BOOK 3.

Produced by Pat Castevans and David Widger

MR. CREWE'S CAREER, Complete

By Winston Churchill

BOOK 1.

CHAPTER I. THE HONOURABLE HILARY VANE SITS FOR HIS PORTRAIT

I may as well begin this story with Mr. Hilary Vane, more frequently

addressed as the Honourable Hilary Vane, although it was the gentleman's

proud boast that he had never held an office in his life. He belonged

to the Vanes of Camden Street,--a beautiful village in the hills near

Ripton,--and was, in common with some other great men who had made

a noise in New York and the nation, a graduate of Camden Wentworth

Academy. But Mr. Vane, when he was at home, lived on a wide,

maple-shaded street in the city of Ripton, cared for by an elderly

housekeeper who had more edges than a new-fangled mowing machine.

The house was a porticoed one which had belonged to the Austens for a

hundred years or more, for Hilary Vane had married, towards middle age,

Miss Sarah Austen. In two years he was a widower, and he never tried it

again; he had the Austens' house, and that many-edged woman, Euphrasia

Cotton, the Austens' housekeeper.

The house was of wood, and was painted white as regularly as leap year.

From the street front to the vegetable garden in the extreme rear it was

exceedingly long, and perhaps for propriety's sake--Hilary Vane lived

at one end of it and Euphrasia at the other. Hilary was sixty-five,

Euphrasia seventy, which is not old for frugal people, though it is

just as well to add that there had never been a breath of scandal about

either of them, in Ripton or elsewhere. For the Honourable Hilary's

modest needs one room sufficed, and the front parlour had not been used

since poor Sarah Austen's demise, thirty years before this story opens.

In those thirty years, by a sane and steady growth, Hilary Vane had

achieved his present eminent position in the State. He was trustee for I

know not how many people and institutions, a deacon in the first

church, a lawyer of such ability that he sometimes was accorded

the courtesy-title of “Judge.” His only vice--if it could be called

such--was in occasionally placing a piece, the size of a pea, of a

particular kind of plug tobacco under his tongue,--and this was not

known to many people. Euphrasia could not be called a wasteful person,

and Hilary had accumulated no small portion of this world's goods, and

placed them as propriety demanded, where they were not visible to the

naked eye: and be it added in his favour that he gave as secretly, to

institutions and hospitals the finances and methods of which were known

to him.

As concrete evidence of the Honourable Hilary Vane's importance, when

he travelled he had only to withdraw from his hip-pocket a book in which

many coloured cards were neatly inserted, an open-sesame which permitted

him to sit without payment even in those wheeled palaces of luxury known

as Pullman cars. Within the limits of the State he did not even have

to open the book, but merely say, with a twinkle of his eyes to the

conductor, “Good morning, John,” and John would reply with a bow and a

genial and usually witty remark, and point him out to a nobody who sat

in the back of the car. So far had Mr. Hilary Vane's talents carried

him.

The beginning of this eminence dated back to the days before the Empire,

when there were many little principalities of railroads fighting among

themselves. For we are come to a changed America. There was a time, in

the days of the sixth Edward of England, when the great landowners found

it more profitable to consolidate the farms, seize the common lands, and

acquire riches hitherto undreamed of. Hence the rising of tailor Ket and

others, and the leveling of fences and barriers, and the eating of many

sheep. It may have been that Mr. Vane had come across this passage in

English history, but he drew no parallels. His first position of trust

had been as counsel for that principality known in the old days as the

Central Railroad, of which a certain Mr. Duncan had been president, and

Hilary Vane had fought the Central's battles with such telling

effect that when it was merged into the one Imperial Railroad, its

stockholders--to the admiration of financiers--were guaranteed ten per

cent. It was, indeed, rumoured that Hilary drew the Act of Consolidation

itself. At any rate, he was too valuable an opponent to neglect, and

after a certain interval of time Mr. Vane became chief counsel in the

State for the Imperial Railroad, on which dizzy height we now behold

him. And he found, by degrees, that he had no longer time for private

practice.

It is perhaps gratuitous to add that the Honourable Hilary Vane was

a man of convictions. In politics he would have told you--with some

vehemence, if you seemed to doubt--that he was a Republican. Treason to

party he regarded with a deep-seated abhorrence, as an act for which

a man should be justly outlawed. If he were in a mellow mood, with the

right quantity of Honey Dew tobacco under his tongue, he would perhaps

tell you why he was a Republican, if he thought you worthy of his

confidence. He believed in the gold standard, for one thing; in the

tariff (left unimpaired in its glory) for another, and with a wave of

his hand would indicate the prosperity of the nation which surrounded

him,--a prosperity too sacred to tamper with.

One article of his belief, and in reality the chief article, Mr. Vane

would not mention to you. It was perhaps because he had never formulated

the article for himself. It might be called a faith in the divine right

of Imperial Railroads to rule, but it was left out of the verbal

creed. This is far from implying hypocrisy to Mr. Vane. It was his

foundation-rock and too sacred for light conversation. When he allowed

himself to be bitter against various “young men with missions” who

had sprung up in various States of the Union, so-called purifiers of

politics, he would call them the unsuccessful with a grievance, and

recommend to them the practice of charity, forbearance, and other

Christian virtues. Thank God, his State was not troubled with such.

In person Mr. Hilary Vane was tall, with a slight stoop to his

shoulders, and he wore the conventional double-breasted black coat,

which reached to his knees, and square-toed congress boots. He had a

Puritan beard, the hawk-like Vane nose, and a twinkling eye that spoke

of a sense of humour and a knowledge of the world. In short, he was no

man's fool, and on occasions had been more than a match for certain New

York lawyers with national reputations.

It is rare, in this world of trouble, that such an apparently ideal

and happy state of existence is without a canker. And I have left the

revelation of the canker to the last. Ripton knew it was there, Camden

Street knew it, and Mr. Vane's acquaintances throughout the State; but

nobody ever spoke of it. Euphrasia shed over it the only tears she

had known since Sarah Austen died, and some of these blotted the only

letters she wrote. Hilary Vane did not shed tears, but his friends

suspected that his heart-strings were torn, and pitied him. Hilary Vane

fiercely resented pity, and that was why they did not speak of it. This

trouble of his was the common point on which he and Euphrasia touched,

and they touched only to quarrel. Let us out with it--Hilary Vane had a

wild son, whose name was Austen.

Euphrasia knew that in his secret soul Mr. Vane attributed this

wildness, and what he was pleased to designate as profligacy, to the

Austen blood. And Euphrasia resented it bitterly. Sarah Austen had been

a young, elfish thing when he married her,--a dryad, the elderly and

learned Mrs. Tredway had called her. Mr Vane had understood her about

as well as he would have understood Mary, Queen of Scots, if he had been

married to that lady. Sarah Austen had a wild, shy beauty, startled,

alert eyes like an animal, and rebellious black hair that curled about

her ears and gave her a faun-like appearance. With a pipe and the

costume of Rosalind she would have been perfect. She had had a habit of

running off for the day into the hills with her son, and the conventions

of Ripton had been to her as so many defunct blue laws. During her brief

married life there had been periods of defiance from her lasting a week,

when she would not speak to Hilary or look at him, and these periods

would be followed by violent spells of weeping in Euphrasia's arms,

when the house was no place for Hilary. He possessed by matrimony and

intricate mechanism of which his really admirable brain could not grasp

the first principles; he felt for her a real if uncomfortable

affection, but when she died he heaved a sigh of relief, at which he was

immediately horrified.

Austen he understood little better, but his affection for the child may

be likened to the force of a great river rushing through a narrow gorge,

and he vied with Euphrasia in spoiling him. Neither knew what they were

doing, and the spoiling process was interspersed with occasional and

(to Austen) unmeaning intervals of severe discipline. The boy loved

the streets and the woods and his fellow-beings; his punishments were

a series of afternoons in the house, during one of which he wrecked

the bedroom where he was confined, and was soundly whaled with an old

slipper that broke under the process. Euphrasia kept the slipper, and

once showed it to Hilary during a quarrel they had when the boy was

grown up and gone and the house was silent, and Hilary had turned away,

choking, and left the room. Such was his cross.

To make it worse, the boy had love his father. Nay, still loved him. As

a little fellow, after a scolding for some wayward prank, he would throw

himself into Hilary's arms and cling to him, and would never know how

near he came to unmanning him. As Austen grew up, they saw the world in

different colours: blue to Hilary was red to Austen, and white, black;

essentials to one were non-essentials to the other; boys and girls, men

and women, abhorred by one were boon companions to the other.

Austen made fun of the minister, and was compelled to go church twice

on Sundays and to prayer-meeting on Wednesdays. Then he went to Camden

Street, to live with his grandparents in the old Vane house and

attend Camden Wentworth Academy. His letters, such as they were, were

inimitable if crude, but contained not the kind of humour Hilary Vane

knew. Camden Wentworth, principal and teachers, was painted to the life;

and the lad could hardly wait for vacation time to see his father, only

to begin quarreling with him again.

I pass over escapades in Ripton that shocked one half of the population

and convulsed the other half. Austen went to the college which his

father had attended,--a college of splendid American traditions,--and

his career there might well have puzzled a father of far greater

tolerance and catholicity. Hilary Vane was a trustee, and journeyed more

than once to talk the matter over with the president, who had been his

classmate there.

“I love that boy, Hilary,” the president had said at length, when

pressed for a frank opinion,--“there isn't a soul in the place, I

believe, that doesn't,--undergraduates and faculty,--but he has given me

more anxious thought than any scholar I have ever had.”

“Trouble,” corrected Mr. Vane, sententiously.

“Well, yes, trouble,” answered the president, smiling, “but upon my

soul, I think it is all animal spirits.”

“A euphemism for the devil,” said Hilary, grimly; “he is the animal part

of us, I have been brought up to believe.”

The president was a wise man, and took another tack.

“He has a really remarkable mind, when he chooses to use it. Every once

in a while he takes your breath away--but he has to become interested.

A few weeks ago Hays came to me direct from his lecture room to tell me

about a discussion of Austen's in constitutional law. Hays, you know, is

not easily enthused, but he declares your son has as fine a legal brain

as he has come across in his experience. But since then, I am bound to

admit,” added the president, sadly, “Austen seems not to have looked at

a lesson.”

“'Unstable as water, thou shalt not excel,'” replied Hilary.

“He'll sober down,” said the president, stretching his conviction a

little, “he has two great handicaps: he learns too easily, and he is

too popular.” The president looked out of his study window across the

common, surrounded by the great elms which had been planted when Indian

lads played among the stumps and the red flag of England had flown

from the tall pine staff. The green was covered now with students of a

conquering race, skylarking to and fro as they looked on at a desultory

baseball game. “I verily believe,” said the president, “at a word from

your son, most of them would put on their coats and follow him on any

mad expedition that came into his mind.”

Hilary Vane groaned more than once in the train back to Ripton. It meant

nothing to him to be the father of the most popular man in college.

“The mad expedition” came at length in the shape of a fight with the

townspeople, in which Austen, of course, was the ringleader. If he had

inherited his mother's eccentricities, he had height and physique from

the Vanes, and one result was a week in bed for the son of the local

plumber and a damage suit against the Honourable Hilary. Another

result was that Austen and a Tom Gaylord came back to Ripton on a long

suspension, which, rumour said, would have been expulsion if Hilary were

not a trustee. Tom Gaylord was proud of suspension in such company. More

of him later. He was the son of old Tom Gaylord, who owned more lumber

than any man in the State, and whom Hilary Vane believed to be the

receptacle of all the vices.

Eventually Austen went back and graduated--not summa cum laude, honesty

compels me to add. Then came the inevitable discussion, and to please

his father he went to the Harvard Law School for two years. At the end

of that time, instead of returning to Ripton, a letter had come from him

with the postmark of a Western State, where he had fled with a classmate

who owned ranch. Evidently the worldly consideration to be derived from

conformity counted little with Austen Vane. Money was a medium only--not

an end. He was in the saddle all day, with nothing but the horizon to

limit him; he loved his father, and did not doubt his father's love for

him, and he loved Euphrasia. He could support himself, but he must see

life. The succeeding years brought letters and quaint, useless presents

to both the occupants of the lonely house,--Navajo blankets and Indian

jeweler and basket-work,--and Austen little knew how carefully these

were packed away and surreptitiously gazed at from time to time. But to

Hilary the Western career was a disgrace, and such meagre reports of

it as came from other sources than Austen tended only to confirm him in

this opinion.

It was commonly said of Mr. Paul Pardriff that not a newspaper fell from

the press that he did not have a knowledge of its contents. Certain

it was that Mr. Pardriff made a specialty of many kinds of knowledge,

political and otherwise, and, the information he could give--if he

chose--about State and national affairs was of a recondite and cynical

nature that made one wish to forget about the American flag. Mr.

Pardriff was under forty, and with these gifts many innocent citizens of

Ripton naturally wondered why the columns of his newspaper, the Ripton

Record, did not more closely resemble the spiciness of his talk in the

office of Gales' Hotel. The columns contained, instead, such efforts as

essays on a national flower and the abnormal size of the hats of certain

great men, notably Andrew Jackson; yes, and the gold standard; and in

times of political stress they were devoted to a somewhat fulsome praise

of regular and orthodox Republican candidates,--and praise of any one

was not in character with the editor. Ill-natured people said that the

matter in his paper might possibly be accounted for by the gratitude

of the candidates, and the fact that Mr. Pardriff and his wife and his

maid-servant and his hired man travelled on pink mileage books, which

could only be had for love--not money. On the other hand, reputable

witnesses had had it often from Mr. Pardriff that he was a reformer, and

not at all in sympathy with certain practices which undoubtedly existed.

Some years before--to be exact, the year Austen Vane left the law

school--Mr. Pardriff had proposed to exchange the Ripton Record with

the editor of the Pepper County Plainsman in afar Western State. The

exchange was effected, and Mr. Pardriff glanced over the Plainsman

regularly once a week, though I doubt whether the Western editor ever

read the Record after the first copy. One day in June Mr. Pardriff was

seated in his sanctum above Merrill's drug store when his keen green

eyes fell upon the following:--“The Plainsman considers it safe to say

that the sympathy of the people of Pepper County at large is with Mr.

Austen Vane, whose personal difficulty with Jim Blodgett resulted

so disastrously for Mr. Blodgett. The latter gentleman has long made

himself obnoxious to local ranch owners by his persistent disregard

of property lines and property, and it will be recalled that he is at

present in hot water with the energetic Secretary of the Interior for

fencing government lands. Vane, who was recently made manager of Ready

Money Ranch, is one of the most popular young men in the county. He was

unwillingly assisted over the State line by his friends. Although he has

never been a citizen of the State, the Plainsman trusts that he may soon

be back and become one of us. At last report Mr. Blodgett was resting

easily.”

This article obtained circulation in Ripton, although it was not copied

into the Record out of deference to the feelings of the Honourable

Hilary Vane. In addition to the personal regard Mr. Pardriff professed

to have for the Honourable Hilary, it maybe well to remember that

Austen's father was, among other, things, chairman of the State

Committee. Mr. Tredway (largest railroad stockholder in Ripton) pursed

his lips that were already pursed. Tom Gaylord roared with laughter. Two

or three days later the Honourable Hilary, still in blissful ignorance,

received a letter that agitated him sorely.

“DEAR FATHER: I hope you don't object to receiving a little visit from a

prodigal, wayward son. To tell the truth, I have found it convenient

to leave the Ready Money Ranch for a while, although Bob Tyner is good

enough to say I may have the place when I come back. You know I often

think of you and Phrasie back in Ripton, and I long to see the dear old

town again. Expect me when you see me.

“Your aff. son,

“AUSTEN.”

CHAPTER II. ON THE TREATMENT OF PRODIGALS

While Euphrasia, in a frenzy of anticipation, garnished and swept the

room which held for her so many memories of Austen's boyhood, even

beating the carpet with her own hands, Hilary Vane went about his

business with no apparent lack of diligence. But he was meditating. He

had many times listened to the Reverend Mr. Weightman read the parable

from the pulpit, but he had never reflected how it would be to be the

father of a real prodigal. What was to be done about the calf? Was there

to be a calf, or was there not? To tell the truth, Hilary wanted a calf,

and yet to have one (in spite of Holy Writ) would seem to set a premium

on disobedience and riotous living.

Again, Austen had reached thirty, an age when it was not likely he would

settle down and live an orderly and godly life among civilized beings,

and therefore a fatted calf was likely to be the first of many follies

which he (Hilary) would live to regret. No, he would deal with justice.

How he dealt will be seen presently, but when he finally reached this

conclusion, the clipping from the Pepper County Plainsman had not yet

come before his eyes.

It is worth relating how the clipping did come before his eyes, for no

one in Ripton had the temerity to speak of it. Primarily, it was because

Miss Victoria Flint had lost a terrier, and secondarily, because she

was a person of strong likes and dislikes. In pursuit of the terrier she

drove madly through Leith, which, as everybody knows, is a famous colony

of rich summer residents. Victoria probably stopped at every house

in Leith, and searched them with characteristic vigour and lack of

ceremony, sometimes entering by the side door, and sometimes by the

front, and caring very little whether the owners were at home or not.

Mr. Humphrey Crewe discovered her in a boa-stall at Wedderburn,--as his

place was called,--for it made little difference to Victoria that Mr.

Crewe was a bachelor of marriageable age and millions. Full, as ever, of

practical suggestions, Mr. Crewe proposed to telephone to Ripton and put

an advertisement in the Record, which--as he happened to know--went to

press the next day. Victoria would not trust to the telephone, whereupon

Mr. Crewe offered to drive down with her.

“You'd bore me, Humphrey,” said she, as she climbed into her runabout

with the father and grandfather of the absentee. Mr. Crewe laughed as

she drove away. He had a chemical quality of turning invidious remarks

into compliments, and he took this one as Victoria's manner of saying

that she did not wish to disturb so important a man.

Arriving in the hot main street of Ripton, her sharp eyes descried the

Record sign over the drug store, and in an astonishingly short time she

was in the empty office. Mr. Pardriff was at dinner. She sat down in the

editorial chair and read a great deal of uninteresting matter, but at

last found something on the floor (where the wind had blown it) which

made her laugh. It was the account of Austen Vane's difficulty with Mr.

Blodgett. Victoria did not know Austen, but she knew that the Honourable

Hilary had a son of that name who had gone West, and this was what

tickled her. She thrust the clipping in the pocket of her linen coat

just as Mr. Pardriff came in.

Her conversation with the editor of the Record proved so entertaining

that she forgot all about the clipping until she had reached Fairview,

and had satisfied a somewhat imperious appetite by a combination of

lunch and afternoon tea. Fairview was the “summer place” of Mr. Augustus

P. Flint, her father, on a shelf of the hills in the town of Tunbridge,

equidistant from Leith and Ripton: and Mr. Flint was the president of

the Imperial Railroad, no less.

Yes, he had once been plain Gus Flint, many years ago, when he used to

fetch the pocket-handkerchiefs of Mr. Isaac D. Worthington of Brampton,

and he was still “Gus” to his friends. Mr. Flint's had been the

brain which had largely conceived and executed the consolidation of

principalities of which the Imperial Railroad was the result and, as

surely as tough metal prevails, Mr. Flint, after many other trials and

errors of weaker stuff, had been elected to the place for which he was

so supremely fitted. We are so used in America to these tremendous

rises that a paragraph will suffice to place Mr. Flint in his Aladdin's

palace. To do him justice, he cared not a fig for the palace, and he

would have been content with the farmhouse under the hill where his

gardener lived. You could not fool Mr. Flint on a horse or a farm, and

he knew to a dot what a railroad was worth by travelling over it. Like

his governor-general and dependent, Mr. Hilary Vane, he had married a

wife who had upset all his calculations. The lady discovered Mr.

Flint's balance in the bank, and had proceeded to use it for her own

glorification, and the irony of it all was that he could defend it from

everybody else. Mrs. Flint spent, and Mr. Flint paid the bills; for the

first ten years protestingly, and after that he gave it up and let her

go her own gait.

She had come from the town of Sharon, in another State, through which

Mr. Flint's railroad also ran, and she had been known as the Rose

of that place. She had begun to rise immediately, with the kite-like

adaptability of the American woman for high altitudes, and the leaden

weight of the husband at the end of the tail was as nothing to her. She

had begun it all by the study of people in hotels while Mr. Flint was

closeted with officials and directors. By dint of minute observation and

reasoning powers and unflagging determination she passed rapidly through

several strata, and had made a country place out of her husband's farm

in Tunbridge, so happily and conveniently situated near Leith. In winter

they lived on Fifth Avenue.

One daughter alone had halted, for a minute period, this progress,

and this daughter was Victoria--named by her mother. Victoria was now

twenty-one, and was not only of another generation, but might almost

have been judged of another race than her parents. The things for which

her mother had striven she took for granted, and thought of them not at

all, and she had by nature that simplicity and astonishing frankness of

manner and speech which was once believed to be an exclusive privilege

of duchesses.

To return to Fairview. Victoria, after sharing her five o'clock luncheon

with her dogs, went to seek her father, for the purpose (if it must

be told) of asking him for a cheque. Mr. Flint was at Fairview on the

average of two days out of the week during the summer, and then he was

nearly always closeted with a secretary and two stenographers and a

long-distance telephone in two plain little rooms at the back of the

house. And Mr. Hilary Vane was often in consultation with him, as he was

on the present occasion when Victoria flung open the door. At sight of

Mr. Vane she halted suddenly on the threshold, and a gleam of mischief

came into her eye as she thrust her hand into her coat pocket. The two

regarded her with the detached air of men whose thread of thought has

been broken.

“Well, Victoria,” said her father, kindly if resignedly, “what is it

now?”

“Money,” replied Victoria, promptly; “I went to Avalon this morning and

bought that horse you said I might have.”

“What horse?” asked Mr. Flint, vaguely. “But never mind. Tell Mr.

Freeman to make out the cheque.”

Mr. Vane glanced at Mr. Flint, and his eyes twinkled. Victoria, who

had long ago discovered the secret of the Honey Dew, knew that he was

rolling it under his tongue and thinking her father a fool for his

indulgence.

“How do you do, Mr. Vane?” she said; “Austen's coming home, isn't he?”

She had got this by feminine arts out of Mr. Paul Pardriff, to whom she

had not confided the fact of her possession of the clipping.

The Honourable Hilary gave a grunt, as he always did when he was

surprised and displeased, as though some one had prodded him with a

stick in a sensitive spot.

“Your son? Why, Vane, you never told me that,” said Mr. Flint. “I didn't

know that you knew him, Victoria.”

“I don't,” answered Victoria, “but I'd like to. What did he do to Mr.

Blodgett?” she demanded of Hilary.

“Mr. Blodgett!” exclaimed that gentleman. “I never heard of him. What's

happened to him?”

“He will probably recover,” she assured him.

The Honourable Hilary, trying in vain to suppress his agitation, rose to

his feet.

“I don't know what you're talking about, Victoria,” he said, but his

glance was fixed on the clipping in her hand.

“Haven't you seen it?” she asked, giving it to him.

He read it in silence, groaned, and handed it to Mr. Flint, who had been

drumming on the table and glancing at Victoria with vague disapproval.

Mr. Flint read it and gave it back to the Honourable Hilary, who groaned

again and looked out of the window.

“Why do you feel badly about it?” asked Victoria. “I'd be proud of him,

if I were you.”

“Proud of him” echoed Mr. Vane, grimly. “Proud of him!”

“Victoria, what do you mean?” said Mr. Flint.

“Why not?” said Victoria. “He's done nothing to make you ashamed.

According to that clipping, he's punished a man who richly deserved to

be punished, and he has the sympathy of an entire county.”

Hilary Vane was not a man to discuss his domestic affliction with

anybody, so he merely grunted and gazed persistently out of the window,

and was not aware of the fact that Victoria made a little face at him as

she left the room. The young are not always impartial judges of the old,

and Victoria had never forgiven him for carrying to her father the news

of an escapade of hers in Ripton.

As he drove through the silent forest roads on his way homeward

that afternoon, the Honourable Hilary revolved the new and intensely

disagreeable fact in his mind as to how he should treat a prodigal

who had attempted manslaughter and was a fugitive from justice. In the

meantime a tall and spare young man of a red-bronze colour alighted

from the five o'clock express at Ripton and grinned delightedly at the

gentlemen who made the station their headquarters about train time.

They were privately disappointed that the gray felt hat, although

broad-brimmed, was not a sombrero, and the respectable, loose-fitting

suit of clothes was not of buckskin with tassels on the trousers; and

likewise that he came without the cartridge belt and holster which they

had pictured in anticipatory sessions on the baggage-trucks. There could

be no doubt of the warmth of their greeting as they sidled up and

seized a hand somewhat larger than theirs, but the welcome had in it

an ingredient of awe that puzzled the newcomer, who did not hesitate to

inquire:--“What's the matter, Ed? Why so ceremonious, Perley?”

But his eagerness did not permit him to wait for explanations. Grasping

his bag, the only baggage he possessed, he started off at a swinging

stride for Hanover Street, pausing only to shake the hands of the few

who recognized him, unconscious of the wild-fire at his back. Hanover

Street was empty that drowsy summer afternoon, and he stopped under

the well-remembered maples before the house and gazed at it long and

tenderly; even at the windows of that room--open now for the first time

in years--where he had served so many sentences of imprisonment. Then he

went cautiously around by the side and looked in at the kitchen door.

To other eyes than his Euphrasia might not have seemed a safe person to

embrace, but in a moment he had her locked in his arms and weeping. She

knew nothing as yet of Mr. Blodgett's misfortunes, but if Austen

Vane had depopulated a county it would have made no difference in her

affection.

“My, but you're a man,” exclaimed Euphrasia, backing away at last and

staring at him with the only complete approval she had ever accorded to

any human being save one.

“What did you expect, Phrasie?”

“Come, and I'll show you your room,” she said, in a gutter she could not

hide; “it's got all the same pictures in, your mother's pictures, and

the chair you broke that time when Hilary locked you in. It's mended.”

“Hold on, Phrasie,” said Austen, seizing her by the apron-strings, “how

about the Judge?” It was by this title he usually designated his father.

“What about him?” demanded Euphrasia, sharply.

“Well, it's his house, for one thing,” answered Austen, “and he may

prefer to have that room--empty.”

“Empty! Turn you out? I'd like to see him,” cried Euphrasia. “It

wouldn't take me long to leave him high and dry.”

She paused at the sound of wheels, and there was the Honourable Hilary,

across the garden patch, in the act of slipping out of his buggy at the

stable door. In the absence of Luke, the hired man, the chief counsel

for the railroad was wont to put up the horse himself, and he already

had the reins festooned from the bit rings when he felt a heavy, hand on

his shoulder and heard a voice say:--“How are you, Judge?”

If the truth be told, that voice and that touch threw the Honourable

Hilary's heart out of beat. Many days he had been schooling himself

for this occasion: this very afternoon he had determined his course of

action, which emphatically did not include a fatted calf. And now surged

up a dryad-like memory which had troubled him many a wakeful night, of

startled, appealing eyes that sought his in vain, and of the son she had

left him flinging himself into his arms in the face of chastisement. For

the moment Hilary Vane, under this traitorous influence, was unable to

speak. But he let the hand rest on his shoulder, and at length was

able to pronounce, in a shamefully shaky voice, the name of his son.

Whereupon Austen seized him by the other shoulder and turned him round

and looked into his face.

“The same old Judge,” he said.

But Hilary was startled, even as Euphrasia had been. Was this strange,

bronzed, quietly humorous young man his son? Hilary even had to raise

his eyes a little; he had forgotten how tall Austen was. Strange

emotions, unbidden and unwelcome, ran riot in his breast; and Hilary

Vane, who made no slips before legislative committees or supreme courts,

actually found himself saying:--“Euphrasia's got your room ready.”

“It's good of you to take me in, Judge,” said Austen, patting his

shoulder. And then he began, quite naturally to unbuckle the breechings

and loose the traces, which he did with such deftness and celerity that

he had the horse unharnessed and in the stall in a twinkling, and had

hauled the buggy through the stable door, the Honourable Hilary watching

him the while. He was troubled, but for the life of him could find no

adequate words, who usually had the dictionary at his disposal.

“Didn't write me why you came home,” said the Honourable Hilary, as his

son washed his hands at the spigot.

“Didn't I? Well, the truth was I wanted to see you again, Judge.”

His father grunted, not with absolute displeasure, but suspiciously.

“How about Blodgett?” he asked.

“Blodgett? Have you heard about that? Who told you?”

“Never mind. You didn't. Nothing in your letter about it.”

“It wasn't worth mentioning,” replied Austen. “Tyner and the boys liked

it pretty well, but I didn't think you'd be interested. It was a local

affair.”

“Not interested! Not worth mentioning!” exclaimed the Honourable

Hilary, outraged to discover that his son was modestly deprecating an

achievement instead of defending a crime. “Godfrey! murder ain't worth

mentioning, I presume.”

“Not when it isn't successful,” said Austen. “If Blodgett had succeeded,

I guess you'd have heard of it before you did.”

“Do you mean to say this Blodgett tried to kill you?” demanded the

Honourable Hilary.

“Yes,” said his son, “and I've never understood why he didn't. He's a

good deal better shot than I am.”

The Honourable Hilary grunted, and sat down on a bucket and carefully

prepared a piece of Honey Dew. He was surprised and agitated.

“Then why are you a fugitive from justice if you were acting in

self-defence?” he inquired.

“Well, you see there were no witnesses, except a Mexican of Blodgett's,

and Blodgett runs the Pepper County machine for the railroad out there.

I'd been wanting to come East and have a look at you for some time, and

I thought I might as well come now.”

“How did this--this affair start?” asked Mr. Vane.

“Blodgett was driving in some of Tyner's calves, and I caught him. I

told him what I thought of him, and he shot at me through his pocket.

That was all.”

“All! You shot him, didn't you?”

“I was lucky enough to hit him first,” said Austen.

Extraordinary as it may seem, the Honourable Hilary experienced a sense

of pride.

“Where did you hit him?” he asked.

It was Euphrasia who took matters in her own hands and killed the fatted

calf, and the meal to which they presently sat down was very different

from the frugal suppers Mr. Vane usually had. But he made no comment.

It is perhaps not too much to say that he would have been distinctly

disappointed had it been otherwise. There was Austen's favourite pie,

and Austen's favourite cake, all inherited from the Austens, who had

thought more of the fleshpots than people should. And the prodigal did

full justice to the occasion.

CHAPTER III. CONCERNING THE PRACTICE OF LAW

So instinctively do we hark back to the primeval man that there was a

tendency to lionize the prodigal in Ripton, which proves the finished

civilization of the East not to be so far removed from that land of

outlaws, Pepper County. Mr. Paul Pardriff, who had a guilty conscience

about the clipping, and vividly bearing in mind Mr. Blodgett's mishap,

alone avoided young Mr. Vane; and escaped through the type-setting room

and down an outside stairway in the rear when that gentleman called.

It gave an ironical turn to the incident that Mr. Pardriff was at the

moment engaged in a “Welcome Home” paragraph meant to be propitiatory.

Austen cared very little for lionizing. He spent most of his time with

young Tom Gaylord, now his father's right-hand man in a tremendous

lumber business. And Tom, albeit he had become so important, habitually

fell once more under the domination of the hero of his youthful days.

Together these two visited haunts of their boyhood, camping and fishing

and scaling mountains, Tom with an eye to lumbering prospects the while.

After a matter of two or three months bad passed away in this pleasant

though unprofitable manner, the Honourable Hilary requested the presence

of his son one morning at his office. This office was in what had once

been a large residence, and from its ample windows you could look out

through the elms on to the square. Old-fashioned bookcases lined with

musty books filled the walls, except where a steel engraving of a legal

light or a railroad map of the State was hung, and the Honourable Hilary

sat in a Windsor chair at a mahogany table in the middle.

The anteroom next door, where the clerks sat, was also a waiting-room

for various individuals from the different parts of the State who

continually sought the counsel's presence.

“Haven't seen much of you since you've be'n home, Austen,” his father

remarked as an opening.

“Your--legal business compels you to travel a great deal,” answered

Austen, turning from the window and smiling.

“Somewhat,” said the Honourable Hilary, on whom this pleasantry was not

lost. “You've be'n travelling on the lumber business, I take it.”

“I know more about it than I did,” his son admitted.

The Honourable Hilary grunted.

“Caught a good many fish, haven't you?”

Austen crossed the room and sat on the edge of the desk beside his

father's chair.

“See here, Judge,” he said, “what are you driving at? Out with it.”

“When are you--going back West?” asked Mr. Vane.

Austen did not answer at once, but looked down into his father's

inscrutable face.

“Do you want to get rid of me?” he said.

“Sowed enough wild oats, haven't you?” inquired the father.

“I've sowed a good many,” Austen admitted.

“Why not settle down?”

“I haven't yet met the lady, Judge,” replied his son.

“Couldn't support her if you had,” said Mr. Vane.

“Then it's fortunate,” said Austen, resolved not to be the necessary

second in a quarrel. He knew his father, and perceived that these

preliminary and caustic openings of his were really olive branches.

“Sometimes I think you might as well be in that outlandish country, for

all I see of you,” said the Honourable Hilary.

“You ought to retire from business and try fishing,” his son suggested.

The Honourable Hilary sometimes smiled.

“You've got a good brain, Austen, and what's the use of wasting it

chasing cattle and practising with a pistol on your fellow-beings? You

won't have much trouble in getting admitted to the bar. Come into the

office.”

Austen did not answer at once. He suspected that it had cost his father

not a little to make these advances.

“Do you believe you and I could get along, Judge? How long do you think

it would last?”

“I've considered that some,” answered the Honourable Hilary, “but I

won't last a great while longer myself.”

“You're as sound as a bronco,” declared Austen, patting him.

“I never was what you might call dissipated,” agreed Mr. Vane, “but men

don't go on forever. I've worked hard all my life, and got where I am,

and I've always thought I'd like to hand it on to you. It's a position

of honour and trust, Austen, and one of which any lawyer might be

proud.”

“My ambition hasn't run in exactly that channel,” said his son.

“Didn't know as you had any precise ambition,” responded the Honourable

Hilary, “but I never heard of a man refusing to be chief counsel for a

great railroad. I don't say you can be, mind, but I say with work and

brains it's as easy for the son of Hilary Vane as for anybody else.”

“I don't know much about the duties of such a position,” said Austen,

laughing, “but at all events I shall have time to make up my mind how

to answer Mr. Flint when he comes to me with the proposal. To speak

frankly, Judge, I hadn't thought of spending the whole of what might

otherwise prove a brilliant life in Ripton.”

The Honourable Hilary smiled again, and then he grunted.

“I tell you what I'll do,” he said; “you come in with me and agree to

stay five years. If you've done well for yourself, and want to go to New

York or some large place at the end of that time, I won't hinder you.

But I feel it my duty to say, if you don't accept my offer, no son

of mine shall inherit what I've laid up by hard labour. It's against

American doctrine, and it's against my principles. You can go back to

Pepper County and get put in jail, but you can't say I haven't warned

you fairly.”

“You ought to leave your fortune to the railroad, Judge,” said Austen.

“Generations to come would bless your name if you put up a new station

in Ripton and built bridges over Bunker Hill grade crossing and the

other one on Heath Street where Nic Adams was killed last month. I

shouldn't begrudge a cent of the money.”

“I suppose I was a fool to talk to you,” said the Honourable Hilary,

getting up.

But his son pushed him down again into the Windsor chair.

“Hold on, Judge,” he said, “that was just my way of saying if I accepted

your offer, it wouldn't be because I yearned after the money. Thinking

of it has never kept me awake nights. Now if you'll allow me to take a

few days once in a while to let off steam, I'll make a counter proposal,

in the nature of a compromise.”

“What's that?” the Honourable Hilary demanded suspiciously.

“Provided I get admitted to the bar I will take a room in another part

of this building and pick up what crumbs of practice I can by myself. Of

course, sir, I realize that these, if they come at all, will be owing

to the lustre of your name. But I should, before I become Mr. Flint's

right-hand man, like to learn to walk with my own legs.”

The speech pleased the Honourable Hilary, and he put out his hand.

“It's a bargain, Austen,” he said.

“I don't mind telling you now, Judge, that when I left the West I left

it for good, provided you and I could live within a decent proximity.

And I ought to add that I always intended going into the law after I'd

had a fling. It isn't fair to leave you with the impression that this

is a sudden determination. Prodigals don't become good as quick as all

that.”

Ripton caught its breath a second time the day Austen hired a law

office, nor did the surprise wholly cease when, in one season, he was

admitted to the bar, for the proceeding was not in keeping with the

habits and customs of prodigals. Needless to say, the practice did not

immediately begin to pour in, but the little office rarely lacked

a visitor, and sometimes had as many as five or six. There was an

irresistible attraction about that room, and apparently very little law

read there, though sometimes its occupant arose and pushed the visitors

into the hall and locked the door, and opened the window at the top to

let the smoke out. Many of the Honourable Hilary's callers preferred the

little room in the far corridor to the great man's own office.

These visitors of the elder Mr. Vane's, as has been before hinted, were

not all clients. Without burdening the reader too early with a treatise

on the fabric of a system, suffice it to say that something was

continually going on that was not law; and gentlemen came and went--fat

and thin, sharp-eyed and red-faced--who were neither clients nor

lawyers. These were really secretive gentlemen, though most of them

had a hail-fellow-well-met manner and a hearty greeting, but when they

talked to the Honourable Hilary it was with doors shut, and even then

they sat very close to his ear. Many of them preferred now to wait in

Austen's office instead of the anteroom, and some of them were not so

cautious with the son of Hilary Vane that they did not let drop

certain observations to set him thinking. He had a fanciful if somewhat

facetious way of calling them by feudal titles which made them grin.

“How is the Duke of Putnam this morning?” he would ask of the

gentleman of whom the Ripton Record would frequently make the following

announcement: “Among the prominent residents of Putnam County in town

this week was the Honourable Brush Bascom.”

The Honourable Brush and many of his associates, barons and earls,

albeit the shrewdest of men, did not know exactly how to take the son

of Hilary Vane. This was true also of the Honourable Hilary himself, who

did not wholly appreciate the humour in Austen's parallel of the

feudal system. Although Austen had set up for himself, there were many

ways--not legal--in which the son might have been helpful to the father,

but the Honourable Hilary hesitated, for some unformulated reason, to

make use of him; and the consequence was that Mr. Hamilton Tooting and

other young men of a hustling nature in the Honourable Hilary's office

found that Austen's advent did not tend greatly to lighten a certain

class of their labours. In fact, father and son were not much nearer in

spirit than when ode had been in Pepper County and the other in Ripton.

Caution and an instinct which senses obstacles are characteristics of

gentlemen in Mr. Vane's business.

So two years passed,--years liberally interspersed with expeditions

into the mountains and elsewhere, and nights spent in the company of

Tom Gaylord and others. During this period Austen was more than once

assailed by the temptation to return to the free life of Pepper

County, Mr. Blodgett having completely recovered now, and only desiring

vengeance of a corporal nature. But a bargain was a bargain, and Austen

Vane stuck to his end of it, although he had now begun to realize many

aspects of a situation which he had not before suspected. He had long

foreseen, however, that the time was coming when a serious disagreement

with his father was inevitable. In addition to the difference in

temperament, Hilary Vane belonged to one generation and Austen to

another.

It happened, as do so many incidents which tend to shape a life, by

a seeming chance. It was a Tune evening, and there had been a church

sociable and basket picnic during the day in a grove in the town of

Mercer, some ten miles south of Ripton. The grove was bounded on one

side by the railroad track, and merged into a thick clump of second

growth and alders where there was a diagonal grade crossing. The picnic

was over and the people preparing to go home when they were startled by

a crash, followed by the screaming of brakes as a big engine flew past

the grove and brought a heavy train to a halt some distance down the

grade. The women shrieked and dropped the dishes they were washing,

and the men left their horses standing and ran to the crossing and then

stood for the moment helpless, in horror at the scene which met their

eyes. The wagon of one--of their own congregation was in splinters, a

man (a farmer of the neighbourhood) lying among the alders with what

seemed a mortal injury. Amid the lamentations and cries for some one

to go to Mercer Village for the doctor a young man drove up rapidly and

sprang out of a buggy, trusting to some one to catch his horse, pushed,

through the ring of people, and bent over the wounded farmer. In an

instant he had whipped out a knife, cut a stick from one of the alders,

knotted his handkerchief around the man's leg, ran the stick through the

knot, and twisted the handkerchief until the blood ceased to flow. They

watched him, paralyzed, as the helpless in this world watch the capable,

and before he had finished his task the train crew and some passengers

began to arrive.

“Have you a doctor aboard, Charley?” the young man asked.

“No,” answered the conductor, who had been addressed; “my God, not one,

Austen.”

“Back up your train,” said Austen, “and stop your baggage car here. And

go to the grove,” he added to one of the picnickers, “and bring four or

five carriage cushions. And you hold this.”

The man beside him took the tourniquet, as he was bid. Austen Vane drew

a note-book from his pocket.

“I want this man's name and address,” he said, “and the names and

addresses of every person here, quickly.”

He did not lift his voice, but the man who had taken charge of such

a situation was not to be denied. They obeyed him, some eagerly, some

reluctantly, and by that time the train had backed down and the cushions

had arrived. They laid these on the floor of the baggage car and

lifted the man on to them. His name was Zeb Meader, and he was still

insensible. Austen Vane, with a peculiar set look upon his face, sat

beside him all the way into Ripton. He spoke only once, and that was to

tell the conductor to telegraph from Avalon to have the ambulance from

St. Mary's Hospital meet the train at Ripton.

The next day Hilary Vane, returning from one of his periodical trips to

the northern part of the State, invaded his son's office.

“What's this they tell me about your saving a man's life?” he asked,

sinking into one of the vacant chairs and regarding Austen with his

twinkling eyes.

“I don't know what they tell you,” Austen answered. “I didn't do

anything but get a tourniquet on his leg and have him put on the train.”

The Honourable Hilary grunted, and continued to regard his son. Then he

cut a piece of Honey Dew.

“Looks bad, does it?” he said.

“Well,” replied Austen, “it might have been done better. It was bungled.

In a death-trap as cleverly conceived as that crossing, with a down

grade approaching it, they ought to have got the horse too.”

The Honourable Hilary grunted again, and inserted the Honey Dew. He

resolved to ignore the palpable challenge in this remark, which was in

keeping with this new and serious mien in Austen.

“Get the names of witnesses?” was his next question.

“I took particular pains to do so.”

“Hand 'em over to Tooting. What kind of man is this Meagre?”

“He is rather meagre now,” said Austen, smiling a little. “His name's

Meader.”

“Is he likely to make a fuss?”

“I think he is,” said Austen.

“Well,” said the Honourable Hilary, “we must have Ham Tooting hurry

'round and fix it up with him as soon as he can talk, before one of

these cormorant lawyers gets his claw in him.”

Austen said nothing, and after some desultory conversation, in which

he knew how to indulge when he wished to conceal the fact that he was

baffled, the Honourable Hilary departed. That student of human nature,

Mr. Hamilton Tooting, a young man of a sporting appearance and a

free vocabulary, made the next attempt. It is a characteristic of Mr.

Tooting's kind that, in their efforts to be genial, they often use an

awkward diminutive of their friends' names.

“Hello, Aust,” said Mr. Tooting, “I dropped in to get those witnesses in

that Meagre accident, before I forget it.”

“I think I'll keep 'em,” said Austen, making a note out of the Revised

Statutes.

“Oh, all right, all right,” said Mr. Tooting, biting off a piece of his

cigar. “Going to handle the case yourself, are you?”

“I may.”

“I'm just as glad to have some of 'em off my hands, and this looks to me

like a nasty one. I don't like those Mercer people. The last farmer they

ran over there raised hell.”

“I shouldn't blame this one if he did, if he ever gets well enough,”

said Austen. Young Mr. Tooting paused with a lighted match halfway to

his cigar and looked at Austen shrewdly, and then sat down on the desk

very close to him.

“Say, Aust, it sometimes sickens a man to have to buy these fellows off.

What? Poor devils, they don't get anything like what they ought to get,

do they? Wait till you see how the Railroad Commission'll whitewash that

case. It makes a man want to be independent. What?”

“This sounds like virtue, Ham.”

“I've often thought, too,” said Mr. Tooting, “that a man could make more

money if he didn't wear the collar.”

“But not sleep as well, perhaps,” said Austen.

“Say, Aust, you're not on the level with me.”

“I hope to reach that exalted plane some day, Ham.”

“What's got into you?” demanded the usually clear-headed Mr. Tooting,

now a little bewildered.

“Nothing, yet,” said Austen, “but I'm thinking seriously of having a

sandwich and a piece of apple pie. Will you come along?”

They crossed the square together, Mr. Tooting racking a normally fertile

brain for some excuse to reopen the subject. Despairing of that, he

decided that any subject would do.

“That Humphrey Crewe up at Leith is smart--smart as paint,” he remarked.

“Do you know him?”

“I've seen him,” said Austen. “He's a young man, isn't he?”

“And natty. He knows a thing or two for a millionaire that don't have to

work, and he runs that place of his right up to the handle. You ought

to hear him talk about the tariff, and national politics. I was passing

there the other day, and he was walking around among the flowerbeds.

'Ain't your name Tooting?' he hollered. I almost fell out of the buggy.”

“What did he want?” asked Austen, curiously. Mr. Tooting winked.

“Say, those millionaires are queer, and no mistake. You'd think a

fellow that only had to cut coupons wouldn't be lookin' for another job,

wouldn't you? He made me hitch my horse, and had me into his study, as

he called it, and gave me a big glass of whiskey and soda. A fellow with

buttons and a striped vest brought it on tiptoe. Then this Crewe gave

me a long yellow cigar with a band on it and told me what the State

needed,--macadam roads, farmers' institutes, forests, and God knows

what. I told him all he had to do was to get permission from old man

Flint, and he could have 'em.”

“What did he say to that?”

“He said Flint was an intimate friend of his. Then he asked me a whole

raft of questions about fellows in the neighbourhood I didn't know he'd

ever heard of. Say, he wants to go from Leith to the Legislature.”

“He can go for all I care,” said Austen, as he pushed open the door of

the restaurant.

For a few days Mr. Meader hung between life and death. But he came of

a stock which had for generations thrust its roots into the crevices of

granite, and was not easily killed by steam-engines. Austen Vane called

twice, and then made an arrangement with young Dr. Tredway (one of the

numerous Ripton Tredways whose money had founded the hospital) that he

was to see Mr. Meader as soon as he was able to sustain a conversation.

Dr. Tredway, by the way, was a bachelor, and had been Austen's companion

on many a boisterous expedition.

When Austen, in response to the doctor's telephone message, stood over

the iron bed in the spick-and-span men's ward of St. Mary's, a wave of

that intense feeling he had experienced at the accident swept over him.

The farmer's beard was overgrown, and the eyes looked up at him as from

caverns of suffering below the bandage. They were shrewd eyes, however,

and proved that Mr. Meader had possession of the five senses--nay, of

the six. Austen sat down beside the bed.

“Dr. Tredway tells me you are getting along finely,” he said.

“No thanks to the railrud,” answered Mr. Meader; “they done their best.”

“Did you hear any whistle or any bell?” Austen asked.

“Not a sound,” said Mr. Meader; “they even shut off their steam on that

grade.”

Austen Vane, like most men who are really capable of a deep sympathy,

was not an adept at expressing it verbally. Moreover, he knew enough of

his fellow-men to realize that a Puritan farmer would be suspicious of

sympathy. The man had been near to death himself, was compelled to spend

part of the summer, his bread-earning season, in a hospital, and yet no

appeal or word of complaint had crossed his lips.

“Mr. Meader,” said Austen, “I came over here to tell you that in my

opinion you are entitled to heavy damages from the railroad, and to

advise you not to accept a compromise. They will send some one to

you and offer you a sum far below that which you ought in justice to

receive, You ought to fight this case.”

“How am I going to pay a lawyer, with a mortgage on my farm?” demanded

Mr. Meader.

“I'm a lawyer,” said Austen, “and if you'll take me, I'll defend you

without charge.”

“Ain't you the son of Hilary Vane?”

“Yes.”

“I've heard of him a good many times,” said Mr. Meader, as if to ask

what man had not. “You're railroad, ain't ye?”

Mr. Meader gazed long and thoughtfully into the young man's face, and

the suspicion gradually faded from the farmer's blue eyes.

“I like your looks,” he said at last. “I guess you saved my life.

I'm--I'm much obliged to you.”

When Mr. Tooting arrived later in the day, he found Mr. Meader

willing to listen, but otherwise strangely non-committal. With native

shrewdness, the farmer asked him what office he came from, but did not

confide in Mr. Tooting the fact that Mr. Vane's son had volunteered to

wring more money from Mr. Vane's client than Mr. Tooting offered him.

Considerably bewildered, that gentleman left the hospital to report the

affair to the Honourable Hilary, who, at intervals during the afternoon,

found himself relapsing into speculation.

Inside of a somewhat unpromising shell, Mr. Zeb Meader was a human

being, and no mean judge of men and motives. As his convalescence

progressed, Austen Vane fell into the habit of dropping in from time

to time to chat with him, and gradually was rewarded by many vivid

character sketches of Mr. Meader's neighbours in Mercer and its

vicinity. One afternoon, when Austen came into the ward, he found at

Mr. Meader's bedside a basket of fruit which looked too expensive and

tempting to have come from any dealer's in Ripton.

“A lady came with that,” Mr. Meader explained. “I never was popular

before I was run over by the cars. She's be'n here twice. When she

fetched it to-day, I kind of thought she was up to some, game, and I

didn't want to take it.”

“Up to some game?” repeated Austen.

“Well, I don't know,” continued Mr. Meader, thoughtfully, “the woman

here tells me she comes regular in the summer time to see sick folks,

but from the way she made up to me I had an idea that she wanted

something. But I don't know. Thought I'd ask you. You see, she's

railrud.”

“Railroad!”

“She's Flint's daughter.”

Austen laughed.

“I shouldn't worry about that,” he said. “If Mr. Flint sent his daughter

with fruit to everybody his railroad injures, she wouldn't have time to

do anything else. I doubt if Mr. Flint ever heard of your case.”

Mr. Meader considered this, and calculated there was something in it.

“She was a nice, common young lady, and cussed if she didn't make me

laugh, she has such a funny way of talkin'. She wanted to know all about

you.”

“What did she want to know?” Austen exclaimed, not unnaturally.

“Well, she wanted to know about the accident, and I told her how you

druv up and screwed that thing around my leg and backed the train down.

She was a good deal took with that.”

“I think you are inclined to make too much of it,” said Austen.

Three days later, as he was about to enter the ward, Mr. Meader being

now the only invalid there, he heard a sound which made him pause in

the doorway. The sound was feminine laughter of a musical quality that

struck pleasantly on Austen's ear. Miss Victoria Flint was sated beside

Mr. Meader's bed, and qualified friendship had evidently been replaced

by intimacy since Austen's last visit, for Mr. Meader was laughing, too.

“And now I'm quite sure you have missed your vocation, Mr. Meader,” said

Victoria. “You would have made a fortune on the stage.”

“Me a play-actor!” exclaimed the invalid. “How much wages do they git?”

“Untold sums,” she declared, “if they can talk like you.”

“He kind of thought that story funny--same as you,” Mr. Meader

ruminated, and glanced up. “Drat me,” he remarked, “if he ain't a-comin'

now! I callated he'd run acrost you sometime.”

Victoria raised her eyes, sparkling with humour, and they met Austen's.

“We was just talkin' about you,” cried Mr. Meader, cordially; “come

right in.” He turned to Victoria. “I want to make you acquainted,” he

said, “with Austen Vane.”

“And won't you tell him who I am, Mr. Meader?” said Victoria.

“Well,” said Mr. Meader, apologetically, “that was stupid of me--wahn't

it? But I callated he'd know. She's the daughter of the railrud

president--the 'one that was askin' about you.”

There was an instant's pause, and the colour stole into Victoria's

cheeks. Then she glanced at Austen and bit her lip-and laughed. Her

laughter was contagious.

“I suppose I shall have to confess that you have inspired my curiosity,

Mr. Vane,” she said.

Austen's face was sunburned, but it flushed a more vivid red under

the tan. It is needless to pretend that a man of his appearance and

qualities had reached the age of thirty-two without having listened to

feminine comments of which he was the exclusive subject. In this

remark of Victoria's, or rather in the manner in which she made it, he

recognized a difference.

“It is a tribute, then, to the histrionic talents of Mr. Meader, of

which you were speaking,” he replied laughingly.

Victoria glanced at him with interest as he looked down at Mr. Meader.

“And how is it to-day, Zeb?” he said.

“It ain't so bad as it might be--with sech folks as her and you

araound,” admitted Mr. Meader. “I'd almost agree to get run over again.

She was askin' about you, and that's a fact, and I didn't slander you,

neither. But I never callated to comprehend wimmen-folks.”

“Now, Mr. Meader,” said Victoria, reprovingly, but there were little

creases about her eyes, “don't be a fraud.”

“It's true as gospel,” declared the invalid; “they always got the better

of me. I had one of 'em after me once, when I was young and prosperin'

some.”

“And yet you have survived triumphant,” she exclaimed.

“There wahn't none of 'em like you,” said Mr. Meader, “or it might have

be'n different.”

Again her eyes irresistibly sought Austen's,--as though to share with

him the humour of this remark,--and they laughed together. Her colour,

so sensitive, rose again, but less perceptibly this time. Then she got

up.

“That's unfair, Mr. Meader!” she protested.

“I'll leave it to Austen,” said Mr. Meader, “if it ain't probable. He'd

ought to know.”

In spite of a somewhat natural embarrassment, Austen could not but

acknowledge to himself that Mr. Meader was right. With a womanly

movement which he thought infinitely graceful, Victoria leaned over the

bed.

“Mr. Meader,” she said, “I'm beginning to think it's dangerous for me to

come here twice a week to see you, if you talk this way. And I'm not a

bit surprised that that woman didn't get the better of you.”

“You hain't a-goin'!” he exclaimed. “Why, I callated--”

“Good-by,” she said quickly; “I'm glad to see that you are doing

so well.” She raised her head and looked at Austen in a curious,

inscrutable way. “Good-by, Mr. Vane,” she said; “I--I hope Mr. Blodgett

has recovered.”

Before he could reply she had vanished, and he was staring at the empty

doorway. The reference to the unfortunate Mr. Blodgett, after taking his

breath away, aroused in him an intense curiosity betraying, as it did,

a certain knowledge of past events in his life in the hitherto unknown

daughter of Augustus interest could she have in him? Such a Flint. What

question, from similar sources, has heightened the pulse of young men

from time immemorial.

CHAPTER IV. “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.

CHAPTER V. THE PARTING OF THE WAYS

The next time Austen visited the hospital Mr. Meader had a surprise in

store for him. After passing the time of day, as was his custom, the

patient freely discussed the motives which had led him to refuse any

more of Victoria's fruit.

“I hain't got nothing against her,” he declared; “I tried to make that

plain. She's as nice and common a young lady as I ever see, and I don't

believe she had a thing to do with it. But I suspicioned they was up

to somethin' when she brought them baskets. And when she give me the

message from old Flint, I was sure of it.”

“Miss Flint was entirely innocent, I'm sure,” said Austen, emphatically.

“If I could see old Flint, I'd tell him what I thought of him usin'

wimmen-folks to save 'em money,” said Mr. Meader. “I knowed she wahn't

that kind. And then that other thing come right on top of it.”

“What other thing?”

“Say,” demanded Mr. Meader, “don't you know?”

“I know nothing,” said Austen.

“Didn't know Hilary Vane's be'n here?”

“My father!” Austen ejaculated.

“Gittin' after me pretty warm, so they be. Want to know what my price is

now. But say, I didn't suppose your fayther'd come here without lettin'

you know.”

Austen was silent. The truth was that for a few moments he could not

command himself sufficiently to speak.

“He is the chief counsel for the road,” he said at length; “I am not

connected with it.”

“I guess you're on the right track. He's a pretty smooth talker, your

fayther. Just dropped in to see how I be, since his son was interested.

Talked a sight of law gibberish I didn't understand. Told me I didn't

have much of a case; said the policy of the railrud was to be liberal,

and wanted to know what I thought I ought to have.”

“Well?” said Austen, shortly.

“Well,” said Mr. Mender, “he didn't git a mite of satisfaction out of

me. I've seen enough of his kind of folks to know how to deal with 'em,

and I told him so. I asked him what they meant by sending that slick Mr.

Tooting 'raound to offer me five hundred dollars. I said I was willin'

to trust my case on that crossin' to a jury.”

Austen smiled, in spite of his mingled emotions.

“What else did Mr. Vane say?” he asked.

“Not a great sight more. Said a good many folks were foolish enough

to spend money and go to law when they'd done better to trust to the

liberality of the railrud. Liberality! Adams' widow done well to trust

their liberality, didn't she? He wanted to know one more thing, but I

didn't give him any satisfaction.”

“What was that?”

“I couldn't tell you how he got 'raound to it. Guess he never did,

quite. He wanted to know what lawyer was to have my case. Wahn't none of

his affair, and I callated if you'd wanted him to know just yet, you'd

have toad him.”

Austen laid his hand on the farmer's, as he rose to go.

“Zeb,” he said, “I never expect to have a more exemplary client.”

Mr. Mender shot a glance at him.

“Mebbe I spoke a mite too free about your fayther, Austen,” he said;

“you and him seem kind of different.”

“The Judge and I understand each other,” answered Austen.

He had got as far as the door, when he stopped, swung on his heel, and

came back to the bedside.

“It's my duty to tell you, Zeb, that in order to hush this thing up they

may offer you more than you can get from a jury. In that case I should

have to advise you to accept.”

He was aware that, while he made this statement, Zeb Meader's eyes were

riveted on him, and he knew that the farmer was weighing him in the

balance.

“Sell out?” exclaimed Mr. Meader. “You advise me to sell out?”

Austen did not get angry. He understood this man and the people from

which he sprang.

“The question is for you to decide--whether you can get more money by a

settlement.”

“Money!” cried Zeb Meader, “I have found it pretty hard to git, but

there's some things I won't do for it. There's a reason why they want

this case hushed up, the way they've be'n actin'. I ain't lived in

Mercer and Putnam County all my life for nothin'. Hain't I seen 'em run

their dirty politics there under Brush Bascom for the last twenty-five

years? There's no man has an office or a pass in that county but what

Bascom gives it to him, and Bascom's the railrud tool.” Suddenly Zeb

raised himself in bed. “Hev' they be'n tamperin' with you?” he demanded.

“Yes,” answered Austen, dispassionately. He had hardly heard what Zeb

had said; his mind had been going onward. “Yes. They sent me an annual

pass, and I took it back.”

Zeb Meader did not speak for a few moments.

“I guess I was a little hasty, Austen,” he said at length.

“I might have known you wouldn't sell out. If you're' willin' to take

the risk, you tell 'em ten thousand dollars wouldn't tempt me.”

“All right, Zeb,” said Austen.

He left the hospital and struck out across the country towards the

slopes of Sawanec, climbed them, and stood bareheaded in the evening

light, gazing over the still, wide valley northward to the wooded ridges

where Leith and Fairview lay hidden. He had come to the parting of the

ways of life, and while he did not hesitate to choose his path, a Vane

inheritance, though not dominant, could not fail at such a juncture to

point out the pleasantness of conformity. Austen's affection for Hilary

Vane was real; the loneliness of the elder man appealed to the son, who

knew that his father loved him in his own way. He dreaded the wrench

there.

And nature, persuasive in that quarter, was not to be stilled in a field

more completely her own. The memory and suppliance of a minute will

scarce suffice one of Austen's temperament for a lifetime; and his eyes,

flying with the eagle high across the valley, searched the velvet folds

of the ridges, as they lay in infinite shades of green in the level

light, for the place where the enchanted realm might be. Just what the

state of his feelings were at this time towards Victoria Flint is too

vague--accurately to be painted, but he was certainly not ready to give

way to the attraction he felt for her. His sense of humour intervened if

he allowed himself to dream; there was a certain folly in pursuing

the acquaintance, all the greater now that he was choosing the path of

opposition to the dragon. A young woman, surrounded as she was, could

be expected to know little of the subtleties of business and political

morality: let him take Zeb Meader's case, and her loyalty would

naturally be with her father,--if she thought of Austen Vane at all.

And yet the very contradiction of her name, Victoria joined with Flint,

seemed to proclaim that she did not belong to her father or to the

Rose of Sharon. Austen permitted himself to dwell, as he descended the

mountain in the gathering darkness, upon the fancy of the springing of a

generation of ideals from a generation of commerce which boded well for

the Republic. And Austen Vane, in common with that younger and travelled

generation, thought largely in terms of the Republic. Pepper County and

Putnam County were all one to him--pieces of his native land. And as

such, redeemable.

It was long past the supper hour when he reached the house in Hanover

Street; but Euphrasia, who many a time in days gone by had fared

forth into the woods to find Sarah Austen, had his supper hot for him.

Afterwards he lighted his pipe and went out into the darkness, and

presently perceived a black figure seated meditatively on the granite

doorstep.

“Is that you, Judge?” said Austen.

The Honourable Hilary grunted in response.

“Be'n on another wild expedition, I suppose.”

“I went up Sawanec to stretch my legs a little,” Austen answered,

sitting down beside his father.

“Funny,” remarked the Honourable Hilary, “I never had this mania for

stretchin' my legs after I was grown.”

“Well,” said Austen, “I like to go into the woods and climb the hills

and get aired out once in a while.”

“I heard of your gettin' aired out yesterday, up Tunbridge way,” said

the Honourable Hilary.

“I supposed you would hear of it,” answered Austen.

“I was up there to-day. Gave Mr. Flint your pass did you?”

“Yes.”

“Didn't see fit to mention it to me first--did you? Said you were going

up to thank him for it.”

Austen considered this.

“You have put me in the wrong, Judge,” he replied after a little. “I

made that remark ironically. I I am afraid we cannot agree on the motive

which prompted me.”

“Your conscience a little finer than your father's--is it?”

“No,” said Austen, “I don't honestly think it is. I've thought a good

deal in the last few years about the difference in our ways of

looking at things. I believe that two men who try to be honest may

conscientiously differ. But I also believe that certain customs have

gradually grown up in railroad practice which are more or less to be

deplored from the point of view of the honour of the profession. I think

they are not perhaps--realized even by the eminent men in the law.”

“Humph!” said the Honourable Hilary. But he did not press his son for

the enumeration of these customs. After all the years he had disapproved

of Austen's deeds it seemed strange indeed to be called to account by

the prodigal for his own. Could it be that this boy whom he had so often

chastised took a clearer view of practical morality than himself? It was

preposterous. But why the uneasiness of the past few years? Why had

he more than once during that period, for the first time in his life,

questioned a hitherto absolute satisfaction in his position of chief

counsel for the Northeastern Railroads? Why had he hesitated to initiate

his son into many of the so-called duties of a railroad lawyer? Austen

had never verbally arraigned those duties until to-night.

Contradictory as it may seem, irritating as it was to the Honourable

Hilary Vane, he experienced again the certain faint tingling of pride as

when Austen had given him the dispassionate account of the shooting of

Mr. Blodgett; and this tingling only served to stiffen Hilary Vane more

than ever. A lifelong habit of admitting nothing and a lifelong pride

made the acknowledgment of possible professional lapses for the benefit

of his employer not to be thought of. He therefore assumed the same

attitude as had Mr. Flint, and forced the burden of explanation upon

Austen, relying surely on the disinclination of his son to be specific.

And Austen, considering his relationship, could not be expected to

fathom these mental processes.

“See here, Judge,” he said, greatly embarrassed by the real affection

he felt, “I don't want to seem like a prig and appear to be sitting in

judgment upon a man of your experience and position especially since I

have the honour to be your son, and have made a good deal of trouble

by a not irreproachable existence. Since we have begun on the subject,

however, I think I ought to tell you that I have taken the case of Zeb

Meader against the Northeastern Railroads.”

“Wahn't much need of telling me, was there?” remarked the Honourable

Hilary, dryly. “I'd have found it out as soon as anybody else.”

“There was this need of telling you,” answered Austen, steadily,

“although I am not in partnership with you, I bear your name. And

in-as-much as I am to have a suit against your client, it has occurred

to me that you would like me to move--elsewhere.”

The Honourable Hilary was silent for a long time.

“Want to move--do YOU? Is that it?”

“Only because my presence may embarrass you.”

“That wahn't in the contract,” said the Honourable Hilary; “you've got

a right to take any fool cases you've a mind to. Folks know pretty well

I'm not mixed up in 'em.”

Austen did not smile; he could well understand his father's animus in

this matter. As he looked up at the gable of his old home against the

stars, he did not find the next sentence any easier.

“And then,” he continued, “in taking, a course so obviously against your

wishes and judgment it occurred to me--well, that I was eating at your

table and sleeping in your house.”

To his son's astonishment, Hilary Vane turned on him almost truculently.

“I thought the time'd come when you'd want to go off again,--gypsying,”

he cried.

“I'd stay right here in Ripton, Judge. I believe my work is in this

State.”

The Honour could see through a millstone with a hole in it. The effect

of Austen's assertion on him was a declaration that the mission of the

one was to tear down what the other had so laboriously built up. And yet

a growing dread of Hilary Vane's had been the loneliness of declining

years in that house should Austen leave it again, never to return.

“I knew you had this Meader business in mind,” he said. “I knew you had

fanciful notions about--some things. Never told you I didn't want you

here, did I?”

“No,” said Austen, “but--”

“Would have told you if I hadn't wanted you--wouldn't I?”

“I hope so, Judge,” said Austen, who understood something of the feeling

which underlay this brusqueness. That knowledge made matters all the

harder for him.

“It was your mother's house--you're entitled to that, anyway,” said the

Honourable Hilary, “but what I want to know is, why you didn't advise

that eternal fool of a Meader to accept what we offered him. You'll

never get a county jury to give as much.”

“I did advise him to accept it,” answered Austen.

“What's the matter with him?” the Honourable Hilary demanded.

“Well, judge, if you really want my opinion, an honest farmer like

Meader is suspicious of any corporation which has such zealous and loyal

retainers as Ham Tooting and Brush Bascom.” And Austen thought with a

return of the pang which had haunted him at intervals throughout the

afternoon, that he might almost have added to these names that of Hilary

Vane. Certainly Zeb Meader had not spared his father.

“Life,” observed the Honourable Hilary, unconsciously using a phrase

from the 'Book of Arguments,' “is a survival of the fittest.”

“How do you define 'the fittest?'” asked Austen. “Are they the men who

have the not unusual and certainly not exalted gift of getting money

from their fellow creatures by the use of any and all weapons that may

be at hand? who believe the acquisition of wealth to be exempt from the

practice of morality? Is Mr. Flint your example of the fittest type to

exist and survive, or Gladstone or Wilberforce or Emerson or Lincoln?”

“Emerson!” cried the Honourable Hilary, the name standing out in red

letters before his eyes. He had never read a line of the philosopher's

writings, not even the charge to “hitch your wagon to a star” (not in

the “Book of Arguments”). Sarah Austen had read Emerson in the

woods, and her son's question sounded so like the unintelligible but

unanswerable flashes with which the wife had on rare occasions opposed

the husband's authority that Hilary Vane found his temper getting the

best of him--The name of Emerson was immutably fixed in his mind as the

synonym for incomprehensible, foolish habits and beliefs. “Don't talk

Emerson to me,” he exclaimed. “And as for Brush Bascom, I've known him

for thirty years, and he's done as much for the Republican party as any

man in this State.”

This vindication of Mr. Bascom naturally brought to a close a

conversation which had already continued too long. The Honourable Hilary

retired to rest; but--if Austen had known it--not to sleep until the

small hours of the morning.

It was not until the ensuing spring that the case of Mr. Zebulun Meader

against the United Northeastern Railroads came up for trial in Bradford,

the county-seat of Putnam County, and we do not wish to appear to give

it too great a weight in the annals of the State. For one thing, the

weekly newspapers did not mention it; and Mr. Paul Pardriff, when urged

to give an account of the proceedings in the Ripton Record, said it was

a matter of no importance, and spent the afternoon writing an editorial

about the domestic habits of the Aztecs. Mr. Pardriff, however, had

thought the matter of sufficient interest personally to attend the

trial, and for the journey he made use of a piece of green cardboard

which he habitually carried in his pocket. The editor of the Bradford

Champion did not have to use his yellow cardboard, yet his columns may

be searched in vain for the event.

Not that it was such a great event, one of hundreds of railroad

accidents that come to court. The son of Hilary Vane was the plaintiff's

counsel; and Mr. Meader, although he had not been able to work since his

release from the hospital, had been able to talk, and the interest taken

in the case by the average neglected citizen in Putnam proved that the

weekly newspaper is not the only disseminator of news.

The railroad's side of the case was presented by that genial and able

practitioner of Putnam County, Mr. Nathaniel Billings, who travelled

from his home in Williamstown by the exhibition of a red ticket. Austen

Vane had to pay his own way from Ripton, but as he handed back the

mileage book, the conductor leaned over and whispered something in his

ear that made him smile, and Austen thought he would rather have that

little drop of encouragement than a pass. And as he left the car at

Bradford, two grizzled and hard-handed individuals arose and wished him

good luck.

He needed encouragement,--what young lawyer does not on his first

important case? And he did not like to think of the future if he lost

this. But in this matter he possessed a certain self-confidence which

arose from a just and righteous anger against the forces opposing him

and a knowledge of their tactics. To his mind his client was not Zeb

Meader alone, but the host of victims who had been maimed and bought off

because it was cheaper than to give the public a proper protection.

The court room was crowded. Mr. Zeb Meader, pale but determined, was

surrounded by a knot of Mercer neighbours, many of whom were witnesses.

The agate eyes of Mr. Brush Bascom flashed from the audience, and Mr.

Nat Billings bustled forward to shake Austen's hand. Nat was one of

those who called not infrequently upon the Honourable Hilary in Ripton,

and had sat on Austen's little table.

“Glad to see you, Austen,” he cried, so that the people might hear; and

added, in a confidentially lower tone, “We lawyers understand that these

little things make no difference, eh?”

“I'm willing to agree to that if you are, Nat,” Austen answered. He

looked at the lawyer's fleshy face, blue-black where it was shaven,

and at Mr. Billings' shifty eyes and mouth, which its muscles could not

quite keep in place. Mr. Billings also had nicked teeth. But he did his

best to hide these obvious disadvantages by a Falstaffian bonhomie,--for

Mr. Billings was growing stout.

“I tried it once or twice, my friend, when I was younger. It's noble,

but it don't pay,” said Mr. Billings, still confidential. “Brush is

sour--look at him. But I understand how you feel. I'm the kind of feller

that speaks out, and what I can't understand is, why the old man let you

get into it.”

“He knew you were going to be on the other side, Nat, and wanted to

teach me a lesson. I suppose it is folly to contest a case where the

Railroad Commission has completely exonerated your client,” Austen added

thoughtfully.

Mr. Billings' answer was to wink, very slowly, with one eye; and shortly

after these pleasantries were over, the case was called. A fragrant wind

blew in at the open windows, and Nature outside was beginning to array

herself in myriad hues of green. Austen studied the jury, and wondered

how many points of his argument he could remember, but when he had got

to his feet the words came to him. If we should seek an emblem for King

David's smooth, round stone which he flung at Goliath, we should call it

the truth--for the truth never fails to reach the mark. Austen's opening

was not long, his words simple and not dramatic, but he seemed to charge

them with something of the same magnetic force that compelled people

to read and believe “Uncle Ton's Cabin” and the “Song of the Shirt.”

Spectators and jury listened intently.

Some twenty witnesses appeared for the plaintiff, all of whom declared

that they had heard neither bell nor whistle. Most of these witnesses

had been in the grove, two or three in the train; two, residents of the

vicinity, testified that they had complained to the Railroad Commission

about that crossing, and had received evasive answers to the effect

that it was the duty of citizens to look out for themselves. On

cross-examination they declared they had no objection to grade crossings

which were properly safeguarded; this crossing was a death-trap.

(Stricken out.) Mr. Billings made the mistake of trying to prove

that one of these farmers--a clear-eyed, full-chested man with a deep

voice--had an animus against the railroad dating from a controversy

concerning the shipping of milk.

“I have an animus, your Honour,” said the witness, quietly. “When the

railrud is represented by the kind of politicians we have in Putnam,

it's natural I should hain't it?”

This answer, although stricken out, was gleefully received.

In marked contrast to the earnestness of young Mr. Vane, who then

rested, Mr. Billings treated the affair from the standpoint of a man of

large practice who usually has more weighty matters to attend to. This

was so comparatively trivial as not to be dignified by a serious mien.

He quoted freely from the “Book of Arguments,” reminding the jury of the

debt of gratitude the State owed to the Northeastern Railroads for

doing so much for its people; and if they were to eliminate all grade

crossings, there would be no dividends for the stockholders. Besides,

the law was that the State should pay half when a crossing was

eliminated, and the State could not afford it. Austen had suggested, in

his opening, that it was cheaper for the railroad as well as the State

to kill citizens. He asked permission to inquire of the learned counsel

for the defence by what authority he declared that the State could not

afford to enter into a policy by which grade crossings would gradually

be eliminated.

“Why,” said Mr. Billings, “the fact that all bills introduced to this

end never get out of committee.”

“May I ask,” said Austen, innocently, “who has been chairman of that

particular committee in the lower House for the last five sessions?”

Mr. Billings was saved the embarrassment of answering this question by a

loud voice in the rear calling out:--“Brush Bascom!”

A roar of laughter shook the court room, and all eyes were turned on

Brush, who continued to sit unconcernedly with his legs crossed and

his arm over the back of the seat. The offender was put out, order was

restored, and Mr. Billings declared, with an injured air, that he failed

to see why the counsel for the plaintiff saw fit to impugn Mr. Bascom.

“I merely asked a question,” said Austere; “far be it from me to impugn

any man who has held offices in the gift of the people for the last

twenty years.”

Another gale of laughter followed this, during which Mr. Billings

wriggled his mouth and gave a strong impression that such tactics and

such levity were to be deplored.

For the defence, the engineer and fireman both swore that the bell

had been rung before the crossing was reached. Austen merely inquired

whether this was not when they had left the station at North Mercer,

two miles away. No, it was nearer. Pressed to name the exact spot, they

could only conjecture, but near enough to be heard on the crossing.

Other witnesses--among them several picnickers in the grove--swore that

they had heard the bell. One of these Austen asked if he was not the

member from Mercer in the last Legislature, and Mr. Billings, no longer

genial, sprang to his feet with an objection.

“I merely wish to show, your Honour,” said Austen, “that this witness

accepted a pass from the Northeastern Railroads when he went to the

Legislature, and that he has had several trip passes for himself and his

family since.”

The objection was not sustained, and Mr. Billings noted an exception.

Another witness, upon whose appearance the audience tittered audibly,

was Dave Skinner, boss of Mercer. He had lived, he said, in the town of

Mercer all his life, and maintained that he was within a hundred yards

of the track when the accident occurred, and heard the bell ring.

“Is it not a fact,” said Austen to this witness, “that Mr. Brush Bascom

has a mortgage on your farm?”

“I can show, your Honour,” Austen continued, when Mr. Billings had

finished his protest, “that this man was on his way to Riverside to pay

his quarterly instalment.”

Mr. Bascom was not present at the afternoon session. Mr. Billings'

summing up was somewhat impassioned, and contained more quotations from

the “Book of Arguments.” He regretted, he said, the obvious appeals to

prejudice against a railroad corporation that was honestly trying to do

its duty-yes, and more than its duty.

Misjudged, misused, even though friendless, it would continue to serve

the people. So noble, indeed, was the picture which Mr. Billings'

eloquence raised up that his voice shook with emotion as he finished.

In the opinion of many of the spectators Austen Vane had yet to learn

the art of oratory. He might with propriety have portrayed the suffering

and loss of the poor farmer who was his client; he merely quoted from

the doctor's testimony to the effect that Mr. Meader would never again

be able to do physical labour of the sort by which he had supported

himself, and ended up by calling the attention of the jury to the

photographs and plans of the crossing he had obtained two days after

the accident, requesting them to note the facts that the public highway,

approaching through a dense forest and underbrush at an angle of

thirty-three degrees, climbed the railroad embankment at that point, and

a train could not be seen until the horse was actually on the track.

The jury was out five minutes after the judge's charge, and gave Mr.

Zebulun Meader a verdict of six thousand dollars and costs,--a popular

verdict, from the evident approval with which it was received in the

court room. Quiet being restored, Mr. Billings requested, somewhat

vehemently, that the case be transferred on the exceptions to the

Supreme Court, that the stenographer write out the evidence, and that he

might have three weeks in which to prepare a draft. This was granted.

Zeb Meader, true to his nature, was self-contained throughout the

congratulations he received, but his joy was nevertheless intense.

“You shook 'em up good, Austen,” he said, making his way to where his

counsel stood. “I suspicioned you'd do it. But how about this here

appeal?”

“Billings is merely trying to save the face of his railroad,” Austen

answered, smiling. “He hasn't the least notion of allowing this case to

come up again--take my word for it.”

“I guess your word's good,” said Zeb. “And I want to tell you one thing,

as an old man. I've been talkin' to Putnam County folks some, and you

hain't lost nothin' by this.”

“How am I to get along without the friendship of Brush Bascom?” asked

Austen, soberly.

Mr. Meader, who had become used to this mild sort of humour, relaxed

sufficiently to laugh.

“Brush did seem a mite disgruntled,” he remarked.

Somewhat to Austen's embarrassment, Mr. Mender's friends were

pushing forward. One grizzled veteran took him by the hand and looked

thoughtfully into his face.

“I've lived a good many years,” he said, “but I never heerd 'em talked

up to like that. You're my candidate for governor.”

CHAPTER VI. ENTER THE LION

It is a fact, as Shakespeare has so tersely hinted, that fame sometimes

comes in the line of duty. To be sure, if Austen Vane had been Timothy

Smith, the Mender case might not have made quite so many ripples in the

pond with which this story is concerned. Austen did what he thought was

right. In the opinion of many of his father's friends whom he met from

time to time he had made a good-sized stride towards ruin, and they

did not hesitate to tell him so--Mr. Chipman, president of the Ripton

National Bank; Mr. Greene, secretary and treasurer of the Hawkeye Paper

Company, who suggested with all kindness that, however noble it may be,

it doesn't pay to tilt at windmills.

“Not unless you wreck the windmill,” answered Austen. A new and very

revolutionary point of view to Mr. Greene, who repeated it to Professor

Brewer, urging that gentleman to take Austen in hand. But the professor

burst out laughing, and put the saying into circulation.

Mr. Silas Tredway, whose list of directorships is too long to print,

also undertook to remonstrate with the son of his old friend, Hilary

Vane. The young lawyer heard him respectfully. The cashiers of some

of these gentlemen, who were younger men, ventured to say--when out of

hearing--that they admired the championship of Mr. Mender, but it would

never do. To these, likewise, Austen listened good-naturedly enough, and

did not attempt to contradict them. Changing the angle of the sun-dial

does not affect the time of day.

It was not surprising that young Tom Gaylord, when he came back from New

York and heard of Austen's victory, should have rushed to his office and

congratulated him in a rough but hearty fashion. Even though Austen

had won a suit against the Gaylord Lumber Company, young Tom would have

congratulated him. Old Tom was a different matter. Old Tom, hobbling

along under the maples, squinted at Austen and held up his stick.

“Damn you, you're a lawyer, ain't you?” cried the old man.

Austen, well used to this kind of greeting from Mr. Gaylord, replied

that he didn't think himself much of one.

“Damn it, I say you are. Some day I may have use for you,” said old Tom,

and walked on.

“No,” said young Tom, afterwards, in explanation of this extraordinary

attitude of his father, “it isn't principle. He's had a row with the

Northeastern about lumber rates, and swears he'll live till he gets even

with 'em.”

If Professor Brewer (Ripton's most clear-sighted citizen) had made the

statement that Hilary Vane--away down in the bottom of his heart--was

secretly proud of his son, the professor would probably have lost his

place on the school board, the water board, and the library committee.

The way the worldly-wise professor discovered the secret was this: he

had gone to Bradford to hear the case, for he had been a dear friend of

Sarah Austen. Two days later Hilary Vane saw the professor on his little

porch, and lingered. Mr. Brewer suspected why, led carefully up to the

subject, and not being discouraged--except by numerous grunts--gave the

father an account of the proceedings by no means unfavourable to the

son. Some people like paregoric; the Honourable Hilary took his without

undue squirming, with no visible effects to Austen.

Life in the office continued, with one or two exceptions, the even tenor

of its way. Apparently, so far as the Honourable Hilary was concerned,

his son had never been to Bradford. But the Honourable Brush Bascom,

when he came on mysterious business to call on the chief counsel, no

longer sat on Austen's table; this was true of other feudal lords and

retainers: of Mr. Nat Billings, who, by the way, did not file his draft

after all. Not that Mr. Billings wasn't polite, but he indulged

no longer in slow winks at the expense of the honourable Railroad

Commission.

Perhaps the most curious result of the Meader case to be remarked in

passing, was upon Mr. Hamilton Tooting. Austen, except when he fled to

the hills, was usually the last to leave the office, Mr. Tooting often

the first. But one evening Mr. Tooting waited until the force had gone,

and entered Austen's room with his hand outstretched.

“Put her there, Aust,” he said.

Austen put her there.

“I've been exercisin' my thinker some the last few months,” observed Mr.

Tooting, seating himself on the desk.

“Aren't you afraid of nervous prostration, Ham?”

“Say,” exclaimed Mr. Tooting, with a vexed laugh, “why are you always

jollying me? You ain't any older than I am.”

“I'm not as old, Ham. I don't begin to have your knowledge of the

world.”

“Come off,” said Mr. Tooting, who didn't know exactly how to take this

compliment. “I came in here to have a serious talk. I've been thinking

it over, and I don't know but what you did right.”

“Well, Ham, if you don't know, I don't know how I am to convince you.”

“Hold on. Don't go twistin' around that way--you make me dizzy.” He

lowered his voice confidentially, although there was no one within

five walls of them. “I know the difference between a gold brick and a

government bond, anyhow. I believe bucking the railroad's going to pay

in a year or so. I got on to it as soon as you did, I guess, but when

a feller's worn the collar as long as I have and has to live, it ain't

easy to cut loose--you understand.”

“I understand,” answered Austen, gravely.

“I thought I'd let you know I didn't take any too much trouble with

Meader last summer to get the old bird to accept a compromise.”

“That was good of you, Ham.”

“I knew what you was up to,” said Mr. Tooting, giving Austen a friendly

poke with his cigar.

“You showed your usual acumen, Mr. Tooting,” said Austen, as he rose to

put on his coat. Mr. Tooting regarded him uneasily.

“You're a deep one, Aust,” he declared; “some day you and, me must get

together.”

Mr. Billings' desire for ultimate justice not being any stronger than

Austen suspected, in due time Mr. Meader got his money. His counsel

would have none of it,--a decision not at all practical, and on the

whole disappointing. There was, to be sure, an influx into Austen's

office of people who had been run over in the past, and it was Austen's

unhappy duty to point out to these that they had signed (at the request

of various Mr. Tootings) little slips of paper which are technically

known as releases. But the first hint of a really material advantage

to be derived from his case against the railroad came from a wholly

unexpected source, in the shape of a letter in the mail one August

morning.

“DEAR SIR: Having remarked with some interest the verdict for a

client of yours against the United Northeastern Railroads, I wish

you would call and see me at your earliest convenience.

“Yours truly,

“HUMPHREY CREWE.”

Although his curiosity was aroused, Austen was of two minds whether to

answer this summons, the truth being that Mr. Crewe had not made, on

the occasions on which they had had intercourse, the most favourable of

impressions. However, it is not for the struggling lawyer to scorn any

honourable brief, especially from a gentleman of stocks and bonds and

varied interests like Mr. Crewe, with whom contentions of magnitude are

inevitably associated. As he spun along behind Pepper on the Leith road

that climbed Willow Brook on the afternoon he had made the appointment,

Austen smiled to himself over his anticipations, and yet---being

human-let his fancy play.

The broad acres of Wedderburn stretched across many highways, but the

manor-house (as it had been called) stood on an eminence whence one

could look for miles down the Yale of the Blue. It had once been a

farmhouse, but gradually the tail had begun to wag the dog, and the

farmhouse became, like the original stone out of which the Irishman made

the soup, difficult to find. Once the edifice had been on the road, but

the road had long ago been removed to a respectful distance, and Austen

entered between two massive pillars built of granite blocks on a musical

gravel drive.

Humphrey Crewe was on the porch, his hands in his pockets, as Austen

drove up.

“Hello,” he said, in a voice probably meant to be hospitable, but which

had a peremptory ring, “don't stand on ceremony. Hitch your beast and

come along in.”

Having, as it were, superintended the securing of Pepper, Mr. Crewe led

the way through the house to the study, pausing once or twice to point

out to Austen a carved ivory elephant procured at great expense in

China, and a piece of tapestry equally difficult of purchase. The study

itself was no mere lounging place of a man of pleasure, but sober and

formidable books were scattered through the cases: “Turner's Evolution

of the Railroad,” “Graham's Practical Forestry,” “Eldridge's Finance”;

while whole shelves of modern husbandry proclaimed that Mr. Humphrey

Crewe was no amateur farmer. There was likewise a shelf devoted to road

building, several to knotty-looking pamphlets, and half a wall of neatly

labelled pigeonholes. For decoration, there was an oar garnished with a

ribbon, and several groups of college undergraduates, mostly either in

puffed ties or scanty attire, and always prominent in these groups, and

always unmistakable, was Mr. Humphrey Crewe himself.

Mr. Crewe was silent awhile, that this formidable array of things might

make the proper impression upon his visitor.

“It was lucky you came to-day, Vane,” he said at length. “I am due in

New York to-morrow for a directors' meeting, and I have a conference in

Chicago with a board of trustees of which I am a member on the third.

Looking at my array of pamphlets, eh? I've been years in collecting

them,--ever since I left college. Those on railroads ought especially to

interest you--I'm somewhat of a railroad man myself.”

“I didn't know that,” said Austen.

“Had two or three blocks of stock in subsidiary lines that had to be

looked after. It was a nuisance at first,” said Mr. Crewe, “but I

didn't shirk it. I made up my mind I'd get to the bottom of the railroad

problem, and I did. It's no use doing a thing at all unless you do

it well.” Mr. Crewe, his hands still in his pockets, faced Austen

smilingly. “Now I'll bet you didn't know I was a railroad man until you

came in here. To tell the truth, it was about a railroad matter that I

sent for you.”

Mr. Crewe lit a cigar, but he did not offer one to Austen, as he had to

Mr. Tooting. “I wanted to see what you were like,” he continued, with

refreshing frankness. “Of course, I'd seen you on the road. But you can

get more of an idea of a man by talkin' to him, you know.”

“You can if he'll talk,” said Austen, who was beginning to enjoy his

visit.

Mr. Crewe glanced at him keenly. Few men are fools at all points of the

compass, and Mr. Crewe was far from this.

“You did well in that little case you had against the Northeastern. I

heard about it.”

“I did my best,” answered Austen, and he smiled again.

“As some great man has remarked,” observed Mr. Crewe, “it isn't what we

do, it's how we do it. Take pains over the smaller cases, and the larger

cases will come of themselves, eh?”

“I live in hope,” said Austen, wondering how soon this larger case was

going to unfold itself.

“Let me see,” said Mr. Crewe, “isn't your father the chief attorney in

this State for the Northeastern? How do you happen to be on the other

side?”

“By the happy accident of obtaining a client,” said Austen.

Mr. Crewe glanced at him again. In spite of himself, respect was growing

in him. He had expected to find a certain amount of eagerness and

subserviency--though veiled; here was a man of different calibre than he

looked for in Ripton.

“The fact is,” he declared, “I have a grievance against the Northeastern

Railroads, and I have made up my mind that you are the man for me.”

“You may have reason to regret your choice,” Austen suggested.

“I think not,” replied Mr. Crewe, promptly; “I believe I know a man when

I see one, and you inspire me with confidence. This matter will have a

double interest for you, as I understand you are fond of horses.”

“Horses?”

“Yes,” Mr. Crewe continued, gaining a little heat at the word, “I

bought the finest-lookin' pair you ever saw in New York this

spring,--all-around action, manners, conformation, everything; I'll show

'em to you. One of 'em's all right now; this confounded railroad injured

the other gettin' him up here. I've put in a claim. They say they

didn't, my man says they did. He tells me the horse was thrown violently

against the sides of the car several times. He's internally injured. I

told 'em I'd sue 'em, and I've decided that you are the man to take the

case--on conditions.”

Austen's sense of humour saved him,--and Mr. Humphrey Crewe had begun to

interest him. He rose and walked to the window and looked out for a few

moments over the flower garden before he replied:--“On what conditions?”

“Well,” said Mr. Crewe, “frankly, I don't want to pay more than the

horse is worth, and it's business to settle on the fee in case you win.

I thought--”

“You thought,” said Austen, “that I might not charge as much as the next

man.”

“Well,” said Mr. Crewe, “I knew that if you took the case, you'd fight

it through, and I want to get even with 'em. Their claim agent had the

impudence to suggest that the horse had been doctored by the dealer in

New York. To tell me that I, who have been buying horses all my life,

was fooled. The veterinary swears the animal is ruptured. I'm a citizen

of Avalon County, though many people call me a summer resident; I've

done business here and helped improve the neighbourhood for years.

It will be my policy to employ home talent Avalon County lawyers, for

instance. I may say, without indiscretion, that I intend from now on to

take even a greater interest in public affairs. The trouble is in this

country that men in my position do not feel their responsibilities.”

“Public spirit is a rare virtue,” Austen remarked, seeing that he

was expected to say something. “Avalon County appreciates the

compliment,--if I may be permitted to answer for it.”

“I want to do the right thing,” said Mr. Crewe. “In fact, I have almost

made up my mind to go to the Legislature this year. I know it would be

a sacrifice of time, in a sense, and all that, but--” He paused, and

looked at Austen.

“The Legislature needs leavening.”

“Precisely,” exclaimed Mr. Crewe, “and when I look around me and see the

things crying to be done in this State, and no lawmaker with sense and

foresight enough to propose them, it makes me sick. Now, for instance,”

he continued, and rose with an evident attempt to assault the forestry

shelves. But Austen rose too.

“I'd like to go over that with you, Mr. Crewe,” said he, “but I have to

be back in Ripton.”

“How about my case?” his host demanded, with a return to his former

abruptness.

“What about it?” asked Austen.

“Are you going to take it?”

“Struggling lawyers don't refuse business.”

“Well,” said Mr. Crewe, “that's sensible. But what are you going to

charge?”

“Now,” said Austen, with entire good humour, “when you get on that

ground, you are dealing no longer with one voracious unit, but with

a whole profession,--a profession, you will allow me to add, which in

dignity is second to none. In accordance with the practice of the best

men in that profession, I will charge you what I believe is fair--not

what I think you are able and willing to pay. Should you dispute the

bill, I will not stoop to quarrel with you, but, try to live on bread

and butter a while longer.”

Mr. Crewe was silent for a moment. It would not be exact to say

uncomfortable, for it is to be doubted whether he ever got so. But he

felt dimly that the relations of patron and patronized were becoming

somewhat jumbled.

“All right,” said he, “I guess we can let it go at that. Hello! What the

deuce are those women doing here again?”

This irrelevant exclamation was caused by the sight through the open

French window--of three ladies in the flower garden, two of whom were

bending over the beds. The third, upon whose figure Austen's eyes were

riveted, was seated on a stone bench set in a recess of pines, and

looking off into the Yale of the Blue. With no great eagerness, but

without apology to Austen, Mr. Crewe stepped out of the window and

approached them; and as this was as good a way as any to his horse

and buggy, Austen followed. One of the ladies straightened at their

appearance, scrutinized them through the glasses she held in her

hand, and Austen immediately recognized her as the irreproachable Mrs.

Pomfret.

“We didn't mean to disturb you, Humphrey,” she said. “We knew you would

be engaged in business, but I told Alice as we drove by I could not

resist stopping for one more look at your Canterbury bells. I knew

you wouldn't mind, but you mustn't leave your--affairs,--not for an

instant.”

The word “affairs” was accompanied by a brief inspection of Austen Vane.

“That's all right,” answered Mr. Crewe; “it doesn't cost anything to

look at flowers, that's what they're for. Cost something to put 'em in.

I got that little feller Ridley to lay 'em out--I believe I told you.

He's just beginning. Hello, Alice.”

“I think he did it very well, Humphrey,” said Miss Pomfret.

“Passably,” said Mr. Crewe. “I told him what I wanted and drew a rough

sketch of the garden and the colour scheme.”

“Then you did it, and not Mr. Ridley. I rather suspected it,” said

Mrs. Pomfret; “you have such clear and practical ideas about things,

Humphrey.”

“It's simple enough,” said Mr. Crewe, deprecatingly, “after you've seen

a few hundred gardens and get the general underlying principle.”

“It's very clever,” Alice murmured.

“Not at all. A little application will do wonders. A certain definite

colour massed here, another definite colour there, and so forth.”

Mr. Crewe spoke as though Alice's praise irritated him slightly.

He waved his hand to indicate the scheme in general, and glanced at

Victoria on the stone bench. From her (Austen thought) seemed to

emanate a silent but mirthful criticism, although she continued to gaze

persistently down the valley, apparently unaware of their voices. Mr.

Crewe looked as if he would have liked to reach her, but the two ladies

filled the narrow path, and Mrs. Pomfret put her fingers on his sleeve.

“Humphrey, you must explain it to us. I am so interested in gardens I'm

going to have one if Electrics increase their dividend.”

Mr. Crewe began, with no great ardour, to descant on the theory of

planting, and Austen resolved to remain pocketed and ignored no longer.

He retraced his steps and made his way rapidly by another path towards

Victoria, who turned her head at his approach, and rose. He acknowledged

an inward agitation with the vision in his eye of the tall, white figure

against the pines, clad with the art which, in mysterious simplicity,

effaces itself.

“I was wondering,” she said, as she gave him her hand, “how long it

would be before you spoke to me.”

“You gave me no chance,” said Austen, quickly.

“Do you deserve one?” she asked.

Before he could answer, Mr. Crewe's explanation of his theories had

come lamely to a halt. Austen was aware of the renewed scrutiny of Mrs.

Pomfret, and then Mr. Crewe, whom no social manacles could shackle,

had broken past her and made his way to them. He continued to treat the

ground on which Austen was standing as unoccupied.

“Hello, Victoria,” he said, “you don't know anything about gardens, do

you?”

“I don't believe you do either,” was Victoria's surprising reply.

Mr. Crewe laughed at this pleasantry.

“How are you going to prove it?” he demanded.

“By comparing what you've done with Freddie Ridley's original plan,”

said Victoria.

Mr. Crewe was nettled.

“Ridley has a lot to learn,” he retorted. “He had no conception of what

was appropriate here.”

“Freddie was weak,” said Victoria, “but he needed the money. Don't you

know Mr. Vane?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Crewe, shortly, “I've been talking to him--on business.”

“Oh,” said Victoria, “I had no means of knowing. Mrs. Pomfret, I want to

introduce Mr. Vane, and Miss Pomfret, Mr. Vane.”

Mrs. Pomfret, who had been hovering on the outskirts of this duel,

inclined her head the fraction of an inch, but Alice put out her hand

with her sweetest manner.

“When did you arrive?” she asked.

“Well, the fact is, I haven't arrived yet,” said Austen.

“Not arrived” exclaimed Alice, with a puzzled glance into Victoria's

laughing eyes.

“Perhaps Humphrey will help you along,” Victoria suggested, turning to

him. “He might be induced to give you his celebrated grievance about his

horses.”

“I have given it to him,” said Mr. Crewe, briefly.

“Cheer up, Mr. Vane, your fortune is made,” said Victoria.

“Victoria,” said Mrs. Pomfret, in her most imperial voice, “we ought

to be going instantly, or we shan't have time to drop you at the

Hammonds'.”

“I'll take you over in the new motor car,” said Mr. Crewe, with his air

of conferring a special train.

“How much is gasoline by the gallon?” inquired Victoria.

“I did a favour once for the local manager, and get a special price,”

said Mr. Crewe.

“Humphrey,” said Mrs. Pomfret, taking his hand, “don't forget you are

coming to dinner to-night. Four people gave out at the last minute, and

there will be just Alice and myself. I've asked old Mr. Fitzhugh.”

“All right,” said Mr. Crewe, “I'll have the motor car brought around.”

The latter part of this remark was, needless to say, addressed to

Victoria.

“It's awfully good of you, Humphrey,” she answered, “but the Hammonds

are on the road to Ripton, and I am going to ask Mr. Vane to drive me

down there behind that adorable horse of his.”

This announcement produced a varied effect upon those who heard it,

although all experienced surprise. Mrs. Pomfret, in addition to an anger

which she controlled only as the result of long practice, was horrified,

and once more levelled her glasses at Austen.

“I think, Victoria, you had better come with us,” she said. “We shall

have plenty of time, if we hurry.”

By this time Austen had recovered his breath.

“I'll be ready in an instant,” he said, and made brief but polite adieus

to the three others.

“Good-by,” said Alice, vaguely.

“Let me know when anything develops,” said Mr. Crewe, with his back to

his attorney.

Austen found Victoria, her colour heightened a little, waiting for him

by the driveway. The Pomfrets had just driven off, and Mr. Crewe was

nowhere to be seen.

“I do not know what you will think of me for taking this for granted,

Mr. Vane,” she said as he took his seat beside her, “but I couldn't

resist the chance of driving behind your horse.”

“I realized,” he answered smilingly, “that Pepper was the attraction,

and I have more reason than ever to be grateful to him.”

She glanced covertly at the Vane profile, at the sure, restraining

hands on the reins which governed with so nice a touch the mettle of the

horse. His silence gave her time to analyze again her interest in this

man, which renewed itself at every meeting. In the garden she had been

struck by the superiority of a nature which set at naught what had been,

to some smaller spirits, a difficult situation. She recognized this

quality as inborn, but, not knowing of Sarah Austen, she wondered where

he got it. Now it was the fact that he refrained from comment that

pleased her most.

“Did Humphrey actually send for you to take up the injured horse case?”

she asked.

Austen flushed.

“I'm afraid he did. You seem to know all about it,” he added.

“Know all about it Every one within twenty miles of Leith knows about

it. I'm sure the horse was doctored when he bought him.”

“Take care, you may be called as a witness.”

“What I want to know is, why you accepted such a silly case,” said

Victoria.

Austen looked quizzically into her upturned face, and she dropped her

eyes.

“That's exactly what I should have asked myself,--after a while,” he

said.

She laughed with a delicious understanding of “after a while.”

“I suppose you think me frightfully forward,” she said, in a lowered

voice, “inviting myself to drive and asking you such a question when

I scarcely know you. But I just couldn't go on with Mrs. Pomfret,--she

irritated me so,--and my front teeth are too valuable to drive with

Humphrey Crewe.”

Austen smiled, and secretly agreed with her.

“I should have offered, if I had dared,” he said.

“Dared! I didn't know that was your failing. I don't believe you even

thought of it.”

“Nevertheless, the idea occurred to me, and terrified me,” said Austen.

“Why?” she asked, turning upon him suddenly. “Why did it terrify you?”

“I should have been presuming upon an accidental acquaintance, which I

had no means of knowing you wished to continue,” he replied, staring at

his horse's head.

“And I?” Victoria asked. “Presumption multiplies tenfold in a woman,

doesn't it?”

“A woman confers,” said Austen.

She smiled, but with a light in her eyes. This simple sentence seemed to

reveal yet more of an inner man different from some of those with whom

her life had been cast. It was an American point of view--this choosing

to believe that the woman conferred. After offering herself as his

passenger Victoria, too, had had a moment of terror: the action had been

the result of an impulse which she did not care to attempt to define.

She changed the subject.

“You have been winning laurels since I saw you last summer,” she said.

“I hear incidentally you have made our friend Zeb Meader a rich man.”

“As riches go, in the town of Mercer,” Austen laughed. “As for my

laurels, they have not yet begun to chafe.”

Here was a topic he would have avoided, and yet he was curious to

discover what her attitude would be. He had antagonized her father, and

the fact that he was the son of Hilary Vane had given his antagonism

prominence.

“I am glad you did it for Zeb.”

“I should have done it for anybody--much as I like Zeb,” he replied

briefly.

She glanced at him.

“It was--courageous of you,” she said.

“I have never looked upon it in that light,” he answered. “May I ask you

how you heard of it?”

She coloured, but faced the question.

“I heard it from my father, at first, and I took an interest--on Zeb

Meader's account,” she added hastily.

Austen was silent.

“Of course,” she continued, “I felt a little like boasting of an

'accidental acquaintance' with the man who saved Zeb Meader's life.”

Austen laughed. Then he drew Pepper down to a walk, and turned to her.

“The power of making it more than an accidental acquaintance lies with

you,” he said quietly.

“I have always had an idea that aggression was a man's prerogative,”

Victoria answered lightly. “And seeing that you have not appeared at

Fairview for something over a year, I can only conclude that you do not

choose to exercise it in this case.”

Austen was in a cruel quandary.

“I did wish to come,” he answered simply, “but--the fact that I have

had a disagreement with your father has--made it difficult.” “Nonsense”

exclaimed Victoria; “just because you have won a suit against his

railroad. You don't know my father, Mr. Vane. He isn't the kind of man

with whom that would make any difference. You ought to talk it over with

him. He thinks you were foolish to take Zeb Meader's side.”

“And you?” Austen demanded quickly.

“You see, I'm a woman,” said Victoria, “and I'm prejudiced--for Zeb

Meader. Women are always prejudiced,--that's our trouble. It seemed to

me that Zeb was old, and unfortunate, and ought to be compensated, since

he is unable to work. But of course I suppose I can't be expected to

understand.”

It was true that she could not be expected to understand. He might not

tell her that his difference with Mr. Flint was not a mere matter of

taking a small damage suit against his railroad, but a fundamental one.

And Austen recognized that the justification of his attitude meant an

arraignment of Victoria's father.

“I wish you might know my father better, Mr. Vane,” she went on, “I wish

you might know him as I know him, if it were possible. You see, I have

been his constant companion all my life, and I think very few people

understand him as I do, and realize his fine qualities. He makes no

attempt to show his best side to the world. His life has been spent in

fighting, and I am afraid he is apt to meet the world on that footing.

He is a man of such devotion to his duty that he rarely has a day to

himself, and I have known him to sit up until the small hours of the

morning to settle some little matter of justice. I do not think I am

betraying his confidence when I say that he is impressed with your

ability, and that he liked your manner the only time he ever talked to

you. He believes that you have got, in some way, a wrong idea of what he

is trying to do. Why don't you come up and talk to him again?”

“I am afraid your kindness leads you to overrate my importance,” Austen

replied, with mingled feelings. Victoria's confidence in her father made

the situation all the more hopeless.

“I'm sure I don't,” she answered quickly; “ever since--ever since I

first laid eyes upon you I have had a kind of belief in you.”

“Belief?” he echoed.

“Yes,” she said, “belief that--that you had a future. I can't describe

it,” she continued, the colour coming into her face again; “one feels

that way about some people without being able to put the feeling into

words. And have a feeling, too, that I should like you to be friends

with my father.”

Neither of them, perhaps, realized the rapidity with which “accidental

acquaintance” had melted into intimacy. Austen's blood ran faster, but

it was characteristic of him that he tried to steady himself, for he

was a Vane. He had thought of her many times during the past year, but

gradually the intensity of the impression had faded until it had been

so unexpectedly and vividly renewed to-day. He was not a man to lose his

head, and the difficulties of the situation made him pause and choose

his words, while he dared not so much as glance at her as she sat in the

sunlight beside him.

“I should like to be friends with your father,” he answered

gravely,--the statement being so literally true as to have its

pathetically humorous aspect.

“I'll tell him so, Mr. Vane,” she said.

Austen turned, with a seriousness that dismayed her.

“I must ask you as a favour not to do that,” he said.

“Why?” she asked.

“In the first place,” he answered quietly, “I cannot afford to have Mr.

Flint misunderstand my motives. And I ought not to mislead you,” he went

on. “In periods of public controversy, such as we are passing through at

present, sometimes men's views differ so sharply as to make intercourse

impossible. Your father and I might not agree--politically, let us

say. For instance,” he added, with evident hesitation, “my father and I

disagree.”

Victoria was silent. And presently they came to a wire fence overgrown

with Virginia creeper, which divided the shaded road from a wide lawn.

“Here we are at the Hammonds', and--thank you,” she said.

Any reply he might have made was forestalled. The insistent and

intolerant horn of an automobile, followed now by the scream of the

gears, broke the stillness of the country-side, and a familiar voice

cried out--“Do you want the whole road?”

Austen turned into the Hammonds' drive as the bulldog nose of a motor

forged ahead, and Mr. Crewe swung in the driver's seat.

“Hello, Victoria,” he shouted, “you people ought to have ear-trumpets.”

The car swerved, narrowly missed a watering fountain where the word

“Peace” was inscribed, and shot down the hill.

“That manner,” said Victoria, as she jumped out of the buggy, “is a

valuable political asset.”

“Does he really intend to go into politics?” Austen asked curiously.

“'Intend' is a mild word applied to Humphrey,” she answered;

“'determined' would suit him better. According to him, there is no game

that cannot be won by dynamics. 'Get out of the way' is his motto. Mrs.

Pomfret will tell you how he means to cover the State with good roads

next year, and take a house in Washington the year after.” She held out

her hand. “Good-by,--and I am ever so much obliged to you for bringing

me here.”

He drove away towards Ripton with many things to think about, with a

last picture of her in his mind as she paused for an instant in the

flickering shadows, stroking Pepper's forehead.

CHAPTER VII. THE LEOPARD AND HIS SPOTS

It is difficult to overestimate the importance of Mr. Humphrey Crewe, of

his value to the town of Leith, and to the State at large, and in these

pages only a poor attempt at an appreciation of him may be expected. Mr.

Crewe by no means underestimated this claim upon the community, and he

had of late been declaring that he was no summer resident. Wedderburn

was his home, and there he paid his taxes. Undoubtedly, they were less

than city taxes.

Although a young man, Mr. Crewe was in all respects a model citizen, and

a person of many activities. He had built a farmers' club, to which

the farmers, in gross ingratitude, had never gone. Now it was a summer

residence and distinctly rentable. He had a standing offer to erect

a library in the village of Leith provided the town would furnish the

ground, the books, and permit the name of Crewe to be carved in stone

over the doorway. The indifference of the town pained him, and he was

naturally not a little grieved at the lack of proper feeling of

the country people of America towards those who would better their

conditions. He had put a large memorial window in the chapel to his

family.

Mr. Crewe had another standing offer to be one of five men to start a

farming experiment station--which might pay dividends. He, was a church

warden; president of a society for turning over crops (which he had

organized); a member of the State Grange; president of the embryo

State Economic League (whatever that was); and chairman of the Local

Improvement Board--also a creation of his own. By these tokens, and

others too numerous to mention, it would seem that the inhabitants of

Leith would have jumped at the chance to make such a man one of the five

hundred in their State Legislature.

To Whitman is attributed the remark that genius is almost one hundred

per cent directness, but whether or not this applied to Mr. Humphrey

Crewe remains to be seen. “Dynamics” more surely expressed him. It would

not seem to be a very difficult feat, to be sure, to get elected to a

State Legislature of five hundred which met once a year: once in ten

years, indeed, might have been more appropriate for the five hundred.

The town of Leith with its thousand inhabitants had one representative,

and Mr. Crewe had made up his mind he was to be that representative.

There was, needless to say, great excitement in Leith over Mr. Crewe's

proposed venture into the unknown seas of politics. I mean, of course,

that portion of Leith which recognized in Mr. Crewe an eligible

bachelor and a person of social importance, for these qualities were not

particularly appealing to the three hundred odd farmers whose votes were

expected to send him rejoicing to the State capital.

“It is so rare with us for a gentleman to go into politics, that we

ought to do everything we can to elect him,” Mrs. Pomfret went about

declaring. “Women do so much in England, I wonder they don't do more

here. I was staying at Aylestone Court last year when the Honourable

Billy Aylestone was contesting the family seat with a horrid Radical,

and I assure you, my dear, I got quite excited. We did nothing from

morning till night but electioneer for the Honourable Billy, and kissed

all the babies in the borough. The mothers were so grateful. Now, Edith,

do tell Jack instead of playing tennis and canoeing all day he ought to

help. It's the duty of all young men to help. Noblesse oblige, you know.

I can't understand Victoria. She really has influence with these country

people, but she says it's all nonsense. Sometimes I think Victoria has a

common streak in her--and no wonder. The other day she actually drove to

the Hammonds' in a buggy with an unknown lawyer from Ripton. But I told

you about it. Tell your gardener and the people that do your haying,

dear, and your chicken woman. My chicken woman is most apathetic, but do

you wonder, with the life they lead?”

Mr. Humphrey Crewe might have had, with King Charles, the watchword

“Thorough.” He sent to the town clerk for a check-list, and proceeded to

honour each of the two hundred Republican voters with a personal visit.

This is a fair example of what took place in the majority of cases.

Out of a cloud of dust emerges an automobile, which halts, with

protesting brakes, in front of a neat farmhouse, guarded by great

maples. Persistent knocking by a chauffeur at last brings a woman to the

door. Mrs. Jenney has a pleasant face and an ample figure.

“Mr. Jenney live here?” cries Mr. Crewe from the driver's seat.

“Yes,” says Mrs. Jenney, smiling.

“Tell him I want to see him.”

“Guess you'll find him in the apple orchard.”

“Where's that?”

The chauffeur takes down the bars, Mr. Jenney pricks up his ears, and

presently--to his amazement--perceives a Leviathan approaching him,

careening over the ruts of his wood road. Not being an emotional person,

he continues to pick apples until he is summarily hailed. Then he goes

leisurely towards the Leviathan.

“Are you Mr. Jenney?”

“Callate to be,” says Mr. Jenney, pleasantly.

“I'm Humphrey Crewe.”

“How be you?” says Mr. Jenney, his eyes wandering over the Leviathan.

“How are the apples this year?” asks Mr. Crewe, graciously.

“Fair to middlin',” says Mr. Jenney.

“Have you ever tasted my Pippins?” says Mr. Crewe. “A little science

in cultivation helps along. I'm going to send you a United States

government pamphlet on the fruit we can raise here.”

Mr. Jenney makes an awkward pause by keeping silent on the subject of

the pamphlet until he shall see it.

“Do you take much interest in politics?”

“Not a great deal,” answers Mr. Jenney.

“That's the trouble with Americans,” Mr. Crewe declares, “they don't

care who represents 'em, or whether their government's good or bad.”

“Guess that's so,” replies Mr. Jenney, politely.

“That sort of thing's got to stop,” declares Mr. Crewe; “I'm a candidate

for the Republican nomination for representative.”

“I want to know!” ejaculates Mr. Jenney, pulling his beard. One would

never suspect that this has been one of Mr. Jenney's chief topics of

late.

“I'll see that the interests of this town are cared for.”

“Let's see,” says Mr. Jenney, “there's five hundred in the House, ain't

there?”

“It's a ridiculous number,” says Mr. Crewe, with truth.

“Gives everybody a chance to go,” says Mr. Jenney. “I was thar in '78,

and enjoyed it some.”

“Who are you for?” demanded Mr. Crewe, combating the tendency of the

conversation to slip into a pocket.

“Little early yet, hain't it? Hain't made up my mind. Who's the

candidates?” asks Mr. Jenney, continuing to stroke his beard.

“I don't know,” says Mr. Crewe, “but I do know I've done something for

this town, and I hope you'll take it into consideration. Come and see

me when you go to the village. I'll give you a good cigar, and that

pamphlet, and we'll talk matters over.”

“Never would have thought to see one of them things in my orchard,” says

Mr. Jenney. “How much do they cost? Much as a locomotive, don't they?”

It would not be exact to say that, after some weeks of this sort of

campaigning, Mr. Crewe was discouraged, for such writhe vitality with

which nature had charged him that he did not know the meaning of the

word. He was merely puzzled, as a June-bug is puzzled when it bumps up

against a wire window-screen. He had pledged to him his own gardener,

Mrs. Pomfret's, the hired men of three of his neighbours, a few modest

souls who habitually took off their hats to him, and Mr. Ball, of the

village, who sold groceries to Wedderburn and was a general handy man

for the summer people. Mr. Ball was an agitator by temperament and a

promoter by preference. If you were a summer resident of importance and

needed anything from a sewing-machine to a Holstein heifer, Mr. Ball,

the grocer, would accommodate you. When Mrs. Pomfret's cook became

inebriate and refractory, Mr. Ball was sent for, and enticed her to the

station and on board of a train; when the Chillinghams' tank overflowed,

Mr. Ball found the proper valve and saved the house from being washed

away. And it was he who, after Mrs. Pomfret, took the keenest interest

in Mr. Crewe's campaign. At length came one day when Mr. Crewe pulled up

in front of the grocery store and called, as his custom was, loudly

for Mr. Ball. The fact that Mr. Ball was waiting on customers made no

difference, and presently that gentleman appeared, rubbing his hands

together.

“How do you do, Mr. Crewe?” he said, “automobile going all right?”

“What's the matter with these fellers?” said Mr. Crewe. “Haven't I done

enough for the town? Didn't I get 'em rural free delivery? Didn't I

subscribe to the meeting-house and library, and don't I pay more taxes

than anybody else?”

“Certain,” assented Mr. Ball, eagerly, “certain you do.” It did not

seem to occur to him that it was unfair to make him responsible for the

scurvy ingratitude of his townsmen. He stepped gingerly down into the

dust and climbed up on the tool box.

“Look out,” said Mr. Crewe, “don't scratch the varnish. What is it?”

Mr. Ball shifted obediently to the rubber-covered step, and bent his

face to his patron's ear.

“It's railrud,” he said.

“Railroad!” shouted Mr. Crewe, in a voice that made the grocer clutch

his arm in terror. “Don't pinch me like that. Railroad! This town ain't

within ten miles of the railroad.”

“For the love of David,” said Mr. Ball, “don't talk so loud, Mr. Crewe.”

“What's the railroad got to do with it?” Mr. Crewe demanded.

Mr. Ball glanced around him, to make sure that no one was within

shouting distance.

“What's the railrud got to do with anything in this State?” inquired Mr.

Ball, craftily.

“That's different,” said Mr. Crewe, shortly, “I'm a corporation man

myself. They've got to defend 'emselves.”

“Certain. I ain't got anything again' 'em,” Mr. Ball agreed quickly. “I

guess they know what they're about. By the bye, Mr. Crewe,” he added,

coming dangerously near the varnish again, and drawing back, “you hain't

happened to have seen Job Braden, have you?”

“Job Braden!” exclaimed Mr. Crewe, “Job Braden! What's all this mystery

about Job Braden? Somebody whispers that name in my ear every day. If

you mean that smooth-faced cuss that stutters and lives on Braden's

Hill, I called on him, but he was out. If you see him, tell him to come

up to Wedderburn, and I'll talk with him.”

Mr. Ball made a gesture to indicate a feeling divided between respect

for Mr. Crewe and despair at the hardihood of such a proposition.

“Lord bless you, sir, Job wouldn't go.”

“Wouldn't go?”

“He never pays visits,--folks go to him.”

“He'd come to see me, wouldn't he?”

“I--I'm afraid riot, Mr. Crewe. Job holds his comb rather high.”

“Do you mean to say this two-for-a-cent town has a boss?”

“Silas Grantley was born here,” said Mr. Ball--for even the worm will

turn. “This town's got a noble history.”

“I don't care anything about Silas Grantley. What I want to know is, how

this rascal manages to make anything out of the political pickings of a

town like Leith.”

“Well, Job ain't exactly a rascal, Mr. Crewe. He's got a good many of

them hill farmers in a position of--of gratitude. Enough to control the

Republican caucus.”

“Do you mean he buys their votes?” demanded Mr. Crewe.

“It's like this,” explained Mr. Ball, “if one of 'em falls behind in his

grocery bill, for example, he can always get money from Job. Job takes

a mortgage, but he don't often close down on 'm. And Job has been

collectin' credentials in Avalon County for upward of forty years.”

“Collecting credentials?”

“Yes. Gets a man nominated to State and county conventions that can't

go, and goes himself with a bunch of credentials. He's in a position to

negotiate. He was in all them railrud fights with Jethro Bass, and

now he does business with Hilary Vane or Brush Bascom when anything

especial's goin' on. You'd ought to see him, Mr. Crewe.”

“I guess I won't waste my time with any picayune boss if the United

Northeastern Railroads has any hand in this matter,” declared Mr. Crewe.

“Wind her up.”

This latter remark was addressed to a long-suffering chauffeur who

looked like a Sicilian brigand.

“I didn't exactly like to suggest it,” said Mr. Ball, rubbing his hands

and raising his voice above the whir of the machine, “but of course I

knew Mr. Flint was an intimate friend. A word to him from you--”

But by this Mr. Crewe had got in his second speed and was sweeping

around a corner lined with farmers' teams, whose animals were behaving

like circus horses. On his own driveway, where he arrived in incredibly

brief time, he met his stenographer, farm superintendent, secretary,

housekeeper, and general utility man, Mr. Raikes. Mr. Raikes was

elderly, and showed signs of needing a vacation.

“Telephone Mr. Flint, Raikes, and tell him I would like an appointment

at his earliest convenience, on important business.”

Mr. Raikes, who was going for his daily stroll beside the river, wheeled

and made for the telephone, and brought back the news that Mr. Flint

would be happy to see Mr. Crewe the next afternoon at four o'clock.

This interview, about which there has been so much controversy in the

newspapers, and denials and counter-denials from the press bureaus

of both gentlemen,--this now historic interview began at four o'clock

precisely the next day. At that hour Mr. Crewe was ushered into that

little room in which Mr. Flint worked when at Fairview. Like Frederick

the Great and other famous captains, Mr. Flint believed in an iron

bedstead regime. The magnate was, as usual, fortified behind his oak

desk; the secretary with a bend in his back was in modest evidence; and

an elderly man of comfortable proportions, with a large gold watch-charm

portraying the rising sun, and who gave, somehow, the polished

impression of a marble, sat near the window smoking a cigar. Mr. Crewe

approached the desk with that genial and brisk manner for which he was

noted and held out his hand to the railroad president.

“We are both business men, and both punctual, Mr. Flint,” he said, and

sat down in the empty chair beside his host, eyeing without particular

favour him of the watch-charm, whose cigar was not a very good one. “I

wanted to have a little private conversation with you which might be of

considerable interest to us both.” And Mr. Crewe laid down on the desk a

somewhat formidable roll of papers.

“I trust the presence of Senator Whitredge will not deter you,” answered

Mr. Flint. “He is an old friend of mine.”

Mr. Crewe was on his feet again with surprising alacrity, and beside the

senator's chair.

“How are you, Senator?” he said, “I have never had the pleasure of

meeting you, but I know you by reputation.”

The senator got to his feet. They shook hands, and exchanged cordial

greetings; and during the exchange Mr. Crewe looked out of the window,

and the senator's eyes were fixed on the telephone receiver on Mr.

Flint's desk. As neither gentleman took hold of the other's fingers very

hard, they fell apart quickly.

“I am very happy to meet you, Mr. Crewe,” said the senator. Mr. Crewe

sat down again, and not being hampered by those shrinking qualities so

fatal to success he went on immediately:--“There is nothing which I have

to say that the senator cannot hear. I made the appointment with you,

Mr. Flint, to talk over a matter which may be of considerable importance

to us both. I have made up my mind to go to the Legislature.”

Mr. Crewe naturally expected to find visible effects of astonishment

and joy on the faces of his hearers at such not inconsiderable news. Mr.

Flint, however, looked serious enough, though the senator smiled as he

blew his smoke out of the window.

“Have you seen Job Braden, Mr. Crewe?” he asked, with genial jocoseness.

“They tell me that Job is still alive and kicking over in your parts.”

“Thank you, Senator,” said Mr. Crewe, “that brings me to the very point

I wish to emphasize. Everywhere in Leith I am met with the remark,

'Have you seen Job Braden?' And I always answer, 'No, I haven't seen Mr.

Braden, and I don't intend to see him.”'

Mr. Whitredge laughed, and blew out a ring of smoke. Mr. Flint's face

remained sober.

“Now, Mr. Flint,” Mr. Crewe went on, “you and I understand each other,

and we're on the same side of the fence. I have inherited some interests

in corporations myself, and I have acquired an interest in others. I

am a director in several. I believe that it is the duty of property to

protect itself, and the duty of all good men in politics,--such as the

senator here,”--(bow from Mr. Whitredge)--“to protect property. I am

a practical man, and I think I can convince you, if you don't see

it already, that my determination to go to the Legislature is an

advantageous thing for your railroad.”

“The advent of a reputable citizen into politics is always a good thing

for the railroad, Mr. Crewe,” said Mr. Flint.

“Exactly,” Mr. Crewe agreed, ignoring the non-committal quality of this

remark, “and if you get a citizen who is a not inconsiderable property

holder, a gentleman, and a college graduate,--a man who, by study and

predilection, is qualified to bring about improved conditions in the

State, so much the better.”

“So much the better,” said Mr. Flint.

“I thought you would see it that way,” Mr. Crewe continued. “Now a man

of your calibre must have studied to some extent the needs of the State,

and it must have struck you that certain improvements go hand in hand

with the prosperity of your railroad.”

“Have a cigar, Mr. Crewe. Have another, Senator?” said Mr. Flint. “I

think that is safe as a general proposition, Mr. Crewe.”

“To specify,” said Mr. Crewe, laying his hand on the roll of papers

he had brought, “I have here bills which I have carefully drawn up and

which I will leave for your consideration. One is to issue bonds for ten

millions to build State roads.”

“Ten millions!” said Mr. Flint, and the senator whistled mildly.

“Think about it,” said Mr. Crewe, “the perfection of the highways

through the State, instead of decreasing your earnings, would increase

them tremendously. Visitors by the tens of thousands would come in

automobiles, and remain and buy summer places. The State would have its

money back in taxes and business in no time at all. I wonder somebody

hasn't seen it before--the stupidity of the country legislator is

colossal. And we want forestry laws, and laws for improving the

condition of the farmers--all practical things. They are all there,” Mr.

Crewe declared, slapping the bundle; “read them, Mr. Flint. If you have

any suggestions to make, kindly note them on the margin, and I shall be

glad to go over them with you.”

By this time the senator was in a rare posture for him--he was seated

upright.

“As you know, I am a very busy man, Mr. Crewe,” said the railroad

president.

“No one appreciates that more fully than I do, Mr. Flint,” said Mr.

Crewe; “I haven't many idle hours myself. I think you will find the

bills and my comments on them well worth your consideration from the

point of view of advantage to your railroad. They are typewritten, and

in concrete form. In fact, the Northeastern Railroads and myself must

work together to our mutual advantage--that has become quite clear to

me. I shall have need of your help in passing the measures.”

“I'm afraid I don't quite understand you, Mr. Crewe,” said Mr. Flint,

putting down the papers.

“That is,” said Mr. Crewe, “if you approve of the bills, and I am

confident that I shall be able to convince you.”

“What do you want me to do?” asked the railroad president.

“Well, in the first place,” said Mr. Crewe, unabashed, “send word to

your man Braden that you've seen me and it's all right.”

“I assure you,” answered Mr. Flint, giving evidence for the first time

of a loss of patience, “that neither the Northeastern Railroads nor

myself, have any more to do with this Braden than you have.”

Mr. Crewe, being a man of the world, looked incredulous.

“Senator,” Mr. Flint continued, turning to Mr. Whitredge, “you know as

much about politics in this State as any man of my acquaintance,

have you ever heard of any connection between this Braden and the

Northeastern Railroads?”

The senator had a laugh that was particularly disarming.

“Bless your soul, no,” he replied. “You will pardon me, Mr. Crewe, but

you must have been listening to some farmer's tale. The railroad is

the bugaboo in all these country romances. I've seen old Job Braden at

conventions ever since I was a lad. He's a back number, one of the few

remaining disciples and imitators of Jethro Bass: talks like him

and acts like him. In the old days when there were a lot of little

railroads, he and Bijah Bixby and a few others used to make something

out of them, but since the consolidation, and Mr. Flint's presidency,

Job stays at home. They tell me he runs Leith yet. You'd better go over

and fix it up with him.”

A somewhat sarcastic smile of satisfaction was playing over Mr. Flint's

face as he listened to the senator's words. As a matter of fact, they

were very nearly true as regarded Job Braden, but Mr. Crewe may be

pardoned for thinking that Mr. Flint was not showing him quite the

confidence due from one business and corporation man to another. He was

by no means abashed,--Mr. Crewe had too much spirit for that. He merely

became--as a man whose watchword is “thorough” will--a little more

combative.

“Well, read the bills anyway, Mr. Flint, and I'll come and go over them

with you. You can't fail to see my arguments, and all I ask is that you

throw the weight of your organization at the State capital for them when

they come up.”

Mr. Flint drummed on the table.

“The men who have held office in this State,” he said, “have always been

willing to listen to any suggestion I may have thought proper to make to

them. This is undoubtedly because I am at the head of the property

which pays the largest taxes. Needless to say I am chary of making

suggestions. But I am surprised that you should have jumped at a

conclusion which is the result of a popular and unfortunately prevalent

opinion that the Northeastern Railroads meddled in any way with the

government or politics of this State. I am glad of this opportunity of

assuring you that we do not,” he continued, leaning forward and holding

up his hand to ward off interruption, “and I know that Senator Whitredge

will bear me out in this statement, too.”

The senator nodded gravely. Mr. Crewe, who was anything but a fool, and

just as assertive as Mr. Flint, cut in.

“Look here, Mr. Flint,” he said, “I know what a lobby is. I haven't been

a director in railroads myself for nothing. I have no objection to a

lobby. You employ counsel before the Legislature, don't you--”

“We do,” said Mr. Flint, interrupting, “the best and most honourable

counsel we can find in the State. When necessary, they appear before

the legislative committees. As a property holder in the State, and an

admirer of its beauties, and as its well-wisher, it will give me great

pleasure to look over your bills, and use whatever personal influence I

may have as a citizen to forward them, should they meet my approval.

And I am especially glad to do this as a neighbour, Mr. Crewe. As a

neighbour,” he repeated, significantly.

The president of the Northeastern Railroads rose as he spoke these

words, and held out his hand to Mr. Crewe. It was perhaps a coincidence

that the senator rose also.

“All right,” said Mr. Crewe, “I'll call around again in about two weeks.

Come and see me sometime, Senator.” “Thank you,” said the senator, “I

shall be happy. And if you are ever in your automobile near the town of

Ramsey, stop at my little farm, Mr. Crewe. I trust to be able soon to

congratulate you on a step which I am sure will be but the beginning of

a long and brilliant political career.”

“Thanks,” said Mr. Crewe; “by the bye, if you could see your way to drop

a hint to that feller Braden, I should be much obliged.”

The senator shook his head and laughed.

“Job is an independent cuss,” he said, “I'm afraid he'd regard that as

an unwarranted trespass on his preserves.”

Mr. Crewe was ushered out by the stooping secretary, Mr. Freeman; who,

instead of seizing Mr. Crewe's hand as he had Austen Vane's, said not

a word. But Mr. Crewe would have been interested if he could have heard

Mr. Flint's first remark to the senator after the door was closed on

his back. It did not relate to Mr. Crewe, but to the subject under

discussion which he had interrupted; namely, the Republican candidates

for the twenty senatorial districts of the State.

On its way back to Leith the red motor paused in front of Mr. Ball's

store, and that gentleman was summoned in the usual manner.

“Do you see this Braden once in a while?” Mr. Crewe demanded.

Mr. Ball looked knowing.

“Tell him I want to have a talk with him,” said Mr. Crewe. “I've been

to see Mr. Flint, and I think matters can be arranged. And mind you, no

word about this, Ball.”

“I guess I understand a thing or two,” said Mr. Ball. “Trust me to

handle it.”

Two days later, as Mr. Crewe was seated in his study, his man entered

and stood respectfully waiting for the time when he should look up from

his book.

“Well, what is it now, Waters?”

“If you please, sir,” said the man, “a strange message has come over

the telephone just now that you were to be in room number twelve of

the Ripton House to-morrow at ten o'clock. They wouldn't give any name,

sir,” added the dignified Waters, who, to tell the truth, was somewhat

outraged, “nor tell where they telephoned from. But it was a man's voice,

sir.”

“All right,” said Mr. Crewe.

He spent much of the afternoon and evening debating whether or not his

dignity would permit him to go. But he ordered the motor at half-past

nine, and at ten o'clock precisely the clerk at the Ripton House was

bowing to him and handing him, deferentially, a dripping pen.

“Where's room number twelve?” said the direct Mr. Crewe.

“Oh,” said the clerk, and possessing a full share of the worldly wisdom

of his calling, he smiled broadly. “I guess you'll find him up there,

Mr. Crewe. Front, show the gentleman to number twelve.”

The hall boy knocked on the door of number twelve.

“C--come in,” said a voice. “Come in.”

Mr. Crewe entered, the hall boy closed the door, and he found himself

face to face with a comfortable, smooth-faced man seated with great

placidity on a rocking-chair in the centre of the room, between the bed

and the marble-topped table: a man to whom, evidently, a rich abundance

of thought was sufficient company, for he had neither newspaper nor

book. He rose in a leisurely fashion, and seemed the very essence of the

benign as he stretched forth his hand.

“I'm Mr. Crewe,” the owner of that name proclaimed, accepting the

hand with no exaggeration of cordiality. The situation jarred on him a

trifle.

“I know. Seed you on the road once or twice. How be you?”

Mr. Crewe sat down.

“I suppose you are Mr. Braden,” he said.

Mr. Braden sank into the rocker and fingered a waistcoat pocket full of

cigars that looked like a section of a cartridge-belt.

“T--try one of mine,” he said.

“I only smoke once after breakfast,” said Mr. Crewe.

“Abstemious, be you? Never could find that it did me any hurt.”

This led to an awkward pause, Mr. Crewe not being a man who found profit

in idle discussion. He glanced at Mr. Braden's philanthropic and beaming

countenance, which would have made the fortune of a bishop. It was not

usual for Mr. Crewe to find it difficult to begin a conversation, or to

have a companion as self-sufficient as himself. This man Braden had all

the fun, apparently, in sitting in a chair and looking into space that

Stonewall Jackson had, or an ordinary man in watching a performance of

“A Trip to Chinatown.” Let it not be inferred, again, that Mr. Crewe was

abashed; but he was puzzled.

“I had an engagement in Ripton this morning,” he said, “to see about

some business matters. And after I received your telephone I thought I'd

drop in here.”

“Didn't telephone,” said Mr. Braden, placidly.

“What!” said Mr. Crewe, “I certainly got a telephone message.”

“N--never telephone,” said Mr. Braden.

“I certainly got a message from you,” Mr. Crewe protested.

“Didn't say it was from me--didn't say so--did they--”

“No,” said Mr. Crewe, “but--”

“Told Ball you wanted to have me see you, didn't you?”

Mr. Crewe, when he had unravelled this sentence, did not fancy the way

it was put.

“I told Ball I was seeing everybody in Leith,” he answered, “and that I

had called on you, and you weren't at home. Ball inferred that you had a

somewhat singular way of seeing people.”

“You don't understand,” was Mr. Braden's somewhat enigmatic reply.

“I understand pretty well,” said Mr. Crewe. “I'm a candidate for the

Republican nomination for representative from Leith, and I want your

vote and influence. You probably know what I have done for the town, and

that I'm the biggest taxpayer, and an all-the-year-round resident.”

“S--some in Noo York--hain't you?”

“Well, you can't expect a man in my position and with my interests to

stay at home all the time. I feel that I have a right to ask the town

for this nomination. I have some bills here which I'll request you to

read over, and you will see that I have ideas which are of real value

to the State. The State needs waking up-progressive measures. You're a

farmer, ain't you?”

“Well, I have be'n.”

“I can improve the condition of the farmer one hundred per cent, and if

my road system is followed, he can get his goods to market for about a

tenth of what it costs him now. We have infinitely valuable forests

in the State which are being wasted by lumbermen, which ought to be

preserved. You read those bills, and what I have written about them.”

“You don't understand,” said Mr. Braden, drawing a little closer and

waving aside the manuscript with his cigar.

“Don't understand what?”

“Don't seem to understand,” repeated Mr. Braden, confidingly laying his

hand on Mr. Crewe's knee. “Candidate for representative, be you?”

“Yes,” replied Mr. Crewe, who was beginning to resent the manner in

which he deemed he was being played with, “I told you I was.”

“M--made all them bills out before you was chose?” said Mr. Braden.

Mr. Crewe grew red in the face.

“I am interested in these questions,” he said stiffly.

“Little mite hasty, wahn't it?” Mr. Braden remarked equably, “but you've

got plenty of time and money to fool with such things, if you've a mind

to. Them don't amount to a hill of beans in politics. Nobody pays any

attention to that sort of fireworks down to the capital, and if they

was to get into committee them Northeastern Railroads fellers'd bury 'em

deeper than the bottom of Salem pond. They don't want no such things as

them to pass.”

“Pardon me,” said Mr. Crewe, “but you haven't read 'em.”

“I know what they be,” said Mr. Braden, “I've be'n in politics more

years than you've be'n livin', I guess. I don't want to read 'em,” he

announced, his benign manner unchanged.

“I think you have made a mistake so far as the railroad is concerned,

Mr. Braden,” said Mr. Crewe, “I'm a practical man myself, and I don't

indulge in moonshine. I am a director in one or two railroads. I have

talked this matter over with Mr. Flint, and incidentally with Senator

Whitredge.”

“Knowed Whitredge afore you had any teeth,” said Mr. Braden, who did not

seem to be greatly impressed, “know him intimate. What'd you go to Flint

for?”

“We have interests in common,” said Mr. Crewe, “and I am rather a close

friend of his. My going to the Legislature will be, I think, to our

mutual advantage.”

“O--ought to have come right to me,” said Mr. Braden, leaning over until

his face was in close proximity to Mr. Crewe's. “Whitredge told you to

come to me, didn't he?”

Mr. Crewe was a little taken aback.

“The senator mentioned your name,” he admitted.

“He knows. Said I was the man to see if you was a candidate, didn't he?

Told you to talk to Job Braden, didn't he?”

Now Mr. Crewe had no means of knowing whether Senator Whitredge had been

in conference with Mr. Braden or not.

“The senator mentioned your name casually, in some connection,” said Mr.

Crewe.

“He knows,” Mr. Braden repeated, with a finality that spoke volumes for

the senator's judgment; and he bent over into Mr. Crewe's ear, with the

air of conveying a mild but well-merited reproof, “You'd ought to

come right to me in the first place. I could have saved you all that

unnecessary trouble of seein' folks. There hasn't be'n a representative

left the town of Leith for thirty years that I hain't agreed to.

Whitredge knows that. If I say you kin go, you kin go. You understand,”

said Mr. Braden, with his fingers on Mr. Crewe's knee once more.

Five minutes later Mr. Crewe emerged into the dazzling sun of the Ripton

square, climbed into his automobile, and turned its head towards Leith,

strangely forgetting the main engagement which he said had brought him

to town.

CHAPTER VIII. THE TRIALS OF AN HONOURABLE

It was about this time that Mr. Humphrey Crewe was transformed, by

one of those subtle and inexplicable changes which occur in American

politics, into the Honourable Humphrey Crewe. And, as interesting bits

of news about important people are bound to leak out, it became known in

Leith that he had subscribed to what is known as a Clipping Bureau. Two

weeks after the day he left Mr. Braden's presence in the Ripton

House the principal newspapers of the country contained the startling

announcement that the well-known summer colony of Leith was to be

represented in the State Legislature by a millionaire. The Republican

nomination, which Mr. Crewe had secured, was equivalent to an election.

For a little time after that Mr. Crewe, although naturally an important

and busy man, scarcely had time to nod to his friends on the road.

“Poor dear Humphrey,” said Mrs. Pomfret, “who was so used to dropping

in to dinner, hasn't had a moment to write me a line to thank me for

the statesman's diary I bought for him in London this spring. They're

in that new red leather, and Aylestone says he finds his so useful. I

dropped in at Wedderburn to-day to see if I could be of any help, and

the poor man was buttonholed by two reporters who had come all the way

from New York to see him. I hope he won't overdo it.”

It was true. Mr. Crewe was to appear in the Sunday supplements. “Are

our Millionaires entering Politics?” Mr. Crewe, with his usual gracious

hospitality, showed the reporters over the place, and gave them

suggestions as to the best vantage-points in which to plant their

cameras. He himself was at length prevailed upon to be taken in a rough

homespun suit, and with a walking-stick in his hand, appraising with a

knowing eye a flock of his own sheep. Pressed a little, he consented to

relate something of the systematic manner in which he had gone about to

secure this nomination: how he had visited in person the homes of his

fellow-townsmen. “I knew them all, anyway,” he is quoted as saying; “we

have had the pleasantest of relationships during the many years I have

been a resident of Leith.”

“Beloved of his townspeople,” this part of the article was headed. No,

these were not Mr. Crewe's words--he was too modest for that. When urged

to give the name of one of his townsmen who might deal with this and

other embarrassing topics, Mr. Ball was mentioned. “Beloved of his

townspeople” was Mr. Ball's phrase. “Although a multi-millionaire,

no man is more considerate of the feelings and the rights of his more

humble neighbours. Send him to the Legislature! We'd send him to the

United States Senate if we could. He'll land there, anyway.” Such was

a random estimate (Mr. Ball's) the reporters gathered on their way to

Ripton. Mr. Crewe did not hesitate to say that the prosperity of the

farmers had risen as a result of his labours at Wedderburn where the

most improved machinery and methods were adopted. His efforts to raise

the agricultural, as well as the moral and intellectual, tone of the

community had been unceasing.

Then followed an intelligent abstract of the bills he was to

introduce--the results of a progressive and statesmanlike brain. There

was an account of him as a methodical and painstaking business man whose

suggestions to the boards of directors of which he was a member had

been invaluable. The article ended with a list of the clubs to which he

belonged, of the societies which he had organized and of those of which

he was a member,--and it might have been remarked by a discerning reader

that most of these societies were State affairs. Finally there was a pen

portrait of an Apollo Belvidere who wore the rough garb of a farmer (on

the days when the press was present).

Mr. Crewe's incessant trials, which would have taxed a less rugged

nature, did not end here. About five o'clock one afternoon a

pleasant-appearing gentleman with a mellifluous voice turned up who

introduced himself as ex (State) Senator Grady. The senator was from

Newcastle, that city out of the mysterious depths of which so many

political stars have arisen. Mr. Crewe cancelled a long-deferred

engagement with Mrs. Pomfret, and invited the senator to stay to dinner;

the senator hesitated, explained that he was just passing through

Ripton, and, as it was a pleasant afternoon, had called to “pay his

respects”; but Mr. Crewe's well-known hospitality would accept no

excuses. Mr. Crewe opened a box of cigars which he had bought especially

for the taste of State senators and a particular grade of Scotch

whiskey.

They talked politics for four hours. Who would be governor? The senator

thought Asa Gray would. The railroad was behind him, Mr. Crewe observed

knowingly. The senator remarked that Mr. Crewe was no gosling. Mr.

Crewe, as political-geniuses will, asked as many questions as the

emperor of Germany--pertinent questions about State politics. Senator

Grady was tremendously impressed with his host's programme of bills,

and went over them so painstakingly that Mr. Crewe became more and more

struck with Senator Grady's intelligence. The senator told Mr. Crewe

that just such a man as he was needed to pull the State out of the rut

into which she had fallen. Mr. Crewe said that he hoped to find such

enlightened men in the Legislature as the senator. The senator let it be

known that he had read the newspaper articles, and had remarked that Mr.

Crewe was close to the president of the Northeastern Railroads.

“Such a man as you,” said the senator, looking at the remainder of the

Scotch whiskey, “will have the railroad behind you, sure.”

“One more drink,” said Mr. Crewe.

“I must go,” said Mr. Grady, pouring it out, “but that reminds me. It

comes over me sudden-like, as I sit here, that you certainly ought to be

in the new encyclopeedie of the prominent men of the State. But sure you

have received an application.”

“It is probable that my secretary has one,” said Mr. Crewe, “but he

hasn't called it to my attention.”

“You must get in that book, Mr. Crewe,” said the senator, with an

intense earnestness which gave the impression of alarm; “after what

you've told me to-night I'll see to it myself that you get in. It may be

that I've got some of the sample pages here, if I haven't left them at

home,” said Mr. Grady, fumbling in an ample inside pocket, and drawing

forth a bundle. “Sure, here they are. Ain't that luck for you? Listen!

'Asa P. Gray was born on the third of August, eighteen forty-seven, the

seventh son of a farmer. See, there's a space in the end they left

to fill up when he's elicted governor! Here's another. The Honourable

Hilary Vane comes from one of the oldest Puritan families in the State,

the Vanes of Camden Street--' Here's another. 'The Honourable Brush

Bascom of Putnam County is the son of poor but honourable parents--'

Look at the picture of him. Ain't that a handsome steel-engravin' of the

gentleman?”

Mr. Crewe gazed contemplatively at the proof, but was too busy with

his own thoughts to reflect that there was evidently not much poor or

honourable about Mr. Bascom now.

“Who's publishing this?” he asked.

“Fogarty and Company; sure they're the best publishers in the State, as

you know, Mr. Crewe. They have the State printing. Wasn't it fortunate

I had the proofs with me? Tim Fogarty slipped them into me pocket when

I was leavin' Newcastle. 'The book is goin' to press the day after

eliction,' says he, 'John,' says he, 'you know I always rely on your

judgment, and if you happen to think of anybody between now and then

who ought to go in, you'll notify me,' says he. When I read the bills

to-night, and saw the scope of your work, it came over me in a flash

that Humphrey Crewe was the man they left out. You'll get a good man to

write your life, and what you done for the town and State, and all them

societies and bills, won't you? 'Twould be a thousand pities not to have

it right.”

“How much does it cost?” Mr. Crewe inquired.

“Sure I forgot to ask Tim Fogarty. Mebbe he has it here. I signed one

myself, but I couldn't afford the steelengravin'. Yes, he slipped one

in. Two hundred dollars for a two-page biography, and, three hundred for

the steelengravin'. Five hundred dollars. I didn't know it was so cheap

as that,” exclaimed the senator, “and everybody in the State havin' to

own one in self-protection. You don't happen to have a pen about you?”

Mr. Crewe waved the senator towards his own desk, and Mr. Grady filled

out the blank.

“It's lucky we are that I didn't drop in after eliction, and the book

in press,” he remarked; “and I hope you'll give him a good photograph.

This's for you, I'll take this to Tim myself,” and he handed the pen for

Mr. Crewe to sign with.

Mr. Crewe read over the agreement carefully, as a business man should,

before putting his signature to it. And then the senator, with renewed

invitations for Mr. Crewe to call on him when he came to Newcastle, took

his departure. Afterwards Mr. Crewe remained so long in reflection that

his man Waters became alarmed, and sought him out and interrupted his

revery.

The next morning Mrs. Pomfret, who was merely “driving by” with her

daughter Alice and Beatrice Chillingham, spied Mr. Crewe walking about

among the young trees he was growing near the road, and occasionally

tapping them with his stout stick. She poked her coachman in the back

and cried:--“Humphrey, you're such an important man now that I despair

of ever seeing you again. What was the matter last night?”

“A politician from Newcastle,” answered Mr. Crewe, continuing to tap the

trees, and without so much as a glance at Alice.

“Well, if you're as important as this before you're elected, I can't

think what it will be afterwards,” Mrs. Pomfret lamented. “Poor dear

Humphrey is so conscientious. When can you come, Humphrey?”

“Don't know,” said Mr. Crewe; “I'll try to come tonight, but I may be

stopped again. Here's Waters now.”

The three people in Mrs. Pomfret's victoria were considerably impressed

to see the dignified Waters hurrying down the slope from the house

towards them. Mr. Crewe continued to tap the trees, but drew a little

nearer the carriage.

“If you please, sir,” said Waters, “there's a telephone call for you

from Newcastle. It's urgent, sir.”

“Who is it?”

“They won't give their names, sir.”

“All right,” said Mr. Crewe, and with a grin which spoke volumes for

the manner in which he was harassed he started towards the house--in no

great hurry, however. Reaching the instrument, and saying “Hello” in

his usually gracious manner, he was greeted by a voice with a decided

Hibernian-American accent.

“Am I talkin' to Mr. Crewe?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Humphrey Crewe?”

“Yes--yes, of course you are. Who are you?”

“I'm the president of the Paradise Benevolent and Military Association,

Mr. Crewe. Boys that work in the mills, you know,” continued the voice,

caressingly. “Sure you've heard of us. We're five hundred strong, and

all of us good Republicans as the president. We're to have our annual

fall outing the first of October in Finney Grove, and we'd like to have

you come down.”

“The first of October?” said Mr. Crewe. “I'll consult my engagement

book.”

“We'd like to have a good picture of you in our programme, Mr. Crewe. We

hope you'll oblige us. You're such an important figure in State politics

now you'd ought to have a full page.”

There was a short silence.

“What does it cost?” Mr. Crewe demanded.

“Sure,” said the caressing voice of the president, “whatever you like.”

“I'll send you a check for five dollars, and a picture,” said Mr. Crewe.

The answer to this was a hearty laugh, which the telephone reproduced

admirably. The voice now lost a little of its caressing note and partook

of a harder quality.

“You're a splendid humorist, Mr. Crewe. Five dollars wouldn't pay for

the plate and the paper. A gentleman like you could give us twenty-five,

and never know it was gone. You won't be wanting to stop in the

Legislature, Mr. Crewe, and we remember our friends in Newcastle.”

“Very well, I'll see what I can do. Good-by, I've got an engagement,”

said Mr. Crewe, and slammed down the telephone. He seated himself in his

chair, and the pensive mood so characteristic (we are told) of statesmen

came over him once more.

While these and other conferences and duties too numerous to mention

were absorbing Mr. Crewe, he was not too busy to bear in mind the

pleasure of those around him who had not received such an abundance

of the world's blessings as he. The townspeople of Leith were about

to bestow on him their greatest gift. What could he do to show his

appreciation? Wrestling with this knotty problem, a brilliant idea

occurred to him,--he would have a garden-party: invite everybody in

town, and admit them to the sanctities of Wedderburn; yes, even of

Wedderburn house, that they might behold with their own eyes the carved

ivory elephants and other contents of glass cabinets which reeked of

the Sunday afternoons of youth. Being a man of action, Mr. Pardriff

was summoned at once from Leith and asked for his lowest price on eight

hundred and fifty invitations and a notice of the party in the Ripton

Record.

“Goin' to invite Democrats, too?” demanded Mr. Pardriff, glancing at the

check-list.

“Everybody,” said Mr. Crewe, with unparalleled generosity. “I won't draw

any distinction between friends and enemies. They're all neighbours.”

“And some of 'em might, by accident, vote the Republican ticket,” Mr.

Pardriff retorted, narrowing his eyes a little.

Mr. Crewe evidently thought this a negligible suggestion, for he did not

reply to it, but presently asked for the political news in Ripton.

“Well,” said Mr. Pardriff, “you know they tried to get Austen Vane to

run for State senator, don't you?”

“Vane Why, he ain't a full-fledged lawyer yet. I've hired him in an

unimportant case. Who asked him to run?”

“Young Tom Gaylord and a delegation.”

“He couldn't have got it,” said Mr. Crewe.

“I don't know,” said Mr. Pardriff, “he might have given Billings a

hustle for the nomination.”

“You supported Billings, I noticed,” said Mr. Crewe.

Mr. Pardriff winked an eye.

“I'm not ready to walk the ties when I go to Newcastle,” he remarked,

“and Nat ain't quite bankrupt yet. The Gaylords,” continued Mr.

Pardriff, who always took the cynical view of a man of the world, “have

had some row with the Northeastern over lumber shipments. I understand

they're goin' to buck 'em for a franchise in the next Legislature, just

to make it lively. The Gaylords ain't exactly poverty-stricken, but they

might as well try to move Sawanec Mountain as the Northeastern.”

It was a fact that young Tom Gaylord had approached Austen Vane with

a “delegation” to request him to be a candidate for the Republican

nomination for the State senate in his district against the railroad

candidate and Austen's late opponent, the Honourable Nat Billings. It

was a fact also that Austen had invited the delegation to sit down,

although there were only two chairs, and that a wrestling match had

ensued with young Tom, in the progress of which one chair had been

broken. Young Tom thought it was time to fight the railroad, and

perceived in Austen the elements of a rebel leader. Austen had

undertaken to throw young Tom out of a front window, which was a large,

old-fashioned one,--and after Herculean efforts had actually got him

on the ledge, when something in the street caught his eye and made him

desist abruptly. The something was the vision of a young woman in a

brown linen suit seated in a runabout and driving a horse almost as

handsome as Pepper.

When the delegation, after exhausting their mental and physical powers

of persuasion, had at length taken their departure in disgust, Austen

opened mechanically a letter which had very much the appearance of

an advertisement, and bearing a one-cent stamp. It announced that a

garden-party would take place at Wedderburn, the home of the Honourable

Humphrey Crewe, at a not very distant date, and the honour of the

bearer's presence was requested. Refreshments would be served, and the

Ripton Band would dispense music. Below, in small print, were minute

directions where to enter, where to hitch your team, and where to go

out.

Austen was at a loss to know what fairy godmother had prompted Mr. Crewe

to send him an invitation, the case of the injured horse not having

advanced with noticeable rapidity. Nevertheless, the prospect of the

garden-party dawned radiantly for him above what had hitherto been a

rather gloomy horizon. Since the afternoon he had driven Victoria to

the Hammonds' he had had daily debates with an imaginary man in his own

likeness who, to the detriment of his reading of law, sat across his

table and argued with him. The imaginary man was unprincipled, and

had no dignity, but he had such influence over Austen Vane that he had

induced him to drive twice within sight of Fairview gate, when Austen

Vane had turned round again. The imaginary man was for going to call on

her and letting subsequent events take care of themselves; Austen Vane,

had an uncomfortable quality of reducing a matter first of all to

its simplest terms. He knew that Mr. Flint's views were as fixed,

ineradicable, and unchangeable as an epitaph cut in a granite monument;

he felt (as Mr. Flint had) that their first conversation had been but a

forerunner of, a strife to come between them; and add to this the facts

that Mr. Flint was very rich and Austen Vane poor, that Victoria's

friends were not his friends, and that he had grave doubts that the

interest she had evinced in him sprang from any other incentive than

a desire to have communication with various types of humanity, his

hesitation as to entering Mr. Flint's house was natural enough.

It was of a piece with Mr. Crewe's good fortune of getting what he

wanted that the day of the garden-party was the best that September

could do in that country, which is to say that it was very beautiful. A

pregnant stillness enwrapped the hills, a haze shot with gold dust, like

the filmiest of veils, softened the distant purple and the blue-black

shadows under the pines. Austen awoke from his dream in this enchanted

borderland to find himself in a long line of wagons filled with people

in their Sunday clothes,--the men in black, and the young women in

white, with gay streamers, wending their way through the rear-entrance

drive of Wedderburn, where one of Mr. Crewe's sprucest employees was

taking up the invitation cards like tickets,--a precaution to prevent

the rowdy element from Ripton coming and eating up the refreshments.

Austen obediently tied Pepper in a field, as he was directed, and made

his way by a path through the woods towards the house, where the Ripton

Band could be heard playing the second air in the programme, “Don't you

wish you'd Waited?”

For a really able account of that memorable entertainment see the Ripton

Record of that week, for we cannot hope to vie with Mr. Pardriff when

his heart is really in his work. How describe the noble figure of Mr.

Crewe as it burst upon Austen when he rounded the corner of the house?

Clad in a rough-and-ready manner, with a Gladstone collar to indicate

the newly acquired statesmanship, and fairly radiating geniality, Mr.

Crewe stood at the foot of the steps while the guests made the circuit

of the driveway; and they carefully avoided, in obedience to a warning

sign, the grass circle in the centre. As man and wife confronted him,

Mr. Crewe greeted them in hospitable but stentorian tones that rose

above the strains of “Don't you wish you'd Waited?” It was Mr. Ball who

introduced his townspeople to the great man who was to represent them.

“How are you?” said Mr. Crewe, with his eyes on the geraniums. “Mr.

and Mrs. Perley Wright, eh? Make yourselves at home. Everything's

free--you'll find the refreshments on the back porch--just have an eye

to the signs posted round, that's all.” And Mr. and Mrs. Perley Wright,

overwhelmed by such a welcome, would pass on into a back eddy of

neighbours, where they would stick, staring at a sign requesting them

please not to pick the flowers.

“Can't somebody stir 'em up?” Mr. Crewe shouted in an interval when the

band had stopped to gather strength for a new effort. “Can't somebody

move 'em round to see the cows and what's in the house and the

automobile and the horses? Move around the driveway, please. It's so hot

here you can't breathe. Some of you wanted to see what was in the house.

Now's your chance.”

This graceful appeal had some temporary effect, but the congestion soon

returned, when a man of the hour appeared, a man whose genius scattered

the groups and who did more to make the party a success than any single

individual,--Mr. Hamilton Tooting, in a glorious white silk necktie with

purple flowers.

“I'll handle 'em, Mr. Crewe,” he said; “a little brains'll start 'em

goin'. Come along here, Mr. Wright, and I'll show you the best cows this

side of the Hudson Riverall pedigreed prize winners. Hello, Aust, you

take hold and get the wimmen-folks interested in the cabinets. You know

where they are.”

“There's a person with some sense,” remarked Mrs. Pomfret, who had

been at a little distance among a group of summer-resident ladies and

watching the affair with shining eyes. “I'll help. Come, Edith; come,

Victoria where's Victoria?--and dear Mrs. Chillingham. We American women

are so deplorably lacking in this kind of experience. Alice, take

some of the women into the garden. I'm going to interest that dear,

benevolent man who looks so helpless, and doing his best to have a good

time.”

The dear, benevolent man chanced to be Mr. Job Braden, who was standing

somewhat apart with his hands in his pockets. He did not move as Mrs.

Pomfret approached him, holding her glasses to her eyes.

“How are you?” exclaimed that lady, extending a white-gloved hand with

a cordiality that astonished her friends. “It is so pleasant to see you

here, Mr.--Mr.--”

“How be you?” said Mr. Braden, taking her fingers in the gingerly manner

he would have handled one of Mr. Crewe's priceless curios. The giraffe

Mr. Barnum had once brought to Ripton was not half as interesting as

this immaculate and mysterious production of foreign dressmakers and

French maids, but he refrained from betraying it. His eye rested on the

lorgnette.

“Near-sighted, be you?” he inquired,--a remark so unexpected that for

the moment Mrs. Pomfret was deprived of speech.

“I manage to see better with--with these,” she gasped, “when we get

old--you know.”

“You hain't old,” said Mr. Braden, gallantly. “If you be,” he added,

his eye travelling up and down the Parisian curves, “I wouldn't have

suspected it--not a mite.”

“I'm afraid you are given to flattery, Mr.--Mr.--” she replied

hurriedly. “Whom have I the pleasure of speaking to?”

“Job Braden's my name,” he answered, “but you have the advantage of me.”

“How?” demanded the thoroughly bewildered Mrs. Pomfret.

“I hain't heard your name,” he said.

“Oh, I'm Mrs. Pomfret--a very old friend of Mr. Crewe's. Whenever he

has his friends with him, like this, I come over and help him. It is so

difficult for a bachelor to entertain, Mr. Braden.”

“Well,” said Mr. Braden, bending alarmingly near her ear, “there's one

way out of it.”

“What's that?” said Mrs. Pomfret.

“Git married,” declared Mr. Braden.

“How very clever you are, Mr. Braden! I wish poor dear Mr. Crewe would

get married--a wife could take so many burdens off his shoulders. You

don't know Mr. Crewe very well, do you?”

“Callate to--so so,” said Mr. Braden.

Mrs. Pomfret was at sea again.

“I mean, do you see him often?”

“Seen him once,” said Mr. Braden. “G-guess that's enough.”

“You're a shrewd judge of human nature, Mr. Braden,” she replied,

tapping him on the shoulder with the lorgnette, “but you can have no

idea how good he is--how unceasingly he works for others. He is not

a man who gives much expression to his feelings, as no doubt you have

discovered, but if you knew him as I do, you would realize how much

affection he has for his country neighbours and how much he has their

welfare at heart.”

“Loves 'em--does he--loves 'em?”

“He is like an English gentleman in his sense of responsibility,”

said Mrs. Pomfret; “over there, you know, it is a part of a country

gentleman's duty to improve the condition of his--his neighbours. And

then Mr. Crewe is so fond of his townspeople that he couldn't resist

doing this for them,” and she indicated with a sweep of her eyeglasses

the beatitude with which they were surrounded.

“Wahn't no occasion to,” said Mr. Braden.

“What!” cried Mrs. Pomfret, who had been walking on ice for some time.

“This hain't England--is it? Hain't England?”

“No,” she admitted, “but--”

“Hain't England,” said Mr. Braden, and leaned forward until he was

within a very few inches of her pearl ear-ring. “He'll be chose all

right--d-don't fret--he'll be chose.”

“My dear Mr. Braden, I've no doubt of it--Mr. Crewe's so popular,” she

cried, removing her ear-ring abruptly from the danger zone. “Do make

yourself at home,” she added, and retired from Mr. Braden's company a

trifle disconcerted,--a new experience for Mrs. Pomfret. She wondered

whether all country people were like Mr. Braden, but decided, after

another experiment or two, that he was an original. More than once

during the afternoon she caught sight of him, beaming upon the

festivities around him. But she did not renew the conversation.

To Austen Vane, wandering about the grounds, Mr. Crewe's party

presented a sociological problem of no small interest. Mr. Crewe himself

interested him, and he found himself speculating how far a man would go

who charged the fastnesses of the politicians with a determination not

to be denied and a bank account to be reckoned with. Austen talked to

many of the Leith farmers whom he had known from boyhood, thanks to

his custom of roaming the hills; they were for the most part honest men

whose occupation in life was the first thought, and they were content

to leave politics to Mr. Braden--that being his profession. To the most

intelligent of these Mr. Crewe's garden-party was merely the wanton

whim of a millionaire. It was an open secret to them that Job Braden for

reasons of his own had chosen Mr. Crewe to represent them, and they

were mildly amused at the efforts of Mrs. Pomfret and her assistants to

secure votes which were as certain as the sun's rising on the morrow.

It was some time before Austen came upon the object of his

search--though scarce admitting to himself that it had an object. In

greeting him, after inquiring about his railroad case, Mr. Crewe

had indicated with a wave of his hand the general direction of the

refreshments; but it was not until Austen had tried in all other

quarters that he made his way towards the porch where the lemonade and

cake and sandwiches were. It was, after all, the most popular

place, though to his mind the refreshments had little to do with its

popularity. From the outskirts of the crowd he perceived Victoria

presiding over the punchbowl that held the lemonade. He liked to think

of her as Victoria; the name had no familiarity for him, but seemed

rather to enhance the unattainable quality of her.

Surrounding Victoria were several clean-looking, freckled, and tanned

young men of undergraduate age wearing straw hats with coloured ribbons,

who showed every eagerness to obey and even anticipate the orders she

did not hesitate to give them. Her eye seemed continually on the alert

for those of Mr. Crewe's guests who were too bashful to come forward,

and discerning them she would send one of her lieutenants forward with

supplies. Sometimes she would go herself to the older people; and once,

perceiving a tired woman holding a baby (so many brought babies, being

unable to leave them), Victoria impulsively left her post and seized the

woman by the arm.

“Do come and sit down,” she cried; “there's a chair beside me. And oh,

what a nice baby! Won't you let me hold him?”

“Why, yes, ma'am,” said the woman, looking up at Victoria with grateful,

patient eyes, and then with awe at what seemed to her the priceless

embroidery on Victoria's waist, “won't he spoil your dress?”

“Bless him, no,” said Victoria, poking her finger into a dimple--for he

was smiling at her. “What if he does?” and forthwith she seized him in

her arms and bore him to the porch, amidst the laughter of those who

beheld her, and sat him down on her knee in front of the lemonade bowl,

the tired mother beside her. “Will a little lemonade hurt him? Just a

very, very little, you know?”

“Why, no, ma'am,” said the mother.

“And just a teeny bit of cake,” begged Victoria, daintily breaking off

a piece, while the baby gurgled and snatched for it. “Do tell me how old

he is, and how many more you have.”

“He's eleven months on the twenty-seventh,” said the mother, “and I've

got four more.” She sighed, her eyes wandering back to the embroidery.

“What between them and the housework and the butter makin', it hain't

easy. Be you married?”

“No,” said Victoria, laughing and blushing a little.

“You'll make a good wife for somebody,” said the woman. “I hope you'll

get a good man.”

“I hope so, too,” said Victoria, blushing still deeper amidst the

laughter, “but there doesn't seem to be much chance of it, and good men

are very scarce.”

“I guess you're right,” said the mother, soberly. “Not but what my man's

good enough, but he don't seem to get along, somehow. The farm's wore

out, and the mortgage comes around so regular.”

“Where do you live?” asked Victoria, suddenly growing serious.

“Fitch's place. 'Tain't very far from the Four Corners, on the Avalon

road.”

“And you are Mrs. Fitch?”

“Callate to be,” said the mother. “If it ain't askin' too much, I'd like

to know your name.”

“I'm Victoria Flint. I live not very far from the Four Corners--that is,

about eight miles. May I come over and see you sometime?”

Although Victoria said this very simply, the mother's eyes widened until

one might almost have said they expressed a kind of terror.

“Land sakes alive, be you Mr. Flint's daughter? I might have knowed it

from the lace--that dress must have cost a fortune. But I didn't think

to find you so common.”

Victoria did not smile. She had heard the word “common” so used before,

and knew that it was meant for a compliment, and she turned to the woman

with a very expressive light in her eyes.

“I will come to see you--this very week,” she said. And just then her

glance, seemingly drawn in a certain direction, met that of a tall young

man which had been fixed upon her during the whole of this scene. She

coloured again, abruptly handed the baby back to his mother, and rose.

“I'm neglecting all these people,” she said, “but do sit there and rest

yourself and--have some more lemonade.”

She bowed to Austen, and smiled a little as she filled the glasses, but

she did not beckon him. She gave no further sign of her knowledge of his

presence until he stood beside her--and then she looked up at him.

“I have been looking for you, Miss Flint,” he said.

“I suppose a man would never think of trying the obvious places first,”

she replied. “Hastings, don't you see that poor old woman over there?

She looks so thirsty--give her this.”

The boy addressed, with a glance at Austen, did as he was bid, and she

sent off a second on another errand.

“Let me help,” said Austen, seizing the cake; and being seized at the

same time, by an unusual and inexplicable tremor of shyness, thrust it

at the baby.

“Oh, he can't have anymore; do you want to kill him?” cried Victoria,

seizing the plate, and adding mischievously, “I don't believe you're of

very much use--after all!”

“Then it's time I learned,” said Austen. “Here's Mr. Jenney. I'm sure

he'll have a piece.”

“Well,” said Mr. Jenney, the same Mr. Jenney of the apple orchard, but

holding out a horny hand with unmistakable warmth, “how be you, Austen?”

Looking about him, Mr. Jenney put his hand to his mouth, and added,

“Didn't expect to see you trailin' on to this here kite.” He took a

piece of cake between his thumb and forefinger and glanced bashfully at

Victoria.

“Have some lemonade, Mr. Jenney? Do,” she urged.

“Well, I don't care if I do,” he said, “just a little mite.” He did not

attempt to stop her as she filled the glass to the brim, but continued

to regard her with a mixture of curiosity and admiration. “Seen you

nursin' the baby and makin' folks at home. Guess you have the knack of

it better'n some I could mention.”

This was such a palpable stroke at their host that Victoria laughed, and

made haste to turn the subject from herself.

“Mr. Vane seems to be an old friend of yours,” she said.

“Why,” said Mr. Jenney, laying his hand on Austen's shoulder, “I callate

he is. Austen's broke in more'n one of my colts afore he went West and

shot that feller. He's as good a judge of horse-flesh as any man in this

part of the State. Hear Tom Gaylord and the boys wanted him to be State

senator.”

“Why didn't you accept, Mr. Vane?”

“Because I don't think the boys could have elected me,” answered Austen,

laughing.

“He's as popular a man as there is in the county,” declared Mr. Jenney.

“He was a mite wild as a boy, but sence he's sobered down and won that

case against the railrud, he could get any office he'd a mind to. He's

always adoin' little things for folks, Austen is.”

“Did--did that case against the railroad make him so popular?” asked

Victoria, glancing at Austen's broad back--for he had made his escape

with the cake.

“I guess it helped considerable,” Mr. Jenney admitted.

“Why?” asked Victoria.

“Well, it was a fearless thing to do--plumb against his own interests

with old Hilary Vane. Austen's a bright lawyer, and I have heard it said

he was in line for his father's place as counsel.”

“Do--do people dislike the railroad?”

Mr. Jenney rubbed his beard thoughtfully. He began to wonder who this

young woman was, and a racial caution seized him.

“Well,” he said, “folks has an idea the railrud runs this State to suit

themselves. I guess they hain't far wrong. I've be'n to the Legislature

and seen some signs of it. Why, Hilary Vane himself has charge of the

most considerable part of the politics. Who be you?” Mr. Jenney demanded

suddenly.

“I'm Victoria Flint,” said Victoria.

“Godfrey!” exclaimed Mr. Jenney, “you don't say so! I might have known

it--seen you on the rud more than once. But I don't know all you rich

folks apart. Wouldn't have spoke so frank if I'd knowed who you was.”

“I'm glad you did, Mr. Jenney,” she answered. “I wanted to know what

people think.”

“Well, it's almighty complicated,” said Mr. Jenney, shaking his head.

“I don't know by rights what to think. As long as I've said what I have,

I'll say this: that the politicians is all for the railrud, and I hain't

got a mite of use for the politicians. I'll vote for a feller like

Austen Vane every time, if he'll run, and I know other folks that will.”

After Mr. Jenney had left her, Victoria stood motionless, gazing off

into the haze, until she was startled by the voice of Hastings Weare

beside her.

“Say, Victoria, who is that man?” he asked.

“What man?”

Hastings nodded towards Austen, who, with a cake basket in his hand,

stood chatting with a group of country people on the edge of the porch.

“Oh, that man!” said Victoria. “His name's Austen Vane, and he's a

lawyer in Ripton.”

“All I can say is,” replied Hastings, with a light in his face, “he's

one I'd like to tie to. I'll bet he could whip any four men you could

pick out.”

Considering that Hastings had himself proposed--although in a very mild

form--more than once to Victoria, this was generous.

“I daresay he could,” she agreed absently.

“It isn't only the way he's built,” persisted Hastings, “he looks as if

he were going to be somebody some day. Introduce me to him, will you?”

“Certainly,” said Victoria. “Mr. Vane,” she called, “I want to introduce

an admirer, Mr. Hastings Weare.”

“I just wanted to know you,” said Hastings, reddening, “and Victoria--I

mean Miss Flint--said she'd introduce me.”

“I'm much obliged to her,” said Austen, smiling.

“Are you in politics?” asked Hastings.

“I'm afraid not,” answered Austen, with a glance at Victoria.

“You're not helping Humphrey Crewe, are you?”

“No,” said Austen, and added with an illuminating smile, “Mr. Crewe

doesn't need any help.”

“I'm glad you're not,” exclaimed the downright Hastings, with palpable

relief in his voice that an idol had not been shattered. “I think

Humphrey's a fakir, and all this sort of thing tommyrot. He wouldn't get

my vote by giving me lemonade and cake and letting me look at his cows.

If you ever run for office, I'd like to cast it for you. My father is

only a summer resident, but since he has gone out of business he stays

here till Christmas, and I'll be twenty-one in a year.”

Austen had ceased to smile; he was looking into the boy's eyes with that

serious expression which men and women found irresistible.

“Thank you, Mr. Weare,” he said simply.

Hastings was suddenly overcome with the shyness of youth. He held out

his hand, and said, “I'm awfully glad to have met you,” and fled.

Victoria, who had looked on with a curious mixture of feelings, turned

to Austen.

“That was a real tribute,” she said. “Is this the way you affect

everybody whom you meet?”

They were standing almost alone. The sun was nearing the western hills

beyond the river, and people had for some time been wending their way

towards the field where the horses were tied. He did not answer her

question, but asked one instead.

“Will you let me drive you home?”

“Do you think you deserve to, after the shameful manner in which you

have behaved?”

“I'm quite sure that I don't deserve to,” he answered, still looking

down at her.

“If you did deserve to, being a woman, I probably shouldn't let you,”

said Victoria, flashing a look upwards; “as it is, you may.”

His face lighted, but she halted in the grass, with her hands behind

her, and stared at him with a puzzled expression.

“I'm sure you're a dangerous man,” she declared. “First you take in poor

little Hastings, and now you're trying to take me in.”

“Then I wish I were still more dangerous,” he laughed, “for apparently I

haven't succeeded.”

“I want to talk to you seriously,” said Victoria; “that is the only

reason I'm permitting you to drive me home.”

“I am devoutly thankful for the reason then,” he said,--“my horse is

tied in the field.”

“And aren't you going to say good-by to your host and hostess?”

“Hostess?” he repeated, puzzled.

“Hostesses,” she corrected herself, “Mrs. Pomfret and Alice. I thought

you had eyes in your head,” she added, with a fleeting glance at them.

“Is Crewe engaged to Miss Pomfret?” he asked.

“Are all men simpletons?” said Victoria. “He doesn't know it yet, but he

is.”

“I think I'd know it, if I were,” said Austen, with an emphasis that

made her laugh.

“Sometimes fish don't know they're in a net until--until the morning

after,” said Victoria. “That has a horribly dissipated sound--hasn't

it? I know to a moral certainty that Mr. Crewe will eventually lead Miss

Pomfret away from the altar. At present,” she could not refrain from

adding, “he thinks he's in love with some one else.”

“Who?”

“It doesn't matter,” she replied. “Humphrey's perfectly happy, because

he believes most women are in love with him, and he's making up his mind

in that magnificent, thorough way of his whether she is worthy to be

endowed with his heart and hand, his cows, and all his stocks and

bonds. He doesn't know he's going to marry Alice. It almost makes one a

Calvinist, doesn't it. He's predestined, but perfectly happy.”

“Who is he in love with?” demanded Austen, ungrammatically.

“I'm going to say good-by to him. I'll meet you in the field, if

you don't care to come. It's only manners, after all, although the

lemonade's all gone and I haven't had a drop.”

“I'll go along too,” he said.

“Aren't you afraid of Mrs. Pomfret?”

“Not a bit!”

“I am,” said Victoria, “but I think you'd better come just the same.”

Around the corner of the house they found them,--Mr. Crewe urging the

departing guests to remain, and not to be bashful in the future about

calling.

“We don't always have lemonade and cake,” he was saying, “but you can be

sure of a welcome, just the same. Good-by, Vane, glad you came. Did they

show you through the stables? Did you see the mate to the horse I lost?

Beauty, isn't he? Stir 'em up and get the money. I guess we won't see

much of each other politically. You're anti-railroad. I don't believe

that tack'll work--we can't get along without corporations, you know.

You ought to talk to Flint. I'll give you a letter of introduction to

him. I don't know what I'd have done without that man Tooting in your

father's office. He's a wasted genius in Ripton. What? Good-by, you'll

find your wagon, I guess. Well, Victoria, where have you been keeping

yourself? I've been so busy I haven't had time to look for you. You're

going to stay to dinner, and Hastings, and all the people who have

helped.”

“No, I'm not,” answered Victoria, with a glance at Austen, before whom

this announcement was so delicately made, “I'm going home.”

“But when am I to see you?” cried Mr. Crewe, as near genuine alarm as he

ever got. “You never let me see you. I was going to drive you home in the

motor by moonlight.”

“We all know that you're the most original person, Victoria,” said Mrs.

Pomfret, “full of whims and strange fancies,” she added, with the only

brief look at Austen she had deigned to bestow on him. “It never pays to

count on you for twenty-four hours. I suppose you're off on another wild

expedition.”

“I think I've earned the right to it,” said Victoria;--“I've poured

lemonade for Humphrey's constituents the whole afternoon. And besides,

I never said I'd stay for dinner. I'm going home. Father's leaving for

California in the morning.”

“He'd better stay at home and look after her,” Mrs. Pomfret remarked,

when Victoria was out of hearing.

“Since Mrs. Harry Haynes ran off, one can never tell what a woman will

do. It wouldn't surprise me a bit if Victoria eloped with a handsome

nobody like that. Of course he's after her money, but he wouldn't get

it, not if I know Augustus Flint.”

“Is he handsome?” said Mr. Crewe, as though the idea were a new one.

“Great Scott, I don't believe she gives him a thought. She's only going

as far as the field with him. She insisted on leaving her horse there

instead of putting him in the stable.”

“Catch Alice going as far as the field with him,” said Mrs. Pomfret,

“but I've done my duty. It's none of my affair.”

In the meantime Austen and Victoria had walked on some distance in

silence.

“I have an idea with whom Mr. Crewe is in love,” he said at length.

“So have I,” replied Victoria, promptly. “Humphrey's in love with

himself. All he desires in a wife--if he desires one--is an inanimate

and accommodating looking-glass, in whom he may see what he conceives to

be his own image daily. James, you may take the mare home. I'm going to

drive with Mr. Vane.”

She stroked Pepper's nose while Austen undid the hitch-rope from around

his neck.

“You and I are getting to be friends, aren't we, Pepper?” she asked, as

the horse, with quivering nostrils, thrust his head into her hand. Then

she sprang lightly into the buggy by Austen's side. The manner of these

acts and the generous courage with which she defied opinion appealed

to him so strongly that his heart was beating faster than Pepper's

hoof-beats on the turf of the pasture.

“You are very good to come with me,” he said gravely, when they had

reached the road; “perhaps I ought not to have asked you.”

“Why?” she asked, with one of her direct looks.

“It was undoubtedly selfish,” he said, and added, more lightly, “I don't

wish to put you into Mrs. Pomfret's bad graces.”

Victoria laughed.

“She thought it her duty to tell father the time you drove me to the

Hammonds'. She said I asked you to do it.”

“What did he say?” Austen inquired, looking straight ahead of him.

“He didn't say much,” she answered. “Father never does. I think he knows

that I am to be trusted.”

“Even with me?” he asked quizzically, but with a deeper significance.

“I don't think he realizes how dangerous you are,” she replied, avoiding

the issue. “The last time I saw you, you were actually trying to throw

a fat man out of your window. What a violent life you lead, Mr. Vane. I

hope you haven't shot any more people--”

“I saw you,” he said.

“Is that the way you spend your time in office hours,--throwing people

out of the windows?”

“It was only Tom Gaylord.”

“He's the man Mr. Jenney said wanted you to be a senator, isn't he?” she

asked.

“You have a good memory,” he answered her. “Yes. That's the reason I

tried to throw him out of the window.”

“Why didn't you be a senator?” she asked abruptly. “I always think of

you in public life. Why waste your opportunities?”

“I'm not at all sure that was an opportunity. It was only some of Tom's

nonsense. I should have had all the politicians in the district against

me.”

“But you aren't the kind of man who would care about the politicians,

surely. If Humphrey Crewe can get elected by the people, I should think

you might.”

“I can't afford to give garden-parties and buy lemonade,” said Austen,

and they both laughed. He did not think it worth while mentioning Mr.

Braden.

“Sometimes I think you haven't a particle of ambition,” she said. “I

like men with ambition.”

“I shall try to cultivate it,” said Austen.

“You seem to be popular enough.”

“Most worthless people are popular, because they don't tread on

anybody's toes.”

“Worthless people don't take up poor people's suits, and win them,”

she said. “I saw Zeb Meader the other day, and he said you could be

President of the United States.”

“Zeb meant that I was eligible--having been born in this country,” said

Austen. “But where did you see him?”

“I--I went to see him.”

“All the way to Mercer?”

“It isn't so far in an automobile,” she replied, as though in excuse,

and added, still more lamely, “Zeb and I became great friends, you know,

in the hospital.”

He did not answer, but wondered the more at the simplicity and kindness

in one brought up as she had been which prompted her to take the trouble

to see the humblest of her friends: nay, to take the trouble to have

humble friends.

The road wound along a ridge, and at intervals was spread before them

the full glory of the September sunset,--the mountains of the west

in blue-black silhouette against the saffron sky, the myriad dappled

clouds, the crimson fading from the still reaches of the river, and the

wine-colour from the eastern hills. Both were silent under the spell,

but a yearning arose within him when he glanced at the sunset glow on

her face: would sunsets hereafter bring sadness?

His thoughts ran riot as the light faded in the west. Hers were not

revealed. And the silence between them seemed gradually to grow into a

pact, to become a subtler and more intimate element than speech. A

faint tang of autumn smoke was in the air, a white mist crept along the

running waters, a silver moon like a new-stamped coin rode triumphant

in the sky, impatient to proclaim her glory; and the shadows under the

ghost-like sentinel trees in the pastures grew blacker. At last Victoria

looked at him.

“You are the only man I know who doesn't insist on talking,” she said.

“There are times when--”

“When there is nothing to say,” he suggested.

She laughed softly. He tried to remember the sound of it afterwards,

when he rehearsed this phase of the conversation, but couldn't.

“It's because you like the hills, isn't it?” she asked. “You seem such

an out-of-door person, and Mr. Jenney said you were always wandering

about the country-side.”

“Mr. Jenney also made other reflections about my youth,” said Austen.

She laughed again, acquiescing in his humour, secretly thankful not to

find him sentimental.

“Mr. Jenney said something else that--that I wanted to ask you about,”

she went on, breathing more deeply. “It was about the railroad.”

“I am afraid you have not come to an authority,” he replied.

“You said the politicians would be against you if you tried to become

a State senator. Do you believe that the politicians are owned by the

railroad?”

“Has Jenney been putting such things into your head?”

“Not only Mr. Jenney, but--I have heard other people say that. And

Humphrey Crewe said that you hadn't a chance politically, because you

had opposed the railroad and had gone against your own interests.”

Austen was amazed at this new exhibition of courage on her part, though

he was sorely pressed.

“Humphrey Crewe isn't much of an authority, either,” he said briefly.

“Then you won't tell me?” said Victoria. “Oh, Mr. Vane,” she cried, with

sudden vehemence, “if such things are going on here, I'm sure my father

doesn't know about them. This is only one State, and the railroad runs

through so many. He can't know everything, and I have heard him say that

he wasn't responsible for what the politicians did in his name. If they

are bad, why don't you go to him and tell him so? I'm sure he'd listen

to you.”

“I'm sure he'd think me a presumptuous idiot,” said Austen. “Politicians

are not idealists anywhere--the very word has become a term of reproach.

Undoubtedly your father desires to set things right as much as any one

else--probably more than any one.”

“Oh, I know he does,” exclaimed Victoria.

“If politics are not all that they should be,” he went on, somewhat

grimly, with an unpleasant feeling of hypocrisy, “we must remember that

they are nobody's fault in particular, and can't be set right in an

instant by any one man, no matter how powerful.”

She turned her face to him gratefully, but he did not meet her look.

They were on the driveway of Fairview.

“I suppose you think me very silly for asking such questions,” she said.

“No,” he answered gravely, “but politics are so intricate a subject that

they are often not understood by those who are in the midst of them. I

admire--I think it is very fine in you to want to know.”

“You are not one of the men who would not wish a woman to know, are

you?”

“No,” he said, “no, I'm not.”

The note of pain in his voice surprised and troubled her. They were

almost in sight of the house.

“I asked you to come to Fairview,” she said, assuming a lightness of

tone, “and you never appeared. I thought it was horrid of you to forget,

after we'd been such friends.”

“I didn't forget,” replied Austen.

“Then you didn't want to come.”

He looked into her eyes, and she dropped them.

“You will have to be the best judge of that,” he said.

“But what am I to think?” she persisted.

“Think the best of me you can,” he answered, as they drew up on the

gravel before the open door of Fairview house. A man was standing in the

moonlight on the porch.

“Is that you, Victoria?”

“Yes, father.”

“I was getting worried,” said Mr. Flint, coming down on the driveway.

“I'm all right,” she said, leaping out of the buggy, “Mr. Vane brought

me home.”

“How are you, Hilary?” said Mr. Flint.

“I'm Austen Vane, Mr. Flint,” said Austen.

“How are you?” said Mr. Flint, as curtly as the barest politeness

allowed. “What was the matter with your own horse, Victoria?”

“Nothing,” she replied, after an instant's pause. Austen wondered many

times whether her lips had trembled. “Mr. Vane asked me to drive with

him, and I came. Won't--won't you come in, Mr. Vane?”

“No, thanks,” said Austen, “I'm afraid I have to go back to Ripton.”

“Good-by, and thank you,” she said, and gave him her hand. As he pressed

it, he thought he felt the slightest pressure in return, and then she

fled up the steps. As he drove away, he turned once to look at the great

house, with its shades closely drawn, as it stood amidst its setting of

shrubbery silent under the moon.

An hour later he sat in Hanover Street before the supper Euphrasia

had saved for him. But though he tried nobly, his heart was not in the

relation, for her benefit, of Mr. Crewe's garden-party.

CHAPTER IX. Mr. CREWE ASSAULTS THE CAPITAL

Those portions of the biographies of great men which deal with the small

beginnings of careers are always eagerly devoured, and for this reason

the humble entry of Mr. Crewe into politics may be of interest. Great

revolutions have had their origins in back cellars; great builders of

railroads have begun life with packs on their shoulders, trudging over

the wilderness which they were to traverse in after years in private

cars. The history of Napoleon Bonaparte has not a Sunday-school moral,

but we can trace therein the results of industry after the future

emperor got started. Industry, and the motto “nil desperandum” lived up

to, and the watchword “thorough,” and a torch of unsuspected genius, and

“l'audace, toujours l'audace,” and a man may go far in life.

Mr. Humphrey Crewe possessed, as may have been surmised, a dash of all

these gifts. For a summary of his character one would not have used the

phrase (as a contemporary of his remarked) of “a shrinking violet.” The

phrase, after all, would have fitted very few great men; genius is sure

of itself, and seeks its peers.

The State capital is an old and beautiful and somewhat conservative

town. Life there has its joys and sorrows and passions, its ambitions,

and heart-burnings, to be sure; a most absorbing novel could be written

about it, and the author need not go beyond the city limits or approach

the state-house or the Pelican Hotel. The casual visitor in that capital

leaves it with a sense of peace, the echo of church bells in his ear,

and (if in winter) the impression of dazzling snow. Comedies do not

necessarily require a wide stage, nor tragedies an amphitheatre for

their enactment.

No casual visitor, for instance, would have suspected from the faces

or remarks of the inhabitants whom he chanced to meet that there was

excitement in the capital over the prospective arrival of Mr. Humphrey

Crewe for the legislative session that winter. Legislative sessions,

be it known, no longer took place in the summer, a great relief to Mr.

Crewe and to farmers in general, who wished to be at home in haying

time.

The capital abounded in comfortable homes and boasted not a dwellings

of larger pretensions. Chief among these was the Duncan house--still so

called, although Mr. Duncan, who built it, had been dead these fifteen

years, and his daughter and heiress, Janet, had married an Italian

Marquis and lived in a Roman palace, rehabilitated by the Duncan money.

Mr. Duncan, it may be recalled by some readers of “Coniston,” had been

a notable man in his day, who had married the heiress of the State,

and was president of the Central Railroad, now absorbed in the United

Northeastern. The house was a great square of brick, with a wide

cornice, surrounded by a shaded lawn; solidly built, in the fashion

of the days when rich people stayed at home, with a conservatory and a

library that had once been Mr. Duncan's pride. The Marchesa cared very

little about the library, or about the house, for that matter; a great

aunt and uncle, spinster and bachelor, were living in it that winter,

and they vacated for Mr. Crewe. He travelled to the capital on the

legislative pass the Northeastern Railroads had so kindly given him, and

brought down his horses and his secretary and servants from Leith a few

days before the first of January, when the session was to open, and

laid out his bills for the betterment of the State on that library

table where Mr. Duncan had lovingly thumbed his folios. Mr. Crewe, with

characteristic promptitude, set his secretary to work to make a list

of the persons of influence in the town, preparatory to a series of

dinner-parties; he dropped into the office of Mr. Ridout, the counsel

of the Northeastern and of the Winona Corporation in the capital, to pay

his respects as a man of affairs, and incidentally to leave copies of

his bills for the improvement of the State. Mr. Ridout was politely

interested, and promised to read the bills, and agreed that they ought

to pass.

Mr. Crewe also examined the Pelican Hotel, so soon to be a hive, and

stood between the snow-banks in the capital park contemplating the

statue of the great statesman there, and repeating to himself the

quotation inscribed beneath. “The People's Government, made for the

People, made by the People, and answerable to the People.” And he

wondered, idly,--for the day was not cold,--how he would look upon a

pedestal with the Gladstone collar and the rough woollen coat that would

lend themselves so readily to reproduction in marble. Stranger things

had happened, and grateful States had been known to reward benefactors.

At length comes the gala night of nights,--the last of the old

year,--and the assembling of the five hundred legislators and of the

army that is wont to attend them. The afternoon trains, steaming hot,

are crowded to the doors, the station a scene of animation, and Main

Street, dazzling in snow, is alive with a stream of men, with eddies

here and there at the curbs and in the entries. What handshaking, and

looking over of new faces, and walking round and round! What sightseeing

by the country members and their wives who have come to attend the

inauguration of the new governor, the Honourable Asa P. Gray! There he

is, with the whiskers and the tall hat and the comfortable face, which

wears already a look of gubernatorial dignity and power. He stands for

a moment in the lobby of the Pelican Hotel,--thronged now to

suffocation,--to shake hands genially with new friends, who are led

up by old friends with two fingers on the elbow. The old friends crack

jokes and whisper in the ear of the governor-to-be, who presently goes

upstairs, accompanied by the Honourable Hilary Vane, to the bridal

suite, which is reserved for him, and which has fire-proof carpet on the

floor. The Honourable Hilary has a room next door, connecting with the

new governor's by folding doors, but this fact is not generally known to

country members. Only old timers, like Bijah Bixby and Job Braden, know

that the Honourable Hilary's room corresponds to one which in the old

Pelican was called the Throne Room, Number Seven, where Jethro Bass sat

in the old days and watched unceasingly the groups in the street from

the window.

But Jethro Bass has been dead these twenty years, and his lieutenants

shorn of power. An empire has arisen out of the ashes of the ancient

kingdoms. Bijah and Job are old, all-powerful still in Clovelly and

Leith--influential still in their own estimations; still kicking up

their heels behind, still stuttering and whispering into ears, still

“going along by when they are talking sly.” But there are no guerrillas

now, no condottieri who can be hired: the empire has a paid and standing

army, as an empire should. The North Country chiefs, so powerful in the

clan warfare of bygone days, are generals now,--chiefs of staff. The

captain-general, with a minute piece of Honey Dew under his tongue,

sits in Number Seven. A new Number Seven,--with electric lights and a

bathroom and a brass bed. Tempora mutantur. There is an empire and a

feudal system, did one but know it. The clans are part of the empire,

and each chief is responsible for his clan--did one but know it. One

doesn't know it.

The Honourable Brush Bascom, Duke of Putnam, member of the House, has

arrived unostentatiously--as is his custom--and is seated in his own

headquarters, number ten (with a bathroom). Number nine belongs from

year to year to Mr. Manning, division superintendent of that part of

the Northeastern which was the old Central,--a thin gentleman with

side-whiskers. He loves life in the capital so much that he takes

his vacations there in the winter,--during the sessions of the

Legislature,--presumably because it is gay. There are other rooms,

higher up, of important men, to be sure, but to enter which it is not so

much of an honour. The Honourable Bill Fleming, postmaster of Brampton

in Truro (Ephraim Prescott being long since dead and Brampton a large

place now), has his vacation during the session in room thirty-six (no

bathroom); and the Honourable Elisha Jane, Earl of Haines County in the

North Country, and United States consul somewhere, is home on his annual

vacation in room fifty-nine (no bath). Senator Whitredge has a room, and

Senator Green, and Congressmen Eldridge and Fairplay (no baths, and only

temporary).

The five hundred who during the next three months are to register the

laws find quarters as best they can. Not all of them are as luxurious as

Mr. Crewe in the Duncan house, or the Honourable Brush Bascom in number

ten of the Pelican, the rent of either of which would swallow the

legislative salary in no time. The Honourable Nat Billings, senator from

the Putnam County district, is comfortably installed, to be sure. By

gradual and unexplained degrees, the constitution of the State has

been changed until there are only twenty senators. Noble five hundred!

Steadfast twenty!

A careful perusal of the biographies of great men of the dynamic type

leads one to the conclusion that much of their success is due to an

assiduous improvement of every opportunity,--and Mr. Humphrey Crewe

certainly possessed this quality, also. He is in the Pelican Hotel this

evening, meeting the men that count. Mr. Job Braden, who had come down

with the idea that he might be of use in introducing the new member from

Leith to the notables, was met by this remark:--“You can't introduce

me to any of 'em--they all know who I am. Just point any of 'em out you

think I ought to know, and I'll go up and talk to 'em. What? Come up

to my house after a while and smoke a cigar. The Duncan house, you

know--the big one with the conservatory.”

Mr. Crewe was right--they all knew him. The Leith millionaire, the

summer resident, was a new factor in politics, and the rumours of the

size of his fortune had reached a high-water mark in the Pelican Hotel

that evening. Pushing through the crowd in the corridor outside the

bridal suite waiting to shake hands with the new governor, Mr. Crewe

gained an entrance in no time, and did not hesitate to interrupt the

somewhat protracted felicitations of an Irish member of the Newcastle

delegation.

“How are you, Governor?” he said, with the bonhomie of a man of the

world. “I'm Humphrey Crewe, from Leith. You got a letter from me, didn't

you, congratulating you upon your election? We didn't do badly for you

up there. What?”

“How do you do, Mr. Crewe?” said Mr. Gray, with dignified hospitality,

while their fingers slid over each other's; “I'm glad to welcome you

here. I've noticed the interest you've taken in the State, and the

number of ahem--very useful societies to which you belong.”

“Good,” said Mr. Crewe, “I do what I can. I just dropped in to shake

your hand, and to say that I hope we'll pull together.”

The governor lifted his eyebrows a little.

“Why, I hope so, I'm sere, Mr. Crewe,” said he.

“I've looked over the policy of the State for the last twenty years in

regard to public improvements and the introduction of modern methods as

concerns husbandry, and I find it deplorable. You and I, Governor, live

in a progressive age, and we can't afford not to see something done.

What? It is my desire to do what I can to help make your administration

a notable advance upon those of your predecessors.”

“Why--I greatly appreciate it, Mr. Crewe,” said Mr. Gray.

“I'm sure you do. I've looked over your record, and I find you've

had experience in State affairs, and that you are a successful and

conservative business man. That is the type we want--eh? Business men.

You've read over the bills I sent you by registered mail?”

“Ahem,” said Mr. Gray, “I've been a good deal occupied since election

day, Mr. Crewe.”

“Read 'em,” said Mr. Crewe, “and I'll call in on you at the state-house

day after to-morrow at five o'clock promptly. We'll discuss 'em,

Governor, and if, by the light of your legislative experience, you have

any suggestions to make, I shall be glad to hear 'em. Before putting the

bills in their final shape I've taken the trouble to go over them with

my friend, Mr. Flint--our mutual friend, let us say.”

“I've had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Flint,” said Mr. Gray.

“I--ahem--can't say that I know him intimately.”

Mr. Crewe looked at Mr. Gray in a manner which plainly indicated that he

was not an infant.

“My relations with Mr. Flint and the Northeastern have been very

pleasant,” said Mr. Crewe. “I may say that I am somewhat of a practical

railroad and business man myself.”

“We need such men,” said Mr. Gray. “Why, how do you do, Cary? How are

the boys up in Wheeler?”

“Well, good-by, Governor. See you day after to-morrow at five

precisely,” said Mr. Crewe.

The next official call of Mr. Crewe was on the Speaker-to-be, Mr. Doby

of Hale (for such matters are cut and dried), but any amount of pounding

on Mr. Doby's door (number seventy-five) brought no response. Other

rural members besides Mr. Crewe came and pounded on that door, and went

away again; but Mr. Job Braden suddenly appeared from another part of

the corridor, smiling benignly, and apparently not resenting the refusal

of his previous offers of help.

“W--want the Speaker?” he inquired.

Mr. Crewe acknowledged that he did.

“Ed only sleeps there,” said Mr. Braden. “Guess you'll find him in the

Railroad-Room.”

“Railroad Room?”

“Hilary Vane's, Number Seven.” Mr. Braden took hold of the lapel of

his fellow-townsman's coat. “Callated you didn't know it all,” he said;

“that's the reason I come down--so's to help you some.”

Mr. Crewe, although he was not wont to take a second place, followed

Mr. Braden down the stairs to the door next to the governor's, where he

pushed ahead of his guide, through the group about the doorway,--none of

whom, however, were attempting to enter. They stared in some surprise

at Mr. Crewe as he flung open the door without knocking, and slammed it

behind him in Mr. Braden's face. But the bewilderment caused by this act

of those without was as nothing to the astonishment of those within--had

Mr. Crewe but known it. An oil painting of the prominent men gathered

about the marble-topped table in the centre of the room, with an outline

key beneath it, would have been an appropriate work of art to hang in

the state-house, as emblematic of the statesmanship of the past twenty

years. The Honourable Hilary Vane sat at one end in a padded chair; Mr.

Manning, the division superintendent, startled out of a meditation, was

upright on the end of the bed; Mr. Ridout, the Northeastern's capital

lawyer, was figuring at the other end of the table; the Honourable Brush

Bascom was bending over a wide, sad-faced gentleman of some two hundred

and fifty pounds who sat at the centre in his shirt-sleeves, poring over

numerous sheets in front of him which were covered with names of the

five hundred. This gentleman was the Honourable Edward Doby of Hale,

who, with the kind assistance of the other gentlemen above-named, was

in this secluded spot making up a list of his committees, undisturbed

by eager country members. At Mr. Crewe's entrance Mr. Bascom, with great

presence of mind, laid down his hat over the principal list, while Mr.

Ridout, taking the hint, put the Revised Statutes on the other. There

was a short silence; and the Speaker-to-be, whose pencil had been

knocked out of his hand; recovered himself sufficiently to relight an

extremely frayed cigar.

Not that Mr. Crewe was in the least abashed. He chose this opportunity

to make a survey of the situation, nodded to Mr. Ridout, and walked up

to the padded armchair.

“How are you, Mr. Vane?” he said. “I thought I'd drop in to shake hands

with you, especially as I have business with the Speaker, and heard he

was here. But I'm glad to have met you for many reasons. I want you to

be one of the vice-presidents of the State Economic League--it won't

cost you anything. Ridout has agreed to let his name go on.”

The Honourable Hilary, not being an emotional man, merely grunted as he

started to rise to his feet. What he was about to say was interrupted by

a timid knock, and there followed another brief period of silence.

“It ain't anybody,” said Mr. Bascom, and crossing the room, turned the

key in the lock. The timid knock was repeated.

“I suppose you're constantly interrupted here by unimportant people,”

Mr. Crewe remarked.

“Well,” said Mr. Vane, slowly, boring into Mr. Crewe with his eye, “that

statement isn't far out of the way.”

“I don't believe you've ever met me, Mr. Vane. I'm Humphrey Crewe. We

have a good friend in common in Mr. Flint.”

The Honourable Hilary's hand passed over Mr. Crewe's lightly.

“Glad to meet you, Mr. Crewe,” he said, and a faint twinkle appeared in

his eye. “Job has told everybody you were coming down. Glad to welcome a

man of your ahem--stamp into politics.”

“I'm a plain business man,” answered Mr. Crewe, modestly; “and although

I have considerable occupation, I believe that one in my position has

duties to perform. I've certain bills--”

“Yes, yes,” agreed the Honourable Hilary; “do you know Mr. Brush Bascom

and Mr. Manning? Allow me to introduce you,--and General Doby.”

“How are you, General?” said Mr. Crewe to the Speaker-to-be, “I'm always

glad to shake the hand of a veteran. Indeed, I have thought that a

society--”

“I earned my title,” said General Doby, somewhat sheepishly, “fighting

on Governor Brown's staff. There were twenty of us, and we were

resistless, weren't we, Brush?”

“Twenty on a staff!” exclaimed Mr. Crewe.

“Oh, we furnished our own uniforms and paid our own way--except those

of us who had passes,” declared the General, as though the memory of his

military career did not give him unalloyed pleasure. “What's the use

of State sovereignty if you can't have a glittering army to follow the

governor round?”

Mr. Crewe had never considered this question, and he was not the man to

waste time in speculation.

“Doubtless you got a letter from me, General Doby,” he said. “We did

what we could up our way to put you in the Speaker's chair.”

General Doby creased a little in the middle, to signify that he was

bowing.

“I trust it will be in my power to reciprocate, Mr. Crewe,” he replied.

“We want to treat Mr. Crewe right,” Mr. Bascom put in.

“You have probably made a note of my requests,” Mr. Crewe continued. “I

should like to be on the Judiciary Committee, for one thing. Although

I am not a lawyer, I know something of the principles of law, and I

understand that this and the Appropriations Committee are the most

important. I may say with truth that I should be a useful member of

that, as I am accustomed to sitting on financial boards. As my bills

are of some considerable importance and deal with practical progressive

measures, I have no hesitation in asking for the chairmanship of

Public Improvements,--and of course a membership in the Agricultural is

essential, as I have bills for them. Gentlemen,” he added to the room

at large, “I have typewritten manifolds of those bills which I shall

be happy to leave here--at headquarters.” And suiting the action to the

word, he put down a packet on the table.

The Honourable Brush Bascom, accompanied by Mr. Ridout, walked to the

window and stood staring at the glitter of the electric light on the

snow. The Honourable Hilary gazed steadily at the table, while General

Doby blew his nose with painful violence.

“I'll do what I can for you, certainly, Mr. Crewe,” he said. “But--what

is to become of the other four hundred and ninety-nine? The ways of a

Speaker are hard, Mr. Crewe, and I have to do justice to all.”

“Well,” answered Mr. Crewe, “of course I don't want to be unreasonable,

and I realize the pressure that's put upon you. But when you consider

the importance of the work I came down here to do--”

“I do consider it,” said the Speaker, politely. “It's a little early to

talk about the make-up of committees. I hope to be able to get at them

by Sunday. You may be sure I'll do my best for you.”

“We'd better make a note of it,” said Mr. Crewe; “give me some paper,”

and he was reaching around behind General Doby for one of the precious

sheets under Mr. Bascom's hat, when the general, with great presence of

mind, sat on it. We have it, from a malicious and untrustworthy source,

that the Northeastern Railroads paid for a new one.

“Here, here,” cried the Speaker, “make the memorandum here.”

At this critical juncture a fortunate diversion occurred. A rap--three

times--of no uncertain quality was heard at the door, and Mr. Brush

Bascom hastened to open it. A voice cried out:--“Is Manning here? The

boys are hollering for those passes,” and a wiry, sallow gentleman

burst in, none other than the Honourable Elisha Jane, who was taking his

consular vacation. When his eyes fell upon Mr. Crewe he halted abruptly,

looked a little foolish, and gave a questioning glance at the Honourable

Hilary.

“Mountain passes, Lish? Sit down. Did I ever tell you that story about

the slide in Rickets Gulch?” asked the Honourable Brush Bascom. “But

first let me make you acquainted with Mr. Humphrey Crewe of Leith. Mr.

Crewe has come down here with the finest lot of bills you ever saw, and

we're all going to take hold and put 'em through. Here, Lish, I'll give

you a set.”

“Read 'em, Mr. Jane,” urged Mr. Crewe. “I don't claim much for 'em, but

perhaps they will help to set a few little matters right--I hope so.”

Mr. Jane opened the bills with deliberation, and cast his eyes over the

headings.

“I'll read 'em this very night, Mr. Crewe,” he said solemnly; “this

meeting you is a particular pleasure, and I have heard in many quarters

of these measures.”

“Well,” admitted Mr. Crewe, “they may help some. I have a few other

matters to attend to this evening, so I must say good-night, gentlemen.

Don't let me interfere with those I mountain passes, Mr. Manning.”

With this parting remark, which proved him to be not merely an idealist

in politics, but a practical man, Mr. Crewe took his leave. And he was

too much occupied with his own thoughts to pay any attention to the

click of the key as it turned in the lock, or to hear United States

Senator Whitredge rap (three times) on the door after he had turned the

corner, or to know that presently the sliding doors into the governor's

bridal suite--were to open a trifle, large enough for the admission of

the body of the Honourable Asa P. Gray.

Number Seven still keeps up its reputation as the seat of benevolence,

and great public benefactors still meet there to discuss the welfare of

their fellow-men: the hallowed council chamber now of an empire, seat of

the Governor-general of the State, the Honourable Hilary Vane, and his

advisers. For years a benighted people, with a fond belief in their

participation of Republican institutions, had elected the noble five

hundred of the House and the stanch twenty of the Senate. Noble five

hundreds (biggest Legislature in the world) have come and gone; debated,

applauded, fought and on occasions denounced, kicked over the traces,

and even wept--to no avail. Behold that political institution of man,

representative government There it is on the stage, curtain up, a

sublime spectacle for all men to see, and thrill over speeches about the

Rights of Man, and the Forefathers in the Revolution; about Constituents

who do not constitute. The High Heavens allow it and smile, and it

is well for the atoms that they think themselves free American

representatives, that they do not feel the string of predestination

around their ankles. The senatorial twenty, from their high carved

seats, see the strings and smile, too; yes, and see their own strings,

and smile. Wisdom does not wish for flight. “The people” having changed

the constitution, the blackbirds are reduced from four and forty to a

score. This is cheaper--for the people.

Democracy on the front of the stage before an applauding audience;

performers absorbed in their parts, forgetting that the landlord has to

be paid in money yet to be earned. Behind the stage, the real play,

the absorbing interest, the high stakes--occasional discreet laughter

through the peep-hole when an actor makes an impassioned appeal to

the gods. Democracy in front, the Feudal System, the Dukes and Earls

behind--but in plain clothes; Democracy in stars and spangles and

trappings and insignia. Or, a better figure, the Fates weaving the web

in that mystic chamber, Number Seven, pausing now and again to smile as

a new thread is put in. Proclamations, constitutions, and creeds crumble

before conditions; the Law of Dividends is the high law, and the Forum

an open vent through which the white steam may rise heavenward and be

resolved again into water.

Mr. Crewe took his seat in the popular assemblage next day, although

most of the five hundred gave up theirs to the ladies who had come to

hear his Excellency deliver his inaugural. The Honourable Asa made a

splendid figure, all agreed, and read his speech in a firm and manly

voice. A large part of it was about the people; some of it about the

sacred government they had inherited from their forefathers; still

another concerned the high character and achievements of the inhabitants

within the State lines; the name of Abraham Lincoln was mentioned, and,

with even greater reverence and fervour, the Republican party which had

ennobled and enriched the people--and incidentally elected the governor.

There was a noble financial policy, a curtailment of expense. The

forests should be protected, roads should be built, and, above all,

corporations should be held to a strict accounting.

Needless to say, the speech gave great satisfaction to all, and many old

friends left the hall exclaiming that they didn't believe Asa had it in

him. As a matter of fact (known only to the initiated), Asa didn't have

it in him until last night, before he squeezed through the crack in the

folding doors from room number six to room Number Seven. The inspiration

came to him then, when he was ennobled by the Governor-general, who

represents the Empire. Perpetual Governor-general, who quickens into

life puppet governors of his own choosing Asa has agreed, for the honour

of the title of governor of his State, to act the part, open the fairs,

lend his magnificent voice to those phrases which it rounds so well.

It is fortunate, when we smoke a fine cigar from Havana, that we cannot

look into the factory. The sight would disturb us. It was well for the

applauding, deep-breathing audience in the state-house that first of

January that they did not have a glimpse in room Number Seven the

night before, under the sheets that contained the list of the Speaker's

committees; it was well that they could not go back to Ripton into the

offices on the square, earlier in December, where Mr. Hamilton Tooting

was writing the noble part of that inaugural from memoranda given him

by the Honourable Hilary Vane. Yes, the versatile Mr. Tooting, and none

other, doomed forever to hide the light of his genius under a bushel!

The financial part was written by the Governor-general himself--the

Honourable Hilary Vane. And when it was all finished and revised, it was

put into a long envelope which bore this printed address: Augustus P.

Flint, Pres't United Northeastern Railroads, New York. And came back

with certain annotations on the margin, which were duly incorporated

into it. This is the private history (which must never be told) of the

document which on January first became, as far as fame and posterity is

concerned, the Honourable Asa P. Gray's--forever and forever.

Mr. Crewe liked the inaugural, and was one of the first to tell Mr. Gray

so, and to express his pleasure and appreciation of the fact that his

request (mailed in November) had been complied with, that the substance

of his bills had been recommended in the governor's programme.

He did not pause to reflect on the maxim, that platforms are made to get

in by and inaugurals to get started by.

Although annual efforts have been made by various public-spirited

citizens to build a new state-house, economy--with assistance from room

Number Seven has triumphed. It is the same state-house from the gallery

of which poor William Wetherell witnessed the drama of the Woodchuck

Session, although there are more members now, for the population of the

State has increased to five hundred thousand. It is well for General

Doby, with his two hundred and fifty pounds, that he is in the Speaker's

chair; five hundred seats are a good many for that hall, and painful

in a long session. The Honourable Brush Bascom can stretch his legs,

because he is fortunate enough to have a front seat. Upon inquiry,

it turns out that Mr. Bascom has had a front seat for the last twenty

years--he has been uniformly lucky in drawing. The Honourable Jacob

Botcher (ten years' service) is equally fortunate; the Honourable Jake

is a man of large presence, and a voice that sounds as if it came,

oracularly, from the caverns of the earth. He is easily heard by the

members on the back seats, while Mr. Bascom is not. Mr. Ridout, the

capital lawyer, is in the House this year, and singularly enough has a

front seat likewise. It was Mr. Crewe's misfortune to draw number 415,

in the extreme corner of the room, and next the steam radiator. But he

was not of the metal to accept tamely such a ticketing from the hat

of destiny (via the Clerk of the House). He complained, as any man of

spirit would, and Mr. Utter, the polite clerk, is profoundly sorry,--and

says it maybe managed. Curiously enough, the Honourable Brush Bascom

and the Honourable Jacob Botcher join Mr. Crewe in his complaint, and

reiterate that it is an outrage that a man of such ability and deserving

prominence should be among the submerged four hundred and seventy. It

is managed in a mysterious manner we don't pretend to fathom, and behold

Mr. Crewe in the front of the Forum, in the seats of the mighty, where

he can easily be pointed out from the gallery at the head of the

five hundred, between those shining leaders and parliamentarians, the

Honourables Brush Bascom and Jake Botcher.

For Mr. Crewe has not come to the Legislature, like the country members

in the rear, to acquire a smattering of parliamentary procedure by

the day the Speaker is presented with a gold watch, at the end of the

session. Not he! Not the practical business man, the member of boards,

the chairman and president of societies. He has studied the Rules of

the House and parliamentary law, you may be sure. Genius does not

come unprepared, and is rarely caught napping. After the Legislature

adjourned that week the following telegram was sent over the wires:--

Augustus P. Flint, New York.

Kindly use your influence with Doby to secure my committee

appointments. Important as per my conversation with you.

Humphrey Crewe.

Nor was Mr. Crewe idle from Saturday to Monday night, when the

committees were to be announced. He sent to the State Tribune office

for fifty copies of that valuable paper, which contained a

two-column-and-a-half article on Mr. Crewe as a legislator and financier

and citizen, with a summary of his bills and an argument as to how the

State would benefit by their adoption; an accurate list of Mr. Crewe's

societies was inserted, and an account of his life's history, and of

those ancestors of his who had been born or lived within the State.

Indeed, the accuracy of this article as a whole did great credit to the

editor of the State Tribune, who must have spent a tremendous amount of

painstaking research upon it; and the article was so good that Mr. Crewe

regretted (undoubtedly for the editor's sake) that a request could not

be appended to it such as is used upon marriage and funeral notices:

“New York, Boston, and Philadelphia papers please copy.”

Mr. Crewe thought it his duty to remedy as much as possible the

unfortunate limited circulation of the article, and he spent as much

as a whole day making out a list of friends and acquaintances whom

he thought worthy to receive a copy of the Tribune--marked personal.

Victoria Flint got one, and read it to her father at the breakfast

table. (Mr. Flint did not open his.) Austen Vane wondered why any man

in his obscure and helpless position should have been honoured, but

honoured he was. He sent his to Victoria, too, and was surprised to find

that she knew his handwriting and wrote him a letter to thank him for

it: a letter which provoked on his part much laughter, and elements

of other sensations which, according to Charles Reade, should form the

ingredients of a good novel. But of this matter later.

Mrs. Pomfret and Alice each got one, and each wrote Mr. Crewe

appropriate congratulations. (Alice's answer supervised.) Mrs.

Chillingham got one; the Honourable Hilary Vane got one--marked in red

ink, lest he should have skipped it in his daily perusal of the

paper. Mr. Brush, Bascom got one likewise. But the list of Mr. Crewe's

acquaintances is too long and too broad to dwell upon further in these

pages.

The Monday-night session came at last, that sensational hour when the

Speaker makes those decisions to which he is supposed to have given

birth over Sunday in the seclusion of his country home at Hale.

Monday-night sessions are, as a rule, confined in attendance to the

Honourable Brush Bascom and Mr. Ridout and a few other conscientious

members who do not believe in cheating the State, but to-night all is

bustle and confusion, and at least four hundred members are pushing

down the aisles and squeezing past each other into the narrow seats,

and reading the State Tribune or the ringing words of the governor's

inaugural which they find in the racks on the back of the seats before

them. Speaker Doby, who has been apparently deep in conference with the

most important members (among them Mr. Crewe, to whom he has whispered

that a violent snow-storm is raging in Hale), raps for order; and after

a few preliminaries hands to Mr. Utter, the clerk, amidst a breathless

silence, the paper on which the parliamentary career of so many

ambitious statesmen depends.

It is not a pleasure to record the perfidy of man, nor the lack

of judgment which prevents him, in his circumscribed lights, from

recognizing undoubted geniuses when he sees them. Perhaps it was

jealousy on General Doby's part, and a selfish desire to occupy the

centre of the stage himself, but at any rate we will pass hastily over

the disagreeable portions of this narrative. Mr. Crewe settled himself

with his feet extended, and with a complacency which he had rightly

earned by leaving no stone unturned, to listen. He sat up a little when

the Appropriations Committee, headed by the Honourable Jake Botcher, did

not contain his name--but it might have been an oversight of Mr. Utters;

when the Judiciary (Mr. Ridout's committee) was read it began to look

like malice; committee after committee was revealed, and the name of

Humphrey Crewe might not have been contained in the five hundred except

as the twelfth member of forestry, until it appeared at the top of

National Affairs. Here was a broad enough field, certainly,--the Trusts,

the Tariff, the Gold Standard, the Foreign Possessions,--and Mr. Crewe's

mind began to soar in spite of himself. Public Improvements was reached,

and he straightened. Mr. Beck, a railroad lawyer from Belfast, led it.

Mr. Crewe arose, as any man of spirit would, and walked with dignity up

the aisle and out of the house. This deliberate attempt to crush genius

would inevitably react on itself. The Honourable Hilary Vane and Mr.

Flint should be informed of it at once.

CHAPTER X. “FOR BILLS MAY COME, AND BILLS MAY GO”

A man with a sense of humour once went to the capital as a member of the

five hundred from his town, and he never went back again. One reason for

this was that he died the following year, literally, the doctors said,

from laughing too much. I know that this statement will be received

incredulously, and disputed by those who claim that laughter is a good

thing; the honourable gentleman died from too much of a good thing. He

was overpowered by having too much to laugh at, and the undiscerning

thought him a fool, and the Empire had no need of a court jester. But

many of his sayings have lived, nevertheless. He wrote a poem, said to

be a plagiarism, which contains the quotation at the beginning of this

chapter: “For bills may come, and bills may go, but I go on forever.”

The first person singular is supposed to relate to the United

Northeastern Railroads. It was a poor joke at best.

It is needless to say that the gentleman referred to had a back seat

among the submerged four hundred and seventy,--and that he kept it.

No discerning and powerful well-wishers came forward and said to him,

“Friend, go up higher.” He sat, doubled up, in number, and the gods gave

him compensation in laughter; he disturbed the Solons around him, who

were interested in what was going on in front, and trying to do their

duty to their constituents by learning parliamentary procedure before

the Speaker got his gold watch and shed tears over it.

The gentleman who laughed and died is forgotten, as he deserves to be,

and it never occurred to anybody that he might have been a philosopher,

after all. There is something irresistibly funny about predestination;

about men who are striving and learning and soberly voting upon measures

with which they have as little to do as guinea-pigs. There were certain

wise and cynical atheists who did not attend the sessions at all except

when they received mysterious hints to do so. These were chiefly from

Newcastle. And there were others who played poker in the state-house

cellar waiting for the Word to come to them, when they went up and

voted (prudently counting their chips before they did so), and descended

again. The man with a sense of humour laughed at these, too, and at the

twenty blackbirds in the Senate,--but not so heartily. He laughed at

their gravity, for no gravity can equal that of gentlemen who play with

stacked cards.

The risible gentleman laughed at the proposed legislation, about which

he made the song, and he likened it to a stream that rises hopefully in

the mountains, and takes its way singing at the prospect of reaching

the ocean, but presently flows into a hole in the ground to fill the

forgotten caverns of the earth, and is lost to the knowledge and sight

of man. The caverns he labelled respectively Appropriations, Railroad,

Judiciary, and their guardians were unmistakably the Honourables Messrs.

Bascom, Botcher, and Ridout. The greatest cavern of all he called “The

Senate.”

If you listen, you can hear the music of the stream of bills as it is

rising hopefully and flowing now: “Mr. Crewe of Leith gives notice that

on to-morrow or some subsequent day he will introduce a bill entitled,

'An act for the Improvement of the State Highways.' Mr. Crewe of Leith

gives notice, etc. 'An act for the Improvement of the Practice of

Agriculture.' 'An act relating to the State Indebtedness.' 'An act

to increase the State Forest Area.' 'An act to incorporate the State

Economic League.' 'An act to incorporate the State Children's Charities

Association.' 'An act in relation to Abandoned Farms.'” These were some

of the most important, and they were duly introduced on the morrow,

and gravely referred by the Speaker to various committees. As might be

expected, a man whose watchword is, “thorough” immediately got a list

of those committees, and lost no time in hunting up the chairmen and the

various available members thereof.

As a man of spirit, also, Mr. Crewe wrote to Mr. Flint, protesting as

to the manner in which he had been treated concerning committees. In the

course of a week he received a kind but necessarily brief letter from

the Northeastern's president to remind him that he persisted in a

fallacy; as a neighbour, Mr. Flint would help him to the extent of his

power, but the Northeastern Railroads could not interfere in legislative

or political matters. Mr. Crewe was naturally pained by the lack of

confidence of his friend; it seems useless to reiterate that he was far

from being a fool, and no man could be in the capital a day during the

session without being told of the existence of Number Seven, no matter

how little the informant might know of what might be going on there.

Mr. Crewe had been fortunate enough to see the inside of that mysterious

room, and, being a sufficiently clever man to realize the importance and

necessity of government by corporations, had been shocked at nothing he

had seen or heard. However, had he had a glimpse of the Speaker's lists

under the hopelessly crushed hat of Mr. Bascom, perhaps he might have

been shocked, after all.

It was about this time that a touching friendship began which ought, in

justice, to be briefly chronicled. It was impossible for the Honourable

Brush Bascom and the Honourable Jacob Botcher to have Mr. Crewe sitting

between them and not conceive a strong affection for him. The Honourable

Brush, though not given to expressing his feelings, betrayed some

surprise at the volumes Mr. Crewe had contributed to the stream of

bills; and Mr. Botcher, in a Delphic whisper, invited Mr. Crewe to visit

him in room forty-eight of the Pelican that evening. To tell the truth,

Mr. Crewe returned the feeling of his companions warmly, and he had even

entertained the idea of asking them both to dine with him that evening.

Number forty-eight (the Honourable Jake's) was a free-and-easy

democratic resort. No three knocks and a password before you turn

the key here. Almost before your knuckles hit the panel you heard

Mr. Botcher's hearty voice shouting “Come in,” in spite of the closed

transom. The Honourable Jake, being a tee-totaller, had no bathroom,

and none but his intimate friends ever looked in the third from the top

bureau drawer.

The proprietor of the Pelican, who in common with the rest of humanity

had fallen a victim to the rough and honest charms and hearty good

fellowship of the Honourable Jake, always placed a large padded

arm-chair in number forty-eight before the sessions, knowing that the

Honourable Jake's constituency would be uniformly kind to him. There Mr.

Botcher was wont to sit (when he was not depressing one of the tiles

in the rotunda), surrounded by his friends and their tobacco smoke,

discussing in his frank and manly fashion the public questions of the

day.

Mr. Crewe thought it a little strange that, whenever he entered a room

in the Pelican, a silence should succeed the buzz of talk which he had

heard through the closed transom; but he very naturally attributed this

to the constraint which ordinary men would be likely to feel in his

presence. In the mouth of one presumptuous member the word “railroad”

was cut in two by an agate glance from the Honourable Brush, and Mr.

Crewe noted with some surprise that the Democratic leader of the House,

Mr. Painter, was seated on Mr. Botcher's mattress, with an expression

that was in singular contrast to the look of bold defiance which he had

swept over the House that afternoon in announcing his opposition policy.

The vulgar political suggestion might have crept into a more trivial

mind than Mr. Crewe's that Mr. Painter was being, “put to bed,” the bed

being very similar to that of Procrustes. Mr. Botcher extracted himself

from the nooks and crannies of his armchair.

“How are you, Crewe?” he said hospitably; “we're all friends here--eh,

Painter? We don't carry our quarrels outside the swinging doors. You

know Mr. Crewe--by sight, of course. Do you know these other gentlemen,

Crewe? I didn't expect you so early.”

The “other gentlemen” said that they were happy to make the acquaintance

of their fellow-member from Leith, and seemingly with one consent began

to edge towards the door.

“Don't go, boys,” Mr. Bascom protested. “Let me finish that story.”

Some of “the boys” seemed to regard this statement as humorous,--more

humorous, indeed, than the story itself. And when it was finished they

took their departure, a trifle awkwardly, led by Mr. Painter.

“They're a little mite bashful,” said Mr. Botcher, apologetically.

“How many more of those bills have you got?” demanded Mr. Bascom, from

the steam radiator, with characteristic directness.

“I put 'em all in this morning,” said Mr. Crewe, “but I have thought

since of two or three other conditions which might be benefited by

legislation.”

“Well,” said Mr. Bascom, kindly, “if you have any more I was going to

suggest that you distribute 'em round among the boys. That's the way I

do, and most folks don't guess they're your bills. See?”

“What harm is there in that?” demanded Mr. Crewe. “I'm not ashamed of

'em.”

“Brush was only lookin' at it from the point of view of gettin' 'em

through,” honest Mr. Botcher put in, in stentorian tones. “It doesn't do

for a new member to be thought a hog about legislation.”

Now the Honourable Jacob only meant this in the kindest manner, as we

know, and to give inexperience a hint from well-intentioned experience.

On the other hand, Mr. Crewe had a dignity and a position to uphold.

He was a personality. People who went too far with him were apt to be

rebuked by a certain glassy quality in his eye, and this now caused the

Honourable Jake to draw back perceptibly.

“I see no reason why a public-spirited man should be open to such an

imputation,” said Mr. Crewe.

“Certainly not, certainly not,” said Mr. Botcher, in stentorian tones of

apology, “I was only trying to give you a little friendly advice, but

I may have put it too strong. Brush and I--I may as well be plain

about it, Mr. Crewe--have taken a liking to you. Couldn't help it, sir,

sitting next to you as we do. We take an interest in your career, and we

don't want you to make any mistakes. Ain't that about it, Brush?”

“That's about it,” said Mr. Bascom.

Mr. Crewe was to big a man not to perceive and appreciate the sterling

philanthropy which lay beneath the exteriors of his new friends, who

scorned to flatter him.

“I understand the spirit in which your advice is given, gentlemen,” he

replied magnanimously, “and I appreciate it. We are all working for the

same things, and we all believe that they must be brought about in the

same practical way. For instance, we know as practical men that the

railroad pays a large tax in this State, and that property must take

a hand--a very considerable hand--in legislation. You gentlemen, as

important factors in the Republican organization, are loyal to--er--that

property, and perhaps for wholly desirable reasons cannot bring forward

too many bills under your own names. Whereas I--”

At this point in Mr. Crewe's remarks the Honourable Jacob Botcher

was seized by an appalling coughing fit which threatened to break his

arm-chair, probably owing to the fact that he had swallowed something

which he had in his mouth the wrong way. Mr. Bascom, assisted by Mr.

Crewe, pounded him relentlessly on the back.

“I read that article in the 'Tribune' about you with great interest,”

said Mr. Bascom, when Mr. Botcher's coughing had subsided. “I had no

idea you were so--ahem--well equipped for a political career. But what

we wanted to speak to you about was this,” he continued, as Mr. Crewe

showed signs of breaking in, “those committee appointments you desired.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Crewe, with some pardonable heat, “the Speaker doesn't

seem to know which side his bread's buttered on.”

“What I was going to say,” proceeded Mr. Bascom, “was that General Doby

is a pretty good fellow. Personally, I happen to know that the general

feels very badly that he couldn't give you what you wanted. He took a

shine to you that night you saw him.”

“Yes,” Mr. Botcher agreed, for he had quite recovered, “the general

felt bad--feels bad, I should say. He perceived that you were a man of

ability, sir--”

“And that was just the reason,” said the Honourable Brush, “that he

couldn't make you more useful just now.”

“There's a good deal of jealousy, my dear sir, against young members of

ability,” said Mr. Botcher, in his most oracular and impressive tones.

“The competition amongst those--er--who have served the party is very

keen for the positions you desired. I personally happen to know that the

general had you on the Judiciary and Appropriations, and that some of

your--er--well-wishers persuaded him to take you off for your own good.”

“It wouldn't do for the party leaders to make you too prominent all at

once,” said Mr. Bascom. “You are bound to take an active part in what

passes here. The general said, 'At all events I will give Mr. Crewe

one chairmanship by which he can make a name for himself suited to his

talents,' and he insisted on giving you, in spite of some remonstrances

from your friends, National Affairs. The general urged, rightly, that

with your broad view and knowledge of national policy, it was his duty

to put you in that place whatever people might say.”

Mr. Crewe listened to these explanations in some surprise; and being a

rational man, had to confess that they were--more or less reasonable.

“Scarcely any bills come before that committee,” he objected.

“Ah,” replied Mr. Bascom, “that is true. But the chairman of that

committee is generally supposed to be in line for--er--national honours.

It has not always happened in the past, because the men have not proved

worthy. But the opportunity is always given to that chairman to make

a speech upon national affairs which is listened to with the deepest

interest.

“Is that so?” said Mr. Crewe. He wanted to be of service, as we know. He

was a man of ideas, and the opening sentences of the speech were already

occurring to him.

“Let's go upstairs and see the general now,” suggested Mr. Botcher,

smiling that such a happy thought should have occurred to him.

“Why, I guess we couldn't do any better,” Mr. Bascom agreed.

“Well,” said Mr. Crewe, “I'm willing to hear what he's got to say,

anyway.”

Taking advantage of this generous concession, Mr. Botcher hastily locked

the door, and led the way up the stairway to number seventy-five. After

a knock or two here, the door opened a crack, disclosing, instead of

General Doby's cherubic countenance, a sallow face with an exceedingly

pointed nose. The owner of these features, having only Mr. Botcher in

his line of vision, made what was perhaps an unguarded remark.

“Hello, Jake, the general's in number nine--Manning sent for him about

half an hour ago.”

It was Mr. Botcher himself who almost closed the door on the gentleman's

sharp nose, and took Mr. Crewe's arm confidingly.

“We'll go up to the desk and see Doby in the morning,--he's busy,” said

the Honourable Jake.

“What's the matter with seeing him now?” Mr. Crewe demanded. “I know

Manning. He's the division superintendent, isn't he?”

Mr. Botcher and Mr. Bascom exchanged glances.

“Why, yes--” said Mr. Bascom, “yes, he is. He's a great friend of

General Doby's, and their wives are great friends.”

“Intimate friends, sir,” said the Honourable Jake

“Well,” said Mr. Crewe, “we won't bother 'em but a moment.”

It was he who led the way now, briskly, the Honourable Brush and the

Honourable Jake pressing closely after him. It was Mr. Crewe who,

without pausing to knock, pushed open the door of number nine, which was

not quite closed; and it was Mr. Crewe who made the important discovery

that the lugubrious division superintendent had a sense of humour. Mr.

Manning was seated at a marble-topped table writing on a salmon-coloured

card, in the act of pronouncing these words:--“For Mr. Speaker and Mrs.

Speaker and all the little Speakers, to New York and return.”

Mr. Speaker Doby, standing before the marble-topped table with his hands

in his pockets, heard the noise behind him and turned, and a mournful

expression spread over his countenance.

“Don't mind me,” said Mr. Crewe, waving a hand in the direction of the

salmon-coloured tickets; “I hope you have a good time, General. When do

you go?”

“Why,” exclaimed the Speaker, “how are you, Mr. Crewe, how are you? It's

only one of Manning's little jokes.”

“That's all right, General,” said Mr. Crewe, “I haven't been a director

in railroads for nothing. I'm not as green as he thinks. Am I, Mr.

Manning?”

“It never struck me that green was your colour, Mr. Crewe,” answered the

division superintendent, smiling a little as he tore the tickets into

bits and put them in the waste-basket.

“Well,” said Mr. Crewe, “you needn't have torn 'em up on my account. I

travel on the pass which the Northeastern gives me as a legislator, and

I'm thinking seriously of getting Mr. Flint to send me an annual, now

that I'm in politics and have to cover the State.”

“We thought you were a reformer, Mr. Crewe,” the Honourable Brush Bascom

remarked.

“I am a practical man,” said Mr. Crewe; “a railroad man, a business mark

and as such I try to see things as they are.”

“Well,” said General Doby, who by this time had regained his usual

genial air of composure, “I'm glad you said that, Mr. Crewe. As these

gentlemen will tell you, if I'd had my wish I'd have had you on every

important committee in the House.”

“Chairman of every important committee, General,” corrected the

Honourable Jacob Botcher.

“Yes, chairman of 'em,” assented the general, after a glance at Mr.

Crewe's countenance to see how this statement fared. “But the fact is,

the boys are all jealous of you--on the quiet. I suppose you suspected

something of the kind.”

“I should have imagined there might be some little feeling,” Mr. Crewe

assented modestly.

“Exactly,” cried the general, “and I had to combat that feeling when I

insisted upon putting you at the head of National Affairs. It does not

do for a new member, whatever his prominence in the financial world,

to be pushed forward too quickly. And unless I am mighty mistaken, Mr.

Crewe,” he added, with his hand on the new member's shoulder, “you will

make yourself felt without any boosting from me.”

“I did not come here to remain idle, General,” answered Mr. Crewe,

considerably mollified.

“Certainly not,” said the general, “and I say to some of those men,

'Keep your eye on the gentleman who is Chairman of National Affairs.'”

After a little more of this desultory and pleasant talk, during which

recourse was, had to the bathroom for several tall and thin glasses

ranged on the shelf there, Mr. Crewe took his departure in a most

equable frame of mind. And when the door was closed and locked behind

him, Mr. Manning dipped his pen in the ink, once more produced from a

drawer in the table the salmon-coloured tickets, and glanced again at

the general with a smile.

“For Mr. Speaker and Mrs. Speaker and all the little Speakers, to New

York and return.”

BOOK 2.

CHAPTER XI. THE HOPPER

It is certainly not the function of a romance to relate, with the

exactness of a House journal, the proceedings of a Legislature. Somebody

has likened the state-house to pioneer Kentucky, a dark and bloody

ground over which the battles of selfish interests ebbed and flowed,--no

place for an innocent and unselfish bystander like Mr. Crewe, who

desired only to make of his State an Utopia; whose measures were for the

public good--not his own. But if any politician were fatuous enough

to believe that Humphrey Crewe was a man to introduce bills and calmly

await their fate; a man who, like Senator Sanderson, only came down

to the capital when he was notified by telegram, that politician was

entirely mistaken.

No sooner had his bills been assigned to the careful and just

consideration of the committees in charge of the Honourable Brush

Bascom, Mr. Botcher, and others than Mr. Crewe desired of each a day for

a hearing. Every member of the five hundred was provided with a copy;

nay, nearly every member was personally appealed to, to appear and speak

for the measures. Foresters, road builders, and agriculturists (expenses

paid) were sent for from other States; Mr. Ball and others came down

from Leith, and gentlemen who for a generation had written letters to

the newspapers turned up from other localities. In two cases the largest

committee rooms proved too small for the gathering which was the result

of Mr. Crewe's energy, and the legislative hall had to be lighted. The

State Tribune gave column reports of the hearings, and little editorial

pushes besides. And yet, when all was over, when it had been proved

beyond a doubt that, if the State would consent to spend a little

money, she would take the foremost rank among her forty odd sisters

for progression, the bills were still under consideration by those

hardheaded statesmen, Mr. Bascom and Mr. Botcher and their associates.

It could not be because these gentlemen did not know the arguments and

see the necessity. Mr. Crewe had had them to dinner, and had spent so

much time in their company presenting his case--to which they absolutely

agreed--that they took to a forced seclusion. The member from Leith also

wrote letters and telegrams, and sent long typewritten arguments and

documents to Mr. Flint. Mr. Crewe, although far from discouraged,

began to think there was something mysterious about all this seemingly

unnecessary deliberation.

Mr. Crewe, though of great discernment, was only mortal, and while he

was fighting his battle single-handed, how was he to know that the gods

above him were taking sides and preparing for conflict? The gods do not

give out their declarations of war for publication to the Associated

Press; and old Tom Gaylord, who may be likened to Mars, had no intention

of sending Jupiter notice until he got his cohorts into line. The

strife, because it was to be internecine, was the more terrible.

Hitherto the Gaylord Lumber Company, like the Winona Manufacturing

Company of Newcastle (the mills of which extended for miles along the

Tyne), had been a faithful ally of the Empire; and, on occasions when it

was needed, had borrowed the Imperial army to obtain grants, extensions,

and franchises.

The fact is that old Tom Gaylord, in the autumn previous, had quarreled

with Mr. Flint about lumber rates, which had been steadily rising.

Mr. Flint had been polite, but firm; and old Tom, who, with all

his tremendous properties, could ship by no other railroad than the

Northeastern, had left the New York office in a black rage. A more

innocent citizen than old Tom would have put his case (which was without

doubt a strong one) before the Railroad Commission of the State, but

old Tom knew well enough that the Railroad Commission was in reality

an economy board of the Northeastern system, as much under Mr. Flint's

orders as the conductors and brakemen. Old Tom, in consulting the map,

conceived an unheard-of effrontery, a high treason which took away the

breath of his secretary and treasurer when it was pointed out to him.

The plan contemplated a line of railroad from the heart of the lumber

regions down the south side of the valley of the Pingsquit to Kingston,

where the lumber could take to the sea. In short, it was a pernicious

revival of an obsolete state of affairs, competition, and if persisted

in, involved nothing less than a fight to a finish with the army, the

lobby of the Northeastern. Other favoured beings stood aghast when they

heard of it, and hastened to old Tom with timely counsel; but he had

reached a frame of mind which they knew well. He would listen to no

reason, and maintained stoutly that there were other lawyers in the

world as able in political sagacity and lobby tactics as Hilary Vane;

the Honourable Galusha Hammer, for instance, an old and independent

and wary war-horse who had more than once wrung compromises out of the

Honourable Hilary. The Honourable Galusha Hammer was sent for, and was

now industriously, if quietly and unobtrusively, at work. The Honourable

Hilary was likewise at work, equally quietly and unobtrusively. When

the powers fall out, they do not open up at once with long-distance

artillery. There is always a chance of a friendly settlement. The news

was worth a good deal, for instance, to Mr. Peter Pardriff (brother of

Paul, of Ripton), who refrained, with praiseworthy self-control, from

publishing it in the State Tribune, although the temptation to do so

must have been great. And most of the senatorial twenty saw the trouble

coming and braced their backs against it, but in silence. The capital

had seen no such war as this since the days of Jethro Bass.

In the meantime Mr. Crewe, blissfully ignorant of this impending

conflict, was preparing a speech on national affairs and national

issues which was to startle an unsuspecting State. Mrs. Pomfret, who had

received many clippings and pamphlets, had written him weekly letters

of a nature spurring to his ambition, which incidentally contained many

references to Alice's interest in his career. And Mr. Crewe's mind,

when not intent upon affairs of State, sometimes reverted pleasantly to

thoughts of Victoria Flint; it occurred to him that the Duncan house was

large enough for entertaining, and that he might invite Mrs. Pomfret to

bring Victoria and the inevitable Alice to hear his oration, for which

Mr. Speaker Doby had set a day.

In his desire to give other people pleasure, Mr. Crewe took the trouble

to notify a great many of his friends and acquaintances as to the day of

his speech, in case they might wish to travel to the State capital and

hear him deliver it. Having unexpectedly received in the mail a cheque

from Austen Vane in settlement of the case of the injured horse, Austen

was likewise invited.

Austen smiled when he opened the letter, and with its businesslike

contents there seemed to be wafted from it the perfume and suppliance

of a September day in the Vale of the Blue. From the window of his back

office, looking across the railroad tracks, he could see Sawanec, pale

in her winter garb against a pale winter sky, and there arose in him the

old restless desire for the woods and fields which at times was almost

irresistible. His thoughts at length descending from the azure above

Sawanec, his eyes fell again on Mr. Crewe's typewritten words: “It may

be of interest to you that I am to deliver, on the 15th instant, and as

the Chairman of the House Committee on National Affairs, a speech upon

national policies which is the result of much thought, and which touches

upon such material needs of our State as can be supplied by the Federal

Government.”

Austen had a brief fancy, whimsical as it was, of going to hear him. Mr.

Crewe, as a type absolutely new to him, interested him. He had followed

the unusual and somewhat surprising career of the gentleman from Leith

with some care, even to the extent of reading of Mr. Crewe's activities

in the State Tribunes which had been sent him. Were such qualifications

as Mr. Crewe possessed, he wondered, of a kind to sweep their possessor

into high office? Were industry, persistency, and a capacity for taking

advantage of a fair wind sufficient?

Since his return from Pepper County, Austen Vane had never been to the

State capital during a session, although it was common for young lawyers

to have cases before the Legislature. It would have been difficult to

say why he did not take these cases, aside from the fact that they were

not very remunerative. On occasions gentlemen from different parts of

the State, and some from outside of it who had certain favours to ask at

the hands of the lawmaking body, had visited his back office and closed

the door after them, and in the course of the conversation had referred

to the relationship of the young lawyer to Hilary Vane. At such times

Austen would freely acknowledge the debt of gratitude he owed his father

for being in the world--and refer them politely to Mr. Hilary Vane

himself. In most cases they had followed his advice, wondering not a

little at this isolated example of quixotism.

During the sessions, except for a day or two at week ends which were

often occupied with conferences, the Honourable Hilary's office was

deserted; or rather, as we have seen, his headquarters were removed to

room Number Seven in the Pelican Hotel at the capital. Austen got

many of the lay clients who came to see his father at such times;

and--without giving an exaggerated idea of his income--it might be said

that he was beginning to have what may be called a snug practice for a

lawyer of his experience. In other words, according to Mr. Tooting, who

took an intense interest in the matter, “not wearing the collar” had

been more of a financial success for Austen than that gentleman had

imagined. There proved to be many clients to whom the fact that young

Mr. Vane did not carry a “retainer pass” actually appealed. These

clients paid their bills, but they were neither large nor influential,

as a rule, with the notable exception of the Gaylord Lumber Company,

where the matters for trial were not large. If young Tom Gaylord had had

his way, Austen would have been the chief counsel for the corporation.

To tell the truth, Austen Vane had a secret aversion to going to the

capital during a session, a feeling that such a visit would cause him

unhappiness. In spite of his efforts, and indeed in spite of Hilary's,

Austen and his father had grown steadily apart. They met in the office

hallway, in the house in Hanover Street when Hilary came home to sleep,

and the elder Mr. Vane was not a man to thrive on small talk. His world

was the battlefield from which he directed the forces of the great

corporation which he served, and the cherished vision of a son in whom

he could confide his plans, upon whose aid and counsel he could lean,

was gone forever. Hilary Vane had troublesome half-hours, but on the

whole he had reached the conclusion that this son, like Sarah Austen,

was one of those inexplicable products in which an extravagant and

inscrutable nature sometimes indulged. On the rare evenings when the two

were at home together, the Honourable Hilary sat under one side of the

lamp with a pile of documents and newspapers, and Austen under the other

with a book from the circulating library. No public questions could be

broached upon which they were not as far apart as the poles, and the

Honourable Hilary put literature in the same category as embroidery.

Euphrasia, when she paused in her bodily activity to darn their

stockings, used to glance at them covertly from time to time, and many a

silent tear of which they knew nothing fell on her needle.

On the subject of his protracted weekly absences at the State capital,

the Honourable Hilary was as uncommunicative as he would have been had

he retired for those periods to a bar-room. He often grunted and cleared

his throat and glanced at his son when their talk bordered upon these

absences; and he was even conscious of an extreme irritation against

himself as well as Austen because of the instinct that bade him keep

silent. He told himself fiercely that he had nothing to be ashamed of,

nor would he have acknowledged that it was a kind of shame that bade him

refrain even from circumstantial accounts of what went on in room Number

Seven of the Pelican. He had an idea that Austen knew and silently

condemned; and how extremely maddening was this feeling to the

Honourable Hilary may well be imagined. All his life long he had deemed

himself morally invulnerable, and now to be judged and ethically found

wanting by the son of Sarah Austen was, at times, almost insupportable.

Were the standards of a long life to be suddenly reversed by a prodigal

son?

To get back to Austen. On St. Valentine's Day of that year when, to tell

the truth, he was seated in his office scribbling certain descriptions

of nature suggested by the valentines in Mr. Hayman's stationery store,

the postman brought in a letter from young Tom Gaylord. Austen laughed

as he read it. “The Honourable Galusha Hammer is well named,” young Tom

wrote, “but the conviction has been gaining ground with me that a hammer

is about as much use as a shovel would be at the present time. It is not

the proper instrument.” “But the 'old man'” (it was thus young Tom was

wont to designate his parent) “is pig-headed when he gets to fighting,

and won't listen to reason. If he believes he can lick the Northeastern

with a Hammer, he is durned badly mistaken, and I told him so. I have

been giving him sage advice in little drops--after meals. I tell him

there is only one man in the State who has sense enough even to shake

the Northeastern, and that's you. He thinks this a pretty good joke. Of

course I realize where your old man is planted, and that you might have

some natural delicacy and wish to refrain from giving him a jar. But

come down for an hour and let me talk to you, anyway. The new statesman

from Leith is cutting a wide swath. Not a day passes but his voice is

heard roaring in the Forum; he has visited all the State institutions,

dined and wined the governor and his staff and all the ex-governors

he can lay his hands on, and he has that hard-headed and caustic

journalist, Mr. Peter Pardriff, of the State Tribune, hypnotized. He

has some swells up at his house to hear his speech on national affairs,

among them old Flint's daughter, who is a ripper to look at, although I

never got nearer to her than across the street. As you may guess, it is

something of a card for Crewe to have Flint's daughter here.”

Austen sat for a long time after reading this letter, idly watching

the snow-clouds gathering around Sawanec. Then he tore up the paper,

on which he had been scribbling, into very small bits, consulted a

time-table, and at noon, in a tumult of feelings, he found himself in a

back seat of the express, bound for the capital.

Arriving at the station, amidst a hurry and bustle of legislators and

politicians coming and going, many of whom nodded to him, he stood for a

minute in the whirling snow reflecting. Now that he was here, where was

he to stay? The idea of spending the night at the Pelican was repellent

to him, and he was hesitating between two more modest hostelries when he

was hailed by a giant with a flowing white beard, a weather-beaten face,

and a clear eye that shone with a steady and kindly light. It was James

Redbrook, the member from Mercer.

“Why, how be you, Austen?” he cried, extending a welcome hand; and, when

Austen had told him his dilemma: “Come right along up to my lodgings. I

live at the Widow Peasley's, and there's a vacant room next to mine.”

Austen accepted gratefully, and as they trudged through the storm up the

hill, he inquired how legislative matters were progressing. Whereupon

Mr. Redbrook unburdened himself.

“Say, I just warmed up all over when I see you, Austen. I'm so glad to

run across an honest man. We ain't forgot in Mercer what you did for Zeb

Meader, and how you went against your interests. And I guess it ain't

done you any harm in the State. As many as thirty or forty members have

spoke to me about it. And down here I've got so I just can't hold in any

more.”

“Is it as bad as that, Mr. Redbrook?” asked Austen, with a serious

glance at the farmer's face.

“It's so bad I don't know how to begin,” said the member from Mercer,

and paused suddenly. “But I don't want to hurt your feelings, Austen,

seeing your father is--where he is.”

“Go on,” said Austen, “I understand.”

“Well,” said Mr. Redbrook, “it just makes me tremble as an American

citizen. The railrud sends them slick cusses down here that sit in the

front seats who know all this here parliamentary law and the tricks of

the trade, and every time any of us gets up to speak our honest minds,

they have us ruled out of order or get the thing laid on the table until

some Friday morning when there ain't nobody here, and send it along

up to the Senate. They made that fat feller, Doby, Speaker, and he's

stuffed all the important committees so that you can't get an honest

measure considered. You can talk to the committees all you've a mind to,

and they'll just listen and never do anything. There's five hundred in

the House, and it ain't any more of a Legislature than a camp-meetin'

is. What do you suppose they done last Friday morning, when there wahn't

but twenty men at the session? We had an anti-pass law, and all these

fellers were breakin' it. It forbid anybody riding on a pass except

railroad presidents, directors, express messengers, and persons in

misfortune, and they stuck in these words, 'and others to whom passes

have been granted by the proper officers.' Ain't that a disgrace to

the State? And those twenty senators passed it before we got back on

Tuesday. You can't get a bill through that Legislature unless you go up

to the Pelican and get permission of Hilary--”

Here Mr. Redbrook stopped abruptly, and glanced contritely at his

companion.

“I didn't mean to get goin' so,” he said, “but sometimes I wish this

American government'd never been started.”

“I often feel that way myself, Mr. Redbrook,” said Austen.

“I knowed you did. I guess I can tell an honest man when I see one. It's

treason to say anything against this Northeastern louder than a whisper.

They want an electric railrud bad up in Greenacre, and when some of us

spoke for it and tried to get the committee to report it, those cheap

fellers from Newcastle started such a catcall we had to set down.”

By this time they were at the Widow Peasley's, stamping the snow from

off their boots.

“How general is this sentiment?” Austen asked, after he had set down his

bag in the room he was to occupy.

“Why,” said Mr. Redbrook, with conviction, “there's enough feel as I do

to turn that House upside down--if we only had a leader. If you was only

in there, Austen.”

“I'm afraid I shouldn't be of much use,” Austen answered. “They'd have

given me a back seat, too.”

The Widow Peasley's was a frame and gabled house of Revolutionary days

with a little terrace in front of it and a retaining wall built up from

the sidewalk. Austen, on the steps, stood gazing across at a square

mansion with a wide cornice, half hidden by elms and maples and

pines. It was set far back from the street, and a driveway entered the

picket-fence and swept a wide semicircle to the front door and back

again. Before the door was a sleigh of a pattern new to him, with a

seat high above the backs of two long-bodied, deep-chested horses, their

heads held with difficulty by a little footman with his arms above him.

At that moment two figures in furs emerged from the house. The young

woman gathered up the reins and leaped lightly to the box, the man

followed; the little groom touched his fur helmet and scrambled aboard

as the horses sprang forward to the music of the softest of bells. The

sleigh swept around the curve, avoided by a clever turn a snow-pile at

the entrance, the young woman raised her eyes from the horses, stared at

Austen, and bowed. As for Austen, he grew warm as he took off his hat,

and he realized that his hand was actually trembling. The sleigh flew on

up the hill, but she turned once more to look behind her, and he still

had his hat in his hand, the snowflakes falling on his bared head. Then

he was aware that James Redbrook was gazing at him curiously.

“That's Flint's daughter, ain't it?” inquired the member from Mercer.

“Didn't callate you'd know her.”

Austen flushed. He felt exceedingly foolish, but an answer came to him.

“I met her in the hospital. She used to go there to see Zeb Meader.”

“That's so,” said Mr. Redbrook; “Zeb told me about it, and she used to

come to Mercer to see him after he got out. She ain't much like the old

man, I callate.”

“I don't think she is,” said Austen.

“I don't know what she's stayin' with that feller Crewe for,” the farmer

remarked; “of all the etarnal darn idiots--why, Brush Bascom and that

Botcher and the rest of 'em are trailin' him along and usin' him for the

best thing that ever came down here. He sets up to be a practical man,

and don't know as much as some of us hayseeds in the back seats. Where

be you goin'?”

“I was going to the Pelican.”

“Well, I've got a committee meetin' of Agriculture,” said Mr. Redbrook.

“Could you be up here at Mis' Peasley's about eight to-night?”

“Why, yes,” Austen replied, “if you want to see me.”

“I do want to see you,” said Mr. Redbrook, significantly, and waved a

farewell.

Austen took his way slowly across the state-house park, threading among

the groups between the snow-banks towards the wide facade of the Pelican

Hotel. Presently he paused, and then with a sudden determination crossed

the park diagonally into Main Street, walking rapidly southward and

scrutinizing the buildings on either side until at length these began to

grow wide apart, and he spied a florist's sign with a greenhouse behind

it. He halted again, irresolutely, in front of it, flung open the door,

and entered a boxlike office filled with the heated scents of flowers.

A little man eyed him with an obsequious interest which he must have

accorded to other young men on similar errands. Austen may be spared a

repetition of the very painful conversation that ensued; suffice it

to say that, after mature deliberation, violets were chosen. He had

a notion--not analyzed--that she would prefer violets to roses. The

information that the flowers were for the daughter of the president of

the Northeastern Railroads caused a visible quickening of the little

florist's regard, an attitude which aroused a corresponding disgust and

depression in Austen.

“Oh, yes,” said the florist, “she's up at Crewe's.” He glanced at Austen

apologetically. “Excuse me,” he said, “I ought to know you. Have you a

card?”

“No,” said Austen, with emphasis.

“And what name, please?”

“No name,” said the donor, now heartily repenting of his rashness, and

slamming the glass door in a manner that made the panes rattle behind

him.

As he stood hesitating on the curb of the crossing, he began to wish

that he had not left Ripton.

“Hello, Austen,” said a voice, which he recognized as the Honourable

Brush Bascom's, “didn't know you ever came down here in session time.”

“What are you doing down here, Brush?” Austen asked.

Mr. Bascom grinned in appreciation of this pleasantry.

“I came for my health,” he said; “I prefer it to Florida.”

“I've heard that it agrees with some people,” said Austen.

Mr. Bascom grinned again.

“Just arrived?” he inquired.

“Just,” said Austen.

“I thought you'd get here sooner or later,” said Mr. Bascom. “Some folks

try stayin' away, but it ain't much use. You'll find the honourable

Hilary doing business at the same old stand, next to the governor, in

Number Seven up there.” And Mr. Bascom pointed to the well-known window

on the second floor.

“Thanks, Brush,” said Austen, indifferently. “To tell the truth, I came

down to hear that promising protege of yours speak on national affairs.

I understand you're pushing his bills along.”

Mr. Bascom, with great deliberation, shut one of his little eyes.

“So long,” he said, “come and see me when you get time.”

Austen went slowly down the street and entered the smoke-clouded lobby

of the Pelican. He was a man to draw attention, and he was stared at

by many politicians there and spoken to by some before he reached the

stairs. Mounting, he found the door with the numeral, and knocked. The

medley of voices within ceased; there were sounds of rattling papers,

and of closing of folding doors. The key turned in the lock, and State

Senator Nathaniel Billings appeared in the doorway, with a look of

polite inquiry on his convivial face. This expression, when he saw

Austen, changed to something like consternation.

“Why, hello, hello,” said the senator. “Come in, come in. The Honourable

Hilary's here. Where'd you come down?”

“Hello, Nat,” said Austen, and went in.

The Honourable Hilary sat in his usual arm-chair; Mr. Botcher severely

strained the tensile strength of the bedsprings; Mr. Hamilton Tooting

stood before the still waving portieres in front of the folding doors;

and Mr. Manning, the division superintendent, sat pensively, with his

pen in his mouth, before the marble-topped table from which everything

had been removed but a Bible. Two gentlemen, whom Austen recognized

as colleagues of Mr. Billings in the State Senate, stood together in a

window, pointing out things of interest in the street. Austen walked up

to his father and laid a hand on his shoulder.

“How are you, Judge?” he said. “I only came into pay my respects. I

hope I have not disturbed any--entertainment going on here,” he added,

glancing in turn at the thoughtful occupants of the room, and then

at the curtains which hid the folding doors to the apartment of his

Excellency.

“Why, no,” answered the Honourable Hilary, his customary grunt being the

only indication of surprise on his part; “didn't know you were coming

down.”

“I didn't know it myself until this morning,” said Austen.

“Legislative case, I suppose,” remarked the Honourable Jacob Botcher, in

his deep voice.

“No, merely a pleasure trip, Mr. Botcher.”

The Honourable Jacob rubbed his throat, the two State senators in the

window giggled, and Mr. Hamilton Tooting laughed.

“I thought you took to the mountains in such cases, sir,” said Mr.

Botcher.

“I came for intellectual pleasure this time,” said Austen. “I understand

that Mr. Crewe is to deliver an epoch-making speech on the national

situation to-morrow.”

This was too much even for the gravity of Mr. Manning; Mr. Tooting

and Mr. Billings and his two colleagues roared, though the Honourable

Jacob's laugh was not so spontaneous.

“Aust,” said Mr. Tooting, admiringly, “you're all right.”

“Well, Judge,” said Austen, patting his father's shoulder again, “I'm

glad to see you so comfortably fixed. Good-by, and give my regards to

the governor. I'm sorry to have missed him,” he added, glancing at the

portieres that hid the folding doors.

“Are you stopping here?” asked the Honourable Hilary.

“No, I met Mr. Redbrook of Mercer, and he took me up to his lodgings. If

I can do anything for you, a message will reach me there.”

“Humph,” said the Honourable Hilary, while the others exchanged

significant glances.

Austen had not gone half the length of the hall when he was overtaken by

Mr. Tooting.

“Say, Aust, what's up between you and Redbrook?” he asked.

“Nothing. Why?” Austen asked, stopping abruptly.

“Well, I suppose you know there's an anti-railroad feeling growing in

that House, and that Redbrook has more influence with the farmers than

any other man.”

“I didn't know anything about Mr. Redbrook's influence,” said Austen.

Mr. Tooting looked unconvinced.

“Say, Aust, if anything's in the wind, I wish you'd let me know. I'll

keep it quiet.”

“I think I shall be safe in promising that, Ham,” said Austen. “When

there's anything in the wind, you generally find it out first.”

“There's trouble coming for the railroad,” said Mr. Tooting. “I can see

that. And I guess you saw it before I did.”

“They say a ship's about to sink when the rats begin to leave it,” said

Austen.

Although Austen spoke smilingly, Mr. Tooting looked pained.

“There's no chance for young men in that system,” he said.

“Young men write the noble parts of the governor's inaugurals,” said

Austen.

“Yes,” said Mr. Tooting, bitterly, “but you never get to be governor and

read 'em. You've got to be a 'come on' with thirty thousand dollars to

be a Northeastern governor and live next door to the Honourable Hilary

in the Pelican. Well, so long, Aust. If anything's up, give me the tip,

that's all I ask.”

Reflecting on the singular character of Mr. Tooting, Austen sought the

Gaylords' headquarters, and found them at the furthermost end of the

building from the Railroad Room. The door was opened by young Tom

himself, whose face became wreathed in smiles when he saw who the

visitor was.

“It's Austen!” he cried. “I thought you'd come down when you got that

appeal of mine.”

Austen did not admit the self-sacrifice as he shook Tom's hand;

but remembered, singularly enough, the closing sentences of Tom's

letter--which had nothing whatever to do with the Gaylord bill.

At this moment a commotion arose within the room, and a high, tremulous,

but singularly fierce and compelling voice was heard crying out:--“Get

out! Get out, d----n you, all of you, and don't come back until you've

got some notion of what you're a-goin' to do. Get out, I say!”

These last words were pronounced with such extraordinary vigour that

four gentlemen seemed to be physically impelled from the room. Three of

them Austen recognized as dismissed and disgruntled soldiers from the

lobby army of the Northeastern; the fourth was the Honourable Galusha

Hammer, whose mode of progress might be described as “stalking,” and

whose lips were forming the word “intolerable.” In the corner old Tom

himself could be seen, a wizened figure of wrath.

“Who's that?” he demanded of his son, “another d-d fool?”

“No,” replied young Tom, “it's Austen Vane.”

“What's he doin' here?” old Tom demanded, with a profane qualification

as to the region. But young Tom seemed to be the only being capable of

serenity amongst the flames that played around him.

“I sent for him because he's got more sense than Galusha and all the

rest of 'em put together,” he said.

“I guess that's so,” old Tom agreed unexpectedly, “but it ain't sayin'

much. Bring him in--bring him in, and lock the door.”

In obedience to these summons, and a pull from young Tom, Austen entered

and sat down.

“You've read the Pingsquit bill?” old Tom demanded.

“Yes,” said Austen.

“Just because you won a suit against the Northeastern, and nearly killed

a man out West, Tom seems to think you can do anything. He wouldn't,

give me any peace until I let him send for you,” Mr. Gaylord remarked

testily. “Now you're down here, what have you got to propose?”

“I didn't come here to propose anything, Mr. Gaylord,” said Austen.

“What!” cried Mr. Gaylord, with one of his customary and forceful

exclamations. “What'd you come down for?”

“I've been asking myself that question ever since I came, Mr. Gaylord,”

said Austen, “and I haven't yet arrived at any conclusion.”

Young Tom looked at his friend and laughed, and Mr. Gaylord, who at

first gave every indication of being about to explode with anger,

suddenly emitted a dry cackle.

“You ain't a d-n fool, anyway,” he declared.

“I'm beginning to think I am,” said Austen.

“Then you've got sense enough to know it,” retorted old Tom. “Most

of 'em haven't.” And his glance, as it fell upon the younger man, was

almost approving. Young Tom's was distinctly so.

“I told you Austen was the only lawyer who'd talk common sense to you,”

he said.

“I haven't heard much of it yet,” said old Tom.

“Perhaps I ought to tell you, Mr. Gaylord,” said Austen, smiling a

little, “that I didn't come down in any legal capacity. That's only one

of Tom's jokes.”

“Then what in h--l did you bring him in here for?” demanded old Tom of

his son.

“Just for a quiet little powwow,” said young Tom, “to make you laugh.

He's made you laugh before.”

“I don't want to laugh,” said old Tom, pettishly. Nevertheless, he

seemed to be visibly cooling. “If you ain't in here to make money,” he

added to Austen, “I don't care how long you stay.”

“Say, Austen,” said young Tom, “do you remember the time we covered the

old man with shavings at the mills in Avalon, and how he chased us with

a two-by-four scantling?”

“I'd made pulp out'n you if I'd got you,” remarked Mr. Gaylord, with

a reminiscent chuckle that was almost pleasant. “But you were always

a goldurned smart boy, Austen, and you've done well with them little

suits.” He gazed at Austen a moment with his small, filmy-blue eye. “I

don't know but what you might take hold here and make it hot for those

d-d rascals in the Northeastern, after all. You couldn't botch it worsen

Hammer has, and you might do some good. I said I'd make 'em dance, and

by G-d, I'll do it, if I have to pay that Teller Levering in New York,

and it takes the rest of my life. Look the situation over, and come back

to-morrow and tell me what you think of it.”

“I can tell you what I think of it now, Mr. Gaylord,” said Austen.

“What's that?” old Tom demanded sharply.

“That you'll never get the bill passed, this session or next, by

lobbying.”

For the moment the elder Mr. Gaylord was speechless, but young Tom

Gaylord clapped his hand heartily on his friend's shoulder.

“That's the reason I wanted to get you down here, Austen,” he cried;

“that's what I've been telling the old man all along--perhaps he'll

believe you.”

“Then you won't take hold?” said Mr. Gaylord, his voice trembling on the

edge of another spasm. “You refuse business?”

“I refuse that kind of business, Mr. Gaylord,” Austen answered quietly,

though there was a certain note in his voice that young Tom knew well,

and which actually averted the imminent explosion from Mr. Gaylord,

whose eyes glared and watered. “But aside from that, you must know that

the Republican party leaders in this State are the heads of the lobby of

the Northeastern Railroads.”

“I guess I know about Number Seven as well as you do,” old Tom

interjected.

Austen's eye flashed.

“Now hold on, father,” said young Tom, “that's no way to talk to

Austen.”

“Knowing Number Seven,” Austen continued, “you probably realize that the

political and business future of nearly every one of the twenty State

senators depends upon the favour of the Northeastern Railroads.”

“I know that the d-d fools won't look at money,” said Mr. Gaylord;

“Hammer's tried 'em.”

“I told you that before you started in,” young Tom remarked, “but when

you get mad, you won't listen to sense. And then there's the Honourable

Asa Gray, who wants to represent the Northeastern some day in the United

States Senate.”

“The bill ought to pass,” shrieked old Tom; “it's a d-d outrage. There's

no reason why I shouldn't be allowed to build a railroad if I've got the

money to do it. What in blazes are we comin' to in this country if we

can't git competition? If Flint stops that bill, I'll buy a newspaper

and go to the people with the issue and throw his d-d monopoly into

bankruptcy.”

“It's all very well to talk about competition and monopolies and

lobbies,” said young Tom, “but how about the Gaylord Lumber Company? How

about the time you used the lobby, with Flint's permission? This kind

of virtuous talk is beautiful to listen to when you and Flint get into a

row.”

At this remark of his son's, the intermittent geyser of old Tom's wrath

spouted up again with scalding steam, and in a manner utterly impossible

to reproduce upon paper. Young Tom waited patiently for the exhibition

to cease, which it did at length in a coughing fit of sheer exhaustion

that left his father speechless, if not expressionless, pointing a lean

and trembling finger in the direction of a valise on the floor.

“You'll go off in a spell of that kind some day,” said young Tom,

opening the valise and extracting a bottle. Uncorking it, he pressed it

to his father's lips, and with his own pocket-handkerchief (old Tom not

possessing such an article) wiped the perspiration from Mr. Gaylord's

brow and the drops from his shabby black coat. “There's no use gettin'

mad at Austen. He's dead right--you can't lobby this thing through,

and you knew it before you started. If you hadn't lost your temper, you

wouldn't have tried.”

“We'll see, by G-d, we'll see,” said the indomitable old Tom, when he

got his breath. “You young men think you know a sight, but you haven't

got the stuff in you we old Tellers have. Where would I be if it wasn't

for fightin'? You mark my words, before this session's ended I'll scare

h-l out of Flint--see if I don't.”

Young Tom winked at his friend.

“Let's go down to supper,” he said.

The dining room of the Pelican Hotel during a midweek of a busy session

was a scene of bustle and confusion not likely to be forgotten. Every

seat was taken, and gentlemen waited their turn in the marble-flagged

rotunda who had not the honour of being known to Mr. Giles, the head

waiter. If Mr. Hamilton Tooting were present, and recognized you,

he would take great pleasure in pointing out the celebrities, and

especially that table over which the Honourable Hilary Vane presided,

with the pretty, red-checked waitress hovering around it. At the

Honourable Hilary's right hand was the division superintendent, and at

his left, Mr. Speaker Doby--a most convenient and congenial arrangement;

farther down the board were State Senator Nat Billings, Mr. Ridout (when

he did not sup at home), the Honourables Brush Bascom and Elisha Jane,

and the Honourable Jacob Botcher made a proper ballast for the foot.

This table was known as the Railroad Table, and it was very difficult,

at any distance away from it, to hear what was said, except when the

Honourable Jacob Botcher made a joke. Next in importance and situation

was the Governor's Table--now occupied by the Honourable Asa Gray. Mr.

Tooting's description would not have stopped here.

Sensations are common in the Pelican Hotel, but when Austen Vane walked

in that evening between the Gaylords, father and son, many a hungry

guest laid down his knife and fork and stared. Was the younger Vane

(known to be anti-railroad) to take up the Gaylords' war against his own

father? All the indications were that way, and a rumour flew from table

to table-leaping space, as rumours will--that the Gaylords had sent to

Ripton for Austen. There was but one table in the room the occupants of

which appeared not to take any interest in the event, or even to grasp

that an event had occurred. The Railroad Table was oblivious.

After supper Mr. Tooting found Austen in the rotunda, and drew him

mysteriously aside.

“Say, Aust, the Honourable Hilary wants to see you to-night,” he

whispered.

“Did he send you with the message?” Austen demanded.

“That's right,” said Mr. Tooting. “I guess you know what's up.”

Austen did not answer. At the foot of the stairway was the tall form of

Hilary Vane himself, and Austen crossed the rotunda.

“Do you want to see me, Judge?” he asked.

The Honourable Hilary faced about quickly.

“Yes, if you've got any spare time.”

“I'll go to your room at half-past nine to-night, if that's convenient.”

“All right,” said the Honourable Hilary, starting up the stairs.

Austen turned, and found Mr. Hamilton Tooting at his elbow.

CHAPTER XII. Mr. REDBROOK'S PARTY

The storm was over, and the bare trees, when the moon shone between the

hurrying clouds, cast lacelike shadows on the white velvet surface of

the snow as Austen forged his way up the hill to the Widow Peasley's in

keeping with his promise to Mr. Redbrook. Across the street he paused

outside the picket-fence to gaze at the yellow bars of light between the

slats of the windows of the Duncan house. It was hard to realize that

she was there, within a stone's throw of where he was to sleep; but the

strange, half-startled expression in her eyes that afternoon and the

smile--which had in it a curious quality he could not analyze--were

so vivid in his consciousness as to give him pain. The incident, as he

stood there ankle-deep in the snow, seemed to him another inexplicable

and uselessly cruel caprice of fate.

As he pictured her in the dining room behind Mr. Crewe's silver and

cut glass and flowers, it was undoubtedly natural that he should

wonder whether she were thinking of him in the Widow Peasley's lamp-lit

cottage, and he smiled at the contrast. After all, it was the contrast

between his life and hers. As an American of good antecedents and

education, with a Western experience thrown in, social gulfs, although

awkward, might be crossed in spite of opposition from ladies like the

Rose of Sharon,--who had crossed them. Nevertheless, the life which

Victoria led seemingly accentuated--to a man standing behind a

picket-fence in the snow--the voids between.

A stamping of feet in the Widow Peasley's vestibule awoke in him that

sense of the ridiculous which was never far from the surface, and he

made his way thither in mingled amusement and pain. What happened there

is of interest, but may be briefly chronicled. Austen was surprised, on

entering, to find Mrs. Peasley's parlour filled with men; and a single

glance at their faces in the lamplight assured him that they were of a

type which he understood--countrymen of that rugged New England stock to

which he himself belonged, whose sons for generations had made lawyers

and statesmen and soldiers for the State and nation. Some were talking

in low voices, and others sat silent on the chairs and sofa, not

awkwardly or uncomfortably, but with a characteristic self-possession

and repose. Mr. Redbrook, towering in front of the stove, came forward.

“Here you be,” he said, taking Austen's hand warmly and a little

ceremoniously; “I asked 'em here to meet ye.”

“To meet me!” Austen repeated.

“Wanted they should know you,” said Mr. Redbrook.

“They've all heard of you and what you did for Zeb.”

Austen flushed. He was aware that he was undergoing a cool and critical

examination by those present, and that they were men who used all their

faculties in making up their minds.

“I'm very glad to meet any friends of yours, Mr. Redbrook,” he said.

“What I did for Meader isn't worth mentioning. It was an absolutely

simple case.”

“Twahn't so much what ye did as how ye did it,” said Mr. Redbrook. “It's

kind of rare in these days,” he added, with the manner of commenting to

himself on the circumstance, “to find a young lawyer with brains that

won't sell 'em to the railrud. That's what appeals to me, and to some

other folks I know--especially when we take into account the situation

you was in and the chances you had.”

Austen's silence under this compliment seemed to create an indefinable

though favourable impression, and the member from Mercer permitted

himself to smile.

“These men are all friends of mine, and members of the House,” he said,

“and there's more would have come if they'd had a longer notice. Allow

me to make you acquainted with Mr. Widgeon of Hull.”

“We kind of wanted to look you over,” said Mr. Widgeon, suiting the

action to the word. “That's natural ain't it?”

“Kind of size you up,” added Mr. Jarley of Wye, raising his eyes.

“Callate you're sizable enough.”

“Wish you was in the House,” remarked Mr. Adams of Barren. “None of us

is much on talk, but if we had you, I guess we could lay things wide

open.”

“If you was thar, and give it to 'em as hot as you did when you was

talkin' for Zeb, them skunks in the front seats wouldn't know whether

they was afoot or hossback,” declared Mr. Williams of Devon, a town

adjoining Mercer.

“I used to think railrud gov'ment wahn't so bad until I come to the

House this time,” remarked a stocky member from Oxford; “it's sheer

waste of money for the State to pay a Legislature. They might as well

run things from the New York office--you know that.”

“We might as well wear so many Northeastern uniforms with brass

buttons,” a sinewy hill farmer from Lee put in. He had a lean face that

did not move a muscle, but a humorous gray eye that twinkled.

In the meantime Mr. Redbrook looked on with an expression of approval

which was (to Austen) distinctly pleasant, but more or less mystifying.

“I guess you ain't disappointed 'em much,” he declared, when the round

was ended; “most of 'em knew me well enough to understand that cattle

and live stock in general, includin' humans, is about as I represent 'em

to be.”

“We have some confidence in your judgment, Brother Redbrook,” answered

Mr. Terry of Lee, “and now we've looked over the goods, it ain't set

back any, I callate.”

This observation, which seemed to meet with a general assent, was to

Austen more mystifying than ever. He laughed.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “I feel as though some expression of thanks were

due you for this kind and most unexpected reception.” Here a sudden

seriousness came into his eyes which served, somehow, only to enhance

his charm of manner, and a certain determined ring into his voice. “You

have all referred to a condition of affairs,” he added, “about which

I have thought a great deal, and which I deplore as deeply as you

do. There is no doubt that the Northeastern Railroads have seized

the government of this State for three main reasons: to throttle

competition; to control our railroad commission in order that we may

not get the service and safety to which we are entitled,--so increasing

dividends; and to make and maintain laws which enable them to bribe with

passes, to pay less taxes than they should, and to manipulate political

machinery.”

“That's right,” said Mr. Jarley of Wye, with a decided emphasis.

“That's the kind of talk I like to hear,” exclaimed Mr. Terry.

“And nobody's had the gumption to fight 'em,” said Mr. Widgeon.

“It looks,” said Austen, “as though it must come to a fight in the end.

I do not think they will listen to reason. I mean,” he added, with a

flash of humour, “that they will listen to it, but not act upon it.

Gentlemen, I regret to have to say, for obvious reasons, something which

you all know, that my father is at the head of the Northeastern machine,

which is the Republican party organization.”

There was a silence.

“You went again' him, and we honour you for it, Austen,” said Mr.

Redbrook, at length.

“I want to say,” Austen continued, “that I have tried to look at things

as Mr. Vane sees them, and that I have a good deal of sympathy for his

point of view. Conditions as they exist are the result of an evolution

for which no one man is responsible. That does not alter the fact that

the conditions are wrong. But the railroads, before they consolidated,

found the political boss in power, and had to pay him for favours. The

citizen was the culprit to start with, just as he is the culprit now,

because he does not take sufficient interest in his government to make

it honest. We mustn't blame the railroads too severely, when they grew

strong enough, for substituting their own political army to avoid being

blackmailed. Long immunity has reenforced them in the belief that they

have but one duty to pay dividends. I am afraid,” he added, “that they

will have to be enlightened somewhat as Pharaoh was enlightened.”

“Well, that's sense, too,” said Mr. Widgeon; “I guess you're the man to

enlighten 'em.”

“Moderate talk appeals to me,” declared Mr. Jarley.

“And when that fails,” said Mr. Terry, “hard, tellin' blows.”

“Don't lose track of the fact that we've got our eye on you,” said Mr.

Emerson of Oxford, who had a blacksmith's grip, and came back to renew

it after he had put on his overshoes. He was the last to linger, and

when the door had closed on him Austen turned to Mr. Redbrook.

“Now what does all this mean?” he demanded.

“It means,” said Mr. Redbrook, “that when the time comes, we want you to

run for governor.”

Austen went to the mantelpiece, and stood for a long time with his back

turned, staring at a crayon portrait of Colonel Peasley, in the uniform

in which he had fallen at the battle of Gettysburg. Then he swung about

and seized the member from Mercer by both broad shoulders.

“James Redbrook,” he said, “until to-night I thought you were about as

long-headed and sensible a man as there was in the State.”

“So I be,” replied Mr. Redbrook, with a grin. “You ask young Tom

Gaylord.”

“So Tom put you up to this nonsense.”

“It ain't nonsense,” retorted Mr. Redbrook, stoutly, “and Tom didn't put

me up to it. It's the' best notion that ever came into my mind.”

Austen, still clinging to Mr. Redbrook's shoulders, shook his head

slowly.

“James,” he said, “there are plenty of men who are better equipped than

I for the place, and in a better situation to undertake it. I--I'm

much obliged to you. But I'll help. I've got to go,” he added; “the

Honourable Hilary wants to see me.”

He went into the entry and put on his overshoes and his coat, while

James Redbrook regarded him with a curious mingling of pain and

benevolence on his rugged face.

“I won't press you now, Austen,” he said, “but think on it. For God's

sake, think on it.”

Outside, Austen paused in the snow once more, his brain awhirl with a

strange exaltation the like of which he had never felt before. Although

eminently human, it was not the fact that honest men had asked him to be

their governor which uplifted him,--but that they believed him to be as

honest as themselves. In that hour he had tasted life as he had never

yet tasted it, he had lived as he might never live again. Not one of

them, he remembered suddenly, had uttered a sentence of the political

claptrap of which he had heard so much. They had spoken from the soul;

not bitterly, not passionately, but their words had rung with the

determination which had made their forefathers and his leave home,

toil, and kindred to fight and die at Bunker Hill and Gettysburg for a

principle. It had bean given him to look that eight into the heart of a

nation, and he was awed.

As he stood there under the winter moon, he gradually became conscious

of music, of an air that seemed the very expression of his mood. His

eyes, irresistibly drawn towards the Duncan house, were caught by the

fluttering of lace curtains at an open window. The notes were those of

a piano,--though the instrument mattered little,--that with which they

were charged for him set the night wind quivering. It was not simple

music, although it had in it a grand simplicity. At times it rose,

vibrant with inexpressible feeling, and fell again into gentler,

yearning cadences that wrung the soul with a longing that was world-old

and world-wide, that reached out towards the unattainable stare--and,

reaching, became immortal. Thus was the end of it, fainting as it

drifted heavenward.

Then the window was closed.

Austen walked on; whither, he knew not. After a certain time of which he

had no cognizance he found himself under the glaring arc-light that hung

over Main Street before the Pelican Hotel, in front of what was known

as the ladies' entrance. He slipped in there, avoiding the crowded lobby

with its shifting groups and its haze of smoke,--plainly to be seen

behind the great plates of glass,--went upstairs, and gained room

Number. Seven unnoticed. Then, after the briefest moment of hesitation,

he knocked. A voice responded--the Honourable Hilary's. There was but

one light burning in the room, and Mr. Vane sat in his accustomed chair

in the corner, alone. He was not reading, nor was he drowsing, but his

head was dropped forward a little on his breast. He raised it slowly at

his son's entrance, and regarded Austen fixedly, though silently.

“You wanted to see me, Judge?” said Austen.

“Come at last, have you?” said Mr. Vane.

“I didn't intend to be late,” said Austen.

“Seem to have a good deal of business on hand these days,” the

Honourable Hilary remarked.

Austen took a step forward, and stopped. Mr. Vane was preparing a piece

of Honey Dew.

“If you would like to know what the business was, Judge, I am here to

tell you.”

The Honourable Hilary grunted.

“I ain't good enough to be confided in, I guess,” he said; “I wouldn't

understand motives from principle.”

Austen looked at his father for a few moments in silence. To-night he

seemed at a greater distance than ever before, and more lonely than

ever. When Austen had entered the room and had seen him sitting with

his head bowed forward, the hostility of months of misunderstanding had

fallen away from the son, and he had longed to fly to him as he had as a

child after punishment. Differences in after life, alas, are not always

to be bridged thus.

“Judge,” he said slowly, with an attempt to control his voice, “wouldn't

it have been fairer to wait awhile, before you made a remark like that?

Whatever our dealings may have been, I have never lied to you. Anything

you may want to know, I am here to tell you.”

“So you're going to take up lobbying, are you? I had a notion you were

above lobbying.”

Austen was angered. But like all men of character, his face became stern

under provocation, and he spoke more deliberately.

“Before we go any farther,” he said, “would you mind telling me who your

informant is on this point?”

“I guess I don't need an informant. My eyesight is as good as ever,”

said the Honourable Hilary.

“Your deductions are usually more accurate. If any one has told you that

I am about to engage in lobbying, they have lied to you.”

“Wouldn't engage in lobbying, would you?” the Honourable Hilary asked,

with the air of making a casual inquiry.

Austen flushed, but kept his temper.

“I prefer the practice of law,” he replied.

“Saw you were associatin' with saints,” his father remarked.

Austen bit his lip, and then laughed outright,--the canonization of old

Tom Gaylord being too much for him.

“Now, Judge,” he said, “it isn't like you to draw hasty conclusions.

Because I sat down to supper with the Gaylords it isn't fair to infer

that they have retained me in a legislative case.”

The Honourable Hilary did not respond to his son's humour, but shifted

the Honey Dew to the left cheek.

“Old Tom going in for reform?”

“He may bring it about,” answered Austen, instantly becoming serious

again, “whether he's going in for it or not.”

For the first time the Honourable Hilary raised his eyes to his son's

face, and shot at him a penetrating look of characteristic shrewdness.

But he followed in conversation the same rule as in examining a witness,

rarely asking a direct question, except as a tactical surprise.

“Old Tom ought to have his railroad, oughtn't he?”

“So far as I can see, it would be a benefit to the people of that part

of the State,” said Austen.

“Building it for the people, is he?”

“His motive doesn't count. The bill should be judged on its merits, and

proper measures for the safeguarding of public interests should be put

into it.”

“Don't think the bill will be judged on its merits, do you?”

“No, I don't,” replied Austen, “and neither do you.”

“Did you tell old Tom so?” asked Mr. Vane, after a pause. “Did you tell

old Tom so when he sent for you to take hold?”

“He didn't send for me,” answered Austen, quietly, “and I have no

business dealings with him except small suits. What I did tell him

was that he would never get the bill through this session or next by

lobbying.”

The Honourable Hilary never showed surprise. He emitted a grunt which

evinced at once impatience and amusement.

“Why not?” he asked.

“Well, Judge, I'll tell you what I told him--although you both know.

It's because the Northeastern owns the Republican party machine,

which is the lobby, and because most of the twenty State senators are

dependent upon the Northeastern for future favours.”

“Did you tell Tom Gaylord that?” demanded Mr. Vane. “What did he say?”

Austen braced himself. He did not find the answer easy.

“He said he knew about Number Seven as well as I did.”

The Honourable Hilary rose abruptly--perhaps in some secret

agitation--Austen could not discern. His father walked as far as the

door, and turned slowly and faced him, but he did not speak. His mouth

was tightly closed, almost as in pain, and Austen went towards him,

appealingly.

“Judge,” he said, “you sent for me. You have asked me questions which I

felt obliged in honesty to answer. God knows I don't wish to differ with

you, but circumstances seem always against us. I will talk plainly, if

you will let me. I try to look at things from your point of view. I know

that you believe that a political system should go hand in hand with the

great commercial system which you are engaged in building. I disagree

with your beliefs, but I do not think that your pursuit of them has not

been sincere, and justified by your conscience. I suppose that you sent

for me to know whether Mr. Gaylord has employed me to lobby for his

bill. He has not, because I refused that employment. But I will tell you

that, in my opinion, if a man of any ability whatever should get up on

the floor of the House and make an argument for the Pingsquit bill, the

sentiment against the Northeastern and its political power is so great

that the House would compel the committee to report the bill, and pass

it. You probably know this already, but I mention it for your own good

if you do not, in the hope that, through you, the Northeastern Railroads

may be induced to relax their grip upon the government of this State.”

The Honourable Hilary advanced, until only the marble-topped table was

between himself and his son. A slight noise in the adjoining room caused

him to turn his head momentarily. Then he faced Austen again.

“Did you tell Gaylord this?” he asked.

Austen made a gesture of distaste, and turned away.

“No,” he said, “I reserved the opinion, whatever it is worth, for your

ears alone.”

“I've heard that kind of calculation before,” said the Honourable

Hilary. “My experience is that they never come to much. As for this

nonsense about the Northeastern Railroads running things,” he added more

vigorously, “I guess when it's once in a man's head there's no getting

it out. The railroad employs the best lawyers it can find to look after

its interests. I'm one of 'em, and I'm proud of it. If I hadn't been one

of 'em, the chances are you'd never be where you are, that you'd never

have gone to college and the law school. The Republican party realizes

that the Northeastern is most vitally connected with the material

interests of this State; that the prosperity of the road means the

prosperity of the State. And the leaders of the party protect the road

from vindictive assaults on it like Gaylord's, and from scatterbrains

and agitators like your friend Redbrook.”

Austen shook his head sadly as he gazed at his father. He had always

recognized the futility of arguments, if argument on this point ever

arose between them.

“It's no use, Judge,” he said. “If material prosperity alone were to be

considered, your contention would have some weight. The perpetuation of

the principle of American government has to be thought of. Government by

a railroad will lead in the end to anarchy. You are courting destruction

as it is.”

“If you came in here to quote your confounded Emerson--” the Honourable

Hilary began, but Austen slipped around the table and took him by the

arm and led him perforce to his chair.

“No, Judge, that isn't Emerson,” he answered. “It's just common sense,

only it sounds to you like drivel. I'm going now,--unless you want to

hear some more about the plots I've been getting into. But I want to say

this. I ask you to remember that you're my father, and that--I'm fond

of you. And that, if you and I happen to be on opposite sides, it won't

make any difference as far as my feelings are concerned. I'm always

ready to tell you frankly what I'm doing, if you wish to know. Good-by.

I suppose I'll see you in Ripton at the end of the week.” And he pressed

his father's shoulder.

Mr. Vane looked up at his son with a curious expression. Perhaps (as

when Austen returned from the shooting of Mr. Blodgett in the West)

there was a smattering of admiration and pride in that look, and

something of an affection which had long ceased in its strivings for

utterance. It was the unconscious tribute, too,--slight as was its

exhibition,--of the man whose life has been spent in the conquest of

material things to the man who has the audacity, insensate though it

seem, to fling these to the winds in his search after ideals.

“Good-by, Austen,” said Mr. Vane.

Austen got as far as the door, cast another look back at his

father,--who was sitting motionless, with head bowed, as when he

came,--and went out. So Mr. Vane remained for a full minute after the

door had closed, and then he raised his head sharply and gave a piercing

glance at the curtains that separated Number Seven from the governor's

room. In three strides he had reached them, flung them open, and the

folding doors behind them, already parted by four inches. The gas was

turned low, but under the chandelier was the figure of a young man

struggling with an overcoat. The Honourable Hilary did not hesitate, but

came forward with a swiftness that paralyzed the young man, who turned

upon him a face on which was meant to be written surprise and a just

indignation, but in reality was a mixture of impudence and pallid

fright. The Honourable Hilary, towering above him, and with that grip on

his arm, was a formidable person.

“Listening, were you, Ham?” he demanded.

“No,” cried Mr. Tooting, with a vehemence he meant for force. “No, I

wasn't. Listening to who?”

“Humph!” said the Honourable Hilary, still retaining with one hand the

grip on Mr. Tooting 's arm, and with the other turning up the gas until

it flared in Mr. Tooting's face. “What are you doing in the governor's

room?”

“I left my overcoat in here this afternoon when you sent me to bring up

the senator.”

“Ham,” said Mr. Vane, “it isn't any use lying to me.”

“I ain't lying to you,” said Mr. Tooting, “I never did. I often lied for

you,” he added, “and you didn't raise any objections that I remember.”

Mr. Vane let go of the arm contemptuously.

“I've done dirty work for the Northeastern for a good many years,” cried

Mr. Tooting, seemingly gaining confidence now that he was free; “I've

slaved for 'em, and what have they done for me? They wouldn't even back

me for county solicitor when I wanted the job.”

“Turned reformer, Ham?”

“I guess I've got as much right to turn reformer as some folks I know.”

“I guess you have,” agreed the Honourable Hilary; unexpectedly. He

seated himself on a chair, and proceeded to regard Mr. Tooting in

a manner extremely disconcerting to that gentleman. This quality of

impenetrability, of never being sure when he was angry, had baffled more

able opponents of Hilary Vane than Mr. Hamilton Tooting.

“Good-night, Ham.”

“I want to say--” Mr. Tooting began.

“Good-night, Ham,” said Mr. Vane, once more.

Mr. Tooting looked at him, slowly buttoned up his overcoat, and

departed.

CHAPTER XIII. THE REALM OF PEGASUS

The eventful day of Mr. Humphrey Crewe's speech on national affairs

dawned without a cloud in the sky. The snow was of a dazzling whiteness

and sprinkled with diamond dust; and the air of such transcendent

clearness that Austen could see--by leaning a little out of the Widow

Peasley's window--the powdered top of Holdfast Mountain some thirty

miles away. For once, a glance at the mountain sufficed him; and he

directed his gaze through the trees at the Duncan house, engaging in a

pleasant game of conjecture as to which was her window. In such weather

the heights of Helicon seemed as attainable as the peak of Holdfast; and

he had but to beckon a shining Pegasus from out a sun-shaft in the sky.

Obstacles were mere specks on the snow.

He forgot to close the window, and dressed in a temperature which

would have meant, for many mortals, pneumonia. The events of yesterday;

painful and agitating as they had been, had fallen away in the prospect

that lay before him--he would see her to-day, and speak with her. These

words, like a refrain; were humming in his head as honest Mr. Redbrook

talked during breakfast, while Austen's answers may have been both

intelligent and humorous. Mr. Redbrook, at least; gave no sign that they

were not. He was aware that Mr. Redbrook was bringing arguments to bear

on the matter of the meeting of the evening before, but he fended these

lightly, while in spirit he flung a gem-studded bridle aver the neck of

Pegasus.

And after breakfast--away from the haunts of men! Away from the

bickerings, the subjection of mean spirits; material loss and gain and

material passion! By eight o'clock (the Widow Peasley's household

being an early and orderly one) he was swinging across the long hills,

cleaving for himself a furrowed path in the untrodden snow, breathing

deep as he gazed across the blue spaces from the crests. Bellerophon or

Perseus, aided by immortals, felt no greater sense of achievements to

come than he. Out here, on the wind-swept hills that rolled onward and

upward to the mountains, the world was his.

With the same speed he returned, still by untrodden paths until he

reached the country road that ended in the city street. Some who saw him

paused in their steps, caught unconsciously by the rhythmic perfection

of his motion. Ahead of him he beheld the state-house, its dial aflame

in the light, emblematic to him of the presence within it of a spirit

which cleansed it of impurities. She would be there; nay, when he looked

at the dial from a different angle, was there. As he drew nearer, there

rose out of the void her presence beside him which he had daily tried to

summon since that autumn afternoon--her voice and her eyes, and many of

the infinite expressions of each and both. Sprites that they were, they

had failed him until to-day, when he was to see her again!

And then, somehow, he had threaded the groups beside the battle-flags

in the corridor, and mounted the stairway. The doorkeeper of the House

looked into his face, and, with that rare knowledge of mankind which

doorkeepers possess, let him in. There were many ladies on the floor

(such being the chivalrous custom when a debate or a speech of the

importance of Mr. Crewe's was going on), but Austen swept them with a

glance of disappointment. Was it possible, after all, that she had not

come, or--more agitating thought--had gone back to New York?

At this disturbing point in his reflections Austen became aware that the

hall was ringing with a loud and compelling voice which originated in

front of the Speaker's desk.

The Honourable Humphrey Crewe was delivering his long-heralded speech on

national affairs, and was arrayed for the occasion in a manner befitting

the American statesman, with the conventional frock coat, which he

wore unbuttoned. But the Gladstone collar and a tie gave the touch of

individuality to his dress which was needed to set him aside as a marked

man. Austen suddenly remembered, with an irresistible smile, that one

of the reasons which he had assigned for his visit to the capital was

to hear this very speech, to see how Mr. Crewe would carry off what

appeared to be a somewhat difficult situation. Whether or not this

motive had drawn others,--for the millionaire's speech had not lacked

advertisement,--it is impossible to say, but there was standing room

only on the floor of the House that day.

The fact that Mr. Crewe was gratified could not be wholly concealed. The

thing that fascinated Austen Vane and others who listened was the aplomb

with which the speech was delivered. The member from Leith showed no

trace of the nervousness naturally to be expected in a maiden effort,

but spoke with the deliberation of an old campaigner, of the man of

weight and influence that he was. He leaned, part of the time, with his

elbow on the clerk's desk, with his feet crossed; again, when he wished

to emphasize a point, he came forward and seized with both hands the

back of his chair. Sometimes he thrust his thumb in his waistcoat

pocket, and turned with an appeal to Mr. Speaker Doby, who was

apparently too thrilled and surprised to indulge in conversation

with those on the bench beside him, and who made no attempt to quell

hand-clapping and even occasional whistling; again, after the manner of

experts, Mr. Crewe addressed himself forcibly to an individual in the

audience, usually a sensitive and responsive person like the Honourable

Jacob Botcher, who on such occasions assumed a look of infinite wisdom

and nodded his head slowly. There was no doubt about it that the

compelling personality of Mr. Humphrey Crewe was creating a sensation.

Genius is sure of itself, and statesmen are born, not made.

Able and powerful as was Mr. Crewe's discourse, the man and not the

words had fastened the wandering attention of Austen Vane. He did not

perceive his friend of the evening before, Mr. Widgeon, coming towards

him up the side aisle, until he felt a touch on the arm.

“Take my seat. It ain't exactly a front one,” whispered the member from

Hull, “my wife's cousin's comin' on the noon train. Not a bad speech, is

it?” he added. “Acts like a veteran. I didn't callate he had it in him.”

Thus aroused, Austen made his way towards the vacant chair, and when

he was seated raised his eyes to the gallery rail, and Mr. Crewe, the

legislative chamber, and its audience ceased to exist. It is quite

impossible--unless one is a poetical genius--to reproduce on paper that

gone and sickly sensation which is, paradoxically, so exquisite. The

psychological cause of it in this instance was, primarily, the sight,

by Austen Vane, of his own violets on a black, tailor-made gown trimmed

with wide braid, and secondarily of an oval face framed in a black hat,

the subtle curves of which no living man could describe. The face

was turned in his direction, and he felt an additional thrill when he

realized that she must have been watching him as he came in, for she was

leaning forward with a gloved hand on the railing.

He performed that act of conventionality known as a bow, and she nodded

her head--black hat and all. The real salutation was a divine ray which

passed between their eyes--hers and his--over the commonplace mortals

between. And after that, although the patient legislative clock in the

corner which had marked the space of other great events (such as the

Woodchuck Session) continued to tick, undisturbed in this instance

by the pole of the sergeant-at-arms, time became a lost dimension for

Austen Vane. He made a few unimportant discoveries such as the fact that

Mrs. Pomfret and her daughter were seated beside Victoria, listening

with a rapt attention; and that Mr. Crewe had begun to read statistics;

and that some people were gaping and others leaving. He could look up

at the gallery without turning his head, and sometimes he caught her

momentary glance, and again, with her chin in her hand, she was watching

Mr. Crewe with a little smile creasing the corners of her eyes.

A horrible thought crossed Austen's mind--perhaps they were not his

violets after all! Because she had smiled at him, yesterday and to-day,

he had soared heavenwards on wings of his own making. Perhaps they were

Mr. Crewe's violets. Had she not come to visit Mr. Crewe, to listen to

his piece de resistance, without knowing that he, Austen Vane, would be

in the capital? The idea that her interest in Austen Vane was possibly

connected with the study of mankind had a sobering effect on him; and

the notion that she had another sort of interest in Mr. Crewe seemed

ridiculous enough, but disturbing, and supported by feats.

Austen had reached this phase in his reflections when he was aroused by

a metallic sound which arose above the resonant tones of the orator

of the day. A certain vessel, to the use of which, according to Mr.

Dickens, the satire male portion of the American nation was at one time

addicted,--a cuspidor, in plain language,--had been started, by some

unknown agency in the back seats, rolling down the centre aisle, and

gathering impetus as it went, bumped the louder on each successive step

until it hurled itself with a clash against the clerk's desk, at the

feet of the orator himself. During its descent a titter arose which

gradually swelled into a roar of laughter, and Austen's attention was

once more focused upon the member from Leith. But if any man had so

misjudged the quality of Humphrey Crewe as to suppose for an instant

that he could be put out of countenance by such a manoeuvre, that man

was mightily mistaken. Mr. Crewe paused, with his forefinger on the

page, and fixed a glassy eye on the remote neighbourhood in the back

seats where the disturbance had started.

“I am much obliged to the gentleman,” he said coldly, “but he has sent

me an article which I never use, under any conditions. I would not

deprive him of its convenience.”

Whereupon, it is not too much to say, Mr. Crews was accorded an ovation,

led by his stanch friend and admirer, the Honourable Jacob Botcher,

although that worthy had been known to use the article in question.

Mr. Speaker Doby glanced at the faithful clock, and arose majestically.

“I regret to say,” he announced, “that the time of the gentleman from

Leith is up.”

Mr. Botcher rose slowly to his feet.

“Mr. Speaker,” he began, in a voice that rumbled through the crevices of

the gallery, “I move you, sir, that a vote of thanks be accorded to the

gentleman from Leith for his exceedingly able and instructive speech on

national affairs.”

“Second the motion,” said the Honourable Brush Bascom, instantly.

“And leave to print in the State Tribune!” cried a voice from somewhere

among the submerged four hundred and seventy.

“Gentlemen of the House,” said Mr. Crewe, when the laughter had

subsided, “I have given you a speech which is the result of much thought

and preparation on my part. I have not flaunted the star-spangled banner

in your faces, or indulged in oratorical fireworks. Mine have been

the words of a plain business man, and I have not indulged in wild

accusations or flights of imagination. Perhaps, if I had,” he added,

“there are some who would have been better pleased. I thank my friends

for their kind attention and approbation.”

Nevertheless, amidst somewhat of a pandemonium, the vote of thanks was

given and the House adjourned; while Mr. Crewe's friends of whom he had

spoken could be seen pressing around him and shaking him by the hand.

Austen got to his feet, his eyes again sought the gallery, whence he

believed he received a look of understanding from a face upon which

amusement seemed plainly written. She had turned to glance down at

him, despite the fact that Mrs. Pomfret was urging her to leave. Austen

started for the door, and managed to reach it long before his neighbours

had left the vicinity of their seats. Once in the corridor, his eye

singled her out amongst those descending the gallery stairs, and he had

a little thrill of pride and despair when he realized that she was

the object of the scrutiny, too, of the men around him; the women

were interested, likewise, in Mrs. Pomfret, whose appearance, although

appropriate enough for a New York matinee, proclaimed her as hailing

from that mysterious and fabulous city of wealth. This lady, with her

lorgnette, was examining the faces about her in undisguised curiosity,

and at the same time talking to Victoria in a voice which she took no

pains to lower.

“I think it outrageous,” she was saying. “If some Radical member had

done that in Parliament, he would have been expelled from the House. But

of course in Parliament they wouldn't have those horrid things to

roll down the aisles. Poor dear Humphrey! The career of a gentleman in

politics is a thankless one in this country. I wonder at his fortitude.”

Victoria's eyes alone betokened her amusement.

“How do you do, Mr. Vane?” she said. “I'm so glad to see you again.”

Austen said something which he felt was entirely commonplace and

inadequate to express his own sentiments, while Alice gave him an

uncertain bow, and Mrs. Pomfret turned her glasses upon him.

“You remember Mr. Vane,” said Victoria; “you met him at Humphrey's.”

“Did I?” answered Mrs. Pomfret. “How do you do? Can't something be done

to punish those rowdies?”

Austen grew red.

“Mr. Vane isn't a member of the House,” said Victoria.

“Oh,” exclaimed Mrs. Pomfret. “Something ought to be done about it.

In England such a thing wouldn't be allowed to drop for a minute. If I

lived in this State, I think I should do something. Nobody in America

seems to have the spirit even to make a protest.”

Austen turned quietly to Victoria.

“When are you going away?” he asked.

“To-morrow morning--earlier than I like to think of. I have to be in New

York by to-morrow night.”

She flashed at him a look of approbation for his self-control, and

then, by a swift transition which he had often remarked, her expression

changed to one of amusement, although a seriousness lurked in the depths

of her eyes. Mrs. Pomfret had gone on, with Alice, and they followed.

“And--am I not to see you again before you go?” he exclaimed.

He didn't stop to reason than upon the probable consequences of his act

in seeking her. Nature, which is stronger than reason, was compelling

him.

“That depends,” said Victoria.

“Upon whom?”

“Upon you.”

They were on the lower stairs by this times, and there was silence

between then for a few moments as they descended,--principally because,

after this exalting remark, Austen could not trust himself to speak.

“Will you go driving with me?” he asked, and was immediately

thunderstruck at his boldness.

“Yes,” she answered, simply.

“How soon may I come?” he demanded.

She laughed softly, but with a joyous note which was not hidden from him

as they stepped out of the darkened corridor into the dazzling winter

noonday.

“I will be ready at three o'clock,” she said.

He looked at his watch.

“Two hours and a half!” he cried.

“If that is too early,” she said mischievously, “we can go later.”

“Too early!” he repeated. But the rest of his protest was cut short by

Mr. Crewe.

“Hello, Victoria, what did you think of my speech?”

“The destinies of the nation are settled,” said Victoria. “Do you know

Mr. Vane?”

“Oh, yes, how are you?” said Mr. Crewe; “glad to see you,” and he

extended a furred glove. “Were you there?”

“Yes,” said Austen.

“I'll send you a copy. I'd like to talk it over with you. Come on,

Victoria, I've arranged for an early lunch. Come on, Mrs. Pomfret--get

in, Alice.”

Mrs. Pomfret, still protesting against the profane interruption to Mr.

Crewe's speech, bent her head to enter Mr. Crewe's booby sleigh, which

had his crest on the panel. Alice was hustled in next, but Victoria

avoided his ready assistance and got in herself, Mr. Crewe getting in

beside her.

“Au revoir,” she called out to Austen, as the door slammed. The coachman

gathered his horses together, and off they went at a brisk trot. Then

the little group which had been watching the performance dispersed.

Halfway across the park Austen perceived some one signaling violently to

him, and discovered his friend, young Tom Gaylord.

“Come to dinner with me,” said young Tom, “and tell me whether the

speech of your friend from Leith will send him to Congress. I saw you

hobnobbing with him just now. What's the matter, Austen? I haven't seen

that guilty expression on your face since we were at college together.”

“What's the best livery-stable in town?” Austen asked.

“By George, I wondered why you came down here. Who are you going to take

out in a sleigh? There's a girl in it, is there?”

“Not yet, Tom,” said Austen.

“I've often asked myself why I ever had any use for such a secretive

cuss as you,” declared young Mr. Gaylord. “But if you're really goin' to

get interested in girls, you ought to see old Flint's daughter. I wrote

you about her. Why,” exclaimed Tom, “wasn't she one of those that got

into Crewe's sleigh?”

“Tom,” said Austen, “where did you say that livery-stable was?”

“Oh, dang the livery-stable!” answered Mr. Gaylord. “I hear there's

quite a sentiment for you for governor. How about it? You know I've

always said you could be United States senator and President. If you'll

only say the word, Austen, we'll work up a movement around the State

that'll be hard to beat.”

“Tom,” said Austen, laying his hand on young Mr. Gaylord's farther

shoulder, “you're a pretty good fellow. Where did you say that

livery-stable was?

“I'll go sleigh-riding with you,” said Mr. Gaylord. “I guess the

Pingsquit bill can rest one afternoon.”

“Tom, I don't know any man I'd rather take than you,” said Austen.

The unsuspecting Tom was too good-natured to be offended, and shortly

after dinner Austen found himself in the process of being looked over

by a stout gentleman named Putter, proprietor of Putter's Livery, who

claimed to be a judge of men as well as horses. Austen had been through

his stalls and chosen a mare.

“Durned if you don't look like a man who can handle a horse,” said Mr.

Putter. “And as long as you're a friend of Tom Gaylord's I'll let you

have her. Nobody drives that mare but me. What's your name?”

“Vane.”

“Ain't any relation to old Hilary, be you?”

“I'm his son,” said Austen, “only he doesn't boast about it.”

“Godfrey!” exclaimed Mr. Putter, with a broad grin, “I guess you kin

have her. Ain't you the man that shot a feller out West? Seems to me I

heerd somethin' about it.”

“Which one did you hear about?” Austen asked.

“Good Lord!” said Mr. Putter, “you didn't shoot more'n one, did you?”

It was just three o'clock when Austen drove into the semicircle opposite

the Widow Peasley's, rang Mr. Crewe's door-bell, and leaped into the

sleigh once more, the mare's nature being such as to make it undesirable

to leave her. Presently Mr. Crewe's butler appeared, and stood dubiously

in the vestibule.

“Will you tell Miss Flint that Mr. Vane has called for her, and that I

cannot leave the horse?”

The man retired with obvious disapproval. Then Austen heard Victoria's

voice in the hallway:--“Don't make a goose of yourself, Humphrey.” Here

she appeared, the colour fresh in her cheeks, her slender figure clad in

a fur which even Austen knew was priceless. She sprang into the sleigh,

the butler, with annoying deliberation, and with the air of saying that

this was an affair of which he washed his hands, tucked in Mr. Putter's

best robe about her feet, the mare leaped forward, and they were off,

out of the circle and flying up the hill on the hard snow-tracks.

“Whew!” exclaimed Victoria, “what a relief! Are you staying in that dear

little house?” she asked, with a glance at the Widow Peasley's.

“Yes,” said Austen.

“I wish I were.”

He looked at her shyly. He was not a man to do homage to material gods,

but the pomp and circumstance with which she was surrounded had had a

sobering effect upon him, and added to his sense of the instability

and unreality of the present moment. He had an almost guilty feeling

of having broken an unwritten law, of abducting a princess, and the old

Duncan house had seemed to frown protestingly that such an act should

have taken place under its windows. If Victoria had been--to him--an

ordinary mortal in expensive furs instead of a princess, he would have

snapped his fingers at the pomp and circumstance. These typified the

comforts which, in a wild and forgetful moment, he might ask her to

leave. Not that he believed she would leave them. He had lived long

enough to know that an interest by a woman in a man--especially a man

beyond the beaten track of her observation--did not necessarily mean

that she might marry him if he asked her. And yet--oh, Tantalus! here

she was beside him, for one afternoon again his very own, their two

souls ringing with the harmony of whirling worlds in sunlit space. He

sought refuge in thin thought; he strove, in oblivion, to drain the cup

of the hour of its nectar, even as he had done before. Generations of

Puritan Vanes (whose descendant alone had harassed poor Sarah Austere)

were in his blood; and there they hung in the long gallery of Time,

mutely but sternly forbidding when he raised his hand to the stem.

In silence they reached the crest where the little city ended abruptly

in view of the paradise of the silent hills,--his paradise, where there

were no palaces or thought of palaces. The wild wind of the morning was

still. In this realm at least, a heritage from his mother, seemingly

untrodden by the foot of man, the woman at his side was his. From

Holdfast over the spruces to Sawanec in the blue distance he was lord,

a domain the wealth of which could not be reckoned in the coin of Midas.

He turned to her as they flew down the slope, and she averted her

face, perchance perceiving in that look a possession from which a woman

shrinks; and her remark, startlingly indicative of the accord between

them, lent a no less startling reality to the enchantment.

“This is your land, isn't it?” she said.

“I sometimes feel as though it were,” he answered. “I was out here this

morning, when the wind was at play,” and he pointed with his whip at a

fantastic snowdrift, “before I saw you.”

“You looked as though you had come from it,” she answered. “You seemed--I

suppose you will think me silly--but you seemed to bring something of

this with you into that hail. I always think of you as out on the hills

and mountains.”

“And you,” he said, “belong here, too.”

She drew a deep breath.

“I wish I did. But you--you really do belong here. You seem to have

absorbed all the clearness of it, and the strength and vigour. I was

watching you this morning, and you were so utterly out of place in those

surroundings.” Victoria paused, her colour deepening.

His blood kept pace with the mare's footsteps, but he did not reply.

“What did you think of Humphrey's speech?” she asked, abruptly changing

the subject.

“I thought it a surprisingly good one,--what I heard of it,” he

answered. “That wasn't much. I didn't think he'd do as well.”

“Humphrey's clever in a great many ways,” Victoria agreed. “If he didn't

have such an impenetrable conceit, he might go far, because he learns

quickly, and has an industry that is simply appalling. But he hasn't

quite the manner for politics, has he?”

“I think I should call his manner a drawback,” said Austen, “though not

by any means an insurmountable one.”

Victoria laughed.

“The other qualities all need to be very great,” she said. “He was

furious at me for coming out this afternoon. He had it all arranged to

drive over to the Forge, and had an early lunch.”

“And I,” said Austen, “have all the more reason to be grateful to you.”

“Oh, if you knew the favour you were doing me,” she cried, “bringing

me out here where I can breathe. I hope you don't think I dislike

Humphrey,” she went on. “Of course, if I did, I shouldn't visit him. You

see, I have known him for so long.”

“I hadn't a notion that you disliked him,” said Austen. “I am curious

about his career; that's one reason I came down. He somehow inspires

curiosity.”

“And awe,” she added. “Humphrey's career has all the fascination of a

runaway locomotive. One watches it transfixed, awaiting the inevitable

crash.”

Their eyes met, and they both laughed.

“It's no use trying to be a humbug,” said Victoria, “I can't. And I do

like Humphrey, in spite of his career.”

And they laughed again. The music of the bells ran faster and faster

still, keeping time to a wilder music of the sunlit hills and sky; nor

was it strange that her voice, when she spoke, did not break the spell,

but laid upon him a deeper sense of magic.

“This brings back the fairy books,” she said, “and all those wonderful

and never-to-be-forgotten sensations of the truant, doesn't it? You've

been a truant--haven't you?”

“Yes,” he laughed, “I've been a truant, but I never quite realized the

possibilities of the part--until to-day.”

She was silent a moment, and turned away her head, surveying the

landscape that fell away for miles beyond.

“When I was a child,” she said, “I used to think that by opening a door

I could step into an enchanted realm like this. Only I could never

find the door. Perhaps,” she added, gayly pursuing the conceit, “it was

because you had the key, and I didn't know you in those days.” She

gave him a swift, searching look, smiling, whimsical yet startled,--so

elusive that the memory of it afterwards was wont to come and go like a

flash of light. “Who are you?” she asked.

His blood leaped, but he smiled in delighted understanding of her mood.

Sarah Austen had brought just such a magic touch to an excursion, and

even at that moment Austen found himself marvelling a little at the

strange resemblance between the two.

“I am a plain person whose ancestors came from a village called Camden

Street,” he replied. “Camden Street is there, on a shelf of the hills,

and through the arch of its elms you can look off over the forests of

the lowlands until they end in the blue reaches of the ocean,--if you

could see far enough.”

“If you could see far enough,” said Victoria, unconsciously repeating

his words. “But that doesn't explain you,” she exclaimed: “You are like

nobody I ever met, and you have a supernatural faculty of appearing

suddenly, from nowhere, and whisking me away like the lady in the fable,

out of myself and the world I live in. If I become so inordinately

grateful as to talk nonsense, you mustn't blame me. Try not to think of

the number of times I've seen you, or when it was we first met.”

“I believe,” said Austen, gravely, “it was when a mammoth beast had his

cave on Holdfast, and the valleys were covered with cocoanut-palms.”

“And you appeared suddenly then, too, and rescued me. You have always

been uniformly kind,” she said, “but--a little intangible.”

“A myth,” he suggested, “with neither height, breadth, nor thickness.”

“You have height and breadth,” she answered, measuring him swiftly with

her eye; “I am not sure about the thickness. Perhaps. What I mean to say

is, that you seem to be a person in the world, but not of it. Your

exits and entrances are too mysterious, and then you carry me out of

it,--although I invite myself, which is not at all proper.”

“I came down here to see you,” he said, and took a firmer grip on the

reins. “I exist to that extent.”

“That's unworthy of you,” she cried. “I don't believe you--would have

known I was here unless you had caught eight of me.”

“I should have known it,” he said.

“How?”

“Because I heard you playing. I am sure it was you playing.”

“Yes, it was I,” she answered simply, “but I did not know that--you

heard. Where were you?

“I suppose,” he replied, “a sane witness would have testified that I

was in the street--one of those partial and material truths which are so

misleading.”

She laughed again, joyously.

“Seriously, why did you come down here?” she insisted. “I am not so

absorbed in Humphrey's career that I cannot take an interest in yours.

In fact, yours interests me more, because it is more mysterious.

Humphrey's,” she added, laughing, “is charted from day to day, and

announced in bulletins. He is more generous to his friends than--you.”

“I have nothing to chart,” said Austen, “except such pilgrimages as

this,--and these, after all, are unchartable. Your friend, Mr. Crewe,

on the other hand, is well away on his voyage after the Golden Fleece. I

hope he is provided with a Lynceus.”

She was silent for a long time, but he was feverishly conscious of her

gaze upon him, and did not dare to turn his eyes to hers. The look in

them he beheld without the aid of physical vision, and in that look was

the world-old riddle of her sex typified in the image on the African

desert, which Napoleon had tried to read, and failed. And while wisdom

was in the look, there was in it likewise the eternal questioning of a

fate quite as inscrutable, against which wisdom would avail nothing.

It was that look which, for Austen, revealed in her in their infinite

variety all women who had lived; those who could resist, and those

who could yield, and yielding all, bestow a gift which left them still

priceless; those to whom sorrow might bring sadness, and knowledge

mourning, and yet could rob them of no jot of sweetness. And knowing

this, he knew that to gain her now (could such a high prize be gained!)

would be to lose her. If he were anything to her (realize it or not as

she might), it was because he found strength to resist this greatest

temptation of his life. Yield, and his guerdon was lost, and he would be

Austen Vane no longer--yield, and his right to act, which would make him

of value in her eyes as well as in his own, was gone forever.

Well he knew what the question in her eyes meant or something of what

it meant, so inexplicably is the soul of woman linked to events. He had

pondered often on that which she had asked him when he had brought her

home over the hills in the autumn twilight. He remembered her words, and

the very inflection of her voice. “Then you won't tell me?” How could he

tell her? He became aware that she was speaking now, in an even tone.

“I had an odd experience this morning, when I was waiting for Mrs.

Pomfret outside the state-house,” she said. “A man was standing looking

up at the statue of the patriot with a strange, rapt expression on

his face,--such a good face,--and he was so big and honest and

uncompromising I wanted to talk to him. I didn't realize that I was

staring at him so hard, because I was trying to remember where I had

seen him before,--and then I remembered suddenly that it was with you.”

“With me?” Austen repeated.

“You were standing with him, in front of the little house, when I save

you yesterday. His name was Redbrook. It appears that he had seen me,”

Victoria replied, “when I went to Mercer to call on Zeb Meader. And he

asked me if I knew you.”

“Of course you denied it,” said Austen.

“I couldn't, very well,” laughed Victoria, “because you had confessed to

the acquaintance first.”

“He merely wished to have the fact corroborated. Mr. Redbrook is a man

who likes to be sure of his ground.”

“He told me a very interesting thing about you,” she continued slowly,

with her eye upon. Austen's profile. “He said that a great many men

wanted you to be their candidate for governor of the State,--more than

you had any idea of,--and that you wouldn't consent. Mr. Redbrook grew

so enthusiastic that he forgot, for the moment, my--relationship to

the railroad. He is not the only person with whom I have talked who

has--forgotten it, or hasn't known of it.”

Austen was silent.

“Why won't you be a candidate,” she asked, in a low voice, “if such men

as that want you?”

“I am afraid Mr. Redbrook exaggerates,” he said. “The popular demand of

which he spoke is rather mythical. And I should be inclined to accuse

him, too, of a friendly attempt to install me in your good graces.”

“No,” answered Victoria, smiling, with serious eyes, “I won't be put off

that way. Mr. Redbrook isn't the kind of man that exaggerates--I've seen

enough of his type to know that. And he told me about your--reception

last night at the Widow Peasley's. You wouldn't have told me,” she added

reproachfully.

He laughed.

“It was scarcely a subject I could have ventured,” he said.

“But I asked you,” she objected. “Now tell me, why did you refuse to be

their candidate? It wasn't because you were not likely to get elected,

was it?”

He permitted himself a glance which was a tribute of admiration--a

glance which she returned steadfastly.

“It isn't likely that I should have been elected,” he answered, “but you

are right--that is not the reason I refused.”

“I thought not,” she said, “I did not believe you were the kind of man

to refuse for that reason. And you would have been elected.”

“What makes you think so?” he asked curiously.

“I have been thinking since I saw you last--yes, and I have been making

inquiries. I have been trying to find out things--which you will not

tell me.” She paused, with a little catch of her breath, and went on

again. “Do you believe I came all the way up here just to hear Humphrey

Crewe make a speech and to drive with him in a high sleigh and listen

to him talk about his career? When serious men of the people like Mr.

Redbrook and that nice Mr. Jenney at Leith and a lot of others who do

not ordinarily care for politics are thinking and indignant, I have

come to the conclusion there must be a cause for it. They say that the

railroad governs them through disreputable politicians,--and I--I am

beginning to believe it is true. I have had some of the politicians

pointed out to me in the Legislature, and they look like it.”

Austen did not smile. She was speaking quietly, but he saw that she was

breathing deeply, and he knew that she possessed a courage which went

far beyond that of most women, and an insight into life and affairs.

“I am going to find out,” she said, “whether these things are true.”

“And then?” he asked involuntarily.

“If they are true, I am going to tell my father about them, and ask him

to investigate. Nobody seems to have the courage to go to him.”

Austen did not answer. He felt the implication; he knew that, without

realizing his difficulties, and carried on by a feeling long pent up,

she had measured him unjustly, and yet he felt no resentment, and no

shock. Perhaps he might feel that later. Now he was filled only with a

sympathy that was yet another common bond between them. Suppose she did

find out? He knew that she would not falter until she came to the end

of her investigation, to the revelation of Mr. Flint's code of business

ethics. Should the revolt take place, she would be satisfied with

nothing less than the truth, even as he, Austen Vane, had not been

satisfied. And he thought of the life-long faith that would be broken

thereby.

They had made the circle of the hills, and the sparkling lights of the

city lay under them like blue diamond points in the twilight of the

valley. The crests behind them deepened in purple as the saffron faded

in the west, and a gossamer cloud of Tyrian dye floated over Holdfast.

In silence they turned for a last lingering look, and in silence went

down the slope into the world again, and through the streets to the

driveway of the Duncan house. It was only when they had stopped before

the door that she trusted herself to speak.

“I ought not to have said what I did,” she began, in a low voice; “I

didn't realize--but I cannot understand you.”

“You have said nothing which you need ever have cause to regret,” he

replied. He was too great for excuses, too great for any sorrow save

what she herself might feel, as great as the silent hills from which he

came.

She stood for a moment on the edge of the steps, her eyes lustrous,--yet

gazing into his with a searching, troubled look that haunted him for

many days. But her self-command was unshaken, her power to control

speech was the equal of his. And this power of silence in her revealed

in such instants--was her greatest fascination for Austen, the thing

which set her apart among women; which embodied for him the whole charm

and mystery of her sex.

“Good-by,” she said simply.

“Good-by,” he said, and seized her hand--and drove away.

Without ringing the bell Victoria slipped into the hall,--for the latch

was not caught,--and her first impulse was to run up the staircase to

her room. But she heard Mrs. Pomfret's voice on the landing above and

fled, as to a refuge, into the dark drawing-room, where she stood for a

moment motionless, listening for the sound of his sleigh-bells as they

fainted on the winter's night. Then she seated herself to think, if she

could, though it is difficult to think when one's heart is beating a

little wildly. It was Victoria's nature to think things out. For the

first time in her life she knew sorrow, and it made it worse that that

sorrow was indefinable. She felt an accountable attraction for this man

who had so strangely come into her life, whose problems had suddenly

become her problems. But she did not connect the attraction for Austen

Vane with her misery. She recalled him as he had left her, big and

strong and sorrowful, with a yearning look that was undisguised,

and while her faith in him came surging back again, she could not

understand.

Gradually she became aware of men's voices, and turned with a start to

perceive that the door of the library was open, and that Humphrey Crewe

and another were standing in the doorway against the light. With an

effort of memory she identified the other man as the Mr. Tooting who had

made himself so useful at Mr. Crewe's garden party.

“I told you I could make you governor, Mr. Crewe,” Mr. Tooting was

saying. “Say, why do you think the Northeastern crowd--why do you think

Hilary Vane is pushing your bills down the sidings? I'll tell you,

because they know you're a man of ability, and they're afraid of you,

and they know you're a gentleman, and can't be trusted with their deals,

so they just shunted you off at Kodunk with a jolly about sendin' you

to Congress if you made a hit on a national speech. I've been in the

business a good many years, and I've seen and done some things for the

Northeastern that stick in my throat”--(at this point Victoria sat down

again and gripped the arms of her chair), “I don't like to see a decent

man sawbucked the way they're teeterin' you, Mr. Crewe. I know what I'm

talkin' about, and I tell you that Ridout and Jake Botcher and Brush

Bascom haven't any more notion of lettin' your bills out of committee

than they have Gaylord's. Why? Because they've got orders not to.”

“You're making some serious charges, Mr. Tooting,” said Mr. Crewe.

“And what's more, I can prove 'em. You know yourself that anybody who

talks against the Northeastern is booted down and blacklisted. You've

seen that, haven't you?”

“I have observed,” said Mr. Crewe, “that things do not seem to be as

they should in a free government.”

“And it makes your blood boil as an American citizen, don't it? It does

mine,” said Mr. Tooting, with fine indignation. “I was a poor boy, and

had to earn my living, but I've made up my mind I've worn the collar

long enough--if I have to break rocks. And I want to repeat what I

said a little while ago,” he added, weaving his thumb into Mr. Crewe's

buttonhole; “I know a thing or two, and I've got some brains, as they

know, and I can make you governor of this State if you'll only say the

word. It's a cinch.”

Victoria started to rise once more, and realized that to escape she

would have to cross the room directly in front of the two men. She

remained sitting where she was in a fearful fascination, awaiting

Humphrey Crewe's answer. There was a moment's pause.

“I believe you made the remark, Mr. Tooting,” he said, “that in your

opinion there is enough anti-railroad sentiment in the House to pass any

bill which the railroad opposes.”

“If a leader was to get up there, like you, with the arguments I

could put into his hands, they would make the committee discharge that

Pingsquit bill of the Gaylords', and pass it.”

“On what do you base your opinion?” asked Mr. Crewe.

“Well,” said Mr. Tooting, “I guess I'm a pretty shrewd observer and have

had practice enough. But you know Austen Vane, don't you?”

Victoria held her breath.

“I've a slight acquaintance with him,” replied Mr. Crewe; “I've

helped him along in one or two minor legal matters. He seems to be a

little--well, pushing, you might say.”

“I want to tell you one thing about Austen,” continued Mr. Tooting.

“Although I don't stand much for old Hilary, I'd take Austen Vane's

opinion on most things as soon as that of any man in the State. If

he only had some sense about himself, he could be governor next

time--there's a whole lot that wants him. I happen to know some of 'em

offered it to him last night.”

“Austen Vane governor!” exclaimed Mr. Crewe, with a politely deprecating

laugh.

“It may sound funny,” said Mr. Tooting, stoutly; “I never understood

what he has about him. He's never done anything but buck old Hilary in

that damage case and send back a retainer pass to old Flint, but he's

got something in his make-up that gets under your belt, and a good many

of these old hayseeds'll eat out of his hand, right now. Well, I don't

want this to go any farther, you're a gentleman,--but Austen came down

here yesterday and had the whole thing sized up by last night. Old

Hilary thought the Gaylords sent for him to lobby their bill through.

They may have sent for him, all right, but he wouldn't lobby for 'em. He

could have made a pile of money out of 'em. Austen doesn't seem to care

about money--he's queer. He says as long as he has a horse and a few

books and a couple of sandwiches a day he's all right. Hilary had him

up in Number Seven tryin' to find out what he came down for, and Austen

told him pretty straight--what he didn't tell the Gaylords, either. He

kind of likes old Hilary,--because he's his father, I guess,--and he

said there were enough men in that House to turn Hilary and his crowd

upside down. That's how I know for certain. If Austen Vane said it, I'll

borrow money to bet on it,” declared Mr. Tooting.

“You don't think young Vane is going to get into the race?” queried Mr.

Crewe.

“No,” said Mr. Tooting, somewhat contemptuously. “No, I tell you he

hasn't got that kind of sense. He never took any trouble to get ahead,

and I guess he's sort of sensitive about old Hilary. It'd make a

good deal of a scandal in the family, with Austen as an anti-railroad

candidate.” Mr. Tooting lowered his voice to a tone that was caressingly

confidential. “I tell you, and you sleep on it, a man of your brains and

money can't lose. It's a chance in a million, and when you win

you've got this little State tight in your pocket, and a desk in the

millionaire's club at Washington. Well, so long,” said Mr. Tooting, “you

think that over.”

“You have, at least, put things in a new and interesting light,” said

Mr. Crewe. “I will try to decide what my duty is.”

“Your duty's pretty plain to me,” said Mr. Tooting. “If I had money, I'd

know that the best way to use it is for the people,--ain't that so?”

“In the meantime,” Mr. Crewe continued, “you may drop in to-morrow at

three.”

“You'd better make it to-morrow night, hadn't you?” said Mr. Tooting,

significantly. “There ain't any back way to this house.”

“As you choose,” said Mr. Crewe.

They passed within a few feet of Victoria, who resisted an almost

uncontrollable impulse to rise and confront them. The words given her to

use were surging in her brain, and yet she withheld them why, she knew

not. Perhaps it was because, after such communion as the afternoon had

brought, the repulsion she felt for Mr. Tooting aided her to sit where

she was. She heard the outside door open and close, and she saw Humphrey

Crewe walk past her again into his library, and that door closed, and

she was left in darkness. Darkness indeed for Victoria, who throughout

her life had lived in light alone; in the light she had shed, and

the light which she had kindled in others. With a throb which was an

exquisite pain, she understood now the compassion in Austen's eyes, and

she saw so simply and so clearly why he had not told her that her face

burned with the shame of her demand. The one of all others to whom she

could go in this trouble was denied her, and his lips were sealed, who

would have spoken honestly and without prejudice. She rose and went

quietly out into the biting winter night, and stood staring through the

trees at the friendly reddened windows of the little cottage across the

way with a yearning that passed her understanding. Out of those windows,

to Victoria, shone honesty and truth, and the peace which these alone

may bring.

CHAPTER XIV. THE DESCENDANTS OF HORATIUS

So the twenty honourable members of the State Senate had been dubbed

by the man who had a sense of humour and a smattering of the classics,

because they had been put there to hold the bridge against the Tarquins

who would invade the dominions of the Northeastern. Twenty picked men,

and true they were indeed, but a better name for their body would have

been the 'Life Guard of the Sovereign.' The five hundred far below them

might rage and at times revolt, but the twenty in their shining armour

stood undaunted above the vulnerable ground and smiled grimly at the

mob. The citadel was safe.

The real Horatius of the stirring time of which we write was that old

and tried veteran, the Honourable Brush Bascom; and Spurius Lartius

might be typified by the indomitable warrior, the Honourable Jacob

Botcher, while the Honourable Samuel Doby of Hale, Speaker of the House,

was unquestionably Herminius. How the three held the bridge that year

will be told in as few and as stirring words as possible. A greater than

Porsena confronted them, and well it was for them, and for the Empire,

that the Body Guard of the Twenty stood behind them.

“Lars Porsena of Clusium,

By the Nine Gods he swore.”

The morning after the State Tribune had printed that memorable speech on

national affairs--statistics and all, with an editorial which gave every

evidence of Mr. Peter Pardriff's best sparkle--Mr. Crewe appeared on the

floor of the House with a new look in his eye which made discerning men

turn and stare at him. It was the look of the great when they are justly

indignant, when their trust--nobly given--has been betrayed. Washington,

for instance, must have had just such a look on the battlefield of

Trenton. The Honourable Jacob Botcher, pressing forward as fast as his

bulk would permit and with the newspaper in his hand, was met by a calm

and distant manner which discomposed that statesman, and froze his stout

index finger to the editorial which “perhaps Mr. Crewe had not seen.”

Mr. Crewe was too big for resentment, but he knew how to meet people who

didn't measure up to his standards. Yes, he had seen the editorial, and

the weather still continued fine. The Honourable Jacob was left behind

scratching his head, and presently he sought a front seat in which

to think, the back ones not giving him room enough. The brisk, cheery

greeting of the Honourable Brush Bascom fared no better, but Mr. Bascom

was a philosopher, and did not disturb the great when their minds were

revolving on national affairs and the welfare of humanity in general.

Mr. Speaker Doby and Mr. Ridout got but abstract salutations also, and

were correspondingly dismayed.

That day, and for many days thereafter, Mr. Crewe spent some time--as

was entirely proper--among the back seats, making the acquaintance of

his humbler fellow members of the submerged four hundred and seventy. He

had too long neglected this, so he told them, but his mind had been on

high matters. During many of his mature years he had pondered as to how

the welfare of community and State could be improved, and the result

of that thought was embodied in the bills of which they had doubtless

received copies. If not, down went their names in a leather-bound

memorandum, and they got copies in the next mails.

The delight of some of the simple rustic members at this unbending of

a great man may be imagined. To tell the truth, they had looked with

little favour upon the intimacy which had sprung up between him and

those tyrannical potentates, Messrs. Botcher and Bascom, and many

who had the courage of their convictions expressed then very frankly.

Messrs. Botcher and Bascom were, when all was said, mere train

despatchers of the Northeastern, who might some day bring on a wreck

the like of which the State had never seen. Mr. Crewe was in a

receptive mood; indeed his nature, like Nebuchadnezzar's, seemed to have

experienced some indefinable and vital change. Was this the Mr. Crewe

the humble rural members had pictured to themselves? Was this the Mr.

Crewe who, at the beginning of the session, had told them roundly it was

their duty to vote for his bills?

Mr. Crewe was surprised, he said, to hear so much sentiment against the

Northeastern Railroads. Yes, he was a friend of Mr. Flint's--they were

neighbours in the country. But if these charges had any foundation

whatever, they ought to be looked into--they ought to be taken up. A

sovereign people should not be governed by a railroad. Mr. Crewe was a

business man, but first of all he was a citizen; as a business man he

did not intend to talk vaguely, but to investigate thoroughly. And then,

if charges should be made, he would make them specifically, and as a

citizen contend for the right.

It is difficult to restrain one's pen in dealing with a hero, but it is

not too much to say that Mr. Crewe impressed many of the country members

favourably. How, indeed, could he help doing so? His language was

moderate, his poise that of a man of affairs, and there was a look

in his eye and a determination in his manner that boded ill for the

Northeastern if he should, after weighing the facts, decide that they

ought to be flagellated. His friendship with Mr. Flint and the suspicion

that he might be inclined to fancy Mr. Flint's daughter would not

influence him in the least; of that many of his hearers were sure. Not

a few of them were invited to dinner at the Duncan house, and shown the

library and the conservatory.

“Walk right in,” said Mr. Crewe. “You can't hurt the flowers unless you

bump against the pots, and if you walk straight you can't do that. I

brought the plants down from my own hothouse in Leith. Those are French

geraniums--very hard to get. They're double, you see, and don't

look like the scrawny things you see in this country. Yes (with a

good-natured smile), I guess they do cost something. I'll ask my

secretary what I paid for that plant. Is that dinner, Waters? Come right

in, gentlemen, we won't wait for ceremony.”

Whereupon the delegation would file into the dining room in solemn

silence behind the imperturbable Waters, with dubious glances at Mr.

Waters' imperturbable understudy in green and buff and silver buttons.

Honest red hands, used to milking at five o'clock in the morning,

and hands not so red that measured dry goods over rural counters for

insistent female customers fingered in some dismay what seemed an

inexplicable array of table furniture.

“It don't make any difference which fork you take,” said the

good-natured owner of this palace of luxury, “only I shouldn't advise

you to use one for the soup you wouldn't get much of it--what? Yes, this

house suits me very well. It was built by old man Duncan, you know,

and his daughter married an Italian nobleman and lives in a castle. The

State ought to buy the house for a governor's mansion. It's a disgrace

that our governor should have to live in the Pelican Hotel, and

especially in a room next to that of the chief counsel of the

Northeastern, with only a curtain and a couple of folding doors

between.”

“That's right,” declared an up-state member, “the governor hadn't ought

to live next to Vane. But as to gettin' him a house like this--kind of

royal, ain't it? Couldn't do justice to it on fifteen hundred a year,

could he? Costs you a little mite more to live in it, don't it?”

“It costs me something,” Mr. Crewe admitted modestly. “But then

our governors are all rich men, or they couldn't afford to pay the

Northeastern lobby campaign expenses. Not that I believe in a rich man

for governor, gentlemen. My contention is that the State should pay

its governors a sufficient salary to make them independent of the

Northeastern, a salary on which they can live as befits a chief

executive.”

These sentiments, and others of a similar tenor, were usually received

in silence by his rural guests, but Mr. Crewe, being a broad-minded

man of human understanding, did not set down their lack of response to

surliness or suspicion of a motive, but rather to the innate caution of

the hill farmer; and doubtless, also, to a natural awe of the unwonted

splendour with which they were surrounded. In a brief time his kindly

hospitality became a byword in the capital, and fabulous accounts of it

were carried home at week ends to toiling wives and sons and daughters,

to incredulous citizens who sat on cracker boxes and found the Sunday

papers stale and unprofitable for weeks thereafter. The geraniums--the

price of which Mr. Crewe had forgotten to find out--were appraised at

four figures, and the conservatory became the hanging gardens of Babylon

under glass; the functionary in buff and green and silver buttons and

his duties furnished the subject for long and heated arguments. And

incidentally everybody who had a farm for sale wrote to Mr. Crewe. Since

the motives of every philanthropist and public benefactor are inevitably

challenged by cynics, there were many who asked the question, “What did

Mr. Crewe want?” It is painful even to touch upon this when we know that

Mr. Crewe was merely doing his duty as he saw it, when we know that he

spelled the word, mentally, with a capital D.

There were many, too, who remarked that a touching friendship in the

front seats (formerly plainly visible to the naked eye from the back)

had been strained--at least. Mr. Crewe still sat with Mr. Botcher and

Mr. Bascom, but he was not a man to pretend after the fires had cooled.

The Honourable Jacob Botcher, with his eyes shut so tight, that his

honest face wore an expression of agony, seemed to pray every morning

for the renewal of that friendship when the chaplain begged the Lord to

guide the Legislature into the paths of truth; and the Honourable Brush

Bascom wore an air of resignation which was painful to see. Conversation

languished, and the cosey and familiar haunts of the Pelican knew Mr.

Crewe no more.

Mr. Crewe never forgot, of course, that he was a gentleman, and a

certain polite intercourse existed. During the sessions, as a matter

of fact, Mr. Bascom had many things to whisper to Mr. Botcher, and Mr.

Butcher to Mr. Bascom, and in order to facilitate this Mr. Crewe changed

seats with the Honourable Jacob. Neither was our hero a man to neglect,

on account of strained relations, to insist upon his rights. His eyes

were open now, and he saw men and things political as they were; he knew

that his bills for the emancipation of the State were prisoners in

the maw of the dragon, and not likely to see the light of law. Not

a legislative day passed that he did not demand, with a firmness and

restraint which did him infinite credit, that Mr. Bascom's and Mr.

Butcher's committees report those bills to the House either favourably

or unfavourably. And we must do exact justice, likewise, to Messrs.

Bascom and Butcher; they, too, incited perhaps thereto by Mr. Crewe's

example, answered courteously that the very excellent bills in question

were of such weight and importance as not to be decided on lightly,

and that there were necessary State expenditures which had first to be

passed upon. Mr. Speaker Doby, with all the will in the world, could

do nothing: and on such occasions (Mr. Crewe could see) Mr. Doby bore

a striking resemblance to the picture of the mockturtle in “Alice m

Wonderland”--a fact which had been pointed out by Miss Victoria Flint.

In truth, all three of these gentlemen wore, when questioned, such a

sorrowful and injured air as would have deceived a more experienced

politician than the new member from Leith. The will to oblige was

infinite.

There was no doubt about the fact that the session was rapidly drawing

to a close; and likewise that the committees guided by the Honourables

Jacob Butcher and Brush Bascom, composed of members carefully picked by

that judge of mankind, Mr. Doby, were wrestling day and night (behind

closed doors) with the intellectual problems presented by the bills

of the member from Leith. It is not to be supposed that a man of Mr.

Crewe's shrewdness would rest at the word of the chairmen. Other members

were catechized, and in justice to Messrs. Bascom and Botcher it must

be admitted that the assertions of these gentlemen were confirmed. It

appeared that the amount of thought which was being lavished upon these

measures was appalling.

By this time Mr. Crewe had made some new friends, as was inevitable when

such a man unbent. Three of these friends owned, by a singular

chance, weekly newspapers, and having conceived a liking as well as

an admiration for him, began to say pleasant things about him in their

columns--which Mr. Crewe (always thoughtful) sent to other friends of

his. These new and accidental newspaper friends declared weekly that

measures of paramount importance were slumbering in committees, and

cited the measures. Other friends of Mr. Crewe were so inspired by

affection and awe that they actually neglected their business and spent

whole days in the rural districts telling people what a fine man Mr.

Crewe was and circulating petitions for his bills; and incidentally

the committees of Mr. Butcher and Mr. Bascom were flooded with these

petitions, representing the spontaneous sentiment of an aggrieved

populace.

“Just then a scout came flying,

All wild with haste and fear

To arms! to arms! Sir Consul

Lars Porsena is here.

On the low hills to westward

The Consul fixed his eye,

And saw the swarthy storm of dust

Rise fast along the sky.”

It will not do to push a comparison too far, and Mr. Hamilton Tooting,

of course, ought not to be made to act the part of Tarquin the Proud.

Like Tarquin, however, he had been deposed--one of those fatuous acts

which the wisest will commit. No more could the Honourable Hilary well

be likened to Pandora, for he only opened the box wide enough to allow

one mischievous sprite to take wings--one mischievous sprite that was

to prove a host. Talented and invaluable lieutenant that he was, Mr.

Tooting had become an exile, to explain to any audience who should make

it worth his while the mysterious acts by which the puppets on the stage

were moved, and who moved them; who, for instance, wrote the declamation

which his Excellency Asa Gray recited as his own. Mr. Tooting, as we

have seen, had a remarkable business head, and combined with it--as

Austen Vane remarked--the rare instinct of the Norway rat which goes

down to the sea in ships--when they are safe. Burrowing continually

amongst the bowels of the vessel, Mr. Tooting knew the weak timbers

better than the Honourable Hilary Vanes who thought the ship as sound as

the day Augustus Flint had launched her. But we have got a long way from

Horatius in our imagery.

Little birds flutter around the capital, picking up what crumbs they

may. One of them, occasionally fed by that humanitarian, the Honourable

Jacob Botcher, whispered a secret that made the humanitarian knit his

brows. He was the scout that came flying (if by a burst of imagination

we can conceive the Honourable Jacob in this aerial act)--came flying to

the Consul in room Number Seven with the news that Mr. Hamilton Tooting

had been detected on two evenings slipping into the Duncan house. But

the Consul--strong man that he was--merely laughed. The Honourable

Elisha Jane did some scouting on his own account. Some people are so

small as to be repelled by greatness, to be jealous of high gifts and

power, and it was perhaps inevitable that a few of the humbler members

whom Mr. Crewe had entertained should betray his hospitality, and

misinterpret his pure motives.

It was a mere coincidence, perhaps, that after Mr. Jane's investigation

the intellectual concentration which one of the committees had bestowed

on two of Mr. Crewe's bills came to an end. These bills, it is

true, carried no appropriation, and, were, respectively, the acts to

incorporate the State Economic League and the Children's Charities

Association. These suddenly appeared in the House one morning, with

favourable recommendations, and, mirabile dicta, the end of the day saw

them through the Senate and signed by the governor. At last Mr. Crewe by

his Excellency had stamped the mark of his genius on the statute books,

and the Honourable Jacob Botcher, holding out an olive branch, took the

liberty of congratulating him.

A vainer man, a lighter character than Humphrey Crewe, would have been

content to have got something; and let it rest at that. Little Mr.

Butcher or Mr. Speaker Doby, with his sorrowful smile, guessed the iron

hand within the velvet glove of the Leith statesman; little they knew

the man they were dealing with. Once aroused, he would not be pacified

by bribes of cheap olive branches and laurels. When the proper time

came, he would fling down the gauntlet--before Rome itself, and then let

Horatius and his friends beware.

The hour has struck at last--and the man is not wanting. The French

Revolution found Napoleon ready, and our own Civil War General Ulysses

Grant. Of that ever memorable session but three days remained, and

those who had been prepared to rise in the good cause had long since

despaired. The Pingsquit bill, and all other bills that spelled liberty,

were still prisoners in the hands of grim jailers, and Thomas Gaylord,

the elder, had worn several holes in the carpet of his private room in

the Pelican, and could often be descried from Main Street running up

and down between the windows like a caged lion, while young Tom had been

spied standing, with his hands in his pockets, smiling on the world.

Young Tom had his own way of doing things, though he little dreamed of

the help Heaven was to send him in this matter. There was, in the lower

House, a young man by the name of Harper, a lawyer from Brighton, who

was sufficiently eccentric not to carry a pass. The light of fame, as

the sunset gilds a weathercock on a steeple, sometimes touches such

men for an instant and makes them immortal. The name of Mr. Harper is

remembered, because it is linked with a greater one. But Mr. Harper was

the first man over the wall.

History chooses odd moments for her entrances. It was at the end of

one of those busy afternoon sessions, with a full house, when Messrs.

Bascom, Botcher, and Ridout had done enough of blocking and hacking and

hewing to satisfy those doughty defenders of the bridge, that a slight,

unprepossessing-looking young man with spectacles arose to make a

motion. The Honourable Jacob Botcher, with his books and papers under

his arm, was already picking his way up the aisle, nodding genially to

such of the faithful as he saw; Mr. Bascom was at the Speaker's desk,

and Mr. Ridout receiving a messenger from the Honourable Hilary at the

door. The Speaker, not without some difficulty, recognized Mr. Harper

amidst what seemed the beginning of an exodus--and Mr. Harper read his

motion.

Men halted in the aisles, and nudged other men to make them stop

talking. Mr. Harper's voice was not loud, and it shook a trifle with

excitement, but those who heard passed on the news so swiftly to those

who had not that the House was sitting (or standing) in amazed silence

by the time the motion reached the Speaker, who had actually risen to

receive it. Mr. Doby regarded it for a few seconds and raised his eyes

mournfully to Mr. Harper himself, as much as to say that he would give

the young man a chance to take it back if he could--if the words had not

been spoken which would bring the offender to the block in the bloom

and enthusiasm of youth. Misguided Mr. Harper had committed unutterable

treason to the Empire!

“The gentleman from Brighton, Mr. Harper,” said the Speaker, sadly,

“offers the following resolution, and moves its adoption: 'Resolved,

that the Committee on Incorporations be instructed to report House bill

number 302, entitled “An act to incorporate the Pingsquit Railroad,” by

eleven-thirty o'clock to-morrow morning'--the gentleman from Putnam, Mr.

Bascom.”

The House listened and looked on entranced, as though they were the

spectators to a tragedy. And indeed it seemed as though they were. Necks

were craned to see Mr. Harper; he didn't look like a hero, but one

never can tell about these little men. He had hurled defiance at the

Northeastern Railroads, and that was enough for Mr. Redbrook and Mr.

Widgeon and their friends, who prepared to rush into the fray trusting

to Heaven for speech and parliamentary law. O for a leader now! Horatius

is on the bridge, scarce concealing his disdain for this puny opponent,

and Lartius and Herminius not taking the trouble to arm. Mr. Bascom will

crush this one with the flat of his sword.

“Mr. Speaker,” said that gentleman, informally, “as Chairman of

the Committee on Incorporations, I rise to protest against such an

unheard-of motion in this House. The very essence of orderly procedure,

of effective business, depends on the confidence of the House in its

committees, and in all of my years as a member I have never known of

such a thing. Gentlemen of the House, your committee are giving to this

bill and other measures their undivided attention, and will report them

at the earliest practicable moment. I hope that this motion will be

voted down.”

Mr. Bascom, with a glance around to assure himself that most of the

hundred members of the Newcastle delegation--vassals of the Winona

Corporation and subject to the Empire--had not made use of their passes

and boarded, as usual, the six o'clock train, took his seat. A buzz of

excitement ran over the house, a dozen men were on their feet, including

the plainly agitated Mr. Harper himself. But who is this, in the lunar

cockpit before the Speaker's desk, demanding firmly to be heard--so

firmly that Mr. Harper, with a glance at him, sits down again; so firmly

that Mr. Speaker Doby, hypnotized by an eye, makes the blunder that will

eventually cost him his own head?

“The gentleman from Leith, Mr. Crewe.”

As though sensing a drama, the mutterings were hushed once more. Mr.

Jacob Botcher leaned forward, and cracked his seat; but none, even those

who had tasted of his hospitality, recognized that the Black Knight had

entered the lists--the greatest deeds of this world, and the heroes of

them, coming unheralded out of the plain clay. Mr. Crewe was the calmest

man under the roof as he saluted the Speaker, walked up to the clerk's

desk, turned his back to it, and leaned both elbows on it; and he

regarded the sea of faces with the identical self-possession he had

exhibited when he had made his famous address on national affairs. He

did not raise his voice at the beginning, but his very presence seemed

to compel silence, and curiosity was at fever heat. What was he going to

say?

“Gentlemen of the House,” said Mr. Crewe, “I have listened to the

gentleman from Putnam with some--amusement. He has made the statement

that he and his committee are giving to the Pingsquit bill and other

measures--some other measures--their undivided attention. Of this I have

no doubt whatever. He neglected to define the species of attention he is

giving them--I should define it as the kindly care which the warden of a

penitentiary bestows upon his charges.”

Mr. Crewe was interrupted here. The submerged four hundred and seventy

had had time to rub their eyes and get their breath, to realize that

their champion had dealt Mr. Bascom a blow to cleave his helm, and a

roar of mingled laughter and exultation arose in the back seats, and

there was more craning to see the glittering eyes of the Honourable

Brush and the expressions of his two companions-in-arms. Mr. Speaker

Doby beat the stone with his gavel, while Mr. Crewe continued to lean

back calmly until the noise was over.

“Gentlemen,” he went on, “I will enter at the proper time into a

situation--known, I believe, to most of you--that brings about a

condition of affairs by which the gentleman's committee, or the

gentleman himself, with his capacious pockets, does not have to account

to the House for every bill assigned to him by the Speaker. I have taken

the trouble to examine a little into the gentleman's past record--he

has been chairman of such committees for years past, and I find no trace

that bills inimical to certain great interests have ever been reported

back by him. The Pingsquit bill involves the vital principle of

competition. I have read it with considerable care and believe it to be,

in itself, a good measure, which deserves a fair hearing. I have had no

conversation whatever with those who are said to be its promoters. If

the bill is to pass, it has little enough time to get to the Senate. By

the gentleman from Putnam's own statement his committee have given it

its share of attention, and I believe this House is entitled to know

the verdict, is entitled to accept or reject a report. I hope the motion

will prevail.”

He sat down amidst a storm of applause which would have turned the head

of a lesser man. No such personal ovation had been seen in the House

for years. How the Speaker got order; how the Honourable Brush Bascom

declared that Mr. Crewe would be called upon to prove his statements;

how Mr. Botcher regretted that a new member of such promise should go

off at half-cock; how Mr. Ridout hinted that the new member might

think he had an animus; how Mr. Terry of Lee and Mr. Widgeon of Hull

denounced, in plain hill language, the Northeastern Railroads and lauded

the man of prominence who had the grit to oppose them, need not be gone

into. Mr. Crewe at length demanded the previous question, which was

carried, and the motion was carried, too, two hundred and fifty to one

hundred and fifty-two. The House adjourned.

We will spare the blushes of the hero of this occasion, who was

threatened with suffocation by an inundation from the back seats. In

answer to the congratulations and queries, he replied modestly that

nobody else seemed to have had the sand to do it, so he did it himself.

He regarded it as a matter of duty, however unpleasant and unforeseen;

and if, as they said, he had been a pioneer, education and a knowledge

of railroads and the world had helped him. Whereupon, adding tactfully

that he desired the evening to himself to prepare for the battle of the

morrow (of which he foresaw he was to bear the burden), he extricated

himself from his admirers and made his way unostentatiously out of a

side door into his sleigh. For the man who had kindled a fire--the blaze

of which was to mark an epoch--he was exceptionally calm. Not so the

only visitor whom Waters had instructions to admit that evening.

“Say, you hit it just right,” cried the visitor, too exultant to take

off his overcoat. “I've been down through the Pelican, and there ain't

been such excitement since Snow and Giddings had the fight for United

States senator in the '80's. The place is all torn up, and you can't

get a room there for love or money. They tell me they've been havin'

conferences steady in Number Seven since the session closed, and Hilary

Vane's sent for all the Federal and State office-holders to be here in

the morning and lobby. Botcher and Jane and Bascom are circulatin' like

hot water, tellin' everybody that because they wouldn't saddle the State

with a debt with your bills you turned sour on 'em, and that you're more

of a corporation and railroad man than any of 'em. They've got their

machine to working a thousand to the minute, and everybody they have a

slant on is going into line. One of them fellers, a conductor, told me

he had to go with 'em. But our boys ain't idle, I can tell you that. I

was in the back of the gallery when you spoke up, and I shook 'em off

the leash right away.”

Mr. Crewe leaned back from the table and thrust his hands in his pockets

and smiled. He was in one of his delightful moods.

“Take off your overcoat, Tooting,” he said; “you'll find one of my best

political cigars over there, in the usual place.”

“Well, I guessed about right, didn't I?” inquired Mr. Tooting, biting

off one of the political cigars. “I gave you a pretty straight tip,

didn't I, that young Tom Gaylord was goin' to have somebody make that

motion to-day? But say, it's funny he couldn't get a better one than

that feller Harper. If you hadn't come along, they'd have smashed him

to pulp. I'll bet the most surprised man in the State to-night, next to

Brush Bascom, is young Tom Gaylord. It's a wonder he ain't been up here

to thank you.”

“Maybe he has been,” replied Mr. Crewe. “I told Waters to keep everybody

out to-night because I want to know exactly what I'm going to say on the

floor tomorrow. I don't want 'em to give me trouble. Did you bring some

of those papers with you?”

Mr. Tooting fished a bundle from his overcoat pocket. The papers

in question, of which he had a great number stored away in Ripton,

represented the foresight, on Mr. Tooting's part, of years. He was

a young man with a praiseworthy ambition to get on in the world, and

during his apprenticeship in the office of the Honourable Hilary

Vane many letters and documents had passed through his hands. A less

industrious person would have neglected the opportunity. Mr. Tooting

copied them; and some, which would have gone into the waste-basket, he

laid carefully aside, bearing in mind the adage about little scraps of

paper--if there is one. At any rate, he now had a manuscript collection

which was unique in its way, which would have been worth much to a great

many men, and with characteristic generosity he was placing it at the

disposal of Mr. Crewe.

Mr. Crewe, in reading them, had other sensations. He warmed with

indignation as an American citizen that a man should sit in a mahogany

office in New York and dictate the government of a free and sovereign

State; and he found himself in the grip of a righteous wrath when he

recalled what Mr. Flint had written to him. “As a neighbour, it will

give me the greatest pleasure to help you to the extent of my power, but

the Northeastern Railroads cannot interfere in legislative or political

matters.” The effrontery of it was appalling! Where, he demanded of Mr.

Tooting, did the common people come in? And this extremely pertinent

question Mr. Tooting was unable to answer.

But the wheels of justice had begun to turn.

Mr. Tooting had not exaggerated the tumult and affright at the Pelican

Hotel. The private telephone in Number Seven was busy all evening, while

more or less prominent gentlemen were using continually the public

ones in the boxes in the reading room downstairs. The Feudal system was

showing what it could do, and the word had gone out to all the holders

of fiefs that the vassals should be summoned. The Duke of Putnam had

sent out a general call to the office-holders in that county. Theirs not

to reason why--but obey; and some of them, late as was the hour, were

already travelling (free) towards the capital. Even the congressional

delegation in Washington had received telegrams, and sent them again to

Federal office-holders in various parts of the State. If Mr. Crewe had

chosen to listen, he could have heard the tramp of armed men. But he was

not of the metal to be dismayed by the prospect of a great conflict.

He was as cool as Cromwell, and after Mr. Tooting had left him to take

charge once more of his own armies in the yield, the genlemon from Leith

went to bed and slept soundly.

The day of the battle dawned darkly, with great flakes flying. As early

as seven o'clock the later cohorts began to arrive, and were soon as

thick as bees in the Pelican, circulating in the lobby, conferring in

various rooms of which they had the numbers with occupants in bed and

out. A wonderful organization, that Feudal System, which could

mobilize an army overnight! And each unit of it, like the bee, working

unselfishly for the good of the whole; like the bee, flying straight for

the object to be attained. Every member of the House from Putnam County,

for instance, was seen by one of these indefatigable captains, and if

the member had a mortgage or an ambition, or a wife and family that made

life a problem, or a situation on the railroad or in some of the larger

manufacturing establishments, let him beware! If he lived in lodgings

in the town, he stuck his head out of the window to perceive a cheery

neighbour from the country on his doorstep. Think of a system which

could do this, not for Putnam County alone, but for all the counties in

the State!

The Honourable Hilary Vane, captain-general of the Forces, had had but

four hours' sleep, and his Excellency, the Honourable Asa Gray, when he

arose in the twilight of the morning, had to step carefully to avoid the

cigar butts on the floor which--like so many empty cartridge shells were

unpleasant reminders that a rebellion of no mean magnitude had arisen

against the power to which he owed allegiance, and by the favour of

which he was attended with pomp and circumstance wherever he chose to

go.

Long before eleven o'clock the paths to the state-house were thronged

with people. Beside the office-holders and their friends who were in

town, there were many residents of the capital city in the habit of

going to hear the livelier debates. Not that the powers of the Empire

had permitted debates on most subjects, but there could be no harm in

allowing the lower House to discuss as fiercely as they pleased dog and

sheep laws and hedgehog bounties. But now! The oldest resident couldn't

remember a case of high treason and rebellion against the Northeastern

such as this promised to be, and the sensation took on an added flavour

from the fact that the arch rebel was a figure of picturesque interest,

a millionaire with money enough to rent the Duncan house and fill its

long-disused stable with horses, who was a capitalist himself and a

friend of Mr. Flint's; of whom it was said that he was going to marry

Mr. Flint's daughter!

Long before eleven, too, the chiefs over tens and the chiefs over

hundreds had gathered their men and marched them into the state-house;

and Mr. Tooting, who was everywhere that morning, noticed that some

of these led soldiers had pieces of paper in their hands. The chaplain

arose to pray for guidance, and the House was crowded to its capacity,

and the gallery filled with eager and expectant faces--but the hero of

the hour had not yet arrived. When at length he did walk down the aisle,

as unconcernedly as though he were an unknown man entering a theatre,

feminine whispers of “There he is!” could plainly be heard above the

buzz, and simultaneous applause broke out in spots, causing the Speaker

to rap sharply with his gavel. Poor Mr. Speaker Doby! He looked more

like the mock-turtle than ever! and might have exclaimed, too, that once

he had been a real turtle: only yesterday, in fact, before he had made

the inconceivable blunder of recognizing Mr. Humphrey Crewe. Mr. Speaker

Doby had spent a part of the night in room Number Seven listening to

things about himself. Herminius the unspeakable has given the enemy a

foothold in Rome.

Apparently unaware that he was the centre of interest, Mr. Crewe,

carrying a neat little bag full of papers, took his seat beside the

Honourable Jacob Botcher, nodding to that erstwhile friend as a man of

the world should. And Mr. Botcher, not to be outdone, nodded back.

We shall skip over the painful interval that elapsed before the bill in

question was reached: painful, at least, for every one but Mr. Crewe,

who sat with his knees crossed and his arms folded. The hosts were

facing each other, awaiting the word; the rebels prayerfully watching

their gallant leader; and the loyal vassals--whose wavering ranks had

been added to overnight--with their eyes on Mr. Bascom. And in justice

to that veteran it must be said, despite the knock-out blow he had

received, that he seemed as debonair as ever.

“Now while the three were tightening

The harness on their backs.”

Mr. Speaker Doby read many committee reports, and at the beginning of

each there was a stir of expectation that it might be the signal for

battle. But at length he fumbled among his papers, cleared away the lump

in his throat, and glanced significantly at Mr. Bascom.

“The Committee on Incorporations, to whom was referred House bill number

302, entitled “An act to incorporate the Pingsquit Railroad,” having

considered the same, report the same with the following resolution:

'Resolved, that it is inexpedient to legislate. Brush Bascom, for the

Committee.' Gentlemen, are you ready for the question? As many as are

of opinion that the report of the Committee should be adopted--the

gentleman from Putnam, Mr. Bascom.”

Again let us do exact justice, and let us not be led by our feelings to

give a prejudiced account of this struggle. The Honourable Brush Bascom,

skilled from youth in the use of weapons, opened the combat so adroitly

that more than once the followers of his noble opponent winced and

trembled. The bill, Mr. Bascom said, would have been reported that

day, anyway--a statement received with mingled cheers and jeers. Then

followed a brief and somewhat intimate history of the Gaylord Lumber

Company, not at all flattering to that corporation. Mr. Bascom hinted,

at an animus: there was no more need for a railroad in the Pingsquit

Valley than there was for a merry-go-round in the cellar of the

state-house. (Loud laughter from everybody, some irreverent person

crying out that a merry-go-round was better than poker tables.) When Mr.

Bascom came to discuss the gentleman from Leith, and recited the names

of the committees for which Mr. Crewe--in his desire to be of service to

the State had applied, there was more laughter, even amongst Mr. Crewe's

friends, and Mr. Speaker Doby relaxed so far as to smile sadly. Mr.

Bascom laid his watch on the clerk's desk and began to read the list of

bills Mr. Crewe had introduced, and as this reading proceeded some of

the light-minded showed a tendency to become slightly hysterical.

Mr. Bascom said that he would like to see all those bills grow

into laws,--with certain slight changes,--but that he could not

conscientiously vote to saddle the people with another Civil War

debt. It was well for the State, he hinted, that those committees

were composed of stanch men who would do their duty in all weathers,

regardless of demagogues who sought to gratify inordinate ambitions.

The hope of the revolutionists bore these strokes and others as mighty

with complacency, as though they had been so many playful taps; and

while the battle surged hotly around him he sat calmly listening or

making occasional notes with a gold pencil. Born leader that he was,

he was biding his time. Mr. Bascom's attack was met valiantly, but

unskillfully, from the back seats. The Honourable Jacob Botcher arose,

and filled the hall with extracts from the “Book of Arguments”--in

which he had been coached overnight by the Honourable Hilary Vane. Mr.

Botcher's tone towards his erstwhile friend was regretful,--a good

man gone wrong through impulse and inexperience. “I am, sir,” said

Mr. Bascom to the Speaker, “sincerely sorry--sincerely sorry that an

individual of such ability as the member from Leith should be led,

by the representations of political adventurers and brigands and

malcontents, into his present deplorable position of criticising a State

which is his only by adoption, the political conditions of which were as

sound and as free from corporate domination, sir, as those of any State

in the broad Union.” (Loud cheers.) This appeal to State pride by Mr.

Botches is a master stroke, and the friends of the champion of the

liberties of the people are beginning (some of them) to be a little

nervous and doubtful.

Following Mr. Botches were wild and scattering speeches from the

back benches--unskillful and pitiable counter-strokes. Where was the

champion? Had he been tampered with overnight, and persuaded of the

futility of rebellion? Persuaded that his head would be more useful on

his own neck in the councils of the nation than on exhibition to the

populace from the point of a pike? It looks, to a calm spectator from

the gallery, as though the rebel forces are growing weaker and more

demoralized every moment. Mr. Redbrook's speech, vehement and honest,

helps a little; people listen to an honest and forceful man, however he

may lack technical knowledge, but the majority of the replies are mere

incoherent denunciations of the Northeastern Railroads.

On the other hand, the astounding discipline amongst the legions of the

Empire excites the admiration and despair even of their enemies; there

is no random fighting here and breaking of ranks to do useless hacking.

A grave farmer with a beard delivers a short and temperate speech (which

he has by heart), mildly inquiring what the State would do without the

Northeastern Railroads; and the very moderation of this query coming

from a plain and hard-headed agriculturist (the boss of Grenville, if

one but knew it!) has a telling effect. And then to cap the climax, to

make the attitude of the rebels even more ridiculous in the minds of

thinking people, Mr. Ridout is given the floor. Skilled in debate when

he chooses to enter it, his knowledge of the law only exceeded by his

knowledge of how it is to be evaded--to Lartius is assigned the task of

following up the rout. And Mr. Crewe has ceased taking notes.

When the House leader and attorney for the Northeastern took his

seat, the victory to all appearances was won. It was a victory

for conservatism and established order against sensationalism and

anarchy--Mr. Ridout had contrived to make that clear without actually

saying so. It was as if the Ute Indians had sought to capture Washington

and conduct the government. Just as ridiculous as that! The debate

seemed to be exhausted, and the long-suffering Mr. Doby was inquiring

for the fiftieth time if the House were ready for the question, when Mr.

Crewe of Leith arose and was recognized. In three months he had acquired

such a remarkable knowledge of the game of parliamentary tactics as to

be able, patiently, to wait until the bolt of his opponents had been

shot; and a glance sufficed to revive the drooping spirits of his

followers, and to assure them that their leader knew what he was about.

“Mr. Speaker,” he said, “I have listened with great care to the masterly

defence of that corporation on which our material prosperity and civic

welfare is founded (laughter); I have listened to the gentleman's

learned discussion of the finances of that road, tending to prove that

it is an eleemosynary institution on a grand scale. I do not wish to

question unduly the intellects of those members of this House who by

their votes will prove that they have been convinced by the gentleman's

argument.” Here Mr. Crewe paused and drew a slip of paper from his

pocket and surveyed the back seats. “But I perceive,” he continued,

“that a great interest has been taken in this debate--so great an

interest that since yesterday numbers of gentlemen have come in from

various parts of the State to listen to it (laughter and astonishment),

gentlemen who hold Federal and State offices. (Renewed laughter and

searching of the House.) I repeat, Mr. Speaker, that I do not wish to

question the intellects of my fellow-members, but I notice that many

of them who are seated near the Federal and State office-holders in

question have in their hands slips of paper similar to this. And I have

reason to believe that these slips were written by somebody in room

Number Seven of the Pelican Hotel.” (Tremendous commotion, and craning

to see whether one's neighbour has a slip. The faces of the redoubtable

three a study.)

“I procured one of these slips,” Mr. Crewe continued, “through a

fellow-member who has no use for it--whose intelligence, in fact, is

underrated by the gentlemen in Number Seven. I will read the slip.

“'Vote yes on the question. Yes means that the report of the Committee

will be accepted, and that the Pingsquit bill will not pass. Wait for

Bascom's signal, and destroy this paper.”'

There was no need, indeed, for Mr. Crewe to say any more than that--no

need for the admirable discussion of railroad finance from an expert's

standpoint which followed to controvert Mr. Ridout's misleading

statements. The reading of the words on the slip of paper of which he

had so mysteriously got possession (through Mr. Hamilton Tooting) was

sufficient to bring about a disorder that for a full minute--Mr. Speaker

Doby found it impossible to quell. The gallery shook with laughter,

and honourable members with slips of paper in their hands were made as

conspicuous as if they had been caught wearing dunces' caps.

It was then only, with belated wisdom, that Mr. Bascom and his two noble

companions gave up the fight, and let the horde across the bridge--too

late, as we shall see. The populace, led by a redoubtable leader, have

learned their strength. It is true that the shining senatorial twenty of

the body-guard stand ready to be hacked to pieces at their posts before

the Pingsquit bill shall become a law; and should unutterable treason

take place here, his Excellency is prepared to be drawn and quartered

rather than sign it. It is the Senate which, in this somewhat inaccurate

repetition of history, hold the citadel if not the bridge; and in

spite of the howling mob below their windows, scornfully refuse even to

discuss the Pingsquit bill. The Honourable Hilary Vane, whose face they

study at dinner time, is not worried. Popular wrath does not continue

to boil, and many changes will take place in the year before the

Legislature meets again.

This is the Honourable Hilary's public face. But are there not

private conferences in room Number Seven of which we can know

nothing--exceedingly uncomfortable conferences for Horatius and his

companions? Are there not private telegrams and letters to the president

of the Northeastern in New York advising him that the Pingsquit bill has

passed the House, and that a certain Mr. Crewe is primarily responsible?

And are there not queries--which history may disclose in after years--as

to whether Mr. Crewe's abilities as a statesman have not been seriously

underrated by those who should have been the first to perceive them?

Verily, pride goeth before a fall.

In this modern version of ours, the fathers throng about another than

Horatius after the session of that memorable morning. Publicly and

privately, Mr. Crewe is being congratulated, and we know enough of his

character to appreciate the modesty with which the congratulations are

accepted. He is the same Humphrey Crewe that he was before he became the

corner-stone of the temple; success is a mere outward and visible sign

of intrinsic worth in the inner man, and Mr. Crewe had never for a

moment underestimated his true value.

“There's, no use wasting time in talking about it,” he told the grateful

members who sought to press his hands. “Go home and organize. I've got

your name. Get your neighbours into line, and keep me informed. I'll pay

for the postage-stamps. I'm no impractical reformer, and if we're going

to do this thing, we'll have to do it right.”

They left him, impressed by the force of this argument, with an added

respect for Mr. Crewe, and a vague feeling that they were pledged to

something which made not a few of them a trifle uneasy. Mr. Redbrook was

one of these.

The felicitations of his new-found friend and convert, Mr. Tooting, Mr.

Crewe cut short with the terseness of a born commander.

“Never mind that,” he said, “and follow 'em up and get 'em pledged if

you can.”

Get 'em pledged! Pledged to what? Mr. Tooting evidently knew, for he

wasted no precious moments in asking questions.

There is no time at this place to go into the feelings of Mr. Tom

Gaylord the younger when he learned that his bill had passed the House.

He, too, meeting Mr. Crewe in the square, took the opportunity to

express his gratitude to the member from Leith.

“Come in on Friday afternoon, Gaylord,” answered Mr. Crewe. “I've got

several things to talk to you about. Your general acquaintance around

the State will be useful, and there must be men you know of in the

lumber sections who can help us considerably.”

“Help us?” repeated young Tom, in same surprise.

“Certainly,” replied Mr. Crewe; “you don't think we're going to drop the

fight here, do you? We've got to put a stop in this State to political

domination by a railroad, and as long as there doesn't seem to be anyone

else to take hold, I'm going to. Your bill's a good bill, and we'll pass

it next session.”

Young Tom regarded Mr. Crewe with a frank stare.

“I'm going up to the Pingsquit Valley on Friday,” he answered.

“Then you'd better come up to Leith to see me as soon as you get back,”

said Mr. Crewe. “These things can't wait, and have to be dealt with

practically.”

Young Tom had not been the virtual head of the Gaylord Company for some

years without gaining a little knowledge of politics and humanity. The

invitation to Leith he valued, of course, but he felt that it would not

do to accept it with too much ardour. He was, he said, a very busy man.

“That's the trouble with most people,” declared Mr. Crewe; “they won't

take the time to bother about politics, and then they complain when

things don't go right. Now I'm givin' my time to it, when I've got other

large interests to attend to.”

On his way back to the Pelican, young Tom halted several times

reflectively, as certain points in this conversation which he seemed to

have missed at the time--came back to him. His gratitude to Mr. Crewe

as a public benefactor was profound, of course; but young Tom's sense of

humour was peculiar, and he laughed more than once, out loud, at nothing

at all. Then he became grave again, and went into the hotel and wrote a

long letter, which he addressed to Mr. Austen Vane.

And now, before this chapter which contains these memorable events is

closed, one more strange and significant fact is to be chronicled. On

the evening of the day which saw Mr. Crewe triumphantly leading the

insurgent forces to victory, that gentleman sent his private secretary

to the office of the State Tribune to leave an order for fifty copies

of the paper to be delivered in the morning. Morning came, and the fifty

copies, and Mr. Crewe's personal copy in addition, were handed to him

by the faithful Waters when he entered his dining room at an early hour.

Life is full of disillusions. Could this be the State Tribune he held

in his hand? The State Tribune of Mr. Peter Pardriff, who had stood so

staunchly for Mr. Crewe and better things? Who had hitherto held the

words of the Leith statesman in such golden estimate as to curtail

advertising columns when it was necessary to print them for the public

good?

Mr. Crewe's eye travelled from column to column, from page to page,

in vain. By some incredible oversight on the part of Mr. Pardriff, the

ringing words were not there,--nay, the soul-stirring events of that

eventful day appeared, on closer inspection, to have been deliberately

edited out! The terrible indignation of the righteous arose as Mr.

Crewe read (in the legislative proceedings of the day before) that the

Pingsquit bill had been discussed by certain members--of whom he was

one--and passed. This was all--literally all! If Mr. Pardriff had lived

in the eighteenth century, he would probably have referred as casually

to the Boston massacre as a street fight--which it was.

Profoundly disgusted with human kind,--as the noblest of us will be at

times,--Mr. Crewe flung down the paper, and actually forgot to send the

fifty copies to his friends!

CHAPTER XV. THE DISTURBANCE OF JUNE SEVENTH

After Mr. Speaker Doby had got his gold watch from an admiring and

apparently reunited House, and had wept over it, the Legislature

adjourned. This was about the first of April, that sloppiest and

windiest of months in a northern climate, and Mr. Crewe had intended,

as usual, to make a little trip southward to a club of which he was

a member. A sense of duty, instead, took him to Leith, where he sat

through the days in his study, dictating letters, poring over a great

map of the State which he had hung on the wall, and scanning long

printed lists. If we could stand behind him, we should see that these

are what are known as check-lists, or rosters of the voters in various

towns.

Mr. Crewe also has an unusual number of visitors for this muddy

weather, when the snow-water is making brooks of the roads. Interested

observers--if there were any--might have remarked that his friendship

with Mr. Hamilton Tooting had increased, that gentleman coming up from

Ripton at least twice a week, and aiding Mr. Crewe to multiply his

acquaintances by bringing numerous strangers to see him. Mr. Tooting, as

we know, had abandoned the law office of the Honourable Hilary Vane and

was now engaged in travelling over the State, apparently in search of

health. These were signs, surely, which the wise might have read with

profit: in the offices, for instance, of the Honourable Hilary Vane

in Ripton Square, where seismic disturbances were registered; but the

movement of the needle (to the Honourable Hilary's eye) was almost

imperceptible. What observer, however experienced, would have believed

that such delicate tracings could herald a volcanic eruption?

Throughout the month of April the needle kept up its persistent

registering, and the Honourable Hilary continued to smile. The

Honourable Jacob Botcher, who had made a trip to Ripton and had cited

that very decided earthquake shock of the Pingsquit bill, had been

ridiculed for his pains, and had gone away again comforted by communion

with a strong man. The Honourable Jacob had felt little shocks in his

fief: Mr. Tooting had visited it, sitting with his feet on the tables of

hotel waiting-rooms, holding private intercourse with gentlemen who had

been disappointed in office. Mr. Tooting had likewise been a sojourner

in the domain of the Duke of Putnam. But the Honourable Brush was not

troubled, and had presented Mr. Tooting with a cigar.

In spite of the strange omission of the State Tribune to print his

speech and to give his victory in the matter of the Pingsquit bill

proper recognition, Mr. Crewe was too big a man to stop his subscription

to the paper. Conscious that he had done his duty in that matter,

neither praise nor blame could affect him; and although he had not been

mentioned since, he read it assiduously every afternoon upon its arrival

at Leith, feeling confident that Mr. Peter Pardriff (who had always in

private conversation proclaimed himself emphatically for reform) would

not eventually refuse--to a prophet--public recognition. One afternoon

towards the end of that month of April, when the sun had made the last

snow-drift into a pool, Mr. Crewe settled himself on his south porch

and opened the State Tribune, and his heart gave a bound as his eye fell

upon the following heading to the leading editorial:--

A WORTHY PUBLIC SERVANT FOR GOVERNOR

Had his reward come at last? Had Mr. Peter Pardriff seen the error of

his way? Mr. Crewe leisurely folded back the sheet, and called to his

secretary, who was never far distant.

“Look here,” he said, “I guess Pardriff's recovered his senses. Look

here!”

The tired secretary, ready with his pencil and notebook to order fifty

copies, responded, staring over his employer's shoulder. It has been

said of men in battle that they have been shot and have run forward some

hundred feet without knowing what has happened to them. And so Mr. Crewe

got five or six lines into that editorial before he realized in full the

baseness of Mr. Pardriff's treachery.

“These are times” (so ran Mr. Pardriff's composition) “when the sure and

steadying hand of a strong man is needed at the helm of State. A man

of conservative, business habits of mind; a man who weighs the value

of traditions equally with the just demands of a new era; a man with a

knowledge of public affairs derived from long experience;” (!!!) “a man

who has never sought office, but has held it by the will of the people,

and who himself is a proof that the conduct of State institutions in the

past has been just and equitable. One who has served with distinction

upon such boards as the Railroad Commission, the Board of Equalization,

etc., etc.” (!!!) “A stanch Republican, one who puts party before--”

here the newspaper began to shake a little, and Mr. Crewe could not for

the moment see whether the next word were place or principle. He skipped

a few lines. The Tribune, it appeared, had a scintillating idea,

which surely must have occurred to others in the State. “Why not the

Honourable Adam B. Hunt of Edmundton for the next governor?”

The Honourable Adam B. Hunt of Edmundton!

It is a pleasure to record, at this crisis, that Mr. Crewe fixed upon

his secretary as steady an eye as though Mr. Pardriff's bullet had

missed its mark.

“Get me,” he said coolly, “the 'State Encyclopaedia of Prominent Men.'”

(Just printed. Fogarty and Co., Newcastle, publishers.)

The secretary fetched it, open at the handsome and lifelike

steel-engraving of the Honourable Adam, with his broad forehead and

kindly, twinkling eyes, and the tuft of beard on his chin; with his

ample statesman's coat in natural creases, and his white shirt-front

and little black tie. Mr. Crewe gazed at this work of art long and

earnestly. The Honourable Adam B. Hunt did not in the least have

the appearance of a bolt from the blue. And then Mr. Crewe read his

biography.

Two things he shrewdly noted about that biography; it was placed, out of

alphabetical order, fourth in the book, and it was longer than any other

with one exception that of Mr. Ridout, the capital lawyer. Mr. Ridout's

place was second in this invaluable volume, he being preceded only by

a harmless patriarch. These facts were laid before Mr. Tooting, who was

directed by telephone to come to Leith as soon as he should arrive in

Ripton from his latest excursion. It was nine o'clock at night when that

long-suffering and mud-bespattered individual put in an appearance at

the door of his friend's study.

“Because I didn't get on to it,” answered Mr. Tooting, in response to

a reproach for not having registered a warning--for he was Mr. Crewe's

seismograph. “I knew old Adam was on the Railroads' governor's bench,

but I hadn't any notion he'd been moved up to the top of the batting

list. I told you right. Ridout was going to be their next governor if

you hadn't singed him with the Pingsquit bill. This was done pretty

slick, wasn't it? Hilary got back from New York day before yesterday,

and Pardriff has the editorial to-day. Say, I always told you Pardriff

wasn't a reformer, didn't I?”

Mr. Crewe looked pained.

“I prefer to believe the best of people until I know the worst,” he

said. “I did not think Mr. Pardriff capable of ingratitude.”

What Mr. Crewe meant by this remark is enigmatical.

“He ain't,” replied Mr. Tooting, “he's grateful for that red ticket

he carries around with him when he travels, and he's grateful to the

Honourable Adam B. Hunt for favours to come. Peter Pardriff's a grateful

cuss, all-right, all right.”

Mr. Crewe tapped his fingers on the desk thoughtfully.

“The need of a reform campaign is more apparent than ever,” he remarked.

Mr. Tooting put his tongue in his cheek; and, seeing a dreamy expression

on his friend's face, accidentally helped himself to a cigar out of the

wrong box.

“It's up to a man with a sense of duty and money to make it,” Mr.

Tooting agreed, taking a long pull at the Havana.

“As for the money,” replied Mr. Crewe, “the good citizens of the State

should be willing to contribute largely. I have had a list of men of

means prepared, who will receive notices at the proper time.”

Mr. Hamilton Tooting spread out his feet, and appeared to be studying

them carefully.

“It's funny you should have mentioned cash,” he said, after a moment's

silence, “and it's tough on you to have to be the public-spirited man

to put it up at the start. I've got a little memorandum here,” he added,

fumbling apologetically in his pocket; “it certainly costs something to

move the boys around and keep 'em indignant.”

Mr. Tooting put the paper on the edge of the desk, and Mr. Crewe,

without looking, reached out his hand for it, the pained expression

returning to his face.

“Tooting,” he said, “you've got a very flippant way of speaking of

serious things. It strikes me that these expenses are out of all

proportion to the simplicity of the task involved. It strikes me--ahem

that you might find, in some quarters at least, a freer response to a

movement founded on principle.”

“That's right,” declared Mr. Tooting, “I've thought so myself. I've

got mad, and told 'em so to their faces. But you've said yourself, Mr.

Crewe, that we've got to deal with this thing practically.”

“Certainly,” Mr. Crewe interrupted. He loved the word.

“And we've got to get workers, haven't we? And it costs money to move

'em round, don't it? We haven't got a bushel basket of passes. Look

here,” and he pushed another paper at Mr. Crewe, “here's ten new ones

who've made up their minds that you're the finest man in the State. That

makes twenty.”

Mr. Crewe took that paper deprecatingly, but nevertheless began a fire

of cross-questions on Mr. Tooting as to the personality, habits, and

occupations of the discerning ten in question, making certain little

marks of his own against each name. Thus it will be seen that Mr. Crewe

knew perfectly what he was about--although no one else did except Mr.

Tooting, who merely looked mysterious when questioned on the streets

of Ripton or Newcastle or Kingston. It was generally supposed, however,

that the gentleman from Leith was going to run for the State Senate, and

was attempting to get a following in other counties, in order to push

through his measures next time. Hence the tiny fluctuations of Hilary

Vane's seismograph an instrument, as will be shown, utterly out-of-date.

Not so the motto toujours l'audace. Geniuses continue (at long

intervals) to be born, and to live up to that motto.

That seismograph of the Honourable Hilary's persisted in tracing only

a slightly ragged line throughout the beautiful month of May, in which

favourable season the campaign of the Honourable Adam B. Hunt took root

and flourished--apparently from the seed planted by the State Tribune.

The ground, as usual, had been carefully prepared, and trained gardeners

raked, and watered, and weeded the patch. It had been decreed and

countersigned that the Honourable Adam B. Hunt was the flower that was

to grow this year.

There must be something vitally wrong with an instrument which failed to

register the great earthquake shock of June the seventh!

Now that we have come to the point where this shock is to be recorded

on these pages, we begin to doubt whether our own pen will be able

adequately to register it, and whether the sheet is long enough and

broad enough upon which to portray the relative importance of the

disturbance created. The trouble is, that there is nothing to measure it

by. What other event in the history of the State produced the vexation

of spirit, the anger, the tears, the profanity; the derision, the

laughter of fools, the contempt; the hope, the glee, the prayers, the

awe, the dumb amazement at the superb courage of this act? No, for a

just comparison we shall have to reach back to history and fable: David

and Goliath; Theseus and the Minotaur; or, better still, Cadmus and

the Dragon! It was Cadmus (if we remember rightly) who wasted no time

whatever, but actually jumped down the dragon's throat and cut him up

from the inside! And it was Cadmus, likewise, who afterwards sowed the

dragon's teeth.

That wondrous clear and fresh summer morning of June the seventh will

not be forgotten for many years. The trees were in their early leaf

in Ripton Square, and the dark pine patches on Sawanec looked (from

Austen's little office) like cloud shadows against the shimmer of the

tender green. He sat at his table, which was covered with open law-books

and papers, but his eyes were on the distant mountain, and every

scent-laden breeze wafted in at his open window seemed the bearer of

a tremulous, wistful, yet imperious message--“Come!” Throughout the

changing seasons Sawanec called to him in words of love: sometimes her

face was hidden by cloud and fog and yet he heard her voice! Sometimes

her perfume as to-day--made him dream; sometimes, when the western

heavens were flooded with the golden light of the infinite, she veiled

herself in magic purple, when to gaze at her was an exquisite agony,

and she became as one forbidden to man. Though his soul cried out to her

across the spaces, she was not for him. She was not for him!

With a sigh he turned to his law-books again, and sat for a while

staring steadfastly at a section of the 'Act of Consolidation of the

Northeastern Railroads' which he had stumbled on that morning. The

section, if he read its meaning aright, was fraught with the gravest

consequences for the Northeastern Railroads; if he read its meaning

aright, the Northeastern Railroads had been violating it persistently

for many years and were liable for unknown sums in damages. The

discovery of it had dazed him, and the consequences resulting from a

successful suit under the section would be so great that he had searched

diligently, though in vain, for some modification of it since its

enactment. Why had not some one discovered it before? This query

appeared to be unanswerable, until the simple--though none the less

remarkable--solution came to him, that perhaps no definite occasion had

hitherto arisen for seeking it. Undoubtedly the Railroads' attorneys

must know of its existence--his own father, Hilary Vane, having been

instrumental in drawing up the Act. And a long period had elapsed under

which the Northeastern Railroads had been a law unto themselves.

The discovery was of grave import to Austen. A month before, chiefly

through the efforts of his friend, Tom, who was gradually taking his

father's place in the Gaylord Lumber Company, Austen had been appointed

junior counsel for that corporation. The Honourable Galusha Hammer

still remained the senior counsel, but was now confined in his house

at Newcastle by an illness which made the probability of his return to

active life extremely doubtful; and Tom had repeatedly declared that in

the event of his non-recovery Austen should have Mr. Hammer's place. As

counsel for the Gaylord Lumber Company, it was clearly his duty to

call the attention of young Mr. Gaylord to the section; and in case

Mr. Hammer did not resume his law practice, it would fall upon Austen

himself to bring the suit. His opponent in this matter would be his own

father.

The consequences of this culminating conflict between them, the coming

of which he had long dreaded--although he had not foreseen its specific

cause--weighed heavily upon Austen. It was Tom Gaylord himself who

abruptly aroused him from his revery by bursting in at the door.

“Have you heard what's up?” he cried, flinging down a newspaper before

Austen's eyes. “Have you seen the Guardian?”

“What's the matter now, Tom?”

“Matter!” exclaimed Tom; “read that. Your friend and client, the

Honourable Humphrey Crewe, is out for governor.”

“Humphrey Crewe for governor!”

“On an anti-railroad platform. I might have known something of the kind

was up when he began to associate with Tooting, and from the way he

spoke to me in March. But who'd have thought he'd have the cheek to come

out for governor? Did you ever hear of such tommyrot?”

Austen looked grave.

“I'm not sure it's such tommyrot,” he said.

“Not tommyrot?” Tom ejaculated. “Everybody's laughing. When I passed

the Honourable Hilary's door just now, Brush Bascom and some of the old

liners were there, reciting parts of the proclamation, and the boys down

in the Ripton House are having the time of their lives.”

Austen took the Guardian, and there, sure enough, filling a leading

column, and in a little coarser type than the rest of the page, he read:

DOWN WITH RAILROAD RULE!

The Honourable Humphrey Crewe of Leith, at the request

of twenty prominent citizens, consents to become a candidate

for the Republican Nomination for Governor.

Ringing letter of acceptance, in which he denounces the

political power of the Northeastern Railroads, and declares

that the State is governed from a gilded suite of offices in

New Pork.

“The following letter, evincing as it does a public opinion thoroughly

aroused in all parts of the State against the present disgraceful

political conditions, speaks for itself. The standing and character of

its signers give it a status which Republican voters cannot ignore.”

The letter followed. It prayed Mr. Crewe, in the name of decency and

good government, to carry the standard of honest men to victory. Too

long had a proud and sovereign State writhed under the heel of an

all-devouring corporation! Too long had the Northeastern Railroads

elected, for their own selfish ends, governors and legislatures and

controlled railroad commissions The spirit of 1776 was abroad in the

land. It was eminently fitting that the Honourable Humphrey Crewe

of Leith, who had dared to fling down the gauntlet in the face of an

arrogant power, should be the leader of the plain people, to recover the

rights which had been wrested from them. Had he not given the highest

proof that he had the people's interests at heart? He was clearly a man

who “did things.”

At this point Austen looked up and smiled.

“Tom,” he asked, “has it struck you that this is written in the same

inimitable style as a part of the message of the Honourable Asa Gray?”

Tom slapped his knee.

“That's exactly what I said I!” he cried. “Tooting wrote it. I'll swear

to it.”

“And the twenty prominent citizens--do you know any of 'em, Tom?”

“Well,” said Tom, in delighted appreciation, “I've heard of three of

'em, and that's more than any man I've met can boast of. Ed Dubois cuts

my hair when I go to Kingston. He certainly is a prominent citizen in

the fourth ward. Jim Kendall runs the weekly newspaper in Grantley--I

understood it was for sale. Bill Clements is prominent enough up at

Groveton. He wanted a trolley franchise some years ago, you remember.”

“And didn't get it.”

Mr. Crewe's answer was characteristically terse and businesslike. The

overwhelming compliment of a request from such gentlemen must be treated

in the nature of a command--and yet he had hesitated for several weeks,

during which period he had cast about for another more worthy of the

honour. Then followed a somewhat technical and (to the lay mind) obscure

recapitulation of the iniquities the Northeastern was committing, which

proved beyond peradventure that Mr. Crewe knew what he was talking

about; such phrases as “rolling stock,” “milking the road”--an imposing

array of facts and figures. Mr. Crewe made it plain that he was a man

who “did things.” And if it were the will of Heaven that he became

governor, certain material benefits would as inevitably ensue as the day

follows the night. The list of the material benefits, for which there

was a crying need, bore a strong resemblance to a summary of the worthy

measures upon which Mr. Crewe had spent so much time and labour in the

last Legislature.

Austen laid down the paper, leaned back in his chair, and thrust his

hands in his pockets, and with a little vertical pucker in his forehead,

regarded his friend.

“What do you think of that?” Tom demanded. “Now, what do you think of

it?”

“I think,” said Austen, “that he'll scare the life out of the

Northeastern before he gets through with them.”

“What!” exclaimed Tom, incredulously. He had always been willing to

accept Austen's judgment on men and affairs, but this was pretty stiff.

“What makes you think so?”

“Well, people don't know Mr. Crewe, for one thing. And they are

beginning to have a glimmer of light upon the Railroad.”

“Do you mean to say he has a chance for the nomination?”

“I don't know. It depends upon how much the voters find out about him

before the convention.”

Tom sat down rather heavily.

“You could have been governor,” he complained reproachfully, “by raising

your hand. You've got more ability than any man in the State, and you

sit here gazin' at that mountain and lettin' a darned fool millionaire

walk in ahead of you.”

Austen rose and crossed over to Mr. Gaylord's chair, and, his hands

still in his pockets, looked down thoughtfully into that gentleman's

square and rugged face.

“Tom,” he said, “there's no use discussing this delusion of yours, which

seems to be the only flaw in an otherwise sane character. We must try to

keep it from the world.”

Tom laughed in spite of himself.

“I'm hanged if I understand you,” he declared, “but I never did. You

think Crewe and Tooting may carry off the governorship, and you don't

seem to care.”

“I do care,” said Austen, briefly. He went to the window and stood for

a moment with his back to his friend, staring across at Sawanec. Tom had

learned by long experience to respect these moods, although they were to

him inexplicable. At length Austen turned.

“Tom,” he said, “can you come in to-morrow about this time? If you

can't, I'll go to your office if you will let me know when you'll be in.

There's a matter of business I want to talk to you about.”

Tom pulled out his watch.

“I've got to catch a train for Mercer,” he replied, “but I will come in

in the morning and see you.”

A quarter of an hour later Austen went down the narrow wooden flight of

stairs into the street, and as he emerged from the entry almost bumped

into the figure of a young man that was hurrying by. He reached out and

grasped the young man by the collar, pulling him up so short as almost

to choke him.

“Hully gee!” cried the young man whose progress had been so rudely

arrested. “Great snakes!” (A cough.) “What're you tryin' to do? Oh,”

(apologetically) “it's you, Aust. Let me go. This day ain't long enough

for me. Let me go.”

Austen kept his grip and regarded Mr. Tooting thoughtfully.

“I want to speak to you, Ham,” he said; “better come upstairs.”

“Say, Aust, on the dead, I haven't time. Pardriff's waitin' for some

copy now.”

“Just for a minute, Ham,” said Austen; “I won't keep you long.”

“Leggo my collar, then, if you don't want to choke me. Say, I don't

believe you know how strong you are.”

“I didn't know you wore a collar any more, Ham,” said Austen.

Mr. Tooting grinned in appreciation of this joke.

“You must think you've got one of your Wild West necktie parties on,” he

gasped. “I'll come. But if you love me, don't let the boys in Hilary's

office see me.”

“They use the other entry,” answered Austen, indicating that Mr. Tooting

should go up first--which he did. When they reached the office Austen

shut the door, and stood with his back against it, regarding Mr. Tooting

thoughtfully.

At first Mr. Tooting returned the look with interest swagger--aggression

would be too emphatic, and defiance would not do. His was the air,

perhaps, of Talleyrand when he said, “There seems to be an inexplicable

something in me that brings bad luck to governments that neglect me:”

the air of a man who has made a brilliant coup d'etat. All day he had

worn that air--since five o'clock in the morning, when he had sprung

from his pallet. The world might now behold the stuff that was

in Hamilton Tooting. Power flowed out of his right hand from an

inexhaustible reservoir which he had had the sagacity to tap, and

men leaped into action at his touch. He, the once, neglected, had the

destiny of a State in his keeping.

Gradually, however, it became for some strange reason difficult to

maintain that aggressive stare upon Austen Vane, who shook his head

slowly.

“Ham, why did you do it?” he asked.

“Why?” cried Mr. Tooting, fiercely biting back a treasonable smile. “Why

not? Ain't he the best man in the State to make a winner? Hasn't he

got the money, and the brains, and the get-up-and-git? Why, it's a sure

thing. I've been around the State, and I know the sentiment. We've got

'em licked, right now. What have you got against it? You're on our side,

Aust.”

“Ham,” said Austen, “are you sure you have the names and addresses of

those twenty prominent citizens right, so that any voter may go out and

find 'em?”

“What are you kidding about, Aust?” retorted Mr. Tooting, biting back

the smile again. “Say, you never get down to business with me. You don't

blame Crewe for comin' out, do you?”

“I don't see how Mr. Crewe could have resisted such an overwhelming

demand,” said Austen. “He couldn't shirk such a duty. He says so

himself, doesn't he?”

“Oh, go on!” exclaimed Mr. Tooting, who was not able to repress a grin.

“The letter of the twenty must have been a great surprise to Mr. Crewe.

He says he was astonished. Did the whole delegation go up to Leith, or

only a committee?”

Mr. Tooting's grin had by this time spread all over his face--a flood

beyond his control.

“Well, there's no use puffin' it on with you, Aust. That was done pretty

slick, that twenty-prominent-citizen business, if I do say it myself.

But you don't know that feller Crewe--he's a full-size cyclone when he

gets started, and nothin' but a range of mountains could stop him.”

“It must be fairly exciting to--ride him, Ham.”

“Say, but it just is. Kind of breathless, though. He ain't very well

known around the State, and he was bound to run--and I just couldn't let

him come out without any clothes on.”

“I quite appreciate your delicacy, Ham.”

Mr. Tooting's face took on once more a sheepish look, which changed

almost immediately to one of disquietude.

“Say, I'll come back again some day and kid with you. I've got to go,

Aust--that's straight. This is my busy day.”

“Wouldn't you gain some time if you left by the window?” Austen asked.

At this suggestion Mr. Tooting's expressive countenance showed genuine

alarm.

“Say, you ain't going to put up any Wild West tricks on me, are you? I

heard you nearly flung Tom Gaylord out of the one in the other room.”

“If this were a less civilized place, Ham, I'd initiate you into what is

known as the bullet dance. As it is, I have a great mind to speed you on

your way by assisting you downstairs.”

Mr. Hamilton Tooting became ashy pale.

“I haven't done anything to you, Aust. Say--you didn't--?” He did not

finish.

Terrified by something in Austen's eye, which may or may not have been

there at the time of the Blodgett incident, Mr. Tooting fled without

completing his inquiry. And, his imagination being great, he reproduced

for himself such a vivid sensation of a bullet-hole in his spine that

he missed his footing near the bottom, and measured his length in the

entry. Such are the humiliating experiences which sometimes befall the

Talleyrands--but rarely creep into their biographies.

Austen, from the top of the stairway, saw this catastrophe, but did not

smile. He turned on his heel, and made his way slowly around the corner

of the passage into the other part of the building, and paused at the

open doorway of the Honourable Hilary's outer office. By the street

windows sat the Honourable Brush Bascom, sphinx-like, absorbing wisdom

and clouds of cigar smoke which emanated from the Honourable Nat

Billings.

“Howdy, Austen?” said Brush, genially, “lookin' for the Honourable

Hilary? Flint got up from New York this morning, and sent for him a

couple of hours ago. He'll be back at two.”

“Have you read the pronunciamento?” inquired Mr. Billings. “Say,

Austen, knowin' your sentiments, I wonder you weren't one of the twenty

prominent citizens.”

“All you anti-railroad fellers ought to get together,” Mr. Bascom

suggested; “you've got us terrified since your friend from Leith turned

the light of publicity on us this morning. I hear Ham Tooting's been in

and made you an offer.”

News travels fast in Ripton.

“Austen kicked him downstairs,” said Jimmy Towle, the office boy, who

had made a breathless entrance during the conversation, and felt it to

be the psychological moment to give vent to the news with which he was

bursting.

“Is that straight?” Mr. Billings demanded. He wished he had done it

himself. “Is that straight?” he repeated, but Austen had gone.

“Of course it's straight,” said Jimmy Towle, vigorously. A shrewd

observer of human nature, he had little respect for Senator Billings.

“Ned Johnson saw him pick himself up at the foot of Austen's stairway.”

The Honourable Brush's agate eyes caught the light, and he addressed Mr.

Billings in a voice which, by dint of long training, only carried a few

feet.

“There's the man the Northeastern's got to look out for,” he said.

“The Humphrey Crewes don't count. But if Austen Vane ever gets started,

there'll be trouble. Old man Flint's got some such idea as that, too. I

overheard him givin' it to old Hilary once, up at Fairview, and Hilary

said he couldn't control him. I guess nobody else can control him. I

wish I'd seen him kick Ham downstairs.”

“I'd like to kick him downstairs,” said Mr. Billings, savagely biting

off another cigar.

“I guess you hadn't better try it, Nat,” said Mr. Bascom.

Meanwhile Austen had returned to his own office, and shut the door. His

luncheon hour came and went, and still he sat by the open window gazing

out across the teeming plain, and up the green valley whence the Blue

came singing from the highlands. In spirit he followed the water to

Leith, and beyond, where it swung in a wide circle and hurried between

wondrous hills like those in the backgrounds of the old Italians: hills

of close-cropped pastures, dotted with shapely sentinel oaks and maples

which cast sharp, rounded shadows on the slopes at noonday; with thin

fantastic elms on the gentle sky-lines, and forests massed here and

there--silent, impenetrable hills from a story-book of a land of

mystery. The river coursed between them on its rocky bed, flinging

its myriad gems to the sun. This was the Vale of the Blue, and she had

touched it with meaning for him, and gone.

He drew from his coat a worn pocket-book, and from the pocket-book a

letter. It was dated in New York in February, and though he knew it by

heart he found a strange solace in the pain which it gave him to reread

it. He stared at the monogram on the paper, which seemed so emblematic

of her; for he had often reflected that her things--even such minute

insignia as this--belonged to her. She impressed them not only with

her taste, but with her character. The entwined letters, Y. F., of the

design were not, he thought, of a meaningless, frivolous daintiness, but

stood for something. Then he read the note again. It was only a note.

“MY DEAR MR. VANE: I have come back to find my mother ill, and I am

taking her to France. We are sailing, unexpectedly, to-morrow,

there being a difficulty about a passage later. I cannot refrain

from sending you a line before I go to tell you that I did you an

injustice. You will no doubt think it strange that I should write

to you, but I shall be troubled until it is off my mind. I am

ashamed to have been so stupid. I think I know now why you would

not consent to be a candidate, and I respect you for it.

“Sincerely your friend,

“VICTORIA FLINT.”

What did she know? What had she found out? Had she seen her father and

talked to him? That was scarcely possible, since her mother had been ill

and she had left at once. Austen had asked himself these questions

many times, and was no nearer the solution. He had heard nothing of her

since, and he told himself that perhaps it was better, after all, that

she was still away. To know that she was at Fairview, and not to be able

to see her, were torture indeed.

The note was formal enough, and at times he pretended to be glad that it

was. How could it be otherwise? And why should he interpret her interest

in him in other terms than those in which it was written? She had a warm

heart--that he knew; and he felt for her sake that he had no right

to wish for more than the note expressed. After several unsuccessful

attempts; he had answered it in a line, “I thank you, and I understand.”

CHAPTER XVI. THE “BOOK OF ARGUMENTS” IS OPENED

The Honourable Hilary Vane returned that day from Fairview in no very

equable frame of mind. It is not for us to be present at the Councils on

the Palatine when the “Book of Arguments” is opened, and those

fitting the occasion are chosen and sent out to the faithful who own

printing-presses and free passes. The Honourable Hilary Vane bore away

from the residence of his emperor a great many memoranda in an envelope,

and he must have sighed as he drove through the leafy roads for Mr.

Hamilton Tooting, with his fertile mind and active body. A year ago, and

Mr. Tooting would have seized these memoranda of majesty, and covered

their margins with new suggestions: Mr. Tooting, on occasions, had even

made additions to the “Book of Arguments” itself--additions which had

been used in New York and other States with telling effect against Mr.

Crewes there. Mr. Tooting knew by heart the time of going to press of

every country newspaper which had passes (in exchange for advertising!).

It was two o'clock when the Honourable Hilary reached his office, and

by three all the edicts would have gone forth, and the grape-shot and

canister would have been on their way to demolish the arrogance of this

petty Lord of Leith..

“Tooting's a dangerous man, Vane. You oughtn't to have let him go,” Mr.

Flint had said. “I don't care a snap of my finger for the other fellow.”

How Mr. Tooting's ears would have burned, and how his blood would have

sung with pride to have heard himself called dangerous by the president

of the Northeastern!

He who, during all the valuable years of his services, had never had a

sign that that potentate was cognizant of his humble existence.

The Honourable Brush Bascom, as we know, was a clever man; and although

it had never been given him to improve on the “Book of Arguments,” he

had ideas of his own. On reading Mr. Crewe's defiance that morning, he

had, with characteristic promptitude and a desire to be useful, taken

the first train out of Putnam for Ripton, to range himself by the

side of the Honourable Hilary in the hour of need. The Feudal System

anticipates, and Mr. Bascom did not wait for a telegram.

On the arrival of the chief counsel from Fairview other captains had put

in an appearance, but Mr. Bascom alone was summoned, by a nod, into

the private office. What passed between them seems too sacred to write

about. The Honourable Hilary would take one of the slips from the packet

and give it to Mr. Bascom.

“If that were recommended, editorially, to the Hull Mercury, it might

serve to clear away certain misconceptions in that section.

“Certain,” Mr. Bascom would reply.

“It has been thought wise,” the Honourable Hilary continued, “to send an

annual to the Groveton News. Roberts, his name is. Suppose you recommend

to Mr. Roberts that an editorial on this subject would be timely.”

Slip number two. Mr. Bascom marks it 'Roberts.' Subject: “What would the

State do without the Railroad?”

“And Grenville, being a Prohibition centre, you might get this worked up

for the Advertiser there.”

Mr. Bascom's agate eyes are full of light as he takes slip number three.

Subject: “Mr. Humphrey Crewe has the best-stocked wine cellar in the

State, and champagne every night for dinner.” Slip number four, taken

direct from the second chapter of the “Book of Arguments”: “Mr. Crewe

is a reformer because he has been disappointed in his inordinate

ambitions,” etc. Slip number five: “Mr. Crewe is a summer resident, with

a house in New York,” etc., etc.

Slip number six, “Book of Arguments,” paragraph, chapter: “Humphrey

Crewe, Defamer of our State.” Assigned, among others, to the Ripton

Record.

“Paul Pardriff went up to Leith to-day,” said Mr. Bascom.

“Go to see him,” replied the Honourable Hilary. “I've been thinking

for some time that the advertising in the Ripton Record deserves an

additional annual.”

Mr. Bascom, having been despatched on this business, and having

voluntarily assumed control of the Empire Bureau of Publication, the

chief counsel transacted other necessary legal business with State

Senator Billings and other gentlemen who were waiting. At three o'clock

word was sent in that Mr. Austen Vane was outside, and wished to speak

with his father as soon as the latter was at leisure. Whereupon the

Honourable Hilary shooed out the minor clients, leaned back in his

chair, and commanded that his son be admitted.

“Judge,” said Austen, as he closed the door behind him, “I don't want to

bother you.”

The Honourable Hilary regarded his son for a moment fixedly out of his

little eyes.

“Humph” he said.

Austen looked down at his father. The Honourable Hilary's expression was

not one which would have aroused, in the ordinary man who beheld him,

a feeling of sympathy or compassion: it was the impenetrable look

with which he had faced his opponents for many years. But Austen felt

compassion.

“Perhaps I'd better come in another time--when you are less busy,” he

suggested.

“Who said I was busy?” inquired the Honourable Hilary.

Austen smiled a little sadly. One would have thought, by that smile,

that the son was the older and wiser of the two.

“I didn't mean to cast any reflection on your habitual industry, Judge,”

he said.

“Humph!” exclaimed Mr. Vane. “I've got more to do than sit in the window

and read poetry, if that's what you mean.”

“You never learned how to enjoy life, did you, Judge?” he said. “I don't

believe you ever really had a good time. Own up.”

“I've had sterner things to think about. I've had 'to earn my

living--and give you a good time.”

“I appreciate it,” said Austen.

“Humph! Sometimes I think you don't show it a great deal,” the

Honourable Hilary answered.

“I show it as far as I can, Judge,” said his son. “I can't help the way

I was made.”

“I try to take account of that,” said the Honourable Hilary.

Austen laughed.

“I'll drop in to-morrow morning,” he said.

But the Honourable Hilary pointed to a chair on the other side of the

desk.

“Sit down. To-day's as good as to-morrow,” he remarked, with sententious

significance, characteristically throwing the burden of explanation on

the visitor.

Austen found the opening unexpectedly difficult. He felt that this was a

crisis in their relations, and that it had come at an unfortunate hour.

“Judge,” he said, trying to control the feeling that threatened to creep

into his voice, “we have jogged along for some years pretty peaceably,

and I hope you won't misunderstand what I'm going to say.”

The Honourable Hilary grunted.

“It was at your request that I went into the law. I have learned to like

that profession. I have stuck to it as well as my wandering, Bohemian

nature will permit, and while I do not expect you necessarily to feel

any pride in such progress as I have made, I have hoped--that you might

feel an interest.”

The Honourable Hilary grunted again.

“I suppose I am by nature a free-lance,” Austen continued. “You were

good enough to acknowledge the force of my argument when I told you

it would be best for me to strike out for myself. And I suppose it

was inevitable, such being the case, and you the chief counsel for the

Northeastern Railroads, that I should at some time or another be called

upon to bring suits against your client. It would have been better,

perhaps, if I had not started to practise in this State. I did so from

what I believe was a desire common to both of us to--to live together.”

The Honourable Hilary reached for his Honey Dew, but he did not speak.

“To live together,” Austen repeated. “I want to say that, if I had gone

away, I believe I should always have regretted the fact.” He paused, and

took from his pocket a slip of paper. “I made up my mind from the start

that I would always be frank with you. In spite of my desire to

amass riches, there are some suits against the Northeastern which I

have--somewhat quixotically--refused. Here is a section of the act which

permitted the consolidation of the Northeastern Railroads. You are no

doubt aware of its existence.”

The Honourable Hilary took the slip of paper in his hand and stared

at it. “The rates for fares and freights existing at the time of the

passage of this act shall mot be increased on the roads leased or united

under it.” What his sensations were when he read it no man might have

read in his face, but his hand trembled a little, and along

silence ensued before he gave it back to his son with the simple

comment:--“Well?”

“I do not wish to be understood to ask your legal opinion, although you

probably know that lumber rates have been steadily raised, and if a

suit under that section were successful the Gaylord Lumber Company could

recover a very large sum of money from the Northeastern Railroads,” said

Austen. “Having discovered the section, I believe it to be my duty

to call it to the attention of the Gaylords. What I wish to know is,

whether my taking the case would cause you any personal inconvenience or

distress? If so, I will refuse it.”

“No,” answered the Honourable Hilary, “it won't. Bring suit. Much use

it'll be. Do you expect they can recover under that section?”

“I think it is worth trying,” said Austen.

“Why didn't somebody try it before?” asked the Honourable Hilary.

“See here, Judge, I wish you'd let me out of an argument about it. Suit

is going to be brought, whether I bring it or another man. If you would

prefer for any reason that I shouldn't bring it--I won't. I'd much

rather resign as counsel for the Gaylords--and I am prepared to do so.”

“Bring suit,” answered the Honourable Hilary, quickly, “bring suit by

all means. And now's your time. This seems to be a popular season

for attacking the property which is the foundation of the State's

prosperity.” (“Book of Arguments,” chapter 3.)

In spite of himself, Austen smiled again. Long habit had accustomed

Hilary Vane to put business considerations before family ties; and this

habit had been the secret of his particular success. And now, rather

than admit by the least sign the importance of his son's discovery of

the statute (which he had had in mind for many years, and to which

he had more than once, by the way, called Mr. Flint's attention), the

Honourable Hilary deliberately belittled the matter as part and parcel

of the political tactics against the Northeastern.

Sears caused by differences of opinion are soon healed; words count for

nothing, and it is the soul that attracts or repels. Mr. Vane was not

analytical, he had been through a harassing day, and he was unaware that

it was not Austen's opposition, but Austen's smile, which set the torch

to his anger. Once, shortly after his marriage, when he had come home in

wrath after a protracted quarrel with Mr. Tredway over the orthodoxy

of the new minister, in the middle of his indignant recital of Mr.

Tredway's unwarranted attitude, Sarah Austen had smiled. The smile had

had in it, to be sure, nothing of conscious superiority, but it had been

utterly inexplicable to Hilary Vane. He had known for the first time

what it was to feel murder in the heart, and if he had not rushed out of

the room, he was sure he would have strangled her. After all, the Hilary

Vanes of this world cannot reasonably be expected to perceive the humour

in their endeavours.

Now the son's smile seemed the reincarnation of the mother's. That smile

was in itself a refutation of motive on Austen's part which no words

could have made more emphatic; it had in it (unconsciously, too)

compassion for and understanding of the Honourable Hilary's mood and

limitations. Out of the corner of his mental vision--without grasping

it--the Honourable Hilary perceived this vaguely. It was the smile in

which a parent privately indulges when a child kicks his toy locomotive

because its mechanism is broken. It was the smile of one who,

unforgetful of the scheme of the firmament and the spinning planets,

will not be moved to anger by him who sees but the four sides of a pit.

Hilary Vane grew red around the eyes--a danger signal of the old days.

“Take the suit,” he said. “If you don't, I'll make it known all over the

State that you started it. I'll tell Mr. Flint to-morrow. Take it, do

you hear me? You ask me if I have any pride in you. I answer, yes. I'd

like to see what you can do. I've done what I could for you, and now I

wash my hands of you. Go,--ruin yourself if you want to. You've always

been headed that way, and there's no use trying to stop you. You

don't seem to have any notion of decency or order, or any idea of the

principle on which this government was based. Attack property destroy

it. So much the better for you and your kind. Join the Humphrey

Crewes--you belong with 'em. Give those of us who stand for order and

decency as much trouble as you can. Brand us as rascals trying to enrich

ourselves with politics, and proclaim yourselves saints nobly striving

to get back the rights of the people. If you don't bring that suit, I

tell you I'll give you the credit for it--and I mean what I say.”

Austen got to his feet. His own expression, curiously enough, had not

changed to one of anger. His face had set, but his eyes held the look

that seemed still to express compassion, and what he felt was a sorrow

that went to the depths of his nature. What he had so long feared--what

he knew they had both feared--had come at last.

“Good-by, Judge,” he said.

Hilary Vane stared at him dumbly. His anger had not cooled, his eyes

still flamed, but he suddenly found himself bereft of speech. Austen

put his hand on his father's shoulder, and looked down silently into his

face. But Hilary was stiff as in a rigour, expressionless save for the

defiant red in his eye.

“I don't think you meant all that, Judge, and I don't intend to hold it

against you.”

Still Hilary stared, his lips in the tight line which was the emblem of

his character, his body rigid. He saw his son turn and walk to the door,

and turn again with his handle on the knob, and Hilary did not move. The

door closed, and still he sat there, motionless, expressionless.

Austen was hailed by those in the outer office, but he walked through

them as though the place were empty. Rumours sprang up behind him of

which he was unconscious; the long-expected quarrel had come; Austen had

joined the motley ranks of the rebels under Mr. Crewe. Only the office

boy, Jimmy Towle, interrupted the jokes that were flying by repeating,

with dogged vehemence, “I tell you it ain't so. Austen kicked Ham

downstairs. Ned Johnson saw him.” Nor was it on account of this

particular deed that Austen was a hero in Jimmy's eyes.

Austen, finding himself in the square, looked at his watch. It was

four o'clock. He made his way under the maples to the house in Hanover

Street, halted for a moment contemplatively before the familiar classic

pillars of its porch, took a key from his pocket, and (unprecedented

action!) entered by the front door. Climbing to the attic, he found two

valises--one of which he had brought back from Pepper County--and took

them to his own room. They held, with a little crowding, most of his

possessions, including a photograph of Sarah Austen, which he left on

the bureau to the last. Once or twice he paused in his packing to gaze

at the face, striving to fathom the fleeting quality of her glance

which the photograph had so strangely caught. In that glance nature had

stamped her enigma--for Sarah Austen was a child of nature. Hers was the

gentle look of wild things--but it was more; it was the understanding