1 A New York Blizzard

Cathcart, despite the raw chill in the air, stood on the upper deck of the boat from Staten Island, and looked over the shining reach of blue water toward his native city. The jagged line of New York rose against the sky, a massive but irregular battlement. Buildings, light in color, soared up, floor on floor, and at their feet huddled others, low and dark, like the homes of peasants at the base of a cathedral.

The afternoon was late, and the sun, unnaturally bright, swung low on the horizon, filling all the western sky with wonderful clouds of blue and yellow and red that heaped upon each other, in terrace after terrace. The softening tints hung over the city like a fine veil of gauze, and, at the distance, all things rude or ugly were hidden. The sight was full of majesty to Cathcart, nor was it without a certain weird and unreal quality, as if a phantom and giant city had risen suddenly from the deep. He had been back but a week after a long absence, and much was still new and strange to him.

They were approaching slowly, and, as he looked, the sun, with its circling mists and vapors, dropped suddenly behind the hills. The rosy banks of light trembled for a few moments, then died, and night, thick and cold, came swiftly down over the city and the sea.

There was darkness for an instant, and then from myriad windows shot the electric lights, rising above each other, row on row, and bringing back the day that had just gone. It was like a stage scene, set for the moment, and as sudden as if some Eastern magician had rubbed his magic ring, changing the world about him. Cathcart’s heart leaped, and as he looked at the vast bank of lights he was proud to day to himself that it was his city.

They were near the wharf now, but a cold wind, damp with rain, blew across the bay, and Cathcart shivered in his heavy overcoat. Someone by his side remarked that snow was coming, and as he spoke, the first flakes, large and white, fell on the deck. The air grew damper, and then the skies seemed to open, pouring snow from clouds, huge and low.

It was but a few yards to the ferry slip, but when Cathcart passed into the street, he was caught in a vast whirlwind of white that hid the outline of the buildings, and through which the twinkling electric lights dwindled to pin points. Cathcart heard the word “blizzard,” and he knew, from his own experience of the West, that New York was in the grasp of the real Northwestern article, warranted to be genuine, and with all known variations. But he felt exhilaration. The wind and the snow whipped his blood and stimulated head and heart. Originally of a weak frame, he rejoiced in his late strength, and scorning a car, plunged boldly into the eye of the wind, fighting his way northward until he came onto Broadway.

Full of resolution, he toiled forward on foot, and he noticed that the street cars, the slots choked with snow, had refused to run. They stood, lonely and desolate, in long lines, like phantoms of the dark. Presently the “L” trains ceased also, and now only a few carriages struggled through the drifts that steadily heaped higher and higher.

He stopped often for shelter and a little rest, and at the end of an hour he had not gone more than a mile. While yet south of Union Square, he saw a carriage moving slowly northward. It was drawn by one weary horse, and the driver crouched in his seat, was evidently approaching the last stages of despair.

Cathcart’s eyes followed the carriage, and he began to wonder vaguely how much longer the horse would last. The weary animal tumbled the next moment and fell in a deep drift, making no effort to move. The driver sprang from his seat, and, with curses and blows, urged him to his feet, but the horse would not take another step.

The driver, after his vain effort, paused a few moments, as if undecided, then opened the door and spoke to someone inside. The reply evidently was not what he wished, as he spoke again and made violent gestures.

Cathcart stopped on the sidewalk, idly curious to know what would happen. Save for the carriage and its people and himself, the street was deserted. He saw the door open and two heavily wrapped figures step out into the snow. The driver pointed to the sidewalk, and then giving them no more notice, turned his whole attention to his horse.

The two ejected passengers approached the curb, and Cathcart noticed, despite the darkness and driving snow, that one of them was a woman, though he could tell nothing of her age or features. But she appeared to be the stronger of the two, as she helped the man through the drifts. He could see them glancing up and down the street with a bewildered air, like strangers, and their situation appealed to him as most forlorn. Prompt to act, he stepped forward.

“May I help you?” he asked.

The two had just reached the edge of the sidewalk, and when the man raised his head, as if about to speak in reply, Cathcart, by the flickering electric light caught the first glimpse of his features. He saw an old face, thin, pallid, smoothly-shaven, and denoting many things, among which was not weakness. In fact, strength was a cardinal note of that ascetic countenance showing alike in the thin, compressed lips, the sharp, pointed chin, the long nose and the cold blue eyes, vivid and intense, despite their coldness. It made Cathcart think of those great, worldly cardinals of the Middle Ages whose features Italian genius has left to us. It was his instant impression that he was in the presence of a Man. His figure within its heavy wrappings was apparently tall and thin, and though muffled and in the storm, retained its dignity.

“I thank you,” replied the old man, in reply to Cathcart’s offer, “We have been deserted by that rascally cabman, but I think we can make our way now. What a climate we fortunate Americans have.” His voice was thin and dry, but it was not devoid of a humorous, or at least ironic touch. Cathcart also thought that he detected in it a certain note of pride in the greatness of the storm, just as one has pride in the greatness of his city, and coming from an old man it found a natural response in his younger heart,

“When we have a storm here, we make it a real one; it is not play,” he said, with a smile, shivering a little as he spoke.

As if to drive home the truth of his words, the wind whistled with fresh force, and a blinding whirlwind enveloped them. Cathcart turned to the woman, who staggered before the strength of the blast, and lent her his arm until she could recover herself. Then he saw her face, and the impression, although of another kind, was not less vivid than that made by him who was with her.

The two showed the contrast of age and a certain variation of spirit or temperament, but there the difference ended and a resemblance began, so strong, as to indicate that they were father and daughter. The old man’s general effect was blond, or of one who had been so, and the girl was markedly of that type. Wavy, yellow hair showed above a broad forehead, and the face below was very fair, though rosily flushed now with the wind and the cold. She, too, had a decided chin, and a way now and then of compressing her lips that was singularly like her father’s, but at present she was far from austere; just a girl of his own time, grateful for aid when it was needed.

She thanked him quite graciously for his help, and then turning, as if the incident were over, took the arm of the old man. Cathcart accepted the dismissal without a word, but remaining there, watched them as they went their uncertain way up the street. Both wind and snow were without abatement, and he was quite sure that they had no guide but blind chance. Before they were lost in the whirling snow, he saw them pause. For an old man and a girl, so wild a night, even in the heart of an immense city, could have plenty of dangers, and Cathcart felt a strong sympathy, despite their indicated desire to be let alone.

While they yet hesitated, he put down his pride and hastened after them. The girl glanced at him when his step fell beside her, and he believed that he was not unwelcome. A certain relief shone in her eyes at the second sight of him. The old man did not seem to recognize him, a pardonable fact as be was almost hidden by his heavy overcoat, and the driving snow.

“You must let me help you to your hotel.” said Cathcart, “This is an unusual night, and it can be dangerous even to those familiar with the city,”

The old man shrugged his shoulders a little and smiled faintly. Cathcart saw in the smile the touch of irony or humor that he had marked before in the voice.

“I have lived in New York forty years,” he said, “and I should be able to reach my own home unaided or at least with the help of my daughter, but it seems that I can’t. I never reckoned on such a night as this.”

The blue eyes of the girl showed merriment. It seemed that the humor of the situation appealed to her more than the danger, or, perhaps, she did not dislike the help of a handsome young man, who dropped as it were from the clouds at the opportune moment. Cathcart was good to look at, despite the whirling flakes. His eyes responded to hers with a kindred gleam.

“You see, sir, we shall have to appeal to you after all,” she said, with the slightest shade of sauciness.

Cathcart understood that she did not take it as seriously as her tone indicated, and he replied in a manner that he purposely made grave:

“The good fortune is mine.”

But the old man did not care for banter. The cold was reaching his thinner blood, and he shivered, despite his heavy overcoat. Cathcart saw the tremor of his frame and said quickly:

“If you’ll tell me which way you want to go, sir, I think the three of us can manage to get along.”

“Fifth Avenue,” replied the old man briefly, and then he added as briefly a number far up the street. Cathcart was confirmed by the location in his belief that it was a man of wealth to whom he was speaking.

Without another word they started, beating like half-sunken ships before the wind and the snow. They reached the intersection of Broadway and Fifth Avenue and turned into the avenue. The wind came down the wider sweep of the avenue with renewed force, and the thin figure of the old man wavered. Cathcart quietly lent him an arm and it was not rejected. The girl, supple and strong, walked with steady step beside them, and thus they continued in silence for two or three squares.

“I should tell you my name,” said the old man at last. “It’s James Howe, and this is my daughter, Lucy.”

He spoke with brevity, almost with brusqueness, and Cathcart replied with equal brevity but without brusqueness.

“Mine’s Arthur Cathcart,”

“Related to Gerald Cathcart?”

“Nephew.”

Lucy Howe laughed softly. Cathcart could not hear her for the wind, but he knew by the motion of her lips and the humorous gleam in her eye that she was laughing.

“This is an original introduction,” she said, raising her voice, “and I like the way in which you two condense your statements. Can I add that I think the Cathcarts and the Howes are distantly, very distantly related.”

“It’s not so distant as you think,” said Arthur stoutly, although he was by no means sure of the kinship. But he saw that he liked Lucy Howe and he foresaw that he was going to like her more.

The thin lips of James Howe shut down tightly, and an unpleasant look passed over his lean, ascetic face.

“Gerald Cathcart and I are not particularly good friends.” he said.

“But his nephew and your daughter mean to be,” rejoined Arthur, in ingratiating fashion.

The old man smiled. He could appreciate a sprightly humor in a young man, and when he smiled his face became attractive. It was distinctly like that of a fine old clergyman.

“That is yet to be seen,” he said briefly.

Arthur did not think his manner called for a reply and silence again held the three as they struggled up the slope of Fifth Avenue. He was reflecting on the chance that had brought him into contact with Mr. Howe. He knew very well who James Howe was, or at least he thought so, and so did everybody else in New York.

James Howe was conspicuous in the business and financial world of the metropolis, a director in many enterprises, and the president of a powerful bank. Rumor did not always handle his name kindly, but Cathcart was old enough to know that rumor is a most uncertain guide. However, no one ever denied that James Howe was a man worth meeting and observing.

The wind sank somewhat presently, and understanding the man’s character he took his supporting hand from his arm. James Howe, holding himself stiffly, strode on before, as if the lead was always his proper place, Arthur was not sorry, because it gave him an opportunity to walk beside the girl.

“I’m sure that we are at least second cousins,” he pleaded.

The girl shook her head, now white with snow, and the blue eyes twinkled gayly at him.

“Not nearer than eighth,” she replied.

“Why that’s just nothing at all,” said Arthur despondently.

“One can make a claim of it.”

“A claim for what?”

“That depends on the claimant.”

Arthur tried to read her meaning in those eyes of hers that seemed to change to varying shades of blue as her thoughts changed, but he was met only by a provoking smile. Before he could reply in any manner, Mr. Howe exclaimed:

“If I’m able to see straight that’s my house just ahead.”

He pointed to a massive brown stone building of the older type, standing on the eastern side of Fifth Avenue and looming through the darkness and the storm like a stone fort.

“Yes, father,” said his daughter, cheerfully, “that’s our own hearth and home and we have reached it at last, thanks to our kinsman here, whom you are going to invite to spend this terrible night under our roof.”

“Was I?” asked James Howe in his dry, ironic tone, “Well, perhaps I was, but I was not going to be in such a hurry about it.”

Then he turned directly to Arthur and said warmly:

“Of course you will stay with us. We couldn’t allow you to go out again on such a night as this.”

His manner was thoroughly sincere and Lucy Howe added her request, which at another time might have been more effective, but Arthur shook his head.

“I’d like to do so,” he said earnestly, “but I’ve got to go. Uncle Gerald, knowing that I’m due at home, would be alarmed about me. Besides the storm is dying down and there is no further danger.”

They expostulated with him, and the house was certainly tempting, when the great front doors were swung open, revealing a large hall, with big gas logs glowing with heat in a wide fireplace at the end. It was truly a haven of rest, warmth, and dryness after the fierce battle with the elements outside. But Cathcart was resolute not to linger.

“Since you will not stay tonight,” Lucy Howe said, “you must come back some other time. We are really cousins, and there is no reason why friendship should not exist between us,”

“I said that Gerald Cathcart and I were not very good friends, but I said nothing about his nephew,” interrupted James Howe, a touch of the defensive in his tone.

Arthur knew that it was a large concession from a man of his character, and he responded with emphasis that he should certainly come and come quickly. Cousinship had suddenly become a matter of great interest to him. Then he went out, and as the storm door closed rather slowly, the last that he saw within was a girlish face crowned by yellow hair, made vivid against a background of glowing firelight. Then the door was shut and he was alone in the dark street.

Very little snow was flying now and the wind had died. The clouds were gone, the moon was out, and a silver light was falling over a wonder city, a city everywhere dazzling white in its robe of snow. There was no mar, no blemish; white roofs, white walls, soaring white pinnacles, and streets white like an untouched field.

Cathcart’s home was east of Broadway, in one of those little parks, around which business life has flowed northward in New York, like the tide around an island, leaving it all the more quiet, all the more secluded, because trade, having broken in vain against the barrier, has passed on to easier conquests.

The little park lay now under the snow, and many of the fine old houses around it were already dark. Arthur Cathcart hesitated before entering his own home, because he had been thinking of many things, and he had taken a resolution. He knew that he would find his uncle in the library, and the most important of his uncle’s views were not now his. He expected a clash, and if it should occur this would be a memorable night. But, for certain reasons, he was willing that the conflict should come, and come quickly.

He paused on the door step and looked up at his house. There was no other around the park more solid or more quietly imposing. Built of dark red brick, it had none of the modern decoration or triviality, and he was conscious of much satisfaction. But he lingered there only a moment before opening the door with his pass key.

Cathcart, entering the hall, saw a light shining from a door on the right, and when his overcoat was put aside he entered. It was the library, and, as he had expected to find his uncle there, the light told him that he would not be disappointed. The room was almost square, heavy dark rugs on the floor, and oil paintings, chiefly of Old World scenes or incidents, covering the spaces on the walls that were not occupied by book cases or shelves. The books were in rich bindings, morocco or half calf, and the flames from the coal fire in the grate glowed ruddily across them.

The room was a perfect shelter from the storm, a temple of luxury and ease, but the most comfortable object in it was Mr. Gerald Cathcart, Arthur’s uncle.

Mr. Cathcart sat before the fire reclining lazily in an easy chair, a book and a glass of wine on a small table at his elbow. He fitted well in his setting. A man of fifty he was obviously the product of more than one generation of culture and good form. His gray hair lay thickly upon a smooth white forehead, his unwrinkled face showed that life had dealt kindly with him, and his peaceful eye indicated content with himself. The hand that rested upon the open page of the book was white, slender, and without rings. The physical resemblance of Mr. Cathcart and his nephew was marked, yet the keen observer would have said that there were other and greater respects in which they differed.

Mr. Cathcart turned his head slowly when he heard Arthur’s step.

“I hope you were not caught in the storm, Arthur,” he said. “What a terrible climate! I shall not pass another winter in New York.”

Arthur sat down on the other side of the fire and looked into the coals, where the red glowed deepest.

“As a matter of fact,” he replied, “I was caught in the storm; I think I was in the very worst of it, but to tell you the truth I have enjoyed it.”

Mr. Cathcart glanced again at his nephew, then laughed lightly and with irony.

“‘De gustibus,’ you know the rest,” he said; “it seems to me that the age grows rude, Bye and bye we shall have roughness valued above fineness.”

“If by roughness, you mean strength, and endurance, I think that in certain cases it should be so.”

“You have brought back too much of the west with you,” said Mr. Cathcart, “or it may be a touch of heredity.”

“You mean my mother?”

Arthur’s voice was not raised but it bore a distinct note of challenge.

“Your mother was a beautiful and good woman,” said Mr. Cathcart, “but perhaps the marriage of her and your father was somewhat unusual. She was a Kentuckian visiting here, he fell in love with her and it was a quick courtship—they were not—ah—exactly the same type.”

Arthur smiled. He did not remember his mother, but the great portrait of her showed a face young, gentle, and, he thought, wonderfully winning.

“I have never been to see my mother’s relatives in Kentucky,” he said, and now there was sly malice toward his uncle in his mind, “but I intend to go soon. I am informed that she belonged to a big family which has branches in the mountains. I read a dispatch today about a feud there, between the Harrisons and the Culvers. I think the Harrison who is leading his side is a cousin of mine. I want to know that man, who must be a primitive leader; I think he and I could become good friends. And it may be that he needs my help in the feud. I am a Harrison too, you know, through my mother. Duty can call.”

Mr. Cathcart, scorning to reply to what he considered persiflage, sipped his wine.

“My Kentucky blood will speak now and then,” continued Arthur. “That story of the feud had appealed to me in a way. As I read it, the Harrisons are in the right; that is, more nearly in the right than the other side, and their leader—Big Tom Harrison, they call him—is a man. He’s my cousin; I’m sure of it! At least, I hope he is! Do you know, Uncle Gerald, I’ve been picturing myself with him out there in the mountains, rifles on our shoulders, slipping through the dark, hunting men and hunted by them. It gives me a thrill.”

It seemed to Mr. Cathcart that there was a certain significance in his nephew’s tone and he looked more keenly. Arthur’s face was certainly grave, no trace of a jest was in his eyes.

“Then I take it that all this talk leads up to something,” said his uncle.

“It does,” replied Arthur, in the same serious tone. “I’ve been thinking over a lot of things and I’ve come to some conclusions. First, I am not going to England with you in the spring. I like England and the English well enough, but for several reasons I have decided not to go.”

He spoke without any increased emphasis, but when he teased, his lips shut down tightly.

Mr. Cathcart felt deep disappointment, but he did not intend to show it. For thirty years he had spent most of his summers in England; he was widely acquainted there among the best people; and he had planned a campaign for his nephew and himself which should lead to definite and great triumphs.

“Are you willing to give any one of these several reasons?” he asked.

“Certainly,” replied Arthur, in an unchanged tone. “In the spring I intend to be a candidate for the Lower House of the General Assembly; there is to be a special election in this district to fill a vacancy caused by death.”

Mr. Cathcart, scarcely believing, gazed in amazement and dismay at his nephew. No Cathcart had ever gone into politics; none had ever had even a remote connection with such a plebeian world.

“Are you in earnest?” he asked.

“Certainly,” replied Arthur, and he rose to his feet in some emotion. “This is the thing that I’ve been thinking about most. All the Cathcarts have been considered ladies and gentlemen, but is that all? Does one’s duty end there? You know that we never earned our money. The first Cathcart happened to own land here—it was a piece of luck—and the immense growth of the city has done the rest; our fortune grows with it; now I have no quixotic idea of giving my money to the public, but don’t we owe something to that public, which, even involuntarily, makes our wealth possible?”

A look of distaste came into the eyes of Mr. Cathcart. He had a vision of an unclean and noisy multitude.

“No,” he said, with unusual emphasis.

Arthur smiled.

“I have been looking up our family history,” he said, “and I find in it a strange fact. While we’ve been prosperous here for two centuries and a half I discover that no Cathcart has ever held office, no one of them has ever served his city, his country, his state, or province, or his nation in a public capacity. We have had many wars, colonial or those of the republic, but they were all fought without the help of any Cathcart. We have merely sat still and taken the good things as they came. No Cathcart has ever spent his mind or money or blood for the State.

“Now I think it’s time to break away. That slang term just fits the case. I feel that we Cathcarts have never done anything except for ourselves, and for that reason, I am going to be a candidate for the General Assembly.”

“And be beautifully beaten and disgraced.”

“Neither will happen. The district is overwhelming Democratic, and the Democratic nomination has already been offered to me. I have said that I would accept it.”

Mr. Cathcart turned a chilling gaze upon his nephew, foreseeing a statement that a short time ago would have appeared incredible.

“Do you mean to say,” he asked, “that—”

“Yes, I have taken a nomination from Tammany Hall. I know that you have a great horror of that organization, and I do not approve of it, either, but it seems to offer the only path now to what I want to do. I give myself the benefit of the doubt. I cannot say that all the tales told of Tammany Hall are true, or even the tenth part of them, but it is right for me to inform you that I have paid in a considerable contribution, which, so far as I know, is to meet the legitimate expenses of the campaign.”

Arthur had much of the Cathcart calm, but his voice rose a little toward the close of his words. He felt that he was on the defensive.

“I shall go to England,” said Mr. Cathcart, with thankful emphasis, “and I shall miss this wonderful campaign of yours. The English newspapers will not publish anything about it.”

“No, they won’t,” said Arthur, laughing, “but I can mail you clippings from the local press.”

“Nothing will change this resolve of yours?” said Mr. Cathcart.

“Nothing,” replied Arthur, decisively.

Mr. Cathcart’s eyes shifted to his book, and presently Arthur went to his room.

But Mr. Cathcart remained for a long time before the fire and his heart was full of bitterness. He had been proud of Arthur, of his good looks, and manly bearing, and lately he had been dreaming a fine dream. Now his nephew seemed to him to have taken the road to the depths.

His nephew, Arthur, also sat up late, but in his own room, his blood still pulsing with a new excitement. The announcement that he had made was now clearly in defiance of all the Cathcart traditions, and he was not yet sure that good would come of it. But this impulse, however, was fortified by a period of western training, He had been a delicate little boy, slender and thin, and wanting in color. Experts had predicted that he would die in childhood, and were disappointed when he failed to fulfill their predictions. One doctor, who had no great reputation, said that it was not any organic trouble with the boy, but an inability to assimilate food. He recommended that he be sent to the western plains for a period of wild life, and Arthur’s uncle, whose pride was hurt by the idea that any Cathcart should die for lack of proper nourishment, sent him. Arthur was then a tall, lanky boy of sixteen, stooping a little, and made chiefly of knots and joints.

He went to a ranch of New Mexico; many thousand acres of sand, sunshine, thin grass, and a few water holes, with clumps of trees about each hole. The ranch was his own, which made the beginnings of his life there the harder, as the cowboys unconsciously resented the proprietorship of a sickly eastern stripling who had done nothing to deserve it. But he entered upon his New Mexico career with courage and enthusiasm and rode the range bravely with the men.

Arthur felt at first an intolerable loneliness; the barrenness of the land, the heat, the deadly monotony filled his soul with weariness, but in time the desert flung over him the mysterious, uncanny spell that is so hard to break. The thin, dry air filled him with new life, and the tender lungs grew strong and enduring. The slim frame filled out, the knots and joints sank into their proper places; his face burned to a coppery brown, he could sit in the saddle twenty-four hours, he could sleep anywhere, and he could eat anything that any other man could eat.

His time in New Mexico stretched to four years, and then he came back to the East that he might take a belated course at Harvard, where all the Cathcarts went, if not educated abroad. His uncle, who received him in New York, felt some tugs at his heart-strings, when the lad appeared, but Gerald Cathcart was compelled to hide a shudder at his nephew’s appearance, which savored too strongly of a west that must be very wild.

The least observant—and Mr. Cathcart was not one of them—could not doubt Arthur’s great physical improvement, as far as rude health and strength were concerned. The frame was strong; he was many pounds heavier, although the increase was muscle and sinew, not fat. His face had a rich, reddish brown tint, somewhat like that of well-tanned leather, and he spoke invariably in a loud, direct tone that was wholly unlike the usual soft, modulated Cathcart voice. Arthur’s entire effect jarred heavily upon his uncle. It seemed to Mr. Cathcart that the cure had been of the most fatal character, and he hurried Arthur off to Harvard, which he thought would prove an antidote.

Mr. Cathcart’s hopes were justified, externally, at least. Under the nullifying influence of Cambridge, his western clothes disappeared, and after a decent interval of time, his western manners followed, although his new health and strength fortunately remained. He became a Cathcart once more, irreproachable in appearance, correct in accent, and, so far as the world could see, justifying his uncle’s hopes. He passed through the university with credit, excelling in history and literature, and playing a capital third base on the baseball team. Then, after a short trip abroad, he returned to New York in time to encounter the storm and to have the significant talk with his uncle.

Now, his mind relieved and the way plain before him, he began to feel a certain peace. Then he went to bed, and at least one in the house slept well.

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