Full Text Archive

Full Text Archive
https://www.fulltextarchive.com
"Aisy! Aisy!" was all the old contractor would say. He was thinking hard.
Chapter XXV
The residence of Henry A. Mollenhauer was, at that time, in a section of the city which was
almost as new as that in which Butler was living. It was on South Broad Street, near a
handsome library building which had been recently erected. It was a spacious house of the type
usually affected by men of new wealth in those days--a structure four stories in height of yellow
brick and white stone built after no school which one could readily identify, but not unattractive
in its architectural composition. A broad flight of steps leading to a wide veranda gave into a
decidedly ornate door, which was set on either side by narrow windows and ornamented to the
right and left with pale-blue jardinieres of considerable charm of outline. The interior, divided into
twenty rooms, was paneled and parqueted in the most expensive manner for homes of that day.
There was a great reception-hall, a large parlor or drawing-room, a dining-room at least thirty
feet square paneled in oak; and on the second floor were a music-room devoted to the talents
of Mollenhauer's three ambitious daughters, a library and private office for himself, a boudoir
and bath for his wife, and a conservatory.
Mollenhauer was, and felt himself to be, a very important man. His financial and political
judgment was exceedingly keen. Although he was a German, or rather an American of German
parentage, he was a man of a rather impressive American presence. He was tall and heavy and
shrewd and cold. His large chest and wide shoulders supported a head of distinguished
proportions, both round and long when seen from different angles. The frontal bone descended
in a protruding curve over the nose, and projected solemnly over the eyes, which burned with a
shrewd, inquiring gaze. And the nose and mouth and chin below, as well as his smooth, hard
cheeks, confirmed the impression that he knew very well what he wished in this world, and was
very able without regard to let or hindrance to get it. It was a big face, impressive, well modeled.
He was an excellent friend of Edward Malia Butler's, as such friendships go, and his regard for
Mark Simpson was as sincere as that of one tiger for another. He respected ability; he was
willing to play fair when fair was the game. When it was not, the reach of his cunning was not
easily measured.
When Edward Butler and his son arrived on this Sunday evening, this distinguished
representative of one-third of the city's interests was not expecting them. He was in his library
reading and listening to one of his daughters playing the piano. His wife and his other two
daughters had gone to church. He was of a domestic turn of mind. Still, Sunday evening being
an excellent one for conference purposes generally in the world of politics, he was not without
the thought that some one or other of his distinguished confreres might call, and when the
combination footman and butler announced the presence of Butler and his son, he was well
pleased.
"So there you are," he remarked to Butler, genially, extending his hand. "I'm certainly glad to
see you. And Owen! How are you, Owen? What will you gentlemen have to drink, and what will
you smoke? I know you'll have something. John"--to the servitor---"see if you can find
something for these gentlemen. I have just been listening to Caroline play; but I think you've
frightened her off for the time being."
He moved a chair into position for Butler, and indicated to Owen another on the other side of the
table. In a moment his servant had returned with a silver tray of elaborate design, carrying
114 / 312

---