"TIMEO DANAOS"
The proverbial little birds that carry news and prophecies through the
air were evidently responsible for an official-looking letter which
Austen received a few mornings later. On the letter-head was printed "The
United Northeastern Railroads," and Mr. Austen Vane was informed that, by
direction of the president, the enclosed was sent to him in an entirely
complimentary sense. "The enclosed" was a ticket of red cardboard, and
its face informed him that he might travel free for the rest of the year.
Thoughtfully turning it over, he read on the back the following
inscription:--"It is understood that this pass is accepted by its
recipient as a retainer."
Austen stared at it and whistled. Then he pushed back his chair, with the
pass in his hand, and hesitated. He seized a pen and wrote a few lines:
"Dear sir, I beg to return the annual pass over the Northeastern
Railroads with which you have so kindly honoured me"--when he suddenly
changed his mind again, rose, and made his way through the corridors to
his father's office. The Honourable Hilary was absorbed in his daily
perusal of the Guardian.
"Judge," he asked, "is Mr. Flint up at his place this week?"
The Honourable Hilary coughed.
"He arrived yesterday on the three. Er--why?"
"I wanted to go up and thank him for this," his son answered, holding up
the red piece of cardboard. "Mr. Flint is a very thoughtful man."
The Honourable Hilary tried to look unconcerned, and succeeded.
"Sent you an annual, has he? Er--I don't know as I'd bother him
personally, Austen. Just a pleasant note of acknowledgment."
"I don't flatter myself that my achievements in the law can be
responsible for it," said Austen. "The favour must be due to my
relationship with his eminent chief counsel."
Hilary Vane's keen eyes rested on his son for an instant. Austen was more
than ever an enigma to him.
"I guess relationship hasn't got much to do with business," he replied.
"You have be'n doing--er--better than I expected."
"Thank you, Judge," said Austen, quietly. "I don't mind saying that I
would rather have your approbation than--this more substantial
recognition of merit."
The Honourable Hilary's business was to deal with men, and by reason of
his ability in so doing he had made a success in life. He could judge
motives more than passably well, and play upon weaknesses. But he left
Austen's presence that morning vaguely uneasy, with a sense of having
received from his own son an initial defeat at a game of which he was a
master. Under the excuse of looking up some precedents, he locked his
doors to all comers for two hours, and paced his room. At one moment he
reproached himself for not having been frank; for not having told Austen
roundly that this squeamishness about a pass was unworthy of a strong man
of affairs; yes, for not having revealed to him the mysteries of railroad
practice from the beginning. But frankness was not an ingredient of the
Honourable Hilary's nature, and Austen was not the kind of man who would
accept a hint and a wink. Hilary Vane had formless forebodings, and found
himself for once in his life powerless to act.
The cost of living in Ripton was not so high that Austen Vane could not
afford to keep a horse and buggy. The horse, which he tended himself, was
appropriately called Pepper; Austen had found him in the hills, and he
was easily the finest animal in Ripton: so good, in fact, that Mr.
Humphrey Crewe (who believed he had an eye for horses) had peremptorily
hailed Austen from a motorcar and demanded the price, as was Mr. Crewe's
wont when he saw a thing he desired. He had been somewhat surprised and
not inconsiderably offended by the brevity and force of the answer which
he had received.
On the afternoon of the summer's day in which Austen had the conversation
with his father just related, Pepper was trotting at a round clip through
the soft and shady wood roads toward the town of Tunbridge; the word
"town" being used in the New England sense, as a piece of territory about
six miles by six. The fact that automobiles full of laughing people from
Leith hummed by occasionally made no apparent difference to Pepper, who
knew only the master hand on the reins; the reality that the wood roads
were climbing great hills the horse did not seem to feel. Pepper knew
every lane and by-path within twenty miles of Ripton, and exhibited such
surprise as a well-bred horse may when he was slowed down at length and
turned into a hard, blue-stone driveway under a strange granite arch with
the word "Fairview" cut in Gothic letters above it, and two great lamps
in wrought-iron brackets at the sides. It was Austen who made a note of
the gratings over the drains, and of the acres of orderly forest in a
mysterious and seemingly enchanted realm. Intimacy with domains was new
to him, and he began to experience an involuntary feeling of restraint
which was new to him likewise, and made him chafe in spite of himself.
The estate seemed to be the visible semblance of a power which troubled
him.
Shortly after passing an avenue neatly labelled "Trade's Drive" the road
wound upwards through a ravine the sides of which were covered with a
dense shrubbery which had the air of having always been there, and yet
somehow looked expensive. At the top of the ravine was a sharp curve; and
Austen, drawing breath, found himself swung, as it were, into space,
looking off across miles of forest-covered lowlands to an ultramarine
mountain in the hazy south,--Sawanec. As if in obedience to a telepathic
command of his master, Pepper stopped.
Drinking his fill of this scene, Austen forgot an errand which was not
only disagreeable, but required some fortitude for its accomplishment.
The son had this in common with the Honourable Hilary--he hated heroics;
and the fact that the thing smacked of heroics was Austen's only
deterrent. And then there was a woman in this paradise! These gradual
insinuations into his revery at length made him turn. A straight avenue
of pear-shaped, fifteen-year-old maples led to the house, a massive
colonial structure of wood that stretched across the shelf; and he had
tightened the reins and started courageously up the avenue when he
perceived that it ended in a circle on which there was no sign of a
hitching-post. And, worse than this, on the balconied, uncovered porch
which he would have to traverse to reach the doorway he saw the sheen and
glimmer of women's gowns grouped about wicker tables, and became aware
that his approach was the sole object of the scrutiny of an afternoon tea
party.
As he reached the circle it was a slight relief to learn that Pepper was
the attraction. No horse knew better than Pepper when he was being
admired, and he arched his neck and lifted his feet and danced in the
sheer exhilaration of it. A smooth-faced, red-cheeked gentleman in gray
flannels leaned over the balustrade and made audible comments in a
penetrating voice which betrayed the fact that he was Mr. Humphrey Crewe.
"Saw him on the street in Ripton last year. Good hock action, hasn't
he?--that's rare in trotters around here. Tried to buy him. Feller
wouldn't sell. His name's Vane--he's drivin' him now."
A lady of a somewhat commanding presence was beside him. She was perhaps
five and forty, her iron-gray hair was dressed to perfection, her figure
all that Parisian art could make it, and she was regarding Austen with
extreme deliberation through the glasses which she had raised to a
high-bridged nose.
"Politics is certainly your career, Humphrey," she remarked, "you have
such a wonderful memory for faces. I don't see how he does it, do you,
Alice?" she demanded of a tall girl beside her, who was evidently her
daughter, but lacked her personality.
"I don't know," said Alice.
"It's because I've been here longer than anybody else, Mrs. Pomfret,"
answered Mr. Crewe, not very graciously, "that's all. Hello." This last
to Austen.
"Hello," said Austen.
"Who do you want to see?" inquired Mr. Crewe, with the admirable tact for
which he was noted.
Austen looked at him for the first time.
"Anybody who will hold my horse," he answered quietly.
By this time the conversation had drawn the attention of the others at
the tables, and one or two smiled at Austen's answer. Mrs. Flint, with a
"Who is it?" arose to repel a social intrusion. She was an overdressed
lady, inclining to embonpoint, but traces of the Rose of Sharon were
still visible.
"Why don't you drive 'round to the stables?" suggested Mr. Crewe, unaware
of a smile.
Austen did not answer. He was, in fact, looking towards the doorway, and
the group on the porch were surprised to see a gleam of mirthful
understanding start in his eyes. An answering gleam was in Victoria's,
who had at that moment, by a singular coincidence, come out of the house.
She came directly down the steps and out on the gravel, and held her hand
to him in the buggy, and he flushed with pleasure as he grasped it.
"How do you do, Mr. Vane?" she said. "I am so glad you have called.
Humphrey, just push the stable button, will you?"
Mr. Crewe obeyed with no very good grace, while the tea-party went back
to their seats. Mrs. Flint supposed he had come to sell Victoria the
horse; while Mrs. Pomfret, who had taken him in from crown to boots,
remarked that he looked very much like a gentleman.
"I came to see your father for a few moments--on business," Austen
explained.
She lifted her face to his with a second searching look.
"I'll take you to him," she said.
By this time a nimble groom had appeared from out o a shrubbery path and
seized Pepper's head. Austen alighted and followed Victoria into a great,
cool hallway, and through two darkened rooms, bewilderingly furnished and
laden with the scent of flowers, into a narrow passage beyond. She led
the way simply, not speaking, and her silence seemed to betoken the
completeness of an understanding between them, as of a long acquaintance.
In a plain white-washed room, behind a plain oaken desk, sat Mr. Flint--a
plain man. Austen thought he would have known him had he seen him on the
street. The other things in the room were letter-files, a safe, a
long-distance telephone, and a thin private secretary with a bend in his
back. Mr. Flint looked up from his desk, and his face, previously bereft
of illumination, lighted when he saw his daughter. Austen liked that in
him.
"Well, Vic, what is it now?" he asked.
"Mr. Austen Vane to see you," said Victoria, and with a quick glance at
Austen she left him standing on the threshold. Mr. Flint rose. His eyes
were deep-set in a square, hard head, and he appeared to be taking Austen
in without directly looking at him; likewise, one felt that Mr. Flint's
handshake was not an absolute gift of his soul.
"How do you do, Mr. Vane? I don't remember ever to have had the pleasure
of seeing you, although your father and I have been intimately connected
for many years."
So the president's manner was hearty, but not the substance. It came,
Austen thought, from a rarity of meeting with men on a disinterested
footing; and he could not but wonder how Mr. Flint would treat the angels
in heaven if he ever got there, where there were no franchises to be had.
Would he suspect them of designs upon his hard won harp and halo? Austen
did not dislike Mr. Flint; the man's rise, his achievements, his
affection for his daughter, he remembered. But he was also well aware
that Mr. Flint had thrown upon him the onus of the first move in a game
which the railroad president was used to playing every day. The dragon
was on his home ground and had the choice of weapons.
"I do not wish to bother you long," said Austen.
"No bother," answered Mr. Flint, "no bother to make the acquaintance of
the son of my old friend, Hilary Vane. Sit down--sit down. And while I
don't believe any man should depend upon his father to launch him in the
world, yet it must be a great satisfaction to you, Mr. Vane, to have such
a father. Hilary Vane and I have been intimately associated for many
years, and my admiration for him has increased with every year. It is to
men of his type that the prosperity, the greatness, of this nation is
largely due,--conservative, upright, able, content to confine himself to
the difficult work for which he is so eminently fitted, without
spectacular meddling in things in which he can have no concern. Therefore
I welcome the opportunity to know you, sir, for I understand that you
have settled down to follow in his footsteps and that you will make a
name for yourself. I know the independence of young men--I was young once
myself. But after all, Mr. Vane, experience is the great teacher, and
perhaps there is some little advice which an old man can give you that
may be of service. As your father's son, it is always at your disposal.
Have a cigar."
The thin secretary continued to flit about the room, between the
letter-files and the desk. Austen had found it infinitely easier to shoot
Mr. Blodgett than to engage in a duel with the president of the United
Railroad.
"I smoke a pipe," he said.
"Too many young men smoke cigars--and those disgusting cigarettes," said
Mr. Flint, with conviction. "There are a lot of worthless young men in
these days, anyhow. They come to my house and loaf and drink and smoke,
and talk a lot of nonsense about games and automobiles and clubs, and
cumber the earth generally. There's a young man named Crewe over at
Leith, for instance--you may have seen him. Not that he's dissipated
--but he don't do anything but talk about railroads and the stock market
to make you sick, and don't know any more about 'em than my farmer."
During this diatribe Austen saw his opening growing smaller and smaller.
If he did not make a dash for it, it would soon be closed entirely.
"I received a letter this morning, Mr. Flint, enclosing me an annual
pass--"
"Did Upjohn send you one?" Mr. Flint cut in; "he ought to have done so
long ago. It was probably an oversight that he did not, Mr. Vane. We try
to extend the courtesies of the road to persons who are looked up to in
their communities. The son of Hilary Vane is at all times welcome to
one."
Mr. Flint paused to light his cigar, and Austen summoned his resolution.
Second by second it was becoming more and more difficult and seemingly
more ungracious to return a gift so graciously given, a gift of no
inconsiderable intrinsic value. Moreover, Mr. Flint had ingeniously
contrived almost to make the act, in Austen's eyes, that of a picayune
upstart. Who was he to fling back an annual pass in the face of the
president of the Northeastern Railroads?
"I had first thought of writing you a letter, Mr. Flint," he said, "but
it seemed to me that, considering your relations with my father, the
proper thing to do was to come to you and tell you why I cannot take the
pass."
The thin secretary paused in his filing, and remained motionless with his
body bent over the drawer.
"Why you cannot take it, Mr. Vane?" said the railroad president. "I'm
afraid I don't understand."
"I appreciate the--the kindness," said Austen, "and I will try to
explain." He drew the red cardboard from his pocket and turned it over.
"On the back of this is printed, in small letters, 'It is understood that
this pass is accepted by the recipient as a retainer.'"
"Well," Mr. Flint interrupted, smiling somewhat blandly, "how much money
do you think that pass would save an active young lawyer in a year? Is
three hundred dollars too much? Three hundred dollars is not an
insignificant sum to a young man on the threshold of his practice, is
it?"
Austen looked at Mr. Flint.
"Any sum is insignificant when it restricts a lawyer from the acceptance
of just causes, Mr. Flint. As I understand the matter, it is the custom
of your railroad to send these passes to the young lawyers of the State
the moment they begin to give signs of ability. This past would prevent
me from serving clients who might have righteous claims against your
railroads, and--permit me to speak frankly--in my opinion the practice
tends to make it difficult for poor people who have been injured to get
efficient lawyers."
"Your own father is retained by the railroad," said Mr. Flint.
"As their counsel," answered Austen. "I have a pride in my profession,
Mr. Flint, as no doubt you have in yours. If I should ever acquire
sufficient eminence to be sought as counsel for a railroad, I should make
my own terms with it. I should not allow its management alone to decide
upon the value of my retainer, and my services in its behalf would be
confined strictly to professional ones."
Mr. Flint drummed on the table.
"What do you mean by that?" he demanded.
"I mean that I would not engage, for a fee or a pass, to fight the
political battles of a railroad, or undertake any political manipulation
in its behalf whatever."
Mr. Flint leaned forward aggressively.
"How long do you think a railroad would pay dividends if it did not adopt
some means of defending itself from the blackmail politician of the State
legislatures, Mr. Vane? The railroads of which I have the honour to be
president pay a heavy tag in this and other States. We would pay a much
heavier one if we didn't take precautions to protect ourselves. But I do
not intend to quarrel with you, Mr. Vane," he continued quickly,
perceiving that Austen was about to answer him, "nor do I wish to leave
you with the impression that the Northeastern Railroads meddle unduly in
politics."
Austen knew not how to answer. He had not gone there to discuss this last
and really great question with Mr. Flint, but he wondered whether the
president actually thought him the fledgling he proclaimed. Austen laid
his pass on Mr. Flint's desk, and rose.
"I assure you, Mr. Flint, that the spirit which prompted my visit was not
a contentious one. I cannot accept the pass, simply because I do not wish
to be retained."
Mr. Flint eyed him. There was a mark of dignity, of silent power, on this
tall scapegrace of a son of Hilary Vane that the railroad president had
missed at first--probably because he had looked only for the scapegrace.
Mr. Flint ardently desired to treat the matter in the trifling aspect in
which he believed he saw it, to carry it off genially. But an instinct
not yet formulated told the president that he was face to face with an
enemy whose potential powers were not to be despised, and he bristled in
spite of himself.
"There is no statute I know of by which a lawyer can be compelled to
accept a retainer against his will, Mr. Vane," he replied, and overcame
himself with an effort. "But I hope that you will permit me," he added in
another tone, "as an old friend of your father's and as a man of some
little experience in the world, to remark that intolerance is a
characteristic of youth. I had it in the days of Mr. Isaac D.
Worthington, whom you do not remember. I am not addicted to flattery, but
I hope and believe you have a career before you. Talk to your father.
Study the question on both sides,--from the point of view of men who are
honestly trying, in the face of tremendous difficulties, to protect
innocent stockholders as well as to conduct a corporation in the
interests of the people at large, and for their general prosperity. Be
charitable, young man, and judge not hastily."
Years before, when poor Sarah Austen had adorned the end of his table,
Hilary Vane had raised his head after the pronouncement of grace to
surprise a look in his wife's eyes which strangely threw him into a white
heat of anger. That look (and he at intervals had beheld it afterwards)
was the true presentment of the soul of the woman whose body was his. It
was not--as Hilary Vane thought it--a contempt for the practice of
thanking one's Maker for daily bread, but a contempt for cant of one who
sees the humour in cant. A masculine version of that look Mr. Flint now
beheld in the eyes of Austen Vane, and the enraging effect on the
president of the United Railroads was much the same as it had been on his
chief counsel. Who was this young man of three and thirty to agitate him
so? He trembled, though not visibly, yet took Austen's hand mechanically.
"Good day, Mr. Vane," he said; "Mr. Freeman will help you to find your
horse."
The thin secretary bowed, and before he reached the door into the passage
Mr. Flint had opened another at the back of the room and stepped out on a
close-cropped lawn flooded with afternoon sunlight. In the passage Austen
perceived a chair, and in the chair was seated patiently none other than
Mr. Brush Bascom--political Duke of Putnam. Mr. Bascom's little agate
eyes glittered in the dim light.
"Hello, Austen," he said, "since when have you took to comin' here?"
"It's a longer trip from Putnam than from Ripton, Brush," said Austen,
and passed on, leaving Mr. Bascom with a puzzled mind. Something very
like a smile passed over Mr. Freeman's face as he led the way silently
out of a side entrance and around the house. The circle of the drive was
empty, the tea-party had gone--and Victoria. Austen assured himself that
her disappearance relieved him: having virtually quarrelled with her
father, conversation would have been awkward; and yet he looked for her.
They found the buggy and Pepper in the paved courtyard of the stables. As
Austen took the reins the secretary looked up at him, his mild blue eyes
burning with an unsuspected fire. He held out his hand.
"I want to congratulate you," he said.
"What for?" asked Austen, taking the hand in some embarrassment.
"For speaking like a man," said the secretary, and he turned on his heel
and left him.
This strange action, capping, as it did, a stranger experience, gave
Austen food for thought as he let Pepper take his own pace down the
trade's road. Presently he got back into the main drive where it clung to
a steep, forest-covered side hill, when his attention was distracted by
the sight of a straight figure in white descending amidst the foliage
ahead. His instinctive action was to pull Pepper down to a walk, scarcely
analyzing his motives; then he had time, before reaching the spot where
their paths would cross, to consider and characteristically to enjoy the
unpropitious elements arrayed against a friendship with Victoria Flint.
She halted on a flagstone of the descending path some six feet above the
roadway, and stood expectant. The Rose of Sharon, five and twenty years
before, would have been coy--would have made believe to have done it by
accident. But the Rose of Sharon, with all her beauty, would have had no
attraction for Austen Vane. Victoria had much of her mother's good looks,
the figure of a Diana, and her clothes were of a severity and correctness
in keeping with her style; they merely added to the sum total of the
effect upon Austen. Of course he stopped the buggy immediately beneath
her, and her first question left him without any breath. No woman he had
ever known seized the essentials as she did.
"What have you been doing to my father?" she asked.
"Why?" exclaimed Austen.
"Because he's in such a bad temper," said Victoria. "You must have put
him in it. It can't be possible that you came all the way up here to
quarrel with him. Nobody ever dares to quarrel with him."
"I didn't come up to quarrel with him," said Austen.
"What's the trouble?" asked Victoria.
The humour of this question was too much for him, and he laughed.
Victoria's eyes laughed a little, but there was a pucker in her forehead.
"Won't you tell me?" she demanded, "or must I get it out of him?"
"I am afraid," said Austen, slowly, "that you must get it out of him--if
he hasn't forgotten it."
"Forgotten it, dear old soul!" cried Victoria. "I met him just now and
tried to make him look at the new Guernseys, and he must have been
disturbed quite a good deal when he's cross as a bear to me. He really
oughtn't to be upset like that, Mr. Vane, when he comes up here to rest.
I am afraid that you are rather a terrible person, although you look so
nice. Won't you tell me what you did to him?"
Austen was non-plussed.
"Nothing intentional," he answered earnestly, "but it wouldn't be fair to
your father if I gave you my version of a business conversation that
passed between us, would it?"
"Perhaps not," said Victoria. She sat down on the flagstone with her
elbow on her knee and her chin in her hand, and looked at him
thoughtfully. He knew well enough that a wise general would have
retreated--horse, foot, and baggage; but Pepper did not stir.
"Do you know," said Victoria, "I have an idea you came up here about Zeb
Meader."
"Zeb Meader!"
"Yes. I told my father about him,--how you rescued him, and how you went
to see him in the hospital, and what a good man he is, and how poor."
"Oh, did you!" exclaimed Austen.
"Yes. And I told him the accident wasn't Zeb's fault, that the train
didn't whistle or ring, and that the crossing was a blind one."
"And what did he say?" asked Austen, curiously.
"He said that on a railroad as big as his something of the kind must
happen occasionally. And he told me if Zeb didn't make a fuss and act
foolishly, he would have no cause to regret it."
"And did you tell Zeb?" asked Austen.
"Yes," Victoria admitted, "but I'm sorry I did, now."
"What did Zeb say?"
Victoria laughed in spite of herself, and gave a more or less exact
though kindly imitation of Mr. Meader's manner.
"He said that wimmen-folks had better stick to the needle and the duster,
and not go pokin' about law business that didn't concern 'em. But the
worst of it was," added Victoria, with some distress, "he won't accept
any more fruit. Isn't he silly? He won't get it into his head that I give
him the fruit, and not my father. I suspect that he actually believes my
father sent me down there to tell him that."
Austen was silent, for the true significance of this apparently obscure
damage case to the Northeastern Railroads was beginning to dawn on him.
The public was not in the best of humours towards railroads: there was
trouble about grade crossings, and Mr. Meader's mishap and the manner of
his rescue by the son of the corporation counsel had given the accident a
deplorable publicity. Moreover, if it had dawned on Augustus Flint that
the son of Hilary Vane might prosecute the suit, it was worth while
taking a little pains with Mr. Meader and Mr. Austen Vane. Certain small
fires have been known to light world-wide conflagrations.
"What are you thinking about?" asked Victoria. "It isn't at all polite to
forget the person you are talking to."
"I haven't forgotten you," said Austen, with a smile. How could he
--sitting under her in this manner?
"Besides," said Victoria, mollified, "you haven't an answered my
question."
"Which question?"
She scrutinized him thoughtfully, and with feminine art made the kind of
an attack that rarely fails.
"Why are you such an enigma, Mr. Vane?" she demanded. "Is it because
you're a lawyer, or because you've been out West and seen so much of life
and shot so many people?"
Austen laughed, yet he had tingling symptoms because she showed enough
interest in him to pronounce him a riddle. But he instantly became
serious as the purport of the last charge came home to him.
"I suppose I am looked upon as a sort of Jesse James," he said. "As it
happens, I have never shot but one man, and I didn't care very much for
that."
Victoria got up and came down a step and gave him her hand. He took it,
nor was he the first to relinquish the hold; and a colour rose delicately
in her face as she drew her fingers away.
"I didn't mean to offend you," she said.
"You didn't offend me," he replied quickly. "I merely wished you to know
that I wasn't a brigand."
Victoria smiled.
"I really didn't think so--you are much too solemn. I have to go now,
and--you haven't told me anything."
She crossed the road and began to descend the path on the other side.
Twice he glanced back, after he had started, and once surprised her
poised lightly among the leaves, looking over her shoulder.