The Best Man

Cavenaugh's expression of wonder began to freeze and remained frozen to the end of the meal. So all the honors of conversation fell to grandpa, who seemed to relish this new privilege.

"Father," said Cavenaugh, holding back his accumulated wrath, "I want to see you in my study."

"Immediately, my son. I was just about to make that same request." Grandpa looked at Kate, then at Carrington. "I suppose you young persons will invite poor old grandpa to the wedding?"

"Father!" This was altogether too much for patrician blood. Cavenaugh's face reddened and his fists closed ominously. "You will do me the honor, father, not to meddle with my private affairs. Kate is my daughter, and she shall marry the man it pleases me to accept."

Carrington felt this cut dart over grandpa's shoulder. He stirred uneasily.

"Oh, if that's the way you look at it!" with a comical deprecatory shrug. Grandpa touched Carrington on the arm. "Young man, do you love this girl? No false modesty, now; the truth, and nothing but the truth. Do you love her?"

"With all my heart!" Carrington felt the impulse occult. Something whispered that his whole future depended upon his answer.

"And you, Kate?"

"I love him, grandpa," bravely.

"That's all I want to know," said grandpa.

Cavenaugh released one of his fists; it fell upon the table and rattled things generally.

"Am I in my own house?" he bawled.

"That depends," answered grandpa suavely. "You've got to behave yourself. Now, then, let us repair to the secret chamber of finance. It is the day of settlement," grimly.

Mrs. Cavenaugh was gently weeping. The dread moment had come, come when she had been lulled into the belief that it would never come. Kate understood, and longed to go to her and comfort her; and she trembled for her father, who knew nothing of the pit that lay at his feet. Carrington dallied with his fork; he wished he was anywhere in the world but at the Cavenaugh table. The desire to laugh recurred to him, but he realized that the inclination was only hysterical.

Cavenaugh was already heading for the study. He was in a fine rage. Grandpa was close on his heels. At the threshold he turned once more to Carrington.

"You know your Tempest, young man, I'm sure," he said. "Well, this is the revolt of Caliban – Caliban uplifted, as it were."

The door closed behind them, and father and son faced each other.

"I'll trouble you for those papers you took from the safe last night," said the son heavily.

"Ah, indeed!" said grandpa.

"At once; I have reached the limit of my patience."

"So have I," returned grandpa. "Perhaps you know what these papers are about?"

"I know nothing whatever, save that they belong to Mr. Carrington. Hand them over."

Grandpa helped himself to a cigar and sat down. He puffed two or three times, eyed the lighted end, and sighed with satisfaction.

"If you but knew what they were about, these papers, you would pay a cool million for their possession. My word, it is a droll situation; reads like the fourth act in a play. If you have a duke picked out for Kate, forget him."

"She will never marry Carrington!" Cavenaugh's voice rose in spite of his effort to control it.

"My son, they will hear you," the pariah warned. He blew a cloud of smoke into the air and sniffed it. "You never offered me this particular brand," reproachfully.

"Enjoy it," snapped the other, "for it is the last you will ever smoke in any house of mine."

"You don't tell me!"

"Those papers, instantly!"

"'Be it known by these presents, et cetera, et cetera,'" said the old man. He rose suddenly, the banter leaving his lips and eyes, and his jaw setting hard. "You had better get your check-book handy, my son, for when I'm through with you, you'll be only too glad to fill out a blank for fifty thousand. I consider myself quite moderate. This young Carrington is a mighty shrewd fellow; and I'd rather have him as a friend than an enemy. He has made out his case so strongly that it will cost you a pretty penny to escape with a whole skin."

"What are you talking about?"

"The case of the people versus Cavenaugh et al. It concerns the clever way in which you and your partners slid under the seven per cent. dividend due your investors; which caused a slump in the price of the shares, forcing thousands to sell their stock; which you bought back at a handsome profit. Moloch! The millions you have are not enough; you must have more. There are about twelve of you in all, not one of you worth less than three millions. What a beautiful chance for blackmail!"

Cavenaugh stepped back, and his legs, striking a chair, toppled him into it. His father had become Medusa's head!

"Aha! That jars you some," chuckled grandpa.

It took Cavenaugh some time to recover his voice, and when he did it was faint and unnatural.

"Is this true?" he gasped.

"It is so true that I'll trouble you for the check now."

"Come, father, this is no time for nonsense." Cavenaugh waved his hand impatiently. "Let me see the document."

"Hardly. But the moment you place the check in my hands, I shall be pleased to do so. But there must be no reservation to have payment stopped."

"I will not give you a single penny!" The mere suggestion of giving up so large a sum without a struggle seemed preposterous. "Not a penny! And furthermore, I am through with you for good and all. Shift for yourself hereafter. Fifty thousand! You make me laugh!"

"I shall make you laugh, my son; but not on the humorous side." The old man reached out his hand and struck the bell.

"What do you want?" asked Cavenaugh, mystified.

"I want the author of the document. I propose to take the family skeleton out of the closet and dangle it up and down before the young man's eyes. You will laugh, I dare say."

Cavenaugh fell back in his chair again. The door opened and William looked in.

"You rang, sir?" to Cavenaugh fils.

"No, William," said Cavenaugh père affably; "I rang. Call Mr. Carrington." The butler disappeared. "It is my turn, Henry, and I have waited a long time, as you very well know. Ha! Sit down, Mr. Carrington, sit down."

Carrington, who had entered, obeyed readily.

"You left some papers in the dining-room safe last night," began grandpa.

"I was about to ask you to return them," replied Carrington, with assumed pleasantry.

The two Cavenaughs looked at each other blankly. Finally grandpa laughed.

"I told you he was clever!"

"It is true, then," snarled the millionaire, "that you have been meddling with affairs that in no wise concern you. I warn you that your case in court will not have a leg to stand on."

"I prefer not to discuss the merits of the case," said Carrington quietly.

"I have been your host, sir; you have eaten at my table." Cavenaugh, as he spoke, was not without a certain dignity.

"All of which, recognizing the present situation, I profoundly regret."

"Good!" said grandpa. "Henry, if you had been the general they give you credit for, you would have offered Mr. Carrington that seventeen thousand two or three years ago. There is nothing so menacing to dishonesty as the free lance. Now, listen to me for a space. We'll come to the documentary evidence all in good time. I spoke of Caliban uplifted," ironically. "For years I have been treated as a pariah, as a beast of burden, as a messenger boy, as a go-between to take tricks that might have soiled my son's delicate hands. Father and son, yes; but in name only. Blood is thicker than water only when riches and ambition are not touched in the quick. This dutiful son of mine could easily have elevated me along with himself; but he would not do so. He was afraid that people might learn something of my past, which would greatly hinder his advancement. He prospered, he grew rich and arrogant; he put his heel on my neck, and I dared not revolt. You wouldn't believe it, would you, Mr. Carrington, that I was graduated with honors from Oxford University. I speak three tongues fluently, and have a smattering of a dozen others; am a doctor of philosophy, an Egyptologist. But I was indolent and loved good times, and so, you see, it came about that I fell into evil ways. Formerly, I was a burglar by profession."

He stopped, eying Carrington's stupefaction. The son gnawed his lips impotently.

"I was a master, after a fashion," resumed the old man, satisfied with his dénouement. "I committed a dozen splendid burglaries. I never left a trail behind. The police sought for me, but did not know me either by name or by sight. This was the sword my son kept over my neck. The slightest rebellion, and he threatened to expose me. Oh, I know the boy well enough; he would have done it in those days. Once extradited to England, thirty years ago, no one would have connected our names. Yet he was afraid of me; he wasn't sure that at any time the old desire would spring up renewed. I robbed to gratify my craving for excitement rather than to fill my purse. I made an unhappy marriage; something Kate nor Norah shall do while I live. Henry was clever. He made me an allowance of two hundred a month. And how do you suppose he arranged the payment? On the first day of the month he placed the cash in a safe in the house, and changed the combination. If I got the money without being caught it was mine; otherwise I went hungry. Ingenious idea, wasn't it? For I had all the excitement, and none of the peril of a real burglary. Henry forgot, yesterday, that it was the first of the month."

The millionaire found it impossible to remain seated. He rose and paced the floor, his brows knit, his hands clenched. He was at bay. Carrington felt as if he were in the midst of some mad dream.

"Sometimes I succeeded in opening the safe; and sometimes, when luck went against me for two or three months, Norah tipped me the combination. She dared not do it too often. So the months went on. Once a month I was permitted to visit my grandchildren. My son grew richer and richer; for myself, I remained in the valley of humiliation. I had no chance. I had never met any of my son's friends; he took good care that I did not; so they were in total darkness as to my existence. But the ball and chain were knocked off last night. Your papers are, after all, only an incident. Caliban revolts. Mr. Carrington, my son! Oh, I am proud of him. I believed the genius for robbery was mine. I am a veritable tyro beside Henry. Half a dozen millions from the pockets of the poor at one fell swoop! Where's your Robin Hood and his ilk? But it isn't called robbery; it is called high finance."

He applied a match to his dead cigar and thoughtfully eyed his son.

"And there is a good joke on me, weaving in and out of all this. I regularly invested half my allowance in buying shares in my son's company, to insure my old age. It jarred me when I read the truth last night. I hate to be outwitted. Henry, sit down; you make me nervous."

"Well, what are you going to do?" asked the son. As he faced his father there was something lion-like in his expression.

"Sit down, my son, and I will tell you," answered the old man quietly. He knew that his son was a fighter, and that to win he would have to strike quick and hard.

Cavenaugh flung himself into his chair. At that moment he did not know which he hated the most, his father or Carrington.

"First, you will write out that check for fifty thousand."

"Blackmail!"

"Nothing of the sort. For twenty years you have kept your heel on my neck. I could do nothing; opportunities came and I dared not grasp them; my genuine ability was allowed to rust. It is simply compensation. Blackmail? I think not. I could easily force a million from you. But I am and have been for years an honest man. And heaven knows how well I have paid for my early transgression," bitterly. "This hour is mine, and I propose to use it."

"What guaranty have I of your good faith?" fiercely.

"My word," calmly. "I have never yet broken it."

Carrington gazed longingly toward the door. It was horribly embarrassing. He began to realize that Kate's father would hate him bitterly indeed, and that his own happiness looked very remote.

Cavenaugh turned to his desk, filled out the blank, and passed it to his father, who, with scarcely a glance at it, passed it back with a negative shake of the head.

"The official certifying stamp lies on your desk; use it."

There was no getting around this keen-eyed old man. He knew every point in the game.

"You will live to regret this," said Cavenaugh, his eyes sparkling with venom.

"I have many things to regret; principally that fate made me a father." The old man passed the check over to Carrington. "You're a lawyer; does that look legal to you?"

Carrington signified that it did.

"Now, then, Henry, you will write down on official paper your resignation as president and director of the General Trust Company of America. You will give orders for the restitution of the millions that were fraudulently added to your capital. I am not the least interested in what manner the restitutions are made, so long as they are made. I am now representing the investors. As for your partners, it will be easy for you to impress them with the necessity of the action."

"And if I refuse?"

"Nothing less than the attorney-general. I intend to make this business as complete as possible."

Cavenaugh turned again to his desk. He knew his father even as his father knew him. He wrote hurriedly, the pen sputtering angrily.

"What else?" with a cold fury.

Again the old man gave Carrington the paper.

"It is perfectly intelligible," he said. He began to feel a bit sorry for Cavenaugh junior.

"Now, those papers," said Cavenaugh sharply.

"I believe they belong to me," interposed Carrington.

Grandpa smiled. "It all depends."

"I could easily force you," suggestively.

Grandpa smiled again. "Of that I haven't the least doubt. Of course, what I have is only a copy?"

"It is the only copy in existence," replied Carrington anxiously. And then a flush of shame mantled his cheeks. Where was his legal cunning?

"Ah!" The ejaculation came from Cavenaugh junior.

"There is but one thing more," said grandpa urbanely. "I am determined that Kate shall be happy. She shall marry Mr. Carrington before the snow flies. It is an excellent policy to keep valuable secrets in the family."

"Give your papers to the attorney-general. I'll see you all hanged before I'll give my consent!" Cavenaugh roared out these words. His patience had truly reached the limit of endurance.

"Softly, softly!" murmured grandpa.

"I mean it!" con agitata.

"Ah, well; what will be, will be. Son, I came down here yesterday with altogether a different piece of business in mind. The documents I discovered last night changed these plans. You own rich oil lands in Texas; or, rather, you did own them before you sold out to the company. The land you sold was not, and never had been, legally yours; you owned not a single tuft of grass. Government land-grab, I believe they call it. It is not now a question of refunding money; it is a question of avoiding prison. The supreme court at Washington can not be purchased. It cost me five hundred, which I could ill afford, to get a copy of the original transfer. The real owner mistook me for you, son; that is how I learned. Your consent to this marriage; or, my word for it, I'll put you where you would have put me, had you dared. Quick! My patience is quite as tense as yours."

The collapse of Cavenaugh was total. He saw the futility of further struggle. Ah! and he had believed all these transgressions securely hidden and forgotten, that the fortress of his millions would protect him from all attack. Too late he realized that he had gone too far with his father. There was no mercy in the old man's eyes, and Cavenaugh knew in his heart that he deserved none.

"Very sensible," said the retired burglar. He folded the check and put it in his wallet, while his son covered his face with his hands. "Murder will out, even among the most pious. I know that what has passed between us will be forgotten by Mr. Carrington. For myself, I shall return to England. I have always had a horror of dying in this country. Like father, like son; the parable reads truly. It was in the blood, Mr. Carrington; it was in the blood. But Henry here went about it in a more genteel manner." He struck the bell. "William, send Miss Kate here."

William bowed. He recognized the change; grandpa's voice was full of confident authority.

Kate entered the study shortly after. She had been weeping; her eyes were red. Seeing her father's bowed head, she sprang to his side like a lioness.

"What have they been doing to you, father?"

"Nothing but what is just," softly answered her parent. The little dukes and princes faded away as a dream fades.

"Grandpa …" she began.

"Child, it is all settled. The hatchet is buried in frozen ground. Your father consents to your marriage with Mr. Carrington. It has been a heated argument, but he has come around to my way of thinking. 'All's right with the world,' as Browning says. Bless you, my children, bless you!" with tender irony.

"And now, my papers," said Carrington, smiling up at the girl reassuringly.

"And you still wish to marry me?" asked the girl, her face burning and her eyes moist.

"I'd marry you if your grandpa was Beelzebub himself!"

"Here's your papers, young man," said grandpa. He passed the envelope across the table.

"What's this?" cried Carrington.

"It means, my boy," said grandpa, "that blood is thicker than water, and that I really intended no harm to Henry. And then, besides, I like to win when all the odds are against me."

Carrington gently turned the envelope upside down. Nothing but burnt paper fluttered upon the table.

TWO CANDIDATES

I

TO begin with, I am going to call things by their real names. At first glance this statement will give you a shiver of terror, that is, if you happen to be a maiden lady or a gentleman with reversible cuffs. But your shivers will be without reason. Prue may read, and modest Prue's mama; for it isn't going to be a naughty story; on the contrary, grandma's spring medicines are less harmless. Yet there is a parable to expound and a moral to point out; but I shall leave these to your own discernment.

It has always appealed to me as rather a silly custom on a story-teller's part to invent names for the two great political parties of the United States; and for my part, I am going to call a Democrat a Democrat and a Republican a Republican, because these titles are not so hallowed in our time as to be disguised in print and uttered in a bated breath. There is fortunately no lèse-majesté in America.

Men inclined toward the evil side of power will be found in all parties, and always have been. Unlike society, the middle class in politics usually contains all the evil elements. In politics the citizen becomes the lowest order, and the statesman the highest; and, thanks to the common sense of the race, these are largely honest and incorruptible. When these become disintegrated, a republic falls.

Being a journalist and a philosopher, I look upon both parties with tolerant contempt. The very nearness of some things disillusions us; and I have found that only one illusion remains to the newspaper man, and that is that some day he'll get out of the newspaper business. I vote as I please, though the family does not know this. The mother is a Republican and so is the grandmother; and, loving peace in the house, I dub myself a Republican till that moment when I enter the voting-booth. Then I become an individual who votes as his common-sense directs.

The influence of woman in politics is no inconsiderable matter. The great statesman may flatter himself that his greatness is due to his oratorical powers; but his destiny is often decided at the breakfast-table. Why four-fifths of the women lean toward Republicanism is something no mere historian can analyze.

In my town politics had an evil odor. For six years a Democrat had been mayor, and for six years the town had been plundered. For six years the Republicans had striven, with might and main, to regain the power … and the right to plunder. It did not matter which party ruled, graft (let us omit the quotation marks) was the tocsin. The citizens were robbed, openly or covertly, according to the policy of the party in office. There was no independent paper in town; so, from one month's end to another it was leaded editorial vituperation. Then Caliban revolted. An independent party was about to be formed.

The two bosses, however, were equal to the occasion. They immediately hustled around and secured as candidates for the mayoralty two prominent young men whose honesty and integrity were unimpeachable. Caliban, as is his habit, sheathed his sword and went back to his bench, his desk, or whatever his occupation was.

On the Republican side they nominated a rich young club-man. Now, as you will readily agree, it is always written large on the political banner that a man who is rich has no incentive to become a grafter. The public is ever willing to trust its funds to a millionaire. The Democrats, with equal cunning, brought forward a brilliant young attorney, whose income was rather moderate but whose ability and promise were great. The Democratic organs hailed his nomination with delight.

"We want one of the people to represent us, not one of the privileged class." You see, there happened to be no rich young Democrat available.

These two candidates were close personal friends. They had been chums from boyhood and had been graduated from the same college. They belonged to the same clubs, and were acknowledged to be the best horsemen in town. As to social prominence, neither had any advantage over the other, save in the eyes of matrons who possessed marriageable (and extravagant) daughters. Williard, the Republican nominee, was a handsome chap, liberal-minded and generous-hearted, without a personal enemy in the world. I recollect only one fault: he loved the world a little too well. The opposition organs, during the heat of the campaign, dropped vague hints regarding dinners to singers and actresses and large stakes in poker games. Newcomb, his opponent, was not handsome, but he had a fine, clean-cut, manly face, an intrepid eye, a resolute mouth, and a tremendous ambition. He lived well within his income, the highest recommendation that may be paid to a young man of these days.

He threw himself into the fight with all the ardor of which his nature was capable; whereas Williard was content to let the machine direct his movements. The truth is, Williard was indifferent whether he became mayor or not. To him the conflict was a diversion, a new fish to Lucullus; and when the Democratic organs wrote scathing editorials about what they termed his profligate career, he would laugh and exhibit the articles at the club. It was all a huge joke. He made very few speeches, and at no time could he be forced into the foreign districts. He complained that his olfactory nerve was too delicately educated. The leaders swallowed their rancor; there was nothing else for them to do. In Williard's very lack of ambition lay his strength. Poverty would have made a great man out of him; but riches have a peculiar way of numbing the appreciation of the greater and simpler things in life.

Newcomb went everywhere; the Poles hurrahed for him, the Germans, the Irish, the Huns and the Italians. And he made no promises which he did not honestly intend to fulfil. To him the fight meant everything; it meant fame and honor, a comfortable addition to his income, and Washington as a finality. He would purify the Democrats while he annihilated the pretensions of the Republicans. He was what historians call an active dreamer, a man who dreams and then goes forth to accomplish things. His personality was engaging.

Besides all this (for the secret must be told) Newcomb was in love and wished to have all these things to lay at the feet of his beloved, even if she returned them. You will regularly find it to be true that the single man is far more ambitious than his married brother. The latter invariably turns over the contract to his wife.

Williard was deeply in love, too, with Senator Gordon's lovely daughter, and Senator Gordon was that mysterious power which directed the Republican forces in his section of the state. So you may readily believe that Newcomb was forced to put up a better fight than Williard, who stood high in Senator Gordon's favor. The girl and the two young men had been friends since childhood, and nobody knew whether she cared for either of them in the way they desired. Everybody in town, who was anybody, understood the situation; and everybody felt confident that Williard was most likely to win. The girl never said anything, even to her intimate friends; but when the subject was brought up, she smiled in a way that dismissed it.