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Mr. Crewe's Career — Volume 2

by Winston Churchill · English · Gutenberg #3682 · 378,683 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Mr. Crewe's Career — Volume 2

Author: Winston Churchill


        
Release date: October 16, 2004 [eBook #3682]
                Most recently updated: January 8, 2021

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/3682

Credits: Produced by Pat Castevans and David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MR. CREWE'S CAREER — VOLUME 2 ***




Produced by Pat Castevans and David Widger





MR. CREWE'S CAREER

By Winston Churchill


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 yo

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