2 Old and New

Arthur and his uncle were rather quiet at breakfast, both suffering from slight constraint, although perfect courtesy prevailed between them; no Cathcart would ever stoop to a rude manner. The sunshine from a glorious winter day fell through the long windows and lay across the floor of the dining room. The world outside was all white below and all blue and gold above. Arthur felt a great surge of the spirits, but having in mind his uncle’s obvious disappointment, he did not show it.

“I should tell you. Uncle Gerald,” he remarked presently, “that while out in the storm last night I was happy enough to assist at a rescue.”

“A bootblack or a newsboy?” sourly asked Mr. Cathcart over his newspaper.

“You’ve guessed almost the exact opposite to the truth,” replied Arthur, a humorous gleam showing in his eye. “James Howe is very far from being either a bootblack or a newsboy. His daughter, too, was with him. I thought her extremely good looking.”

“James Howe!” said his uncle in surprise.

“Yes, I found them in the snow deserted by their cabman, and helped them to their homes. Miss Howe and I have claimed kinship. Now, uncle, will you tell me why you and Mr. Howe do not like each other?”

Mr. Cathcart frowned and his lip curled a little, as if he remembered something unpleasant.

“The cause was not at all complex,” he replied; “it was a divergence of taste, or perhaps, of judgment. James Howe has been all his life for business, the accumulation of money, financial power, while I have preferred to live what is considered abroad the life of a gentleman, to achieve culture, repose, dignity. He thinks me idle and effeminate, while I know that he is unscrupulous and grasping.”

Mr. Cathcart, after this explanation, turned to his toast, as if the subject were dismissed forever, and Arthur remained silent. He was thinking that each of the elder men might be nearly half right in his opinion of the other.

After breakfast Arthur went for a walk. He did not go far—only a half a mile or so, and his journey ended at a large restaurant, which seemed to be built chiefly of glass, and which at night glittered both inside and out with electric lights. It was a showy place of cheap prices and had a great patronage. Over the main entrance shone the sign, “The Palace Restaurant,” with the name, “James Radigan, Proprietor,” in smaller letters just under.

Cathcart entered and walked to the bar in the rear.

“Is Mr. Radigan in?” he asked of one of the white-aproned waiters.

“Yes, Mr. Cathcart,” replied the man, a certain respect showing in his tone, and coming from behind the bar, he opened the door of a small inner room.

Cathcart entered the sanctuary and found himself in the presence of Mr. James Radigan, the prosperous proprietor of the Palace Restaurant, and the Democratic leader of the district.

Mr. Radigan was a man of middle height and middle years, and, if the use of such an expression can be justified, of middle appearance—that is, neither noticeably bad nor noticeably good. Distinctly Irish in countenance—he was born on the East Side of Irish parentage—yet he spoke without an Irish accent. The only conspicuous thing he wore was a large diamond shirt stud, an article of adornment for which the ward politician in America had a decided liking.

“You haven’t come to tell me that you’re going to back out, have you, Mr. Cathcart?” said Radigan as he held out his hand.

“What have I done to make you think I was a quitter?” asked Cathcart, as he shook the offered hand. The very fact that he used the word “quitter” showed how much he had departed from the original Cathcart standard.

“It was just a feeler that I was throwing out,” returned Radigan with entire good nature.

Cathcart sat down. He seemed to have come, in the half mile from his own home, into another world. Here everything was large, coarse, obvious and—where possible—glittering.

“I’ve come to ask you,” he said, “when you think we should begin the campaign!”

Radigan puckered up his lips thoughtfully.

“Not for a month,” he replied. “It’s getting to be the habit here to put the real work into the last week or two, an’ it’s a good thing. Now, there’s one question that I’ve been intending to ask you, Mr. Cathcart. Of course your name helps us—that’s why we have asked you to run, but can you talk?”

“I don’t know, but I’m willing to try,” replied Cathcart, with apparent bravery, though he felt a certain sinking of the heart.

“Then we’ll put you on the platform. It’ll do if you can make any kind of a speech, but it’ll be all the better if you can make a good one. A dude or two here and there ain’t bad for any organization.”

“But I’m no dude,” laughed Cathcart.

Radigan now began to talk more definitely of the plans for the campaign. Other men, nearly all of whom were party workers, came in, and Cathcart was introduced to them one by one. They were of an assortment possible only in New York. The Irishman, the Canadian, the Pole, the Hebrew, the Italian, the Swede, and a half dozen others passed through Radigan’s little office that morning and Cathcart met and shook hands with them all. The ordeal lasted a long time—or, at least it seemed so to Arthur, and he found it difficult now and then to repress the feeling of hostility bred in him by the suspicious or belligerent attitude shown by some of the men whom he met.

“You see what you’ve got to buck up against,” said Radigan, when the last of the men had gone. “But the boys are not such a bad lot. They ain’t up to Newport, an’, then, maybe they ain’t down to it, either.”

When Arthur left the office he was conscious that Radigan’s manner was approving, and the embryonic politician felt more satisfaction than he would have been willing to own.

But his mind turned quickly now from his political venture to James Howe and his daughter, and in the afternoon he went to the Twentieth National Bank, on Nassau Street, where a discreet messenger took his card to the inmost of the inner offices.

The messenger returned and escorted Cathcart discreetly to the innermost interior of the bank. Mr. Howe, who was sitting by a very long rolltop desk rose when Cathcart entered and a younger man, who had been sitting by him, in earnest talk, rose also. Without his muffling overcoat Mr. Howe looked more than ever like a minister, with his long, thin, smoothly-shaven face, and his beautiful, silvery hair brushed carefully back from his temples. But a closer look would have shown nothing ministerial in the steely glance of the cool, blue eyes. He was clad wholly in black and his close fitting frock coat was very long. The man who had risen with him was dressed in like fashion; he, too, was smoothly-shaven, ascetic of face and strong of feature, but he was darker than Mr. Howe, and not more than thirty-five.

A faint ray of geniality passed over Mr. Howe’s face at sight of Cathcart and he advanced, holding out his hand.

“You probably saved my life last night, Mr. Cathcart,” he said with some warmth, though not without loss of dignity, “and you are welcome here on that account and for your own sake also.”

The impression that he made upon Arthur was distinctly pleasing. It was the manner of a man, kind of heart, and disposed to be at peace with his fellow men. They shook hands like two who are about to begin a genuine friendship and Mr. Howe nodded toward the third of the party.

“Mr. Hargrove, Mr. Cathcart,” he said. “Mr. Hargrove is our first vice-president. I’m sure you’ve heard of him. Mr. Cathcart is the gentleman of whom I was speaking to you this morning.

He passed these bits of information back and forth between the two, a kindly smile in his blue eyes. But Arthur knew Mr. Hargrove very well by reputation. While Mr. Howe was one of the old giants of finance, Mr. Hargrove was one of the young Titans in the same world, who have been springing up so frequently in New York of late years. He was of humble origin, and he had first come into public notice by his operations with a number of trolley roads on the Jersey shore. He had succeeded in combining several ill-managed, non-paying concerns, and then issuing new stock, which he sold at a great advance, ultimately harvesting a million. It was then but a few steps to the first vice-presidency of the powerful Twentieth National Bank and a high place in the esteem of the great Mr. Howe.

Mr. Hargrove also shook hands with Arthur, but his manner was reserved and unsmiling as became a young Titan of finance. Arthur thought him less attractive than his chief, not so much endowed with the milk of human kindness, but he had small chance for examination as Mr. Hargrove excused himself at once and left the room.

“Sit down, Mr. Cathcart,” said Mr. Howe in a hospitable tone, “and tell me what I can do for you. I am sure that you, at least, are not seeking a loan.”

Arthur smiled as he took the proffered chair.

“No, I do not want a loan,” he replied, “and I’m afraid I’m intruding upon a busy man. I merely wished to know that you had not suffered from last night’s exposure.”

“I’m as well as I ever was, thanks to you,” replied the banker, a kindly gleam in his blue eyes, “and you are not intruding at all.”

“And Miss Howe?”

“I think she enjoyed the experience. It was a tonic to her.”

Mr. Howe shot from beneath lowered lids one of those keen, incisive looks that pierce to the hearts and minds of men. He was far more than a mere money-lender; he was an almost infallible judge of human character and temper.

“You might inquire of Lucy herself to what extent she survived the storm,” he said.

“I certainly shall do so,” replied Arthur.

Then he paused and a little silence which was awkward to him followed. Mr. Howe suddenly became very grave and turning a direct look upon the young man said:

“I notice by the newspaper today that you are a candidate for the General Assembly and that you have the Tammany nomination.”

Arthur bowed in affirmation.

“That doesn’t please your Uncle Gerald,” said Mr. Howe, his smile returning, “but it’s not a bad thing. More of our young men should go into politics. We are leaving public life too much to the harum-scarum and irresponsible.”

Then he began a discourse that interested, absorbed, and at last fascinated Arthur. It was a panegyric of the great commercial and financial men who in Mr. Howe’s opinion were the builders and pillars of every nation.

But he broke off suddenly, and said, smiling his kindly smile:

“Why should I afflict you so? You know your own duty far better than I can tell it to you.”

When Arthur was in the street again with the cold nipping air stimulating his lungs and mind he felt that he had been overpowered by a presence and he had regrets; regrets that he had not told Mr. Howe of his purpose not to be identified with a class; he intended, if he should be sent to Albany, to judge all things for himself.

Arthur Cathcart was not a man who took trouble. Nor did not need the hint of James Howe to spur his inclination. He had already intended to return to the Howe home, and in doing so he found the vague claim of kinship very useful.

When he reached the banker’s house he paused a moment on the stone steps and looked up at the house, a great, solid mass of dark stone. James Howe lived on doubtful ground. Though of a good family in the city he had never belonged to the inner circle of New York society, chiefly because he did not care, whatever his daughters may have felt or wished. Now, all his daughters except the youngest, Lucy, were married to men of wealth and position, though not of fashion, and his widowed sister, Mrs. Thornton, was the head of his household.

Arthur rang the bell, was shown by a severe footman into the parlor, and presently Miss Howe came, still making the claim of kinship and speaking half in jest, half seriously of his timely help in the storm. They were young, they had met auspiciously, and they found a keen pleasure in the company of each other. Although hers was a young girl’s face, all softness, roundness, and delicate tints, it bore a marked resemblance to her father’s, and Cathcart surmised that on occasion it might grow decisive and stern. He was sure, too, that the blue eyes could become steady and unflinching. Firmness seemed to him to be a characteristic of hers and it attracted him.

He told her of his life in the west, of long days under a scorching sun or in a biting blizzard, of the endless brown plains and the scant water-holes, of the stampeded herds, the round-ups and country sports.

“I should like to see all that,” she said, with a little wistful sigh. “It may seem strange to you, but I have traveled scarcely at all. I have been on two or three formal trips to Europe, but I have never really explored, and I know nothing about my own country. Father is always immersed in business, and my sisters are married and have families of their own. I’m just an idler.”

“I’ve been one, too,” said Arthur, “and it’s not excusable in a man. But I don’t mean to be one any more if I can help it.”

Then he was drawn to tell her of his political ambitions, of his desire to serve his city and state, a thing that he had no thought of doing when he entered the house, but to which he was encouraged by her sympathy and congenial spirit. But he found himself speaking fully and freely to her as he had never done to anybody else, telling his plans in detail, what he hoped to achieve, and the position that he wished to make for himself, not through any selfish aim but in the hope that he might repay the city, at least to a small extent, for the great debt that the Cathcart family owed to it.

He was rewarded by seeing a glow on her face and a sparkle in her eyes. Carried away by his own imagination and eloquence he had taken her fancy captive too, and he knew it.

Before he left, her aunt, Mrs. Thornton, came into the room and he was introduced. She was a woman of sixty, tall, thin, severe, and given to curt speech. She did not warm toward Cathcart, remaining strictly formal, but he judged that it was her habitual manner and he took no offense.

It was night when he entered the street, but the electric lights gleamed in long parallel rows down the avenue, and the city looked more brilliant and gay to him than ever.

After dinner he visited James Radigan again in his office behind the glittering rooms of the Palace Restaurant. Mr. Radigan was in a good humor and was slightly patronizing, as became one of his superior experience, and in a way, his superior knowledge. “You are takin’,” he said, in satisfaction to Cathcart. And when Arthur looked puzzled, he added, “The district is tickled with the idea of havin’ you. It was a good thing for the organization to put you up.”

The district was of a mixed character. In two or three sheltered corners, like the part in which Arthur lived, it included some of the old aristocratic New York families, all household names; but further east it dropped off abruptly into a region of tenements, swarming with people of foreign birth, particularly Italians and Slavs. Cathcart made a short visit there a day or two later with Radigan, and the result was not flattering to his pride, of which he had plenty. He was nothing; Radigan was everything. The aliens there belonged body and soul to Tammany Hall, which looked after them, got them places, and often fed them when they were hungry.

Radigan, with his quick Celtic intellect or instinct, had picked up more or less of the foreign tongues, and he was able to talk to all of his constituents in their own native languages, while Cathcart was forced to wait for the leader’s interpretation, in which he did not put full trust.

Cathcart, as he left Radigan at the restaurant and walked home alone, felt that he was making progress, but he doubted whether he could ever get into real touch with these alien people of the tenements in his district; he and they did not seem to meet anywhere on common ground, but he had no notion of quitting.

He saw numerous announcements of his candidacy in the newspapers, and he was not surprised at the space devoted to it, as he was well aware of the general opinion hitherto, that the Cathcart family was completely divorced from politics and public life. Many of the comments made him blush. He was described frequently as a young millionaire of the oldest family who was going down among the people, when he had never felt that he was, in any sense going down, and he found himself invariably treated as either a sensation or a joke. He was interviewed frequently, and the first reporter who came for his views was young Collins, with whom he soon formed a strong and endearing friendship. Collins was frivolous in manner, and, at intervals, irregular of habits, but he had a vast, though perhaps ill-digested knowledge of the varied life of New York, far greater than any that Arthur Cathcart could claim. When the last note of the interview was taken and Collins stood with his hat in his hand preparatory to going he said seriously:

“Mr. Cathcart, may I tell you something, if I speak wholly as a friend?”

“Why, certainly,” replied Arthur in some surprise.

“As you are just starting in public life be good to reporters. It’s the reporters, not the editors, who make and unmake public men.”

“I’ll take your advice,” said Arthur warmly.

The interview the next morning was all that he could wish, written with remarkably good taste, and presenting a picture of himself with which he could not fail to be pleased.

Arthur now plunged more vigorously than ever into his canvass, and betweenwhiles appeared at the house of James Howe, who gave him a fatherly patronage that he scarcely knew whether to like or dislike. He dined there a week after his first meeting, and beside himself Mr. William Hargrove, first vice-president of the Twentieth National Bank, was a guest. Arthur saw, too, with some dismay, that the young Titan of Finance was not only a guest but a favored one as well. Mr. Howe treated him almost as a son.

The talk that evening at the dinner table ran on financial and political life, and it was conducted chiefly by Mr. Howe and Mr. Hargrove, Arthur taking little part in it, although he did not fail to notice what was said. He observed that the two men looked upon business and finance as first, public life was second, subordinate to the former, and if regulated properly, under their control.

After dinner he was able, by long waiting, to snatch a moment or two alone with Lucy Howe. They were standing within the curve of the great bay window looking out at the white gleam of the asphalt on the avenue and the whiter gleam of the snow on the park beyond.

You are annoyed,“ she said, looking up at him and drawing his gaze with her own.

“Annoyed! I couldn’t be annoyed when I’m with you, Miss Howe.”

“That’s perfunctory. It hasn’t the slightest ring of the spontaneous about it. I repeat that you are annoyed, and it was because of the way my father and Mr. Hargrove talked at the dinner table.”

The words were plain, but the tone was whimsical. She folded her hands behind her, put her head a little on one side, and smiled at him as if to say:

“You can’t deny what I have said.”

Nor could he. He merely replied:

“You are observant and keen, Miss Howe.”

“You did not like the way they disposed of you politically. But perhaps they were right. Does not one have to take sides? Will you not have to be either against them or for them?”

He did not know whether she was in earnest or whether she was merely seeking to draw him out, but he was saved the hazard of a reply by the advent of Mr. Hargrove, who would not suffer the two to be alone long.

The banker, his sister, and other guests joined them presently, and Mr. Howe dominated them all. Arthur began to see other phases of his character than the ability to make money, a quality which might be first with him but which did not monopolize. Financiers of the first rank must have the gift of imagination, which usually carries with it the ability to appreciate the activities included in the finer worlds of literature and art.

Mr. Howe had a magnificent library, rich in first editions, rare old bindings, illuminated manuscripts, and other treasures of the book world which many men and few women love, collected at the cost of infinite patience and much money, but an object of delight when it is gathered under one roof. As he showed it to his guests he talked freely and eloquently of his volumes, explaining their history and value, and the blue eyes, usually so cold, lighted up with a warmth as simple and innocent as that of a child.

They passed on to the picture gallery, a long room well lighted, and filled with examples of both the old and the modern masters. An art critic himself, the great banker also commanded the aid and advice of experts, and he was known in every art capital of Europe, where he was a frequent and liberal purchaser. The exhibition was really wonderful, including a marvelous collection of landscapes of the Barbizon school over which Arthur lingered long, soothing and delighting his eye with restful woodland scenes. Mr. Howe was obviously gratified at the tribute of his guests. The steel-blue eyes again shone with warmth.

As they left the gallery Lucy stopped a moment beside Cathcart and nodding toward her father said:

He loves such beautiful things as these and I love him because he loves them.”

Arthur went to see Radigan again the next day. The leader was in a delightful humor, showing his very best side, telling anecdotes of the polyglot population in the district, all of whose idiosyncrasies he seemed to know, and showing a most cheerful and optimistic view of life and his contemporaries.

“Bye the bye,” he said to Arthur, after a while, “there’s some legislation coming up at Albany next term that will affect us here. I recall several bills, the new bridge bill and that one of the East Side Rapid Transit Company. I think its main scheme is to have a new subway on the East Side. Subways are provin’ a success here, owin’ to the long, narrow shape of the island, and the lack of room above ground. But I don’t know, I don’t know.”

“It seems to me,” said Arthur, “that a new subway would be a good thing. The more rapid transit we have and the more rapid it is the better.”

Radigan laughed in his easy, good-natured way.

“It does sound good,” he said, reflectively, “and our people would be sure to like it. I was merely telling you, so far as I knew of the things that you’d have to handle, when you went up to Albany, and this is one of them. It might be a good thing, you rather make me take that view of it.”

Arthur was by nature opposed to corporate monopoly, and he was glad that he had converted Radigan so quickly. He felt a little glow of triumph, and already he was inclined to look upon the bill in the most friendly manner. He left shortly, and his opinion of Radigan was better than ever.

Arthur, that afternoon, also called on Mrs. Throckmorton, a particular friend of his uncle, a woman of fifty, portly, rich, and capable of finding much enjoyment in life, to which task she devoted her whole energy. She and Mr. Cathcart had been friends since childhood, and a mild affection, which could lead to nothing and which neither wished to lead to anything, existed between the two. She was powerful in the social world, and that was why Arthur, whom she regarded almost as a son, went to her. At his request, and smiling quietly at his eagerness, she found an excuse for meeting Lucy Howe and for cultivating her, and thus behind her protecting shield Arthur more than once met the girl who, whether consciously or unconsciously, began to dominate his mind.

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