"You have had two whole days," she rejoined. "Haven't you discovered it?"

"I haven't found anything to fear but failure," was his reply.

"That is it; you have given it a name--its only true name--failure."

"But I am not going to fail."

"You mean you are going to take our railroad away from these men who have stolen it?"

"That is what I mean."

"And you will do it by threatening to expose them?"

"I shall tell Governor Bucks what I know about the oil field deal, a.s.suring him that I shall publish the facts if he doesn't let the law take its course in ousting Judge MacFarlane and the receiver."

She rose and stood before him, leaning against one of the vine-clad porch pillars with her hands behind her.

"David Kent, are there any circ.u.mstances in which you would accept a bribe?"

He answered her in all seriousness.

"They say every man has his price: mine is higher than any bid they have yet made--or can make, I hope."

"Why don't you let _them_ bribe _you_?" she asked coolly. "Is it because it is inexpedient--because there is more 'success' the other way?"

He tried to emulate her coolness and made a failure of it.

"Have I ever done anything to make you think I had thrown common honesty and self-respect overboard?" he demanded.

Her answer was another question, sharp-edged and well thrust home.

"Is it any worse to take a bribe than it is to give one? You have just admitted that you are going to buy the governor's neutrality, you know."

"I don't see it in that light at all."

"The other David Kent would have seen it. He would have said: These men are public criminals. If I can not bring them to justice, I can at least expose them to the scorn of all good men. Therefore I have no right to bargain with them."

Kent was silent for a long time. When he spoke it was to say:

"Why have you done this, Elinor?"

"Because I had to, David. Could I do less?"

"I suppose not. It's in the blood--in your blood and mine. Other folk call it the Puritan virus of over-righteousness, and scoff at it. I don't know: sometimes I think they have the best of the argument."

"I can't believe you are quite sincere when you say that," she a.s.serted.

"Yes, I am. One can not compromise with conscience; that says itself. But I have come to believe latterly that one's conscience may be morbidly acute, or even diseased. I'll admit I've been taking treatment."

"That sounds very dreadful," she rejoined.

"It does, doesn't it? Yet it had to be done. As I intimated a few minutes ago, my life has. .h.i.therto been a sort of unostentatious failure. I used to think it was because I was outcla.s.sed: I know now it has been because I wouldn't do as other men do. It has been a rather heart-breaking process--to sort out the scruples, admitting the just and overriding the others--but I have been given to see that it is the price of success."

"I want you to succeed," she said.

"Pardon me; I don't think you do. You have reopened the door to doubt, and if I admit the doubt I shall fail."

The sonata Penelope was playing was approaching its finale, and Elinor was suddenly shaken with a trembling fit of fear--the fear of consequences which might involve this man's entire future. She knew Kent was leaning on her, and she saw herself as one who has ruthlessly thrust an iron bar among the wheels of a delicate mechanism. Who was she to be his conscience-keeper--to stand in the way and bid him go back? Were her own motives always so exalted? Had she not once deliberately debated this same question of expediency, to the utter abas.e.m.e.nt of her own ideals?

Penelope had left the piano, and Loring was looking at his watch. Kent saw them through the open window and got upon his feet.

"Grantham is saying he had no idea it was so late," he hazarded. "If I thank you for what you have said I am afraid it must be as the patient thanks the surgeon for the knife-stroke which leaves him a cripple for life."

It was the one word needed to break her resolution.

"Oh, forget it; please forget it!" she said. "I had no right.... You are doing a man's work in the world, and it must be done in a man's way. If I can not help, you must not let me hinder. If you let anything I have said discourage you, I shall never cease regretting it."

His smile was a mere indrawing of the lips.

"Having opened the door, you would try to shut it again, would you? How like a woman! But I am afraid it can't be done. I had been trying to keep away from that point of view.... There is much to be said on both sides.

There was a time when I wouldn't have gone into such a thing as this fight with the junto; but being in, I should have seen it through regardless of the public welfare--ignoring that side of it. I can't do it now; you have shown me that I can't."

"But I don't want to be a stumbling-block," she insisted. "Won't you believe that I wanted to help?"

"I believe that your motive was all it should be; yes. But the result is the same."

Loring and Penelope were coming out, and the end of their privacy was at hand.

"What will you do?" she asked.

"I don't know: nothing that I had meant to do. It was a false start and I am back under the wire again."

"But you must not turn back unless you are fully convinced of the wrong of going on," she protested.

"Didn't you mean to convince me?"

"No--yes--I don't know. I--it seems very clear to me; but I want it to seem clear to you. Doesn't your conscience tell you that you ought to turn back?"

"No," he said shortly; but he immediately qualified the denial. "You may be right: I am afraid you are right. But I shall have to fight it out for myself. There are many things to consider. If I hold my hand, these bucaneers will triumph over the stockholders, and a host of innocent people will suffer loss." Then, seeing the quick-springing tears in her eyes: "But you mustn't be sorry for having done what you had to do; you have nothing to reproach yourself for."

"Oh, but I have!" she said; and so they parted.

XXIII

THE INSURRECTIONARIES