Читать книгу Crime Tears On - Carolyn Wells - Страница 5

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Harley Madison was a fine man. The fact that he was quick of thought, curt of speech and outspoken as to his opinions did not detract from the fineness or his nature. Nor did the fact that he was autocratic and pig-headed lessen his sterling worth. The trouble was that his fellow men did not believe the abovementioned, self-evident truths, and that’s why the one-time peaceful village of New Plymouth was more like a line of embattled farmers than a placid, easy-going community.

Though not so very many miles from settlements that prided themselves on being the Long Island of to-day and even the Long Island of to-morrow, New Plymouth was without doubt the Long Island of yesterday and the Long Island of the day before yesterday.

To this none of the townfolk objected, until Harley Madison told them they ought to object and told them why and how. It was the how that made the trouble. For though the citizens of the hamlet were by no means lacking in this world’s goods, they had an ineradicable notion that they wanted to spend their money in a way that would bring them acclaim and honor. And Mr. Madison’s way of putting all their donations in a common fund, and spending from it such sums as were needed left each donor uncertain whether he had contributed to the new town hall or the floral park.

For, you must understand, the plans were not on a niggardly scale. The town was to be made all beautiful within, and in Mr. Madison’s opinion it mattered not a jot which man paid for which added beauty. One thing was certain, Mr. Madison informed them, the architect of every new building was to be above criticism. He had himself engaged New York architects of renown, and he made it clear that if this made too great inroads on the building fund, he would attend to these bills personally.

Speaking now, from the platform of the old town hall, he held his audience’s attention. His splendid physical strength lent dignity to his few but forceful gestures, and his glowing personality swayed his hearers and convinced them that what he said was right. Harley Madison never made trouble, unless he wanted to do so. And now he had come to a point in his enterprise where he was inviting trouble.

He had asked several men to speak this evening and put into words the objections they felt toward his management of the work. Job Hendricks, the oldest citizen, and after Madison the wealthiest one, declared that it was human nature to want credit for any good work well done. For his part, he wanted to present a library to the rejuvenated town, and he proposed that the Hendricks Library should stand well forward among the libraries of the country. He had many rare books to grace its shelves, and he would endow it sufficiently to preserve it as long as New Plymouth should stand.

At the end of Job’s speech, Madison said, quietly: ‘Then I gather that you want to present the town with a first-class library, but the gift is contingent on permission to call the building by your name?’

‘That’s about the size of it,’ Hendricks told him.

‘And a mean little size it is,’ declared Madison. ‘A noble gift spoiled by a stipulation that it shall be an advertisement of the generosity of the donor! Perhaps a gold statue of Mr. Job Hendricks, gentleman, in the lobby.’

‘And no reason why that shouldn’t be,’ responded Job, angrily, for already snickers were audible here and there.

‘Yes, there are reasons, Hendricks, and one is that such a thing establishes a precedent. If you do that, others will want the same privilege.’

‘We do,’ sang out a raucous and unpleasant voice, the voice of Henry Potter, the butcher. ‘That’s what we do want, Mr. Madison. Here’s me, ready and willin’ to donate a park, a first-class affair, complete, with fountain, and a few busts, mebbe. Now, why shouldn’t that pleasure ground be called Potter Park, and why shouldn’t my noble features, cast in endurin’ bronze, decorate the mall surroundin’ the bandstand?’

Clarence Mason, a millionaire owner of very good oil stock, took up the tale.

‘I hadn’t thought of a Potter Park,’ he said, ‘‘and I hope no one will miscall it the Potter’s Field, but I’ve no right to object to this naming business when I myself have toyed with the idea of Mason Hospital. A fine hospital is among the first of a city’s needs, and as you all know, it is usual to call a hospital by the name of its donor. I seem to see the new town in my mind’s eye, looking like a modern paradise.’

‘Looks more like a modern Main Street to me.’ Thus Harley Madison let his annoyance show plainly. He had heard rumors of this element of vain benefactors, and it jarred his aesthetic sense and also aroused a more practical and valid objection.

The meeting was informal. As president of the association, Madison sat on the platform, but so did several others, and many were tipped back in their chairs or sitting on the edge of a table. It was an open forum, and every man could speak his mind. Madison had intended this night to suggest that they organise themselves into a proper body, with rules and by-laws and officers.

He didn’t understand those things himself, but Hiram Riley was an old and reliable lawyer who could do up the matter in proper shape. This matter of plastering names all over everything must be settled first, though, and Harley Madison decided to settle it.

He didn’t use many words, but he told them plainly that this whole thing was his project. That he was ready to contribute a great deal of money, also time and influence, which three elements would surely make for success. He could probably make more of these three necessary contributions than any one else present, perhaps than all of those present. But he did not want his name celebrated in any way. His goal was a fine, thriving town, eventually a city, and he would make no apology for saying that if his support were withdrawn, the village of New Plymouth would remain in its present dilapidated and sordid condition till Judgment Day.

He would put forth another argument for his opinion, and then he would leave it to his colleagues to decide on their course. This argument was that if these men, who wanted their names permanently and blatantly in the public eye, had their way, the less wealthy but no less worthy and loyal citizens, who could not present a monument to their own fame and glory, would be dissuaded from doing anything at all, and lose interest in the movement and frustrate entirely the ambitions of himself and of those he had considered his co-workers.

To some of those present, this speech, which Madison ended with dramatic suddenness, seemed a tempest in a teapot. To a few others and to Madison himself, it was the key of the whole situation. He knew that the men, to whose attitude he was objecting, had more self-aggrandisement in their minds than a gold-lettered name. They had plans for the spending of public moneys and the dictating of public procedure, which were secret, indeed, yet Madison knew of their existence.

He was honestly willing to do all he had to do, to give all he had to give, to use his widespread influence to the utmost; with no recognition. His one desire was to make that negligible little wilderness, among the Queen’s County blossom like the rose. And he could not work with men who were secretly modelling their plans on Atlantic City or Coney Island. For he knew Potter Park meant no sylvan glades and shaded paths, but an amusement park. He had long since seen the undeveloped beauty in the environs of the village, and he had bought many acres of good brown earth, had improved it and sold it. At a profit? Yes, but getting only a well-deserved return for his wise and efficient work on it.

Harley Madison knew, too, that there was an undercurrent of hostility, secret but palpable, at least to him. He was intuitive and keen witted. He did not propose to combat this element unless some overt act made it necessary; but he was not going to work with it, and that left him no choice but to resign from his own enterprise. He did not want to carry on further without some more definite information, so he left the question of emblazoned names drift away, and brought up one or two less dangerous subjects. He even introduced a spirit of levity into his conversation, and fairly early he declared he must go home, but the others could discuss plans at their leisure.

As Hiram Riley said after he had gone, he didn’t fool anybody. ‘He was flabbergasted, that’s what he was,’ Riley declared. ‘He wanted to get away and think it over by himself. That’s Madison, never talks till he’s thunk it well over. Do you know what I believe? I believe he’ll resign.’

‘Resign from what?’ asked Potter. ‘He ain’t got any position to resign from.’

‘Well, he has,’ Mason assured him. ‘We’re not an organised body yet, but in an informal way we are sort of connected, and we’ve always called Mr. Madison president. And I can tell you if he does resign, or leave, or whatever you choose to call it, the improvement of this dump of ours explodes into thin air!’

‘Nothing of the sort,’ Potter told him. ‘If our dictatorial friend severs relations, I know who is ready to step into the breach, and perhaps fill it more acceptably than the nabob of Silver Hill.’

‘Meaning your utterly asinine self?’ exclaimed Job Hendricks. ‘I reckon you’ll find you’re going it alone, then!’

‘Better alone than in poor company. And as this company is none too cordial, I think I’ll seek some more congenial spirits.’

‘I should have said all spirits are congenial to you,’ Job observed with an intentionally annoying grin.

‘Guess you’re about right,’ Potter agreed, and left, having no desire to get into a real quarrel just then.

Harley Madison walked home across the village green. He did not let the events of the evening weigh too heavily on his mind, for he knew they would grant anything he asked before they would lose his support. But he looked round at the green with apprehension.

For months he had had visions of the oval, reconstituted as to vegetation, reclaimed as to symmetry and shapeliness, the big trees trimmed and cared for, and, a very secret ambition, a little pond in the middle, with a tiny rustic bridge and lots of iris growing round. He had mentioned this to nobody but Cornelia, who adored the idea, but he was sure the boys would laugh at it.

He thought over the men who had stood up against him. He was peace-loving, and he hated the thought of real dissension, but something must be done. He must find out for a certainty, just what those traitors to the cause were doing. He must know at once, for he couldn’t go another step in the dark. They had planned a meeting next week to organise themselves. He felt sure he would be the president, but did he want to be president of a bunch of traitors? He’d resign first.

And that would throw Craig out of business. For Craig was hard at work on plans for various buildings. A rising young architect, the boy welcomed this chance, and how could his uncle snatch it from him? He wondered how he could find out what he wanted to know. Perhaps Cornelia could help, and if she could she would.