8 The Triumph

The fight now approached its last phase and both Arthur and his opponents knew that a vote was not far off. Meanwhile, a new form of attack was made upon him with great violence. He was an enemy of both machines, Democratic and Republican alike, and as in his campaign in the city they united to crush him. The report was spread all over the state by word of mouth and by print that he was a demagogue, rejected by both parties, who was now seeking to win a place for himself by methods of notoriety and attack. The name, “The Tribune,” which someone had applied to him, was now used in derision.

The day of the vote was now almost at hand. If the measure passed the House it might yet be defeated in the Senate, but Cathcart resolved to crush it in the House, in the place of its origin. Two days were devoted to the speeches on the bill, the time fairly divided between its supporters and its opponents. The Republican Speaker held the scales with justice. He had lately fallen into bad odor with his own machine, having shown signs of independence both in thought and action, and he felt that if Cathcart should triumph the leaders, fearing another successful revolt, might not hesitate to dethrone him. Cathcart knew how the wind blew with the Speaker and he trimmed his sails to the fair breeze.

Cathcart, in opposition to the bill, made one of the most brilliant speeches ever heard on the floor of the House, and a packed audience was present when he spoke. He was so full of his subject, he knew it so thoroughly, and he felt it so deeply that his speech was spontaneous. The words crowded for utterance but came forth, logical, coherent, and tipped with fire. The audience gave intense and rapt attention throughout the speech.

Only a minute or two before he began the Howe party entered the lobby, and sat where they could have a good view of the floor. It was the first time that James Howe had come into the House, and Arthur’s single rapid but penetrating glance told him that the old banker was now aging fast. The gray hair had turned white and the wrinkled cheeks hung in thin folds. Lucy was pale, but in her paleness he saw a pathos that made her more appealing to him than ever. Mr. Hargrove was now the master spirit, swaggering, dominant, the sole proprietor, who was soon to become in every sense the head of this great banking family. Evidently Mr. Hargrove had persuaded himself that victory was near, as he radiated triumph. Cathcart did not look at the three again, but the impression that remained with him was of Lucy’s pale face.

It was pointed out afterward that, terrible though Cathcart’s indictment was, he never once called the name of James Howe, and James Howe would be the chief beneficiary under the bill. He mercilessly dissected the measure clause by clause, but he let its chief promoter alone. Those were not wanting who recalled the story that he would sell out for a price, that price to be a girl, but it was applied now in a gentler and kindlier way, and the halo around the speaker received a fresher and deeper tinge.

Worthington followed Cathcart for the opposition, and he too was in splendid form, light, witty, sarcastic, the rapier after the saber. Farmer Kirkman gave the third turn to the debate and. he scored the bill with homely simile.

Then the time for the vote came and again the lobbies were packed, the party there as before. Cathcart sat at his desk, apparently calm but beneath his work he had a great nervousness. He knew that it was a crucial moment in his career.

The clerk began to call the roll, and he was deliberate in pronouncing the names. He understood the dramatic nature of the vote and he added to it with his manner, pronouncing the syllables in long-drawn, sonorous tones. It was a singular characteristic of this test that the yeas and nays ran almost even until they were down to the P’s when the yeas ran ahead ten votes. Then a long drawn breath of triumph from the friends of the bill ran through the House and a cheer began, but it quickly died under the rappings of the Speaker. They would have died without the help of the Speaker’s gavel, because a lot of nays came together and the yeas were in a minority. It was still anybody’s fight.

The nays kept the lead and as the names moved on toward Z without any closing up of the gap Worthington could not keep a glow of triumph from his face. He moved in his seat and looked joyfully at his leader. Cathcart smiled back at him, and though his heart was beating proudly he would not yet show elation.

The clerk continued to call the names and he came to Worthington almost the last. Worthington, in a loud emphatic voice, swelled with the note of triumph voted “No!” and there were but two votes after him. The bill was beaten by a majority of seven, and a new member, a young man, had won the greatest personal triumph that the Legislature could recall!

As soon as the Clerk announced the result of the vote the Legislature and the lobbies burst into a tumult that the Speaker could not repress. The members with instinctive motion thronged about Cathcart. Worthington and Kirkham wrung a hand apiece. Congratulations poured upon him and many came from men who had voted against him. The lobbies were standing up and cheering, but three people were leaving as quietly as they could, and one of them was an old, old man, with white hair, and thin cheeks on which the wrinkled flesh hung in folds.

While the tumult was in progress three persons were sitting in the largest room in the best suite at their hotel. James Howe, his partner, and daughter had slipped out of the Capitol almost unnoticed in the crowd. When people inquired for them to see how they took it they were gone.

Mr. Howe received the blow at its full weight. It was personal as well as financial. Hidden in the carriage they had not spoken a word on their way to the hotel. Mr. Howe’s hands trembled. Mr. Hargrove was dumb with surprise and disappointment. He had persuaded himself that success was sure. Lucy looked at her father and she had a tenderer feeling for him now in defeat than in victory.

Her father crouched in a great, curtained chair in his sitting room, and the stoop in his shoulders showed more perceptibly, Lucy’s eyes became wet as she looked at him. It was no day of triumph for her, nor yet wholly of defeat. She walked to the window and looked out at the street and the people passing in the bright wintry sunshine. It was Mr. Hargrove who spoke first and he addressed himself to Mr. Howe.

“It’s only a temporary defeat,” he said. “The fellow took us by surprise. We can bring the bill up again in another form, and then we’ll win.”

Lucy turned and looked at him with bright eyes. She saw clearly that Mr. Hargrove looked only at the tangible result of the defeat, the loss of millions. Of the position in which he and Mr. Howe were placed before the public he thought nothing, or at least little.

“I wouldn’t mind it, Mr. Howe,” he said. “We can down him sure. We’ll get to work on a new bill at once.”

Then a strange thing happened, and Mr. Hargrove was almost petrified with surprise, Lucy Howe suddenly walked forward and put her hand on her father’s shoulder. The gesture was at once rebuking and protecting, but as she faced Mr. Hargrove her face expressed only defiance.

“There will be no new bill,” she said, “or if there is one my father will have nothing to do with it. That bill was wrong and both of you know it. You cannot fight Mr. Cathcart. He would beat you again. Before this you have had to deal with only cowards and trimmers. It is the first time that you have had to fight a man who has both courage and knowledge, and who is on the side of right. There is a change, too, in the public. I am a woman, but I can feel it better perhaps than you.”

Mr. Hargrove stared, open-mouthed, but he did not speak. Mr. Howe flared up.

“Leave us at once, Lucy!” he said. “How dare you speak in such a manner!”

The old man rose to his feet. The stoop was gone from his shoulders, and his cheeks were livid. But Lucy was not afraid. She was conscious alike of her own strength, and of the sudden new note of weakness in her father.

“She loves Cathcart,” said Mr. Hargrove sullenly.

She flashed him one look, which was enough to tell him that he had made a great mistake, but she did not notice him otherwise. With a protecting gesture of tenderness she put her arm around her father’s neck.

“Father,” she said, “you are wrong and Mr. Cathcart is right. He has won because he is right. You must see it now. I ask you to let this measure go. We don’t need any more money. Come, let’s go away. It’s time for you to rest. You’ve worked hard for fifty years, can’t you play a little now?”

She pressed her smooth young cheek against his old and wrinkled one. Despite his faults and his sins, which were those of the world, she loved him and he knew it. The defeat, too, had been more crushing than he would admit, and for the first time in half a century he felt tired—tired in body, mind, and soul. He did not realize until today that he was old, and what the girl said was true—a half century of work and no play.

“You will quit, won’t you father?” she entreated. “You have been deceived. With an equal chance you could defeat anybody, but you were on the wrong side, and you did not know it.”

She appealed at once to his love and to his pride. His other children, so much older, married, and gone from home, had also passed partly from his heart, and his full love was centered upon his youngest child.

“If for no other reason, drop the bill to oblige me,” she entreated.

Mr. Hargrove had been standing by the window, silent but full of wrath. Mr. Hargrove, with all his rise in the world, was still wanting in finesse, and now he came over to Mr. Howe and said:

“Mr. Howe, you won’t abandon this bill! You can’t! We can’t! Do you know what has been the talk of this town? They said at first that Cathcart would drop the fight because he loved your daughter! Now are we to drop it because your daughter loves—”

He got no further. Lucy turned upon him with flaming face and angry eyes that transfixed him, although she said not a word, and Mr. Hargrove stopped abruptly. He realized that again he had let his passion get the better of him.

“Father,” said Lucy gently, “don’t you see, that if there is such talk, it is better for us to stop it by going away. Why can’t we go to Europe again or to California? They are all attacking you now, but they will forget it, if you are out of sight.”

Mr. Hargrove made a gesture of scorn as if he could not believe that his partner, could be so weak, and once more he was guilty of a mistake. Mr. Hargrove, with all his worldly experience, persisted in measuring people by himself, and the measure often failed. It was the greatest fault in his mental composition. Mr. Howe took fire at the sign of insubordination from his junior and the old decision returned.

“We will abandon the bill,” he said. “The Twentieth National Bank will have nothing further to do with it, and you and I, Lucy, will go to Southern California in two weeks. You are right, I need rest, and a warmer climate than this is good in the winter for an old man.”

She was wise enough not to be effusive, not to make any fuss over him and his decision, but merely kissed him on the forehead and said, “I’m sure, father, you’ll never be sorry.”

Mr. Hargrove, knowing himself defeated, left the room, none too politely.

Arthur and Lucy met but once during the session, and it was the next day after Lucy influenced Mr. Howe’s decision. He had gone to their hotel to see a fellow committee-man, and, not finding the man in his room, was wandering about the building in search of him. He went into one of the small parlors which was dusky with half lights and saw a dim figure by the deeply curtained window. Here he thought might he his man, but a woman’s voice spoke to him gravely and called him by name.

Cathcart flushed when he saw that it was Lucy, and mingled emotions caused the flush, but he sat down beside her.

“I did not know that you would speak to me now.” he blundered out.

“Why not?” she asked gravely sweet.

“Oh, that bill! in the public eye it has put your father and myself in direct opposition, and as we may have to go over it all again we shall be in the same position.”

She glanced at him, and if the light had not been so dim he might have seen a little smile in the blue eyes.

“You are not complimentary,” she said. “You make me a poor politician. Do you think that a woman must always turn a political fight into a personal one, too?”

“I suppose not.” he said. “At any rate I’m glad to hear you say ‘No.’”

“Whether you believe me or not,” she said, “I will tell you a piece of news that you must believe. You will not have it all to do over again. The Twentieth National Bank is done with the Rapid Transit Bill forever. It will not be presented a second time.”

“You know this?” he asked incredulously.

“I know it to be a fact. My father has given his promise.”

He divined at once that she had been the cause of the final retreat.

“It was you who did it.” he said.

She was silent. Her hand lying upon the arm of the chair trembled a little. Cathcart was a bold man, but he was also a modest one. Had he been a bold man without self depreciation he might have spoken then. He would have jumped at once to the conclusion that she had done this for his sake, but being what he was, he concluded that it was wholly on her father’s account

“I am glad,” he said, simply and earnestly. “You do not think that it has ever been any pleasure to me to be in direct opposition to Mr. Howe?”

“No, I do not. I have been able to credit you with different motives.”

“And you do not believe that I have been merely a seeker after notoriety?”

“Nor that either. I attribute to you higher aims.”

He paused, embarrassed, but she added quietly:

“We return to New York this afternoon and my father and I start for Los Angeles next week. We are likely to remain in Southern California all the winter.”

“Then we part as friends, I hope?” he said.

“Oh, yes she replied. ”Haven’t I just told you that I do not turn political quarrels into personal ones. You will come to see us in New York, when we return.”

“If I may?”

She left Albany with her father that afternoon, and the newspapers announced definitely the next morning that no attempt would be made to revive the Rapid Transit Bill. But they did not state that it had received its death blow from the hands of a girl.

Cathcart returned to New York as a hero and there followed banquets and receptions. But Arthur did not intend to be idle.

His Albany fight was really a New York fight waged in Albany, and now he meant to go deeper into metropolitan affairs. While his friends and enemies thought he was resting, bathed in adulation, he was on his way back to Albany with a plan that he intended to put through while his reputation was fresh.

There had been much talk recently about great financial institutions in New York holding funds that were in the nature of trust funds, intended chiefly as a reserve for widows and orphans. It had been said that they had long influenced legislation by methods that were corrupt, and were growing insolent in their power. Their officers paid to themselves enormous salaries out of the trust funds while the dividends of the widows and orphans steadily dwindled. These officers were financial autocrats in collusion with the great bankers, who, as directors, supported them, while they sold to them securities at excessive prices, all paid for out of the funds of the widow and orphan. They had been so long in the habit of taking other people’s money and they had done it with such impunity that they considered other people’s money their own.

It was now Cathcart’s purpose to attack this colossal moneyed ring, which deemed itself invincible, and again he found a friend in the Speaker, who was in bad odor with the Republican machine, because the leaders did not consider him faithful enough. He was, as the politicians say, to be thrown down hard when his term was over, but the Independents were rallying to him, and encouraged by Cathcart’s example he was making a fight for political life on the basis of his own worth and honor and with every prospect of success.

Cathcart on the floor of the house demanded an investigation of the suspected corporations, and he brought the facts to support his demand. He repeated the demand and he kept it up day after day, seconded again by Worthington. He also secured an ally in the Senate who pushed it there, and despite all the efforts of a powerful lobby the result was a joint committee of investigation, of which he was the leading member.

The committee went down to New York amid some public ridicule. The people had forgotten Cathcart and were running after a new hero, and the old cry of “demagogue,” “notoriety-seeker,” was raised. Mr. Hargrove was active in it, but Mr. Howe and Lucy were still in Southern California and Arthur had not heard a word from them.

Arthur found that he had embarked upon a most difficult task. The insolent officials of the great corporations sneered at the committee; they talked about a few cheap legislators trying to upset the huge financial fabric of the country. They freqently disobeyed the summonses of the committee, and at other times they lounged languidly and late in the sessions where they affected indifference at the questions asked them. They answered vaguely or were afflicted with sudden great lapses of memory. They stared through gold-rimmed glasses at the members of the committee, as if they were specimens of strange animals just come to town.

There was a week of baffling work, without result; the probe would not go in. But Arthur persevered, and above all he worked. He sought evidence everywhere, and he brought back presidents and vice-presidents again and again, until the committee began to get a hold. He made these men disclose the extent of their gigantic salaries, although official after official had sworn that he did not know the salary of anybody else in his institution. He uncovered the purchases of securities, he showed how the directors who were also bankers and brokers elsewhere, would buy, for the corporations securities from themselves at more than the market price, and sell back to themselves at less than the market price.

The two great political machines exerted themselves to protect the magnates. The leaders of both had received substantial favors from them, and they did not want such kind gentlemen to be crushed. But they could do little; the public was aroused, and the terrible Cathcart was always on guard. Not only were they powerless to help, but they, too, were soon involved in the exposures. The steady probing reached more than one sore spot. It was shown that the machine leader on each side had received money from the guilty corporations to affect legislation, and a dozen great reputations, financial, or political, were shattered. Cathcart often recalled words once spoken to him by Radigan. “I’m better than a lot of those who are bigger than me,” and now, when he considered their respective opportunities, he concluded that Radigan had told the truth.

The investigation went far into the autumn, through hot weather and into the cold. The strain upon Cathcart, the days of acute cross-questioning and the nights of assiduous preparation would have been great beyond endurance had he not been possessed of a constitution strengthened by an open life in the west, and a spirit that would not yield.

Cathcart, as usual, was looking far ahead. He intended to shatter, once for all, the nefarious alliance between low politics and high finance in the city of New York, and he planned an increase of his political power. Worthington, at his instance, came from Rochester to New York to live, and Arthur resolved to make him district attorney of the Borough of Manhattan when the term of the incumbent expired in the following year. This important office should be filled by an able, fearless, and independent man, and there was none better than Worthington.

In one of the intervals of the long examination Radigan came to see him at his house, and revived the proposition he had made at Albany. Radigan, as usual, was frank and was not burdened with a sense of shame.

“I’ve kept quiet about this matter until the present, Mr. Cathcart,” he said, “but, I’ve got to look out for the future. It’s the business of a district leader like me to know when he’s licked, an’ I’ve been licked good an’ hard by you. You’ve thrown down the old bosses and you’re to be the new boss. I want to fight under you and for you.”

“Why, I’m no boss, Mr. Radigan!” exclaimed Cathcart, “and I don’t want to be one.”

Radigan looked incredulous. It did not enter into his scheme of things that a man should unseat another for any purpose except to get his place.

“Then what’s your game?” he asked in surprise.

“To make our government as clean and effective as possible.”

“And nothing on the side for a friend?”

“I haven’t anything to give, but I hope that all my friends will get from the public everything they deserve.”

It was a diplomatic and vague answer that did not convince Radigan. He merely concluded that Cathcart was an unusally deep one who would not talk at all. He went out saying that he was a Cathcart man and expected to see Cathcart a bigger and more powerful figure than any Tammany Chieftain who had gone before.

Nevertheless the interview turned Arthur’s mind toward a new thought. Was he displacing the old; was he smashing a machine merely to set up a new machine of his own? The sense of great power is the deepest and most thrilling feeling that a man can have, but he had not embarked upon a career of real reform merely to secure in the end a crown for himself; and although he was human from head to foot, which was why people liked him, he resolutely put from himself any plan that might make him a mere successor of those whom he was deposing.

Winter came and Arthur did not yet hear from the Howes except in an indirect way, and his chief informant was Mrs. Throckmorton, who always took a motherly, or rather an elder-sisterly, interest in him.

“They are still in California, Arthur,” she said. “Mr. Howe’s health has not been good, although the soft air there has been very beneficial to him. They expected to return in the summer, but they stayed on, nevertheless, and now that winter is here I think they are sure to remain until next spring, at least. I hear that Mr. Howe has mellowed and in an unobtrusive way is giving much to charity.”

Arthur made inquiry, and he found that Mrs. Throckmorton’s information in regard to Mr. Howe was correct. He was giving great sums in many places, and doing it all so quietly that his right hand and his left hand were in proper ignorance of each other. His heart throbbed. He knew the quiet agent who was responsible for this change, and the wish to see her was hard to resist putting into action. Only his intense and concentrated work kept him in New York, and measurably peaceful.

The investigation ended in a complete triumph for the committee and the prosecution. Every charge and move was proved to be true, and all the guilty or derelict officials were deposed. The financial world began a vigorous course of house-cleaning, and then Arthur undertook to play a hand in the Mayoralty election which was coming the next autumn. It was a long look ahead, but he saw that public opinion could not be molded too early, and that he could afford to make the mistake of underestimating the strength of the opposition to him.

He began to organize clubs of Independents and to preach the doctrine of putting all city governments on a strictly non-partisan basis; merit, in his opinion, should be the only test, and municipal affairs should be administered with all the thoroughness and rigid honesty of a private business. He plunged into this, heart and soul, just as he had gone into all his other campaigns, and his work was unceasing throughout the winter.

Along toward the latter part of the cold weather his friends began to advise rest for him. He was growing thin and pale, and in February was seized with a sudden attack of dizziness. But he recovered quickly and continued burning the candle at both ends, working night and day, attending to a multitude of affairs, allowing himself no relaxation. A second attack of dizziness, worse than the first came, and, although it passed soon, he now heeded the warning.

“Hide yourself,” said the doctor, “go clear away from New York and politics and finance. A rest is worthless unless it’s complete.”

Arthur took him at his word and his heart turned longingly toward the great southwest that had made him physically. He wanted to see the clean deserts again, to feel the unresting winds on his face, and to ride the range with the wild cowboys of his memory. Time and distance gave glowing colors to it all, deeper and more vivid than the real, and he thirsted for it like a man who has long gone dry.

He was ready in a day, and three days later he was on his ranch in New Mexico, in the great silence, alone on the deserts and the range, save for the rough friends of his youth, and they and he were mere dots in space.

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