I slept in a wide chamber in the mansion of Mr.Ezra Hutchins.There were many Hutchinses in Elkington,--brothers and cousins and uncles and great-uncles,--and all were connected with the woollen mills.But there is always one supreme Hutchins,and Ezra was he:tall,self-contained,elderly,but well preserved through frugal living,essentially American and typical of his class,when he entered the lobby of the Commercial House that afternoon the babel of political discussion was suddenly hushed;politicians,traveling salesmen and the members of the local committee made a lane for him;to him,the Hon.Joseph and I were introduced.Mr.Hutchins knew what he wanted.He was cordial to Mr.
Mecklin,but he took me.We entered a most respectable surrey with tassels,driven by a raw-boned coachman in a black overcoat,drawn by two sleek horses.
"How is this thing going,Paret?"he asked.
I gave him Mr.Grunewald's estimated majority.
"What do you think?"he demanded,a shrewd,humorous look in his blue eyes.
"Well,I think we'll carry the state.I haven't had Grunewald's experience in estimating."Ezra Hutchins smiled appreciatively.
"What does Watling think?"
"He doesn't seem to be worrying much."
"Ever been in Elkington before?"
I said I hadn't.
"Well,a drive will do you good."
It was about four o'clock on a mild October afternoon.The little town,of fifteen thousand inhabitants or so,had a wonderful setting in the widening valley of the Scopanong,whose swiftly running waters furnished the power for the mills.We drove to these through a gateway over which the words "No Admittance"were conspicuously painted,past long brick buildings that bordered the canals;and in the windows I caught sight of drab figures of men and women bending over the machines.Half of the buildings,as Mr.Hutchins pointed out,were closed,--mute witnesses of tariff-tinkering madness.
Even more eloquent of democratic folly was that part of the town through which we presently passed,streets lined with rows of dreary houses where the workers lived.Children were playing on the sidewalks,but theirs seemed a listless play;listless,too,were the men and women who sat on the steps,--listless,and somewhat sullen,as they watched us passing.
Ezra Hutchins seemed to read my thought.
"Since the unions got in here I've had nothing but trouble,"he said.
"I've tried to do my duty by my people,God knows.But they won't see which side their bread's buttered on.They oppose me at every step,they vote against their own interests.Some years ago they put up a job on us,and sent a scatter-brained radical to the legislature.""Krebs.""Do you know him?""Slightly.He was in my class at Harvard....Is he still here?"Iasked,after a pause.
"Oh,yes.But he hasn't gone to the legislature this time,we've seen to that.His father was a respectable old German who had a little shop and made eye-glasses.The son is an example of too much education.He's a notoriety seeker.Oh,he's clever,in a way.He's given us a good deal of trouble,too,in the courts with damage cases."...
We came to a brighter,more spacious,well-to-do portion of the town,where the residences faced the river.In a little while the waters widened into a lake,which was surrounded by a park,a gift to the city of the Hutchins family.Facing it,on one side,was the Hutchins Library;on the other,across a wide street,where the maples were turning,were the Hutchinses'residences of various dates of construction,from that of the younger George,who had lately married a wife,and built in bright yellow brick,to the old-fashioned mansion of Ezra himself.This,he told me,had been good enough for his father,and was good enough for him.The picture of it comes back to me,now,with singular attractiveness.It was of brick,and I suppose a modification of the Georgian;the kind of house one still sees in out-of-the way corners of London,with a sort of Dickensy flavour;high and square and uncompromising,with small-paned windows,with a flat roof surrounded by a low balustrade,and many substantial chimneys.The third storey was lower than the others,separated from them by a distinct line.On one side was a wide porch.Yellow and red leaves,the day's fall,scattered the well-kept lawn.Standing in the doorway of the house was a girl in white,and as we descended from the surrey she came down the walk to meet us.She was young,about twenty.Her hair was the colour of the russet maple leaves.
"This is Mr.Paret,Maude."Mr.Hutchins looked at his watch as does a man accustomed to live by it."If you'll excuse me,Mr.Paret,I have something important to attend to.Perhaps Mr.Paret would like to look about the grounds?"He addressed his daughter.
I said I should be delighted,though I had no idea what grounds were meant.As I followed Maude around the house she explained that all the Hutchins connection had a common back yard,as she expressed it.In reality,there were about two blocks of the property,extending behind all the houses.There were great trees with swings,groves,orchards where the late apples glistened between the leaves,an old-fashioned flower garden loath to relinquish its blooming.In the distance the shadowed western ridge hung like a curtain of deep blue velvet against the sunset.
"What a wonderful spot!"I exclaimed.
"Yes,it is nice,"she agreed,"we were all brought up here--I mean my cousins and myself.There are dozens of us.And dozens left,"she added,as the shouts and laughter of children broke the stillness.
A boy came running around the corner of the path.He struck out at Maude.With a remarkably swift movement she retaliated.
"Ouch!"he exclaimed.
