a “no.”

“This is hurrying things with a vengeance,” murmured Jimmy Warfield, but he had no complaint to make.

“Oh! why are they going to take a vote now?” exclaimed Clarice. “It seems so unjust after Mr. Guthrie has cleared Mr. Carton!”

“Hush!” said Lucy Hastings. “It is right! You will see.”

“Call the roll, Mr. Clerk,” said the Lieutenant-Governor, and the Clerk began to call it, name by name, the presiding officer having put the question whether or not the defendant was guilty.

The first senator voted “no,” loudly and clearly, and there was a murmur of applause, quickly checked by the pounding of the gavel. But, as the “noes” still came in an unbroken line, the applause rose again, and the gavel could not suppress it. It swelled into a roar, and, when the name of the last senator was called, every one had voted “not guilty.” Then, in one final burst the applause died away, and the Lieutenant-Governor rose to his feet.

“Gentlemen of the Senate,” he said, “you have voted unanimously for the acquittal of the defendant, the Speaker of the House, and never was there a more righteous verdict. Mr. Carton, I congratulate you.”

It is on record that the Senate of the State once adjourned without a motion to that effect being made, and this was the day. Such a proceeding was irregular and unconstitutional, but nobody ever questioned it, because the Lieutenant-Governor stepped down from his dais to congratulate the Speaker, and the great assemblage rising, as if by one impulse, followed the Lieutenant-Governor.

Mr. Carton found himself the centre of a crowd that showered praises upon him and shook his hand until he lost his cold reserve and dignity, and became embarrassed. But Jimmy Warfield, standing in an aisle with Clarice Ransome, and looking on said in a low voice,

“I am glad through and through, Miss Ransome, but, after all, this final scene is like an oft-quoted one; it is the play of Hamlet with Hamlet left out”

“What do you mean, Mr. Warfield?” she asked.

“It’s Guthrie’s achievement, and not Carton’s: he should be here.”

“Yes, it is his,” she said proudly, and then she added the question: “Is he to get no credit?”

“Credit, yes; substantial reward, none that I know. Carton would pay him if he could, but he cannot”

Her heart was full of indignant rebellion. It seemed to her that Guthrie was always serving others and never doing anything for himself. Even with the climax of his great achievement at hand, and the applauding crowd about the acquitted, he was away, and Carton held the centre of the stage. It had been the same way in another great case: he had saved Senator Pike from himself, off there in the mountains, but the Senator had returned alone and received the plaudits, while Guthrie was elsewhere.

It seemed to her a great injustice, but she said nothing, and, when the crowd thinned somewhat, she too gave him her sincere congratulations. If she had felt any little bitterness against Carton for being the chief figure, it disappeared wholly when she saw Mary Pelham’s face.

At last everybody was gone, save those who constituted the almost family group known as “the Governor’s set.” By and by, they too went, laughing and talking joyously, Carton in the centre. Clarice alone was silent. Somehow she felt that much was missing, but again she was afraid to analyse her own feelings.

* * * *

It was several weeks later, and Guthrie and Clarice drove once more along the river road. Spring was at hand, all the circle of hills about the capital glowed in tender green, and the south wind called to the open.

Guthrie had returned to the capital very quietly two or three days after the arrival of the Times containing his great news. He came in at midnight, and appeared modestly the next morning at his accustomed desk. There was sudden applause in the House that made him blush in embarrassment, and, after the reception, the members compelled him to be the central figure at a sort of informal levee; but he was glad to escape from it all, and did so as soon as he could without being rude.

Carton said nothing then, but afterward, when they were alone, he gave Guthrie the sincere hand-clasp that tells of a friendship never to be destroyed, and almost repeated Jimmy Warfield’s words, “Billy, I owe you more than I can ever pay you!”

“Oh, nonsense, Carton!” said Guthrie, “It was news that I was after.”

But Carton knew better.

The Speaker had come out of his ordeal with increased prestige. He was at once a hero and a martyr, and it gave him a glamour that endeared him to the people. The nomination for Congress in his district, one of the most famous in the State, was now offered to him without opposition, and, as it was heavily Democratic, he was as good as elected, although the election was more than six months away. Jimmy Warfield, whose legislative district belonged to him in fee simple, as the people jokingly but truly said, would succeed Carton in the next Legislature as Speaker of the House. Senator Pike’s action, and the talk about it in the press, had attracted the attention of the Republican president, who was about to appoint him to the important office of Pension Commissioner for the State. The Governor’s staunch support of Carton, at a time when such support was unpopular, had made him—already strong—yet stronger with the people, and it was obvious that a great career lay before him.

Everybody but Guthrie was receiving rewards, and now Clarice, as she drove with him on the river road, felt bitterness for his sake. He had done it all; it was his mind and courage that had won all these triumphs, and the one who alone had earned the great reward remained unpaid. But she could not see that Guthrie was conscious of it. He took it as a matter of course, and was now looking forward to new work in his chosen profession. The Legislature would adjourn in a few days, and he would immediately plunge into a hot congressional fight in his home city, where the Honourable Henry Clay Warner was seeking renomination, with powerful forces opposing him.

Guthrie pointed with his whip to some lumber rafts on the river, now swollen and yellow with the floods from the mountains.

“Do you remember that time in the winter when we saw Senator Pike board one of those rafts?” he asked.

“Oh, yes! I could not forget it; his actions and those of the other men seemed so strange.”

“Those men belonged to the feudists. I did not know it then, but at that time the affairs of the Pikes and the Dilgers were coming to a head. We had a despatch yesterday from Briarton saying that Pete Dilger was duly hanged the day before, by law, in the presence of ten thousand people, gathered from all parts of the mountains. I hope that it will be a good example, because, if ever a man deserved hanging, it was he, and it may induce the mountaineers hereafter to let the law takes its course, and not resort to personal revenge. At least, it may help.”

“That must have been an alarming experience of yours in the mountains,” she said.

“I did not have time to think of fear,” he replied, “but it was certainly interesting. I look back upon it as very vivid, and, when I had lived a while with those mountaineers, I really liked them. Their faults are those of circumstances and environment.”

“I suppose so,” she said.

Guthrie spoke presently of Carton and Mary Pelham.

“They love each other, and they ought to admit it now,” he said. “I wish them happiness; they would make a fine couple.”

“Yes,” she said, “it should be arranged, though there is yet constraint. General Pelham would withdraw his objections; Mrs. Pelham always favoured Mr. Carton; Mary, too, was confident of his innocence, and the coldness between them arose because he would not see that she loved him still, and believed in him as much as ever, despite all the things that were said against him, and despite appearances. That is what hurt her.”

“Well, they are over the roughest places now,” said Guthrie joyously, “and, after all, though it is a bitter experience, it will help Carton politically Everything has turned out so well.”

“Yes,” she said boldly, “for Mr. Carton, and Mr. Warfield, and Mr. Pike, but it was you that did it; it was you, Mr. Guthrie, who saved them all, and what do you get?”

“Come now, you are making sport of me!” he said seriously. “My part was mere chance; I was after news, you know.”

“But what reward do you get?” she persisted.

“All that I am entitled to, I suppose. I have another most interesting campaign just ahead. I enjoy these political fights—they whip one’s blood like a spring wind. You’ve seen Warner here, the Honourable Henry Clay Warner, the member in the Lower House of Congress from my district, the Fourth—the heavy, red-faced man. He has proved to be a rank demagogue, and dissipated to boot. He gave good promise once; I went with him for the Times through his first campaign, two years ago, and we helped him a lot; we thought that he would be a credit to the old Fourth, but he has turned out badly; now he wants a renomination, and he has back of him a crowd to which his demagogy appeals; there are two other Democratic candidates in the field, and it looks like a bitter factional fight, ending, maybe, in a Republican triumph.”

“And they expect you to help in it politically, besides describing this campaign?” she said.

“I may have a little influence with Warner,” he replied with a smile. Then he added, “You, too, are going back to the city now, are you not?”

“Yes, I shall go when the Legislature adjourns; mother returned two weeks ago, and she wanted me to go with her, but I preferred to stay until the end. Lucy Hastings and Mary Pelham both will visit me in the city in a few weeks.”

“And you will have another visitor,” said Guthrie. “The count who is coming to claim you—it is no secret here; Mrs. Ransome often spoke of it, or I should not allude to it now. This country does not like to lose you.”

He spoke quietly, but there was a tone in his voice that she had never heard before; it thrilled her, and she turned her face away to hide the red that flushed it.

“Yes,” she replied, “I am engaged to be married to Raoul d’Estournelle—that is no news to you—and he said last year that he would come in the spring.”

Her face was still turned away. She was gazing absently over the far hills, and she did not know that Guthrie was looking at her, his expression one of mingled sadness and admiration. He was thinking that, if there were not so many “ifs” in the way—if she had not met d’Estournelle, if she had not become engaged to him, if she were not a rich man’s daughter, if he, William Guthrie, were not poor with the prospect of remaining poor—then he, too, might have tempted his fortune—and lost; as it was, he must lose before the battle.

He struck the horses impatiently, and they trotted swiftly along the white road. It was a picturesque drive, but never had it seemed finer to Guthrie than on that day. The green of spring was everywhere, and a haze like that of Indian summer was over the hills. Neither spoke until the capital was four or five miles farther behind them.

“I suppose that in a year or so you will leave America, to stay?” said Guthrie at last.

“I do not know, but if I do, this country nevertheless will always be my own. Oh, I hate to leave it! I am just learning to love it as it should be loved!”

She spoke with a sort of angry pathos, and Guthrie looked around, surprised at the new note in her voice. He seemed to draw from it a singular kind of courage, and, throughout the rest of the drive, he was gayer and brighter in manner than Clarice had ever known him to be before.

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