8 Before the Public

I plunged more deeply than ever into the study and practice of the law, and vague bits of gossip, chiefly to the effect that I was “rising,” came to my ear—I do not deny that they gave me great pleasure. I went back and forth between Carlton and Louisville, and in the city I appeared more than once before the very police Judge who had held me on my examining trial. He would have been an acute man indeed had he recognized in me Charles Johnson, the burglar whom he passed on to the higher court for conviction.

When the spring came I was a candidate for the Democratic nomination for the Lower House of the Legislature from my county, and I secured it without any trouble, no one offering against me. The nomination was also equivalent to an election.

As soon as the primary election was over and the small matters attendant upon it were closed, I went to Louisville to help my friend, Guthrie, where a powerful organization had been built up against him by Cobbett, Grey and Harrison. Shall I say, too, although I did not know it then, that the desire to see Alicia again helped to draw me thither!

I came into Louisville, late on a June afternoon, when the business of the day had died down and the city was at its best, and as I am fond of walking, I took neither cab nor car at the station, but strolled slowly toward the hotel which was a full mile away. The twilight deepened into the kindly dusk of a summer night, neither revealing nor concealing, but softening crude and ragged outlines and blending the city into one harmonious and gentle whole.

I passed into one of the better avenues and I saw a woman come from a large house, evidently a home of wealth, and enter a waiting carriage. I knew her even before I saw her face. I could not forget the languorous figure, the sinister, pantherish grace, and the single glimpse of her full-tinted cheeks and warm, dark eyes was not needed to tell me it was Pauline Harmon. She did not see me, a stray stroller in the dusk, but spoke a word to the driver, and when the door of the carriage was closed upon her it rolled slowly away. There is an instinctive curiosity in us all, and as the carriage went in my direction I followed it with my eyes. Louisville is not a crowded city in its residence streets and unless the occasion is special a carriage is not lost in a throng. It went on straight ahead of me and so slowly that the distance between us was diminished but little.

As I said this curiosity of mine was instinctive but vague. I had no thought of watching Pauline Harmon in order to see something that was not intended to be seen. I merely supposed that she was going to some evening entertainment.

But the carriage turned into one of the narrower side streets, a short street lined on either side with old-fashioned residences, set deeply among shade trees.

Here in the thickest shadow of overhanging boughs the carriage stopped a moment, a man stepped quickly from the dusk, opened its door and stepped as quickly in. The door was closed behind, and the carriage drove on at a swifter pace, I knew not whither.

The glimpse had been but momentary, but as I could not mistake the woman so I could not mistake the man; the thick, powerful figure; the aggressive swing of the broad shoulders were too well known to me ever to forget them, and I needed no look at the face to tell me with the certainty of fact that it was George Grey.

I walked on troubled by a certain feeling that could not be called relief, but which in a way was pleasure. Twice had I seen and twice I believed. Twice also did I wish to profit by the straying of another, and twice also did I recoil from the test. I knew that I must be silent, not alone to Alicia, but to all others, and hiding my knowledge deep in my heart I continued my way to the hotel.

After dinner I went to the party headquarters where I found Warfield, Harrison, Cobbett, Applegate and others. Guthrie was absent, his cause being in the hands of Warfield. Already they were in earnest talk, and as I had expected one or two malevolent glances were levelled at me as I came in.

“The gentleman from Sumpter County will tell the people of Louisville what to do,” said the fatuous Applegate.

This was a little too direct for Harrison, who shrugged his shoulders, as if to say, “Who can restrain you, Applegate?” but I responded lightly:

“It’s chiefly in the rôle of looker-on that I came, though the party is really one throughout the State, and every district is interested in the success of every other district.”

But I did not mean to be a mere looker-on, and I took a seat beside Jimmy Warfield, ready to support him when the need of it should come.

Harrison, a fastidious man, smoothed his tie, flecked a speck of dust from his white cuff and proceeded in a calm, carefully-modulated voice with what he had evidently been saying when interrupted by my entrance:

“The point that I am seeking to make is this. Change in office is Democratic doctrine. Mr. Guthrie has been our representative at Washington, and I am making no criticism of him, but I think I know a better man, one of mature years, one who would be at once a great figure at the National Capital. He is supported by many of the richest and most influential men in this district, and if Mr. Guthrie is induced to withdraw, this man will carry the district by the biggest majority ever given to a nominee.”

Mr. Cobbett looked modestly out of the window while the panegyric was in progress, and I saw Jimmy Warfield’s blonde mustache moved slightly by a smile.

“Where is Mr. Grey?” I asked with purposeful malice, “I thought he was to be here.”

“So he was,” replied Applegate perkily, “but Grey’s a rover; you can’t always depend on him.”

Harrison gave him a warning look, and Applegate, crushed, relapsed into silence.

“Mr. Grey, a particular friend of yours is he not, Mr. Clarke? will be here presently,” said Mr. Harrison in soft, smooth tones.

Startled, I glanced at him. What did he know? What had he observed? Had I let my face disclose too much of my feelings? Applegate was a fool, but Harrison was a man of keenness and penetration. I felt that he was studying me closely and with intent purpose. Yet I was strong enough to control my feelings, and I showed him a mask, on which he was able to read nothing, at least at the time.

“I have known Mr. Grey some years,” I replied evenly, “but I cannot say that we are intimate friends.”

Warfield now talked for Guthrie, telling what a place he had won in Washington, and what a credit he was to the district.

I saw Harrison glance covertly once or twice at his watch, and I knew of what he was thinking. Grey was indeed late, very late. It was almost 11 o’clock when he came, and then his face was flushed and his manner disordered.

“I know I’m late,” he said in a tone that was defiant rather than apologetic, “but I couldn’t help it. A sudden and important engagement that simply had to be kept.”

His roving eye met mine, and at that moment I must not have been in absolute control of myself, as his face suddenly flamed into an angry glance; evidently he read in my eye my simple opinion, if expressed in words: “You are a liar.”

“A sudden and important engagement, one that had to be kept,” he repeated irritably, looking at me.

The others seemed to be surprised at his way of challenging me, all except Jimmy Warfield, who was silent, and Harrison, on whose face came a slow smile. I was irritated and I said somewhat testily:

“No one questions your statement, Mr. Grey.”

He did not pursue the subject, but I had a feeling that he was suspicious or rather that he believed himself to be suspected, and it behooved me to be cautious.

The conference lasted until past midnight and it was finally agreed by the leaders that no nomination should be made by a committee; instead the rival claims of Guthrie and Cobbett should be submitted to a primary election. Cobbett and Harrison grumbled because they were none too confident of their success in such a test, but they had to submit, and we feared nothing now, but treason.

As we came away Warfield said to me:

“Grey acted in a most peculiar manner to-night, Harry. He seemed to be challenging you.”

“It looked like it,” I admitted.

He did not speak again until we were two or three squares away from headquarters, and then putting his hand upon my arm he said slowly and with the greatest earnestness.

“Caution my boy! Caution! Caution! Caution!”

“I understand and I will be cautious,” I replied.

But careful as I was, I was soon attacked by an insidious and subtle foe. People began to link my name and Alicia’s. Only the faintest murmurs of it came to me, perhaps none at all to her, and it was impossible to face and crush so airy and impalpable a thing.

I knew, nevertheless, whose was the hand in the dark that had been raised against me. Harrison was crafty, subtle, far in advance of either Cobbett or Grey, and he had become needy. Here were two men who could supply his needs, and I the third was disliked by both. Harrison’s interests could lie but one way, and I felt that no scruple would keep him from injuring me.

Had I foreseen this unhappy turn, I should have stayed out of the campaign, but I could not do so now without seeming the veriest coward and traitor. I spoke every night for Guthrie, and as I warmed to my task I had a feeling of power. I learned that I could sway an audience. I could make the crowd feel as I felt, I could make it serious when I chose that it should be so, and I could make it laugh when I wished it to be merry. It is a power that gives a deep and intimate thrill, and I used it freely.

Harrison himself spoke in the campaign for Cobbett, and two or three times when I met him I found that he was no mean speaker. An orator he was not, but a crafty, incisive talker he certainly was. He had a power of irony and ridicule that I feared, and when I saw his measuring eye upon me I admit that I wished some other man to be in his place. He knew, too, my secret, that is one of my two secrets, the other I shared with Alicia alone, and it made me weaker before him than I should have been otherwise. I felt that he was going to make an attack upon me and presently it came, unfair and poisonous in its nature, and not admitting of reply.

We were speaking in a hall in the western part of the city, with ladies on the platform and before a crowded audience. Alicia was among the ladies and Grey himself sat in the front row, just behind the speakers. Alicia had been present twice before at our meetings, but I suppose that Harrison had not found the occasion convenient or the atmosphere had not suited him—a trained public speaker has an instinctive feeling for the latter and it is perhaps his most valuable asset.

Harrison, after speaking for a little while upon the real issues, turned to ridicule of me, light, easy and apparently good natured. He said that I was a young man from the country who had come up to take a part in a city election, but he suspected that politics was not the whole attraction. In the spring a young man’s fancy—well it was not worth while to quote the poet, but I was a bold fellow and all could see that I would not keep out of districts which were not mine.

It was a daring thing that he did, skillful insidious and devilish, and it had two meanings, one for the audience, and another, more intimate for a few of us on the platform. I saw Grey’s heavy face contract into a frown—Harrison undoubtedly had sown suspicion in his mind, always ready for the present kindling into flame—and bye and bye I stole a look at Alicia. That she understood, despite her pure mind, was too clear to me. Her face was pale and she gazed straight ahead, but bye and bye her expression hardened into one of scorn and contempt and I was glad to see it so.

Harrison continued a little while in the same vein and then when he had said enough turned deftly away. I, of course, undertook no reply, I was willing to treat it so far as the crowd was concerned as mere chaff which was the only course left to me, but I had no such feeling toward Harrison. When the meeting was over I lingered until the others had gone out and then I overtook him at the curb just as he was preparing to get into his cab. Harrison was a thorough type of what has been called the gentleman in politics, that is the gentleman in dress and manner. His clothing was always of the finest quality and cut and he was very scrupulous about its arrangement. Now he had put on the lightest of light overcoats and his well-brushed hair was surmounted by an equally well-brushed silk hat. When I touched his arm he turned a smiling gaze upon me.

“That was unfair to-night,” I said.

“My dear Clarke,” he replied, without any seeding of offense, “all’s fair in love, war and politics.”

“Hardly,” I said, and I did not mean to beat about the bush. “There are certain limits which we are all bound to respect. I think that you spoke chiefly for the benefit of, several people on the platform, and you placed a thought in their minds concerning me which is not true.”

“I don’t think I understand you,” he said, still smiling.

“Oh, yes you do!”—and I did not smile at all—“and you have brought into it a lady as pure and innocent as any that God ever made. I think you are doing it in order to frighten me out of this campaign and out of all other campaigns.”

I spoke with heat, and drawing his thin lips together he ceased to smile.

“Suppose I should grant the truth of what you say, Mr. Clarke,” he said, “what then. I have eyes to see, and I know what is in the mind of yourself and of somebody else.”

“Possibly,” I replied, “but granting it to be there nothing follows.”

Now he smiled again and his look was so cynical that I wished for an excuse to strike him. But I am glad that I restrained myself.

“Each sees through his own glass,” I said, “we judge others by our own mental and moral standards.”

“I’ll let it go at that,” he replied insolently.

I scarcely knew what else to say and I turned away from him with a feeling that the interview had been wasted. I was in a fearful quandary; I did not wish to retire from this campaign, which meant eventual retirement from all campaigns, nor did I wish to risk Alicia’s good name which lay at Harrison’s mercy. It was Alicia herself who decided for me, an unsigned letter from her coming the next day in which she said:

“I understand what that terrible man meant last night. At first I could scarcely believe it, I was amazed, then horrified, then indignant. I have had a scene since with him—you know whom I mean—but I do not think he will dare again to accuse me in any manner.”

I paused. No, George Grey would not dare. I had a keen weapon against him, of which Harrison did not know, and if the attack were made upon Alicia instead of myself I might yet use it.

“And as for you, you will keep on in the campaign. You sacrificed yourself for me once before,” she continued, “and I tell you that I can never let you do it again even in a smaller matter. If you care for my esteem at all you will continue.”

I sat in my bedroom at the hotel as I read the letter, and when I finished it I tore it into many fragments. Then I cast them piece by piece out of the window and watched the wind take them by different ways. I would do as Alicia said, but I should be more circumspect, more vigilant, than ever with myself. Mine indeed was a hard fate and with the eyes of another person looking down at Harry Clarke I felt sorry for him.

The day of the primary election came and resulted in a complete triumph for Guthrie. To use our expressive phrase—Cobbett “wasn’t in it,” and hot with rage and mortification he was kind enough to include me in the causes of his defeat. The man showed his quality or rather lack of it by attacking me personally, and it was done in a most offensive way.

I had left Guthrie’s headquarters, the vote being decided, and I walked with two or three of my friends to my hotel. It was a cloudless spring night with millions of bright stars sown in a sky of dusky blue, and a soft wind blowing from a green wilderness down upon the town. I felt a great sense of elation. I rejoiced in Guthrie’s triumph and yet more in my own conspicuous share in public affairs. It was an exultation almost boyish in its nature, but it was none the less precious to me on that account; in truth it often seemed to me in those days that my lost youth was coming back to me.

We passed into the hotel and lingered a little in the lobby, a great marble place, blazing with electric lights and yet thronged with men, several of whom greeted me familiarly and warmly. As I stood talking to them I saw Cobbett come in at a side door that I knew led to the bar. The manufacturer’s heavy face was flushed, and evidently he had not been neglecting liquid solace. I despise a man who, because of a disappointment, turns to drink, and my contempt is none the less because I myself was once worthy of it. Knowing the coarseness of his nature, I should have avoided Cobbett, had there been time, but he saw me at once and came toward me. Behind him were Harrison and the pin-headed Apple-gate. Sullen rage showed in Cobbett’s eye and he put his hand heavily upon my arm. I brushed off the hand, and regarded him with a fixed gaze. I knew that I could not now afford to take the man lightly or he would go further. He steadied himself a little at my repelling gesture, but anger still smouldered in his glance.

“I suppose you are now going back to Sumpter County, Clarke, having done all the damage you could?” he said insolently.

I saw over his shoulder the clean-cut, ironic face of Harrison, attentively watching the two of us, and ready to laugh at either. I was beginning to regard Harrison as my real enemy, as the man of mind, courage and coolness whom I should have to fight, but now I affected not to notice him.

“My work has been wholly constructive,” I replied in a careless tone to Cobbett. “I may or may not retire to Sumpter County, but certainly I have not done any damage.”

“You’ve meddled here!” he exclaimed, all the coarseness and roughness in him coming out.

“Not meddled,” I replied keeping my temper. “You mean that I’ve merely had a small share in a useful task, the renomination of Mr. Guthrie, and if you’re bent on knowing it, Mr. Cobbett, I’m rather proud of it.”

The red in his face turned to purple.

“Yes, you come to Louisville,” he said, “but this race isn’t all that brings you here. Another man besides myself has as good cause to find fault with you.”

I knew instinctively what he meant. I knew that this coarse mannered brute had got hold of the gossip about myself and Alicia. Faint and intangible though it might be it was enough to his foul mind, which knowing his own nature was ready to imagine the same about anybody else. I felt all my muscles grow rigid and leaning toward him until my face was close to his and he could not mistake my expression, I said:

“Mr. Cobbett you are treading upon forbidden ground. I understand what you mean, but I promise you that if ever you connect the name of a woman, the purest and best in the world, in a guilty manner with mine, I’ll put a bullet in you. We have a reputation in this State for the use of the pistol, and I’ll live up to it!”

Whether I would have kept that promise I do not know, but I spoke in the heat of a great anger and, I believe, a righteous indignation. Certainly Cobbett thought so, as he shrank back and his eyes fell. Harrison came to his rescue, or rather to the rescue of us both. He put his hand lightly upon Cobbett’s shoulder and his voice was even and cool when he spoke.

“I think you misunderstand my friend, Mr. Clarke,” he said, “and Mr. Cobbett certainly misunderstands you. He is not going to say anything about a woman whom you esteem and it will not be necessary for you to shoot him.”

I knew that he comprehended perfectly, but I felt also that I could trust to him to keep Cobbett quiet—whatever Harrison might be, he was far from being a fool. He stood now, regarding me with a light smile. I felt that he understood me, and that perhaps he guessed more about me than anybody else. Fortunately we were in a little eddy of the crowd formed by an alcove, and save ourselves and Jimmy Warfield there was none to see or hear.

“Your assurance is sufficient, Mr. Harrison,” I said, quietly—my passion had passed, “you at least, I think would bide the bitterness of defeat.”

Cobbett’s face was dyed purple again, but Harrison’s hand was on his shoulder and Harrison was his master—bluster is always afraid of calm resolve. They turned away, Cobbett in silence and Harrison with a brief but polite good night. Jimmy Warfield had not spoken throughout the incident—how often have I been grateful for this man’s tactful and enduring friendship—but now he put his hand upon my arm.

“The heathen rage and they imagine and say vain things; well, I should let them if I were you, Harry,” he said. “Cobbett is hardly worth your attention; it’s Harrison whom you must watch.”

“I know it, and I hope, Jimmy, you do not believe a word of the foul thing that man Cobbett was insinuating?”

“Not a word of it,” he replied with emphasis. “I know too well both you and—and the other one. But you must remember, Harry, that you have enemies and are likely to have more.”

I stayed perhaps a quarter of an hour in the lobby, speaking cheerfully to my friends and indicating to them that I felt as they thought I should, that is joyful. Nor was it wholly self-deception. Much of the youthful exhilaration remained, and what fear I had was not for myself, but for Alicia and her good name. Yet I would not run from either Cobbett or Harrison and my remaining in the lobby was in the nature of a reply to a challenge known only to myself.

I went at last to my room, one of the best in the hotel, and sat there looking out of the window at the avenue, now almost deserted. The apartment was luxurious with heavy rugs, rich paper and mahogany furniture. The contrast between it and the bare and narrow cell that I had occupied so long was startling. Truly fortune plays strange tricks with us, and fact is more daring than romance!

I thought of Elias, whose piety and firmness had been such a solace to me, and to whose example I sincerely believed myself to owe much of my present prosperity. Where was he now? the general answer to the question was simple; buried in the wilderness of mountains of which Eastern Kentucky is made, but should I ever meet him again? it seemed at the present moment that “no” was the answer, as our paths now certainly lay far apart.

I called the next afternoon upon Mrs. Guthrie to congratulate her upon her husband’s success. The young member of Congress lived at the house of his father-in-law, Mr. Ransome, a rich merchant, who thought Guthrie the most promising young man in the world, and I was surprised to find Alicia there with several other ladies of Mrs. Guthrie’s acquaintance. I say “surprised,” because I knew of Grey’s interest in Cobbett and his hostility to Guthrie.

Mrs. Guthrie greeted me first. I have told before that she was a woman whom one could not keep from liking and I am both happy and proud to say that she thought well of me. She came forward now, impulsively holding out both her hands, her fine eyes glowing.

“I’m glad I can thank you so soon, Mr. Clarke,” she said. “We can never repay you for the manner in which you have helped us.”

“It was very little that I did,” I replied. “As I see it, it was Guthrie who elected Guthrie.”

But I will not deny that her words gave me a most pleasurable thrill. New and good friends were arising around me and I felt that they hedged me in. Friends they would remain, whatever happened.

As soon as the formalities allowed I turned to Alicia. I had seen a sparkle in her eye that told of unusual feeling and I was to learn what reserves of courage and tenacity she had in her nature.

“Ought you to have come?” I asked presently in a low tone—I felt that I was in a sense her protector, “you know that he—Mr. Grey—is identified with the other faction.”

She did not resent my query. She too seemed to have accepted me, all unconsciously as a defender, though I should have been a coward and a scoundrel to have profited by it. But the sparkle of defiance was yet in her eye, although it was not for me.

“No, I was not wrong to come,” she replied in low even tones. “These are people whom I like, and I am glad to be with them. I wished Mr. Guthrie’s success, and since he has triumphed I see no reason why I should not say that I am glad.”

I could not say any more. I saw that her spirit was aroused. Grey must have been more than usually offensive of late, for his wife, shy modest Alicia, to declare herself so publicly against him. I foresaw new troubles for her.

“I can at least choose my friends,” she said, and her accent was clearly that of defiance.

We did not have opportunity to say more in confidence, as we were drawn now into the happy little circle, happy because Mrs. Guthrie was the pervading spirit of it, and she rejoiced like a true woman in her husband’s victory. The contagion reached us all. The belated youth of mine—and I was young in all respects save experience—breathed into me a joy of the moment and a recklessness of the future that is as thrilling as it is irresponsible. I was in the company of women, young, handsome and bright, whom I liked, and who liked me. Alicia was there with that shy, subtle and compelling charm of hers, and I forgot for the time that she belonged to another man and was forbidden to me by all laws, man-made or moral. I do not remember clearly, but looking back I am sure that I talked much and it may be humorously—the spirit was more borrowed than mine—because there was laughter and many smiles, and I was continually in a glow.

“I foresee that you will be popular at Frankfort,” said Mrs. Guthrie, when I was about to leave.

“I don’t know that I wish it,” I replied lightly. “Popularity sometimes means that one is merely a negative man.”

“But not always,” she said.

For Alicia I had a last word. “Be careful,” I felt myself privileged to say, and the look she gave me in reply was full of confidence and courage.

I walked as usual, and when I left the house I strolled very slowly down the street, looking back more than once to the big, comfortable, red brick building, that sheltered the Guthries. It is a beautiful tree-lined avenue and just now it was at its best. Stone and brick were luminous in a soft golden sunshine, and grass and foliage soothed the eye with the deepest and tenderest shade of green. As I lingered and cast backward glances I saw Alicia come from the Guthrie home and enter her carriage.

The coachman drove down the street in my direction, but I do not think she noticed me on the side walk beyond the trees, now in full bloom. Yet I saw her stop at the corner, obedient to a hail or other signal from some one, and then I noticed Grey on the other side of the street. He entered the carriage with Alicia, and I saw her move to give him room.

How I hated the man with his air of proprietorship and his full blown, coarse strength, redolent of animal vigor! And I repeated to myself for the thousandth time, “Poor Alicia!” There can be no worse fate for a woman than to be married to a man whom she does not love and whom she knows to be base.

Grey did not see me—and for that I was thankful— but I stood there and watched them until the carriage passed out of sight.

“Beauty and the beast once more,” said a voice behind me, the thin sardonic tones of Harrison. I turned and saw him standing within a yard of me, his face not belying his tones.

“I did not steal upon you, Mr. Clarke,” he said. “Don’t think such a thing of me. I was walking in the ordinary manner, but you were so much engrossed in a disappearing carriage that you did not notice my approach.”

“Well?” I said interrogatively.

He laughed, not audibly but with the eye that tells so much. I knew him to be master of my thoughts, and I did not care, but I was curious to know what he would say.

“You are a strange man, Mr. Clarke,” he said, “knowing what you do, and wishing what you do, why don’t you use your knowledge?”

I felt the blood pour into my face—he was master of more than my thoughts.

“Knowing what I do?” I repeated.

“Yes, about Grey; you covet his wife. But the law can find cause to remove him from his envied place; you know that; in your place I should do it.”

I looked at him fixedly, and then, in his turn, I saw his face redden and his eyes shift from mine. Knowledge came to me suddenly, knowledge of that which he had hidden so deftly under his smiling, careless mask. If he knew my secret I also know his, and he was a treacherous friend to Grey.

“You suggested a course if you were in my place,” I said, “then why don’t you adopt it?”

His face reddened yet further.

“You assume too much,” he replied.

“I assume no more than the facts.”

He hesitated and then I saw the slight thrusting forward of the chin that betokens resolution. But he did not speak just yet. He lighted a cigar deliberately while I waited with an equal patience.

“You want a frank answer?” he asked at last.

“None other.”

“Because even with Grey out of the way I do not think I could yet win. Meanwhile it suits me better to have Grey in the way, in the way of others as well as myself.”

I admired his impudence and cool calculation, but I felt that I had gained a hold over him by penetrating his secret. The card that I held against him matched the card that he held against me. Yet I felt a certain new respect for the man, because so pure and noble a woman as Alicia had lighted a passion in him. Surely that in itself was not wholly an unworthy flame. But I reverted to his original question.

“Whatever Grey may be,” I said, “I feel that I would not profit by his baseness if I could.”

“It’s quixotism,” he said tersely. “You may be throwing away your only chance.”

He did not pursue that subject, but with a courteous bow he passed on. He never looked back, but I watched him, walking on at a steady, even gait, a distinguished figure and, I knew, a strong man. I wondered why he had asked me the original question which had led him into a betrayal never foreseen, and I concluded that it was a mingling of recklessness, and of a fondness for a certain sort of theatricalism. Perhaps he was now my opponent in more senses than one, and he would rejoice secretly in the belief that the knowledge inspired fear.

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