On the way over Anne sat with Winifred. She had insisted that Amy should
have the front seat with Max. Amy was much better. Life had begun to
flow into her veins like wine. She had written to Murray: "It is as if a
miracle had happened."
Winifred, on the back seat, talked to Anne. She had a great deal to say
about Maxwell's future. "I am sorry he bought the farm."
"Oh, not really." Anne's attention strayed. She had one of the puppies
in her lap. He kept peeping out from between the folds of her cape with
his bright eyes. "Isn't he a darling, Winifred?"
"He ought to sell it." Winifred liked dogs, but at this moment she
wanted Anne's attention. "He ought to sell the farm. He has a great
future before him. Everybody says it. He simply must not settle down."
"Oh, well, he won't," said Anne easily.
"He will if you let him."
"If I let him?"
"If he thinks you like it."
There was a deep flush on Winifred's cheeks. She was really a very
handsome girl, with bright brown hair and brown eyes. She wore a small
brown hat and a sable collar. The collar was open and showed her strong
white throat.
"If he thinks you like it," she repeated, "he will stay; and he belongs
to the world; nobody must hold him back. He's the biggest man in his
party to-day. There is no limit to his powers."
Anne stared at her. "Of course there isn't." She wondered why Winifred
seemed so terribly in earnest about it. She pulled the puppy's ears.
"But I should hate to have him sell the farm."
Winifred settled back with a sharp sigh and gazed at the long gray road
ahead of her. She gazed indeed into a rather blank future. Her talents
would be, she felt, to some extent wasted. If Max rose to greater
heights of fame it would be because of his own unaided efforts. This
child would be no help to him.
The speech Max made to his constituents was not cool and clear-cut like
the speeches which Anne had heard him make to his colleagues in the
House. He spoke now with warmth and persuasiveness. Anne, sitting in the
big car on the edge of the crowd, found herself listening intently. She
was aware, as he went on, of a new Max. The mass of men who had gathered
were largely foreigners who knew little of the real meanings of
democracy. Max was telling them what it meant to be a good American. He
told it simply, but he was in dead earnest. Anne felt that this
earnestness was the secret of his power. He wanted men to be good
Americans, he wanted them to know the privileges they might enjoy in a
free country, and he was telling them how to keep it free-not by
violence and mob rule but by remembering their obligations as citizens.
He told them that they must be always on the side of law and order, that
they must fight injustice not with the bomb and the red flag but with
their votes.
"Vote for the man you trust, and not for the man who inflames your
passions. Your vote is a sacred thing; when you sell it you dishonor
yourself. Respect yourself, and you'll respect the country that has made
a man of you."
The response was immediate, the applause tumultuous. After his speech
they crowded about him. They knew him for their friend. But they knew
him for more than that. He asked nothing of their manhood but the best.
He preached honesty and practiced it.
Yet as he climbed into the car Anne had little to say to him. Winifred,
leaning forward, was emphatic in her praise:
"You have no right to bury yourself, Max."
"My dear girl, I'm not dead yet." He was a bit impatient. He had hoped
for a word from Anne. But she sat silent, pulling the puppy's ears.
"He's asleep," she said finally as she caught the inquiry in her lover's
eyes. "He's tired out, poor darling."
She seemed indifferent, but she was not. She had been much stirred. She
had a strange feeling that something had happened to her while she had
listened to Maxwell's speech. Some string had broken and her romance was
out of tune.
She lay awake for a long time that night, thinking it over. She grew hot
with the thought of the limitations of her previous conception of her
lover. She had considered him a sort of background for the pleasant
things he could do for her. She had fitted him to the measure of the
boxes of candy that he had brought her, the luncheons in the House
restaurant, the bountiful hospitality of the farm. How lightly she had
looked down on him as he had stood below her on the stairs with her
candle in his hand. How casually she had accepted his kiss. She had a
sudden feeling that she must not let him kiss her again!
Early in the morning she went into Amy's room. "Amy," she said, "how
soon do you think we can go to Aunt Elizabeth's?"
"Aunt Elizabeth's? Why, Anne?"
"I want to leave here."
"To leave here?" Amy sat up. Even in the bright light of the morning her
face looked young. Good food and fresh air had done much for her. It had
been quite heavenly, too, to let care slip away, to have no thought of
what she should eat or what she should drink or what she should wear.
"To leave here? I thought you loved it, Anne."
"I've got to get away. I'm not going to marry Maxwell, Amy."
"Anne! What made you change your mind?"
"I can't tell you. Please don't ask me. But I wish you would write to
Aunt Elizabeth."
"I had a letter from her yesterday. She says we can come at any time.
But--have you told Max?"
"Not yet."
"Has he done anything?"
"No. It's just--that I can't marry him. Don't ask me, Amy." She broke
down in a storm of tears.
Amy, soothing her, wondered if after all Anne cared for Murray Flint. It
was, she felt, the only solution possible. Surely a girl would not throw
away a chance to marry a man like Maxwell Sears for nothing.
For Amy had learned in the days that she had spent at the farm that
Maxwell Sears was a man to reckon with. She was very grateful for what
he had done for her, and she had been glad of Anne's engagement. Murray
would perhaps be disappointed, but there would still be herself and
Ethel.
It was not easy to explain things to Maxwell.
"Why are you going now?" he demanded, and was impatient when they told
him that Aunt Elizabeth expected them. "I don't understand it at all. It
upsets all of my plans for you, Anne."
That night when he brought Anne's candle she was not on the stairs.
Winifred and Amy had gone up.
"Anne! Anne!" he called softly.
She came to the top rail and leaned over. "I'm going to bed in the dark.
There's a wonderful moon."
"Come down--for a minute."
"No."
"Then I'll come up," masterfully.
He mounted the stairs two at a time; but when he reached the landing the
door was shut!