River, the project he and some gentlemen in New York had for making a shorter Pacific connection with the Mississippi than the present one; or diverting Mrs. Montague with his experience in cooking in camp; or drawing for Miss Alice an amusing picture of the social contrasts of New England and the border where he had been. Harry was a very entertaining fellow, having his imagination to help his memory, and telling his stories as if he believed them–as perhaps he did. Alice was greatly amused with Harry and listened so seriously to his romancing that he exceeded his usual limits. Chance allusions to his bachelor establishment in town and the place of his family on the Hudson, could not have been made by a millionaire, more naturally.
“I should think,” queried Alice, “you would rather stay in New York than to try the rough life at the West you have been speaking of.”
“Oh, adventure,” says Harry, “I get tired of New York. And besides I got involved in some operations that I had to see through. Parties in New York only last week wanted me to go down into Arizona in a big diamond interest. I told them, no, no speculation for me. I’ve got my interests in Missouri; and I wouldn’t leave Philip, as long as he stays there.”
When the young gentlemen were on their way back to the hotel, Mr. Philip, who was not in very good humor, broke out,
“What the deuce, Harry, did you go on in that style to the Montagues for?”
“Go on?” cried Harry. “Why shouldn’t I try to make a pleasant evening? And besides, ain’t I going to do those things? What difference does it make about the mood and tense of a mere verb? Didn’t uncle tell me only last Saturday, that I might as well go down to Arizona and hunt for diamonds? A fellow might as well make a good impression as a poor one.”
“Nonsense. You’ll get to believing your own romancing by and by.”
“Well, you’ll see. When Sellers and I get that appropriation, I’ll show you an establishment in town and another on the Hudson and a box at the opera.”
“Yes, it will be like Col. Sellers’ plantation at Hawkeye. Did you ever see that?”
“Now, don’t be cross, Phil. She’s just superb, that little woman. You never told me.”
“Who’s just superb?” growled Philip, fancying this turn of the conversation less than the other.
“Well, Mrs. Montague, if you must know.” And Harry stopped to light a cigar, and then puffed on in silence. The little quarrel didn’t last over night, for Harry never appeared to cherish any ill-will half a second, and Philip was too sensible to continue a row about nothing; and he had invited Harry to come with him.
The young gentlemen stayed in Fallkill a week, and were every day at the Montagues, and took part in the winter gaieties of the village. There were parties here and there to which the friends of Ruth and the Montagues were of course invited, and Harry in the generosity of his nature, gave in return a little supper at the hotel, very simple indeed, with dancing in the hall, and some refreshments passed round. And Philip found the whole thing in the bill when he came to pay it.
Before the week was over Philip thought he had a new light on the character of Ruth. Her absorption in the small gaieties of the society there surprised him. He had few opportunities for serious conversation with her. There was always some butterfly or another flitting about, and when Philip showed by his manner that he was not pleased, Ruth laughed merrily enough and rallied him on his soberness–she declared he was getting to be grim and unsocial. He talked indeed more with Alice than with Ruth, and scarcely concealed from her the trouble that was in his mind. It needed, in fact, no word from him, for she saw clearly enough what was going forward, and knew her sex well enough to know there was no remedy for it but time.
“Ruth is a dear girl, Philip, and has as much firmness of purpose as ever, but don’t you see she has just discovered that she is fond of society? Don’t you let her see you are selfish about it, is my advice.”
The last evening they were to spend in Fallkill, they were at the Montagues, and Philip hoped that he would find Ruth in a different mood. But she was never more gay, and there was a spice of mischief in her eye and in her laugh. “Confound it,” said Philip to himself, “she’s in a perfect twitter.”
He would have liked to quarrel with her, and fling himself out of the house in tragedy style, going perhaps so far as to blindly wander off miles into the country and bathe his throbbing brow in the chilling rain of the stars, as people do in novels; but he had no opportunity. For Ruth was as serenely unconscious of mischief as women can be at times, and fascinated him more than ever with her little demurenesses and half- confidences. She even said “Thee” to him once in reproach for a cutting speech he began. And the sweet little word made his heart beat like a trip-hammer, for never in all her life had she said “thee” to him before.
Was she fascinated with Harry’s careless ‘bon homie’ and gay assurance? Both chatted away in high spirits, and made the evening whirl along in the most mirthful manner. Ruth sang for Harry, and that young gentleman turned the leaves for her at the piano, and put in a bass note now and then where he thought it would tell.
Yes, it was a merry evening, and Philip was heartily glad when it was over, and the long leave-taking with the family was through with.
“Farewell Philip. Good night Mr. Brierly,” Ruth’s clear voice sounded after them as they went down the walk.
And she spoke Harry’s name last, thought Philip.
CHAPTER XXIII.
“O see ye not yon narrow road So thick beset wi’ thorns and briers? That is the Path of Righteousness, Though after it but few inquires.
“And see ye not yon braid, braid road, That lies across the lily leven? That is the Path of Wickedness,
Though some call it the road to Heaven.”
Thomas the Rhymer.
Phillip and Harry reached New York in very different states of mind. Harry was buoyant. He found a letter from Col. Sellers urging him to go to Washington and confer with Senator Dilworthy. The petition was in his hands.
It had been signed by everybody of any importance in Missouri, and would be presented immediately.
“I should go on myself,” wrote the Colonel, “but I am engaged in the invention of a process for lighting such a city as St. Louis by means of water; just attach my machine to the water-pipes anywhere and the decomposition of the fluid begins, and you will have floods of light for the mere cost of the machine. I’ve nearly got the lighting part, but I want to attach to it a heating, cooking, washing and ironing apparatus. It’s going to be the great thing, but we’d better keep this appropriation going while I am perfecting it.”
Harry took letters to several congressmen from his uncle and from Mr. Duff Brown, each of whom had an extensive acquaintance in both houses where they were well known as men engaged in large private operations for the public good and men, besides, who, in the slang of the day, understood the virtues of “addition, division and silence.”
Senator Dilworthy introduced the petition into the Senate with the remark that he knew, personally, the signers of it, that they were men interested; it was true, in the improvement of the country, but he believed without any selfish motive, and that so far as he knew the signers were loyal. It pleased him to see upon the roll the names of many colored citizens, and it must rejoice every friend of humanity to know that this lately emancipated race were intelligently taking part in the development of the resources of their native land. He moved the reference of the petition to the proper committee.
Senator Dilworthy introduced his young friend to influential members, as a person who was very well informed about the Salt Lick Extension of the Pacific, and was one of the Engineers who had made a careful survey of Columbus River; and left him to exhibit his maps and plans and to show the connection between the public treasury, the city of Napoleon and legislation for the benefit off the whole country.
Harry was the guest of Senator Dilworthy. There was scarcely any good movement in which the Senator was not interested. His house was open to all the laborers in the field of total abstinence, and much of his time was taken up in attending the meetings of this cause. He had a Bible class in the Sunday school of the church which he attended, and he suggested to Harry that he might take a class during the time he remained in Washington, Mr. Washington Hawkins had a class. Harry asked the Senator if there was a class of young ladies for him to teach, and after that the Senator did not press the subject.
Philip, if the truth must be told, was not well satisfied with his western prospects, nor altogether with the people he had fallen in with. The railroad contractors held out large but rather indefinite promises. Opportunities for a fortune he did not doubt existed in Missouri, but for himself he saw no better means for livelihood than the mastery of the profession he had rather thoughtlessly entered upon. During the summer he had made considerable practical advance in the science of engineering; he had been diligent, and made himself to a certain extent necessary to the work he was engaged on. The contractors called him into their consultations frequently, as to the character of the country he had been over, and the cost of constructing the road, the nature of the work, etc.
Still Philip felt that if he was going to make either reputation or money as an engineer, he had a great deal of hard study before him, and it is to his credit that he did not shrink from it. While Harry was in Washington dancing attendance upon the national legislature and making the acquaintance of the vast lobby that encircled it, Philip devoted himself day and night, with an energy and a concentration he was capable of, to the learning and theory of his profession, and to the science of railroad building. He wrote some papers at this time for the “Plow, the Loom and the Anvil,” upon the strength of materials, and especially upon bridge-building, which attracted considerable attention, and were copied into the English “Practical Magazine.” They served at any rate to raise Philip in the opinion of his friends the contractors, for practical men have a certain superstitious estimation of ability with the pen, and though they may a little despise the talent, they are quite ready to make use of it.
Philip sent copies of his performances to Ruth’s father and to other gentlemen whose good opinion he coveted, but he did not rest upon his laurels. Indeed, so diligently had he applied himself, that when it came time for him to return to the West, he felt himself, at least in theory, competent to take charge of a division in the field.
CHAPTER XXIV.
The capital of the Great Republic was a new world to country-bred Washington Hawkins. St. Louis was a greater city, but its floating. population did not hail from great distances, and so it had the general family aspect of the permanent population; but Washington gathered its people from the four winds of heaven, and so the manners, the faces and the fashions there, presented a variety that was infinite. Washington had never been in “society” in St. Louis, and he knew nothing of the ways of its wealthier citizens and had never inspected one of their dwellings. Consequently, everything in the nature of modern fashion and grandeur was a new and wonderful revelation to him.
Washington is an interesting city to any of us. It seems to become more and more interesting the oftener we visit it. Perhaps the reader has never been there? Very well. You arrive either at night, rather too late to do anything or see anything until morning, or you arrive so early in the morning that you consider it best to go to your hotel and sleep an hour or two while the sun bothers along over the Atlantic. You cannot well arrive at a pleasant intermediate hour, because the railway corporation that keeps the keys of the only door that leads into the town or out of it take care of that. You arrive in tolerably good spirits, because it is only thirty-eight miles from Baltimore to the capital, and so you have only been insulted three times (provided you are not in a sleeping car–the average is higher there): once when you renewed your ticket after stopping over in Baltimore, once when you were about to enter the “ladies’ car” without knowing it was a lady’s car, and once When you asked the conductor at what hour you would reach Washington.
You are assailed by a long rank of hackmen who shake their whips in your face as you step out upon the sidewalk; you enter what they regard as a “carriage,” in the capital, and you wonder why they do not take it out of service and put it in the museum: we have few enough antiquities, and it is little to our credit that we make scarcely any effort to preserve the few we have. You reach your hotel, presently–and here let us draw the curtain of charity–because of course you have gone to the wrong one. You being a stranger, how could you do otherwise? There are a hundred and eighteen bad hotels, and only one good one. The most renowned and popular hotel of them all is perhaps the worst one known to history.
It is winter, and night. When you arrived, it was snowing. When you reached the hotel, it was sleeting. When you went to bed, it was raining. During the night it froze hard, and the wind blew some chimneys down. When you got up in the morning, it was foggy. When you finished your breakfast at ten o’clock and went out, the sunshine was brilliant, the weather balmy and delicious, and the mud and slush deep and all- pervading. You will like the climate when you get used to it.
You naturally wish to view the city; so you take an umbrella, an overcoat, and a fan, and go forth. The prominent features you soon locate and get familiar with; first you glimpse the ornamental upper works of a long, snowy palace projecting above a grove of trees, and a tall, graceful white dome with a statue on it surmounting the palace and pleasantly contrasting with the background of blue sky. That building is the capitol; gossips will tell you that by the original estimates it was to cost $12,000,000, and that the government did come within $21,200,000 of building it for that sum.
You stand at the back of the capitol to treat yourself to a view, and it is a very noble one. You understand, the capitol stands upon the verge of a high piece of table land, a fine commanding position, and its front looks out over this noble situation for a city–but it don’t see it, for the reason that when the capitol extension was decided upon, the property owners at once advanced their prices to such inhuman figures that the people went down and built the city in the muddy low marsh behind the temple of liberty; so now the lordly front of the building, with, its imposing colonades, its, projecting, graceful wings, its, picturesque groups of statuary, and its long terraced ranges of steps, flowing down in white marble waves to the ground, merely looks out upon a sorrowful little desert of cheap boarding houses.
So you observe, that you take your view from the back of the capitol. And yet not from the airy outlooks of the dome, by the way, because to get there you must pass through the great rotunda: and to do that, you would have to see the marvelous Historical Paintings that hang there, and the bas-reliefs–and what have you done that you should suffer thus? And besides, you might have to pass through the old part of the building, and you could not help seeing Mr. Lincoln, as petrified by a young lady artist for $10,000–and you might take his marble emancipation proclamation, which he holds out in his hand and contemplates, for a folded napkin; and you might conceive from his expression and his attitude, that he is finding fault with the washing. Which is not the case. Nobody knows what is the matter with him; but everybody feels for him. Well, you ought not to go into the dome anyhow, because it would be utterly impossible to go up there without seeing the frescoes in it–and why should you be interested in the delirium tremens of art?
The capitol is a very noble and a very beautiful building, both within and without, but you need not examine it now. Still, if you greatly prefer going into the dome, go. Now your general glance gives you picturesque stretches of gleaming water, on your left, with a sail here and there and a lunatic asylum on shore; over beyond the water, on a distant elevation, you see a squat yellow temple which your eye dwells upon lovingly through a blur of unmanly moisture, for it recalls your lost boyhood and the Parthenons done in molasses candy which made it blest and beautiful. Still in the distance, but on this side of the water and close to its edge, the Monument to the Father of his Country towers out of the mud–sacred soil is the, customary term. It has the aspect of a factory chimney with the top broken off. The skeleton of a decaying scaffolding lingers about its summit, and tradition says that the spirit of Washington often comes down and sits on those rafters to enjoy this tribute of respect which the nation has reared as the symbol of its unappeasable gratitude. The Monument is to be finished, some day, and at that time our Washington will have risen still higher in the nation’s veneration, and will be known as the Great-Great-Grandfather of his Country. The memorial Chimney stands in a quiet pastoral locality that is full of reposeful expression. With a glass you can see the cow- sheds about its base, and the contented sheep nimbling pebbles in the desert solitudes that surround it, and the tired pigs dozing in the holy calm of its protecting shadow.
Now you wrench your gaze loose, and you look down in front of you and see the broad Pennsylvania Avenue stretching straight ahead for a mile or more till it brings up against the iron fence in front of a pillared granite pile, the Treasury building-an edifice that would command respect in any capital. The stores and hotels that wall in this broad avenue are mean, and cheap, and dingy, and are better left without comment. Beyond the Treasury is a fine large white barn, with wide unhandsome grounds about it. The President lives there. It is ugly enough outside, but that is nothing to what it is inside. Dreariness, flimsiness, bad taste reduced to mathematical completeness is what the inside offers to the eye, if it remains yet what it always has been.
The front and right hand views give you the city at large. It is a wide stretch of cheap little brick houses, with here and there a noble architectural pile lifting itself out of the midst-government buildings, these. If the thaw is still going on when you come down and go about town, you will wonder at the short-sightedness of the city fathers, when you come to inspect the streets, in that they do not dilute the mud a little more and use them for canals.
If you inquire around a little, you will find that there are more boardinghouses to the square acre in Washington than there are in any other city in the land, perhaps. If you apply for a home in one of them, it will seem odd to you to have the landlady inspect you with a severe eye and then ask you if you are a member of Congress. Perhaps, just as a pleasantry, you will say yes. And then she will tell you that she is “full.” Then you show her her advertisement in the morning paper, and there she stands, convicted and ashamed. She will try to blush, and it will be only polite in you to take the effort for the deed. She shows you her rooms, now, and lets yon take one–but she makes you pay in advance for it. That is what you will get for pretending to be a member of Congress. If you had been content to be merely a private citizen, your trunk would have been sufficient security for your board. If you are curious and inquire into this thing, the chances are that your landlady will be ill-natured enough to say that the person and property of a Congressman are exempt from arrest or detention, and that with the tears in her eyes she has seen several of the people’s representatives walk off to their several States and Territories carrying her unreceipted board bills in their pockets for keepsakes. And before you have been in Washington many weeks you will be mean enough to believe her, too.
Of course you contrive to see everything and find out everything. And one of the first and most startling things you find out is, that every individual you encounter in the City of Washington almost–and certainly every separate and distinct individual in the public employment, from the highest bureau chief, clear down to the maid who scrubs Department halls, the night watchmen of the public buildings and the darkey boy who purifies the Department spittoons–represents Political Influence. Unless you can get the ear of a Senator, or a Congressman, or a Chief of a Bureau or Department, and persuade him to use his “influence” in your behalf, you cannot get an employment of the most trivial nature in Washington. Mere merit, fitness and capability, are useless baggage to you without “influence.” The population of Washington consists pretty much entirely of government employee and the people who board them. There are thousands of these employees, and they have gathered there from every corner of the Union and got their berths through the intercession (command is nearer the word) of the Senators and Representatives of their respective States. It would be an odd circumstance to see a girl get employment at three or four dollars a week in one of the great public cribs without any political grandee to back her, but merely because she was worthy, and competent, and a good citizen of a free country that “treats all persons alike.” Washington would be mildly thunderstruck at such a thing as that. If you are a member of Congress, (no offence,) and one of your constituents who doesn’t know anything, and does not want to go into the bother of learning something, and has no money, and no employment, and can’t earn a living, comes besieging you for help, do you say, “Come, my friend, if your services were valuable you could get employment elsewhere–don’t want you here? “Oh, no: You take him to a Department and say, “Here, give this person something to pass away the time at–and a salary”–and the thing is done. You throw him on his country. He is his country’s child, let his country support him. There is something good and motherly about Washington, the grand old benevolent National Asylum for the Helpless.
The wages received by this great hive of employees are placed at the liberal figure meet and just for skilled and competent labor. Such of them as are immediately employed about the two Houses of Congress, are not only liberally paid also, but are remembered in the customary Extra Compensation bill which slides neatly through, annually, with the general grab that signalizes the last night of a session, and thus twenty per cent. is added to their wages, for–for fun, no doubt.
Washington Hawkins’ new life was an unceasing delight to him. Senator Dilworthy lived sumptuously, and Washington’s quarters were charming– gas; running water, hot and cold; bath-room, coal-fires, rich carpets, beautiful pictures on the walls; books on religion, temperance, public charities and financial schemes; trim colored servants, dainty food– everything a body could wish for. And as for stationery, there was no end to it; the government furnished it; postage stamps were not needed– the Senator’s frank could convey a horse through the mails, if necessary.
And then he saw such dazzling company. Renowned generals and admirals who had seemed but colossal myths when he was in the far west, went in and out before him or sat at the Senator’s table, solidified into palpable flesh and blood; famous statesmen crossed his path daily; that once rare and awe-inspiring being, a Congressman, was become a common spectacle–a spectacle so common, indeed, that he could contemplate it without excitement, even without embarrassment; foreign ministers were visible to the naked eye at happy intervals; he had looked upon the President himself, and lived. And more; this world of enchantment teemed with speculation–the whole atmosphere was thick with hand that indeed was Washington Hawkins’ native air; none other refreshed his lungs so gratefully. He had found paradise at last.
The more he saw of his chief the Senator, the more he honored him, and the more conspicuously the moral grandeur of his character appeared to stand out. To possess the friendship and the kindly interest of such a man, Washington said in a letter to Louise, was a happy fortune for a young man whose career had been so impeded and so clouded as his.
The weeks drifted by;–Harry Brierly flirted, danced, added lustre to the brilliant Senatorial receptions, and diligently “buzzed” and “button- holed” Congressmen in the interest of the Columbus River scheme; meantime Senator Dilworthy labored hard in the same interest–and in others of equal national importance. Harry wrote frequently to Sellers, and always encouragingly; and from these letters it was easy to see that Harry was a pet with all Washington, and was likely to carry the thing through; that the assistance rendered him by “old Dilworthy” was pretty fair–pretty fair; “and every little helps, you know,” said Harry.
Washington wrote Sellers officially, now and then. In one of his letters it appeared that whereas no member of the House committee favored the scheme at first, there was now needed but one more vote to compass a majority report. Closing sentence:
“Providence seems to further our efforts.” (Signed,) “ABNER DILWORTHY, U. S. S., per WASHINGTON HAWKINS, P. S.”
At the end of a week, Washington was able to send the happy news, officially, as usual,–that the needed vote had been added and the bill favorably reported from the Committee. Other letters recorded its perils in Committee of the whole, and by and by its victory, by just the skin of its teeth, on third reading and final passage. Then came letters telling of Mr. Dilworthy’s struggles with a stubborn majority in his own Committee in the Senate; of how these gentlemen succumbed, one by one, till a majority was secured.
Then there was a hiatus. Washington watched every move on the board, and he was in a good position to do this, for he was clerk of this committee, and also one other. He received no salary as private secretary, but these two clerkships, procured by his benefactor, paid him an aggregate of twelve dollars a day, without counting the twenty percent extra compensation which would of course be voted to him on the last night of the session.
He saw the bill go into Committee of the whole and struggle for its life again, and finally worry through. In the fullness of time he noted its second reading, and by and by the day arrived when the grand ordeal came, and it was put upon its final passage. Washington listened with bated breath to the “Aye!” “No!” “No!” “Aye!” of the voters, for a few dread minutes, and then could bear the suspense no longer. He ran down from the gallery and hurried home to wait.
At the end of two or three hours the Senator arrived in the bosom of his family, and dinner was waiting. Washington sprang forward, with the eager question on his lips, and the Senator said:
“We may rejoice freely, now, my son–Providence has crowned our efforts with success.”
CHAPTER XXV.
Washington sent grand good news to Col. Sellers that night. To Louise he wrote:
“It is beautiful to hear him talk when his heart is full of thankfulness for some manifestation of the Divine favor. You shall know him, some day my Louise, and knowing him you will honor him, as I do.”
Harry wrote:
“I pulled it through, Colonel, but it was a tough job, there is no question about that. There was not a friend to the measure in the House committee when I began, and not a friend in the Senate committee except old Dil himself, but they were all fixed for a majority report when I hauled off my forces. Everybody here says you can’t get a thing like this through Congress without buying committees for straight-out cash on delivery, but I think I’ve taught them a thing or two–if I could only make them believe it. When I tell the old residenters that this thing went through without buying a vote or making a promise, they say, ‘That’s rather too thin.’ And when I say thin or not thin it’s a fact, anyway, they say, ‘Come, now, but do you really believe that?’ and when I say I don’t believe anything about it, I know it, they smile and say, ‘Well, you are pretty innocent, or pretty blind, one or the other–there’s no getting around that.’ Why they really do believe that votes have been bought–they do indeed. But let them keep on thinking so. I have found out that if a man knows how to talk to women, and has a little gift in the way of argument with men, he can afford to play for an appropriation against a money bag and give the money bag odds in the game. We’ve raked in $200,000 of Uncle Sam’s money, say what they will–and there is more where this came from, when we want it, and I rather fancy I am the person that can go in and occupy it, too, if I do say it myself, that shouldn’t, perhaps. I’ll be with you within a week. Scare up all the men you can, and put them to work at once. When I get there I propose to make things hum.” The great news lifted Sellers into the clouds. He went to work on the instant. He flew hither and thither making contracts, engaging men, and steeping his soul in the ecstasies of business. He was the happiest man in Missouri. And Louise was the happiest woman; for presently came a letter from Washington which said:
“Rejoice with me, for the long agony is over! We have waited patiently and faithfully, all these years, and now at last the reward is at hand. A man is to pay our family $40,000 for the Tennessee Land! It is but a little sum compared to what we could get by waiting, but I do so long to see the day when I can call you my own, that I have said to myself, better take this and enjoy life in a humble way than wear out our best days in this miserable separation. Besides, I can put this money into operations here that will increase it a hundred fold, yes, a thousand fold, in a few months. The air is full of such chances, and I know our family would consent in a moment that I should put in their shares with mine. Without a doubt we shall be worth half a million dollars in a year from this time–I put it at the very lowest figure, because it is always best to be on the safe side–half a million at the very lowest calculation, and then your father will give his consent and we can marry at last. Oh, that will be a glorious day. Tell our friends the good news–I want all to share it.”
And she did tell her father and mother, but they said, let it be kept still for the present. The careful father also told her to write Washington and warn him not to speculate with the money, but to wait a little and advise with one or two wise old heads. She did this. And she managed to keep the good news to herself, though it would seem that the most careless observer might have seen by her springing step and her radiant countenance that some fine piece of good fortune had descended upon her.
Harry joined the Colonel at Stone’s Landing, and that dead place sprang into sudden life. A swarm of men were hard at work, and the dull air was filled with the cheery music of labor. Harry had been constituted engineer-in-general, and he threw the full strength of his powers into his work. He moved among his hirelings like a king. Authority seemed to invest him with a new splendor. Col. Sellers, as general superintendent of a great public enterprise, was all that a mere human being could be– and more. These two grandees went at their imposing “improvement” with the air of men who had been charged with the work of altering the foundations of the globe.
They turned their first attention to straightening the river just above the Landing, where it made a deep bend, and where the maps and plans showed that the process of straightening would not only shorten distance but increase the “fall.” They started a cut-off canal across the peninsula formed by the bend, and such another tearing up of the earth and slopping around in the mud as followed the order to the men, had never been seen in that region before. There was such a panic among the turtles that at the end of six hours there was not one to be found within three miles of Stone’s Landing. They took the young and the aged, the decrepit and the sick upon their backs and left for tide-water in disorderly procession, the tadpoles following and the bull-frogs bringing up the rear.
Saturday night came, but the men were obliged to wait, because the appropriation had not come. Harry said he had written to hurry up the money and it would be along presently. So the work continued, on Monday. Stone’s Landing was making quite a stir in the vicinity, by this time. Sellers threw a lot or two on the market, “as a feeler,” and they sold well. He re-clothed his family, laid in a good stock of provisions, and still had money left. He started a bank account, in a small way–and mentioned the deposit casually to friends; and to strangers, too; to everybody, in fact; but not as a new thing–on the contrary, as a matter of life-long standing. He could not keep from buying trifles every day that were not wholly necessary, it was such a gaudy thing to get out his bank-book and draw a check, instead of using his old customary formula, “Charge it” Harry sold a lot or two, also–and had a dinner party or two at Hawkeye and a general good time with the money. Both men held on pretty strenuously for the coming big prices, however.
At the end of a month things were looking bad. Harry had besieged the New York headquarters of the Columbus River Slack-water Navigation Company with demands, then commands, and finally appeals, but to no purpose; the appropriation did not come; the letters were not even answered. The workmen were clamorous, now. The Colonel and Harry retired to consult.
“What’s to be done?” said the Colonel.
“Hang’d if I know.”
“Company say anything?”
“Not a word.”
“You telegraphed yesterday?”
Yes, and the day before, too.”
“No answer?”
“None-confound them!”
Then there was a long pause. Finally both spoke at once:
“I’ve got it!”
“I’ve got it!”
“What’s yours?” said Harry.
“Give the boys thirty-day orders on the Company for the back pay.”
“That’s it-that’s my own idea to a dot. But then–but then—-“
“Yes, I know,” said the Colonel; “I know they can’t wait for the orders to go to New York and be cashed, but what’s the reason they can’t get them discounted in Hawkeye?”
“Of course they can. That solves the difficulty. Everybody knows the appropriation’s been made and the Company’s perfectly good.”
So the orders were given and the men appeased, though they grumbled a little at first. The orders went well enough for groceries and such things at a fair discount, and the work danced along gaily for a time. Two or three purchasers put up frame houses at the Landing and moved in, and of course a far-sighted but easy-going journeyman printer wandered along and started the “Napoleon Weekly Telegraph and Literary Repository”–a paper with a Latin motto from the Unabridged dictionary, and plenty of “fat” conversational tales and double-leaded poetry–all for two dollars a year, strictly in advance. Of course the merchants forwarded the orders at once to New York–and never heard of them again.
At the end of some weeks Harry’s orders were a drug in the market–nobody would take them at any discount whatever. The second month closed with a riot.–Sellers was absent at the time, and Harry began an active absence himself with the mob at his heels. But being on horseback, he had the advantage. He did not tarry in Hawkeye, but went on, thus missing several appointments with creditors. He was far on his flight eastward, and well out of danger when the next morning dawned. He telegraphed the Colonel to go down and quiet the laborers–he was bound east for money– everything would be right in a week–tell the men so–tell them to rely on him and not be afraid.
Sellers found the mob quiet enough when he reached the Landing. They had gutted the Navigation office, then piled the beautiful engraved stock-books and things in the middle of the floor and enjoyed the bonfire while it lasted. They had a liking for the Colonel, but still they had some idea of hanging him, as a sort of make-shift that might answer, after a fashion, in place of more satisfactory game.
But they made the mistake of waiting to hear what he had to say first. Within fifteen minutes his tongue had done its work and they were all rich men.–He gave every one of them a lot in the suburbs of the city of Stone’s Landing, within a mile and a half of the future post office and railway station, and they promised to resume work as soon as Harry got east and started the money along. Now things were blooming and pleasant again, but the men had no money, and nothing to live on. The Colonel divided with them the money he still had in bank–an act which had nothing surprising about it because he was generally ready to divide whatever he had with anybody that wanted it, and it was owing to this very trait that his family spent their days in poverty and at times were pinched with famine.
When the men’s minds had cooled and Sellers was gone, they hated themselves for letting him beguile them with fine speeches, but it was too late, now–they agreed to hang him another time–such time as Providence should appoint.
CHAPTER XXVI.
Rumors of Ruth’s frivolity and worldliness at Fallkill traveled to Philadelphia in due time, and occasioned no little undertalk among the Bolton relatives.
Hannah Shoecraft told another, cousin that, for her part, she never believed that Ruth had so much more “mind” than other people; and Cousin Hulda added that she always thought Ruth was fond of admiration, and that was the reason she was unwilling to wear plain clothes and attend Meeting. The story that Ruth was “engaged” to a young gentleman of fortune in Fallkill came with the other news, and helped to give point to the little satirical remarks that went round about Ruth’s desire to be a doctor!
Margaret Bolton was too wise to be either surprised or alarmed by these rumors. They might be true; she knew a woman’s nature too well to think them improbable, but she also knew how steadfast Ruth was in her purposes, and that, as a brook breaks into ripples and eddies and dances and sports by the way, and yet keeps on to the sea, it was in Ruth’s nature to give back cheerful answer to the solicitations of friendliness and pleasure, to appear idly delaying even, and sporting in the sunshine, while the current of her resolution flowed steadily on.
That Ruth had this delight in the mere surface play of life that she could, for instance, be interested in that somewhat serious by-play called “flirtation,” or take any delight in the exercise of those little arts of pleasing and winning which are none the less genuine and charming because they are not intellectual, Ruth, herself, had never suspected until she went to Fallkill. She had believed it her duty to subdue her gaiety of temperament, and let nothing divert her from what are called serious pursuits: In her limited experience she brought everything to the judgment of her own conscience, and settled the affairs of all the world in her own serene judgment hall. Perhaps her mother saw this, and saw also that there was nothing in the Friends’ society to prevent her from growing more and more opinionated.
When Ruth returned to Philadelphia, it must be confessed–though it would not have been by her–that a medical career did seem a little less necessary for her than formerly; and coming back in a glow of triumph, as it were, and in the consciousness of the freedom and life in a lively society and in new and sympathetic friendship, she anticipated pleasure in an attempt to break up the stiffness and levelness of the society at home, and infusing into it something of the motion and sparkle which were so agreeable at Fallkill. She expected visits from her new friends, she would have company, the new books and the periodicals about which all the world was talking, and, in short, she would have life.
For a little while she lived in this atmosphere which she had brought with her. Her mother was delighted with this change in her, with the improvement in her health and the interest she exhibited in home affairs. Her father enjoyed the society of his favorite daughter as he did few things besides; he liked her mirthful and teasing ways, and not less a keen battle over something she had read. He had been a great reader all his life, and a remarkable memory had stored his mind with encyclopaedic information. It was one of Ruth’s delights to cram herself with some out of the way subject and endeavor to catch her father; but she almost always failed. Mr. Bolton liked company, a house full of it, and the mirth of young people, and he would have willingly entered into any revolutionary plans Ruth might have suggested in relation to Friends’ society.
But custom and the fixed order are stronger than the most enthusiastic and rebellious young lady, as Ruth very soon found. In spite of all her brave efforts, her frequent correspondence, and her determined animation, her books and her music, she found herself settling into the clutches of the old monotony, and as she realized the hopelessness of her endeavors, the medical scheme took new hold of her, and seemed to her the only method of escape.
“Mother, thee does not know how different it is in Fallkill, how much more interesting the people are one meets, how much more life there is.”
“But thee will find the world, child, pretty much all the same, when thee knows it better. I thought once as thee does now, and had as little thought of being a Friend as thee has. Perhaps when thee has seen more, thee will better appreciate a quiet life.”
“Thee married young. I shall not marry young, and perhaps not at all,” said Ruth, with a look of vast experience.
“Perhaps thee doesn’t know thee own mind; I have known persons of thy age who did not. Did thee see anybody whom thee would like to live with always in Fallkill?”
“Not always,” replied Ruth with a little laugh. “Mother, I think I wouldn’t say ‘always’ to any one until I have a profession and am as independent as he is. Then my love would be a free act, and not in any way a necessity.”
Margaret Bolton smiled at this new-fangled philosophy. “Thee will find that love, Ruth, is a thing thee won’t reason about, when it comes, nor make any bargains about. Thee wrote that Philip Sterling was at Fallkill.”
“Yes, and Henry Brierly, a friend of his; a very amusing young fellow and not so serious-minded as Philip, but a bit of a fop maybe.”
“And thee preferred the fop to the serious-minded?”
“I didn’t prefer anybody; but Henry Brierly was good company, which Philip wasn’t always.”
“Did thee know thee father had been in correspondence with Philip?”
Ruth looked up surprised and with a plain question in her eyes.
“Oh, it’s not about thee.”
“What then?” and if there was any shade of disappointment in her tone, probably Ruth herself did not know it.
“It’s about some land up in the country. That man Bigler has got father into another speculation.”
“That odious man! Why will father have anything to do with him? Is it that railroad?”
“Yes. Father advanced money and took land as security, and whatever has gone with the money and the bonds, he has on his hands a large tract of wild land.”
“And what has Philip to do with that?”
“It has good timber, if it could ever be got out, and father says that there must be coal in it; it’s in a coal region. He wants Philip to survey it, and examine it for indications of coal.”
“It’s another of father’s fortunes, I suppose,” said Ruth. “He has put away so many fortunes for us that I’m afraid we never shall find them.”
Ruth was interested in it nevertheless, and perhaps mainly because Philip was to be connected with the enterprise. Mr. Bigler came to dinner with her father next day, and talked a great deal about Mr. Bolton’s magnificent tract of land, extolled the sagacity that led him to secure such a property, and led the talk along to another railroad which would open a northern communication to this very land.
“Pennybacker says it’s full of coal, he’s no doubt of it, and a railroad to strike the Erie would make it a fortune.”
“Suppose you take the land and work the thing up, Mr. Bigler; you may have the tract for three dollars an acre.”
“You’d throw it away, then,” replied Mr. Bigler, “and I’m not the man to take advantage of a friend. But if you’ll put a mortgage on it for the northern road, I wouldn’t mind taking an interest, if Pennybacker is willing; but Pennybacker, you know, don’t go much on land, he sticks to the legislature.” And Mr. Bigler laughed.
When Mr. Bigler had gone, Ruth asked her father about Philip’s connection with the land scheme.
“There’s nothing definite,” said Mr. Bolton. “Philip is showing aptitude for his profession. I hear the best reports of him in New York, though those sharpers don’t ‘intend to do anything but use him. I’ve written and offered him employment in surveying and examining the land. We want to know what it is. And if there is anything in it that his enterprise can dig out, he shall have an interest. I should be glad to give the young fellow a lift.”
All his life Eli Bolton had been giving young fellows a lift, and shouldering the loses when things turned out unfortunately. His ledger, take-it-altogether, would not show a balance on the right side; but perhaps the losses on his books will turn out to be credits in a world where accounts are kept on a different basis. The left hand of the ledger will appear the right, looked at from the other side.
Philip, wrote to Ruth rather a comical account of the bursting up of the city of Napoleon and the navigation improvement scheme, of Harry’s flight and the Colonel’s discomfiture. Harry left in such a hurry that he hadn’t even time to bid Miss Laura Hawkins good-bye, but he had no doubt that Harry would console himself with the next pretty face he saw– a remark which was thrown in for Ruth’s benefit. Col. Sellers had in all probability, by this time, some other equally brilliant speculation in his brain.
As to the railroad, Philip had made up his mind that it was merely kept on foot for speculative purposes in Wall street, and he was about to quit it. Would Ruth be glad to hear, he wondered, that he was coming East? For he was coming, in spite of a letter from Harry in New York, advising him to hold on until he had made some arrangements in regard to contracts, he to be a little careful about Sellers, who was somewhat visionary, Harry said.
The summer went on without much excitement for Ruth. She kept up a correspondence with Alice, who promised a visit in the fall, she read, she earnestly tried to interest herself in home affairs and such people as came to the house; but she found herself falling more and more into reveries, and growing weary of things as they were. She felt that everybody might become in time like two relatives from a Shaker establishment in Ohio, who visited the Boltons about this time, a father and son, clad exactly alike, and alike in manners. The son; however, who was not of age, was more unworldly and sanctimonious than his father; he always addressed his parent as “Brother Plum,” and bore himself, altogether in such a superior manner that Ruth longed to put bent pins in his chair. Both father and son wore the long, single breasted collarless coats of their society, without buttons, before or behind, but with a row of hooks and eyes on either side in front. It was Ruth’s suggestion that the coats would be improved by a single hook and eye sewed on in the small of the back where the buttons usually are.
Amusing as this Shaker caricature of the Friends was, it oppressed Ruth beyond measure; and increased her feeling of being stifled.
It was a most unreasonable feeling. No home could be pleasanter than Ruth’s. The house, a little out of the city; was one of those elegant country residences which so much charm visitors to the suburbs of Philadelphia. A modern dwelling and luxurious in everything that wealth could suggest for comfort, it stood in the midst of exquisitely kept lawns, with groups of trees, parterres of flowers massed in colors, with greenhouse, grapery and garden; and on one side, the garden sloped away in undulations to a shallow brook that ran over a pebbly bottom and sang under forest trees. The country about teas the perfection of cultivated landscape, dotted with cottages, and stately mansions of Revolutionary date, and sweet as an English country-side, whether seen in the soft bloom of May or in the mellow ripeness of late October.
It needed only the peace of the mind within, to make it a paradise. One riding by on the Old Germantown road, and seeing a young girl swinging in the hammock on the piazza and, intent upon some volume of old poetry or the latest novel, would no doubt have envied a life so idyllic. He could not have imagined that the young girl was reading a volume of reports of clinics and longing to be elsewhere.
Ruth could not have been more discontented if all the wealth about her had been as unsubstantial as a dream. Perhaps she so thought it.
“I feel,” she once said to her father, “as if I were living in a house of cards.”
“And thee would like to turn it into a hospital?”
“No. But tell me father,” continued Ruth, not to be put off, “is thee still going on with that Bigler and those other men who come here and entice thee?”
Mr. Bolton smiled, as men do when they talk with women about “business” “Such men have their uses, Ruth. They keep the world active, and I owe a great many of my best operations to such men. Who knows, Ruth, but this new land purchase, which I confess I yielded a little too much to Bigler in, may not turn out a fortune for thee and the rest of the children?”
“Ah, father, thee sees every thing in a rose-colored light. I do believe thee wouldn’t have so readily allowed me to begin the study of medicine, if it hadn’t had the novelty of an experiment to thee.”
“And is thee satisfied with it?”
“If thee means, if I have had enough of it, no. I just begin to see what I can do in it, and what a noble profession it is for a woman. Would thee have me sit here like a bird on a bough and wait for somebody to come and put me in a cage?”
Mr. Bolton was not sorry to divert the talk from his own affairs, and he did not think it worth while to tell his family of a performance that very day which was entirely characteristic of him.
Ruth might well say that she felt as if she were living in a house of cards, although the Bolton household had no idea of the number of perils that hovered over them, any more than thousands of families in America have of the business risks and contingences upon which their prosperity and luxury hang.
A sudden call upon Mr. Bolton for a large sum of money, which must be forthcoming at once, had found him in the midst of a dozen ventures, from no one of which a dollar could be realized. It was in vain that he applied to his business acquaintances and friends; it was a period of sudden panic and no money. “A hundred thousand! Mr. Bolton,” said Plumly. “Good God, if you should ask me for ten, I shouldn’t know where to get it.”
And yet that day Mr. Small (Pennybacker, Bigler and Small) came to Mr. Bolton with a piteous story of ruin in a coal operation, if he could not raise ten thousand dollars. Only ten, and he was sure of a fortune. Without it he was a beggar. Mr. Bolton had already Small’s notes for a large amount in his safe, labeled “doubtful;” he had helped him again and again, and always with the same result. But Mr. Small spoke with a faltering voice of his family, his daughter in school, his wife ignorant of his calamity, and drew such a picture of their agony, that Mr. Bolton put by his own more pressing necessity, and devoted the day to scraping together, here and there, ten thousand dollars for this brazen beggar, who had never kept a promise to him nor paid a debt.
Beautiful credit! The foundation of modern society. Who shall say that this is not the golden age of mutual trust, of unlimited reliance upon human promises? That is a peculiar condition of society which enables a whole nation to instantly recognize point and meaning in the familiar newspaper anecdote, which puts into the mouth of a distinguished speculator in lands and mines this remark:–“I wasn’t worth a cent two years ago, and now I owe two millions of dollars.”
CHAPTER XXVII.
It was a hard blow to poor Sellers to see the work on his darling enterprise stop, and the noise and bustle and confusion that had been such refreshment to his soul, sicken and die out. It was hard to come down to humdrum ordinary life again after being a General Superintendent and the most conspicuous man in the community. It was sad to see his name disappear from the newspapers; sadder still to see it resurrected at intervals, shorn of its aforetime gaudy gear of compliments and clothed on with rhetorical tar and feathers.
But his friends suffered more on his account than he did. He was a cork that could not be kept under the water many moments at a time.
He had to bolster up his wife’s spirits every now and then. On one of these occasions he said:
“It’s all right, my dear, all right; it will all come right in a little while. There’s $200,000 coming, and that will set things booming again: Harry seems to be having some difficulty, but that’s to be expected–you can’t move these big operations to the tune of Fisher’s Hornpipe, you know. But Harry will get it started along presently, and then you’ll see! I expect the news every day now.”
“But Beriah, you’ve been expecting it every day, all along, haven’t you?”
“Well, yes; yes–I don’t know but I have. But anyway, the longer it’s delayed, the nearer it grows to the time when it will start–same as every day you live brings you nearer to–nearer–“
“The grave?”
“Well, no–not that exactly; but you can’t understand these things, Polly dear–women haven’t much head for business, you know. You make yourself perfectly comfortable, old lady, and you’ll see how we’ll trot this right along. Why bless you, let the appropriation lag, if it wants to–that’s no great matter–there’s a bigger thing than that.”
“Bigger than $200,000, Beriah?”
“Bigger, child?–why, what’s $200,000? Pocket money! Mere pocket money! Look at the railroad! Did you forget the railroad? It ain’t many months till spring; it will be coming right along, and the railroad swimming right along behind it. Where’ll it be by the middle of summer? Just stop and fancy a moment–just think a little–don’t anything suggest itself? Bless your heart, you dear women live right in the present all the time–but a man, why a man lives—-
“In the future, Beriah? But don’t we live in the future most too much, Beriah? We do somehow seem to manage to live on next year’s crop of corn and potatoes as a general thing while this year is still dragging along, but sometimes it’s not a robust diet,–Beriah. But don’t look that way, dear–don’t mind what I say. I don’t mean to fret, I don’t mean to worry; and I don’t, once a month, do I, dear? But when I get a little low and feel bad, I get a bit troubled and worrisome, but it don’t mean anything in the world. It passes right away. I know you’re doing all you can, and I don’t want to seem repining and ungrateful–for I’m not, Beriah–you know I’m not, don’t you?”
“Lord bless you, child, I know you are the very best little woman that ever lived–that ever lived on the whole face of the Earth! And I know that I would be a dog not to work for you and think for you and scheme for you with all my might. And I’ll bring things all right yet, honey– cheer up and don’t you fear. The railroad—-“
“Oh, I had forgotten the railroad, dear, but when a body gets blue, a body forgets everything. Yes, the railroad–tell me about the railroad.”
“Aha, my girl, don’t you see? Things ain’t so dark, are they? Now I didn’t forget the railroad. Now just think for a moment–just figure up a little on the future dead moral certainties. For instance, call this waiter St. Louis.
“And we’ll lay this fork (representing the railroad) from St. Louis to this potato, which is Slouchburg:
“Then with this carving knife we’ll continue the railroad from Slouchburg to Doodleville, shown by the black pepper:
“Then we run along the–yes–the comb–to the tumbler that’s Brimstone:
“Thence by the pipe to Belshazzar, which is the salt-cellar:
“Thence to, to–that quill–Catfish–hand me the pincushion, Marie Antoinette:
“Thence right along these shears to this horse, Babylon:
“Then by the spoon to Bloody Run–thank you, the ink:
“Thence to Hail Columbia–snuffers, Polly, please move that cup and saucer close up, that’s Hail Columbia:
“Then–let me open my knife–to Hark-from-the-Tomb, where we’ll put the candle-stick–only a little distance from Hail Columbia to Hark-from-the- Tomb–down-grade all the way.
“And there we strike Columbus River–pass me two or throe skeins of thread to stand for the river; the sugar bowl will do for Hawkeye, and the rat trap for Stone’s Landing-Napoleon, I mean–and you can see how much better Napoleon is located than Hawkeye. Now here you are with your railroad complete, and showing its continuation to Hallelujah and thence to Corruptionville.
“Now then-them you are! It’s a beautiful road, beautiful. Jeff Thompson can out-engineer any civil engineer that ever sighted through an aneroid, or a theodolite, or whatever they call it–he calls it sometimes one and sometimes the other just whichever levels off his sentence neatest, I reckon. But ain’t it a ripping toad, though? I tell you, it’ll make a stir when it gets along. Just see what a country it goes through. There’s your onions at Slouchburg–noblest onion country that graces God’s footstool; and there’s your turnip country all around Doodleville– bless my life, what fortunes are going to be made there when they get that contrivance perfected for extracting olive oil out of turnips–if there’s any in them; and I reckon there is, because Congress has made an appropriation of money to test the thing, and they wouldn’t have done that just on conjecture, of course. And now we come to the Brimstone region–cattle raised there till you can’t rest–and corn, and all that sort of thing. Then you’ve got a little stretch along through Belshazzar that don’t produce anything now–at least nothing but rocks–but irrigation will fetch it. Then from Catfish to Babylon it’s a little swampy, but there’s dead loads of peat down under there somewhere. Next is the Bloody Run and Hail Columbia country–tobacco enough can be raised there to support two such railroads. Next is the sassparilla region. I reckon there’s enough of that truck along in there on the line of the pocket-knife, from Hail Columbia to Hark-from-the Tomb to fat up all the consumptives in all the hospitals from Halifax to the Holy Land. It just grows like weeds! I’ve got a little belt of sassparilla land in there just tucked away unobstrusively waiting for my little Universal Expectorant to get into shape in my head. And I’ll fix that, you know. One of these days I’ll have all the nations of the earth expecto–“
“But Beriah, dear–“
“Don’t interrupt me; Polly–I don’t want you to lose the run of the map– well, take your toy-horse, James Fitz-James, if you must have it–and run along with you. Here, now–the soap will do for Babylon. Let me see– where was I? Oh yes–now we run down to Stone’s Lan–Napoleon–now we run down to Napoleon. Beautiful road. Look at that, now. Perfectly straight line-straight as the way to the grave. And see where it leaves Hawkeye-clear out in the cold, my dear, clear out in the cold. That town’s as bound to die as–well if I owned it I’d get its obituary ready, now, and notify the mourners. Polly, mark my words–in three years from this, Hawkeye’ll be a howling wilderness. You’ll see. And just look at that river–noblest stream that meanders over the thirsty earth!– calmest, gentlest artery that refreshes her weary bosom! Railroad goes all over it and all through it–wades right along on stilts. Seventeen bridges in three miles and a half-forty-nine bridges from Hark-from-the- Tomb to Stone’s Landing altogether–forty nine bridges, and culverts enough to culvert creation itself! Hadn’t skeins of thread enough to represent them all–but you get an idea–perfect trestle-work of bridges for seventy two miles: Jeff Thompson and I fixed all that, you know; he’s to get the contracts and I’m to put them through on the divide. Just oceans of money in those bridges. It’s the only part of the railroad I’m interested in,–down along the line–and it’s all I want, too. It’s enough, I should judge. Now here we are at Napoleon. Good enough country plenty good enough–all it wants is population. That’s all right–that will come. And it’s no bad country now for calmness and solitude, I can tell you–though there’s no money in that, of course. No money, but a man wants rest, a man wants peace–a man don’t want to rip and tear around all the time. And here we go, now, just as straight as a string for Hallelujah–it’s a beautiful angle–handsome up grade all the way– and then away you go to Corruptionville, the gaudiest country for early carrots and cauliflowers that ever–good missionary field, too. There ain’t such another missionary field outside the jungles of Central Africa. And patriotic?–why they named it after Congress itself. Oh, I warn you, my dear, there’s a good time coming, and it’ll be right along before you know what you’re about, too. That railroad’s fetching it. You see what it is as far as I’ve got, and if I had enough bottles and soap and boot-jacks and such things to carry it along to where it joins onto the Union Pacific, fourteen hundred miles from here, I should exhibit to you in that little internal improvement a spectacle of inconceivable sublimity. So, don’t you see? We’ve got the rail road to fall back on; and in the meantime, what are we worrying about that $200,000 appropriation for? That’s all right. I’d be willing to bet anything that the very next letter that comes from Harry will–“
The eldest boy entered just in the nick of time and brought a letter, warm from the post-office.
“Things do look bright, after all, Beriah. I’m sorry I was blue, but it did seem as if everything had been going against us for whole ages. Open the letter–open it quick, and let’s know all about it before we stir out of our places. I am all in a fidget to know what it says.”
The letter was opened, without any unnecessary delay.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
Whatever may have been the language of Harry’s letter to the Colonel, the information it conveyed wars condensed or expanded, one or the other, from the following episode of his visit to New York:
He called, with official importance in his mien, at No.–Wall street, where a great gilt sign betokened the presence of the head-quarters of the a Columbus River Slack-Water Navigation Company.” He entered and gave a dressy porter his card, and was requested to wait a moment in a sort of ante-room. The porter returned in a minute; and asked whom he would like to see?
“The president of the company, of course.”
“He is busy with some gentlemen, sir; says he will be done with them directly.”
That a copper-plate card with “Engineer-in-Chief” on it should be received with such tranquility as this, annoyed Mr. Brierly not a little. But he had to submit. Indeed his annoyance had time to augment a good deal; for he was allowed to cool his heels a frill half hour in the ante- room before those gentlemen emerged and he was ushered into the presence. He found a stately dignitary occupying a very official chair behind a long green morocco-covered table, in a room with sumptuously carpeted and furnished, and well garnished with pictures.
“Good morning, sir; take a seat–take a seat.”
“Thank you sir,” said Harry, throwing as much chill into his manner as his ruffled dignity prompted.
“We perceive by your reports and the reports of the Chief Superintendent, that you have been making gratifying progress with the work.–We are all very much pleased.”
“Indeed? We did not discover it from your letters–which we have not received; nor by the treatment our drafts have met with–which were not honored; nor by the reception of any part of the appropriation, no part of it having come to hand.”
“Why, my dear Mr. Brierly, there must be some mistake, I am sure we wrote you and also Mr. Sellers, recently–when my clerk comes he will show copies–letters informing you of the ten per cent. assessment.”
“Oh, certainly, we got those letters. But what we wanted was money to carry on the work–money to pay the men.”
“Certainly, certainly–true enough–but we credited you both for a large part of your assessments–I am sure that was in our letters.”
“Of course that was in–I remember that.”
“Ah, very well then. Now we begin to understand each other.”
“Well, I don’t see that we do. There’s two months’ wages due the men, and—-“
“How? Haven’t you paid the men?”
“Paid them! How are we going to pay them when you don’t honor our drafts?”
“Why, my dear sir, I cannot see how you can find any fault with us. I am sure we have acted in a perfectly straight forward business way.–Now let us look at the thing a moment. You subscribed for 100 shares of the capital stock, at $1,000 a share, I believe?”
“Yes, sir, I did.”
“And Mr. Sellers took a like amount?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well. No concern can get along without money. We levied a ten per cent. assessment. It was the original understanding that you and Mr. Sellers were to have the positions you now hold, with salaries of $600 a month each, while in active service. You were duly elected to these places, and you accepted them. Am I right?”
“Certainly.”
“Very well. You were given your instructions and put to work. By your reports it appears that you have expended the sum of $9,610 upon the said work. Two months salary to you two officers amounts altogether to $2,400–about one-eighth of your ten per cent. assessment, you see; which leaves you in debt to the company for the other seven-eighths of the assessment–viz, something over $8,000 apiece. Now instead of requiring you to forward this aggregate of $16,000 or $17,000 to New York, the company voted unanimously to let you pay it over to the contractors, laborers from time to time, and give you credit on the books for it. And they did it without a murmur, too, for they were pleased with the progress you had made, and were glad to pay you that little compliment– and a very neat one it was, too, I am sure. The work you did fell short of $10,000, a trifle. Let me see–$9,640 from $20,000 salary $2;400 added–ah yes, the balance due the company from yourself and Mr. Sellers is $7,960, which I will take the responsibility of allowing to stand for the present, unless you prefer to draw a check now, and thus—-“
“Confound it, do you mean to say that instead of the company owing us $2,400, we owe the company $7,960?”
“Well, yes.”
“And that we owe the men and the contractors nearly ten thousand dollars besides?”
“Owe them! Oh bless my soul, you can’t mean that you have not paid these people?”
“But I do mean it!”
The president rose and walked the floor like a man in bodily pain. His brows contracted, he put his hand up and clasped his forehead, and kept saying, “Oh, it is, too bad, too bad, too bad! Oh, it is bound to be found out–nothing can prevent it–nothing!”
Then he threw himself into his chair and said:
“My dear Mr. Brierson, this is dreadful–perfectly dreadful. It will be found out. It is bound to tarnish the good name of the company; our credit will be seriously, most seriously impaired. How could you be so thoughtless–the men ought to have been paid though it beggared us all!”
“They ought, ought they? Then why the devil–my name is not Bryerson, by the way–why the mischief didn’t the compa–why what in the nation ever became of the appropriation? Where is that appropriation?–if a stockholder may make so bold as to ask.”
The appropriation?–that paltry $200,000, do you mean?”
“Of course–but I didn’t know that $200,000 was so very paltry. Though I grant, of course, that it is not a large sum, strictly speaking. But where is it?”
“My dear sir, you surprise me. You surely cannot have had a large acquaintance with this sort of thing. Otherwise you would not have expected much of a result from a mere INITIAL appropriation like that. It was never intended for anything but a mere nest egg for the future and real appropriations to cluster around.”
“Indeed? Well, was it a myth, or was it a reality? Whatever become of it?”
“Why the–matter is simple enough. A Congressional appropriation costs money. Just reflect, for instance–a majority of the House Committee, say $10,000 apiece–$40,000; a majority of the Senate Committee, the same each–say $40,000; a little extra to one or two chairman of one or two such committees, say $10,000 each–$20,000; and there’s $100,000 of the money gone, to begin with. Then, seven male lobbyists, at $3,000 each– $21,000; one female lobbyist, $10,000; a high moral Congressman or Senator here and there–the high moral ones cost more, because they. give tone to a measure–say ten of these at $3,000 each, is $30,000; then a lot of small-fry country members who won’t vote for anything whatever without pay–say twenty at $500 apiece, is $10,000; a lot of dinners to members–say $10,000 altogether; lot of jimcracks for Congressmen’s wives and children–those go a long way–you can’t sped too much money in that line–well, those things cost in a lump, say $10,000–along there somewhere; and then comes your printed documents–your maps, your tinted engravings, your pamphlets, your illuminated show cards, your advertisements in a hundred and fifty papers at ever so much a line– because you’ve got to keep the papers all light or you are gone up, you know. Oh, my dear sir, printing bills are destruction itself. Ours so far amount to–let me see–10; 52; 22; 13;–and then there’s 11; 14; 33– well, never mind the details, the total in clean numbers foots up $118,254.42 thus far!”
“What!”
“Oh, yes indeed. Printing’s no bagatelle, I can tell you. And then there’s your contributions, as a company, to Chicago fires and Boston fires, and orphan asylums and all that sort of thing–head the list, you see, with the company’s full name and a thousand dollars set opposite– great card, sir–one of the finest advertisements in the world–the preachers mention it in the pulpit when it’s a religious charity–one of the happiest advertisements in the world is your benevolent donation. Ours have amounted to sixteen thousand dollars and some cents up to this time.”
“Good heavens!”
“Oh, yes. Perhaps the biggest thing we’ve done in the advertising line was to get an officer of the U. S. government, of perfectly Himmalayan official altitude, to write up our little internal improvement for a religious paper of enormous circulation–I tell you that makes our bonds go handsomely among the pious poor. Your religious paper is by far the best vehicle for a thing of this kind, because they’ll ‘lead’ your article and put it right in the midst of the reading matter; and if it’s got a few Scripture quotations in it, and some temperance platitudes and a bit of gush here and there about Sunday Schools, and a sentimental snuffle now and then about ‘God’s precious ones, the honest hard-handed poor,’ it works the nation like a charm, my dear sir, and never a man suspects that it is an advertisement; but your secular paper sticks you right into the advertising columns and of course you don’t take a trick. Give me a religious paper to advertise in, every time; and if you’ll just look at their advertising pages, you’ll observe that other people think a good deal as I do–especially people who have got little financial schemes to make everybody rich with. Of course I mean your great big metropolitan religious papers that know how to serve God and make money at the same time–that’s your sort, sir, that’s your sort–a religious paper that isn’t run to make money is no use to us, sir, as an advertising medium–no use to anybody–in our line of business. I guess our next best dodge was sending a pleasure trip of newspaper reporters out to Napoleon. Never paid them a cent; just filled them up with champagne and the fat of the land, put pen, ink and paper before them while they were red-hot, and bless your soul when you come to read their letters you’d have supposed they’d been to heaven. And if a sentimental squeamishness held one or two of them back from taking a less rosy view of Napoleon, our hospitalities tied his tongue, at least, and he said nothing at all and so did us no harm. Let me see–have I stated all the expenses I’ve been at? No, I was near forgetting one or two items. There’s your official salaries–you can’t get good men for nothing. Salaries cost pretty lively. And then there’s your big high-sounding millionaire names stuck into your advertisements as stockholders–another card, that–and they are stockholders, too, but you have to give them the stock and non-assessable at that–so they’re an expensive lot. Very, very expensive thing, take it all around, is a big internal improvement concern–but you see that yourself, Mr. Bryerman–you see that, yourself, sir.”
“But look here. I think you are a little mistaken about it’s ever having cost anything for Congressional votes. I happen to know something about that. I’ve let you say your say–now let me say mine. I don’t wish to seem to throw any suspicion on anybody’s statements, because we are all liable to be mistaken. But how would it strike you if I were to say that I was in Washington all the time this bill was pending? and what if I added that I put the measure through myself? Yes, sir, I did that little thing. And moreover, I never paid a dollar for any man’s vote and never promised one. There are some ways of doing a thing that are as good as others which other people don’t happen to think about, or don’t have the knack of succeeding in, if they do happen to think of them. My dear sir, I am obliged to knock some of your expenses in the head–for never a cent was paid a Congressman or Senator on the part of this Navigation Company.”
The president smiled blandly, even sweetly, all through this harangue, and then said:
“Is that so?”
“Every word of it.”
“Well it does seem to alter the complexion of things a little. You are acquainted with the members down there, of course, else you could not have worked to such advantage?”
“I know them all, sir. I know their wives, their children, their babies –I even made it a point to be on good terms with their lackeys. I know every Congressman well–even familiarly.”
“Very good. Do you know any of their signatures? Do you know their handwriting?”
“Why I know their handwriting as well as I know my own–have had correspondence enough with them, I should think. And their signatures– why I can tell their initials, even.”
The president went to a private safe, unlocked it and got out some letters and certain slips of paper. Then he said:
“Now here, for instance; do you believe that that is a genuine letter? Do you know this signature here?–and this one? Do you know who those initials represent–and are they forgeries?”
Harry was stupefied. There were things there that made his brain swim. Presently, at the bottom of one of the letters he saw a signature that restored his equilibrium; it even brought the sunshine of a smile to his face.
The president said:
“That one amuses you. You never suspected him?”
“Of course I ought to have suspected him, but I don’t believe it ever really occurred to me. Well, well, well–how did you ever have the nerve to approach him, of all others?”
“Why my friend, we never think of accomplishing anything without his help. He is our mainstay. But how do those letters strike you?”
“They strike me dumb! What a stone-blind idiot I have been!”
“Well, take it all around, I suppose you had a pleasant time in Washington,” said the president, gathering up the letters; “of course you must have had. Very few men could go there and get a money bill through without buying a single”
“Come, now, Mr. President, that’s plenty of that! I take back everything I said on that head. I’m a wiser man to-day than I was yesterday, I can tell you.”
“I think you are. In fact I am satisfied you are. But now I showed you these things in confidence, you understand. Mention facts as much as you want to, but don’t mention names to anybody. I can depend on you for that, can’t I?”
“Oh, of course. I understand the necessity of that. I will not betray the names. But to go back a bit, it begins to look as if you never saw any of that appropriation at all?”
“We saw nearly ten thousand dollars of it–and that was all. Several of us took turns at log-rolling in Washington, and if we had charged anything for that service, none of that $10,000 would ever have reached New York.”
“If you hadn’t levied the assessment you would have been in a close place I judge?”
“Close? Have you figured up the total of the disbursements I told you of?”
“No, I didn’t think of that.”
“Well, lets see:
Spent in Washington, say, ……….. $191,000 Printing, advertising, etc., say …. $118,000 Charity, say, ………………….. $16,000
Total, …………… $325,000
The money to do that with, comes from– Appropriation, …………………. $200,000
Ten per cent. assessment on capital of $1,000,000 ………………… $100,000
Total, …………… $300,000
“Which leaves us in debt some $25,000 at this moment. Salaries of home officers are still going on; also printing and advertising. Next month will show a state of things!”
“And then–burst up, I suppose?”
“By no means. Levy another assessment”
“Oh, I see. That’s dismal.”
“By no means.”
“Why isn’t it? What’s the road out?”
“Another appropriation, don’t you see?”
“Bother the appropriations. They cost more than they come to.”
“Not the next one. We’ll call for half a million–get it and go for a million the very next month.”–“Yes, but the cost of it!”
The president smiled, and patted his secret letters affectionately. He said:
“All these people are in the next Congress. We shan’t have to pay them a cent. And what is more, they will work like beavers for us–perhaps it might be to their advantage.”
Harry reflected profoundly a while. Then he said:
“We send many missionaries to lift up the benighted races of other lands. How much cheaper and better it would be if those people could only come here and drink of our civilization at its fountain head.”
“I perfectly agree with yon, Mr. Beverly. Must you go? Well, good morning. Look in, when you are passing; and whenever I can give you any information about our affairs and pro’spects, I shall be glad to do it.”
Harry’s letter was not a long one, but it contained at least the calamitous figures that came out in the above conversation. The Colonel found himself in a rather uncomfortable place–no $1,200 salary forthcoming; and himself held responsible for half of the $9,640 due the workmen, to say nothing of being in debt to the company to the extent of nearly $4,000. Polly’s heart was nearly broken; the “blues” returned in fearful force, and she had to go out of the room to hide the tears that nothing could keep back now.
There was mourning in another quarter, too, for Louise had a letter. Washington had refused, at the last moment, to take $40,000 for the Tennessee Land, and had demanded $150,000! So the trade fell through, and now Washington was wailing because he had been so foolish. But he wrote that his man might probably return to the city soon, and then he meant to sell to him, sure, even if he had to take $10,000. Louise had a good cry-several of them, indeed–and the family charitably forebore to make any comments that would increase her grief.
Spring blossomed, summer came, dragged its hot weeks by, and the Colonel’s spirits rose, day by day, for the railroad was making good progress. But by and by something happened. Hawkeye had always declined to subscribe anything toward the railway, imagining that her large business would be a sufficient compulsory influence; but now Hawkeye was frightened; and before Col. Sellers knew what he was about, Hawkeye, in a panic, had rushed to the front and subscribed such a sum that Napoleon’s attractions suddenly sank into insignificance and the railroad concluded to follow a comparatively straight coarse instead of going miles out of its way to build up a metropolis in the muddy desert of Stone’s Landing.
The thunderbolt fell. After all the Colonel’s deep planning; after all his brain work and tongue work in drawing public attention to his pet project and enlisting interest in it; after all his faithful hard toil with his hands, and running hither and thither on his busy feet; after all his high hopes and splendid prophecies, the fates had turned their backs on him at last, and all in a moment his air-castles crumbled to ruins abort him. Hawkeye rose from her fright triumphant and rejoicing, and down went Stone’s Landing! One by one its meagre parcel of inhabitants packed up and moved away, as the summer waned and fall approached. Town lots were no longer salable, traffic ceased, a deadly lethargy fell upon the place once more, the “Weekly Telegraph” faded into an early grave, the wary tadpole returned from exile, the bullfrog resumed his ancient song, the tranquil turtle sunned his back upon bank and log and drowsed his grateful life away as in the old sweet days of yore.
CHAPTER XXIX.
Philip Sterling was on his way to Ilium, in the state of Pennsylvania. Ilium was the railway station nearest to the tract of wild land which Mr. Bolton had commissioned him to examine.
On the last day of the journey as the railway train Philip was on was leaving a large city, a lady timidly entered the drawing-room car, and hesitatingly took a chair that was at the moment unoccupied. Philip saw from the window that a gentleman had put her upon the car just as it was starting. In a few moments the conductor entered, and without waiting an explanation, said roughly to the lady,
“Now you can’t sit there. That seat’s taken. Go into the other car.”
“I did not intend to take the seat,” said the lady rising, “I only sat down a moment till the conductor should come and give me a seat.”
“There aint any. Car’s full. You’ll have to leave.”
“But, sir,” said the lady, appealingly, “I thought–“
“Can’t help what you thought–you must go into the other car.”
“The train is going very fast, let me stand here till we stop.”
“The lady can have my seat,” cried Philip, springing up.
The conductor turned towards Philip, and coolly and deliberately surveyed him from head to foot, with contempt in every line of his face, turned his back upon him without a word, and said to the lady,
“Come, I’ve got no time to talk. You must go now.”
The lady, entirely disconcerted by such rudeness, and frightened, moved towards the door, opened it and stepped out. The train was swinging along at a rapid rate, jarring from side to side; the step was a long one between the cars and there was no protecting grating. The lady attempted it, but lost her balance, in the wind and the motion of the car, and fell! She would inevitably have gone down under the wheels, if Philip, who had swiftly followed her, had not caught her arm and drawn her up. He then assisted her across, found her a seat, received her bewildered thanks, and returned to his car.
The conductor was still there, taking his tickets, and growling something about imposition. Philip marched up to him, and burst out with,
“You are a brute, an infernal brute, to treat a woman that way.”
“Perhaps you’d like to make a fuss about it,” sneered the conductor.
Philip’s reply was a blow, given so suddenly and planted so squarely in the conductor’s face, that it sent him reeling over a fat passenger, who was looking up in mild wonder that any one should dare to dispute with a conductor, and against the side of the car.
He recovered himself, reached the bell rope, “Damn you, I’ll learn you,” stepped to the door and called a couple of brakemen, and then, as the speed slackened; roared out,
“Get off this train.”
“I shall not get off. I have as much right here as you.”
“We’ll see,” said the conductor, advancing with the brakemen. The passengers protested, and some of them said to each other, “That’s too bad,” as they always do in such cases, but none of them offered to take a hand with Philip. The men seized him, wrenched him from his seat, dragged him along the aisle, tearing his clothes, thrust him from the car, and, then flung his carpet-bag, overcoat and umbrella after him. And the train went on.
The conductor, red in the face and puffing from his exertion, swaggered through the car, muttering “Puppy, I’ll learn him.” The passengers, when he had gone, were loud in their indignation, and talked about signing a protest, but they did nothing more than talk.
The next morning the Hooverville Patriot and Clarion had this “item”:–
SLIGHTUALLY OVERBOARD.
“We learn that as the down noon express was leaving H—- yesterday a lady! (God save the mark) attempted to force herself into the already full palatial car. Conductor Slum, who is too old a bird to be caught with chaff, courteously informed her that the car was full, and when she insisted on remaining, he persuaded her to go into the car where she belonged. Thereupon a young sprig, from the East, blustered like a Shanghai rooster, and began to sass the conductor with his chin music. That gentleman delivered the young aspirant for a muss one of his elegant little left-handers, which so astonished him that he began to feel for his shooter. Whereupon Mr. Slum gently raised the youth, carried him forth, and set him down just outside the car to cool off. Whether the young blood has yet made his way out of Bascom’s swamp, we have not learned. Conductor Slum is one of the most gentlemanly and efficient officers on the road; but he ain’t trifled with, not much. We learn that the company have put a new engine on the seven o’clock train, and newly upholstered the drawing-room car throughout. It spares no effort for the comfort of the traveling public.”
Philip never had been before in Bascom’s swamp, and there was nothing inviting in it to detain him. After the train got out of the way he crawled out of the briars and the mud, and got upon the track. He was somewhat bruised, but he was too angry to mind that. He plodded along over the ties in a very hot condition of mind and body. In the scuffle, his railway check had disappeared, and he grimly wondered, as he noticed the loss, if the company would permit him to walk over their track if they should know he hadn’t a ticket.
Philip had to walk some five miles before he reached a little station, where he could wait for a train, and he had ample time for reflection. At first he was full of vengeance on the company. He would sue it. He would make it pay roundly. But then it occurred to him that he did not know the name of a witness he could summon, and that a personal fight against a railway corporation was about the most hopeless in the world. He then thought he would seek out that conductor, lie in wait for him at some station, and thrash him, or get thrashed himself.
But as he got cooler, that did not seem to him a project worthy of a gentleman exactly. Was it possible for a gentleman to get even with such a fellow as that conductor on the letter’s own plane? And when he came to this point, he began to ask himself, if he had not acted very much like a fool. He didn’t regret striking the fellow–he hoped he had left a mark on him. But, after all, was that the best way? Here was he, Philip Sterling, calling himself a gentleman, in a brawl with a vulgar conductor, about a woman he had never seen before. Why should he have put himself in such a ridiculous position? Wasn’t it enough to have offered the lady his seat, to have rescued her from an accident, perhaps from death? Suppose he had simply said to the conductor, “Sir, your conduct is brutal, I shall report you.” The passengers, who saw the affair, might have joined in a report against the conductor, and he might really have accomplished something. And, now! Philip looked at leis torn clothes, and thought with disgust of his haste in getting into a fight with such an autocrat.
At the little station where Philip waited for the next train, he met a man–who turned out to be a justice of the peace in that neighborhood, and told him his adventure. He was a kindly sort of man, and seemed very much interested.
“Dum ’em,” said he, when he had heard the story.
“Do you think any thing can be done, sir?”
“Wal, I guess tain’t no use. I hain’t a mite of doubt of every word you say. But suin’s no use. The railroad company owns all these people along here, and the judges on the bench too. Spiled your clothes! Wal, ‘least said’s soonest mended.’ You haint no chance with the company.”
When next morning, he read the humorous account in the Patriot and Clarion, he saw still more clearly what chance he would have had before the public in a fight with the railroad company.
Still Philip’s conscience told him that it was his plain duty to carry the matter into the courts, even with the certainty of defeat. He confessed that neither he nor any citizen had a right to consult his own feelings or conscience in a case where a law of the land had been violated before his own eyes. He confessed that every citizen’s first duty in such case is to put aside his own business and devote his time and his best efforts to seeing that the infraction is promptly punished; and he knew that no country can be well governed unless its citizens as a body keep religiously before their minds that they are the guardians of the law, and that the law officers are only the machinery for its execution, nothing more. As a finality he was obliged to confess that he was a bad citizen, and also that the general laxity of the time, and the absence of a sense of duty toward any part of the community but the individual himself were ingrained in him, am he was no better than the rest of the people.
The result of this little adventure was that Philip did not reach Ilium till daylight the next morning, when he descended sleepy and sore, from a way train, and looked about him. Ilium was in a narrow mountain gorge, through which a rapid stream ran. It consisted of the plank platform on which he stood, a wooden house, half painted, with a dirty piazza (unroofed) in front, and a sign board hung on a slanting pole–bearing the legend, “Hotel. P. Dusenheimer,” a sawmill further down the stream, a blacksmith-shop, and a store, and three or four unpainted dwellings of the slab variety.
As Philip approached the hotel he saw what appeared to be a wild beast crouching on the piazza. It did not stir, however, and he soon found that it was only a stuffed skin. This cheerful invitation to the tavern was the remains of a huge panther which had been killed in the region a few weeks before. Philip examined his ugly visage and strong crooked fore-arm, as he was waiting admittance, having pounded upon the door.
“Yait a bit. I’ll shoost–put on my trowsers,” shouted a voice from the window, and the door was soon opened by the yawning landlord.
“Morgen! Didn’t hear d’ drain oncet. Dem boys geeps me up zo spate. Gom right in.”
Philip was shown into a dirty bar-room. It was a small room, with a stove in the middle, set in a long shallow box of sand, for the benefit of the “spitters,” a bar across one end–a mere counter with a sliding glass-case behind it containing a few bottles having ambitious labels, and a wash-sink in one corner. On the walls were the bright yellow and black handbills of a traveling circus, with pictures of acrobats in human pyramids, horses flying in long leaps through the air, and sylph-like women in a paradisaic costume, balancing themselves upon the tips of their toes on the bare backs of frantic and plunging steeds, and kissing their hands to the spectators meanwhile.
As Philip did not desire a room at that hour, he was invited to wash himself at the nasty sink, a feat somewhat easier than drying his face, for the towel that hung in a roller over the sink was evidently as much a fixture as the sink itself, and belonged, like the suspended brush and comb, to the traveling public. Philip managed to complete his toilet by the use of his pocket-handkerchief, and declining the hospitality of the landlord, implied in the remark, “You won’d dake notin’?” he went into the open air to wait for breakfast.
The country he saw was wild but not picturesque. The mountain before him might be eight hundred feet high, and was only a portion of a long unbroken range, savagely wooded, which followed the stream. Behind the hotel, and across the brawling brook, was another level-topped, wooded range exactly like it. Ilium itself, seen at a glance, was old enough to be dilapidated, and if it had gained anything by being made a wood and water station of the new railroad, it was only a new sort of grime and rawness. P. Dusenheimer, standing in the door of his uninviting groggery, when the trains stopped for water; never received from the traveling public any patronage except facetious remarks upon his personal appearance. Perhaps a thousand times he had heard the remark, “Ilium fuit,” followed in most instances by a hail to himself as “AEneas,” with the inquiry “Where is old Anchises? “At first he had replied, “Dere ain’t no such man;” but irritated by its senseless repetition, he had latterly dropped into the formula of, “You be dam.”
Philip was recalled from the contemplation of Ilium by the rolling and growling of the gong within the hotel, the din and clamor increasing till the house was apparently unable to contain it; when it burst out of the front door and informed the world that breakfast was on the table.
The dining room was long, low and narrow, and a narrow table extended its whole length. Upon this was spread a cloth which from appearance might have been as long in use as the towel in the barroom. Upon the table was the usual service, the heavy, much nicked stone ware, the row of plated and rusty castors, the sugar bowls with the zinc tea-spoons sticking up in them, the piles of yellow biscuits, the discouraged-looking plates of butter. The landlord waited, and Philip was pleased to observe the change in his manner. In the barroom he was the conciliatory landlord. Standing behind his guests at table, he had an air of peremptory patronage, and the voice in which he shot out the inquiry, as he seized Philip’s plate, “Beefsteak or liver?” quite took away Philip’s power of choice. He begged for a glass of milk, after trying that green hued compound called coffee, and made his breakfast out of that and some hard crackers which seemed to have been imported into Ilium before the introduction of the iron horse, and to have withstood a ten years siege of regular boarders, Greeks and others.
The land that Philip had come to look at was at least five miles distant from Ilium station. A corner of it touched the railroad, but the rest was pretty much an unbroken wilderness, eight or ten thousand acres of rough country, most of it such a mountain range as he saw at Ilium.
His first step was to hire three woodsmen to accompany him. By their help he built a log hut, and established a camp on the land, and then began his explorations, mapping down his survey as he went along, noting the timber, and the lay of the land, and making superficial observations as to the prospect of coal.
The landlord at Ilium endeavored to persuade Philip to hire the services of a witch-hazel professor of that region, who could walk over the land with his wand and tell him infallibly whether it contained coal, and exactly where the strata ran. But Philip preferred to trust to his own study of the country, and his knowledge of the geological formation. He spent a month in traveling over the land and making calculations; and made up his mind that a fine vein of coal ran through the mountain about a mile from the railroad, and that the place to run in a tunnel was half way towards its summit.
Acting with his usual promptness, Philip, with the consent of Mr. Bolton, broke ground there at once, and, before snow came, had some rude buildings up, and was ready for active operations in the spring. It was true that there were no outcroppings of coal at the place, and the people at Ilium said he “mought as well dig for plug terbaccer there;” but Philip had great faith in the uniformity of nature’s operations in ages past, and he had no doubt that he should strike at this spot the rich vein that had made the fortune of the Golden Briar Company.
CHAPTER XXX.
Once more Louise had good news from her Washington–Senator Dilworthy was going to sell the Tennessee Land to the government! Louise told Laura in confidence. She had told her parents, too, and also several bosom friends; but all of these people had simply looked sad when they heard the news, except Laura. Laura’s face suddenly brightened under it–only for an instant, it is true, but poor Louise was grateful for even that fleeting ray of encouragement. When next Laura was alone, she fell into a train of thought something like this:
If the Senator has really taken hold of this matter, I may look for that invitation to his house at, any moment. I am perishing to go! I do long to know whether I am only simply a large-sized pigmy among these pigmies here, who tumble over so easily when one strikes them, or whether I am really–.” Her thoughts drifted into other channels, for a season. “Then she continued:–“He said I could be useful in the great cause of philanthropy, and help in the blessed work of uplifting the poor and the ignorant, if he found it feasible to take hold of our Land. Well, that is neither here nor there; what I want, is to go to Washington and find out what I am. I want money, too; and if one may judge by what she hears, there are chances there for a–.” For a fascinating woman, she was going to say, perhaps, but she did not.
Along in the fall the invitation came, sure enough. It came officially through brother Washington, the private Secretary, who appended a postscript that was brimming with delight over the prospect of seeing the Duchess again. He said it would be happiness enough to look upon her face once more–it would be almost too much happiness when to it was added the fact that she would bring messages with her that were fresh from Louise’s lips.
In Washington’s letter were several important enclosures. For instance, there was the Senator’s check for $2,000–“to buy suitable clothing in New York with!” It was a loan to be refunded when the Land was sold. Two thousand–this was fine indeed. Louise’s father was called rich, but Laura doubted if Louise had ever had $400 worth of new clothing at one time in her life. With the check came two through tickets–good on the railroad from Hawkeye to Washington via New York–and they were “dead- head” tickets, too, which had beep given to Senator Dilworthy by the railway companies. Senators and representatives were paid thousands of dollars by the government for traveling expenses, but they always traveled “deadhead” both ways, and then did as any honorable, high-minded men would naturally do–declined to receive the mileage tendered them by the government. The Senator had plenty of railway passes, and could. easily spare two to Laura–one for herself and one for a male escort. Washington suggested that she get some old friend of the family to come with her, and said the Senator would “deadhead” him home again as soon as he had grown tired, of the sights of the capital. Laura thought the thing over. At first she was pleased with the idea, but presently she began to feel differently about it. Finally she said, “No, our staid, steady-going Hawkeye friends’ notions and mine differ about some things– they respect me, now, and I respect them–better leave it so–I will go alone; I am not afraid to travel by myself.” And so communing with herself, she left the house for an afternoon walk.
Almost at the door she met Col. Sellers. She told him about her invitation to Washington.
“Bless me!” said the Colonel. “I have about made up my mind to go there myself. You see we’ve got to get another appropriation through, and the Company want me to come east and put it through Congress. Harry’s there, and he’ll do what he can, of course; and Harry’s a good fellow and always does the very best he knows how, but then he’s young–rather young for some parts of such work, you know–and besides he talks too much, talks a good deal too much; and sometimes he appears to be a little bit visionary, too, I think the worst thing in the world for a business man. A man like that always exposes his cards, sooner or later. This sort of thing wants an old, quiet, steady hand–wants an old cool head, you know, that knows men, through and through, and is used to large operations. I’m expecting my salary, and also some dividends from the company, and if they get along in time, I’ll go along with you Laura–take you under my wing–you mustn’t travel alone. Lord I wish I had the money right now. –But there’ll be plenty soon–plenty.”
Laura reasoned with herself that if the kindly, simple-hearted Colonel was going anyhow, what could she gain by traveling alone and throwing away his company? So she told him she accepted his offer gladly, gratefully. She said it would be the greatest of favors if he would go with her and protect her–not at his own expense as far as railway fares were concerned, of course; she could not expect him to put himself to so much trouble for her and pay his fare besides. But he wouldn’t hear of her paying his fare–it would be only a pleasure to him to serve her. Laura insisted on furnishing the tickets; and finally, when argument failed, she said the tickets cost neither her nor any one else a cent– she had two of them–she needed but one–and if he would not take the other she would not go with him. That settled the matter. He took the ticket. Laura was glad that she had the check for new clothing, for she felt very certain of being able to get the Colonel to borrow a little of the money to pay hotel bills with, here and there.
She wrote Washington to look for her and Col. Sellers toward the end of November; and at about the time set the two travelers arrived safe in the capital of the nation, sure enough.
CHAPTER XXXL
She the, gracious lady, yet no paines did spare To doe him ease, or doe him remedy: Many restoratives of vertues rare And costly cordialles she did apply, To mitigate his stubborne malady. Spenser’s Faerie Queens.
Mr. Henry Brierly was exceedingly busy in New York, so he wrote Col. Sellers, but he would drop everything and go to Washington.
The Colonel believed that Harry was the prince of lobbyists, a little too sanguine, may be, and given to speculation, but, then, he knew everybody; the Columbus River navigation scheme was, got through almost entirely by his aid. He was needed now to help through another scheme, a benevolent scheme in which Col. Sellers, through the Hawkinses, had a deep interest.
“I don’t care, you know,” he wrote to Harry, “so much about the niggroes. But if the government will buy this land, it will set up the Hawkins family–make Laura an heiress–and I shouldn’t wonder if Beriah Sellers would set up his carriage again. Dilworthy looks at it different, of course. He’s all for philanthropy, for benefiting the colored race. There’s old Balsam, was in the Interior–used to be the Rev. Orson Balsam of Iowa–he’s made the riffle on the Injun; great Injun pacificator and land dealer. Balaam’a got the Injun to himself, and I suppose that Senator Dilworthy feels that there is nothing left him but the colored man. I do rechon he is the best friend the colored man has got in Washington.”
Though Harry was in a hurry to reach Washington, he stopped in Philadelphia; and prolonged his visit day after day, greatly to the