 CHAPTER XXXVI. In due time, Laura alighted at the bookstore and began to look at the titles of the handsome array of books on the counter. A dapper clerk of perhaps nineteen or twenty years, with hair accurately parted and surprisingly slick, came bustling up and leaned over with a pretty smile and an affable, can I—was there any particular book you wished to see? Have you Tain's England? Big pardon? Tain's Notes on England. The young gentleman scratched the side of his nose with a cedar pencil which he took down from its bracket on the side of his head and reflected a moment. Ah, I see—with a bright smile. Train, you mean, not Tain. George Francis No, ma'am, we—I mean Tain, if I may take the liberty. The clerk reflected again, then—Tain, Tain. Is it Hymns? No, it isn't Hymns. It is a volume that is making a deal of talk just now and is very widely known, except among parties who sell it. The clerk glanced at her face to see if a sarcasm might not lurk somewhere in that obscure speech, but the gentle simplicity of the beautiful eyes that met his banished that suspicion. He went away and conferred with the proprietor. Both appeared to be non-plussed. They thought and talked and talked and thought by turns. Then both came forward and the proprietor said, Is it an American book, ma'am? No, it is an American reprint of an English translation. Oh, yes, yes, I remember now. We are expecting it every day. It isn't out yet. I think you must be mistaken because you advertised it a week ago. Why, no, can that be so? Yes, I am sure of it. And besides, here is the book itself on the counter. She bought it and the proprietor retired from the field. Then she asked the clerk for the autocrat of the breakfast table, and was pained to see the admiration her beauty-head inspired in him fade out of his face. He said with cold dignity that cookbooks were somewhat out of their line, but he would order it if she desired. She said no, never mind. Then she fell to conning the titles again, finding a delight in the inspection of the Hawthorns, the Longfellows, the Tennissans, and other favorites of her idle hours. Meanwhile, the clerk's eyes were busy and no doubt his admiration was returning again. Or maybe he was only gauging her probable literary tastes by some sagacious system of ad-measurement only known to his guild. Now he began to assist her in making a selection, but his efforts met with no success. Indeed, they only annoyed her and unpleasantly interrupted her meditations. Presently, while she was holding a copy of Venetian Life in her hand and running over a familiar passage here and there, the clerk said briskly, snatching up a paper-covered volume and striking the counter a smart blow with it to dislodge the dust. Now, here is a work that we've sold a lot of. Everybody that read it likes it, and he intruded it under her nose. It's a book that I can recommend, The Pirate's Doom or The Last of the Buccaneers. I think it's one of the best things that came out this season. Laura pushed it gently aside her hand and went on and filching from Venetian Life. I believe I do not want it, she said. The clerk hunted around a while, glancing at one title and then another, but apparently not finding what he wanted. However, he succeeded at last. Said he, Have you ever read this, ma'am? I'm sure you'll like it. It's by the author of The Hooligans of Hackensack. It is full of love-troubles and mysteries and all sorts of such things. The heroine strangles her own mother. Just glance at the title, please. Gondarill the Vampire or the Dance of Death. And here is the Jokest's own Treasury or the Funny Fellow's bosom friend. The funniest thing! I've read it four times, ma'am, and I can laugh at the very sight of it. And Gondarill, I assure you it is the most splendid book I ever read. I know you will like these books, ma'am, because I've read them myself and I know what they are. Oh, I was perplexed, but I see how it is now. You must have thought I asked you to tell me what sorts of books I wanted, for I am apt to say things which I don't really mean when I am absent-minded. I suppose I did ask you, didn't I? No, ma'am, but I—yes, I must have done it, else you would not have offered your services for fear it might be rude. But don't be troubled. It was all my fault. I ought not to have been so heedless. I ought not to have asked you. But you didn't ask me, ma'am. We always help customers all we can. You see our experience, living right among books all the time, that sort of thing makes us able to help a customer make a selection, you know? Now, does it indeed? It is part of your business, then? Yes, and we always help. How good it is of you. Some people would think it rather obtrusive, perhaps, but I don't. I think it is real kindness, even charity. Some people jump to conclusions without any thought. Have you noticed that? Oh, yes, said the clerk, a little perplexed, as to whether to feel comfortable or the reverse. Oh, yes, indeed. I have often noticed that, ma'am. Yes, they jump to conclusions with an absurd heedlessness. Now, some people would think it odd that because you, with the budding tastes and the innocent enthousiasms natural to your time of life, enjoyed the vampires and the volume of nursery jokes, you should imagine that an older person would delight in them, too. But I do not think it odd at all. I think it natural, perfectly natural in you. And kind, too. You look like a person who not only finds a deep pleasure in any little thing in the way of literature that strikes you forcibly, but is willing and glad to share that pleasure with others. And that, I think, is noble and admirable. Very noble and admirable. I think we ought all to share our pleasures with others, and do what we can to make each other happy. Do not you? Oh, yes. Oh, yes, indeed. Yes, you are quite right, ma'am. But he was getting unmistakably uncomfortable now, not withstanding Laura's confiding sociability and almost affectionate tone. Yes, indeed. Many people would think that what a bookseller, or perhaps his clerk, knows about literature as literature, in contra distinction to its character as merchandise, would hardly be of much assistance to a person, that is, to an adult, of course, in the selection of food for the mind, except, of course, wrapping paper or twine or wafers or something like that. But I never feel that way. I feel that whatever service you offer me, you offer with a good heart. And I am as grateful for it as if it were the greatest boon to me. And it is useful to me. It is bound to be so. It cannot be otherwise. If you show me a book which you have read, not skimmed over or merely glanced at, but read, and you tell me that you enjoyed it, and that you could read it three or four times, then I know what book I want. Thank you—th—to avoid. Yes, indeed. I think that no information ever comes amiss in this world. Once or twice I have traveled in the cars, and there you know, the peanut boy always measures you with his eye, and hands you out a book of murders if you are fond of theology, or Tupper or a dictionary or T. S. Arthur if you are fond of poetry, or he hands you a volume of distressing jokes or a copy of the American miscellany if you particularly dislike that sort of literary, fatty degeneration of the heart, just for the world like a pleasant-spoken, well-meaning gentleman in any bookstore. But here I am running on as if businessmen had nothing to do but listen to women talk. You must pardon me, for I was not thinking. And you must let me thank you again for helping me. I read a good deal, and shall be in nearly every day, and I would be sorry to have you think me a customer who talks too much and buys too little. Might I ask you to give me the time? Ah, two twenty-two, thank you very much. I will set mine while I have the opportunity. But she could not get her watch open, apparently. She tried and tried again. Then the clerk, trembling at his own audacity, begged to be allowed to assist. She allowed him. He succeeded, and was radiant under the sweet influences of her pleased face and her seductively worded acknowledgments with gratification. Then he gave her the exact time again, and anxiously watched her turn the hand slowly till they reached the precise spot without accident or loss of life, and then he looked as happy as a man who had helped a fellow being through a momentous undertaking, and was grateful to know that he had not lived in vain. Laura thanked him once more. The words were music to his ear, but what were they compared to the ravishing smile with which she flooded his whole system? When she bowed her adieu and turned away, he was no longer suffering torture in the pillory where she had had him trust up during so many distressing moments, but he belonged to the list of her conquests, and was a flattered and happy thrall with the dawn light of love breaking over the eastern elevations of his heart. It was about the hour now for the Chairman of the House Committee on Benevolent Appropriations to make his appearance, and Laura stepped to the door to reconnoit her. She glanced up the street, and sure enough. CHAPTER 37 That Chairman was nowhere in sight. Such disappointments seldom occur in novels, but are always happening in real life. She was obliged to make a new plan. She sent him a note, and asked him to call in the evening, which he did. She received the honourable Mr. Buckstone with a sunny smile, and said, I don't know how I ever dared to send you a note, Mr. Buckstone, for you have the reputation of not being very partial to our sex. Why, I am sure my reputation does me wrong, then, Miss Hawkins. I have been married once. Is that nothing in my favour? Oh, yes! That is, it may be, and it may not be. If you have known what perfection is in woman, it is fair to argue that inferiority cannot interest you now. Even if that were the case, it could not affect you, Miss Hawkins, said the Chairman gallantly. Fame does not place you in the list of ladies who rank below perfection. This happy speech delighted Mr. Buckstone as much as it seemed to delight Laura, but it did not confuse him as much as it apparently did her. I wish in all sincerity that I could be worthy of such a felicitous compliment as that, but I am a woman, and so I am gratified, for it is just as it is, and would not have it altered. But it is not merely a compliment, that is, an empty compliment, it is the truth. All men will endorse that. Laura looked pleased, and said, It is very kind of you to say it. It is a distinction, indeed, for a country-bred girl like me to be so spoken of by people of brains and culture. You are so kind that I know you will pardon my putting you to the trouble to come this evening. Indeed it was no trouble, it was a pleasure. I am alone in the world since I lost my wife, and I often long for the society of your sex, Miss Hawkins, notwithstanding what people may say to the contrary. It is pleasant to hear you say that. I am sure it must be so. If I feel lonely at times because of my exile from old friends, although surrounded by new ones who are already very dear to me, how much more lonely must you feel, bereft as you are, and with no wholesome relief from the cares of state that weigh you down. For your own sake as well as for the sake of others, you ought to go into society oftener. I seldom see you at a reception, and when I do, you do not usually give me very much of your attention. I never imagined that you wished it, or I would have been very glad to make myself happy in that way. But one seldom gets an opportunity to say more than a sentence to you in a place like that. You are always down the center of a group, a fact which you may have noticed yourself, but if one might come here. Indeed, you would always find a hearty welcome, Mr. Buckstone. I have often wished you would come and tell me more about Cairo and the Pyramids as you once promised me you would. Why, do you remember that yet, Miss Hawkins? I thought ladies' memories were more fickle than that. Oh, they are not so fickle as gentlemen's promises. And besides, if I had been inclined to forget, I—did you not give me something by way of a—remembrancer? Did I? Think. It does seem to me that I did, but I have forgotten what it was now. Never, never call a lady's memory fickle again. Do you recognize this? A little spray of box. I am beaten. I surrender. But have you kept that all this time? Laura's confusion was very pretty. She tried to hide it, but the more she tried the more manifest it became, and with all the more captivating to look upon. Presently she threw the spray of box from her with an annoyed air and said, I forgot myself. I have been very foolish. I beg that you will forget this absurd thing. Mr. Buckstone picked up the spray, and sitting down by Laura's side on the sofa said, Please, let me keep it, Miss Hawkins. I set a very high value upon it now. Give it to me, Mr. Buckstone, and do not speak so. I have been sufficiently punished for my thoughtlessness. You cannot take pleasure in adding to my distress. Please give it to me. Indeed, I do not wish to distress you, but do not consider the matter so gravely. You have done yourself no wrong. You probably forgot that you had it. But if you had given it to me I would have kept it, and not forgotten it. Don't talk so, Mr. Buckstone. Give it to me, please, and forget the matter. It would not be kind to refuse, since it troubles you so, and so I restore it. But if you would give me part of it, and keep the rest, so that you might have something to remind you of me when you wish to laugh at my foolishness? Oh, by no means no. Simply that I might remember that I had once assisted to discomfort you, and be reminded to do so no more. Laura looked up, and scanned his face a moment. She was about to break the twig, but she hesitated, and said, If I were sure that you—she threw the spray away and continued, This is silly. We will change the subject. No, do not insist. I must have my way in this. Then Mr. Buckstone drew off his forces, and proceeded to make a wily advance upon the fortress under cover of carefully contrived artifices and stratagems of war. But he contended with an alert and suspicious enemy, and so at the end of two hours it was manifest to him that he had made but little progress. Still he had made some, he was sure of that. Laura sat alone, and communed with herself. He is fairly hooked, poor thing. I can play him at my leisure, and land him when I choose. He was all ready to be caught, days and days ago. I saw that very well. He will vote for our bill, no fear about that. And moreover he will work for it, too, before I am done with him. If he had a woman's eyes, he would have noticed that the spray of box had grown three inches since he first gave it to me, but a man never sees anything and never suspects. If I had shown him a whole bush he would have thought it was the same. Well, it is a good night's work. The committee is safe. But this is a desperate game I am playing these days, a wearing, sordid, heartless game. If I lose I lose everything, even myself. And if I win the game, will it be worth its cost after all? I do not know. Sometimes I doubt. Sometimes I half wish I had not begun. But no matter, I have begun, and I will never turn back, never while I live. Mr. Buckstone indulged in a reverie as he walked homeward. She is shrewd and deep, and plays her cards with considerable discretion, but she will lose for all that. There is no hurry. I shall come out, winner, all in good time. She is the most beautiful woman in the world, and she surpassed herself tonight. I suppose I must vote for that bill in the end, maybe. But that is not a matter of much consequence. The government can stand it. She has been tongue-capturing me that is plain. But she will find by and by that what she took for a sleeping garrison was an ambuscade. CHAPTER XXXVIII of the Gilded Age. According by John D. Nugent. The Gilded Age. by Mark Twain and Charles Dudley Warner. CHAPTER XXXVIII Now this surprising news caused her to fall in a trance. Life as she were dead, no limbs she could advance. Then her dear brother came, her from the ground he took, and she spake up and said, Oh, my poor heart is broke. From the Bernard Castle tragedy. Don't you think he is distinguished looking? What? That gawky-looking person with Miss Hawkins? There. He's just speaking to Mrs. Schoenmacher. Such high-bred negligence and unconsciousness. Nothing studied. See his fine eyes? Very. They're moving this way now. Maybe he's coming here. But he looks as helpless as a rag-baby. Who is he, Branch? Who is he? And you've been here a week, Grace, and don't know? He's the catch of the season. That's Washington Hawkins, her brother. No, is it? Very old family. Old Kentucky family, I believe. He's got enormous landed property in Tennessee, I think. The family lost everything, slaves, and that sort of thing, you know, in the war. But they have a great deal of land, minerals, mines, and all that. Mr. Hawkins and his sister, too, are very much interested in the amelioration of the condition of the collard race. They have some plan with Senator Dilworthy to convert a large part of their property, or convert something another for the freedman. You don't say so. I thought he was some guy from Pennsylvania, but he is different from others. Probably he has lived all his life on his plantation. It was a day reception of Mrs. Representative Schoonmaker, a sweet woman of simple and sincere manners. Her house was one of the most popular in Washington. There were less ostentation there than in some others, and people liked to go there where the atmosphere reminded them of the peace and purity of home. Mrs. Schoonmaker was as natural and unaffected in Washington's society as she was in her known New York house, and kept up with the spirit of home life there with her husband and children. And that was the reason, probably, why people of refinement liked to go there. Washington is a microcosm, and one can suit himself with any sort of society within a radius of a mile. To a large portion of the people who frequent Washington or dwell there, the ultra-fashion, the shoddy, the jobbery, are as utterly distasteful as they would be in a refined New England city. Schoonmaker was not exactly a leader in the house, but he was greatly respected for his fine talents and his honesty. No one would have thought of offering to carry national improvement director's relief stock for him. These day receptions were attended by more women than men, and those interested in the problem might have studied the costumes of the ladies present in view of this fact to discover whether women dress more for the eyes of women or for the effect upon men. It is a very important problem and has been a good deal discussed, and its solution would form one fixed philosophical basis upon which to estimate women's character. We are inclined to take a medium ground and a fair that women dresses to please herself, and in obedience to a law of her own nature. They're coming this way, said Blanche. People who made way for them the past turned to look at them. Washington began to feel that the eyes of the public were on him also, and his eyes rolled about, now toward the ceiling, now toward the floor, in an effort to look unconscious. Good morning, Miss Hawkins. Delighted. Mr. Hawkins, my friend, Miss Medlar. Mr. Hawkins, who was endeavouring to square himself for a bow, put his foot through the train of Mrs. Senator Poplin, who looked round with a scowl which turned into a smile as she saw who it was. In extricating himself, Mr. Hawkins, who had the care of his hat as well as the introduction on his mind, shambled against Miss Blanche, who said pardon, with the prettiest accent, as if the awkwardness were her own. And Mr. Hawkins righted himself. Don't you find it very warm today, Mr. Hawkins, said Blanche, by way of a remark? It's awful hot, said Washington. It's warm for the season, continued Blanche pleasantly, but I suppose you are accustomed to it, she added, with a general idea that the thermometer always stands at ninety degrees in all parts of the late slave-states. Washington whether generally cannot be very congenial to you? It's congenial, said Washington, brightening up, when it's not congealed. That's very good. Did you hear, Grace? Mr. Hawkins says it's congenial when it's not congealed. What is it, dear? said Grace, who was talking with Laura. The conversation was now finally under way. Washington launched out an observation of his own. Did you see those japs, Mrs. Leavitt? Oh, yes, aren't they queer? But so high-bred, so picturesque. Do you think the collar makes any difference, Mr. Hawkins? I used to be so prejudiced against the collar. Did you? I never was. I used to think my old manny was handsome. How interesting your life must have been. I should like to hear about it. Washington was about settling himself into his narrative style when Mrs. General Finagle caught his eye. Have you been at the capital today, Mr. Hawkins? Washington had not. Is anything uncommon going on? They say it was very exciting, the Alabama in business, you know. General Settler of Massachusetts defied England, and they say he wants war. He wants to make himself conspicuous more like, said Laura. He always, you have noticed, talks with one eye on the gallery, while the other is on the speaker. Well, my husband says it's nonsense to talk of war and wicked. He knows what war is. If we do have war, I hope it will be for the patriots of Cuba. Don't you think we want Cuba, Mr. Hawkins? I think we want it bad, said Washington, and Santo Domingo. Senator Dilworthy says we are bound to extend our religion over the isles of the sea. We've got to round out our territory and Washington's further observations were broken off by Laura, who whisked him off to another part of the room, and reminded him that they must make their adieu. How stupid and tiresome these people are, she said. Let's go. They were turning to say good-bye to the hostess when Laura's attention was arrested by the sight of a gentleman who was just speaking to Mrs. Schoonmacher. For a second her heart stopped beating. He was a handsome man of forty and perhaps more, with gray hair and whiskers, and he walked with a cane as if he were slightly lame. He might be less than forty, for his face was worn in the hard lines and he was pale. No. It could not be, she said to herself. It is only a resemblance. But as the gentleman turned and she saw his full face, Laura put out her hand and clutched Washington's arm to prevent herself from falling. Washington, who was not minding anything as usual, looked round in wonder. Laura's eyes were blazing fire and hatred. He had never seen her look so before and her face was livid. White, what is it, sis? Your face is as white as paper. It's he. It's he. Come. Come. And she dragged him away. It's who, asked Washington when they had gained the carriage. It's nobody. It's nothing. Did I say he? I was faint with the heat. Don't mention it. Don't you speak of it, she added earnestly, grasping his arm. When she had gained her room she went to the glass and saw a pallid and haggard face. My God! she cried. This will never do. I should have killed him if I could. The scoundrel still lives and dares to come here. I ought to kill him. He has no right to live how I hate him and yet I loved him. Oh, Heaven's how I did love that man. And why didn't he kill me? He might better. He did kill all that was good in me. Oh, but he shall not escape. He shall not escape this time. He may have forgotten. He will find that a woman's hate doesn't forget the law. What would the law do but protect him and make me an outcast? How all Washington would gather up its virtuous skirts and avoid me if it knew? I wonder if he hates me as I do him. So Laura raved, in tears and in rage by turns, tossed off in a tumult of passion which she gave way to with little effort to control. A servant came to summon her to dinner. She had a headache. The hour came for the president's reception. She had a raving headache and the senator must go without her. That night of agony was like another night she recalled. How vividly it all came back to her. And at that time she remembered she thought she might be mistaken. He might come back to her. Perhaps he loved her a little, after all. Now she knew he did not. Now she knew he was a cold-blooded scoundrel without pity. Never a word in all these years. She had hoped he was dead. Did his wife live, she wondered? She caught it that and it gave a new current to her thoughts. Perhaps, after all, she must see him. She could not live without seeing him. Would he smile as in the old days when she loved him so? Or would he sneer as when she last saw him? If he looked so, she hated him. If he should call her Laura darling and look so, she must find him. She must end her doubts. Laura kept her room for two days, on one excuse and another, a nervous headache, a cold, to the great anxiety of the senator's household. Collars, who went away, said she had been too gay. They did not say fast, though some of them may have thought it. One so conspicuous and successful in society as Laura could not be out of the way in two days without remarks being made, and not all of them complementary. When she came down, she appeared as usual, a little pale, maybe, but unchanged in manner. If there were any deepened lines about the eyes they had been concealed. Her course of action was quite determined. At breakfast she asked if any one had heard any unusual noise during the night. Nobody had. Washington never heard any noise of any kind after his eyes were shut. Some people thought he never did when they were open, either. Senator Dilworthy said he had come in late. He was detained in a little consultation after the Congressional Prayer Meeting. Perhaps it was his entrance. No, Laura said. She heard that. It was later. She might have been nervous, but she fancied somebody was trying to get into the house. Mr. Briarley humorously suggested that it might be, as none of the members were occupied in night-session. The senator frowned and said he did not like to hear that kind of newspaper slang. There might be burglars about. Laura said that it was very likely it was only her nervousness. But she thought she would feel safer if Washington would let her take one of his pistols. Washington brought her one of his revolvers and instructed her in the art of loading and firing it. During the morning Laura drove down to Mrs. Schoonmuckers to play a friendly call. Your receptions are always delightful, she said to that lady. The pleasant people all seem to come here. It's pleasant to hear you say so, Miss Hawkins. I believe my friends like to come here. Though society and Washington is mixed, we have a little of everything. I suppose, though, you don't see much of the old rebel element, said Laura with a smile. If this seemed to Mrs. Schoonmucker a singular remark for a lady to make who was meeting rebels in society every day, she did not express it in any way, but only said, You know we don't say rebel any more. Before we came to Washington, I thought rebels would look unlike other people. I find we are very much alike, and that kindness and good nature wear away prejudice. And then, you know, there are all sorts of common interests. My husband sometimes says that he doesn't see but Confederates are just as eager to get at the Treasury as Unionists. You know that Mr. Schoonmucker is on the Appropriations. Does he know many Southerners? Oh yes! There were several in my reception the other day. Among others a Confederate Colonel, a stranger, handsome man with gray hair. Probably you didn't notice him. He uses a cane in walking. A very agreeable man. I wondered why he called. When my husband came home and looked over the cards, he said he had a cotton-claim, a real Southerner. Perhaps you might know him if I could think of his name. Yes, here's his card, Louisiana. Laura took the card, looked at it intently till she was sure of the address, and then laid it down with, no, he is no friend of ours. That afternoon Laura wrote and dispatched the following note. It was in a round hand, unlike her flowing style, and it was directed to a number and street in Georgetown. A lady at Senator Dillworthy's would like to see General George Selby on business connected with the cotton-claims. Can he call Wednesday at three o'clock p.m.? On Wednesday at three p.m. no one of the family was likely to be in the house except Laura. End of Chapter 38 Reading by John D. Nugent, in Van Nuys, California. Website www.creativhorizonsagency.org CHAPTER XXXIX For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by John D. Nugent. The Gilded Age. By Mark Twain and Charles Dudley Warner. CHAPTER XXXIX Colonel Selby had just come to Washington and taken lodgings in Georgetown. His business was to get pay for some cotton that was destroyed during the war. There were many others in Washington on the same errand, some of them with claims as difficult to establish as his. A concert of action was necessary, and he was not therefore at all surprised to receive the note from a lady asking him to call at Senator Dillworthy's. At a little after three on Wednesday he rang the bell of the Senator's residence. It was a handsome mansion on the square opposite the President's house. The owner must be a man of great wealth, the Colonel thought. Perhaps, who knows, said he with a smile, he may have got some of my cotton in exchange for salt and quinine after the capture of New Orleans. As this thought passed through his mind he was looking at the remarkable figure of the hero of New Orleans, holding itself by main strength from sliding up the back of the rearing bronze horse and lifting its hat in the manner of one who acknowledges the playing of that martial air see the conquering hero-clums. Gadd said the Colonel to himself, old Hickory ought to get down and give his seat to General Suggler, but they'd have to tie him on. Laura was in the drawing-room. She heard the bell, she heard the steps in the hall and the emphatic thud of the supporting cane. She had risen from her chair and was leaning against the piano, pressing her left hand against the violent beating of her heart. The door opened and the Colonel entered, standing in the full light of the opposite window. Laura was more in the shadow and stood for an instant, long enough for the Colonel to make the inward observation that she was a magnificent woman. She then advanced a step. Colonel Selby, is it not? The Colonel staggered back, caught himself by a chair, and turned toward her a look of terror. Laura? My God! Yes! Your wife! Oh, no, it can't be! How came you here? I thought you were— You thought I was dead? You thought you were rid of me? Not so long as you live, Colonel Selby, not so long as you live, Laura and her passion was hurried on to say. No man had ever accused Colonel Selby of cowardice, but he was a coward before this woman. Maybe he was not the man he once was. Where was his coolness? Where was his sneering, imperturbable manner, with which he could have met and would have met any woman he had wronged if he had only been forewarned? He felt now that he must temporize, that he must gain time. There was danger in Laura's tone. There was something frightful in her calmness. Her steady eyes seemed to devour him. You have ruined my life, she said, and I was so young, so ignorant and loved you so. You betrayed me and left me mocking me and trampling me into the dust, a soiled cast-off. You might better have killed me then. Then I should not have hated you. Laura said the Colonel, nerving himself but still pale and speaking appealingly. Don't say that. Reproach me, I deserve it. I was a scoundrel. I was everything monstrous. But your beauty made me crazy. You are right. I was a brute in leaving you as I did. But what could I do? I was married and your wife still lives, asked Laura, bending a little forward in her eagerness. The Colonel noticed the action, and he almost said no, but he thought of the folly of attempting concealment. Yes. She is here. What little collar had wandered back into Laura's face for sook it again. Her heart stood still, her strength seemed going from her limbs. Her last hope was gone. The room swam before her for a moment, and the Colonel stepped toward her, but she waved him back. His hot anger again coursed through her veins and said, And you dare come with her here and tell me of it? Here and mock me with it? And you think I will have it, George? You think I will let you live with that woman? You think I am as powerless as that day I fell dead at your feet? She raged now. She was in a tempest of excitement. And she advanced toward him with a threatening mean. She would kill me if she could, thought the Colonel, but he thought at that same moment how beautiful she is. He had recovered his head now. She was lovely when he knew her. Then a simple country to girl. Now she was dazzling in the fullness of ripe womanhood, a superb creature with all the fascination that a woman of the world has for such a man as Colonel Selby. Nothing of this was lost on him. He stepped quickly to her, grasped both her, our hands and his, and said, Laura, stop! Think! Suppose I loved you yet. Suppose I hated my fate. What can I do? I am broken by the war. I have lost everything almost. I had his leaf be dead and done with it. The Colonel spoke with a low, remembered voice that thrilled through Laura. He was looking into her eyes, as he had looked in those old days, when no birds of all those as sang in the groves where they had walked sang a note of warning. He was wounded. He had been punished. Her strength forsook her with her range, and she sank upon a chair sobbing. Oh, my God! I thought I hated him. The Colonel knelt beside her. He took her hand and she let him keep it. She looked down into his face with a pitiable tenderness, and said in a weak voice, And do you love me a little? The Colonel vowed and protested. He kissed her hand and her lips. He swore his false soul into perdition. She wanted love, this woman. Was not her love for George Selby deeper than any other woman's could be? Had she not a right to him? Did he not belong to her by virtue of her over-mastering passion? His wife. She was not his wife, not by the law. She could not be. Even with the law she could have no right to stand between two souls that were one. It was an infamous condition in society that George should be tied to her. Laura thought this, believed it, because she desired to believe it. She came to it as an original proposition founded on the requirements of her own nature. She may have heard, doubtless she had, similar theories that were prevalent at the day, theories of the tyranny of marriage and of the freedom of marriage. She had even heard women lecturers say that marriage should only continue so long as it pleased either party to it, for a year, or a month, or a day. She had not given much heed to this, but she saw its justice now in a dash of revealing desire. It must be right. God would not have permitted her to love George Selby as she did, and him to love her, if it was right for society to raise up a barrier between them. He belonged to her. Had he not confessed it himself? Not even the religious atmosphere of Senator Dillworthy's house had been sufficient to instill into Laura that deep Christian principle which had been somehow emitted in her training. Indeed, in that very house, had she not heard women, prominent before the country and besieging Congress, utter sentiments that fully justified the course she was marking out for himself? They were seated now, side by side, talking with more calmness. Laura was happy, or thought she was, but it was that feverish sort of happiness which has snatched out of the black shadow of Fawcett, and is at the moment recognized as fleeting and perilous and indulged tremblingly. She loved. She was loved. That is happiness, certainly. And the black past and the troubled present and the uncertain future could not snatch that from her. What did they say as they sat there? What nothings do people usually say in such circumstances, even if they are three score and ten? It was enough for Laura to hear his voice and be near him. It was enough for him to be near her and avoid committing himself as much as he could. Enough for him was the present also. Could there not always been some way out of such scrapes? And yet Laura could not be quite content without prying into tomorrow. How could the Colonel manage to free himself from his wife? Would it be wrong? Could he not go into some state where it would not take much time? He could not say exactly. That they must think of. That they must talk over. And so on. Did this seem like the damnable plot to Laura against the life maybe of a sister, a woman like herself? Probably not. It was right that this man should be hers. And there were some obstacles in the way. That was all. There were as good reasons for bad actions as for good ones to those who commit them. When one has broken the tenth commandment, the others are not of much account. Was it unnatural, therefore, that when George Selby departed Laura should watch him from the window with an almost joyful heart as he went down the sunny square? I shall see him to-morrow, she said, in the next day, in the next. He is mine now. Damn the woman, said the Colonel as he picked his way down the steps. Or he added as his thoughts took a new turn. I wish my wife was in New Orleans. Chapter 40 of The Gilded Age. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Piper Hayes. The Gilded Age by Mark Twain and Charles Dudley Warner. Chapter 40 Open your ears, for which of you will stop the vent of hearing when loud rumours speaks. I, from the Orient to the drooping West, making the wind my post-horse, still unfold the axe commenced on this ball of earth. Upon my tongue's continual slander's ride, the witch in every language I pronounce, stuffing the ears of men with false reports. King Henry IV. As may be readily believed, Colonel Bariah Sellers was by this time one of the best-known men in Washington. For the first time in his life his talents had a fair field. He was now at the center of the manufacture of gigantic schemes, of speculations of all sorts, of political and social gossip. The atmosphere was full of little and big rumours, and of vast undefined expectations. Everybody was in haste, too, to push on his private plan, and feverish in his haste, as if in constant apprehension that tomorrow would be judgment day. Work, while Congress is in session, said the uneasy spirit, for in the recess there is no work and no device. The Colonel enjoyed this bustle and confusion amazingly. He thrived in the air of indefinite expectation. All his own schemes took larger shape and more misty and majestic proportions. And in this congenial air the Colonel seemed even to himself to expand into something large and mysterious. If he respected himself before he almost worshipped Bariah Sellers now as a superior being. If he could have chosen an official position out of the highest he would have been embarrassed in the selection. The presidency of the Republic seemed too limited and cramped in the constitutional restrictions. If he could have been Grand Lama of the United States that might have come the nearest to his idea of a position. And next to that he would have luxuriated in the irresponsible omniscience of the special correspondent. Colonel Sellers knew the president very well and had access to his presence when officials were kept cooling their heels in the waiting room. The president liked to hear the Colonel talk. His voluble ease was a refreshment after the decorous dullness of men who only talked business and government and everlastingly expounded their notions of justice and the distribution of patronage. The Colonel was as much a lover of farming and of horses as Thomas Jefferson was. He talked to the president by the hour about his magnificent stud and his plantation at Hawkeye, a kind of principality, he represented it. He urged the president to pay him a visit during the recess and see his stock farm. The president's table is well enough. He used to say to the loafers who gathered about him at Willards. Well enough for a man on salary, but God bless my soul I should like him to see a little old-fashioned hospitality. Open house, you know. A person seeing me at home might think I paid no attention to what was in the house. Just let things flow in and out. He'd be mistaken. What I look to is quality, sir. The president has variety enough but the quality. Vegetables, of course, you can't expect here. I'm very particular about mine. Take salary now. There's only one spot in this country where salary will grow. But I am surprised about the wines. I should think they were manufactured in the New York Custom House. I must send the president some from my cellar. I was really mortified the other day at dinner to see Black Bay leave his standing in the glasses. When the Colonel first came to Washington he had thoughts of taking the mission to Constantinople in order to be on the spot to look after the dissemination of his eye water. But as that invention was not yet quite ready the project shrank a little in the presence of bastard schemes. Besides he felt that he could do the country more good by remaining at home. He was one of the southerners who were constantly quoted as heartily accepting the situation. Um, wit he used to say with a jolly laugh. The government was too many for me. I'm cleaned out done for except my plantation in private mansion. We played for a big thing and lost it. And I don't want for one. I go for putting the old flag on all the vacant lots. I said to the president says I grant. Why don't you take Cent on Domingo and X the whole thing and settle the bill afterwards. That's my way. I'd take the job to manage Congress. The south would come into it. You've got to conciliate the south consolidate the two debts pay him off in greenbacks and go ahead. That's my notion. Boutwell's got the right notion about the value of paper but he likes courage. I should like to run the treasury department about six months. I'd make things plenty and business look up. The colonel had access to the departments. He knew all the senators and representatives and especially the lobby. He was consequently a great favorite in newspaper row and was often lounging in the offices there dropping bits of private official information which were immediately caught up and telegraphed all over the country. But it need to surprise even the colonel when he read it. It was embellished to that degree that he hardly recognized it. And the hint was not lost on him. He began to exaggerate his here to four simple conversation to suit the newspaper demand. People used to wonder in the winters of 1870 blank and 1870 blank where the specials got that remarkable information with which they every morning surprised the country revealing the most secret intentions of the president in his cabinet, the private thoughts of political leaders, the hidden meaning of every movement. This information was furnished by Colonel Sellers. When he was asked afterwards about the stolen copy of the Alabama treaty which got into the New York Tribune, he only looked mysterious and said that neither he nor Senator Dilworthy knew anything about it. But those whom he was in the habit of meeting occasionally felt almost certain that he did know. It must not be supposed that the colonel in his general patriotic laborers neglected his own affairs. The Columbus River Navigation Scheme absorbed only a part of his time. So he was unable to throw quite a strong reserve force of energy into the Tennessee land plan. A vast enterprise commensurate with his abilities, and in the prosecution of which he was greatly aided by Mr. Henry Brearley, who was buzzing about the capital and the hotels day and night, and making capital for it in some mysterious way. We must create a public opinion, said Senator Dilworthy. My only interest in it is a public one, and if the country wants the institution, Congress will have to yield. It may have been after a conversation between the colonel and Senator Dilworthy that the following special dispatch was sent to a New York newspaper. We understand that a philanthropic plan is on foot in relation to the colored race that will, if successful, revolutionize the whole character of Southern industry. An experimental institution is in contemplation in Tennessee, which will do for that state what the industrial school at Zurich did for Switzerland. We learn that approaches have been made to the heirs of the late Honorable Silas Hawkins of Missouri, in reference to a lease of a portion of their valuable property in East Tennessee. Senator Dilworthy, it is understood, is inflexibly opposed to any arrangement that will not give the government absolute control. Private interest must give way to the public good. It is to be hoped that colonel Sellers, who represents the heirs, will be led to see the matter in this life. When Washington Hawkins read this dispatch, he went to the colonel in some anxiety. He was for a lease. He didn't want to surrender anything. What did he think the government would offer? Two millions? Maybe three, maybe four, said the colonel. It's worth more than the Bank of England. If they will not lease, said Washington, let him make it two millions for an undivided half. I'm not going to throw it away, not the whole of it. Harry told the colonel that they must drive the thing through. He couldn't be dallying round Washington when spring opened. Phil wanted him. Phil had a great thing on hand up in Pennsylvania. What is that? inquired the colonel, always ready to interest himself in anything large. A mountain of coal, that's all. He's going to run a tunnel into it in the spring. Does he want any capital? asked the colonel in the tone of a man who is given to calculating carefully before he makes an investment. No, old man Bolton's behind him. He has capital, but I judge that he wanted my experience in starting. If he wants me, tell him I'll come after Congress adjourns. I should like to give him a little lift. He lacks enterprise. Now about that Columbus River. He doesn't see his chances, but he's a good fellow when you can tell him that sellers won't go back on him. By the way, asked Harry, who is that rather handsome party that's hanging around Laura? I see him with her everywhere at the capital in the horse cars, and he comes to deal worthies. If he weren't lame, I should think he was going to run off with her. Oh, that's nothing. Laura knows her business. He has a cotton flame. Used to be at Hawkeye during the war. Selby's name was a colonel, got a wife and family. Very respectable people, the Selby's. Well, that's all right, said Harry, if it's business. But if a woman looked at me as I've seen her at Selby, I should understand it. And it's talked about, I can tell you. Jealousy had no doubt sharpened this young gentleman's observation. Laura could not have treated him with more lofty condescension if she had been the Queen of Sheba on a royal visit to the Great Republic. And he resented it, and was huffy when he was with her, and ran her errands and brought her gossip, and bragged of his intimacy with the lovely creature among the fellows at Newspaper Row. Laura's life was rushing on now in the full stream of intrigue and fashionable dissipation. She was conspicuous at the balls of the fastest set, and was suspected of being present at those doubtful suppers that began late and ended early. If Senator Dillworthy remonstrated about appearances, she had a way of silencing him. Perhaps she had some hold on him. Perhaps she was necessary to his plan for ameliorating the condition, the tube-colored race. She saw Colonel Selby when the public knew, and when it did not know. She would see him whatever excuses he made, and however he avoided her. She was urged on by a fever of love and hatred and jealousy which alternately possessed her. Sometimes she petted him, and coaxed him and tried all her fascinations, but again she threatened him and reproached him. What was he doing? Why had he taken no steps to free himself? Why didn't he send his wife home? She should have money soon they could go to Europe anywhere. What did she care for talk? And he promised and lied and invented fresh excuses for delay, like a cowardly gambler and roux as he was, and half the time unwilling to give her up. That woman doesn't know what fear is, he said to himself, and she watches me like a hawk. He told his wife that this woman was a lobbyist, whom he had to tolerate and use in getting through his claims, and that he should pay her and have done with her when he succeeded. CHAPTER 41 Henry Breerly was at the deal-worthies constantly, and on such terms of intimacy that he came and went without question. The senator was not an inhospitable man, he liked to have guests in his house, and Harry's gay humor and rattling way entertained him, for even the most devout men and busy statesmen must have hours of relaxation. Harry himself believed that he was of great service in the university business, and that the success of the scheme depended upon him to a great degree. He spent many hours in talking it over with the senator after dinner. He went so far as to consider whether it would be worth his while to take the professorship of civil engineering in the new institution. But it was not the senator's society nor his dinners at which this scape-grace remarked that there was too much grace and too little wine, which attracted him to the horse. The fact was the poor fellow hung around there day after day for the chance of seeing Laura for five minutes at a time. For her presence at dinner he would endure the long bore of the senator's talk afterwards, while Laura was off at some assembly, or excused herself on the plea of fatigue. Now and then he accompanied her to some reception. And rarely, on off-nights, he was blessed with her company in the parlor, when he sang and was chatty and vivacious, and performed a hundred little tricks of imitation and ventriloquism, and made himself as entertaining as a man could be. It puzzled him not a little that all his fascination seemed to go for so little with Laura. It was beyond his experience with women. Sometimes Laura was exceedingly kind and petted him a little, and took the trouble to exert her powers of pleasing, and to entangle him deeper and deeper. But this, it angered him afterwards to think, was in private. In public she was beyond his reach, and never gave occasion to the suspicion that she had any affair with him. He was never permitted to achieve the dignity of a serious flirtation with her in public. Why do you treat me so, he once said reproachfully? Treat you how, asked Laura, in a sweet voice, lifting her eyebrows? You know well enough, you let other fellows monopolize you in society, and you are as indifferent to me as if we were strangers. Can I help it if they are attentive? Can I be rude? But we are such old friends, Mr. Breerly, that I didn't suppose you would be jealous. I think I must be a very old friend then by your conduct towards me. By the same rule I should judge that Colonel Selby must be very new. Laura looked up quickly, as if about to return an indignant answer to such impertinence. But she only said, Well, what of Colonel Selby, sauce-box? Nothing probably you'll care for. You're being with him so much as the town talk, that's all. What do people say, asked Laura, calmly? They say a good many things. You are offended, though, to have me speak of it. Not in the least. You are my true friend. I feel that I can trust you. You wouldn't deceive me, Harry? Throwing into her eyes a look of trust and tenderness that melted away all his petulance and distrust. What do they say? Some say that you've lost your head about him, others that you don't care any more for him than you do for a dozen others, but that he is completely fascinated with you and about to desert his wife. And others say it is nonsense to suppose you would entangle yourself with a married man, and that your intimacy only arises from the matter of the cotton, claims for which he wants your influence with Dilworthy. But you know everybody is talked about more or less in Washington. I shouldn't care, but I wish you wouldn't have so much to do with Selby, Laura, continued Harry, fancying that he was now upon such terms that his advice would be heated. And you believe these slanders? I don't believe anything against you, Laura, but Colonel Selby does not mean you any good. I know you wouldn't be seen with him if you knew his reputation. Do you know him? Laura asked, as indifferently as she could. Only a little. I was at his lodgings in Georgetown a day or two ago with Colonel Sellers. Sellers wanted to talk with him about some patent remedy he has, eye-water, or something of that sort, which he wants to introduce into Europe. Selby is going abroad very soon. Laura started, in spite of her self-control. And his wife? Does he take his family? Did you see his wife? Yes, a dark little woman, rather worn. Must have been pretty once, though. Has three or four children, one of them a baby. They'll all go, of course. She said she should be glad enough to get away from Washington. You know Selby has got his claim allowed, and they say he has had a run of luck lately in Morrissey's. Laura heard all this in a kind of stupor, looking straight at Harry without seeing him. Is it possible, she was thinking, that this base wretch, after all his promises, will take his wife and children and leave me? Is it possible the town is saying all these things about me? And a look of bitterness coming into her face. Does the fool think he can escape so? You are angry with me, Laura, said Harry, not comprehending in the least what was going on in her mind. Angry, she said, forcing herself to come back to his presence. With you? Oh, no. I'm angry with the cruel world which pursues an independent woman as it never does a man. I'm grateful to you, Harry. I'm grateful to you for telling me of that odious man. And she rose from her chair and gave him her pretty hand, which the silly fellow took and kissed and clung to, and he said many silly things before she disengaged herself gently, and left him, saying it was time to dress for dinner. And Harry went away excited, and a little hopeful, but only a little. The happiness was only a gleam which departed and left him thoroughly miserable. She never would love him, and she was going to the devil besides. He couldn't shut his eyes to what he saw nor his ears to what he heard of her. What had come over this thrilling young lady-killer? It was a pity to see such a gay butterfly broken on a wheel. Was there something good in him after all that had been touched? He was, in fact, madly in love with this woman. It is not for us to analyze the passion and say whether it was a worthy one. It absorbed his whole nature and made him wretched enough. If he deserved punishment, what more would you have? Perhaps this love was kindling a new heroism in him. He saw the road on which Laura was going clearly enough, though he did not believe the worst he heard of her. He loved her too passionately to credit that for a moment. And it seemed to him that if he could compel her to recognize her position, and his own devotion, she might love him, and that he could save her. His love was so far ennobled and become a very different thing from its beginning in Hawkeye, whether he ever thought that if he could save her from ruin he could give her up himself is doubtful. Such a pitch of virtue does not occur often in real life, especially in such natures as Harry's, whose generosity and unselfishness were matters of temperament, rather than habits or principles. He wrote a long letter to Laura, an incoherent, passionate letter, pouring out his love as he could not do in her presence, and warning her as plainly as he dared of the dangers that surrounded her and the risks she ran of compromising herself in many ways. Laura read the letter, with a little sigh maybe as she thought of other days, but with contempt also, and she put it into the fire with the thought, They're all alike. Harry was in the habit of writing to Philip freely, and boasting also about his doings as he could not help doing and remain himself. Stubb with his own exploits, and his daily triumphs as a lobbyist, especially in the matter of the new university, in which Harry was to have something handsome, were amusing sketches of Washington society. Hints about Dilworthy, stories about Colonel Sellers, who had become a well-known character, and wise remarks upon the machinery of private legislation for the public good, which greatly entertained Philip in his convalescence. Laura's name occurred very often in these letters, at first in casual mention as the belle of the season, carrying everything before her with her wit and beauty, and then more seriously, as if Harry did not exactly like so much general admiration of her, and was a little nettle by her treatment of him. This was so different from Harry's usual tone about women that Philip wondered a good deal over it. Could it be possible that he was seriously affected? Then came stories about Laura. Town talk, gossip which Harry denied the truth of indignantly. But he was evidently uneasy, and at length wrote in such miserable spirits that Philip asked him squarely what the trouble was. Was he in love? Upon this Harry made a clean breast of it, and told Philip all he knew about the Selby affair, and Laura's treatment of him, sometimes encouraging him, and then throwing him off, and finally his belief that she would go to the bad, if something was not done to arouse her from her infatuation. He wished Philip was in Washington. He knew Laura, and she had a great respect for his character, his opinions, his judgment. Perhaps he, as an uninterested person, whom she would have some confidence, and as one of the public, could say something to her that would show her where she stood. Philip saw the situation clearly enough, of Laura he knew not much, except that she was a woman of uncommon fascination, and he thought from what he had seen of her in Hawkeye, her conduct towards him and towards Harry, of not too much principle. Of course he knew nothing of her history, he knew nothing seriously against her, and if Harry was desperately enamored of her, why should he not win her, if he could? If, however, she had already become what Harry uneasily felt she might become, was it not his duty to go to the rescue of his friend, and try to save him from any rash act, on account of a woman that might prove to be entirely unworthy of him. For trifler and visionary as he was, Harry deserved a better faith than this. Philip determined to go to Washington and see for himself. He had other reasons also. He began to know enough of Mr. Bolton's affairs to be uneasy. Penny Backer had been there several times during the winter, and he suspected that he was involving Mr. Bolton in some doubtful scheme. Penny Backer was in Washington, and Philip thought he might perhaps find out something about him in his plans that would be of service to Mr. Bolton. Philip had enjoyed his winter very well for a man with his arm broken and his head smashed. With two such nurses as Ruth and Alice, illness seemed to him rather a nice holiday, and every moment of his condolences had been precious and all too fleeting. With a young fellow of the habits of Philip, such injuries cannot be counted on to Terry Long, even for the purpose of love-making. And Philip found himself getting strong, with even disagreeable rapidity. During his first weeks of pain and weakness, Ruth was in ceasing in her ministrations. She quietly took charge of him, and with a gentle firmness resisted all attempts of Alice, or anyone else, to share to any great extent the burden with her. She was clear, decisive, and preemptory in whatever she did. But often when Philip opened his eyes in those first days of suffering, and found her standing by his bedside, he saw a look of tenderness in her anxious face that quickened his already feverish pulse, a look that remained in his heart long after he closed his eyes. Sometimes he felt her hand on his forehead, and did not open his eyes for fear she would take it away. He watched for her coming to his chamber. He could distinguish her light footstep from all others. If this is what is meant by women practicing medicine, thought Philip to himself, I like it. Ruth said he one day when he was getting to be quite himself. I believe in it. Believe in what? Why in women physicians? Then I'd better call in Mrs. Dr. Longstreet. Oh no, one will do one at a time. I think I should be well tomorrow if I thought I should never have any other. The eye physician thinks thee mustn't talk, Philip, said Ruth, putting her finger on his lips. But Ruth, I want to tell you that I should wish I never had got well off. There, there, thee must not talk. He is wandering again. And Ruth closed his lips with a smile on her own that broadened into a merry laugh as she ran away. Philip was not weary, however, of making these attempts. He rather enjoyed it. But whenever he inclined to be sentimental, Ruth would cut him off with some such gravely conceived speech as, Does he think that thy physician will take advantage of the condition of a man who is as weak as thee is? I will call Alice if thee has any dying confessions to make. As Philip convalesced, Alice, more and more, took Ruth's place as his entertainer, and read to him by the hour, when he did not want to talk, to talk about Ruth as he did a good deal of the time. Nor was this altogether unsatisfactory to Philip. He was always happy and contented with Alice. She was the most restful person he knew, better informed than Ruth, and with a much more varied culture, and bright and sympathetic, he was never weary of her company, if he was not greatly excited by it. She had upon his mind that peaceful influence that Mrs. Bolton had, when occasionally she sat by his bedside with her work. Some people have this influence which is, like, an emanation. They bring peace to a house. They diffuse serene content in a room full of mixed company, though they may say very little, and are apparently unconscious of their own power. Not that Philip did not long for Ruth's presence all the same. Since he was well enough to be about the house, she was busy again with her studies. Now and then her teasing humor came again. She always had a playful shield against his sentiment. Philip used sometimes to declare that she had no sentiment, and then he doubted if he should be pleased with her after all, if she were at all sentimental. And he rejoiced that she had, in such matters, what he called the airy grace of sanity. She was the most gay, serious person he ever saw. Since he was not so much at rest or so contented with her as with Alice, but then he loved her. And what have rest and contentment to do with love? CHAPTER 42 OF THE GUILDED AGE This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Piper Hayes. The Gilded Age by Mark Twain and Charles Dudley Warner. CHAPTER 42 Mr. Buckstone's campaign was brief. Much briefer than he supposed it would be. He began it, purposing to win Laura without being one himself. But his experience was that of all who had fought on that field before him. He diligently continued his effort to win her. But he presently found that while as yet he could not feel entirely certain of having won her, it was very manifest that she had won him. He had made an able fight, brief as it was, and that at least was to his credit. He was in good company now. He walked in a leash of conspicuous captives. These infortunates followed Laura helplessly. For whenever she took a prisoner he remained her slave henceforth. Sometimes they chafed in their bondage. Sometimes they tore themselves free and said their serfdom was ended. But sooner or later they always came back penitent and worshiping. Laura pursued her usual course. She encouraged Mr. Buckstone by turns, and by turns she harassed him. She exalted him to the clouds at one time, and at another she dragged him down again. She constituted him chief champion of the knobs university bill. And he accepted the position, at first reluctantly, but later as a valued means of serving her. He even came to look upon it as a piece of great good fortune, since it brought him into such frequent contact with her. Through him she learned that the honorable Mr. Trollop was a bitter enemy of her bill. He urged her not to attempt to influence Mr. Trollop in any way, and explained that whatever she might attempt in that direction would surely be used against her and with damaging effect. She at first said she knew Mr. Trollop, and was aware that he had a blank blank. Her private figure of speech for brother or son-in-law. But Mr. Buckstone said that he was not able to conceive what so curious a phrase as blank blank might mean, and had no wish to pry into the matter, since it was probably private. He would nevertheless venture the blind assertion that nothing would answer in this particular case and during this particular session, but to be exceedingly wary and keep clear away from Mr. Trollop any other course would be fatal. It seemed that nothing could be done. Laura was seriously troubled. Everything was looking well, and yet it was plain that one vigorous and determined enemy might eventually succeed in overthrowing all her plans. A suggestion came into her mind presently, and she said, Can't you fight against his great pension-bill and bring him to terms? Oh, never! He and I are sworn brothers on that measure. We work in harness and are very loving. I do everything I possibly can for him there. But I work with mind and main against his immigration-bill, as pertinaciously and as vindictively indeed, as he works against our university. We hate each other through half a conversation and are all affection through the other half. We understand each other. He is an admirable worker outside the capital. He will do more for the pension-bill than any other man could do. I wish he would make the great speech on it which he wants to make, and then I would make another, and we would be safe. Well, if he wants to make a great speech, why doesn't he do it? Visitors interrupted the conversation, and Mr. Buxton took his leave. It was not of the least moment to Laura that her question had not been answered in as much as it concerned a thing which did not interest her. And yet human being like she thought she would have liked to know, an opportunity occurring presently she put the same question to another person, and got an answer that satisfied her. She pondered a good while that night after she had gone to bed, and when she finally turned over to go to sleep, she had thought out a new scheme. The next evening, at Mrs. Cleverson's party, she said to Mr. Buxton, I want Mr. Trollock to make his great speech on the pension-bill. Do you? But you remember I was interrupted and did not explain to you. Never mind. I know. You must make him make that speech. I very particularly desire it. Oh, it is easy to say make him do it, but how am I to make him? It is perfectly easy. I have thought it all out. She then went into the details. At length, Mr. Buxton said, I see now. I can manage it. I am sure. Indeed, I wonder he never thought of it himself. There are no end of precedence. But how is this going to benefit you after I have managed it? There is where the mystery lies. But I will take care of that. It will benefit me a great deal. I only wish I could see how it is the oddest freak. You seem to go the furthest around to get at a thing. But you are in earnest, aren't you? Yes, I am. Indeed. Very well, I will do it. But why not tell me how you imagine it is going to help you? I will, by and by. Now there is nobody talking to him. Go straight and do it. There's a good fellow. A moment or two later the two sworn friends of the pension-bill were talking together earnestly and seemingly unconscious of the moving throng about them. They talked an hour, and then Mr. Buxton came back and said, He hardly fancy did it first, but he fell in love with it after a bit. And we have made a compact too. I am to keep his secret, and he is to spare me in future when he gets ready to denounce the supporters of the university-bill. And I can easily believe he will keep his word on this occasion. A fortnight elapsed, and the university-bill had gathered to itself many friends meantime. Senator Dillworthy began to think the harvest was ripe. He conferred with Laura privately. She was able to tell him exactly how the house would vote. There was a majority. The bill would pass, unless weak members got frightened at the last and deserted. A thing pretty likely to occur. The senator said, I wish we had one more good strong man. Now Trollop ought to be on our side for he is a friend of the Negro. But he is against us, and is our bitterest opponent. If he would simply vote no but keep quiet and not molest us, I would feel perfectly cheerful and content. But perhaps there is no use in thinking of that. Why, I laid a little plan for his benefit two weeks ago. I think he will be tractable, maybe. He is to come here to-night. Look out for him, my child. He means Mr. Sure. It is said that he claims to know of improper practices having been used in the interest of this bill. And he thinks he sees a chance to make a great sensation when the bill comes up. Be wary. Be very, very careful, my dear. Do your very ableist talking now. You can convince a man of anything when you try. You must convince him that if anything improper has been done, you, at least, are ignorant of it and sorry for it. And if you could only persuade him out of his hostility to the bill, too. But don't overdo the thing. Don't seem too anxious, dear. I won't. I'll be ever so careful. I'll talk as sweetly to him as if you were my own child. You may trust me, indeed you may. The doorbell rang. That is the gentleman now, said Laura. Senator Dillworthy retired to his study. Laura welcomed Mr. Trollop, a grave carefully dressed and very respectable-looking man, with a bald head, standing collar, and old-fashioned watchseals. Promptness is a virtue, Mr. Trollop, and I perceive that you have it. You are always prompt with me. I always meet my engagements of every kind, Miss Hawkins. It is a quality which is rarer in the world than it has been, I believe. I wish to see you on business, Mr. Trollop. I judge so. What can I do for you? You know my bill, the Nob's university bill. Ah! I believe it is your bill. I had forgotten. Yes, I know the bill. Well, would you mind telling me your opinion of it? Indeed, since you seem to ask it without reserve, I am obliged to say that I do not regard it favorably. I have not seen the bill itself, but from what I can hear it—it, well, it has a bad look about it. Speak it out, never fear. Well, it—they say it contemplates a fraud upon the government. Well, said Laura tranquilly. Well, I say well, too. Well, suppose it were a fraud, which I feel able to deny. Would it be the first one? You take a body's breath away. Would you—did you wish me to vote for it? Was that what you wanted to see me about? Your instinct is correct. I did want you—I do want you to vote for it. Vote for a—for a measure which is generally believed to be at least questionable? I'm afraid we cannot come to an understanding, Miss Hawkins. No, I'm afraid not. If you have resumed your principles, Mr. Trollop. Did you sin for me merely to insult me? It is time for me to take my leave, Miss Hawkins. No, wait a moment. Don't be offended at a trifle. To not be offish and unsociable. The Steamship Subsidy Bill was a fraud on the government. You voted for it, Mr. Trollop, though you always opposed the measure, until after you had an interview one evening with a certain Mrs. McCarter at her house. She was my agent. She was acting for me. Ah, that is right. Sit down again. You can be sociable easily enough if you have a mind, too. Well, I am waiting. Have you nothing to say? Miss Hawkins, I voted for that bill because when I came to examine into it—ah, yes—when you came to examine into it. Well, I only want you to examine into my bill. Mr. Trollop, you would not sell your vote on that subsidy bill, which was perfectly right, but you accepted of some of the stock, with the understanding that it was to stand in your brother-in-law's name. There is no—I mean, this is utterly groundless, Miss Hawkins—but the gentlemen seem somewhat uneasy, nevertheless. Well, not entirely so, perhaps. I, and a person whom we will call Miss Blank—never mind the real name—were in a closet at your elbow all the while. Mr. Trollop winced. Then he said with dignity. Miss Hawkins, is it possible that you were capable of such a thing as that? It was bad. I confess that. It was bad—almost as bad as selling one's vote for. But I forget. You did not sell your vote. You only accepted a little trifle, a small token of esteem, for your brother-in-law. Oh, let us come out and be frank with each other. I know you, Mr. Trollop. I have met you on business three or four times. True, I never offered to corrupt your principles. Never hinted such a thing. But always when I had finished sounding you, I manipulated you through an agent. Let us be frank. Wear this comely disguise of virtue before the public. It will count there. But here it is—out of place. My dear sir, by and by there is going to be an investigation into that national internal improvement director's relief measure of a few years ago. And you know very well that you will be a crippled man, as likely as not, when it is completed. It cannot be shown that a man is a knave merely for owning that stock. I am not distressed about the national improvement relief measure. Oh, indeed, I am not trying to distress you. I only wished to make good my assertion that I knew you. Several of you gentlemen bought of that stock, without paying a penny down, received dividends from it. Think of the happy idea of receiving dividends. And very large ones too. From stock one hasn't paid for. And all the while your names never appeared in the transaction. If ever you took the stock at all, you took it in other people's names. Now you see, you had to know one of two things. Namely, you either knew that the idea of all this preposterous generosity was to bribe you into future legislative friendship, or you didn't know it. That is to say you had to be either a knave or a—well, a fool. There was no middle ground. You are not a fool, Mr. Trollop. Miss Hawking, you flatter me. But seriously, you do not forget that some of the best and purest men in Congress took that stock in that way. Did Senator Bland? Well, no, I believe not. Of course you believe not. Do you suppose he was ever approached on the subject? Perhaps not. If you had approached him, for instance, fortified with the fact that some of the best men in Congress and the purest, etc., etc., what would have been the result? Well, what would have been the result? He would have shown you the door. For Mr. Blank is neither a knave nor a fool. There are other men in the Senate and the House, whom no one would have been hardy enough to approach with that release-stock in that peculiarly generous way, but they are not of the class that you regard as the best and purest. No, I say I know you, Mr. Trollop. That is to say, one may suggest a thing to Mr. Trollop, which it would not do to suggest to Mr. Blank. Mr. Trollop, you are pledged to support the indigent congressman's retroactive appropriation, which is to come up either in this or the next session. You do not deny that, even in public. The man that will vote for that bill will break the Eighth Commandment in any other way, sir. But he will not vote for your corrupt measure, nevertheless, madam, exclaimed Mr. Trollop, rising from his seat in a passion. Ah, but he will. Sit down again and let me explain why. Oh, come, don't behave so. It is very unpleasant. Now be good, and you shall have. The missing page of your great speech. Here it is. And she displayed a sheet of manuscript. Mr. Trollop turned immediately back from the threshold. It might have been gladness that flasued him to his face. It might have been something else. But at any rate there was much astonishment mixed with it. Good! Where did you get it? Give it me! Now there is no hurry. Sit down, sit down, and let us talk and be friendly. The gentleman wavered. Then he said, No. This is only a subterfuge. I will go. It is not the missing page. Laura tore off a couple of lines from the bottom of the sheet. No, she said. You will know whether this is the handwriting or not. You know it is the handwriting. Now if you will listen you will know that this must be the list of statistics, which was to be the nub of your great effort, and the accompanying blast, the beginning of the burst of eloquence, which was continued on the next page, and you will recognize that there was where you broke down. She read the page. Mr. Trollope said, This is perfectly astounding. Still, what is all this to me? It is nothing. It does not concern me. The speech is made and there an end. I did break down for a moment, and in a rather uncomfortable place, since I had led up to those statistics with some grandeur. The hiatus was pleasanter to the house and the galleries than it was to me. But it is no matter now. A week has passed. The jests about it ceased three or four days ago. The whole thing is a matter of indifference to me, Ms. Hawkins. But you apologized and promised the statistics for next day. Why didn't you keep your promise? The matter was not of sufficient consequence. The time has gone by to produce an effect with them. But I hear that other friends of the soldiers' pension bill desire them very much. I think you ought to let them have them. Ms. Hawkins, this silly blunder of my copyist, evidently has more interest for you than it has for me. I will send my private secretary to you and let him discuss the subject with you at length. Did he copy your speech for you? Of course he did. Why all these questions? Tell me, how did you get hold of that page of manuscript? That is the only thing that stirs a passing interest in my mind. I'm coming to that. Then she said, much as if she were talking to herself, it does seem like taking a deal of unnecessary pains for a body to hire another body, to construct a great speech for him, and then go and get still another body to copy it before it can be read in the house. Ms. Hawkins, what do you mean by such talk as that? Why, I am sure I mean no harm, no harm to anybody in the world. I am certain that I overheard the honourable Mr. Buckstone, either promise to write your great speech for you, or else get some other competent person to do it. This is perfectly absurd, madam, perfectly absurd. And Mr. Trollope effected a laugh of derision. Why, the thing has occurred before now. I mean that I have heard that congressmen have sometimes hired literary grubs to build speeches for them. Now didn't I overhear a conversation like that I spoke of? Why, of course, you may have overheard some such jesting nonsense. But would one be an earnest about so farcical a thing? Well, if it was only a joke, why did you make a serious matter of it? Why did you get the speech written for you, and then read it in the house without ever having it copied? Mr. Trollope did not laugh this time. He seemed seriously perplexed. He said, Come, play out your jest, Miss Hawkins. I can't understand what you are contriving, but it seems to entertain you, so please go on. I will, I assure you. But I hope to make the matter entertaining to you too. You a private secretary never copied your speech. Indeed. Really you seem to know my affairs better than I do myself. I believe I do. You can't name your own Emanuensis, Mr. Trollope. That is sad indeed. Perhaps Miss Hawkins can. Yes, I can. I wrote your speech myself, and you read it from my manuscript. There now. Mr. Trollope did not spring to his feet, and smite his brow with his hand, while a cold sweat broke out all over him, and the color forsook his face. No, he only said, Good God! and looked greatly astonished. Laura handed him her commonplace book, and called his attention to the fact that the handwriting there, and the handwriting of this speech were the same. He was shortly convinced. He laid the book aside and said composedly, Well, the wonderful tragedy is done, and it transpires that I am indebted to you for my late eloquence. What of it? What was all this for, and what does it amount to, after all? What do you propose to do about it? Oh, nothing. It is only a bit of pleasantry. When I overheard that conversation, I took an early opportunity to ask Mr. Buckstone if he knew of anybody who might want a speech written. I had a friend, and so forth, and so on. I was the friend myself. I thought I might do you a good turn, then, and depend on you to do me one by and by. I never let Mr. Buckstone have the speech till the last moment. And when you hurried off to the house with it, you did not know there was a missing page, of course. But I did. And now perhaps you think that if I refuse to support your bill, you will make a grand exposure? Well, I had not thought of that. I only kept back the page for the mere fun of the thing. But since you mention it, I don't know, but I might do something if I were angry. My dear Miss Hawkins, if you were to give out that you composed my speech, you know very well that people would say it was only your railway, your fondness for putting a victim in the pillory and amusing the public at his expense. It is too flimsy, Miss Hawkins, for a person of your fine inventive talent. Contrive an abler device than that. Come. It is easily done, Mr. Trollop. I will hire a man, and pin this page on his breast, and label it The Missing Fragment of the Honourable Mr. Trollop's Great Speech, which speech was written and composed by Miss Laura Hawkins, under a secret understanding, for one hundred dollars, and the money has not been paid. And I will pin round about it notes in my handwriting, which I will procure from prominent friends of mine for the occasion, also your printed speech in the Globe showing the connection between its bracketed hiatus and my fragment. And I give you my word of honour, that I will stand at human bulletin board in the rotunda of the capital, and make him stay there a week. You see, you are premature, Mr. Trollop. The wonderful tragedy is not done yet by any means. Come now, doesn't it improve? Mr. Trollop opened his eyes rather widely at this novel aspect of the case. He got up and walked the floor and gave himself a moment for reflection. Then he stopped and studied Laura's face a while, and ended by saying, Well, I am obliged to believe you would be reckless enough to do that. Then don't put me to the test, Mr. Trollop. But let's drop the matter. I have had my joke, and you've borne the inflection becomingly enough. It spoils a jest to harp on it after one has had one's laugh. I would much rather talk about my bill. So would I now, my clandestine eminuensis. Compared with some other subjects, even your bill is a pleasant topic to discuss. Very good indeed. I thought I could persuade you. Now I am sure you'll be generous to the poor negro and vote for that bill. Yes, I feel more tenderly toward the oppressed colored man than I did. Shall we bury the hatchet and be good friends, and respect each other's little secrets, on condition that I vote I on the measure? With all my heart, Mr. Trollop, I give you my word of that. It is a bargain. But isn't there something else you could give me, too? Laura looked at him inquiringly a moment, and then she comprehended. Oh, yes! You may have it now. I haven't any more use for it. She picked up the page of manuscript, but she reconsidered her intention of handing it to him and said, But never mind. I will keep it close. No one shall see it. You shall have it as soon as your vote is recorded. Mr. Trollop looked disappointed, but presently made his adieu, and had got as far as the haul when something occurred to Laura. She said to herself, I don't simply want his vote under compulsion. He might vote I but work against the bill in secret, for revenge. That man is unscrupulous enough to do anything. I must have his hearty cooperation as well as his vote. There is only one way to get that. She called him back and said, I value your vote, Mr. Trollop, but I value your influence more. You are able to help a measure along in many ways, if you choose. I want to ask you to work for the bill as well as vote for it. It takes so much of one's time, Miss Hawkins. And time is money, you know. Yes, I know it is. Especially in Congress. Now there is no use in you and I dealing in pretenses, and going at matters in roundabout ways. We know each other. Disguises are nonsense. Let us be plain. I will make it an object to you to work for the bill. Don't make it unnecessarily plain, please. There are little proprieties that are best preserved. What do you propose? Well, this. She mentioned the names of several prominent congressmen. Now, said she, these gentlemen are to vote and work for the bill, simply out of love for the negro, and out of pure generosity I have put in a relative of each, as a member of the university incorporation. They will handle a million or so of money, officially, but will receive no salaries. A larger number of statesmen are to vote and work for the bill, also out of love for the negro. Gentlemen of but moderate influence these. And out of pure generosity I am to see that relatives of theirs have positions in the university, with salaries, and good ones too. You will vote and work for the bill, from mere affection for the negro, and I desire to testify my gratitude becomingly. Make free choice. Have you any friend whom you would like to present, with a salaried or unsalaried position in our institution? Well, I have a brother-in-law. Not same old brother-in-law, you good unselfish provider. I have heard of him often through my agents. How regularly he does turn up, to be sure. He could deal with those millions virtuously, and with all with ability too. But of course you would rather he had a salaried position. Oh, no, said the gentleman facetiously. We are very humble, very humble in our desires. We want no money, we labor solely for our country, and require no reward but the luxury of an applauding conscience. Make him one of those poor, hard-working, unsalaried corporators, and let him do everybody good with those millions, and go hungry himself. I will try to exert a little influence in favor of the bill. Arrived at home Mr. Trollope sat down and thought it all over. Something after this fashion. It is about the shape it might have taken if he had spoken it aloud. My reputation is getting a little damaged, and I'm meant to clear it up brilliantly with an exposure of this bill at the supreme moment, and ride back into Congress on the acclay of it. And if I had that bit of manuscript I would do it yet. It would be more money in my pocket in the end, than my brother-in-law will get out of that incorporatorship, fat as it is. But that sheet of paper is out of my reach. She will never let that get out of her hands. And what a mountain it is. It blocks up my road completely. She was going to hand it to me once. Why didn't she? Must be a deep woman. Deep devil. That is what she is, a beautiful devil, and perfectly fearless too. The idea of her pinning that paper on a man and standing him up in the rotunda looks absurd at first glance. But she would do it. She is capable of doing anything. I went there hoping she would try to bribe me. Good solid capital that would be in the exposure. Well, my prayer was answered. She did try to bribe me. And I made the best of a bad bargain and letter. I am check-mated. I must contrive something fresh to get back to Congress on. Very well. A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. I will work for the bill. The incorporatorship will be a very good thing. As soon as Mr. Trollop had taken his leave, Laura ran to Senator Dillworthy and began to speak. But he interrupted her and said distressfully, without even turning from his writing to look at her. Only half an hour. You gave it up early, child. However, it was best, it was best. I'm sure it was best. And safest. Give it up? I? The senator sprang up all aglow. My child, you can't mean that you. I've made him promise, on honor, to think about a compromise tonight, and come and tell me his decision in the morning. Good. There's hope yet that. Nonsense, Uncle. I've made him engage to let the Tennessee land bill utterly alone. Impossible, you. I've made him promise to vote with us. Incredible. Absu- I've made him swear that he'll work for us. Preposterous. Utterly pr- Break a window, child, before I suffocate. No matter. It's true anyway. Now we can march into Congress with drums beating and colors flying. Well, well, well. I'm sadly bewildered, sadly bewildered. I can't understand it at all, the most extraordinary woman that ever. It's a great day. It's a great day. There, there, let me put my hand in benediction on this precious head. Oh, my child, the poor Negro will bless. Oh, bother the poor Negro, Uncle. Put it in your speech. Good night. Goodbye. Good night. Good night. Goodbye. We'll marshal our forces and march with the dawn. Laura reflected a while when she was alone and then fell to laughing peacefully. Everybody works for me. So ran her thought. It was a good idea to make Buckstone lead Mr. Trollabon to get a great speech written for him. And it was a happy part of the same idea for me to copy the speech after Mr. Buckstone had written it, and then keep back a page. Mr. B. was very complimentary to me when Trollab's breakdown in the house showed him the object of my mysterious scheme. I think he will say still finer things, when I tell him the triumph the sequel to it has gained for us. But what a coward the man was to believe I would have exposed that page in the rotunda, and so exposed myself. However, I don't know. I don't know. I will think a moment. Suppose he voted no. Suppose the bill failed. That is to suppose this dependist game lost forever that I have played so desperately for. Suppose people came around pitying me. Odious. And he could have saved me by his single voice. Yes, I would have exposed him. What would I care for the talk that that would have made about me when I was gone to Europe with Selby, and all the world was busy with my history and my dishonour? It would be almost happiness to spite somebody at such a time. End of Chapter 42