19 The Deadlock

The morning of that day had been an uncommon one in the city, its like unknown since the days of the great Civil War when half the people thought one way, and half, the other. It began for most at the breakfast table when the morning papers were served with the toast and coffee, and they read in those printed columns the amazing fact that Henry Clay Warner, one of the three candidates for the nomination, and Timothy O’Hara, his lieutenant and chief worker, had disappeared, leaving not a trace behind. It was added that William Guthrie, the well-known political writer of the Times was gone, too, and he was believed to be with Mr. Warner. This was news, news of the deepest and most vital importance, still further complicating the fight in the Old Fourth, and lending to it the sombre colours of mystery and tragedy. The telegraph wires had been very busy early in the night, but it was nothing to the burden they were called upon to carry toward morning.

Clarice Ransome read the account at the breakfast table in the same casual unexpected fashion that other people learned it. But the Times expressed no alarm about Guthrie, because it felt none, and as she pondered over it her own apprehension departed. Placed now in an atmosphere of keen political rivalry, and possessed of great natural powers, she inferred that there was more behind the curtain than she could see. Yet she would have given much to discover what it all meant, and like others she was filled with a deep and abiding curiosity to know where Warner was and why he had gone.

Lucy Hastings and Mary Pelham were on the other side of the table, and her glance met theirs.

“Mr. Guthrie will be back in good time,” said Lucy Hastings, “I never knew him to fail.”

Mr. Ransome appeared at this moment, being somewhat late, and she pushed the papers toward him. He uttered an exclamation of surprise, when he saw the headlines and the pictures, and then he read long with interest. After he finished the newspapers he drank his coffee with deliberation, and putting the cup back in the saucer said:

“I suppose that young Guthrie is very much mixed up in all this?”

She answered quietly:

“Mr. Guthrie is never ‘mixed up’ in anything.”

Mr. Ransome picked up a newspaper, as if he would read again, and hid a faint smile that curved the corners of his mouth.

“Well, perhaps I did use rather a rough phrase,” he rejoined, “but I didn’t mean to attack the young man’s character at all. I believe that nothing is to be said against him on that score. Everybody speaks highly of him.”

“They couldn’t do anything else,” she rejoined spiritedly.

Mr. Ransome smiled again behind his newspaper. He was not a hard man, and he loved his daughter.

Many extra chairs were placed back of the regular seats in Music Hall, and all were filled long before the convention was called to order again. Clarice and friends were In a box once more. Mr. Stetson went upon the stage amid a dead silence, and knocked loudly for order. Then Mr. James Bluitt, the member of the council from the twelfth ward, and an ally of O’Hara’s arose and made a fiery speech about the disappearance of Warner and O’Hara. It must be explained, he said.

The day lagged on with idle votes, and still nothing was heard from the three missing men. The convention, not knowing what else to do, adjourned at 5 P. M. to reassemble three hours later, and the people went home to dinner or supper, according to their social stations.

Among those who wondered about the missing men, as they left the hall, were three besides Clarice, who were thinking far more of Guthrie than of the other two. They were Carton, Mary Pelham, and Senator Pike.

Carton, aside from the gratitude that he owed him, and which he most willingly acknowledged, had a strong personal attachment for Guthrie, hidden sometimes by his naturally cold manner, and now he felt a slight apprehension lest harm had befallen him. But even with Guthrie there for the present, Mary Pelham was always in his thoughts. He had come to the city ostensibly as a looker-on in the great political combat, but in reality it was Mary Pelham that drew him. General and Mrs. Pelham, after his triumphant acquittal, had not discouraged him, and had made some awkward attempts to be polite to him, but his feeling against Mary remained for a while, and then gave way to constraint. Each day as he sat near her in the box, he thought she looked beautiful, but very distant, and the heart of the man was lonely.

The Ransome party usually went home in two carriages, Clarice or Mr. Ransome assigning them, but now neither did it, thinking perhaps that all was taken for granted, and Senator Pike, Carton, and Miss Pelham found themselves left for the second carriage. The three stood a moment just outside the building, waiting for the crowd to pass.

“I do not think any harm could have happened to Mr. Guthrie,” said Mary Pelham.

“No,” said the Senator, “that boy has a wonderful way of taking care of himself, but it does not equal the way in which he looks out for his friends.”

“That is true,” said Carton, “and you and I, Senator, know best of all.”

Even in the dusk Carton saw a benevolent but somewhat thoughtful look overspread the lean, angular face of the mountain man.

“Yes,” said the Senator, as if in retrospect, “he was the best friend I have ever had, and as for you, Mr. Carton, he saved you, and then he brought you and your sweetheart there together again, which I know was one of his dearest wishes.”

Carton started and glanced quickly at Mary. A deep blush covered her face.

“But I will leave you now,” said the Senator, “I know that, in such a case as this, two are company and three are none.”

He raised his hat with the formal courtesy usual with him, and was gone, leaving the two together at the curb, with the cabman holding the carriage door open for them. Carton never knew whether the Senator spoke from benevolent ignorance or consummate craft, but mechanically he helped Mary into the carriage, stepped in after her, and then closed the door. The driver cracked his whip and the carriage rumbled away over the granite toward the Ransome home.

Carton was silent for a moment, but he could hear his own breathing and that of the girl beside him Then he said in a low voice:

“The Senator made an error, Mary; shall we permit it to remain one?”

There was no answer, but the breathing became more hurried.

“Mary,” said Carton, and his voice was strong with feeling, “people thought me a criminal once!”

“I never thought so!”

“No, I know now that you did not. I was not a criminal, but I am a fool, and I have long been one. But Senator Pike has shown me the way, and I should be a coward if I did not try to tread it. At least, I shall risk my fortune. Mary, forgive all the past and listen to me when I tell you that I love you. Won’t you?”

“You have more to forgive than I.”

“It is not so. But love can overlook all. At least, I feel that such as mine ought to win me forgiveness. I love you with all my soul; say that you can return it just a little!”

“Not just a little, but a good deal!” Suddenly he bent down and kissed her on the lips. She blushed deeply, but she had no words of reproof for him.

When Mary Pelham returned to the Ransome house, Clarice met her, and one glance at the vivid eyes and happy face was enough.

“Oh, Mary,” said Clarice, “he has spoken at last!”

Then the two girls kissed each other.

They were all very quiet at dinner, and immediately afterward they made ready to attend the convention again, except Mrs. Ransome, who majestically declined to be a spectator at such an affair.

Night came down on the city—a hot, troubled, apprehensive night, sown with rumors, reports, and threats like dragons’ teeth. The eleventh and twelfth wards again marched away from the hall in solid phalanx, dark and ominous, but everybody came back once more at eight o’clock, keyed to the highest point of interest.

Mr. Stetson took the chair amid a white, expectant silence. It was remarked then by many that the long strain had begun to tell even on his iron powers. A ballot was now ordered and showed no change.

The hot night dragged on and Mr. Bluitt arose again to relieve himself of the angry thoughts that surged in his brain. His hints of foul play grew broader. Jimmy Warfield, ever an effervescent soul, took fire at the charge, and springing up in his chair he shouted that the convention was tired alike of hint and menace; if the eleventh and twelfth wards had any accusation to make, let them make it now in the face of all men. The decent people of the city were tired of being blackguarded and obstructed by rebels and traitors.

The convention was in an uproar in an instant. The eleventh and twelfth wards sprang up in a body, hurling epithets from powerful lungs at Warfield and all his kind. There was, too, that strange indescribable sound as the whole convention by a single impulse rose to its feet. Some women cried out. Men shouted “Order!” “Order!” “Sit down!” “Sit down!” The chairman, a look of alarm on his face, beat on the table until the head of his gavel flew off, and the whole hall resounded with tumult.

“Look! look!” cried Clarice in an excited tone, seizing her father’s arm. “Look! there they come!”

The whole convention heard that sharp, strained cry, and instantly faced about.

The three missing men were entering the hall at the same time, Warner and Guthrie through one door, and O’Hara through another.

All the convention saw in a glance, and the keen-eyed chairman noticed with indescribable relief that Warner and Guthrie were together, and O’Hara alone. The tumult in the hall was not decreased, but it had now another note. It was a roar of mingled relief, curiosity and excitement. The band perched far up in the balcony, suddenly struck up “Johnny comes marching home,” and Clarice, and Lucy, and Mary, in the enthusiasm of the moment, waved their handkerchiefs repeatedly. Clarice was waving hers for Guthrie, although she was unconscious of it then.

The tumult suddenly died and was followed by the deep silence of strained waiting. What was Warner going to do? He and Guthrie presented a sharp contrast to O’Hara; they were clean-shaven, well-brushed, and trim, having rested and repaired themselves at the hotel at Willville, while O’Hara was still unkempt and unshaven. The silk hat with the cruel rent in it he carried in his hand, his beard was fuzzy, and his clothes were all awry. He looked no longer natty, even in the eyes of the eleventh and twelfth wards, but disreputable.

Warner and Guthrie separated in the centre of the hall, Guthrie going down a side-aisle, and thence through a side-door to the back of the stage, where he slipped quietly into a chair, hidden from notice. Warner, on the contrary, the focus of all eyes, and conscious of it, continued toward a seat in the centre of the twelfth ward.

The convention was surprised to see the member looking so jaunty. Both complexion and eyes were clearer, and he held himself with more dignity than usual. But he gave no signs of his intentions, quickly taking his seat, and shaking the numerous hands that were held out to him.

O’Hara sat down with the eleventh ward, and there he made a sudden change of face. He seemed to awake suddenly to the fact that his angry accusations were injurious to his campaign, and he smoothed out both his clothes and his countenance. He whispered some words to one of his men, and the latter, going over to Warner began to whisper also. Evidently he was opening negotiations for a treaty of peace, and the leaders who saw it from their seats of vantage were alarmed. The whole convention noticed the act also, and there was a loud buzz of comment.

Guthrie saw it, but just then he paid little attention, as a code of mental telepathy was in perfect operation between him and Clarice. He informed her by means of these silent signals that he was well in both body and mind, that no misfortune whatever had happened to him; that he believed everything was coming out all right, and that she was more beautiful than ever.

She telegraphed back that she was overjoyed to see him, that she cared nothing for the disappearance or return of either Warner or O’Hara, that she had perfect confidence in him, and that he was the greatest man in all the world to her.

Few more satisfactory messages than these have been sent and answered, and they established a perfect circuit, connecting these two, and wholly ignoring the rest of the convention.

It was well that the telegraphy was quickly done, as Guthrie was soon dragged from his seat by eager hands and carried off to one of the little rooms where he told the story of the night to eager listeners.

Then he went back to the stage and saw Warner still among his friends, whispering to them. Mr. Stetson had ordered another ballot in order to mark time, and the clerk was calling the monotonous roll of the wards. Guthrie took advantage of the lull and went into the box where Clarice sat with her father and friends. He faced Mr. Ransome without trepidation, and offered him his hand, which the merchant shook with heartiness.

“I am glad to see you returned in safety, Mr. Guthrie,” he said, “both for your own sake and because you are one of the central figures in a very interesting event.”

Clarice’s welcome was still conducted through the medium of mental telepathy, but at a much shorter range, and, therefore, with greater effect.

Carton and Mary Pelham were sitting side by side at a corner of the box, a glow of happiness in the eyes of each, and when Guthrie saw, he knew that somehow or other all was now right between them. The “explosion,” predicted by Jimmy Warfield, had come. “I am awful glad,” he said under his breath when he shook hands with Carton, and Carton replied in the same whisper: “Without you it could never have been.”

Mr. Ransome and Carton began to talk with each other, and as the fog horn voice of the clerk, droning out the vote, kept the convention occupied Clarice and Guthrie had a chance to change the telepathic communication for real words with sound to them. The others were in the front of the box looking toward the audience, and Clarice and Guthrie were back in the shadow.

She put her hand in his, a moment.

“Mr Guthrie,” she said, “I do not know where you have been or why you went, but I know it was not to do any wrong.”

“Miss Ransome,” he said, “I have been on a long journey which I did not mean to take, and I am confident that if I have done anything at all, it has been good.”

Then her eyes met his in supreme trust.

“I shall tell you all about it to the last detail, when the convention is over,” he added.

“What is going on there now?” she asked. “See, Mr. Warner has left the hall.”

“No,” replied Guthrie, “he has gone into one of the side rooms, and so has O’Hara; it is nothing.”

Yet he was troubled. But he did not see what he could do just then, and it was very pleasant there with Clarice. He was still under a great strain, thirty-six hours without sleep, and his whole nervous system keyed to the highest pitch. So he remained talking with Clarice, and what was passing in the hall outside their box was a great blur and buzz. But she gave back encouragement to him. Both word and look were alive with it, and for the while he was content.

Thus time passed easily, how long he did not know until Jimmy Warfield burst into the box, his hair flying, and his face aghast.

“Come, Billy! Come at once!” he cried, forgetting his courtesy to a lady, which indicated extreme excitement on the part of Jimmy Warfield.

“What’s the matter?” exclaimed Guthrie taking alarm.

“Everything’s the matter!” replied Warfield. “O’Hara and those fellows have got hold of Warner again, and you know his weakness—well they’ve played on it—and now he’s irresponsible, and they are making him say he’ll never withdraw. He won’t speak to any of us but you. Come at once or everything will go to ruin!”

“Go,” added Clarice in a tone low, but none the less emphatic. He glanced once at her and her eyes met his. That command, he saw, was as much for their sakes as the party’s, and he hastened at once from the box.

“In there!” said Warfield, indicating one of the small rooms, and Guthrie, promptly pushing open the door, entered alone.

It was indeed a pitiful spectacle that saluted him in the little room. Warner, whatever his moral growth, and whatever his intentions may have been during that return journey, had fallen again into the hands of the toiler. O’Hara, Bluitt, and Pursley had returned to the charge, and they knew the breach in the fortifications. Warner had yielded to temptation, and now he was lying upon a sofa, his face inflamed, and his eye wild, while he babbled of a long ride through dark woods and the fact that he, Henry Clay Warner, was the friend of the people and would defend them forever. He was in the race to stay. O’Hara, Bluitt, and Pursley stood by in silence, while a gigantic blacksmith, one Connell, leaned against the wall, his face expressionless.

Frowning looks met Guthrie as he entered, but disregarding them he went straight to Warner.

“Hello, Billy! They didn’t lose us did they?” exclaimed the member, holding out his hand and laughing foolishly.

“No, but I wish they had!” replied Guthrie from the bottom of his heart. “Mr. Warner, come with me. These are no friends of yours.”

“See here, young man,” cried O’Hara threateningly, “that sort of talk don’t go with us any longer. Now you clear out, and be quick about it!”

The crowd gave forth a menacing growl, but sudden intervention came, and it was the blacksmith, Connell, who furnished it.

“Let the boy have his talk with Mr. Warner,” he said. “This is a free country, and if he wants to say anything, he’s got the right to say it.”

Two or three others indorsed Connell’s emphatic words, and O’Hara and Bluitt hesitated. They were confronted by a rebellion in their own ranks, and they neither liked it nor knew exactly how to meet it. Seeing his opportunity, Guthrie assailed Warner fiercely with unanswerable arguments. He knew that he had a power over the man—a power increased by their comradeship in the woods, and while O’Hara, Bluitt and Pursley wrangled with Connell and his friends, he pursued the member with all the energy needed for a last and desperate chance.

Meanwhile the convention was again in a turmoil. The departure of Warner and O’Hara from the floor had been viewed with interest by all and suspicion by many. A rumour—one of those rumours that start no one knows how, and gain colour and strength as they go, spread through the hall, and was believed by nearly everybody. It said that Warner had promised to withdraw, that he had told Billy Guthrie so, that O’Hara, Bluitt, and Pursley were now trying to make him take back the promise.

This rumour, winged and ominous, reached the eleventh and twelfth ward delegates, who yet remained in their seats, and they shifted their feet uneasily. They did not know whether to believe or disbelieve, but they were bound to admit that they were shaken. They had stood in close phalanx a long time, but the long doubt, the heat and the heavy pressure from without disconcerted them. They looked up at the white glare of the electric lights, and they listened to the buzzing of the tiny flies, but they found no answer in either. A bell in a church spire, not far away, tolled midnight.

The rumour continued to grow and took on new colours. It was said that Warner had collapsed suddenly, overpowered by hardships during that long and mysterious absence, but Billy Guthrie knew what he wanted to say. A sudden cry of “Guthrie!” arose, and it was taken up and repeated till it became insistent. “Guthrie!” “Guthrie!” “Guthrie!” rang through the hall, a chorus rising and falling like a wave, but never stopping.

Clarice was alarmed at first when she heard the cry. She did not know why they should call for Guthrie, and she felt that they had some accusation against him.

Louder and more insistent grew the cry for Guthrie, but neither he nor O’Hara, nor Bluitt, nor Pursley reappeared, although minute after minute passed until they made an hour. But nobody left the convention, and still they shouted for Guthrie.

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