by John Jakes
As soon as all the copy for the next day’s paper was in the composing room, Calhoun convened a meeting of the staff. Gideon gave the new editor a short introduction, then sat down. It took Calhoun less than two minutes to state his expectations. He would dispense with the services of anyone who didn’t obey orders promptly, or behave in a seemly way.
“You may drink yourselves to perdition, ladies and gentlemen. You may—I shall use frank language despite the presence of the gentler sex—debauch until you have guaranteed yourselves berths in the nether region. You may lie and cheat until the Devil himself distrusts you. But you will keep all such activity separate from these premises, and never let it interfere with the performance of your duties. If my requirements are not to your liking, or your character is such that you cannot fulfill them no matter how good your intentions, I urge you to seek employment elsewhere. You will not last long working for me. We are responsible journalists upon whom the public depends for the truth. We shall behave accordingly—at least during working hours. Which, I must warn you, will not be short. Thank you for your attention. That is all.”
That night Calhoun kept the staff at their desks long past the normal quitting time. One by one he called the reporters and illustrators into his office, closed the door and interviewed them. By four the next morning, he had issued dismissal notices to three writers and one staff artist. Clutching their severance pay, they staggered into the dawn shaking their heads. Gideon woke on the cot where he’d been catching a nap. Calhoun looked fresh and full of energy.
“All personnel problems have been taken care of, Mr. Kent. Shall we go out for breakfast?”
“Aren’t you going to sleep?”
“I hadn’t planned on it, sir. It’ll soon be time to start working on the next edition.”
Yawning, Gideon sat up, folded the blanket and laid it on the end of the cot. “Did you serve in the war, Mr. Calhoun?”
“Please call me Moultrie, sir.”
“Very well, Moultrie. Did you serve—”
“I did.”
“Which side?”
“The same side as yours, sir.” He seemed anxious not to say that too loudly in a Northern newspaper office. “I was a telegraph clerk.”
“Well, if we’d had a few more like you running things in Richmond, maybe we wouldn’t have fared so badly. I’ll join you for an omelette and some black coffee. But you’ll have to nudge me if I doze off. I’m only forty-five, but you put me to shame.”
iii
From that first day, Gideon was completely satisfied with the work of his new editor. Calhoun’s childless wife had been dead five years. He had no interests except his job. As the fall election campaign intensified—the Union endorsed Cleveland—Calhoun used the weekends to come to Boston to report on progress at the paper, and to listen to his employer’s reaction. One of the meetings was held at Kent and Son. There, Calhoun met Helene Vail for the first time.
He kissed her hand, murmured some pleasantries, and managed to bring a pink glow to her cheeks. On Calhoun’s next visit, Gideon asked his typewriter to be present to make notes on a number of important financial decisions. He was astonished when Miss Vail appeared with a new hairdo and a new dress.
That night he said to Julia, “I do believe our thorny rose may blossom. She was giddy as a young girl around Calhoun. Maybe she won’t be listing herself as ‘disappointed in love’ much longer.”
He was trying to act lighthearted, but strain was clearly written on his face. What secret anxiety was tormenting him? Julia wondered.
iv
Grover Cleveland amassed nearly one hundred thousand more popular votes than Senator Harrison, but the Republican candidate had a larger total of electoral votes, and hence won the presidency. His party took control of both houses of Congress. The best that a disgruntled Gideon could say about the election was that his friend Roosevelt, who had remained loyal to the Republicans, might now find an outlet for his talent in Washington. He hoped so; the country would gain by it.
As winter approached, Gideon and Julia continued to entertain friends and well-known people at their dinner table. Samuel Clemens, the writer who called himself Mark Twain, paid them a return visit. On another evening, Professor William James, the anatomist, drove over from Cambridge. He said little about his developing interest in psychology, but he couldn’t say enough about his expatriate brother Henry, whose fiction was being hailed as the work of a genius. Regrettably Gideon found that same work unbearably boring.
One week they entertained the evangelist Dwight Moody, who was saving souls up and down New England. The following week their guest was a man trying to rescue those same souls from folly—Bob Ingersoll, the successful Washington lawyer whom the press called the Great Agnostic. He was in town to deliver his famous lecture, “Some Mistakes of Moses.”
An aging Edwin Booth spent an evening at the Kent house and spoke of the fine reputation Eleanor was building in the theater; she and Leo were currently on tour with one of the troupes sent out by the famous producer-manager Augustin Daly. Booth seemed a hollow man, somehow; he was somber and melancholy despite his international fame. Twice he made reference to “poor Johnny.” He was obviously still haunted by what his actor brother had done that calamitous night at Ford’s Theater.
Two pillars of the women’s movement—leaders of opposing factions within it—came to dinner on the same evening. Julia had gone to great lengths to arrange the reunion between the two, who had parted over a policy dispute years before.
One guest had often been at the house—Julia’s mentor, Lucy Stone, who headed the American Woman Suffrage Association which had its headquarters in Boston. She was small, seventy years old, and remarkably energetic.
The other was a newcomer to the Kent house. She was Mrs. Elizabeth Cady Stanton, reputedly the first woman to refuse to include the word obey in her marriage ceremony. She and Susan B. Anthony directed the National Woman Suffrage Association in New York. The National was generally considered the more radical of the two wings.
Mrs. Stanton had come to Boston for one of the lyceum lectures which kept her traveling a good part of each year. Like Lucy Stone, she was just a little over five feet tall. She had merry eyes and a tart manner. At seventy-three, she was as animated and good-humored as her counterpart Mrs. Stone.
There was tension when the two suffragists first greeted one another in the parlor, but soon the atmosphere was cordial and comfortable. Julia was clearly elated; a reconciliation between the two organizations was one of her highest hopes. She argued that the movement already had trouble enough. Influential politicians, preachers, and journalists regularly damned it and its leaders from every available platform. Why, then, should women further impair their own cause by quarreling among themselves? They needed a united front, not a divided one.
To prepare the ground for this dinner party, she’d gone to Washington several months earlier, to the first International Council of Women, sponsored by the National Association. There she had stated her case to Mrs. Stanton and Susan Anthony. Now there were signs that a resolution of differences, and a reunion of the two groups, might be forthcoming. At least Mrs. Stanton and Mrs. Stone were dining at the same table, and appearing to enjoy it.
Differences remained, of course—important ones. Lucy Stone still believed women should only work to gain the vote, and not damage that effort by involving themselves with issues such as divorce and childbearing, and debates about virginity and marital fidelity. Although a model of moral behavior herself, Elizabeth Stanton had quite different views—especially on free love.
“Lucy, I don’t care whether the sisters who march under our banner are spotless white or screaming scarlet. What counts is their conviction. We’ve had enough women sacrificed to this sentimental, hypocritical prattling about purity. It’s one of man’s most effective engines for dividing and subjugating us—nothing personal, Mr. Kent,” she added with a crisp nod in his direction. “I say we must put an end to that ignoble
record and stand for one thing only— with no qualifications. Womanhood.”
A prolonged silence then. Julia looked crestfallen; surely the prospect for reconciliation was ruined.
But Lucy Stone spoke up with just the right blend of firmness and restraint.
“Friendship has many rare qualities, Elizabeth. One of the most precious is this. True friends can disagree about a few things and still work together. Whatever our differences on lesser questions, we have none on the greatest question of all. Freedom for women. I fear we may have forgotten that fact—and our friendship—far too long.”
Mrs. Stanton’s face softened. “I fear we have. Perhaps it’s time we remembered.”
She held out her hand. So did Lucy. They clasped hands for a moment, both of them smiling. There were no more disagreements that evening, and a spirit of good feeling prevailed. Julia was overjoyed.
But she noticed that Gideon had a preoccupied air, and a drawn look. Why?
In the days that followed, he began to grow snappish with her—behavior not typical of him. For hours and even days at a time, he’d say little more than what was necessary. He seemed not only depressed but perpetually tired.
Julia urged him to see a doctor. He denied there was anything wrong with him physically. She felt he wasn’t telling her the truth. Finally, on Christmas Eve, matters came to a head.
v
It promised to be a lonely Christmas. Perhaps the loneliest they’d spent together. None of the children was home. Will had boarded a train for New York at eleven o’clock that morning. At noon, the servants had been given their gifts and the rest of the day off. The house was still, heavy with shadows. Why turn on lights when no one was there?
Julia and Gideon had gone to the parlor after eating a simple supper she’d fixed. There was no illumination in the parlor except that from the candles on the small, fragrant fir tree. Hands locked behind his back, Gideon paced in front of the window overlooking the Common. Occasionally he stopped and peered out. He looked dejected, miserable.
Finally Julia could stand it no longer. “Gideon, come here and tell me what’s wrong.”
Without looking at her, he said, “What do you mean?”
“You know very well. You haven’t been yourself for months. You really must tell me what’s troubling you. I can’t help if I don’t know.”
He turned from the window. It was a bitter, starless night. Behind him the Common was bleak and dark. There’d be no snow to soften the iron cold, everyone said.
His blue eye momentarily reflected candlelight. “Has it showed that much?”
“I’m afraid so.” She moved to his side, her skirts rustling. “Are you thinking about the children?”
He was silent a moment. Then he nodded. “I miss them. They should be home on Christmas!”
“They’re grown, darling. They have their own lives.”
“But what are they doing with their lives? Nothing worthwhile that I can see. Poor Eleanor’s performing in some ten-cent town, spending Christmas in a hotel.”
“But she’s with Leo, and she’s happy.”
“God, I hope so. And what about Carter? He’s idling his life away in Colorado—”
“You mustn’t take all the burdens of the family on yourself, dear. That’s a Kent family failing, and frustrated idealism can become destructive guilt. You’re not to blame for Carter’s waywardness. I’m more responsible than anyone else. Besides, he isn’t in Colorado any longer.”
“How do you know?”
“A letter came in the morning mail. We were so busy getting Will packed off to New York City, I didn’t have a chance to show it to you. Carter posted the letter in Denver but it says he’s moving on.”
“Where?”
A sad laugh. “That, he didn’t say. I don’t suppose he knew. Believe me, I fret over him as much as you do—” She touched his shoulder. “I suspect I know the real reason you’re feeling so bad. You’re angry because Will left to spend Christmas with the Pennels. That’s it, isn’t it?”
He didn’t answer the question directly. “Did you notice the way he kept talking about them all morning? As if he damn near worships ’em!”
“He’s in love with Miss Pennel, Gideon. I suspect he hopes to marry her. It’s perfectly natural for him to praise her parents.”
Gideon didn’t seem to hear. “All he wants to be is a Fifth Avenue doctor who dispenses headache remedies to anemic girls. And now he’s taken up with a pack of robbers.”
“He’s almost an adult. Even if you feel that way, you mustn’t say it.”
“Why not?” Gideon shot back. “Must I leave his education—or should I say his seduction—to bandits like Thurman Pennel? Godamighty, Julia, the man makes millions from the misery of others! Factory owners fall all over themselves to buy the wretched buildings his architects slap together. And for years it’s been rumored that he owns whole square blocks of the worst tenements in New York City.”
“Rumored, or proven?”
“What difference does it make?”
“A great deal. I want you to make objective judgments about Will and his friends.”
Gideon’s jaw set. “Then objectively speaking—he’s gone the wrong way. I’ve allowed it to happen.”
Julia was equally firm. “Regardless of your opinions, you can’t choose the girl with whom he falls in love.”
“Even if she’s the kind who’ll ruin his life?”
“Oh, Gideon—that’s terribly exaggerated. What you mean is that Miss Pennel may ruin his life according to your standards.”
“My God, whose side are you taking?”
“Please don’t yell. You cannot dictate Will’s choice of a wife.”
There was a lengthy silence. Finally Gideon let out his breath. “I know. I suppose that’s why I’m worried. Months ago, I—I began to hear some disturbing things about Miss Pennel.”
Instantly Julia’s anger was gone. “From whom?”
“One of the reporters on the Union. Her name’s Hester Davis. She covers Mrs. Aster’s parties—that sort of thing. She’s very reliable, and very familiar with New York Society families. When she heard Will was seeing Miss Pennel, she came to me and passed along certain facts. Out of consideration for us, she said.”
“Facts, Gideon? Or more rumors?”
“Well—rumors,” he admitted. “But there must be something to them.”
“What’s the nature of the rumors?”
“That the young lady Will is seeing isn’t as pure as her doting mother likes to pretend. Far from it. I don’t understand the whys and wherefores, but Hester claimed that in the Pennels’ circle, the girl’s reputation is so suspect, she can’t attract a single suitor who would think seriously of marrying her.”
“Oh, Gideon—those are vicious accusations. Probably completely unfounded. Spread by some spiteful person who has a grudge against the girl.”
His shrug admitted the possibility—but just barely.
“In any case, you mustn’t repeat that sort of thing to Will. Unless you have irrefutable proof, you can’t tell him that the girl he’s fond of is”—she gestured helplessly— “immoral.”
“But in many ways Will’s an innocent. What if it’s true?”
“What if it is? He’s grown-up. You have to let him learn the truth for himself.”
“Suppose he doesn’t?”
“That’s a risk you’ll have to take. Unless you intend to destroy him by making all his decisions for the rest of his life.”
Gideon fumed. She patted his hand gently. “The Kent spirit’s a worthy and admirable one. But you can’t play the role of patriarch forever, controlling the lives of grown men and women—”
“And why not?”
“Because it’s out of style! Times are changing, Gideon—”
“For the worse! Why shouldn’t I step in if I think Will’s headed for disaster? Someone has to guide this family”— a glance at the shadowed room, in which a candle on the Christmas tree hisse
d and dripped wax down its side—“or what’s left of it after I’m gone. I’ll be forty-six years old next year. I must get things in order! I thought Will was the most likely candidate to take charge. That was a terrible mistake.”
He sounded hurt and angry. Julia’s eyes softened as she saw his pain. He lit a match and touched it to a cigar. The flame put bright highlights and deep, contrasting shadows on a face no longer young.
He flipped the blown-out match into the sand bucket kept handy in case of fire. Then he slipped his arm around his wife.
“It has to be Eleanor. Now that Carter’s wandering all over hell and Will’s fallen in with a crowd of whited sepulchers, Eleanor’s the only one left to lead this family when we’re gone.”
He pulled Julia close to him. His face was stern in the candlelight—a biblical patriarch’s face—but she knew his sternness concealed a deep anxiety.
She was thankful he’d finally admitted the cause of his brusque behavior of late. But she firmly believed in the rightness of every word she’d said to him. Even granting that the accusations about Laura Pennel might contain some truth, Gideon simply couldn’t go to his son and repeat them. It was an unacceptable alternative.
Something else he had just said bothered her. “You mustn’t count too heavily on Eleanor. She’s immersed in her profession, and in Leo.”
“Maybe something will change that.”
“What could possibly change it?”
Silence again, longer than the one before.
“I don’t know,” he said, drawing her still closer against him. “But she’s our only hope now. Nothing must happen to ruin her life. She’s our only hope.”
Book Four
THE WATERS ROAR