Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  “Calvin refused last night,” said the president, “and they have put Jobbins in his place. Here is the telegram. It is code three,” he remarked, handing it to Z.

  Z read it, and his face expressed the greatest surprise.

  “But Jobbins belongs to us,” he cried. “He will not move hand or foot unless we advise him!”

  “Of course,” said the president. “But Mr. Ballymolloy does not know that, nor any other member of the Legislature. Harrington himself does not know it. Verdict, please.”

  “Verdict against buying,” said Y.

  “Naturally,” said Z. “What a set of fools they are! How about withdrawing Harrington?”

  “I object,” said the president. “Proceed.”

  “I think it will injure his chance at the vacancy to have him defeated now, as I said before. That is all,” said Z.

  “I think it would be dangerous to withdraw him before so weak a man as Jobbins. It would hurt his reputation. Besides, our second man is in Washington arguing a case; and, after all, there is a bare chance that J.H. may win. If he does not, we win all the same, for Jobbins is in chains. Verdict, please.”

  Y was silent, and smoked thoughtfully. For five minutes no one spoke, and the president occupied the time in arranging some papers.

  “Let him stand his chance,” said Y, at last. In spite of the apparent informality of the meetings of the three, there was an unchangeable rule in their proceedings. Whenever a question arose, the member who first objected to the proposition argued the case briefly, or at length, with the proposer, and the third gave the verdict, against which there was no appeal.

  These three strong men possessed between them an enormous power. It rarely happened that they could all meet together and settle upon their course of action by word of month, but constant correspondence and the use of an extensive set of telegraphic codes kept them in unbroken communication. No oaths or ceremonies bound them together, for they belonged to a small community of men which has existed from the earliest days of American independence, and which took its rise before that period.

  Into this council of three, men of remarkable ability and spotless character were elected without much respect of age whenever a vacancy occurred. They worked quietly, with one immutable political purpose, with which they allowed no prejudiced party view to interfere. Always having under their immediate control some of the best talent in the country, and frequently commanding vast financial resources, these men and their predecessors had more than once turned the scale of the country’s future. They had committed great mistakes, but they had also brought about noble results. It had frequently occurred that all the three members of the council simultaneously held seats in the senate, or that one or more were high in office. More than one President since Washington had sat at one time or another in the triumvirate; secretaries of state, orators, lawyers, financiers, and philanthropists had given the best years of their lives to the duties of the council; and yet, so perfect was the organization, the tests were so careful, and so marvelously profound was the insight of the leaders into human character, that of all these men, not one had ever betrayed the confidence placed in him. In the truest sense they and their immediate supporters formed an order; an order of true men, with whom the love of justice, honor, and freedom took the place of oath and ceremonial, binding them by stronger obligations than ever bound a ring of conspirators or a community of religious zealots.

  The great element of secrecy as regards the outer world lay in the fact that only two men at any one time knew of the existence of the council of three, and these were those who were considered fit to sit in the council themselves. Even these two did not know more than one of the three leaders as such, though probably personally and even intimately acquainted with all three. The body of men whom the council controlled was ignorant of its existence therefore, and was composed of the personal adherents of each of the three. Manifestly one member of the council could, with the consent and cooperation of the other two, command the influence of the whole body of political adherents in favor of one of his friends, at any time, leaving the individual in entire ignorance of the power employed for his advancement. When a vacancy occurred in the council, by death or old age of any member, one of the two already designated took the place, while the other remained ignorant of the fact that any change had occurred, unless the vacancy was caused by the withdrawal of the member he had known, in which case he was put in communication with that member with whom he was most intimately acquainted. By this system of management no one man knew more than one of the actual leaders until he was himself one of the three. At the present time Z had been in the council nearly thirty years, and X for upwards of twenty, while Y, who was in reality fifty years old, had received his seat fifteen years before, at the age of thirty-five. A year ago one of the men selected to fill a possible vacancy had died, and John Harrington was chosen in his place.

  It has been seen that the three kept a sort of political ledger, which was always in the hands of the president for the time being, whose duty it was to make the insertions necessary from time to time. Some conception of the extent and value of the book may be formed from the fact that it contained upwards of ten thousand names, including those of almost every prominent man, and of not a few remarkable women in the principal centres of the country. The details given were invariably brief and to the point, written down in a simple but safe form of cipher which was perfectly familiar to every one of the three. This vast mass of information was simply the outcome of the personal experience of the leaders, and of their trusted friends, but no detail which could by any possibility be of use escaped being committed to paper, and the result was in many cases a positive knowledge of future events, which, to any one unacquainted with the system, must have appeared little short of miraculous.

  “What time is it in Boston?” inquired the president, rising and going to the writing-table.

  “Twenty-eight minutes past seven,” said Y, producing an enormous three-dial time-piece, set to indicate simultaneously the time of day in London, Boston, and Washington.

  “All right, there is plenty of time,” answered X, writing out a dispatch on a broad white sheet of cable office paper. “See here–is this all right?” he asked, when he had done.

  The message ran as follows: “Do not withdraw. If possible gain Ballymolloy and men, but on no account pay for them. If asked, say iron protection necessary at present, and probably for many years.”

  Y and Z read the telegram, and said it would do. In ten minutes it was taken to the telegraph office by X’s servant.

  “And now,” said X, lighting a fresh cigar, “we have disposed of this accident, and we can turn to our regular business. The question is broadly, what effect will be produced by suddenly throwing eight or ten millions of English money into an American enterprise?”

  “When Englishmen are not making money, they are a particularly disagreeable set of people to deal with,” remarked Y, who would have been taken for an Englishman himself in any part of the world.

  And so the council left John Harrington, and turned to other matters which do not in any way concern this tale.

  John received the dispatch at half-past ten o’clock in the morning after the dinner at Mrs. Wyndham’s, and he read it without comprehending precisely the position taken by his instructor. Nevertheless, the order coincided with what he would have done if left to himself. He of course could not know that even if his opponent were elected it would be a gain to his own party, for the outward life of Mr. Jobbins gave no cause for believing that he was in anybody’s power. Harrington was left to suppose that, if he failed to get the votes of Patrick Ballymolloy and his party, the election would be a dead loss. Nevertheless, he rejoiced that the said Patrick was not to be bought. An honorable failure, wherein he might honestly say that he had bribed no one, nor used any undue pressure, would in his opinion be better than to be elected ten times over by money and promises of political jobbery.

  The e
nd rarely justifies the means, and there are means so foul that they would blot any result into their own filthiness. All that the world can write; or think, or say, will never make it honorable or noble to bribe and tell lies. Men who lie are not brave because they are willing to be shot at, in some instances, by the men their falsehoods have injured. Men who pay others to agree with them are doing a wrong upon the dignity of human nature, and they very generally end by saying that human nature has no dignity at all, and very possibly by being themselves corrupted.

  Nevertheless, so great is the interest which men, even upright and honorable men, take in the aims they follow, that they believe it possible to wade knee-deep through mud, and then ascend to the temple of fame without dragging the mud with them, and befouling the white marble steps.

  “Political necessity!” What deeds are done in thy name! What a merciful and polite goddess was the necessity of the ancients, compared with the necessity of the moderns. Political necessity has been hard at work in our times from Robespierre to Sedan, from St. Helena to the Vatican, from the Tea-chests of Boston Harbor to the Great Rebellion. Political necessity has done more lying, more bribery, more murdering, and more stealing in a century, than could have been invented by all the Roman emperors together, with the assistance of the devil himself.

  Chapter XIV.

  IN ALL THE endless folk-lore of proverbs, there is perhaps no adage more true than that which warns young people to beware of a new love until they have done with the old, and as Ronald Surbiton reflected on his position, the old rhyme ran through his head. Ho was strongly attracted by Sybil Brandon, but, at the same time, he still felt that he ought to make an effort to win Joe back. It seemed so unmanly to relinquish her without a struggle, just because she said she did not love him. It could not be true, for they had loved each other so long.

  When Ronald looked out of the window of his room in the hotel, on the morning after Mrs. Wyndham’s dinner, the snow was falling as it can only fall in Boston. The great houses opposite were almost hidden from view by the soft, fluttering flakes, and below, in the broad street, the horse-cars moved slowly along like immense white turtles ploughing their way through deep white sand. The sound of the bells was muffled as it came up, and the scraping of the Irishmen’s heavy spades on the pavement before the hotel followed by the regular fall of the great shovels full on the heap, as they stacked the snow, sounded like the digging of a gigantic grave.

  Ronald felt that his spirits were depressed. He watched the drifting storm for a few minutes, and then turned away and looked for a novel in his bag, and filled a pipe with some English tobacco he had jealously guarded from the lynx-eyed custom-house men in New York, and then sat down with a sigh before his small coal fire, and prepared to pass the morning, in solitude.

  But Ronald was not fond of reading, and at the end of half an hour he threw his book and his pipe aside, and stretched his long limbs. Then he rose and went to the window again with an expression of utter weariness such as only an Englishman can put on when he is thoroughly bored. The snow was falling as thickly as ever, and the turtle-backed horse-cars crawled by through the drifts, more and more slowly. Ronald turned away with an impatient ejaculation, and made up his mind that he would go and see Joe at once. He wrapped himself carefully in a huge ulster overcoat and went out.

  Joe was sitting alone in the drawing-room, curled up in an old-fashioned arm-chair by the fire, with a book in her lap which she was not reading. She had asked her aunt for something about politics, and Miss Schenectady had given her the “Life of Rufus Choate,” in two large black volumes. The book was interesting, but in Joe’s mind it was but a step from the speeches and doings of the great and brilliant lawyer-senator to the speeches and doings of John Harrington. And so after a while the book dropped upon her knee and she leaned far back in the chair, her great brown eyes staring dreamily at the glowing coals.

  “I was so awfully lonely,” said Ronald, sitting down beside her, “that I came here. You do not mind, Joe, do you?”

  “Mind? No! I am very glad. It must be dreadfully lonely for you at the hotel. What have you been doing with yourself?”

  “Oh–trying to read. And then, I was thinking about you.”

  “That is not much of an occupation. See how industrious I am. I have been reading the ‘Life and Writings of Rufus Choate.’ I am getting to be a complete Bostonian.”

  “Have you read it all? I never heard of him. Who was he?”

  “He was an extremely clever man. He must have been very nice, and his speeches are splendid. You ought to read them.”

  “Joe, you are going to be a regular blue-stocking! The idea of spending your time in reading such stuff. Why, it would be almost better to read the parliamentary reports in the ‘Times!’ Just fancy!” Ronald laughed at the idea of any human being descending to such drudgery.

  “Don’t be silly, Ronald. You do not know anything about it,” said Joe.

  “Oh, it is of no use discussing the question,” answered Ronald. “You young women are growing altogether too clever, with your politics, and your philosophy, and your culture. I hate America!”

  “If you really knew anything about it, you would like it very much. Besides, you have no right to say you hate it. The people here have been very good to you already. You ought not to abuse them.”

  “No–not the people. But just look at that snow-storm, Joe, and tell me whether America is a place for human beings to live in.”

  “It is much prettier than a Scotch mist, and ever so much clearer than a fog in London,” retorted Joe.

  “But there is nothing for a fellow to do on a day like this,” said Ronald sulkily.

  “Nothing, but to come and see his cousin, and abuse everything to her, and try to make her as discontented as himself,” said Joe, mimicking his tone.

  “If I thought you liked me to come and see you”–began Ronald.

  “Well?”

  “It would be different, you know.”

  “I like you when you are nice and good-tempered,” said Joe. “But when you are bored you are simply–well, you are dreadful.” Joe raised her eyebrows and tapped with her fingers on the arm of the chair.

  “Do you think I can ever be bored when I come to see you, Joe?” asked Ronald, changing his tone.

  “You act as if you were, precisely. You know people who are bored are generally bores themselves.”

  “Thanks,” said Ronald. “How kind you are!”

  “Do say something nice, Ronald. You have done nothing but find fault since you came. Have you heard from home?”

  “No. There has not been time yet. Why do you ask?”

  “Because I thought you might say something less disagreeable about home than you seem able to say about things here,” said Joe tartly.

  “You do not want me this morning. I will go away again,” said Ronald with a gloomy frown. He rose to his feet, as though about to take his leave.

  “Oh, don’t go, Ronald.” He paused. “Besides,” added Joe, “Sybil will be here in a little while.”

  “You need not offer me Miss Brandon as an inducement to stay with you, Joe, if you really want me. Twenty Miss Brandons would not make any difference!”

  “Really?” said Joe smiling. “You are a dear good boy, Ronald, when you are nice,” she added presently. “Sit down again.”

  Ronald went back to his seat beside her, and they were both silent for a while. Joe repented a little, for she thought she had been teasing him, and she reflected that she ought to be doing her best to make him happy.

  “Joe–do not you think it would be very pleasant to be always like this?” said Ronald after a time.

  “How–like this?”

  “Together,” said Ronald softly, and a gentle look came into his handsome face, as he looked up at his cousin. “Together–only in our own home.”

  Joe did not answer, but the color came to her cheeks, and she looked annoyed. She had hoped that the matter was settled forever, for it seeme
d so easy for her. Ronald misinterpreted the blush. For the moment the old conviction came back to him that she was to be his wife, and if it was not exactly love that he felt, it was a satisfaction almost great enough to take its place.

  “Would it not?” said he presently.

  “Please do not talk about it, Ronald. What is the use? I have said all there is to say, I am sure.”

  “But I have not,” he answered, insisting. “Please, Joe dearest, think about it seriously. Think what a cruel thing it is you are doing.” His voice was very tender, but he was perfectly calm; there was not the slightest vibration of passion in the tones. Joe did not wholly understand; she only knew that he was not satisfied with the first explanation she had given him, and that she felt sorry for him, but was incapable of changing her decision.

  “Must I go over it all again?” she asked piteously. “Did I not make it clear to you, Ronald? Oh–don’t talk about it!”

  “You have no heart, Joe,” said Ronald hotly. “You don’t know what you make me suffer. You don’t know that this sort of thing is enough to wreck a man’s existence altogether. You don’t know what you are doing, because you have no heart–not the least bit of one.”

  “Do not say that–please do not,” Joe entreated, looking at him with imploring eyes, for his words hurt her. Then suddenly the tears came in a quick hot gush, and she hid her face in her hands. “Oh, Ronald, Ronald–it is you who do not know,” she sobbed.

  Ronald did not quite know what to do; he never did when Joe cried, but fortunately that disaster had not occurred often since he was very small. He was angry with himself for having disturbed and hurt her, but he did not know what to do, most probably because he did not really love her.

  “Joe,” he said, looking at her in some embarrassment, “don’t!” Then he rose and rather timidly laid a hand on her shoulder. But she shrank from him with a petulant motion, and the tears trickled through her small white hands and fell upon her dark dress and on the “Life of Rufus Choate.”