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Then she heard Pease speaking with Beth in the parlour, and heard George's name coupled with Ellis's. So Beth was learning all about the plans! Smothering a sudden jealousy, Judith determined to go and ask what had been said, yet at the door her resolution failed her, and she turned back. Let others know, she would go without – and she applied herself to her figures until her head swam with them. She went unhappily to bed and lay there thinking.

Through her loneliness was rising a dread of Ellis as an overhanging menace; she began to fear that he would defeat Mather a second time. Ellis's sinister force began to oppress her, not only as a cause of general evil, but also as threatening disaster to that friend whose value, even whose excellence, her anxieties were teaching her to acknowledge. As Judith's thoughts dwelt on the man in whom, without brilliance or the stamp of genius, there was nothing false, nothing base or mean, and nothing hidden, Ellis seemed like an enemy who, once successful against herself, was slowly approaching for an attack on Mather – an enemy whose skill she knew, whose resources she feared, and whose mercy she doubted. Dreading thus for Mather, she began to tremble also for herself: she was in Ellis's debt so deep that only a miracle could ever clear her, while every day was rolling up the interest against her. Where would this end?

And through her dread increased her loneliness. Looking for help, she found that she must depend solely upon herself. Day by day she had learned how small were her powers beside the immense energies of the city. The definite fear of Ellis suggested still other calamities, vague, hid in the impenetrable future; there was no misfortune which fate could not bring upon her, no defense which she could interpose. She was alone – and suddenly she began to long for companionship, the fellowship which some one could give, which some one once offered, which then she had refused, but which now seemed more precious than anything in the world.

Thus Judith, in her trouble, was unmindful of the power which still was hers, and ignorant of the revenge which she was to take for all of her misfortunes. For though she felt herself so weak, it was she, and she alone, who brought on Ellis the strike which his supporters were so anxious to prevent.

On a morning, the consequences of whose events were to reach far, going as usual to her school she passed Ellis in the street. Faltering and shocked, he stood still while she passed. He had not seen her since the night of her rejection of him, and the change in her was startling. She was in black, had grown thin and pale, and her spirited carriage had changed to the walk of weariness, yet her beauty of face shone out the clearer, and still she was a picture which men turned to watch. She did not notice Ellis, but passed with face set, eyes looking far away, absorbed in thought. When she had gone from his sight Ellis hurried to his offices and locked himself in the inner room. There for an hour he walked up and down, up and down.

His clerk heard him, and dared not interrupt him for small matters; the routine business of the morning was easily discharged. But about noon came a deputation from the street-railway employees, asking to see Mr. Ellis.

The secretary listened at the door; Ellis was still pacing the room, yet the matter was important. The secretary knocked.

"Men from the union to see you," he said through the door.

"Tell them to come again," answered Ellis.

The secretary went with this answer to the deputation. The spokesman answered: "We have wasted enough time. We must see him now or not at all."

The secretary knocked again at Ellis's door. "They say they must see you now, sir," he said.

"Send them to the devil," Ellis replied. The secretary, without thought of the irony of his interpretation of the order, asked the men to wait. They consulted among themselves and went away.

That morning the cars on the streets had run as usual, but the delegates of the union, returning angrily from Ellis's office, gave the order for the men to strike. As each car returned to the barn its crew left; by one o'clock almost all the cars were housed. Then the supporters of Ellis began to gather in his outer office. Price was there, Daggett was there, a dozen others as well; they consulted anxiously. Not one of them had expected that Ellis would let the trouble go so far.

At last, with pale face and fierce eye, he appeared among them. "Ha," he said sardonically when he saw so many of them. "What has frightened you all?"

They told him of the strike; there was still one day, they reminded him, before the transfer books of the road should close. Some of his men thought he was staggered at the news, and the hastier, Price loudest among them, begged him to conciliate the men.

But the old fighting fire kindled within him, and he stopped them with scorn. "Don't be fools," he said. "Price, you're a coward. The men will hit first, will they? Well, we'll give them all they want!"

He began to give directions how to meet the strike, and his energy was communicated to them all, save one. Even that one applauded with the rest, and outwardly approved.

CHAPTER XXXI

Brings About Two New Combinations

For some time Beth Blanchard had been changing back to her old self. Once unburdened by confession, her heart seemed free again, and Beth began to think of Jim Wayne as a part of a past which could in no way affect her future. Sorry for him as she was, with her pity she mingled shame at those remembered kisses. She found pleasure in the society of Pease, partly because he stood for so much that Jim was not. Solid, sober, incapable of concealment, his qualities gave her satisfaction, and the more because she knew his thoughts to be so much of her. She took to teasing him again, a process to which he submitted with bewildered delight, and to which Miss Cynthia made Judith a party by getting her out of the room whenever Beth and Pease were in it. Under such favouring circumstances, which would have tried the stoicism of any one, Pease was proving himself quite human, and was harbouring new hopes. He could not fail to suspect that Beth mourned her father more than Jim, and what he imagined Miss Pease made sure.

"You've never told me, Peveril," she asked him, "if you lost much by Mr. Wayne?"

"Two weeks' wages of our men," he answered.

"Worth what you get for it?" she asked.

"What do I get?" he inquired.

"Her!" she answered emphatically.

"If you suppose," he said, with an appearance of confidence which was utterly false, "that Miss Blanchard will forget Mr. Wayne, you are quite mistaken."

"You are right," said Miss Cynthia, "she never will forget him." Her cousin's heart sank. "She thinks of him every day" (Miss Cynthia was watching him, and made a purposeful pause) "as something that she has escaped from. And now the way is open for a man that is a man!" Then she smiled as she noted his relief.

The way was indeed open, and the two were progressing along it very fast, when suddenly a position was offered to Beth. Old Mrs. Grimstone had, for the twelfth time, lost her attendant, and some one recommended the younger Miss Blanchard. It was a handsome offer that the old lady made; money was nothing to her, and she had learned that she must pay high for such service as she demanded. For she was, notoriously, the most exacting, crabbed, fractious old woman that ever wore false teeth, and any one who attended her lived a dog's life. Pease was utterly dismayed, and came to Judith to beg her to prevent this calamity.

"But what can I do?" she asked. "Mrs. Grimstone offers a hundred dollars a month – much more than any one else ever pays. How can Beth refuse?"

"Think," Pease adjured her, "of what she will have to bear!"

"I think her disposition is equal to it," Judith said.

"Oh, I don't doubt that," he hurriedly explained. "But Mrs. Grimstone is so rough!"

"Beth seems to think she must go," was all Judith could reply. "She usually knows her own mind, Mr. Pease."

"She does," he admitted mournfully. But he was not subdued, and blazed out with a fitful courage: "I will do my best to prevent it!"

"Do!" said Judith heartily.

Pease did his best; knowing how weak he was against Beth, he spent no time in discussion, but rushing into the subject he declared to Beth that she ought not go to Mrs. Grimstone, and that was all there was to it. Then he stood breathless at his own audacity.

"Ought not?" asked Beth, surprised at such precipitation in one who was usually so slow. "If few persons are willing to go to Mrs. Grimstone, isn't that a very good reason why I should?"

"It isn't that; it isn't that!" he replied, and wished, despairing, that he could voice his thoughts. But Beth's brown eyes, just a little quizzical, took away his courage, and all his impetus was spent. He gasped with vexation.

"Then what is it?" she asked, smiling outright.

"Promise me three days?" was all he could say. "I'm busy now – this street-railway – Oh, don't laugh!" he begged as Beth's smile grew merrier. "Please promise me three days!"

To his delight she promised, and he went and began to draught a letter of such importance that its composition was to take nearly all of the seventy-two hours which she had accorded him. He hoped that what he had to say would not be too sudden – but he need not have worried. A man cannot note a girl's every movement, be solicitous at each little cold, know to a minute the calendar of her engagements, and gradually perfect himself in knowledge of her tastes, without declaring himself, unconsciously, in every sentence.

Upon this pleasant by-play Judith smiled, yet knew that her future would change with Beth's. For if Beth went to Mrs. Grimstone, Judith must find work; she could no longer bear the consciousness that she was not earning. A little envy stirred in her, as she feared that she could not possibly, in spite of all her preparation, earn so much as Beth. In this belief the principal of her school confirmed her when she asked him if he could not find her a position.

"You understand that with your experience your salary will be small?" he asked her.

"Have I not done well since I came?" she inquired.

"I never had a better pupil," he replied. "But a few more months, Miss Blanchard – "

"How much could I earn to begin with?" she persisted.

"Forty dollars a month," he answered.

"So little?" she asked, disappointed.

"Perhaps fifty, if you have luck," he conceded. "But you'd better wait."

"I can't," Judith answered. "Will you tell me of any chance that you hear of?"

He promised that he would, yet gave her no immediate hope of a position. Judith was depressed; more and more it seemed to her that she was nothing, and her debt loomed large before her eyes. It seemed a great weight to carry – alone.

Nevertheless, she maintained her interest in the great combination against Ellis, could not fail to maintain it, for soon came the strike. It was an orderly strike and a good-natured public; people were saying cheerfully that the cars would be running again in a week, when Mr. Mather was president; but believing that no one could be sure of that, and ignorant of her own deep influence, Judith wished for the fiftieth time that she could learn how matters stood. The vagueness and uncertainty were wearing her.

And at last came the information. At the supper table, on the evening of the strike, Pease seemed as untroubled as usual, and as genial. Miss Cynthia broke in upon his calm.

"Peveril," she demanded, "what do the men hope to gain by striking now?"

"To-morrow," he explained, "the transfer books close. Only to-morrow's holders of stock can vote at the meeting a week hence."

"Oh," she said, "I see. The men hope to scare some of Ellis's supporters into selling out."

He nodded. "The men have very clever leaders."

"And will this help you?"

"I hope so."

She followed up the indirect admission. "Then you need help?"

"Get me forty shares," he said, "and the matter is settled. But – " he realised that he was talking shop.

"The butter, please, Cynthia?"

"Well," she said in triumph, as she passed the dish, "I have at last learned something from you."

"Good!" he returned, undisturbed. "And I'll tell you this much more, that I haven't the slightest idea where I can find those forty shares."

"Oh!" she cried, dismayed. "What does Mr. Mather think?"

"Mather knows nothing about it," said Pease. "His friends are working for him without his knowledge, because they have never been sure that they could help him."

Judith, listening to the talk, told herself that Mather would never be president of the road; she had heard Ellis describe the little ring of men who stood solidly around him – men whom he had made. That ring would never be broken. Yet amid her disappointment she felt relief. Mather had never told her of the projects of his friends because, like herself, he had not been sure of them.

Before the meal was ended Mr. Fenno came – only for a minute, he said, and bade them not to rise. Judith admired the picture that he made as he stood and talked with Pease; his white hair and mustache seemed whiter still by contrast with his coal-black eyebrows, while the dead black-and-white evening clothes were relieved by the soft sable which lined his overcoat. He questioned Pease with his accustomed bluntness.

"No go?"

"Nothing yet," Pease answered.

"Ah, he's clever!" said Mr. Fenno, to which encomium of Ellis Pease assented by a nod, but seemed not inclined to pursue the subject further. Then the servant, entering, announced that Mr. Price was at the door, asking for Mr. Pease. As Pease started from his seat his inquiring glance met Fenno's. The old man knit his heavy brows.

"Do you suppose – " he said.

"May be!" Pease answered with visible excitement.

"He must see you alone," added the maid.

"Show him into the parlour," Pease directed. For a minute he was alone with the jeweller; Fenno, forgetting the presence of the ladies, stared after him and waited. Then Pease returned.

"Can we have you with us, Mr. Fenno?" he asked.

The three shut themselves up in the parlour. Judith, as she controlled her deep interest, felt how often it was now her part to wait. But at last the parlour door opened again, and voices were heard. It was Price who spoke first.

"You understand, Mr. Pease – my family – "

"Yes, yes," Pease answered.

"And my position, you see," the explanation continued. Judith saw the jeweller, bowing and rubbing his hands together nervously.

"Yes," repeated Pease shortly, opening the outer door for him. "At my office, Mr. Price, the first thing in the morning."

The door shut on the jeweller, and the two others came into the dining-room. Pease looked glum, the older man scornful, and in absorption they spoke before the others.

"It is settled, then," Mr. Fenno said grimly.

"I feel," responded Pease, "as if I had touched pitch."

"You will get over it," was the cynical retort. "Now, then, to finish all this up. Can you answer for Mather?"

Pease shook his head. "He must answer for himself."

"He shall, to-morrow," said Mr. Fenno. "What do you say to a meeting at my office – all of us?"

"You will need all," Pease answered.

"We can settle everything," went on Fenno in his heavy voice. "We will have it all in writing – I'll have a stenographer on hand."

A stenographer! Judith started with eagerness, and Mr. Fenno turned to her. "What do you say?" he asked. "Will you help us?"

Her eyes sparkled. "Gladly!" she cried.

"Good!" he said bluffly. "Nine o'clock at my office. Pease, have everybody there, except Mather, at three; George at half-past." Pease nodded, and Mr. Fenno smote him on the shoulder. "Come, cheer up, man! Everything is clear at last."

But Pease could not smile. "In such a way!" he grumbled.

"Through no fault of ours." Then Mr. Fenno turned to Beth. "Beth, I leave him to you." And next he looked on Judith with a sudden change of manner, losing both his animation and his cynicism, and becoming very grave. "To-morrow," he said, "you shall see what you have done."

"I?" she asked in astonishment. "I, sir?" But he merely nodded, and hastened away.

And Pease was left to Beth. Reminded by Fenno's words that his three days were nearly at an end, he forgot Price, forgot Mather, and remembered only a letter which suddenly seemed to be burning a hole in his pocket. Miss Cynthia and Judith left him alone in the parlour with Beth, who for a while watched with amusement his nervous movements about the room. She tried to make him talk, but failed.

"Something is very much on your mind," she said at last.

"Everything is!" he exclaimed in desperation, and dragged out the letter. "Won't you – will you – read this, to-night?" He put the letter in her hand, and moved toward the door.

"Why do you go?" she asked innocently, opening the envelope.

He had reached the threshold. "I will come again."

But she poised the paper in her hand and looked at him reflectively. "I don't think you'd better go," she said, and then added positively, "No, I can't have you go. Please sit down in that chair."

Obeying the nod of her determined little head, he dragged himself from the door, sat down, and watched her miserably while she studied his letter. She read it once, and sat with pursed lips; she read it again, and knit her brows; she read it a third time and looked at him thoughtfully. Then she read parts of it aloud.

"I apprehend much unhappiness to you in your proposed occupation … Admirable qualities – tender nature… Am emboldened to say what otherwise I might not … if you will give yourself into my care, I will promise you that so far as it is possible for a man to avert them, you will never know trouble or need – "

She broke off, and looked at him. "This is a proposal of marriage, Mr. Pease?"

He shivered. "I meant it so."

She put the letter in her lap with a regretful sigh. "I thought that when a man asked a girl to marry him he always said something about – his feelings for her."

"But respect, admiration – " he was beginning eagerly.

"Oh," she interrupted, "those go without saying. And I understand," she glanced at the letter, "that you write this only because you wish to relieve me of work. It is very good of you to sacrifice yourself."

"It is no sacrifice!" he cried.

She folded the note and thrust it into its envelope. "I never believed," she said emphatically, "in proposals by letter."

"I am sorry," faltered miserable Pease.

"And what you say," continued Beth, holding the note out for him to take, "is not my idea of the essentials of a proposal."

He came and received the letter, but could answer nothing.

"I think," Beth set forth reflectively, "that just two things are necessary to a proposal: a statement and a question. A man need only say: 'I love you. Will you marry me?' Just seven words – no more." She folded her hands in her lap, looked at him innocently, and waited.

Gazing at her, fascinated, slowly he grew red. An idea found lodgment, worked deeper, penetrated to the springs of action. He crushed the letter in his hand. "I love you!" he cried. "Will you marry me?"

She dimpled into smiles. "Yes," said little Beth.

CHAPTER XXXII

Which Is in Some Respects Satisfactory

Judith sat in Mr. Fenno's little office, while in the larger room the magnates were slowly gathering. She was deeply interested in the result of the coming meeting, a little anxious as well, on account of the last words which Mr. Fenno had said to her.

"Do you think George will accept?" he had asked.

"Why should he not?" she returned, startled.

"You see no reason?" were his words as he left her.

She puzzled to find a reason until, in the outer office, Mr. Fenno's deep voice began to address the little meeting. Before him sat, in two groups, the financiers and the reform politicians, whose interests were to be reconciled. They had, between them, the power to make a new railway president and a new mayor, but never yet had the two groups of men worked together.

"We all know why we are here," Mr. Fenno began. "A holy crusade is our object – or the protection of our interests."

"It is not your interests that influence you," said one of the reformers. "We are glad to see, Mr. Fenno, that you are moved by righteous indignation. This recent tragedy – " But Mr. Fenno stopped him by a sudden gesture.

"My stenographer," and he emphasised the word, "my stenographer is within hearing. If we require any other agreements than I have prepared, she can copy them." He saw the glances which his friends exchanged at the news of Judith's presence; moved by the sudden reference to her misfortunes, his heavy voice trembled as he proceeded. "We all have our – wrongs to avenge, and a good friend to place in his proper position. Before Mr. Mather comes, suppose we arrive at an understanding."

"Suppose," rejoined the leader of the reformers, "Mr. Fenno makes a statement of his expectations. It seems to me," he said when the explanation was forthcoming, "that the Good Government League is expected to give more than it receives."

"It is more blessed – " quoted Mr. Fenno drily.

"Can't we," put in Pease mildly, "give concessions on either side? I think we need each other."

"It is just this," said Mr. Fenno to the reformers: "Lend us your candidate to straighten out our tangle, and we'll lend him back to straighten yours."

"Is it possible," was the doubtful question, "that a president of the street-railroad can stand for mayor without raising suspicion of his motives?"

"Mather can," answered Pease promptly.

"Certainly with less suspicion than Ellis arouses," supplemented Mr. Fenno. "Come, will you lose a chance to defeat Ellis on his first line of battle? He will be beaten all the easier on his second."

"We are thinking of Mr. Mather's standing before the public," replied the reformers. "He must resign from your presidency as soon as we nominate him."

"Very well."

"That suits you?"

"Yes, if you will release him from his promise to you now."

"We will, if you will support him then."

"Here is an agreement covering these points," said Mr. Fenno. "Shall we put our names to this?"

It was on a scene of paper-signing, then, that Mather entered. Some of the gentlemen looked up and nodded to him; others – they were all his seniors – continued passing the papers around the table. He paused with his hand upon the door-knob.

"Am I in the way?" he asked.

"Everything is decided without you," answered Mr. Fenno. "We have merely disposed of your time for the next eighteen months."

Mather laughed, threw off his coat, and took a chair. They explained matters to him; in her seclusion Judith listened long before she heard him say a word. Then he began to ask questions, deep and far-reaching, but every difficulty had been considered beforehand.

"And my obligations to you, Mr. Pease?" he said once. "I was not to quit the Electrolytic Company until the fall."

"I have arranged all that," Pease replied. "The new Chebasset manager is very satisfactory; we will promote him."

"Well, what do you say?" asked Fenno, when every point had been covered.

Mather sat thoughtful for a while. "I may understand," he asked at length, "that your proposition amounts to approval of my former course as president of the street-railway?"

They assured him that it did.

"I should pursue," he next said, "the same policy. In place of Mr. Ellis's subway bill, which was this morning thrown out of the legislature, I should at once introduce another."

"Different in plan?" some one inquired.

"Quite," Mather answered, smiling. "Having no real estate to condemn at high prices, I have no desire for the privilege of eminent domain."

"Have you any objection," they asked him, "to serving in these two positions in such quick succession?"

He smiled again. "Are you sure you can elect me to either?"

"Suppose we can?" returned Mr. Fenno.

"Supposing you can," began Mather – then stopped to think.

"Well?" demanded Mr. Fenno after a moment's impatience.

Mather roused himself. "Supposing that you can elect me," he said seriously, "there is just one thing I wish to lay before you – a statement of my personal feelings. We all know each other well, we have the same interests, we know and say things which are not given to the public. I wish to define my position exactly." He paused and looked at the attentive faces. In her little office Judith asked herself with sudden alarm: "Will he refuse?"

"The personal element," he went on, "has recently entered into my relations with Mr. Ellis. There are distresses which I and – friends of mine, have suffered through him, by actions which make him morally, if not legally, criminal. Some of you know that what I say is true."

He looked at Pease, who nodded; Fenno did the same, but no one spoke. Mather began again with increasing energy, yet slowly, struggling for an exact statement of his position. "I have," he said, "and acknowledge freely, reason for the bitterest personal dislike of Mr. Ellis. And for that reason, considering the possibility of the proposals which you make to me, it has sometimes seemed to me as if I ought to refuse you – "

"You must consider – " cried Pease, half rising from his chair. But Mather held up a hand to stay him.

"And yet," he said, as Pease sank back again, "I recognise the situation here. Long ago I expressed my disapproval of Mr. Ellis as a public man, and opposed him before – certain circumstances arose. Besides, I am the man (excuse me if I say it) that best can meet this strike; and again, a successful fight must be made for mayor in the fall. I believe that I can win there for you. So if it comes to a question between my personal feelings and my duties as a citizen, then – if you will believe my honesty in this confession, and in trusting myself to oppose Mr. Ellis without vindictiveness – if you will believe this, and will fight him with me not as a man but as a force, an evil force, then I will sign this document with you."

In her little room Judith found herself trembling in response to the emotion which had vibrated in his voice; but in the larger office the gentlemen rose from their chairs, crowded around Mather, and in enthusiasm promised him their support. No one noticed the noise of the opening of the outer door; it was a full minute before the first of them perceived the figure which, attentive and sneering, watched them. It was Ellis.

He heard their words and knew their purposes, yet he had guessed beforehand what they had gathered there to do. By one of those bold strokes which had so often succeeded for him, he had come among them in the attempt to conciliate a strong minority. He had expected to arouse consternation, yet on perceiving him they looked at each other as if welcoming his presence. Still ignorant of Price's treachery, he did not understand the sign.

"Twelve good men and true," he said, coming forward. "Is this an inquest?"

"A funeral," Mr. Fenno replied. "Some one whom we know is dead and cold. Will you not pronounce the benediction?"

"Ah, I am not qualified," Ellis said. "But learning that you were here in great distress of mind, I came to see if I could not relieve you. I hope you will excuse the interruption?"

"Willingly," Mr. Fenno answered, with much cheerfulness.

Then Ellis changed his tone; dropping the banter, he looked upon them frankly. "Seriously, I understand that you are here to discuss what you regard as mismanagement in the street-railway. I know I come without invitation, yet I wish to make an offer. You have large interests in the road, I dislike to exclude a minority from any voice in affairs, and so I came to say that if you wish more representation on the next board of directors – "

"Then we shall have it?" interrupted Mr. Fenno. "Gentlemen, is not Mr. Ellis very kind?"

Ellis noted the sustained irony, and as those present murmured their responses to the question he saw in them no conciliatory spirit. They looked at him with that inquiring reserve which was not difficult to meet in them singly, but which, thus directed at him by a group of the blue-bloods, became irritatingly oppressive. And there was more in its meaning than ever before. Suddenly he asked himself if these men could be stronger than he had thought. He had been very busy all the morning with messages to and from the capital in regard to his bill, and with the strike. If anything had happened on exchange —

The serious voice of Pease began to speak. "I imagine that Mr. Ellis, in studying the market reports to-day, failed to remark a transfer which was recorded three minutes before the closing time. Otherwise he would scarcely have come here."

The inquiring glances of the others grew keener, pressing upon Ellis almost physically as those present watched for the effect of Pease's words. Standing alone against them, Ellis felt a sudden sense of impending calamity, between his temples a pressure began, and in the silence his voice was scarcely audible as in spite of himself he asked hoarsely: "What do you mean?"

"History," answered Pease slowly – never in his life before had he been deliberately cruel – "history, Mr. Ellis, has taught some valuable lessons, of which I should like to call two to your attention. One is that some great men meet their Waterloo, the other that some little men have their – Price!"

Something flashed before Ellis's eyes, and in that flash he saw the whole treachery. His head dropped, his eyes closed, and his jaw shut convulsively. "Price! Price!" he hissed.

Then in an instant he stood upright and faced them without flinching. Though he saw the whole meaning of the news, though he realised the power of the caste which, so long supine, at last had risen up against him, even though he knew he faced two great defeats, he looked upon his adversaries, and they saw courage in his glance. He turned to Mather.

"Mather," said Ellis, "you think you've got me."

He felt, as that same quiet glance looked down on him, the continual irritation of it, the impossibility of ever attaining that superb indifference. And then the answer: "For the present I have." Would they never boast, these aristocrats – never threaten? First, despising him, they had left him alone; even now when they turned on him they still looked down on him. A torrent of words rushed to his lips, and yet, feeling how powerless he was to impress those silent, attentive spectators, he checked himself.