FOX sat at his writing-table turning over and signing some papers left
there in methodical order by his stenographer. He was going out of town
at last, and the thought of escape from the oppression of the last few
weeks was like a breath of sweet fresh air from the hills where he
was born. But even with the prospect of this reprieve he did his work
mechanically, glancing up occasionally at the waving tree-tops which
were on a level with his open windows and limited his view.
Sandy lay at his feet waiting impatiently for his daily run and in
sympathy with his master’s mood. Fox spoke to him once or twice as he
paused in his work, and once he bent down and caressed the faithful
creature’s head; there was comfort in the sense of dumb companionship.
Yet at this very moment of depression he was aware that he had achieved
a signal political triumph. His last speech before the closing of
Congress had resounded from one end of the country to the other, and
been caught up and echoed abroad. He had healed a breach in the party,
plucked victory from defeat, and his name was on every lip.
A few months ago the significance of it would have stirred him deeply,
his keen political foresight would have shown him the greatest
possibilities; now it was dead sea fruit. He knew that in a year,
perhaps in less time, he must take a step which would inflict a sharp
injury to his career, which would, perhaps, lose him his popularity
forever.
And a few weeks ago how differently the world had looked! Then such a
victory as he might now easily win would have meant greater honor to
offer to the girl he loved.
His lips tightened and he bent to his work. He was still reading and
signing letters when there was a knock at his door, and he opened it
to admit Louis Berkman. Berkman had been away and, returning but a few
days before, was not fully aware of the current gossip, but he had just
heard of Fox’s achievement and came in with breezy congratulations.
“My dear fellow, I always said you had it in you! Some day we shall get
you in the White House!”
Fox laughed a little bitterly. “It will be a long day, Berkman,” he
said coolly; “the newspapers make a great deal of fuss over a small
matter.”
“Not at all! I just saw Wingfield, and you know he hasn’t much reason
to love you; he told me that you’d be Secretary of State in three
months.”
Fox bit his lip. “Wingfield’s an old fool!” he retorted sharply.
Berkman laughed. “Oh, I know about White, he’ll have to go; I’m jolly
sorry on account of his wife, she’s no end of fun! What the devil has
he been doing with that Osborne woman’s help? I heard in New York that
she had sold information to Wall Street and something about our Navy to
Japan.”
“I don’t believe that!” said Fox flatly; “White hasn’t done that,
it’s only meant as an attack on him of course. They say everything of
Mrs. Osborne, they always have, and that dirty sheet in New York has
published a lot of lies; it ought to be suppressed.”
“Nevertheless White will go out; I hear that everywhere,” said Berkman
obstinately; “and then you’ll come in.”
Fox smiled with exceeding bitterness. “Then I shall not come in,” he
retorted quietly; “I shan’t go into the Cabinet.”
Something in his tone at last warned Berkman, and he colored deeply
with embarrassment. Certain vague rumors took shape in his mind and he
remembered suddenly Margaret’s mood after they had left Fox and Rose
together in Rock Creek Park. He reached over and took a cigarette from
the box on the table and lighted it to hide his confusion.
“I believe you’re right,” he said, with assumed lightness of tone; “the
Cabinet isn’t as brilliant an opportunity as the House. At any rate I
congratulate you, my dear fellow, and I wish you all success.”
Fox thanked him dryly and asked a few desultory questions about
Berkman’s trip and his new book which was in press.
“It will be out in about ten days,” the author said calmly, “and
then my friends will make a business of sending me all the adverse
criticisms. If I didn’t like to see the favorable ones occasionally
I shouldn’t need to employ clipping bureaus. I’m hanged if I see the
point of view which makes it a duty to be disagreeable!”
Fox laughed. “My dear fellow, our friends never realize us. I remember
the first speech I ever made at the primaries; I was a little flushed
with success; I’d had some applause, but suddenly I heard a voice, the
sharp high voice of my childhood’s neighbor, an old Methodist deacon,
and it said: ‘Well, I’m beat if it ain’t Billy Fox makin’ a speech,
an’ the last time I saw him I was mighty nigh givin’ him a lickin’
for fishin’ on Sunday in my pool!’ By heavens,” Fox added with sudden
bitterness, “I wish I were fishing there now; how cool and deep the
shadows were!”
“Trout, of course?” said Berkman sympathetically.
Fox nodded. “Big ones; there was a willow behind the pool; we cut our
whistles there and hid there when we saw old man Siddons coming. Lord,
Berkman, how the past slips away!”
“You ought to go back there now,” said the author abruptly, as he rose;
“I never saw you so pale; have you been ill?”
“Never better; you know that like Prosper Merimée I am naturally of the
color of the pale horse in the Apocalypse.”
“Ah, well,” said Berkman, knocking the ashes from his cigarette, “I
don’t envy you public life; it’s a harness, Fox, and a pretty tight
harness too, I fancy.”
“I don’t think I shall see a great deal more of it,” Fox answered, with
an enigmatical smile.
Berkman stared. “You!” he exclaimed; “you’re at the threshold, man; in
another year or so the country will be clamoring for you.”
“Or against me,” said Fox scornfully; “wait a moment,” he added, with
a complete change of tone, “I’ll go with you, this room suffocates me
to-day, it’s full of vapors!”
* * * * *
Meanwhile old Mrs. Allestree sat opposite to Judge Temple in his
library; the door was closed and they were alone save for the birds
in the garden, for the windows were wide open, cool striped awnings
shading the room from the warm glow of the afternoon, which steeped
that secluded spot in slumberous calm.
“Stephen, I’m the criminal,” she said firmly, “Robert had nothing
whatever to do with it; there’s your old check and you’ve got to keep
it!”
The judge colored painfully; he had aged twenty years in the last few
weeks and his old friend saw it. Once or twice she had winked back her
tears but her voice was acrid.
“I can’t keep it and keep the picture,” he said firmly; “Robert has
earned the money; I distinctly stipulated that I should pay the regular
price for the portrait.”
“And Robert never meant you should! My dear friend, you and I know
that he loves Rose; why hurt the boy’s feelings?”
“That’s one reason why I can’t accept it, don’t you see--” the judge
stopped abruptly.
The old woman nodded. “Yes,” she said, “I see; I know Rose doesn’t love
him; I wish she did, I hope and pray she may! But that’s neither here
nor there; as for the money, Robert won’t have it.”
“Then I shall return the picture, and I should like to keep it,
especially if Rose goes abroad.”
She looked at him with exasperation. “You know Rose can’t go without
that money; you just admitted that you couldn’t afford it!”
“Which was not an appeal for charity,” flashed the judge hotly.
“Stephen, I’m ashamed of you!” she exclaimed, then her eyes brightened
and she looked at him with new defiance. “You can’t have the picture,
Robert will keep it; he loves it better than anything else; you shan’t
insult him with money for it; I won’t have it, sir! Where are your old
ideas of chivalry? One would suppose that you were one of these new
vulgar people who think that money is the criterion of everything,
that they can buy shares in paradise! You’ve lived too long in the
neighborhood of the new rich; I’m really ashamed of you. I hated to
have Robert part with the picture anyway; he shan’t do it now for he’ll
never take pay for it!”
The judge looked blank, his hands trembled. “But I wanted it!” he said
plaintively, “I can’t stand in the child’s light but--” he passed his
shaking hand over his forehead--“I shall miss her terribly.”
Mrs. Allestree nodded wisely without any sign of relenting. “I know,”
she said, “so shall I! But Robert won’t take pay for the picture; I
fancy _you_ selling a picture of the woman you loved!”
The old man sighed profoundly, staring at the floor, distinctly aware
that she was tapping her foot impatiently and eying him like an angry
sparrow, her head on one side. The silence was painful, they both heard
the bees in the trumpet creeper which hung blooming over the bow-window.
After a while she stole a cautious amused look at him, then she stirred
eagerly in her chair. “Stephen, I’ve just thought of a way! Robert
will, of course, keep the picture, but he’ll lend it to you while Rose
is away.”
Her manner was a trifle too elaborately casual, but the judge did not
observe it; a shamed look of relief stole over his face, he passed his
handkerchief across his brow, pushing back the scant white hair. “And
I can give it back as soon as she comes home,” he said with almost an
eager note in his voice.
“Yes,” Mrs. Allestree replied in a matter-of-fact tone, stern business
in her eye as she added: “you’ll have to give it back at once, Stephen,
and, of course, you’ll be responsible for it while it’s here. Now, you
give that check to Rose, I want to hear the child sing.”
The judge sighed profoundly, his head bowed. “I’d rather be whipped,
Jane,” he said brokenly, “but the child has set her heart on it--and
I’ve shown myself an old fool!”
Mrs. Allestree rose. “You have!” she said uncompromisingly, “but then
we’re both way behind the times. In the first place you’ve only had
one wife and I’ve only had one husband! Margaret White left for Omaha
to-day; of course she’ll be divorced and married to my nephew in half
an hour. I’ve some hope now of being fashionable, if I can get a motor
accident in the family! And you’re broken hearted because your girl
wants to sing in public; tut, Stephen, you’re a hopeless old fogy, go
and marry Martha O’Neal!”