Alas! that the great genius who described the battle of Waterloo is not
alive to-day and on this side of the Atlantic, for a subject worthy of
his pen is at hand,--nothing less than that convention of conventions at
which the Honourable Humphrey Crewe of Leith is one of the candidates.
One of the candidates, indeed! Will it not be known, as long as there
are pensions, and a governor and a state-house and a seal and State
sovereignty and a staff, as the Crewe Convention? How charge after
charge was made during the long, hot day and into the night; how the
delegates were carried out limp and speechless and starved and wet
through, and carried in to vote again,--will all be told in time. But
let us begin at the beginning, which is the day before.
But look! it is afternoon, and the candidates are arriving at the
Pelican. The Honourable Adam B. Hunt is the first, and walks up the hill
from the station escorted by such prominent figures as the Honourables
Brush Bascom and Jacob Botcher, and surrounded by enthusiastic
supporters who wear buttons with the image of their leader--goatee and
all--and the singularly prophetic superscription, 'To the Last Ditch!'
Only veterans and experts like Mr. Bascom and Mr. Botcher can recognize
the last ditch when they see it.
Another stir in the street--occasioned by the appearance of the
Honourable Giles Henderson,--of the blameless life. Utter a syllable
against him if you can! These words should be inscribed on his buttons
if he had any--but he has none. They seem to be, unuttered, on the
tongues of the gentlemen who escort the Honourable Giles, United States
Senator Greene and the Honourable Elisha Jane, who has obtained leave
of absence from his consular post to attend the convention,--and
incidentally to help prepare for it.
But who and what is this? The warlike blast of a siren horn is heard,
the crowd in the lobby rushes to the doors, people up-stairs fly to the
windows, and the Honourable Adam B. Hunt leans out and nearly falls out,
but is rescued by Division Superintendent Manning of the Northeastern
Railroads, who has stepped in from Number Seven to give a little private
tug of a persuasive nature to the Honourable Adam's coat-tails. A red
Leviathan comes screaming down Main Street with a white trail of dust
behind it, smothering the occupants of vehicles which have barely
succeeded in getting out of the way, and makes a spectacular finish
before the Pelican by sliding the last fifty feet on locked rear wheels.
A group in the street raises a cheer. It is the People's Champion! Dust
coat, gauntlets, goggles, cannot hide him; and if they did, some one
would recognize that voice, familiar now and endeared to many, and so
suited to command:--“Get that baggage off, and don't waste any time!
Jump out, Watling--that handle turns the other way. Well, Tooting, are
the headquarters ready? What was the matter that I couldn't get you on
the telephone?” (To the crowd.) “Don't push in and scratch the paint.
He's going to back out in a minute, and somebody'll get hurt.”
Mr. Hamilton Tooting (Colonel Hamilton Tooting that is to be--it being
an open secret that he is destined for the staff) is standing hatless
on the sidewalk ready to receive the great man. The crowd in the rotunda
makes a lane, and Mr. Crewe, glancing neither to the right nor left,
walks upstairs; and scarce is he installed in the bridal suite,
surrounded by his faithful workers for reform, than that amazing
reception begins. Mr. Hamilton Tooting, looking the very soul of
hospitality, stands by the doorway with an open box of cigars in his
left hand, pressing them upon the visitors with his right. Reform,
contrary to the preconceived opinion of many, is not made of icicles,
nor answers with a stone a request for bread. As the hours run on,
the visitors grow more and more numerous, and after supper the room
is packed to suffocation, and a long line is waiting in the corridor,
marshalled and kept in good humour by able lieutenants; while Mr.
Crewe is dimly to be perceived through clouds of incense burning in his
honour--and incidentally at his expense--with a welcoming smile and an
appropriate word for each caller, whose waistcoat pockets, when they
emerge, resemble cartridge-belts of cigars.
More cigars were hastily sent for, and more. There are to be but a
thousand delegates to the convention, and at least two thousand men have
already passed through the room--and those who don't smoke have friends.
It is well that Mr. Crewe has stuck to his conservative habit of not
squeezing hands too hard.
“Isn't that Mr. Putter, who keeps a livery-stable here?” inquired Mr.
Crewe, about nine o'clock--our candidate having a piercing eye of his
own. Mr. Putter's coat, being brushed back, has revealed six cigars.
“Why, yes--yes,” says Mr. Watling.
“Is he a delegate?” Mr. Crewe demanded.
“Why, I guess he must be,” says Mr. Watling.
But Mr. Putter is not a delegate.
“You've stood up and made a grand fight, Mr. Crewe,” says another
gentleman, a little later, with a bland, smooth shaven face and strong
teeth to clinch Mr. Crewe's cigars. “I wish I was fixed so as I could
vote for you.”
Mr. Crewe looks at him narrowly.
“You look very much like a travelling man from New York, who tried to
sell me farm machinery,” he answers.
“Where are you from?”
“You ain't exactly what they call a tyro, are you?” says the bland-faced
man; “but I guess you've missed the mark this shot. Well, so long.”
“Hold on!” says Mr. Crewe, “Watling will talk to you.”
And, as the gentleman follows Mr. Wailing through the press, a pamphlet
drops from his pocket to the floor. It is marked 'Catalogue of the
Raines Farm Implement Company.' Mr. Watling picks it up and hands it to
the gentleman, who winks again.
“Tim,” he says, “where can we sit down? How much are you getting out
of this? Brush and Jake Botcher are bidding high down-stairs, and the
quotation on delegates has gone up ten points in ten minutes. It's
mighty good of you to remember old friends, Tim, even if they're not
delegates.”
Meanwhile Mr. Crewe is graciously receiving others who are crowding to
him.
“How are you, Mr. Giddings? How are the cows? I carry some stock that'll
make you sit up--I believe I told you when I was down your way. Of
course, mine cost a little money, but that's one of my hobbies. Come and
see 'em some day. There's a good hotel in Ripton, and I'll have you met
there and drive you back.”
Thus, with a genial and kindly remark to each, he passes from one to the
other, and when the members of the press come to him for his estimate
of the outcome on the morrow, he treats them with the same courtly
consideration.
“Estimate!” cries Mr. Crewe. “Where have your eyes been to-night, my
friends? Have you seen the people coming into these headquarters? Have
you seen 'em pouring into any other headquarters? All the State and
federal office-holders in the country couldn't stop me now. Estimate!
I'll be nominated on the first ballot.”
They wrote it down.
“Thank you, Mr. Crewe,” they said; “that's the kind of talk we like to
hear.”
“And don't forget,” said Mr. Crewe, “to mention this reception in the
accounts.”
Mr. Tooting, who makes it a point from time to time to reconnoitre,
saunters halfway down-stairs and surveys the crowded rotunda from the
landing. Through the blue medium produced by the burning of many cigars
(mostly Mr. Crewe's) he takes note of the burly form of Mr. Thomas
Gaylord beside that of Mr. Redbrook and other rural figures; he takes
note of a quiet corner with a ring of chairs surrounded by scouts and
outposts, although it requires a trained eye such as Mr. Tooting's to
recognize them as such--for they wear no uniforms. They are, in truth,
minor captains of the feudal system, and their present duties consist
(as Mr. Tooting sees clearly) in preventing the innocent and inquisitive
from unprofitable speech with the Honourable Jacob Botcher, who sits in
the inner angle conversing cordially with those who are singled out for
this honour. Still other scouts conduct some of the gentlemen who have
talked with Mr. Botcher up the stairs to a mysterious room on the second
floor. Mr. Tooting discovers that the room is occupied by the Honourable
Brush Bascom; Mr. Tooting learns with indignation that certain of these
guests of Mr. Bascom's are delegates pledged to Mr. Crewe, whereupon he
rushes back to the bridal suite to report to his chief. The cigars
are giving out again, and the rush has slackened, and he detaches the
People's Champion from the line and draws him to the inner room.
“Brush Bascom's conducting a bourse on the second floor and is running
the price up right along,” cried the honest and indignant Mr. Tooting.
“He's stringin' Adam Hunt all right. They say he's got Adam to cough
up six thousand extra since five o'clock, but the question is--ain't he
stringin' us? He paid six hundred for a block of ten not quarter of an
hour ago--and nine of 'em were our delegates.”
It must be remembered that these are Mr. Tooting's words, and Mr.
Crewe evidently treated them as the product of that gentleman's vivid
imagination. Translated, they meant that the Honourable Adam B. Hunt has
no chance for the nomination, but that the crafty Messrs. Botcher
and Bascom are inducing him to think that he has--by making a supreme
effort. The supreme effort is represented by six thousand dollars.
“Are you going to lie down under that?” Mr. Tooting demanded, forgetting
himself in his zeal for reform and Mr. Crewe. But Mr. Tooting, in some
alarm, perceived the eye of his chief growing virtuous and glassy.
“I guess I know when I'm strung, as you call it, Mr. Tooting,” he
replied severely. “This cigar bill alone is enough to support a large
family for several months.”
And with this merited reproof he turned on his heel and went back to his
admirers without, leaving Mr. Tooting aghast, but still resourceful. Ten
minutes later that gentleman was engaged in a private conversation with
his colleague, the Honourable Timothy Wading.
“He's up on his hind legs at last,” said Mr. Tooting; “it looks as if he
was catching on.”
Mr. Wading evidently grasped these mysterious words, for he looked
grave.
“He thinks he's got the nomination cinched, don't he?”
“That's the worst of it,” cried Mr. Tooting.
“I'll see what I can do,” said the Honourable Tim. “He's always talking
about thorough, let him do it thorough.” And Mr. Watling winked.
“Thorough,” repeated Mr. Tooting, delightedly.
“That's it--Colonel,” said Mr. Watling. “Have you ordered your uniform
yet, Ham?”
Mr. Tooting plainly appreciated this joke, for he grinned.
“I guess you won't starve if you don't get that commissionership, Tim,”
he retorted.
“And I guess,” returned Mr. Watling, “that you won't go naked if you
don't have a uniform.”
Victoria's surmise was true. At ten o'clock at night, two days before
the convention, a tall figure had appeared in the empty rotunda of
the Pelican, startling the clerk out of a doze. He rubbed his eyes and
stared, recognized Hilary Vane, and yet failed to recognize him. It was
an extraordinary occasion indeed which would cause Mr. McAvoy to lose
his aplomb; to neglect to seize the pen and dip it, with a flourish,
into the ink, and extend its handle towards the important guest; to omit
a few fitting words of welcome. It was Hilary who got the pen first, and
wrote his name in silence, and by this time Mr. McAvoy had recovered his
presence of mind sufficiently to wield the blotter.
“We didn't expect you to-night, Mr. Vane,” he said, in a voice that
sounded strange to him, “but we've kept Number Seven, as usual. Front!”
“The old man's seen his day, I guess,” Mr. McAvoy remarked, as he
studied the register with a lone reporter. “This Crewe must have got in
on 'em hard, from what they tell me, and Adam Hunt has his dander up.”
The next morning at ten o'clock, while the workmen were still tacking
down the fireproof carpets in headquarters upstairs, and before even the
advance guard of the armies had begun to arrive, the eye of the clerk
was caught by a tall young man rapidly approaching the desk.
“Is Mr. Hilary Vane here?”
“He's in Number Seven,” said Mr. McAvoy, who was cudgelling his brains.
“Give me your card, and I'll send it up.”
“I'll go up,” said the caller, turning on his heel and suiting the
action to the word, leaving Mr. McAvoy to make active but futile
inquiries among the few travelling men and reporters seated about.
“Well, if you fellers don't know him, I give up,” said the clerk,
irritably, “but he looks as if he ought to be somebody. He knows his
business, anyway.”
In the meantime Mr. Vane's caller had reached the first floor; he
hesitated just a moment before knocking at the door of Number Seven, and
the Honourable Hilary's voice responded. The door opened.
Hilary was seated, as usual, beside the marble-topped table, which was
covered with newspapers and memoranda. In the room were Mr. Ridout, the
capital lawyer, and Mr. Manning, the division superintendent. There
was an instant of surprised silence on the part of the three, but the
Honourable Hilary was the only one who remained expressionless.
“If you don't mind, gentlemen,” said the visitor, “I should like to talk
to my father for a few minutes.”
“Why, certainly, Austen,” Mr. Ridout replied, with an attempt at
heartiness. Further words seemed to fail him, and he left the room
somewhat awkwardly, followed by Mr. Manning; but the Honourable Hilary
appeared to take no notice of this proceeding.
“Judge,” said Austen, when the door had closed behind them, “I won't
keep you long. I didn't come down here to plead with you to abandon what
you believe to be your duty, because I know that would be useless. I
have had a talk with Dr. Tredway,” he added gently, “and I realize that
you are risking your life. If I could take you back to Ripton I would,
but I know that I cannot. I see your point of view, and if I were in
your place I should do the same thing. I only wanted to tell you this--”
Austen's voice caught a little, “if--anything should happen, I shall be
at Mrs. Peasley's on Maple Street, opposite the Duncan house.” He laid
his hand for an instant, in the old familiar way, on Hilary's shoulder,
and looked down into the older man's face. It may have been that
Hilary's lips trembled a little. “I--I'll see you later, Judge, when
it's all over. Good luck to you.”
He turned slowly, went to the door and opened it, gave one glance at the
motionless figure in the chair, and went out. He did not hear the voice
that called his name, for the door had shut.
Mr. Ridout and Mr. Manning were talking together in low tones at the
head of the stairs. It was the lawyer who accosted Austen.
“The old gentleman don't seem to be quite himself, Austen. Don't seem
well. You ought to hold him in he can't work as hard as he used to.”
“I think you'll find, Mr. Ridout,” answered Austen, deliberately, “that
he'll perform what's required of him with his usual efficiency.”
Mr. Ridout followed Austen's figure with his eyes until he was hidden by
a turn of the stairs. Then he whistled.
“I can't make that fellow out,” he exclaimed. “Never could. All I know
is that if Hilary Vane pulls us through this mess, in the shape he's in,
it'll be a miracle.
“His mind seems sound enough to-day--but he's lost his grip, I tell you.
I don't wonder Flint's beside himself. Here's Adam Hunt with both feet
in the trough, and no more chance of the nomination than I have, and
Bascom and Botcher teasing him on, and he's got enough votes with Crewe
to lock up that convention for a dark horse. And who's the dark horse?”
Mr. Manning, who was a silent man, pointed with his thumb in the
direction Austen had taken.
“Hilary Vane's own son,” said Mr. Ridout, voicing the gesture; “they
tell me that Tom Gaylord's done some pretty slick work. Now I leave it
to you, Manning, if that isn't a mess!”
At this moment the conversation was interrupted by the appearance on
the stairway of the impressive form of United States Senator Whitredge,
followed by a hall boy carrying the senatorial gripsack. The senator's
face wore a look of concern which could not possibly be misinterpreted.
“How's Hilary?” were his first words.
Mr. Ridout and Mr. Manning glanced at each other.
“He's in Number Seven; you'd better take a look at him, Senator.”
The senator drew breath, directed that his grip be put in the room where
he was to repose that night, produced an amber cigar-holder from a case,
and a cigar from his waistcoat pocket.
“I thought I'd better come down early,” he said, “things aren't
going just as they should, and that's the truth. In fact,” he added,
significantly tapping his pocket, “I've got a letter from Mr. Flint to
Hilary which I may have to use. You understand me.”
“I guessed as much,” said Mr. Ridout.
“Ahem! I saw young Vane going out of the hotel just now,” the senator
remarked. “I am told, on pretty good authority, that under certain
circumstances, which I must confess seem not unlikely at present, he may
be a candidate for the nomination. The fact that he is in town tends to
make the circumstance more probable.”
“He's just been in to see Hilary,” said Mr. Ridout.
“You don't tell me!” said the senator, pausing as he lighted his cigar;
“I was under the impression that they were not on speaking terms.”
“They've evidently got together now, that--” said Mr. Ridout. “I wonder
how old Hilary would feel about it. We couldn't do much with Austen Vane
if he was governor--that's a sure thing.”
The senator pondered a moment.
“It's been badly managed,” he muttered; “there's no doubt of that. Hunt
must be got out of the way. When Bascom and Botcher come, tell them I
want to see them in my room, not in Number Seven.”
And with this impressive command, received with nods of understanding,
Senator Whitredge advanced slowly towards Number Seven, knocked, and
entered. Be it known that Mr. Flint, with characteristic caution, had
not confided even to the senator that the Honourable Hilary had had a
stroke.
“Ah, Vane,” he said, in his most affable tones, “how are you?”
The Honourable Hilary, who was looking over some papers, shot at him a
glance from under his shaggy eyebrows.
“Came in here to find out--didn't you, Whitredge?” he replied.
“What?” said the senator, taken aback; and for once at a loss for words.
The Honourable Hilary rose and stood straighter than usual, and looked
the senator in the eye.
“What's your diagnosis?” he asked. “Superannuated--unfit for
duty--unable to cope with the situation ready to be superseded? Is that
about it?”
To say that Senator Whitredge was startled and uncomfortable would be to
put his case mildly. He had never before seen Mr. Vane in this mood.
“Ha-ha!” he laughed; “the years are coming over us a little, aren't
they? But I guess it isn't quite time for the youngsters to step in
yet.”
“No, Whitredge,” said Mr. Vane, slowly, without taking his eye from
the senator's, “and it won't be until this convention is over. Do you
understand?”
“That's the first good news I've heard this morning,” said the senator,
with the uneasy feeling that, in some miraculous way, the Honourable
Hilary had read the superseding orders from highest authority through
his pocket.
“You may take it as good news or bad news, as you please, but it's a
fact. And now I want 'YOU' to tell Ridout that I wish to see him again,
and to bring in Doby, who is to be chairman of the convention.”
“Certainly,” assented the senator, with alacrity, as he started for
the door. Then he turned. “I'm glad to see you're all right, Vane,” he
added; “I'd heard that you were a little under the weather--a bilious
attack on account of the heat--that's all I meant.” He did not wait for
an answer, nor would he have got one. And he found Mr. Ridout in the
hall.
“Well?” said the lawyer, expectantly, and looking with some curiosity at
the senator's face.
“Well,” said Mr. Whitredge, with marked impatience, “he wants to see you
right away.”
All day long Hilary Vane held conference in Number Seven, and at
six o'clock sent a request that the Honourable Adam visit him. The
Honourable Adam would not come; and the fact leaked out--through the
Honourable Adam.
“He's mad clean through,” reported the Honourable Elisha Jane, to whose
tact and diplomacy the mission had been confided. “He said he would
teach Flint a lesson. He'd show him he couldn't throw away a man as
useful and efficient as he'd been, like a sucked orange.”
“Humph! A sucked orange. That's what he said, is it? A sucked orange,”
Hilary repeated.
“That's what he said,” declared Mr. Jane, and remembered afterwards how
Hilary had been struck by the simile.
At ten o'clock at night, at the very height of the tumult, Senator
Whitredge had received an interrogatory telegram from Fairview, and had
called a private conference (in which Hilary was not included) in a back
room on the second floor (where the conflicting bands of Mr. Crewe and
Mr. Hunt could not be heard), which Mr. Manning and Mr. Jane and State
Senator Billings and Mr. Ridout attended. Query: the Honourable Hilary
had quarrelled with Mr. Flint, that was an open secret; did not Mr.
Vane think himself justified, from his own point of view, in taking a
singular revenge in not over-exerting himself to pull the Honourable
Adam out, thereby leaving the field open for his son, Austen Vane, with
whom he was apparently reconciled? Not that Mr. Flint had hinted of such
a thing! He had, in the telegram, merely urged the senator himself to
see Mr. Hunt, and to make one more attempt to restrain the loyalty to
that candidate of Messrs. Bascom and Botcher.
The senator made the attempt, and failed signally.
It was half-past midnight by the shining face of the clock on the tower
of the state-house, and hope flamed high in the bosom of the Honourable
Adam B. Hunt a tribute to the bellows-like skill of Messrs. Bascom and
Botcher. The bands in the street had blown themselves out, the delegates
were at last seeking rest, the hall boys in the corridors were turning
down the lights, and the Honourable Adam, in a complacent and even
jubilant frame of mind, had put on his carpet slippers and taken off his
coat, when there came a knock at his door. He was not a little amazed
and embarrassed, upon opening it, to see the Honourable Hilary. But
these feelings gave place almost immediately to a sense of triumph; gone
were the days when he had to report to Number Seven. Number Seven, in
the person of Hilary (who was Number Seven), had been forced to come to
him!
“Well, upon my soul!” he exclaimed heartily. “Come in, Hilary.”
He turned up the jets of the chandelier, and gazed at his friend, and
was silent.
“Have a seat, Hilary,” he said, pushing up an armchair.
Mr. Vane sat down. Mr. Hunt took a seat opposite, and waited for his
visitor to speak. He himself seemed to find no words.
“Adam,” said Mr. Vane, at length, “we've known each other for a good
many years.”
“That's so, Hilary. That's so,” Mr. Hunt eagerly assented. What was
coming?
“And whatever harm I've done in my life,” Hilary continued, “I've always
tried to keep my word. I told you, when we met up there by the mill this
summer, that if Mr. Flint had consulted me about your candidacy, before
seeing you in New York, I shouldn't have advised it--this time.”
The Honourable Adam's face stiffened.
“That's what you said. But--”
“And I meant it,” Mr. Vane interrupted. “I was never pledged to your
candidacy, as a citizen. I've been thinking over my situation some, this
summer, and I'll tell you in so many plain words what it is. I guess you
know--I guess everybody knows who's thought about it. I deceived myself
for a long time by believing that I earned my living as the attorney for
the Northeastern Railroads. I've drawn up some pretty good papers for
them, and I've won some pretty difficult suits. I'm not proud of 'em
all, but let that go. Do you know what I am?”
The Honourable Adam was capable only of a startled ejaculation. Was
Hilary Vane in his right senses?
“I'm merely their paid political tool,” Mr. Vane continued, in the same
tone. “I've sold them my brain, and my right of opinion as a citizen. I
wanted to make this clear to you first of all. Not that you didn't know
it, but I wished you to know that I know it. When Mr. Flint said that
you were to be the Republican nominee, my business was to work to get
you elected, which I did. And when it became apparent that you couldn't
be nominated--”
“Hold on!” cried the Honourable Adam.
“Please wait until I have finished. When it became apparent that you
couldn't be nominated, Mr. Flint sent me to try to get you to withdraw,
and he decreed that the new candidate should pay your expenses up to
date. I failed in that mission.”
“I don't blame you, Hilary,” exclaimed Mr. Hunt. “I told you so at the
time. But I guess I'll soon be in a position where I can make Flint walk
the tracks--his own tracks.”
“Adam,” said Mr. Vane, “it is because I deserve as much of the blame as
Mr. Flint that I am here.”
Again Mr. Hunt was speechless. The Honourable Hilary Vane in an
apologetic mood! A surmise flashed into the brain of the Honourable
Adam, and sparkled there. The Honourable Giles Henderson was prepared to
withdraw, and Hilary had come, by authority, to see if he would pay the
Honourable Giles' campaign expenses. Well, he could snap his fingers at
that.
“Flint has treated me like a dog,” he declared.
“Mr. Flint never pretended,” answered Mr. Vane, coldly, “that the
nomination and election of a governor was anything but a business
transaction. His regard for you is probably unchanged, but the interests
he has at stake are too large to admit of sentiment as a factor.”
“Exactly,” exclaimed Mr. Hunt. “And I hear he hasn't treated you just
right, Hilary. I understand--”
Hilary's eyes flashed for the first time.
“Never mind that, Adam,” he said quietly; “I've been treated as I
deserve. I have nothing whatever to complain of from Mr. Flint. I will
tell you why I came here to-night. I haven't felt right about you since
that interview, and the situation to-night is practically what it was
then. You can't be nominated.”
“Can't be nominated!” gasped Mr. Hunt. And he reached to the table for
his figures. “I'll have four hundred on the first ballot, and I've got
two hundred and fifty more pledged to me as second choice. If you've
come up here at this time of night to try to deceive me on that, you
might as well go back and wire Flint it's no use. Why, I can name the
delegates, if you'll listen.”
Mr. Vane shook his head sadly. And, confident as he was, the movement
sent a cold chill down the Honourable Adam's spine, for faith in Mr.
Vane's judgment had become almost a second nature. He had to force
himself to remember that this was not the old Hilary.
“You won't have three hundred, Adam, at any time,” answered Mr. Vane.
“Once you used to believe what I said, and if you won't now, you won't.
But I can't go away without telling you what I came for.”
“What's that?” demanded Mr. Hunt, wonderingly.
“It's this,” replied Hilary, with more force than he had yet shown.
“You can't get that nomination. If you'll let me know what your campaign
expenses have been up to date,--all of 'em, you understand, to-night
too,--I'll give you a check for them within the next two weeks.”
“Who makes this offer?” demanded Mr. Hunt, with more curiosity than
alarm; “Mr. Flint?”
“No,” said Hilary; “Mr. Flint does not use the road's funds for such
purposes.”
“Henderson?”
“No,” said Hilary; “I can't see what difference it makes to you.”
The Honourable Adam had an eminently human side, and he laid his hand on
Mr. Vane's knee.
“I think I've got a notion as to where that money would come from,
Hilary,” he said. “I'm much obliged to you, my friend. I wouldn't take
it even if I thought you'd sized up the situation right. But--I don't
agree with you this time. I know I've got the nomination. And I want
to say once more, that I think you're a square man, and I don't hold
anything against you.”
Mr. Vane rose.
“I'm sorry, Adam,” he said; “my offer holds good after to-morrow.”
“After to-morrow!”
“Yes,” said the Honourable Hilary. “I don't feel right about this thing.
Er--good night, Adam.”
“Hold on!” cried Mr. Hunt, as a new phase of the matter struck him.
“Why, if I got out--”
“What then?” said Mr. Vane, turning around.
“Oh, I won't get out,” said Mr. Hunt, “but if I did,--why, there
wouldn't, according to your way of thinking, be any chance for a dark
horse.”
“What do you mean?” demanded Mr. Vane.
“Now don't get mad, Hilary. I guess, and you know, that Flint hasn't
treated you decently this summer after all you've done for him, and I
admire the way you're standing by him. I wouldn't do it. I just wanted
to say,” Mr. Hunt added slowly, “that I respect you all the more
for trying to get me out. If--always according to your notion of the
convention--if I don't get out, and haven't any chance, they tell me on
pretty good authority Austen Vane will get the nomination.”
Hilary Vane walked to the door, opened it and went out, and slammed it
behind him.
It is morning,--a hot morning, as so many recall,--and the partisans
of the three leaders are early astir, and at seven-thirty Mr. Tooting
discovers something going on briskly which he terms “dealing in
futures.” My vote is yours as long as you are in the race, but after
that I have something negotiable. The Honourable Adam Hunt strolls into
the rotunda after an early breakfast, with a toothpick in his mouth, and
is pointed out by the sophisticated to new arrivals as the man who spent
seven thousand dollars over night, much of which is said to have stuck
in the pockets of two feudal chiefs who could be named. Is it possible
that there is a split in the feudal system at last? that the two feudal
chiefs (who could be named) are rebels against highest authority?
A smile from the sophisticated one. This duke and baron have merely
stopped to pluck a bird; it matters not whether or not the bird is an
erstwhile friend--he has been outlawed by highest authority, and is fair
game. The bird (with the toothpick in his mouth) creates a smile from
other chiefs of the system in good standing who are not too busy to
look at him. They have ceased all attempts to buttonhole him, for he is
unapproachable.
The other bird, the rebel of Leith, who has never been in the feudal
system at all, they have stopped laughing at. It is he who has brought
the Empire to its most precarious state.
And now, while strangers from near and far throng into town, drawn by
the sensational struggle which is to culminate in battle to-day, Mr.
Crewe is marshalling his forces. All the delegates who can be collected,
and who wear the button with the likeness and superscription of Humphrey
Crewe, are drawn up beside the monument in the park, where the Ripton
Band is stationed; and presently they are seen by cheering crowds
marching to martial music towards the convention hall, where they
collect in a body, with signs and streamers in praise of the People's
Champion well to the front and centre. This is generally regarded as a
piece of consummate general ship on the part of their leader. They are
applauded from the galleries,--already packed,--especially from one
conspicuous end where sit that company of ladies (now so famed) whose
efforts have so materially aided the cause of the People's Champion. Gay
streamers vie with gayer gowns, and morning papers on the morrow will
have something to say about the fashionable element and the special car
which brought them from Leith.
“My, but it is hot!”
The hall is filled now, with the thousand delegates, or their
representatives who are fortunate enough to possess their credentials.
Something of this matter later. General Doby, chairman of the
convention, an impressive but mournful figure, could not call a roll
if he wanted to. Not that he will want to! Impossible to tell, by the
convenient laws of the State, whether the duly elected delegates of
Hull or Mercer or Truro are here or not, since their credentials may
be bought or sold or conferred. Some political giants, who have not
negotiated their credentials, are recognized as they walk down the
aisle: the statesmanlike figure of Senator Whitredge (a cheer); that of
Senator Green (not so statesmanlike, but a cheer); Congressman
Fairplay (cheers); and--Hilary Vane! His a figure that does not inspire
cheers,--least of all to-day,--the man upon whose shoulders rests the
political future of the Northeastern. The conservative Mr. Tredways and
other Lincoln radicals of long ago who rely on his strength and judgment
are not the sort to cheer. And yet--and yet Hilary inspires some feeling
when, with stooping gait, he traverses the hall, and there is a hush
in many quarters as delegates and spectators watch his progress to the
little room off the platform: the general's room, as the initiated know.
Ah, but few know what a hateful place it is to Hilary Vane to-day,
this keyboard at which he has sat so complacently in years gone by, the
envied of conventions. He sits down wearily at the basswood table, and
scarcely hears the familiar sounds without, which indicate that the
convention of conventions has begun. Extraordinary phenomenon at such
a time, scenes of long ago and little cherished then, are stealing into
his mind.
The Reverend Mr. Crane (so often chaplain of the Legislature, and known
to the irreverent as the chaplain of the Northeastern) is praying now
for guidance in the counsels of this great gathering of the people's
representatives. God will hear Mr. Botcher better if he closes his eyes;
which he does. Now the platform is being read by State Senator Billings;
closed eyes would best suit this proceeding, too. As a parallel to that
platform, one can think only of the Ten Commandments. The Republican
Party (chosen children of Israel) must be kept free from the domination
of corporations. (Cheers and banner waving for a full minute.) Some
better method of choosing delegates which will more truly reflect
the will of the people. (Plank of the Honourable Jacob Botcher, whose
conscience is awakening.) Never mind the rest. It is a triumph for Mr.
Crewe, and is all printed in that orthodox (reform) newspaper, the
State Tribune, with urgent editorials that it must be carried out to the
letter.
And what now? Delegates, credential holders, audience, and the Reverend
Mr. Crane draw long breaths of heated carbon dioxide. Postmaster
Burrows of Edmundton, in rounded periods, is putting in nomination his
distinguished neighbour and fellow-citizen, the Honourable Adam B.
Hunt, who can subscribe and say amen to every plank in that platform.
He believes it, he has proclaimed it in public, and he embodies it. Mr.
Burrows indulges in slight but effective sarcasm of sham reformers and
so-called business men who perform the arduous task of cutting coupons
and live in rarefied regions where they can only be seen by the common
people when the light is turned on. (Cheers from two partisan bodies
and groans and hisses from another. General Doby, with a pained face,
pounding with the gavel. This isn't a circumstance to what's coming,
General.)
After General Doby has succeeded in abating the noise in honour-of the
Honourable Adam, there is a hush of expectancy. Humphrey Crewe, who has
made all this trouble and enthusiasm, is to be nominated next, and the
Honourable Timothy Wailing of Newcastle arises to make that celebrated
oration which the cynical have called the “thousand-dollar speech.”
And even if they had named it well (which is not for a moment to be
admitted!), it is cheap for the price. How Mr. Crewe's ears must
tingle as he paces his headquarters in the Pelican! Almost would it be
sacrilege to set down cold, on paper, the words that come, burning, out
of the Honourable Timothy's loyal heart. Here, gentlemen, is a man at
last, not a mere puppet who signs his name when a citizen of New York
pulls the string; one who is prepared to make any sacrifice,--to spend
his life, if need be, in their service. (A barely audible voice, before
the cheering commences, “I guess that's so.”) Humphrey Crewe needs no
defence--the Honourable Timothy avers--at his hands, or any one's. Not
merely an idealist, but a practical man who has studied the needs of the
State; unselfish to the core; longing, like Washington, the Father of
his Country, to remain in a beautiful country home, where he dispenses
hospitality with a flowing hand to poor and rich alike, yet harking to
the call of duty. Leaving, like the noble Roman of old, his plough in
the furrow--(Same voice as before, “I wish he'd left his automobil'
thar!” Hisses and laughter.) The Honourable Timothy, undaunted, snatches
his hand from the breast of his Prince Albert and flings it, with a
superb gesture, towards the Pelican. “Gentlemen, I have the honour to
nominate to this convention that peerless leader for the right, the
Honourable Humphrey Crewe of Leith--our next governor.”
General Andrew Jackson himself, had he been alive and on this historic
ground and chairman of that convention, could scarce have quelled the
tumult aroused by this name and this speech--much less General Doby.
Although a man of presence, measurable by scales with weights enough,
our general has no more ponderosity now than a leaf in a mountain
storm at Hale--and no more control over the hurricane. Behold him now,
pounding with his gavel on something which should give forth a
sound, but doesn't. Who is he (to change the speech's figure--not the
general's), who is he to drive a wild eight-horse team, who is fit only
to conduct Mr. Flint's oxen in years gone by?
It is a memorable scene, sketched to life for the metropolitan press.
The man on the chair, his face lighted by a fanatic enthusiasm, is the
Honourable Hamilton Tooting, coatless and collarless, leading the cheers
that shake the building, that must have struck terror to the soul of
Augustus P. Flint himself--fifty miles away. But the endurance of the
human throat is limited.
Why, in the name of political strategy, has United States Senator Greene
been chosen to nominate the Honourable Giles Henderson of Kingston? Some
say that it is the will of highest authority, others that the senator
is a close friend of the Honourable Giles--buys his coal from him,
wholesale. Both surmises are true. The senator's figure is not
impressive, his voice less so, and he reads from manuscript, to the
accompaniment of continual cries of “Louder!” A hook for Leviathan! “A
great deal of dribble,” said the senator, for little rocks sometimes
strike fire, “has been heard about the 'will of the people.'”
“The Honourable Giles Henderson is beholden to no man and to no
corporation, and will go into office prepared to do justice impartially
to all.”
“Bu--copia verborum--let us to the main business!”
To an hundred newspapers, to Mr. Flint at Fairview, and other important
personages ticks out the momentous news that the balloting has begun. No
use trying to hold your breath until the first ballot is announced;
it takes time to obtain the votes of one thousand men--especially when
neither General Doby nor any one else knows who they are! The only way
is to march up on the stage by counties and file past the ballot-box.
Putnam, with their glitter-eyed duke, Mr. Bascom, at their
head--presumably solid for Adam B. Hunt; Baron Burrows, who farms out
the post-office at Edmundton, leads Edmunds County; Earl Elisha Jane,
consul at some hot place where he spends the inclement months drops the
first ticket for Haines County, ostensibly solid for home-made virtue
and the Honourable Giles.
An hour and a quarter of suspense and torture passes, while collars
wilt and coats come off, and fans in the gallery wave incessantly, and
excited conversation buzzes in every quarter. And now, see! there is
whispering on the stage among the big-bugs. Mr. Chairman Doby rises with
a paper in his hand, and the buzzing dies down to silence.
The Honourable Giles Henderson of Kingston has..398
The Honourable Humphrey Crewe of Leith has... 353
The Honourable Adam B. Hunt of Edmundton has.. 249
And a majority being required, there is no choice!
Are the supporters of the People's Champion crest-fallen, think you? Mr.
Tooting is not leading them for the moment, but is pressing through the
crowd outside the hall and flying up the street to the Pelican and the
bridal suite, where he is first with the news. Note for an unabridged
biography: the great man is discovered sitting quietly by the window,
poring over a book on the modern science of road-building, some notes
from which he is making for his first message. And instead of the
reek of tobacco smoke, the room is filled with the scent of the floral
tributes brought down by the Ladies' Auxiliary from Leith. In Mr.
Crewe's right-hand pocket, neatly typewritten, is his speech of
acceptance. He is never caught unprepared. Unkind, now, to remind him
of that prediction made last night about the first ballot to the
newspapers--and useless.
“I told you last night they were buyin' 'em right under our noses,”
cried Mr. Tooting, in a paroxysm of indignation, “and you wouldn't
believe me. They got over one hundred and sixty away from us.”
“It strikes me, Mr. Tooting,” said Mr. Crewe, “that it was your business
to prevent that.”
There will no doubt be a discussion, when the biographer reaches this
juncture, concerning the congruity of reform delegates who can be
bought. It is too knotty a point of ethics to be dwelt upon here.
“Prevent it!” echoed Mr. Tooting, and in the strong light of the
righteousness of that eye reproaches failed him. “But there's a whole
lot of 'em can be seen, right now, while the ballots are being taken. It
won't be decided on the next ballot.”
“Mr. Tooting,” said Mr. Crewe, indubitably proving that he had the
qualities of a leader--if such proof were necessary, “go back to the
convention. I have no doubt of the outcome, but that doesn't mean you
are to relax your efforts. Do you understand?”
“I guess I do,” replied Mr. Tooting, and was gone. “He still has his
flag up,” he whispered into the Honourable Timothy Watling's ear, when
he reached the hall. “He'll stand a little more yet.”
Mr. Tooting, at times, speaks a language unknown to us--and the
second ballot is going on. And during its progress the two principal
lieutenants of the People's Champion were observed going about the
hall apparently exchanging the time of day with various holders of
credentials. Mr. Jane, too, is going about the hall, and Postmaster
Burrows, and Postmaster Bill Fleeting of Brampton, and the Honourable
Nat Billings, and Messrs. Bascom and Botcher, and Mr. Manning, division
superintendent, and the Honourable Orrin Young, railroad commissioner
and candidate for reappointment--all are embracing the opportunity to
greet humble friends or to make new acquaintances. Another hour and a
quarter, with the temperature steadily rising and the carbon dioxide
increasing--and the second ballot is announced.
The Honourable Giles Henderson of Kingston has.. 440
The Honourable Humphrey Crewe of Leith has.... 336
The Honourable Adam B. Hunt of Edmundton has... 255
And there are three votes besides improperly made out!
What the newspapers call indescribable excitement ensues. The three
votes improperly made out are said to be trip passes accidentally
dropped into the box by the supporters of the Honourable Elisha Jane.
And add up the sum total of the votes! Thirty-one votes more than there
are credentials in the hall! Mystery of mysteries how can it be? The
ballot, announces General Doby, after endless rapping, is a blank.
Cheers, recriminations, exultation, disgust of decent citizens, attempts
by twenty men to get the eye of the president (which is too watery to
see any of them), and rushes for the platform to suggest remedies or ask
what is going to be done about such palpable fraud. What can be done?
Call the roll! How in blazes can you call the roll when you don't
know who's here? Messrs. Jane, Botcher, Bascom, and Fleming are not
disturbed, and improve their time. Watling and Tooting rush to the
bridal suite, and rush back again to demand justice. General Doby
mingles his tears with theirs, and somebody calls him a jellyfish. He
does not resent it. Friction makes the air hotter and hotter--Shadrach,
Meshach, and Abednego would scarce enter into this furnace,--and General
Doby has a large damp spot on his back as he pounds and pounds and
pounds until we are off again on the third ballot. No dinner, and
three-thirty P.M.! Two delegates have fainted, but the essential parts
of them--the credentials--are left behind.
Four-forty, whispering again, and the gavel drops.
The Honourable Giles Henderson of Kingston has.. 412
The Honourable Humphrey Crewe of Leith has... 325
The Honourable Adam B. Hunt of Edmundton has... 250
And there is no choice on the third ballot!
Thirteen delegates are actually missing this time. Scour the town! And
now even the newspaper adjectives describing the scene have given out.
A persistent and terrifying rumour goes the rounds, where's Tom Gaylord?
Somebody said he was in the hall a moment ago, on a Ripton credential.
If so, he's gone out again--gone out to consult the dark horse, who is
in town, somewhere. Another ominous sign: Mr. Redbrook, Mr. Widgeon
of Hull, and the other rural delegates who have been voting for
the People's Champion, and who have not been observed in friendly
conversation with anybody at all, now have their heads together. Mr.
Billings goes sauntering by, but cannot hear what they are saying.
Something must be done, and right away, and the knowing metropolitan
reporters are winking at each other and declaring darkly that a
sensation is about to turn up.
Where is Hilary Vane? Doesn't he realize the danger? Or--traitorous
thought!--doesn't he care? To see his son nominated would be a singular
revenge for the indignities which are said to have been heaped upon
him. Does Hilary Vane, the strong man of the State, merely sit at the
keyboard, powerless, while the tempest itself shakes from the organ a
new and terrible music? Nearly, six hours he has sat at the basswood
table, while senators, congressmen, feudal chiefs, and even Chairman
Doby himself flit in and out, whisper in his ear, set papers before
him, and figures and problems, and telegrams from highest authority. He
merely nods his head, says a word now and then, or holds his peace. Does
he know what he's about? If they had not heard things concerning his
health,--and other things,--they would still feel safe. He seems the
only calm man to be found in the hall--but is the calm aberration?
A conference in the corner of the platform, while the fourth ballot is
progressing, is held between Senators Whitredge and Greene, Mr. Ridout
and Mr. Manning. So far the Honourable Hilary has apparently done
nothing but let the storm take its course; a wing-footed messenger
has returned who has seen Mr. Thomas Gaylord walking rapidly up Maple
Street, and Austen Vane (most astute and reprehensible of politicians)
is said to be at the Widow Peasley's, quietly awaiting the call. The
name of Austen Vane--another messenger says--is running like wildfire
through the hall, from row to row. Mr. Crewe has no chance--so rumour
goes. A reformer (to pervert the saying of a celebrated contemporary
humorist) must fight Marquis of Queensberry to win; and the People's
Champion, it is averred, has not. Shrewd country delegates who had
listened to the Champion's speeches and had come to the capital prepared
to vote for purity, had been observing the movements since yesterday, of
Mr. Tooting and Mr. Wading with no inconsiderable interest. Now was the
psychological moment for Austen Vane, but who was to beard Hilary?
No champion was found, and the Empire, the fate of which was in the
hands of a madman, was cracking. Let an individual of character and
known anti-railroad convictions (such as the gentleman said to be at the
Widow Peasley's) be presented to the convention, and they would nominate
him. Were Messrs. Bascom and Botcher going to act the part of Samsons?
Were they working for revenge and a new regime? Mr. Whitredge started
for the Pelican, not at his ordinary senatorial gait, to get Mr. Flint
on the telephone.
The result of the fourth ballot was announced, and bedlam broke loose.
The Honourable Giles Henderson of Kingston has.. 419 The Honourable
Humphrey Crewe of Leith has.... 337 The Honourable Adam B. Hunt of
Edmundton has... 256
Total, one thousand and eleven out of a thousand! Two delegates
abstained from voting, and proclaimed the fact, but were heard only a
few feet away. Other delegates, whose flesh and blood could stand the
atmosphere no longer, were known to have left the hall! Aha! the secret
is out, if anybody could hear it. At the end of every ballot several
individuals emerge and mix with the crowd in the street. Astute men
sometimes make mistakes, and the following conversation occurs between
one of the individuals in question and Mr. Crewe's chauffeur.
Individual: “Do you want to come in and see the convention and
vote?”
Chauffeur: “I am Frenchman.”
Individual: “That doesn't cut any ice. I'll make out the ballot,
and all you'll have to do is to drop it in the box.”
Chauffeur: “All right; I vote for Meester Crewe.”
Sudden disappearance of the individual.
Nor is this all. The Duke of Putnam, for example, knows how many
credentials there are in his county--say, seventy-six. He counts the
men present and voting, and his result is sixty-one. Fifteen are absent,
getting food or--something else. Fifteen vote over again. But, as the
human brain is prone to error, and there are men in the street, the Duke
miscalculates; the Earl of Haines miscalculates, too. Result--eleven
over a thousand votes, and some nine hundred men in the hall!
How are you going to stop it? Mr. Watling climbs up on the platform
and shakes his fist in General Doby's face, and General Doby tearfully
appeals for an honest ballot--to the winds.
In the meantime the Honourable Elisha Jane, spurred on by desperation
and thoughts of a 'dolce far niente' gone forever; has sought and
cornered Mr. Bascom.
“For God's sake, Brush,” cries the Honourable Elisha, “hasn't this thing
gone far enough? A little of it is all right--the boys understand
that; but have you thought what it means to you and me if these blanked
reformers get in,--if a feller like Austen Vane is nominated?”
That cold, hard glitter which we have seen was in Mr. Bascom's eyes.
“You fellers have got the colic,” was the remark of the arch-rebel. “Do
you think old Hilary doesn't know what he's about?”
“It looks that way to me,” said Mr. Jane.
“It looks that way to Doby too, I guess,” said Mr. Bascom, with a glance
of contempt at the general; “he's lost about fifteen pounds to-day. Did
Hilary send you down here?” he demanded.
“No,” Mr. Jane confessed.
“Then go back and chase yourself around the platform some more,” was Mr.
Bascom's unfeeling advice, “and don't have a fit here. All the brains in
this hall are in Hilary's room. When he's ready to talk business with me
in behalf of the Honourable Giles Henderson, I guess he'll do so.”
But fear had entered the heart of the Honourable Elisha, and there was
a sickly feeling in the region of his stomach which even the strong
medicine administered by the Honourable Brush failed to alleviate.
He perceived Senator Whitredge, returned from the Pelican. But the
advice--if any--the president of the Northeastern has given the senator
is not forthcoming in practice. Mr. Flint, any more than Ulysses
himself, cannot recall the tempests when his own followers have slit
the bags--and in sight of Ithaca! Another conference at the back of the
stage, out of which emerges State Senator Nat Billings and gets the ear
of General Doby.
“Let 'em yell,” says Mr. Billings--as though the general, by raising
one adipose hand, could quell the storm. Eyes are straining, scouts
are watching at the back of the hall and in the street, for the first
glimpse of the dreaded figure of Mr. Thomas Gaylord. “Let 'em yell;”
counsels Mr. Billings, “and if they do nominate anybody nobody'll
hear 'em. And send word to Putnam County to come along on their fifth
ballot.”
It is Mr. Billings himself who sends word to Putnam County, in the name
of the convention's chairman. Before the messenger can reach Putnam
County another arrives on the stage, with wide pupils, “Tom Gaylord is
coming!” This momentous news, Marconi-like, penetrates the storm, and is
already on the floor. Mr. Widgeon and Mr. Redbrook are pushing their
way towards the door. The conference, emboldened by terror, marches in
a body into the little room, and surrounds the calmly insane
Lieutenant-general of the forces; it would be ill-natured to say that
visions of lost railroad commissionerships, lost consulships, lost
postmasterships,--yes, of lost senatorships, were in these loyal heads
at this crucial time.
It was all very well (so said the first spokesman) to pluck a few
feathers from a bird so bountifully endowed as the Honourable Adam, but
were not two gentlemen who should be nameless carrying the joke a little
too far? Mr. Vane unquestionably realized what he was doing, but--was
it not almost time to call in the two gentlemen and--and come to some
understanding?
“Gentlemen,” said the Honourable Hilary, apparently unmoved, “I have not
seen Mr. Bascom or Mr. Botcher since the sixteenth day of August, and I
do not intend to.”
Some clearing of throats followed this ominous declaration,--and a
painful silence. The thing must be said and who would say it? Senator
Whitredge was the hero.
Mr. Thomas Gaylord has just entered the convention hall, and is said
to be about to nominate--a dark horse. The moment was favourable, the
convention demoralized, and at least one hundred delegates had left the
hall. (How about the last ballot, Senator, which showed 1011?)
The Honourable Hilary rose abruptly, closed the door to shut out the
noise, and turned and looked Mr. Whitredge in the eye.
“Who is the dark horse?” he demanded.
The members of the conference coughed again, looked at each other,
and there was a silence. For some inexplicable reason, nobody cared to
mention the name of Austen Vane.
The Honourable Hilary pointed at the basswood table.
“Senator,” he said, “I understand you have been telephoning Mr. Flint.
Have you got orders to sit down there?”
“My dear sir,” said the Senator, “you misunderstand me.”
“Have you got orders to sit down there?” Mr. Vane repeated.
“No,” answered the Senator, “Mr. Flint's confidence in you--”
The Honourable Hilary sat down again, and at that instant the door was
suddenly flung open by Postmaster Bill Fleeting of Brampton, his genial
face aflame with excitement and streaming with perspiration. Forgotten,
in this moment, is senatorial courtesy and respect for the powers of the
feudal system.
“Say, boys,” he cried, “Putnam County's voting, and there's be'n no
nomination and ain't likely to be. Jim Scudder, the station-master at
Wye, is here on credentials, and he says for sure the thing's fizzled
out, and Tom Gaylord's left the hall!”
Again a silence, save for the high hum let in through the open doorway.
The members of the conference stared at the Honourable Hilary, who
seemed to have forgotten their presence; for he had moved his chair to
the window, and was gazing out over the roofs at the fast-fading red in
the western sky.
An hour later, when the room was in darkness save for the bar of
light that streamed in from the platform chandelier, Senator Whitredge
entered.
“Hilary!” he said.
There was no answer. Mr. Whitredge felt in his pocket for a match,
struck it, and lighted the single jet over the basswood table. Mr. Vane
still sat by the window. The senator turned and closed the door, and
read from a paper in his hand; so used was he to formality that he read
it formally, yet with a feeling of intense relief, of deference, of
apology.
“Fifth ballot:--The Honourable Giles Henderson of Kingston has... 587;
The Honourable Adam B. Hunt of Edmundton has... 230; The Honourable
Humphrey Crewe of Leith has... 154.
“And Giles Henderson is nominated--Hilary?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Vane.
“I don't think any of us were--quite ourselves to-day. It wasn't that we
didn't believe in you--but we didn't have all the threads in our hands,
and--for reasons which I think I can understand--you didn't take us into
your confidence. I want to--”
The words died on the senator's lips. So absorbed had he been in his
momentous news, and solicitous over the result of his explanation, that
his eye looked outward for the first time, and even then accidentally.
“Hilary!” he cried; “for God's sake, what's the matter? Are you sick?”
“Yes, Whitredge,” said Mr. Vane, slowly, “sick at heart.”
It was but natural that these extraordinary and incomprehensible words
should have puzzled and frightened the senator more than ever.
“Your heart!” he repeated.
“Yes, my heart,” said Hilary.
The senator reached for the ice-water on the table.
“Here,” he cried, pouring out a glass, “it's only the heat--it's been a
hard day--drink this.”
But Hilary did not raise his arm. The door opened others coming to
congratulate Hilary Vane on the greatest victory he had ever won.
Offices were secure once more, the feudal system intact, and rebels
justly punished; others coming to make their peace with the commander
whom, senseless as they were, they had dared to doubt.
They crowded past each other on the threshold, and stood grouped beyond
the basswood table, staring--staring--men suddenly come upon a tragedy
instead of a feast, the senator still holding the glass of water in a
hand that trembled and spilled it. And it was the senator, after all,
who first recovered his presence of mind. He set down the water, pushed
his way through the group into the hall, where the tumult and the
shouting die. Mr. Giles Henderson, escorted, is timidly making his
way towards the platform to read his speech of acceptance of a willing
bondage, when a voice rings out:--“If there is a physician in the house,
will he please come forward?”
And then a hush,--and then the buzz of comment. Back to the little room
once more, where they are gathered speechless about Hilary Vane. And the
doctor comes young Dr. Tredway of Ripton, who is before all others.
“I expected this to happen, gentlemen,” he said, “and I have been here
all day, at the request of Mr. Vane's son, for this purpose.”
“Austen!”
It was Hilary who spoke.
“I have sent for him,” said the doctor. “And now, gentlemen, if you will
kindly--”
They withdrew and the doctor shut the door. Outside, the Honourable
Giles is telling them how seriously he regards the responsibility of
the honour thrust upon him by a great party. But nobody hears him in the
wild rumours that fly from mouth to mouth as the hall empties. Rushing
in against the tide outpouring, tall, stern, vigorous, is a young man
whom many recognize, whose name is on many lips as they make way for
him, who might have saved them if he would. The door of the little room
opens, and he stands before his father, looking down at him. And the
stern expression is gone from his face.
“Austen!” said Mr. Vane.
“Yes, Judge.”
“Take me away from here. Take me home--now--to-night.”
Austen glanced at Dr. Tredway.
“It is best,” said the doctor; “we will take him home--to-night.”