The Best Man

by Harold MacGrath

  II

  THAT same evening Newcomb and McDermott, the Democratic leader, met byappointment in McDermott's law offices. McDermott was a wealthysteel-manufacturer who had held various state and national offices. As abusiness man his policy was absolute honesty. He gave liberal wages, methis men personally, and adjusted their differences. There were as manyRepublicans as Democrats in his employ. Politics never entered the shop.Every dollar in his business had been honestly earned. He was a bornleader, kindly, humorous, intelligent. But once he put on his silk hatand frock coat, a metamorphosis, strange and incomprehensible, tookplace. He became altogether a different man; cold, purposeful,determined, bitter, tumbling over obstacles without heart or conscience,using all means to gain his devious ends; scheming, plotting,undermining this man or elevating that, a politician in every sense ofthe word; cunning, astute, long-headed, far-seeing. He was not suavelike his old enemy, the senator; he was blunt because he knew thefullness of his power. But for all his bluntness, he was, when need saidmust, a diplomat of no mean order. If he brought about a shady election,he had the courage to stand by what he had done. He was respected anddetested alike.

  The present incumbent in the city hall was no longer of use to him. Hewas wise enough to see that harm to his power would come about in casethe reform movement got headway; he might even be dethroned. So hisgeneral's eye had lighted on Newcomb, as the senator's had lighted onWilliard; only he had mistaken his man, whereas the senator had not.

  "My boy," he began, "I'm going to lecture you."

  "Go ahead," said Newcomb. "I know what the trouble is. I crossed out Mr.Murphy's name from the list you fixed up for my inspection."

  "And his name must go back," smiling. "We can't afford to turn him downat this late day."

  "I can," said the protege imperturbably and firmly.

  For a moment their glances met and clashed.

  "You must always remember the welfare of the party," gently.

  "And the people," supplemented the admonished one.

  "Of course," with thin lips. "But Murphy's name must stand. We dependupon the eighth ward to elect you, and Murphy holds it in his palm. Yourfriend Williard will be forced to accept Matthews for the same reason.It's a game of chess, but a great game."

  "Matthews? I don't believe it. Williard would not speak to him on thestreet, let alone put him on the ticket."

  "Wait and see."

  "He's a blackleg, a gambler, worse than Murphy."

  "And what is your grievance against Murphy? He has always served theparty well."

  "Not to speak of Mr. Murphy."

  "What has he done?"

  "He has sold his vote three times in the common council. He sold it oncefor two thousand dollars in that last pavement deal. I have been ratherobservant. Let him remain alderman; I can not see my way clear toappoint him to a position in the city hall."

  McDermott's eyes narrowed. "Your accusations are grave. If Murphylearns, he may make you prove it."

  Newcomb remained silent for a few minutes, his face in thoughtfulrepose; then having decided to pursue a certain course, he reached intoa pigeon-hole of his desk and selected a paper which he gave toMcDermott. The latter studied the paper carefully. From the paper hisglance traveled to the face of the young man opposite him. He wonderedwhy he hadn't taken more particular notice of the cleft chin and theblue-gray eyes. Had he made a mistake? Was the young fellow's honestygreater than his ambition? McDermott returned the paper without comment.

  "Is that proof enough?" Newcomb asked, a bit of raillery in his tones.

  "You should have told me of this long ago."

  "I hadn't the remotest idea that Murphy's name would turn up. You canvery well understand that I can not consider this man's name as anappointee."

  "Why hasn't it been turned over to the district attorney?"

  "The plaintiff is a patient man. He left it to me. It is a good sword,and I may have to hold it over Mr. Murphy's neck."

  McDermott smiled.

  "The Democratic party in this county needs a strong tonic in the natureof a clean bill. I want my appointees men of high standing; I want themhonest; I want them not for what they have done, but what they may do."

  McDermott smiled again. "I have made a mistake in not coming to youearlier. There is a great future for a man of your kidney, Newcomb. Youhave a genuine talent for politics. You possess something that only adozen men in a hundred thousand possess, a tone. Words are empty thingsunless they are backed by a tone. Tone holds the auditor, convinces him,directs him if by chance he is wavering. You are a born orator. Millerretires from Congress next year. His usefulness in Washington haspassed. How would you like to succeed him?"

  Insidious honey! Newcomb looked out of the window. Washington! A seatamong the Seats of the Mighty! A torchlight procession was passingthrough the street below, and the noise of the fife and drum rose. Theworld's applause; the beating of hands, the yells of triumph, thelaudation of the press--the world holds no greater thrill than this. Artand literature stand pale beside it. But a worm gnawed at the heart ofthis rose, a canker ate into the laurel. Newcomb turned. He was by nomeans guileless.

  "When I accepted this nomination, I did so because I believed that theparty was in danger, and that, if elected, I might benefit the people. Ihave remained silent; I have spoken but little of my plans; I have madefew promises. Mr. McDermott, I am determined, first and foremost, to bemayor in all the meaning of the word. I refuse to be a figure-head. Ihave crossed out Murphy's name because he is a dishonest citizen. Yes, Iam ambitious; but I would forego Washington rather than reach it byshaking Murphy's hand." The blood of the old war-governor tingled in hisveins at that moment.

  "It must be replaced," quietly.

  "In face of that document?"

  "In spite of it."

  "I refuse!"

  "Listen to reason, my boy; you are young, and you have to learn that inpolitics there's always a bitter pill with the sweet. To elect you Ihave given my word to Murphy that he shall have the office."

  "You may send Mr. Murphy to me," said Newcomb curtly. "I'll take all theblame."

  "This is final?"

  "It is. And I am surprised that you should request this of me."

  "He will defeat you."

  "So be it."

  McDermott was exceedingly angry, but he could not help admiring theyoung man's resoluteness and direct honesty.

  "You are making a fatal mistake. I shall make an enemy of the man, and Ishall not be able to help you. I have a great deal at stake. If we losethe eighth, we lose everything, and for years to come."

  "Perhaps. One dishonest step leads to another, and if I should sanctionthis man, I should not hesitate at greater dishonesty. My honesty is mybread and butter ... and my conscience."

  "Corporations have no souls; politics has no conscience. Williard ..."

  "My name is Newcomb," abruptly. "In a matter of this kind I can notpermit myself to be subjected to comparisons. You brought about mypresent position in municipal affairs."

  "We had need of you, and still need you," confessed the otherreluctantly. "The party needs new blood."

  "You are a clever man, Mr. McDermott; you are a leader; let me appeal toyour better judgment. Murphy is a blackguard, and he would be in anyparty, in any country. In forcing him on me, you rob me of myself-respect."

  McDermott shrugged. "In this case he is a necessary evil. The success ofthe party depends upon his good will. Listen. Will you find, in all thiswide land, a ruling municipality that is incorrupt? Is there not a flyin the ointment whichever way you look? Is not dishonesty fought withdishonesty; isn't it corruption against corruption? Do you believe for aminute that you can bring about this revolution? No, my lad; no. This isa workaday world; Utopia is dreamland. You can easily keep your eye onthis man. If he makes a dishonest move, you can find it in your power toremove him effectually. But I swear to you that he is absolutelynecessary."

  "Well, I will assume
the risk of his displeasure."

  "Show him your document, and tell him that if he leaves you in the lurchat the polls, you'll send him to prison. That's the only way out."McDermott thought he saw light.

  "Make a blackmailer of myself? Hardly."

  "I am sorry." McDermott rose. "You are digging a pit for a very brightfuture."

  "Politically, perhaps."

  "If you are defeated, there is no possible method of sending you toWashington in Miller's place. You must have popularity to back you. Ihave observed that you are a very ambitious young man."

  "Not so ambitious as to obscure my sense of right."

  "I like your pluck, my boy, though it stands in your own light. I'll doall I can to pacify Murphy. Good night and good luck to you." AndMcDermott made his departure.

  Newcomb remained motionless in his chair, studying the night. So muchfor his dreams! He knew what McDermott's "I'll do what I can" meant. Ifonly he had not put his heart so thoroughly into the campaign! Was thereany honesty? Was it worth while to be true to oneself? Murphy controllednearly four hundred votes. For six years the eighth ward had carried theDemocratic party into victory. Had he turned this aside? For years theelections had been like cheese-parings; and in ten years there hadn'tbeen a majority of five hundred votes on either side. If Murphy was agenuine party man, and not a leech, he would stand square for his partyand not consider personal enmity. What would he do when he heard fromMcDermott that he (Newcomb) had deliberately crossed him off the ticketof appointees?

  From among some old papers in a drawer Newcomb produced the portrait ofa young girl of sixteen in fancy dress. When he had studied this acertain length of time, he took out another portrait: it was the younggirl grown into superb womanhood. The eyes were kind and merry, themouth beautiful, the brow fine and smooth like a young poet's, a nosewith the slightest tilt; altogether a high-bred, queenly, womanly face,such as makes a man desire to do great things in the world. Newcomb hadalways loved her. He had gone through the various phases: the boy, thediffident youth, the man. (Usually it takes three women to bring aboutthese changes!) There was nothing wild or incoherent in his love,nothing violent or passionate; rather the serene light, the steadyburning light, that guides the ships at sea; constant, enduring, a surebeacon.

  As he studied the face from all angles, his jaws hardened. He lifted hischin defiantly. He had the right to love her; he had lived cleanly, hehad dealt justly to both his friends and his enemies, he owed no man, hewas bound only to his mother, who had taught him the principles of manlyliving. He had the right to love any woman in the world.... And therewas Williard--handsome, easy-going old Dick! Why was it written thattheir paths must cross in everything? Yes, Dick loved her, too, but withan affection that had come only with majority. Williard had everythingto offer besides. Should he step down and aside for his friend? Didfriendship demand such a sacrifice? No! Let Williard fight for her as he(Newcomb) intended to fight for her; and if Williard won, there would betime then to surrender.

  It was almost twelve when the scrub-woman aroused him from his reveries.He closed his desk and went home, his heart full of battle. He would putup the best fight that was in him, for love and for fame; and if he losthe would still have his manhood and self-respect, which any woman mightbe proud to find at her feet, to accept or decline. He would go intoMurphy's own country and fight him openly and without secret weapons. Heknew very well that he held it in his power to coerce Murphy, but thatwasn't fighting.

  Neither of the candidates slept well that night.

  * * * * *

  So the time went forward. The second Tuesday in November was but afortnight off. Newcomb fought every inch of ground. He depended butlittle, if any, upon McDermott's assistance, though that gentleman camegallantly to his rescue, as it was necessary to save his own scalp. Itcrept into the papers that there was a rupture between Murphy and theDemocratic candidate. The opposition papers cried in glee; the othersremained silent. Murphy said nothing when questioned; he simply smiled.Newcomb won the respect of his opponents. The laboring classes saw inhim a Moses, and they hailed him with cheers whenever they saw him.

 

  There were many laughable episodes during the heat of the campaign; butNewcomb knew how and when to laugh. He answered questions from theplatform, and the ill-mannered were invariably put to rout by hisgood-natured wit. Once they hoisted him on top of a bar in an obscuresaloon. His shoulders touched the gloomy ceiling, and he was forced toaddress the habitues, with his head bent like a turtle's, his nose andeyes offended by the heat and reek of kerosene and cheap tobacco. Theyhad brought him there to bait him; they carried him out on theirshoulders. To those who wanted facts he gave facts; to some he toldhumorous stories, more or less applicable; and to others he spoke hissincere convictions.

  Meantime Williard took hold of affairs, but in a bored fashion. He didthe best he knew how, but it wasn't the best that wins high place in theaffections of the people.

  The betting was even.

  Election day came round finally--one of those rare days when the pallidghost of summer returns to view her past victories, when the broad wingsof the West go a-winnowing the skies, and the sun shines warm andgrateful. On that morning a change took place in Newcomb's heart. Hebecame filled with dread. After leaving the voting-polls early in themorning, he returned to his home and refused to see any one. He even hadthe telephone wires cut. Only his mother saw him, and hovered about himwith a thousand kindly attentions. At the door she became a veritabledragon; not even telegraph messengers could pass her or escape hervigilance.

  At six in the evening Newcomb ordered around his horse. He mounted androde away into the hill country south of the city, into the cold crispautumn air. There was fever in his veins that needed cooling; there weredoubts and fears in his mind that needed clearing. He wanted that senseof physical exhaustion which makes a man indifferent to mental blows.

  The day passed and the night came. Election night! The noisy,good-natured crowds in the streets, the jostling, snail-moving crowds!The illuminated canvas-sheets in front of the newspaper offices! Theblare of horns, the cries, the yells, the hoots and hurrahs! The pettystreet fights! The stalled surface-cars, the swearing cabbies, thevenders of horns and whistles, the newsboys hawking their extras! It isthe greatest of all spectacular nights; humanity comes out into theopen.

  The newspaper offices were yellow with lights. It was a busy time. Therewas a continuous coming and going of messengers, bringing in returns.The newspaper men took off their coats and rolled up their sleeves.Figures, figures, thousands of figures to sift and resift! Filteringthrough the various noises was the maddening click of the telegraphinstruments. Great drifts of waste paper littered the floors. A sandwichman served coffee and sandwiches. The chief distributed cigars.Everybody was writing, writing. Five men were sent out to hunt forNewcomb, but none could find him. His mother refused to state where hehad gone; in fact, she knew nothing save that he had gone horsebackriding.

  At nine there was a gathering at the club. Williard was there, and allwho had charge of the wheels within wheels. They had ensconcedthemselves in the huge davenports in the bow-window facing the street,and had given orders to the steward to charge everything that night toSenator Gordon. A fabulous number of corks were pulled; but gentlemenare always orderly.

  Williard, however, seemed anything but happy. He had dined at thesenator's that evening, and something had taken place there which thegeneral public would never learn. He was gloomy, and the wine he drankonly added to his gloom.

  The younger element began to wander in, carrying those execrablerooster-posters. A gay time ensued.

  Newcomb had ridden twelve miles into the country. At eight o'clock thetemperature changed and it began to snow. He turned and rode back towardthe city, toward victory or defeat. Sometimes he went at a canter,sometimes at a trot. By and by he could see the aureola from theelectric lights wavering above the city. Once he stru
ck a wind-match andglanced at his watch. Had he lost or had he won? A whimsical inspirationcame to him. He determined to hear victory or defeat from the lips ofthe girl he loved. The snow fell softly into his face and melted. Hishair became matted over his eyes; his gauntlets dripped and the reinsbecame slippery; a steam rose from the horse's body, a big-heartedhunter on which he had ridden many a mile.

  "Good boy!" said Newcomb; "we'll have it first from her lips."

  Finally he struck the asphalt of the city limits, and he slowed down toa walk. He turned into obscure streets. Whenever he saw a bonfire, heevaded it.

  It was ten o'clock when he drew up in front of the Gordon home. He tiedhis horse to the post with the hitching-chain and knotted the reins sothat they would not slip over the horse's head, wiped his face with hishandkerchief, and walked bravely up to the veranda. There were fewlights. Through the library window he saw the girl standing at thetelephone. He prayed that she might be wholly alone. After a moment'shesitation he pressed the button and waited.

  Betty herself came to the door. She peered out.

  "What is it?" she asked.

  "I did not expect that you would recognize me," said Newcomb, laughing.

  "John? Where in the world did you come from?" taking him by the arm anddragging him into the hall. "Good gracious!"

  "The truth is, Betty, I took to my heels at six o'clock, and have beenriding around the country ever since." He sent her a penetrating glance.

  "Come in to the fire," she cried impulsively. "You are cold and wet andhungry."

  "Only wet," he admitted as he entered the cheerful library. He wentdirectly to the blazing grate and spread out his red, wet, aching hands.He could hear her bustling about; it was a pleasant sound. A chairrolled up to the fender; the rattle of a tea-table followed. It was allvery fine. "I ought to be ashamed to enter a house in these reekingclothes," he said; "but the temptation was too great."

  "You are always welcome, John," softly.

  His keen ear caught the melancholy sympathy in her tone. He shrugged. Hehad lost the fight. Had he won, she would already have poured forth hercongratulations.

  "Sit down," she commanded, "while I get the tea. Or would you preferbrandy?"

  "The tea, by all means. I do not need brandy to bolster up my courage."He sat down.

  She left the room and returned shortly with biscuit and tea. She filleda cup, put in two lumps of sugar, and passed the cup to him.

  "You've a good memory," he said, smiling at her. "It's nice to haveone's likes remembered, even in a cup of tea. I look as if I had been towar, don't I?"

  She buttered a biscuit. He ate it, not because he was hungry, butbecause her fingers had touched it. It was a phantom kiss. He put thecup down.

  "Now, which is it; have I been licked, or have I won?"

  "What!" she cried; "do you mean to tell me you do not know?" She gazedat him bewilderedly.

  "I have been four hours in the saddle. I know nothing, save that whichinstinct and the sweet melancholy of your voice tell me. Betty, tell me,I've been licked, haven't I, and old Dick has gone and done it, eh?"

  The girl choked for a moment; there was a sob in her throat.

  "Yes, John."

  Newcomb reached over and tapped the hearth with his riding-crop,absent-mindedly. The girl gazed at him, her eyes shining in a mist ofunshed tears.... She longed to reach out her hand and smooth the furrowsfrom his careworn brow, to brush the melting crystals of snow from hishair; longed to soothe the smart of defeat which she knew was burninghis heart. She knew that only strong men suffer in silence.

  From a half-opened window the night breathed upon them, freighted withthe far-off murmur of voices.

  "I confess to you that I built too much on the outcome. I am ambitious;I want to be somebody, to take part in the great affairs of the world. Ifought the very best I knew how. I had many dreams. Do you recollect theverses I used to write to you when we were children? There was alwayssomething of the poet in me, and it is still there, only it no longerdevelops on paper. I had looked toward Washington ... even toward you,Betty."

  Silence. The girl sat very still. Her face was white and her eyes large.

  "I am honest. I can see now that I have no business in politics...." Helaughed suddenly and turned toward the girl. "I was on the verge ofwailing. I'm licked, and I must begin all over again. Dick will make agood mayor, that is, if they leave him alone.... Whimsical, wasn't it,of me, coming here to have you tell me the news?" He looked away.

  The girl smiled and held out her hand to him, and as he did not see it,laid it gently on his sleeve.

  "It does not matter, John. Some day you will realize all your ambitions.You are not the kind of man who gives up. Defeat is a necessary step togreatness; and you will become great. I am glad that you came to me."She knew now; all her doubts were gone, all the confusing shadows.

  Newcomb turned and touched her hand with his lips.

  "Why did you come to me?" she asked with fine courage.

  His eyes widened. "Why did I come to you? If I had won I should havetold you. But I haven't won; I have lost."

  "Does that make the difference so great?"

  "It makes the difficulty greater."

  "Tell me!" with a voice of command.

  They both rose suddenly, rather unconsciously, too. Their glances held,magnet and needle-wise. Across the street a bonfire blazed, and theruddy light threw a mellow rose over their strained faces.

  "I love you," he said simply. "That is what drew me here, that is whathas always drawn me here. But say nothing to me, Betty. God knows I amnot strong enough to suffer two defeats in one night. God bless you andmake you happy!"

  He turned and took a few steps toward the door.

  "If it were not defeat ... if it were victory?" she said, in a kind ofwhisper, her hands on the back of the chair.

  * * * * *

  The senator came in about midnight. He found his daughter asleep in achair before a half-dead fire. There was a tender smile on her lips. Hetouched her gently.

  "It is you, daddy?" Her glance traveled from his florid countenance tothe clock. "Mercy! I have been dreaming these two hours."

  "What do you suppose Newcomb did to-night?" lighting a cigar.

  "What did he do?"

  "Came into the club and congratulated Williard publicly."

  "He did that?" cried the girl, her cheeks dyeing exquisitely.

  "Did it like a man, too." The senator dropped into a chair. "It was agreat victory, my girl."

  Betty smiled. "Yes, it was."