The body of Senator Calkins was laid to rest with appropriate ceremonies in the soil of his native State, and his virtues as a statesman and citizen were celebrated in the pulpit and in the public prints. On the day following the funeral the contest for his place began in dead earnest. There had been some quiet canvassing by the several candidates while the remains were being transported from Washington, but public utterance was stayed until the last rites were over. Then it transpired that there were four candidates in the field; a Congressman, an ex-Governor, a silver-tongued orator named Stringer, who was a member of the upper branch of the State Legislature and who claimed to be a true defender of popular rights, and Hon. James O. Lyons. Newspaper comment concerning the candidacy of these aspirants early promulgated the doctrine that Governor Lyons was entitled to the place if he desired it. More than one party organ claimed that his brilliant services had given him a reputation beyond the limit of mere political prestige, and that he had become a veritable favorite son of the State. By the end of a fortnight the ex-Governor had withdrawn in favor of Lyons; while the following of the Congressman was recognized to be inconsiderable, and that he was holding out in order to obtain terms. Only the silver-tongued orator, Stringer, remained. On him the opposition within the party had decided to unite their forces. To all appearances they were in a decided minority. There was no hope that the Republican members of the Legislature would join them, for it seemed scarcely good politics to rally to the support of a citizen whose statesmanship had not been tested in preference to the Governor of the State. It was conceded by all but the immediate followers of Stringer that Lyons would receive the majority vote of either house, and be triumphantly elected on the first joint ballot.

And yet the opposition to the Governor, though numerically small, was genuine. Stringer was, as he described himself, a man of the plain people. That is he was a lawyer with a denunciating voice, a keen mind, and a comprehensive grasp on language, who was still an attorney for plaintiffs, and whose ability had not yet been recognized by corporations or conservative souls. He was where Lyons had been ten years before, but he had neither the urbanity, conciliatory tendencies, nor dignified, solid physical properties of the Governor. He was pleased to refer to himself as a tribune of the people, and his thin, nervous figure, clad in a long frock-coat, with a yawning collar and black whisp tie, his fiery utterance and relentless zeal, bore out the character. He looked hungry, and his words suggested that he was in earnest, carrying conviction to some of his colleagues in the Legislature. The election at which Lyons had been chosen chief magistrate had brought into this State government a sprinkling of socialistic spirits, as they were called, who applauded vigorously the thinly veiled allusions which Stringer made in debate to the lukewarm democracy of some of the party leaders. When he spoke with stern contempt of those who played fast and loose with sacred principles who were staunch friends of the humblest citizens on the public platform, and behind their backs grew slyly rich on the revenues of wealthy corporations, everyone knew that he was baiting the Governor. These diatribes were stigmatized as in wretched taste, but the politicians of both parties could not help being amused. They admitted behind their hands that the taunt was not altogether groundless, and that Lyons certainly was on extremely pleasant terms with prosperity for an out and out champion of popular rights. Nevertheless the leading party newspapers termed Stringer a demagogue, and accused him of endeavoring to foment discord in the ranks of the Democracy by questioning the loyalty of a man who had led them to notable victory twice in the last three years. He was invited to step down, and to season his aspirations until he could present a more significant public record. What had he done that entitled him to the senatorship? He had gifts undeniably, but he was young and could wait. This was a taking argument with the legislators, many of whom had grown gray in the party service, and Lyons’s managers felt confident that the support accorded to this tribune of the people would dwindle to very small proportions when the time came to count noses.

Suddenly there loomed into sight on the political horizon, and came bearing down on Lyons under full sail, Elton’s bill for the consolidation of the gas companies. The Benham Sentinel had not been one of the promoters of Lyons’s senatorial canvass, but it had not espoused the cause of any of his competitors, and latterly had referred in acquiescent terms to his election as a foregone conclusion. He had not happened to run across Elton during these intervening weeks, and preferred not to encounter him. He cherished an ostrich-like hope that Elton was in no haste regarding the bill, and that consequently it might not pass the legislature until after his election as Senator. If he were to come in contact with Elton, the meeting might jog the busy magnate’s memory. It was a barren hope. Immediately after the Sentinel announced that Governor Lyons was practically sure to be the next United States Senator, the gas bill was reported favorably by the committee which had it in charge, and was advanced rapidly in the House. Debate on its provisions developed that it was not to have entirely plain sailing, though the majority recorded in its favor on the first and second readings was large. It was not at first regarded as a party measure. Its supporters included most of the Republicans and more than half of the Democrats. Yet the opposition to it proceeded from the wing of the Democracy with which Stringer was affiliated. Elton’s interest in the bill was well understood, and the work of pledging members in advance, irrespective of party, had been so thoroughly done, that but for the exigencies of the senatorial contest it would probably have slipped through without notice as a harmless measure. As it was, the opposition to it in the lower branch was brief and seemed unimportant. The bill passed the House of Representatives by a nearly two-thirds vote and went promptly to the Senate calendar. Then suddenly it became obvious to Lyons not merely that Elton was bent on securing its passage while the present Governor was in office, but that his rival, Stringer, had conceived the cruel scheme of putting him in the position, by a hue and cry against monopoly and corporate interests, where his election to the senatorship would be imperilled if he did not veto the measure. By a caustic speech in the Senate Stringer drew public attention to the skilfully concealed iniquities of the proposed franchise, and public attention thus aroused began to bristle. Newspapers here and there throughout the state put forth edicts that this Legislature had been chosen to protect popular principles, and that here was an opportunity for the Democratic party to fulfil its pledges and serve the people. Stringer and his associates were uttering in the Senate burning words against the audacious menace of what they termed the franchise octopus. Did the people realize that this bill to combine gas companies, which looked so innocent on its face, was a gigantic scheme to wheedle them out of a valuable franchise for nothing? Did they understand that they were deliberately putting their necks in the grip of a monster whose tentacles would squeeze and suck their life-blood for its own enrichment? Stringer hammered away with fierce and reiterated invective. He had no hope of defeating the bill, but he confidently believed that he was putting his adversary, the Governor, in a hole. It had been noised about the lobbies by the friends of the measure earlier in the session that the Governor was all right and could be counted on. Stringer reasoned that Lyons was committed to the bill; that, if he signed it, his opponents might prevent his election as Senator on the plea that he had catered to corporate interests; that if he vetoed it, he would lose the support of powerful friends who might seek to revenge themselves by uniting on his opponent. Stringer recognized that he was playing a desperate game, but it was his only chance. One thing was evident already: As a result of the exposure in the Senate, considerable public hostility to the bill was manifesting itself. Petitions for its defeat were in circulation, and several Senators who had been supposed to be friendly to its passage veered round in deference to the views of their constituents. Its defeat had almost become a party measure. A majority of the Democrats in the Senate were claimed to be against it. Nevertheless there was no delay on the part of those in charge in pushing it to final action. They had counted noses, and their margin of support had been so liberal they could afford to lose a few deserters. After a fierce debate the bill was passed to be engrossed by a majority of eleven. The Democrats in the Senate were just evenly divided on the ballot.

What would the Governor do? This was the question on everyone’s lips. Would he sign or veto the bill? Public opinion as represented by the newspapers was prompt to point out his duty. The verdict of a leading party organ was that, in view of all the circumstances, Governor Lyons could scarcely do otherwise than refuse to give his official sanction to a measure which threatened to increase the burdens of the plain people. The words “in view of all the circumstances” appeared to be an euphemism for “in view of his ambition to become United States Senator.” Several journals declared unequivocally that it would become the duty of the party to withdraw its support from Governor Lyons in case he allowed this undemocratic measure to become law. On the other hand, certain party organs questioned the justice of the outcry against the bill, arguing that the merits of the case had been carefully examined in the Legislature and that there was no occasion for the Governor to disturb the result of its action. On the day after the bill was sent to the chief magistrate, an editorial appeared in the Benham Sentinel presenting an exhaustive analysis of its provisions, and pointing out that, though the petitioners might under certain contingencies reap a reasonable profit, the public could not fail in that event to secure a lower price for gas and more effective service. This article was quoted extensively throughout the State, and was ridiculed or extolled according to the sympathies of the critics. Lyons received a marked copy of the Sentinel on the morning when it appeared. He recognized the argument as that which he had accepted at the time he promised to sign the bill if he were elected Governor. In the course of the same day a letter sent by messenger was handed to him in the executive chamber. It contained simply two lines in pencil in Elton’s handwriting “It continues to be of vital importance to my affairs that the pending bill should receive your signature.” That was obviously a polite reminder of their agreement; an intimation that the circumstances had not altered, and that it was incumbent on him to perform his part of their compact. Obviously, too, Horace Elton took for granted that a reminder was enough, and that he would keep his word. He had promised to sign the bill. He had given his word of honor to do so, and Elton was relying on his good faith.

The situation had become suddenly oppressive and disheartening. Just when his prospects seemed assured this unfortunate obstacle had appeared in his path, and threatened to confound his political career. He must sign the bill. And if he signed it, in all probability he would lose the senatorship. His enemies would claim that the party could not afford to stultify itself by the choice of a candidate who favored monopolies. He had given his promise, the word of a man of honor, and a business man. What escape was there from the predicament? If he vetoed the bill, would he not be a liar and a poltroon? If he signed it, the senatorship would slip through his fingers. The thought occurred to him to send for Elton and throw himself on his mercy, but he shrank from such an interview. Elton was a business man, and a promise was a promise. He had enjoyed the consideration for his promise; his notes were secure and the hypothecated bonds had been redeemed. He was on his feet and Governor, thanks to Elton’s interposition, and now he was called on to do his part to pay the fiddler. He must sign the bill.

Lyons had five days in which to consider the matter. At the end of that time if he neither signed nor vetoed the bill, it would become law without his signature. He was at bay, and the time for deliberation was short. An incubus of disappointment weighed upon his soul and clouded his brow. His round, smooth face looked grieved. It seemed cruel to him that such an untoward piece of fortune should confront him just at the moment when this great reward for his political services was within his grasp and his opportunities for eminent public usefulness assured. He brooded over his quandary in silence for twenty-four hours. On the second day he concluded to speak of the matter to Selma. He knew that she kept a general run of public affairs. Not infrequently she had asked him questions concerning measures before the Legislature, and he was pleasantly aware that she was ambitious to be regarded as a politician. But up to this time there had been no room for question as to what his action as Governor should be in respect to any measure. It had happened, despite his attitude of mental comradeship with his wife, that he had hitherto concealed from her his most secret transactions. He had left her in the dark in regard to his true dealings with Williams & Van Horne; he had told her nothing as to his straitened circumstances, the compact by which he had been made Governor, and his relief at the hands of Elton from threatened financial ruin. Reluctance, born of the theory in his soul that these were accidents in his life, not typical happenings, had sealed his lips. He was going to confide in her now not because he expected that Selma’s view of this emergency would differ from his own, but in order that she might learn before he acted that he was under an imperative obligation to sign the bill. While he was sitting at home in the evening with the topic trembling on his tongue, Selma made his confession easy by saying, “I have taken for granted that you will veto the gas bill.”

Selma had indeed so assumed. In the early stages of the bill she had been ignorant of its existence. During the last fortnight, since the controversy had reached an acute phase and public sentiment had been aroused against its passage, she had been hoping that it would pass so that Lyons might have the glory of returning it to the Legislature without his signature. She had reasoned that he would be certain to veto the measure, for the bill was clearly in the interest of monopoly, and though her nerves were all on edge with excitement over the impending election of a Senator, she had not interfered because she took for granted that it was unnecessary. Even when Lyons, after reading the article in the Sentinel, had dropped the remark that the measure was really harmless and the outcry against it unwarranted, she had supposed that he was merely seeking to be magnanimous. She had forgotten this speech until it was recalled by Lyons’s obvious state of worry during the last few days. She had noticed this at first without special concern, believing it due to the malicious insinuations of Stringer. Now that the bill was before him for signature there could be no question as to his action. Nevertheless her heart had suddenly been assailed by a horrible doubt, and straightway her sense of duty as a wife and of duty to herself had sought assurance in a crucial inquiry.

“I was going to speak to you about that this evening. I wish to tell you the reasons which oblige me to sign the bill,” he answered. Lyons’s manner was subdued and limp. Even his phraseology had been stripped of its stateliness.

“Sign the bill?” gasped Selma. “If you sign it, you will lose the senatorship.” She spoke like a prophetess, and her steely eyes snapped.

“That is liable to be the consequence I know. I will explain to you, Selma. You will see that I am bound in honor and cannot help myself.”

“In honor? You are bound in honor to your party bound in honor to me to veto it.”

“Wait a minute, Selma. You must hear my reasons. Before I was nominated for Governor I gave Horace Elton my word, man to man, that I would sign this gas bill. It is his bill. I promised, if I were elected Governor, not to veto it. At the time, I I was financially embarrassed. I did not tell you because I was unwilling to distress you, but er my affairs in New York were in disorder, and I had notes here coming due. Nothing was said about money matters between Elton and me until he had agreed to support me as Governor. Then he offered to help me, and I accepted his aid. Don’t you see that I cannot help myself? That I must sign the bill?”

Selma had listened in amazement. “It’s a trap,” she murmured. “Horace Elton has led you into a trap.” The thought that Elton’s politeness to her was a blind, and that she had been made sport of, took precedence in her resentment even of the annoyance caused her by her husband’s deceit.

“Why did you conceal all this from me?” she asked, tragically.

“I should not have done so, perhaps.”

“If you had told me, this difficulty never would have arisen. Pshaw! It is not a real difficulty. Surely you must throw Elton over. Surely you must veto the bill.”

“Throw him over,” stammered Lyons. “You don’t understand, Selma. I gave my word as a business man. I am under great obligations to him.” He told briefly the details of the transaction; even the hypothecation of the Parsons bonds. For once in his life he made a clean breast of his bosom’s perilous stuff. He was ready to bear the consequences of his plight rather than be false to his man’s standard of honor, and yet his wife’s opposition had fascinated as well as startled him. He set forth his case the case which meant his political checkmate, then waited. Selma had risen and stood with folded arms gazing into distance with the far away look by which she was wont to subdue mountains.

“Have you finished?” she asked. “What you are proposing to do is to sacrifice your life and my life, James Lyons, for the sake of a er fetish. Horace Elton, under the pretence of friendship for us, has taken advantage of your necessities to extract from you a promise to support an evil scheme a bill to defraud the plain American people of their rights the people whose interests you swore to protect when you took the oath as Governor. Is a promise between man and man, as you call it, more sacred than everlasting truth itself? More binding than the tie of principle and political good faith? Will you refuse to veto a bill which you know is a blow at liberty in order to keep a technical business compact with an over-reaching capitalist, who has no sympathy with our ideas? I am disappointed in you, James. I thought you could see clearer than that.”

Lyons sighed. “I examined the bill at the time with some care, and did not think it inimical to the best public interest; but had I foreseen the objections which would be raised against it, I admit that I never would have agreed to sign it.”

“Precisely. You were taken in.” She meant in her heart that they had both been taken in. “This is not a case of commercial give and take of purchase and sale of stocks or merchandise. The eternal verities are concerned. You owe it to your country to break your word. The triumph of American principles is paramount to your obligation to Elton. Whom will this gas bill benefit but the promoters? Your view, James, is the old-fashioned view. Just as I said to you the other day that Dr. Page is old-fashioned in his views of medicine, so it seems to me, if you will forgive my saying so, you are, in this instance, behind the times. And you are not usually behind the times. It has been one of the joyous features of my marriage with you that you have not lacked American initiative and independence of conventions. I wish you had confided in me. You were forced to give that promise by your financial distress. Will you let an old-fashioned theory of private honor make you a traitor to our party cause and to the sovereign people of our country?”

Lyons bowed his head between his hands. “You make me see that there are two sides to the question, Selma. It is true that I was not myself when Elton got my promise to sign the bill. My mind had been on the rack for weeks, and I was unfit to form a correct estimate of a complicated public measure. But a promise is a promise.”

“What can he do if you break it? He will not kill you.”

“He will not kill me, no; but he will despise me.” Lyons reflected, as he spoke, that Elton would be unable to injure him financially. He would, be able to pay his notes when they became due, thanks to the improvement in business affairs which had set in since the beginning of the year.

“And your party the American people will despise you if you sign the bill. Whose contempt do you fear the most?”

“I see I see,” he murmured. “I cannot deny there is much force in your argument, dear. I fear there can be no doubt that if I let the bill become law, public clamor will oblige the party to throw me over and take up Stringer or some dark horse. That means a serious setback to my political progress; means perhaps my political ruin.”

“Your political suicide, James. And there is another side to it,” continued Selma, pathetically. “My side. I wish you to think of that. I wish you to realize that, if you yield to this false notion of honor, you will interfere with the development of my life no less than your own. As you know, I think, I became your wife because I felt that as a public woman working, at your side in behalf of the high purposes in which we had a common sympathy, I should be a greater power for good than if I pursued alone my career as a writer and on the lecture platform. Until to-day I have felt sure that I had made no mistake that we had made no mistake. Without disrespect to the dead, I may say that for the first time in my life marriage has meant to me what it should mean, and has tended to bring out the best which is in me. I have grown; I have developed; I have been recognized. We have both made progress. Only a few days ago I was rejoicing to think that when you became a United States Senator, there would be a noble field for my abilities as well as yours. We are called to high office, called to battle for great principles and to lead the nation to worthy things. And now, in a moment of mental blindness, you are threatening to spoil all. For my sake, if not for your own, James, be convinced that you do not see clearly. Do not snatch the cup of happiness from my lips just as at last it is full. Give me the chance to live my own life as I wish to live it.”

There was a brief silence. Lyons rose and let fall his hand on the table with impressive emphasis. His mobile face was working with emotion; his eyes were filled with tears. “I will veto the bill,” he said, grandiloquently. “The claims of private honor must give way to the general welfare, and the demands of civilization. You have convinced me, Selma my wife. My point of view was old-fashioned. Superior ethics permit no other solution of the problem. Superior ethics,” he repeated, as though the phrase gave him comfort, “would not justify a statesman in sacrificing his party and his own powers aye, and his political conscience in order to keep a private compact. I shall veto the bill.”

“Thank God for that,” she murmured.

Lyons stepped forward and put his arm around her. “You shall live your own life as you desire, Selma. No act of mine shall spoil it.”

“Superior ethics taught you by your wife! Your poor, wise wife in whom you would not confide!” She tapped him playfully on his fat cheek. “Naughty boy!”

“There are moments when a man sees through a glass, darkly,” he answered, kissing her again. “This is a solemn decision for us, Selma. Heaven has willed that you should save me from my own errors, and my own blindness.”

“We shall be very happy, James. You will be chosen Senator, and all will be as it should be. The clouds on my horizon are one by one passing away, and justice is prevailing at last. What do you suppose I heard to-day? Pauline Littleton is to marry Dr. Page. Mrs. Earle told me so. Pauline has written to the trustees that after the first of next January she will cease to serve as president of Wetmore; that by that time the college will be running smoothly, so that a successor can take up the work. There is a chance now that the trustees will choose a genuine educator for the place some woman of spontaneous impulses and a large outlook on life. Pauline’s place is by the domestic hearth. She could never have much influence on progress.”

“I do not know her very well,” said Lyons. “But I know this, Selma, you would be just the woman for the place if you were not my wife. You would make an ideal president of a college for progressive women.”

“I am suited for the work, and I think I am progressive,” she admitted. “But that, of course, is out of the question for me as a married woman and the wife of a United States Senator. But I am glad, James, to have you appreciate my strong points.”

On the following day Lyons vetoed the gas bill. His message to the Legislature described it as a measure which disposed of a valuable franchise for nothing, and which would create a monopoly detrimental to the rights of the public. This action met with much public approval. One newspaper expressed well the feeling of the community by declaring that the Governor had faced the issue squarely and shown the courage of his well-known convictions. The Benham Sentinel was practically mute. It stated merely in a short editorial that it was disappointed in Governor Lyons, and that he had played into the hands of the demagogues and the sentimentalists. It suggested to the Legislature to show commendable independence by passing the bill over his veto. But this was obviously a vain hope.

The vote in the House against the veto not merely fell short of the requisite two-thirds, but was less than a plurality, showing that the action of the chief magistrate had reversed the sentiment of the Legislature. The force of Stringer’s opposition was practically killed by the Governor’s course. He had staked everything on the chance that Lyons would see fit to sign the bill. When the party caucus for the choice of a candidate for Senator was held a few days later, his followers recognized the hopelessness of his ambition and prevailed on him to withdraw his name from consideration. Lyons was elected Senator of the United States by a party vote by the two branches of the Legislature assembled in solemn conclave. Apparently Elton had realized that opposition was useless, and that he must bide his time for revenge. Booming cannon celebrated the result of the proceedings, and Selma, waiting at home on the River Drive, received a telegram from the capital announcing the glad news. Her husband was United States Senator, and the future stretched before her big with promise. She had battled with life, she had suffered, she had held fast to her principles, and at last she was rewarded.

Lyons returned to Benham by the afternoon train, and a salute of one hundred guns greeted him on his arrival. He walked from the station like any private citizen. Frequent cheers attended his progress to his house. In the evening the shops and public buildings were illuminated, and the James O. Lyons Cadets, who considered themselves partly responsible for his rapid promotion, led a congratulatory crowd to the River Drive. The Senator-elect, in response to the music of a serenade, stepped out on the balcony. Selma waited behind the window curtain until the enthusiasm had subsided; then she glided forth and showed herself at his elbow. A fresh round of cheers for the Senator’s wife followed. It was a glorious night. The moon shone brightly. The street was thronged by the populace, and glittered with the torches of the cadets. Lyons stood bareheaded. His large, round, smooth face glistened, and the moonbeams, bathing his chin beard, gave him the effect of a patriarch, or of one inspired. He raised his hand to induce silence, then stood for a moment, as was his habit before speaking, with an expression as though he were struggling with emotion or busy in silent prayer.

“Fellow citizens of Benham,” he began, slowly, “compatriots of the sovereign State which has done me to-day so great an honor, I thank you for this precious greeting. You are my constituents and my brothers. I accept from your hands this great trust of office, knowing that I am but your representative, knowing that my mission is to bear constant witness to the love of liberty, the love of progress, the love of truth which are enshrined in the hearts of the great American people. Your past has been ever glorious; your future looms big with destiny. Still leaning on the God of our fathers, to whom our patriot sires have ever turned, and whose favors to our beloved country are seen in your broad prairies tall with fruitful grain, and your mighty engines of commerce, I take up the work which you have given me to do, pledged to remain a democrat of the democrats, an American of the Americans.”

Selma heard the words of this peroration with a sense of ecstasy. She felt that he was speaking for them both, and that he was expressing the yearning intention of her soul to attempt and perform great things. She stood gazing straight before her with her far away, seraph look, as though she were penetrating the future even into Paradise.