Produced by Pat Castevans and David Widger

MR. CREWE'S CAREER

By Winston Churchill

BOOK 3.

CHAPTER XXI

ST. GILES OF THE BLAMELESS LIFE

The burden of the valley of vision: woe to the Honourable Adam B. Hunt!
Where is he all this time? On the porch of his home in Edmundton, smoking
cigars, little heeding the rising of the waters; receiving visits from
the Honourables Brush Bascom, Nat Billings, and Jacob Botcher, and
signing cheques to the order of these gentlemen for necessary expenses.
Be it known that the Honourable Adam was a man of substance in this
world's goods. To quote from Mr. Crewe's speech at Hull: "The
Northeastern Railroads confer--they do not pay, except in passes. Of late
years their books may be searched in vain for evidence of the use of
political funds. The man upon whom they choose to confer your
governorship is always able to pay the pipers." (Purposely put in the
plural.)

Have the pipers warned the Honourable Adam of the rising tide against
him? Have they asked him to gird up his loins and hire halls and smite
the upstart hip and thigh? They have warned him, yes, that the expenses
may be a little greater than ordinary. But it is not for him to talk, or
to bestir himself in any unseemly manner, for the prize which he was to
have was in the nature of a gift. In vain did Mr. Crewe cry out to him
four times a week for his political beliefs, for a statement of what he
would do if he were elected governor. The Honourable Adam's dignified
answer was that he had always been a good Republican, and would die one.
Following a time-honoured custom, he refused to say anything, but it was
rumoured that he believed in the gold standard.

It is August, and there is rejoicing in--Leith. There is no doubt now
that the campaign of the people progresses; no need any more for the true
accounts of the meetings, in large print, although these are still
continued. The reform rallies resemble matinees no longer, and two real
reporters accompany Mr. Crewe on his tours. Nay, the campaign of
education has already borne fruit, which the candidate did not hesitate
to mention in his talks Edmundton has more trains, Kingston has more
trains, and more cars. No need now to stand up for twenty miles on a hot
day; and more cars are building, and more engines; likewise some rates
have been lowered. And editors who declare that the Northeastern gives
the State a pretty good government have, like the guinea pigs, long been
suppressed.

In these days were many councils at Fairview and in the offices of the
Honourable Hilary Vane at Ripton; councils behind closed doors, from
which the councillors emerged with smiling faces that men might not know
the misgivings in their hearts; councils, nevertheless, out of which
leaked rumours of dissension and recrimination conditions hitherto
unheard of. One post ran to meet another, and one messenger ran to meet
another; and it was even reported--though on doubtful authority--after
the rally in his town the Honourable Jacob Botcher had made the remark
that, under certain conditions, he might become a reformer.

None of these upsetting rumours, however, were allowed by Mr. Bascom and
other gentlemen close to the Honourable Adam B. Hunt to reach that
candidate, who continued to smoke in tranquillity on the porch of his
home until the fifteenth day of August. At eight o'clock that morning the
postman brought him a letter marked personal, the handwriting on which he
recognized as belonging to the Honourable Hilary Vane. For some reason,
as he read, the sensations of the Honourable Adam were disquieting; the
contents of the letter, to say the least, were peculiar. "To-morrow, at
noon precisely, I shall be driving along the Broad Brook road by the
abandoned mill--three miles towards Edmundton from Hull. I hope you will
find it convenient to be there."

These were the strange words the Honourable Hilary had written, and the
Honourable Adam knew that it was an order. At that very instant Mr. Hunt
had been reading in the Guardian the account of an overflow meeting in
Newcastle, by his opponent, in which Mr. Crewe had made some particularly
choice remarks about him; and had been cheered to the echo. The
Honourable Adam put the paper down, and walked up the street to talk to
Mr. Burrows, the postmaster whom, with the aid of Congressman Fairplay,
he had had appointed at Edmundton. The two racked their brains for three
hours; and Postmaster Burrows, who was the fortunate possessor of a pass,
offered to go down to Ripton in the interest of his liege lord and see
what was up. The Honourable Adam, however, decided that he could wait for
twenty-four hours.

The morning of the sixteenth dawned clear, as beautiful a summer's day
for a drive as any man could wish. But the spirit of the Honourable Adam
did not respond to the weather, and he had certain vague forebodings as
his horse jogged toward Hull, although these did not take such a definite
shape as to make him feel a premonitory pull of his coat-tails. The
ruined mill beside the rushing stream was a picturesque spot, and the
figure of the Honourable Hilary Vane, seated on the old millstone, in the
green and gold shadows of a beech, gave an interesting touch of life to
the landscape. The Honourable Adam drew up and eyed his friend and
associate of many years before addressing him.

"How are you, Hilary?"

"Hitch your horse," said Mr. Vane.

The Honourable Adam was some time in picking out a convenient tree. Then
he lighted a cigar, and approached Mr. Vane, and at length let himself
down, cautiously, on the millstone. Sitting on his porch had not improved
Mr. Hunt's figure.

"This is kind of mysterious, ain't it, Hilary?" he remarked, with a tug
at his goatee.

"I don't know but what it is," admitted Mr. Vane, who did not look as
though the coming episode were to give him unqualified joy.

"Fine weather," remarked the Honourable Adam, with a brave attempt at
geniality.

"The paper predicts rain to-morrow," said the Honourable Hilary.

"You don't smoke, do you?" asked the Honourable Adam.

"No," said the Honourable Hilary.

A silence, except for the music of the brook over the broken dam.

"Pretty place," said the Honourable Adam; "I kissed my wife here once
--before I was married."

This remark, although of interest, the Honourable Hilary evidently
thought did not require an answer:

"Adam," said Mr. Vane, presently, "how much money have you spent so far?"

"Well," said Mr. Hunt, "it has been sort of costly, but Brush and the
boys tell me the times are uncommon, and I guess they are. If that crazy
cuss Crewe hadn't broken loose, it would have been different. Not that
I'm uneasy about him, but all this talk of his and newspaper advertising
had to be counteracted some. Why, he has a couple of columns a week right
here in the Edmundton Courier. The papers are bleedin' him to death,
certain."

"How much have you spent?" asked the Honourable Hilary.

The Honourable Adam screwed up his face and pulled his goatee
thoughtfully.

"What are you trying to get at, Hilary," he inquired, sending for me to
meet you out here in the woods in this curious way? If you wanted to see
me, why didn't you get me to go down to Ripton, or come up and sit on my
porch? You've been there before."

"Times," said the Honourable Hilary, repeating, perhaps unconsciously,
Mr. Hunt's words, "are uncommon. This man Crewe's making more headway
than you think. The people don't know him, and he's struck a popular
note. It's the fashion to be down on railroads these days."

"I've taken that into account," replied Mr. Hunt.

"It's unlucky, and it comes high. I don't think he's got a show for the
nomination, but my dander's up, and I'll beat him if I have to mortgage
my house."

The Honourable Hilary grunted, and ruminated.

"How much did you say you'd spent, Adam?"

"If you think I'm not free enough, I'll loosen up a little more," said
the Honourable Adam.

"How free have you been?" said the Honourable Hilary.

For some reason the question, put in this form, was productive of
results.

"I can't say to a dollar, but I've got all the amounts down in a book. I
guess somewhere in the neighbourhood of nine thousand would cover it."

Mr. Vane grunted again.

"Would you take a cheque, Adam?" he inquired.

"What for?" cried the Honourable Adam.

"For the amount you've spent," said the Honourable Hilary, sententiously.

The Honourable Adam began to breathe with apparent difficulty, and his
face grew purple. But Mr. Vane did not appear to notice these alarming
symptoms. Then the candidate turned about, as on a pivot, seized Mr. Vane
by the knee, and looked into his face.

"Did you come up here with orders for me to get out?" he demanded, with
some pardonable violence. "By thunder, I didn't think that of my old
friend, Hilary Vane. You ought to have known me better, and Flint ought
to have known me better. There ain't a mite of use of our staying here
another second, and you can go right back and tell Flint what I said.
Flint knows I've been waiting to be governor for eight years, and each
year it's been just a year ahead. You ask him what he said to me when he
sent for me to go to New York. I thought he was a man of his word, and he
promised me that I should be governor this year."

The Honourable Hilary gave no indication of being moved by this righteous
outburst.

"You can be governor next year, when this reform nonsense has blown
over," he said. "You can't be this year, even if you stay in the race."

"Why not?" the Honourable Adam asked pugnaciously.

"Your record won't stand it--not just now," said Mr. Vane, slowly.

"My record is just as good as yours, or any man's," said the Honourable
Adam.

"I never run for office," answered Mr. Vane.

"Haven't I spent the days of my active life in the service of that road
--and is this my reward? Haven't I done what Flint wanted always?"

"That's just the trouble," said the Honourable Hilary; too many folks
know it. If we're going to win this time, we've got to have a man who's
never had any Northeastern connections."

"Who have you picked?" demanded the Honourable Adam, with alarming
calmness.

"We haven't picked anybody yet," said Mr. Vane, "but the man who goes in
will give you a cheque for what you've spent, and you can be governor
next time."

"Well, if this isn't the d-dest, coldest-blooded proposition ever made, I
want to know!" cried the Honourable Adam. "Will Flint put up a bond of
one hundred thousand dollars that I'll be nominated and elected next
year? This is the clearest case of going back on an old friend I ever
saw. If this is the way you fellows get scared because a sham reformer
gets up and hollers against the road, then I want to serve notice on you
that I'm not made of that kind of stuff. When I go into a fight, I go in
to stay, and you can't pull me out by the coat-tails in favour of a saint
who's never done a lick of work for the road. You tell Flint that."

"All right, Adam," said Hilary.

Some note in Hilary's voice, as he made this brief answer, suddenly
sobered the Honourable Adam, and sent a cold chill down his spine. He had
had many dealings with Mr. Vane, and he had always been as putty in the
chief counsel's hands. This simple acquiescence did more to convince the
Honourable Adam that his chances of nomination were in real danger than a
long and forceful summary of the situation could have accomplished. But
like many weak men, the Honourable Adam had a stubborn streak, and a
fatuous idea that opposition and indignation were signs of strength.

"I've made sacrifices for the road before, and effaced myself. But by
thunder, this is too much!"

Corporations, like republics, are proverbially ungrateful. The Honourable
Hilary might have voiced this sentiment, but refrained.

"Mr. Flint's a good friend of yours, Adam. He wanted me to say that he'd
always taken care of you, and always would, so far as in his power. If
you can't be landed this time, it's common sense for you to get out, and
wait--isn't it? We'll see that you get a cheque to cover what you've put
out."

The humour in this financial sacrifice of Mr. Flint's (which the unknown
new candidate was to make with a cheque) struck neither the Honourable
Adam nor the Honourable Hilary. The transaction, if effected, would
resemble that of the shrine to the Virgin built by a grateful Marquis of
Mantua--which a Jew paid for.

The Honourable Adam got to his feet.

"You can tell Flint," he said, "that if he will sign a bond of one
hundred thousand dollars to elect me next time, I'll get out. That's my
last word."

"All right, Adam," replied Mr. Vane, rising also.

Mr. Hunt stared at the Honourable Hilary thoughtfully; and although the
gubernatorial candidate was not an observant man, he was suddenly struck
by the fact that the chief counsel was growing old.

"I won't hold this against you, Hilary," he said.

"Politics," said the Honourable Hilary, "are business matters."

"I'll show Flint that it would have been good business to stick to me,"
said the Honourable Adam. "When he gets panicky, and spends all his money
on new equipment and service, it's time for me to drop him. You can tell
him so from me."

"Hadn't you better write him?" said the Honourable Hilary.

The rumour of the entry of Mr. Giles Henderson of Kingston into the
gubernatorial contest preceded, by ten days or so, the actual event. It
is difficult for the historian to unravel the precise circumstances which
led to this candidacy. Conservative citizens throughout the State, it was
understood, had become greatly concerned over the trend political affairs
were taking; the radical doctrines of one candidate--propounded for very
obvious reasons--they turned from in disgust; on the other hand, it was
evident that an underlying feeling existed in certain sections that any
candidate who was said to have had more or less connection with the
Northeastern Railroads was undesirable at the present time. This was not
to be taken as a reflection on the Northeastern, which had been the chief
source of the State's prosperity, but merely as an acknowledgment that a
public opinion undoubtedly existed, and ought to be taken into
consideration by the men who controlled the Republican party.

This was the gist of leading articles which appeared simultaneously in
several newspapers, apparently before the happy thought of bringing
forward Mr. Giles Henderson had occurred to anybody. He was mentioned
first, and most properly, by the editor of the "Kingston Pilot;" and the
article, with comments upon it, ran like wildfire through the press of
the State,--appearing even in those sheets which maintained editorially
that they were for the Honourable Adam B. Hunt first and last and, all
the time. Whereupon Mr. Giles Henderson began to receive visits from the
solid men--not politicians of the various cities and counties. For
instance, Mr. Silas Tredway of Ripton, made such a pilgrimage and, as a
citizen who had voted in 1860 for Abraham Lincoln (showing Mr. Tredway
himself to have been a radical once), appealed to Mr. Henderson to save
the State.

At first Mr. Henderson would give no ear to these appeals, but shook his
head pessimistically. He was not a politician--so much the better, we
don't want a politician; he was a plain business man exactly what is
needed; a conservative, level-headed business man wholly lacking in those
sensational qualities which are a stench in the nostrils of good
citizens. Mr. Giles Henderson admitted that the time had come when a man
of these qualities was needed--but he was not the man. Mr. Tredway was
the man--so he told Mr. Tredway; Mr. Gates of Brampton was the man--so he
assured Mr. Gates. Mr. Henderson had no desire to meddle in politics; his
life was a happy and a full one. But was it not Mr. Henderson's duty?
Cincinnatus left the plough, and Mr. Henderson should leave the ledger at
the call of his countrymen.

Mr. Giles Henderson was mild-mannered and blue-eyed, with a scanty beard
that was turning white; he was a deacon of the church, a member of the
school board, president of the Kingston National Bank; the main business
of his life had been in coal (which incidentally had had to be
transported over the Northeastern Railroads); and coal rates, for some
reason, were cheaper from Kingston than from many points out of the State
the distances of which were nearer. Mr. Henderson had been able to sell
his coal at a lower price than any other large dealer in the eastern part
of the State. Mr. Henderson was the holder of a large amount of stock in
the Northeastern, inherited from his father. Facts of no special
significance, and not printed in the weekly newspapers. Mr. Henderson
lived in a gloomy Gothic house on High Street, ate three very plain meals
a day, and drank iced water. He had been a good husband and a good
father, and had always voted the Republican ticket. He believed in the
gold standard, a high tariff, and eternal damnation. At last his
resistance was overcome, and he consented to allow his name to be used.

It was used, with a vengeance. Spontaneous praise of Mr. Giles Henderson
bubbled up all over the State, and editors who were for the Honourable
Adam B. Hunt suddenly developed a second choice. No man within the
borders of the commonwealth had so many good qualities as the new
candidate, and it must have been slightly annoying to one of that
gentleman's shrinking nature to read daily, on coming down to breakfast,
a list of virtues attributed to him as long as a rate schedule. How he
must have longed for the record of one wicked deed to make him human!

Who will pick a flaw in the character of the Honourable Giles Henderson?
Let that man now stand forth.

The news of the probable advent of Mr. Giles Henderson on the field, as
well as the tidings of his actual consent to be a candidate, were not
slow in reaching Leith. And--Mr. Crewe's Bureau of Information being in
perfect working order--the dastardly attempt on the Honourable Adam B.
Hunt's coat-tails was known there. More wonders to relate: the Honourable
Adam B. Hunt had become a reformer; he had made a statement at last, in
which he declared with vigour that no machine or ring was behind him; he
stood on his own merits, invited the minutest inspection of his record,
declared that he was an advocate of good government, and if elected would
be the servant of no man and of no corporation.

Thrice-blessed State, in which there were now three reform candidates for
governor!

All of these happenings went to indicate confusion in the enemy's camp,
and corresponding elation in Mr. Crewe's. Woe to the reputation for
political sagacity of the gentleman who had used the words "negligible"
and "monumental farce"! The tide was turning, and the candidate from
Leith redoubled his efforts. Had he been confounded by the advent of the
Honourable Giles? Not at all. Mr. Crewe was not given to satire; his
methods, as we know, were direct. Hence the real author of the following
passage in his speech before an overflow meeting in the State capital
remains unknown:

"My friends," Mr. Crewe had said, "I have been waiting for the time when
St. Giles of the Blameless Life would be pushed forward, apparently as
the only hope of our so-called 'solid citizens.' (Prolonged laughter, and
audible repetitions of Mr. Henderson's nickname, which was to stick.) I
will tell you by whose desire St. Giles became a candidate, and whose
bidding he will do if he becomes governor as blindly and obediently as
the Honourable Adam B. Hunt ever did. (Shouts of "Flint!" and, "The
Northeastern!") I see you know. Who sent the solid citizens to see Mr.
Henderson? ("Flint!") This is a clever trick--exactly what I should have
done if I'd been running their campaign--only they didn't do it early
enough. They picked Mr. Giles Henderson for two reasons: because he lives
in Kingston, which is anti-railroad and supported the Gaylord bill, and,
because he never in his life committed any positive action, good or
bad--and he never will. And they made another mistake--the Honourable
Adam B. Hunt wouldn't back out." (Laughter and cheers.)

CHAPTER XXII

IN WHICH EUPHRASIA TAKES A HAND

Austen had not forgotten his promise to Euphrasia, and he had gone to
Hanover Street many times since his sojourn at Mr. Jabe Jenney's. Usually
these visits had taken place in the middle of the day, when Euphrasia,
with gentle but determined insistence, had made him sit down before some
morsel which she had prepared against his coming, and which he had not
the heart to refuse. In answer to his inquiries about Hilary, she would
toss her head and reply, disdainfully, that he was as comfortable as he
should be. For Euphrasia had her own strict ideas of justice, and to her
mind Hilary's suffering was deserved. That suffering was all the more
terrible because it was silent, but Euphrasia was a stern woman. To know
that he missed Austen, to feel that Hilary was being justly punished for
his treatment of her idol, for his callous neglect and lack of
realization of the blessings of his life--these were Euphrasia's grim
compensations.

At times, even, she had experienced a strange rejoicing that she had
promised Austen to remain with his father, for thus it had been given her
to be the daily witness of a retribution for which she had longed during
many years. Nor did she strive to hide her feelings. Their intercourse,
never voluminous, had shrunk to the barest necessities for the use of
speech; but Hilary, ever since the night of his son's departure, had read
in the face of his housekeeper a knowledge of his suffering, an
exultation a thousand times more maddening than the little reproaches of
language would have been. He avoided her more than ever, and must many
times have regretted bitterly the fact that he had betrayed himself to
her. As for Euphrasia, she had no notion of disclosing Hilary's torture
to his son. She was determined that the victory, when it came, should be
Austen's, and the surrender Hilary's.

"He manages to eat his meals, and gets along as common," she would reply.
"He only thinks of himself and that railroad."

But Austen read between the lines.

"Poor old Judge," he would answer; "it's because he's made that way,
Phrasie. He can't help it, any more than I can help flinging law-books on
the floor and running off to the country to have a good time. You know as
well as I do that he hasn't had much joy out of life; that he'd like to
be different, only he doesn't know how."

"I can't see that it takes much knowledge to treat a wife and son like
human beings," Euphrasia retorted; "that's only common humanity. For a
man that goes to meetin' twice a week, you'd have thought he'd have
learned something by this time out of the New Testament. He's prayed
enough in his life, goodness knows!"

Now Euphrasia's ordinarily sharp eyes were sharpened an hundred fold by
affection; and of late, at odd moments during his visits, Austen had
surprised them fixed on him with a penetration that troubled him.

"You don't seem to fancy the tarts as much as you used to," she would
remark. "Time was when you'd eat three and four at a sittin'."

"Phrasie, one of your persistent fallacies is, that I'm still a boy."

"You ain't yourself," said Euphrasia, ignoring this pleasantry, "and you
ain't been yourself for some months. I've seen it. I haven't brought you
up for nothing. If he's troubling you, don't you worry a mite. He ain't
worth it. He eats better than you do."

"I'm not worrying much about that," Austen answered, smiling. "The Judge
and I will patch it up before long--I'm sure. He's worried now over these
people who are making trouble for his railroad."

"I wish railroads had never been invented," cried Euphrasia. "It seems to
me they bring nothing but trouble. My mother used to get along pretty
well in a stage-coach."

One evening in September, when the summer days were rapidly growing
shorter and the mists rose earlier in the valley of the Blue, Austen, who
had stayed late at the office preparing a case, ate his supper at the
Ripton House. As he sat in the big dining room, which was almost empty,
the sense of loneliness which he had experienced so often of late came
over him, and he thought of Euphrasia. His father, he knew, had gone to
Kingston for the night, and so he drove up Hanover Street and hitched
Pepper to the stone post before the door. Euphrasia, according to an
invariable custom, would be knitting in the kitchen at this hour; and at
the sight of him in the window, she dropped her work with a little,
joyful cry.

"I was just thinking of you!" she said, in a low voice of tenderness
which many people would not have recognized as Euphrasia's; as though her
thoughts of him were the errant ones of odd moments! "I'm so glad you
come. It's lonesome here of evenings, Austen."

He entered silently and sat down beside her, in a Windsor chair which had
belonged to some remote Austen of bygone days.

"You don't have as good things to eat up at Mis' Jenney's as I give you,"
she remarked. "Not that you appear to care much for eatables any more.
Austen, are you feeling poorly?"

"I can dig more potatoes in a day than any other man in Ripton," he
declared.

"You'd ought to get married," said Euphrasia, abruptly. "I've told you
that before, but you never seem to pay any attention to what I say."

"Why haven't you tried it, Phrasie?" he retorted.

He was not prepared for what followed. Euphrasia did not answer at once,
but presently her knitting dropped to her lap, and she sat staring at the
old clock on the kitchen shelf.

"He never asked me," she said, simply.

Austen was silent. The answer seemed to recall, with infinite pathos,
Euphrasia's long-lost youth, and he had not thought of youth as a quality
which could ever have pertained to her. She must have been young once,
and fresh, and full of hope for herself; she must have known, long ago,
something of what he now felt, something of the joy and pain, something
of the inexpressible, never ceasing yearning for the fulfilment of a
desire that dwarfed all others. Euphrasia had been denied that
fulfilment. And he--would he, too, be denied it?

Out of Euphrasia's eyes, as she gazed at the mantel-shelf, shone the
light of undying fires within--fires which at a touch could blaze forth
after endless years, transforming the wrinkled face, softening the
sterner lines of character. And suddenly there was a new bond between the
two. So used are the young to the acceptance of the sacrifice of the old
that they lose sight of that sacrifice. But Austen saw now, in a flash,
the years of Euphrasia's self-denial, the years of memories, the years of
regrets for that which might have been.

"Phrasie," he said, laying a hand on hers, which rested on the arm of the
chair, I was only joking, you know."

"I know, I know," Euphrasia answered hastily, and turned and looked into
his face searchingly. Her eyes were undimmed, and the light was still in
them which revealed a soul of which he had had no previous knowledge.

"I know you was, dear. I never told that to a living being except your
mother. He's dead now--he never knew. But I told her--I couldn't help it.
She had a way of drawing things out of you, and you just couldn't resist.
I'll never forget that day she came in here and looked at me and took my
hand--same as you have it now. She wasn't married then. I'll never forget
the sound of her voice as she said, 'Euphrasia, tell me about it.'" (Here
Euphrasia's own voice trembled.) "I told her, just as I'm telling
you,--because I couldn't help it. Folks, had to tell her things."

She turned her hand and clasped his tightly with her own thin fingers.

"And oh, Austen," she cried, "I want so that you should be happy! She was
so unhappy, it doesn't seem right that you should be, too."

"I shall be, Phrasie," he said; "you mustn't worry about that."

For a while the only sound in the room was the ticking of the old clock
with the quaint, coloured picture on its panel. And then, with a movement
which, strangely, was an acute reminder of a way Victoria had, Euphrasia
turned and searched his face once more.

"You're not happy," she said.

He could not put this aside--nor did he wish to. Her own confidence had
been so simple, so fine, so sure of his sympathy, that he felt it would
be unworthy to equivocate; the confessions of the self-reliant are sacred
things. Yes, and there had been times when he had longed to unburden
himself; but he had had no intimate on this plane, and despite the great
sympathy between them--that Euphrasia might understand had never occurred
to him. She had read his secret.

In that instant Euphrasia, with the instinct which love lends to her sex,
had gone farther; indignation seized her--and the blame fell upon the
woman. Austen's words, unconsciously, were an answer to her thoughts.

"It isn't anybody's fault but my own," he said.

Euphrasia's lips were tightly closed. Long ago the idol of her youth had
faded into the substance of which dreams are made--to be recalled by
dreams alone; another worship had filled her heart, and Austen Vane had
become--for her--the fulness and the very meaning of life itself; one to
be admired of all men, to be desired of all women. Visions of Austen's
courtship had at times risen in her mind, although Euphrasia would not
have called it a courtship. When the time came, Austen would confer; and
so sure of his judgment was Euphrasia that she was prepared to take the
recipient of the priceless gift into her arms. And now! Was it possible
that a woman lived who would even hesitate? Curiosity seized Euphrasia
with the intensity of a passion. Who was this woman? When and where had
he seen her? Ripton could not have produced her--for it was
characteristic of Euphrasia that no girl of her acquaintance was worthy
to be raised to such a height; Austen's wife would be an unknown of ideal
appearance and attainments. Hence indignation rocked Euphrasia, and
doubts swayed her. In this alone she had been an idealist, but she might
have known that good men were a prey to the unworthy of the opposite sex.

She glanced at Austen's face, and he smiled at her gently, as though he
divined something of her thoughts.

"If it isn't your fault, that you're not happy, then the matter's easily
mended," she said.

He shook his head at her, as though in reproof.

"Was yours--easily mended?" he asked.

Euphrasia was silent a moment.

"He never knew," she repeated, in a low voice.

"Well, Phrasie, it looks very much as if we were in the same boat," he
said.

Euphrasia's heart gave a bound.

"Then you haven't spoke!" she cried; "I knew you hadn't. I--I was a
woman--but sometimes I've thought I'd ought to have given him some sign.
You're a man, Austen; thank God for it, you're a man. If a man loves a
woman, he's only got to tell her so."

"It isn't as simple as that," he answered.

Euphrasia gave him a startled glance.

"She ain't married?" she exclaimed.

"No," he said, and laughed in spite of himself.

Euphrasia breathed again. For Sarah Austen had had a morality of her own,
and on occasions had given expression to extreme views.

"She's not playin' with you?" was Euphrasia's next question, and her tone
boded ill to any young person who would indulge in these tactics with
Austen.

He shook his head again, and smiled at her vehemence.

"No, she's not playing with me--she isn't that kind. I'd like to tell
you, but I can't--I can't. It was only because you guessed that I said
anything about it." He disengaged his hand, and rose, and patted her on
the cheek. "I suppose I had to tell somebody," he said, "and you seemed,
somehow, to be the right person, Phrasie."

Euphrasia rose abruptly and looked up intently into his face. He thought
it strange afterwards, as he drove along the dark roads, that she had not
answered him.

Even though the matter were on the knees of the gods, Euphrasia would
have taken it thence, if she could. Nor did Austen know that she shared
with him, that night, his waking hours.

The next morning Mr. Thomas Gaylord, the younger, was making his way
towards the office of the Gaylord Lumber Company, conveniently situated
on Willow Street, near the railroad. Young Tom was in a particularly
jovial frame of mind, despite the fact that he had arrived in Ripton, on
the night express, as early as five o'clock in the morning. He had been
touring the State ostensibly on lumber business, but young Tom had a
large and varied personal as well as commercial acquaintance, and he had
the inestimable happiness of being regarded as an honest man, while his
rough and genial qualities made him beloved. For these reasons and others
of a more material nature, suggestions from Mr. Thomas Gaylord were apt
to be well received--and Tom had been making suggestions.

Early as he was at his office--the office-boy was sprinkling the floor
--young Tom had a visitor who was earlier still. Pausing in the doorway,
Mr. Gaylord beheld with astonishment a prim, elderly lady in a stiff,
black dress sitting upright on the edge of a capacious oak chair which
seemed itself rather discomfited by what it contained,--for its
hospitality had hitherto been extended to visitors of a very different
sort.

"Well, upon my soul," cried young Tom, "if it isn't Euphrasia!"

"Yes, it's me," said Euphrasia; "I've been to market, and I had a notion
to see you before I went home."

Mr. Gaylord took the office-boy lightly by the collar of his coat and
lifted him, sprinkling can and all, out of the doorway and closed the
door. Then he drew his revolving chair close to Euphrasia, and sat down.
They were old friends, and more than once in a youth far from model Tom
had experienced certain physical reproof at her hands, for which he bore
no ill-will. There was anxiety on his face as he asked:--"There hasn't
been any accident, has there, Euphrasia?"

"No," she said.

"No new row?" inquired Tom.

"No," said Euphrasia. She was a direct person, as we know, but true
descendants of the Puritans believe in the decency of preliminaries, and
here was certainly an affair not to be plunged into. Euphrasia was a
spinster in the strictest sense of that formidable and highly descriptive
term, and she intended ultimately to discuss with Tom a subject of which
she was supposed by tradition to be wholly ignorant, the mere mention of
which still brought warmth to her cheeks. Such a delicate matter should
surely be led up to delicately. In the meanwhile Tom was mystified.

"Well, I'm mighty glad to see you, anyhow," he said heartily. "It was
fond of you to call, Euphrasia. I can't offer you a cigar."

"I should think not," said Euphrasia.

Tom reddened. He still retained for her some of his youthful awe.

"I can't do the honours of hospitality as I'd wish to," he went on; "I
can't give you anything like the pies you used to give me."

"You stole most of 'em," said Euphrasia.

"I guess that's so," said young Tom, laughing, "but I'll never taste pies
like 'em again as long as I live. Do you know, Euphrasia, there were two
reasons why those were the best pies I ever ate?"

"What were they?" she asked, apparently unmoved.

"First," said Tom, "because you made 'em, and second, because they were
stolen."

Truly, young Tom had a way with women, had he only been aware of it.

"I never took much stock in stolen things," said Euphrasia.

"It's because you never were tempted with such pie as that," replied the
audacious Mr. Gaylord.

"You're gettin' almighty stout," said Euphrasia.

As we see her this morning, could she indeed ever have had a love affair?

"I don't have to use my legs as much as I once did," said Tom. And this
remark brought to an end the first phase of this conversation,--brought
to an end, apparently, all conversation whatsoever. Tom racked his brain
for a new topic, opened his roll-top desk, drummed on it, looked up at
the ceiling and whistled softly, and then turned and faced again the
imperturbable Euphrasia.

"Euphrasia," he said, you're not exactly a politician, I believe."

"Well," said Euphrasia, "I've be'n maligned a good many times, but nobody
ever went that far."

Mr. Gaylord shook with laughter.

"Then I guess there's no harm in confiding political secrets to you," he
said. "I've been around the State some this week, talking to people I
know, and I believe if your Austen wasn't so obstinate, we could make him
governor."

"Obstinate?" ejaculated Euphrasia.

"Yes," said Tom, with a twinkle in his eye, "obstinate. He doesn't seem
to want something that most men would give their souls for."

"And why should he dirty himself with politics?" she demanded. "In the
years I've lived with Hilary Vane I've seen enough of politicians,
goodness knows. I never want to see another."

"If Austen was governor, we'd change some of that. But mind, Euphrasia,
this is a secret," said Tom, raising a warning finger. "If Austen hears
about it now, the jig's up."

Euphrasia considered and thawed a little.

"They don't often have governors that young, do they?" she asked.

"No," said Tom, forcibly, "they don't. And so far as I know, they haven't
had such a governor for years as Austen would make. But he won't push
himself. You know, Euphrasia, I have always believed that he will be
President some day."

Euphrasia received this somewhat startling prediction complacently. She
had no doubt of its accuracy, but the enunciation of it raised young Tom
in her estimation, and incidentally brought her nearer her topic.

"Austen ain't himself lately," she remarked.

"I knew that he didn't get along with Hilary," said Tom, sympathetically,
beginning to realize now that Euphrasia had come to talk about her idol.

"It's Hilary doesn't get along with him," she retorted indignantly. "He's
responsible--not Austen. Of all the narrow, pig-headed, selfish men the
Lord ever created, Hilary Vane's the worst. It's Hilary drove him out of
his mother's house to live with strangers. It's Austen that comes around
to inquire for his father--Hilary never has a word to say about Austen."
A trace of colour actually rose under Euphrasia's sallow skin, and she
cast her eyes downward. "You've known him a good while, haven't you,
Tom?"

"All my life," said Tom, mystified again, "all my life. And I, think more
of him than of anybody else in the world."

"I calculated as much," she said; "that's why I came." She hesitated.
Artful Euphrasia! We will let the ingenuous Mr. Gaylord be the first to
mention this delicate matter, if possible. "Goodness knows, it ain't
Hilary I came to talk about. I had a notion that you'd know if anything
else was troubling Austen."

"Why," said Tom, "there can't be any business troubles outside of those
Hilary's mixed up in. Austen doesn't spend any money to speak of, except
what he gives away, and he's practically chief counsel for our company."

Euphrasia was silent a moment.

"I suppose there's nothing else that could bother him," she remarked. She
had never held Tom Gaylord's powers of comprehension in high estimation,
and the estimate had not risen during this visit. But she had undervalued
him; even Tom could rise to an inspiration--when the sources of all other
inspirations were eliminated.

"Why," he exclaimed, with a masculine lack of delicacy, "he may be in
love--"

"That's struck you, has it?" said Euphrasia.

But Tom appeared to be thinking; he was, in truth, engaged in collecting
his cumulative evidence: Austen's sleigh-ride at the capital, which he
had discovered; his talk with Victoria after her fall, when she had
betrayed an interest in Austen which Tom had thought entirely natural;
and finally Victoria's appearance at Mr. Crewe's rally in Ripton. Young
Mr. Gaylord had not had a great deal of experience in affairs of the
heart, and he was himself aware that his diagnosis in such a matter would
not carry much weight. He had conceived a tremendous admiration for
Victoria, which had been shaken a little by the suspicion that she might
be intending to marry Mr. Crewe. Tom Gaylord saw no reason why Austen
Vane should not marry Mr. Flint's daughter if he chose--or any other
man's daughter; partaking, in this respect, somewhat of Euphrasia's view.
As for Austen himself, Tom had seen no symptoms; but then, he reflected,
he would not be likely to see any. However, he perceived the object now
of Euphrasia's visit, and began to take the liveliest interest in it.

"So you think Austen's in love?" he demanded.

Euphrasia sat up straighter, if anything.

"I didn't say anything of the kind," she returned.

"He wouldn't tell me, you know," said Tom; "I can only guess at it."

"And the--lady?" said Euphrasia, craftily.

"I'm up a tree there, too. All I know is that he took her sleigh-riding
one afternoon at the capital, and wouldn't tell me who he was going to
take. And then she fell off her horse down at East Tunbridge Station--"

"Fell off her horse!" echoed Euphrasia, an accident comparable in her
mind to falling off a roof. What manner of young woman was this who fell
off horses?

"She wasn't hurt," Tom continued, "and she rode the beast home. He was a
wild one, I can tell you, and she's got pluck. That's the first time I
ever met her, although I had often seen her and thought she was a stunner
to look at. She talked as if she took an interest in Austen."

An exact portrayal of Euphrasia's feelings at this description of the
object of Austen's affections is almost impossible. A young woman who was
a stunner, who rode wild horses and fell off them and rode them again,
was beyond the pale not only of Euphrasia's experience but of her
imagination likewise. And this hoyden had talked as though she took an
interest in Austen! Euphrasia was speechless.

"The next time I saw her," said Tom, "was when she came down here to
listen to Humphrey Crewe's attacks on the railroad. I thought that was a
sort of a queer thing for Flint's daughter to do, but Austen didn't seem
to look at it that way. He talked to her after the show was over."

At this point Euphrasia could contain herself no longer, and in her
excitement she slipped off the edge of the chair and on to her feet.

"Flint's daughter?" she cried; "Augustus P. Flint's daughter?"

Tom looked at her in amazement.

"Didn't you know who it was?" he stammered. But Euphrasia was not
listening.

"I've seen her," she was saying; "I've seen her ridin' through Ripton in
that little red wagon, drivin' herself, with a coachman perched up beside
her. Flint's daughter!"  Euphrasia became speechless once more, the
complications opened up being too vast for intelligent comment.
Euphrasia, however, grasped some of the problems which Austen had had to
face. Moreover, she had learned what she had come for, and the obvious
thing to do now was to go home and reflect. So, without further ceremony,
she walked to the door and opened it, and turned again with her hand on
the knob. "Look here, Tom Gaylord," she said, "if you tell Austen I was
here, I'll never forgive you. I don't believe you've got any more sense
than to do it."

And with these words she took her departure, ere the amazed Mr. Gaylord
had time to show her out. Half an hour elapsed before he opened his
letters.

When she arrived home in Hanover Street it was nine o'clock--an hour well
on in the day for Euphrasia. Unlocking the kitchen door, she gave a
glance at the stove to assure herself that it had not been misbehaving,
and went into the passage on her way up-stairs to take off her gown
before sitting down to reflect upon the astonishing thing she had heard.
Habit had so crystallized in Euphrasia that no news, however amazing,
could have shaken it. But in the passage she paused; an unwonted, or
rather untimely, sound reached her ears, a sound which came from the
front of the house--and at nine o'clock in the morning! Had Austen been
at home, Euphrasia would have thought nothing of it. In her remembrance
Hilary Vane, whether he returned from a journey or not, had never been
inside the house at that hour on a week-day; and, unlike the gentleman in
"La Vie de Boheme," Euphrasia did not have to be reminded of the Sabbath.

Perhaps Austen had returned! Or perhaps it was a burglar! Euphrasia,
undaunted, ran through the darkened front hall to where the graceful
banister ended in a curve at the foot of the stairs, and there, on the
bottom step, sat a man with his head in his hands. Euphrasia shrieked. He
looked up, and she saw that it was Hilary Vane. She would have shrieked,
anyway.

"What in the world's the matter with you?" she cried.

"I--I stumbled coming down the stairs," he said.

"But what are you doing at home in the middle of the morning?" she
demanded.

He did not answer her. The subdued light which crept under the porch and
came in through the fan shaped window over the door fell on his face.

"Are you sick?" said Euphrasia. In all her life she had never seen him
look like that.

He shook his head, but did not attempt to rise. A Hilary Vane without
vigour!

"No," he said, "no. I just came up here from the train to--get somethin'
I'd left in my room."

"A likely story!" said Euphrasia. "You've never done that in thirty
years. You're sick, and I'm a-going for the doctor."

She put her hand to his forehead, but he thrust it away and got to his
feet, although in the effort he compressed his lips and winced.

"You stay where you are," he said; "I tell you I'm not sick, and I'm
going down to the square. Let, the doctors alone--I haven't got any use
for 'em."

He walked to the door, opened it, and went out and slammed it in her
face. By the time she had got it open again--a crack--he had reached the
sidewalk, and was apparently in full possession of his powers and
faculties.

CHAPTER XXIII

A FALLING-OUT IN HIGH PLACES

Although one of the most exciting political battles ever fought is fast
coming to its climax, and a now jubilant Mr. Crewe is contesting every
foot of ground in the State with the determination and pertinacity which
make him a marked man; although the convention wherein his fate will be
decided is now but a few days distant, and everything has been done to
secure a victory which mortal man can do, let us follow Hilary Vane to
Fairview. Not that Hilary has been idle. The "Book of Arguments" is
exhausted, and the chiefs and the captains have been to Ripton, and
received their final orders, but more than one has gone back to his fief
with the vision of a changed Hilary who has puzzled them. Rumours have
been in the air that the harmony between the Source of Power and the
Distribution of Power is not as complete as it once was. Certainly,
Hilary Vane is not the man he was--although this must not even be
whispered. Senator Whitredge had told--but never mind that. In the old
days an order was an order; there were no rebels then. In the old days
there was no wavering and rescinding, and if the chief counsel told you,
with brevity, to do a thing, you went and did it straightway, with the
knowledge that it was the best thing to do. Hilary Vane had aged
suddenly, and it occurred for the first time to many that, in this
utilitarian world, old blood must be superseded by young blood.

Two days before the convention, immediately after taking dinner at the
Ripton House with Mr. Nat Billings, Hilary Vane, in response to a
summons, drove up to Fairview. One driving behind him would have observed
that the Honourable Hilary's horse took his own gaits, and that the
reins, most of the time, drooped listlessly on his quarters. A September
stillness was in the air, a September purple clothed the distant hills,
but to Hilary the glories of the day were as things non-existent. Even
the groom at Fairview, who took his horse, glanced back at him with a
peculiar expression as he stood for a moment on the steps with a
hesitancy the man had never before remarked.

In the meantime Mr. Flint, with a pile of letters in a special basket on
the edge of his desk, was awaiting his counsel; the president of the
Northeastern was pacing his room, as was his wont when his activities
were for a moment curbed, or when he had something on his mind; and every
few moments he would glance towards his mantel at the clock which was set
to railroad time. In past days he had never known Hilary Vane to be a
moment late to an appointment. The door was open, and five and twenty
minutes had passed the hour before he saw the lawyer in the doorway. Mr.
Flint was a man of such preoccupation of mind that he was not likely to
be struck by any change there might have been in his counsel's
appearance.

"It's half-past three," he said.

Hilary entered, and sat down beside the window.

"You mean that I'm late," he replied.

"I've got some engineers coming here in less than an hour," said Mr.
Flint.

"I'll be gone in less than an hour," said Hilary.

"Well," said Mr. Flint, "let's get down to hardtack. I've got to be frank
with you, Vane, and tell you plainly that this political business is all
at sixes and sevens."

"It isn't necessary to tell me that," said Hilary.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that I know it."

"To put it mildly," the president of the Northeastern continued, "it's
the worst mixed-up campaign I ever knew. Here we are with the convention
only two days off, and we don't know where we stand, how many delegates
we've got, or whether this upstart at Leith is going to be nominated over
our heads. Here's Adam Hunt with his back up, declaring he's a reformer,
and all his section of the State behind him. Now if that could have been
handled otherwise--"

"Who told Hunt to go in?" Hilary inquired.

"Things were different then," said Mr. Flint, vigorously. "Hunt had been
promised the governorship for a long time, and when Ridout became out of
the question--"

"Why did Ridout become out of the question?" asked Hilary.

Mr. Flint made a gesture of impatience.

"On account of that foolishness in the Legislature, of course."

"That foolishness in the Legislature, as you call it, represented a
sentiment all over the State," said Hilary. "And if I'd been you, I
wouldn't have let Hunt in this year. But you didn't ask my opinion. You
asked me when you begged me to get Adam out, and I predicted that he
wouldn't get out."

Mr. Flint took a turn up and down the room.

"I'm sorry I didn't send for him to go to New York," he said.  "Well,
anyway, the campaign's been muddled, that's certain,--whoever muddled
it." And the president looked at his counsel as though he, at least, had
no doubts on this point. But Hilary appeared unaware of the implication,
and made no reply.

"I can't find out what Bascom and Botcher are doing," Mr. Flint went on;
"I don't get any reports--they haven't been here. Perhaps you know.
They've had trip passes enough to move the whole population of Putnam
County. Fairplay says they're gettin' delegates for Adam Hunt instead of
Giles Henderson. And Whitredge says that Jake Botcher is talking reform."

"I guess Botcher and Bascom know their business," said Mr. Vane. If Mr.
Flint had been a less concentrated man, he might have observed that the
Honourable Hilary had not cut a piece of Honey Dew this afternoon.

"What is their business?" asked Mr. Flint--a little irrelevantly for him.

"What you and I taught 'em," said Mr. Vane.

Mr. Flint considered this a moment, and decided to let it pass. He looked
at the Honourable Hilary more closely, however.

"What's the matter with you, Vane? You're not sick, are you?"

"No."

Mr. Flint took another turn.

"Now the question is, what are we going to do? If you've got any plan, I
want to hear it."

Mr. Vane was silent.

"Suppose Crewe goes into the convention with enough delegates to lock it
up, so that none of the three has a majority?"

"I guess he'll do that," said Mr. Vane. He fumbled in his pocket, and
drew out a typewritten list. It must be explained that the caucuses, or
primaries, had been held in the various towns of the State at odd dates,
and that the delegates pledged for the different candidates had been
published in the newspapers from time to time--although very much in
accordance with the desires of their individual newspapers. Mr. Crewe's
delegates necessarily had been announced by what is known as political
advertising. Mr. Flint took the Honourable Hilary's list, ran his eye
over it, and whistled.

"You mean he claims three hundred and fifty out of the thousand."

"No," said Hilary, "he claims six hundred. He'll have three hundred and
fifty."

In spite of the 'Book of Arguments,' Mr. Crewe was to have three hundred!
It was incredible, preposterous. Mr. Flint looked at his counsel once
more, and wondered whether he could be mentally failing.

"Fairplay only gives him two hundred."

"Fairplay only gave him ten, in the beginning," said Hilary.

"You come here two days before the convention and tell me Crewe has three
hundred and fifty!" Mr. Flint exclaimed, as though Hilary Vane were
personally responsible for Mr. Crewe's delegates. A very different tone
from that of other times, when conventions were mere ratifications of
Imperial decrees. "Do you realize what it means if we lose control?
Thousands and thousands of dollars in improvements--rolling stock, better
service, new bridges, and eliminations of grade crossings. And they'll
raise our tax rate to the average, which means thousands more. A new
railroad commission that we can't talk to, and lower dividends--lower
dividends, do you understand? That means trouble with the directors, the
stockholders, and calls for explanations. And what explanations can I
make which can be printed in a public report?"

"You were always pretty good at 'em, Flint," said Hilary.

This remark, as was perhaps natural, did not improve the temper of the
president of the Northeastern.

"If you think I like this political business any better than you do,
you're mightily mistaken," he replied. "And now I want to hear what plan
you've got for the convention. Suppose there's a deadlock, as you say
there will be, how are you going to handle it? Can you get a deal through
between Giles Henderson and Adam Hunt? With all my other work, I've had
to go into this myself. Hunt hasn't got a chance. Bascom and Botcher are
egging him on and making him believe he has. When Hunt gets into the
convention and begins to fall off, you've got to talk to him, Vane. And
his delegates have all got to be seen at the Pelican the night before and
understand that they're to swing to Henderson after two ballots. You've
got to keep your hand on the throttle in the convention, you understand.
And I don't need to impress upon you how grave are the consequences if
this man Crewe gets in, with public sentiment behind him and a
reactionary Lower House. You've got to keep your hand on the throttle."

"That's part of my business, isn't it?" Hilary asked, without turning his
head.

Mr. Flint did not answer, but his eye rested again on his counsel's face.

"I'm that kind of a lawyer," Hilary continued, apparently more to himself
than to his companion. "You pay me for that sort of thing more than for
the work I do in the courts. Isn't that so, Flint?"

Mr. Flint was baffled. Two qualities which were very dear to him he
designated as sane and safe, and he had hitherto regarded his counsel as
the sanest and safest of men. This remark made him wonder seriously
whether the lawyer's mind were not giving away; and if so, to whom was he
to turn at this eleventh hour? No man in the State knew the ins and outs
of conventions as did Hilary Vane; and, in the rare times when there had
been crises, he had sat quietly in the little room off the platform as at
the keyboard of an organ, and the delegates had responded to his touch.
Hilary Vane had named the presidents of conventions, and the committees,
and by pulling out stops could get such resolutions as he wished--or as
Mr. Flint wished. But now?

Suddenly a suspicion invaded Mr. Flint's train of thought; he repeated
Hilary's words over to himself. "I'm that kind of a lawyer," and another
individuality arose before the president of the Northeastern. Instincts
are curious things. On the day, some years before, when Austen Vane had
brought his pass into this very room and laid it down on his desk, Mr.
Flint had recognized a man with whom he would have to deal,--a stronger
man than Hilary. Since then he had seen Austen's hand in various
disturbing matters, and now it was as if he heard Austen speaking. "I'm
that kind of a lawyer." Not Hilary Vane, but Hilary Vane's son was
responsible for Hilary Vane's condition--this recognition came to Mr.
Flint in a flash. Austen had somehow accomplished the incredible feat of
making Hilary Vane ashamed--and when such men as Hilary are ashamed,
their usefulness is over. Mr. Flint had seen the thing happen with a
certain kind of financiers, one day aggressive, combative, and the next
broken, querulous men. Let a man cease to believe in what he is doing,
and he loses force.

The president of the Northeastern used a locomotive as long as possible,
but when it ceased to be able to haul a train up-grade, he sent it to the
scrap-heap. Mr. Flint was far from being a bad man, but he worshipped
power, and his motto was the survival of the fittest. He did not yet feel
pity for Hilary--for he was angry. Only contempt,--contempt that one who
had been a power should come to this. To draw a somewhat far-fetched
parallel, a Captain Kidd or a Caesar Borgia with a conscience would never
have been heard of. Mr. Flint did not call it a conscience--he had a
harder name for it. He had to send Hilary, thus vitiated, into the
Convention to conduct the most important battle since the founding of the
Empire, and Austen Vane was responsible.

Mr. Flint had to control himself. In spite of his feelings, he saw that
he must do so. And yet he could not resist saying: "I get a good many
rumours here. They tell me that there may be another candidate in the
field--a dark horse."

"Who?" asked Hilary.

"There was a meeting in the room of a man named Redbrook during the
Legislature to push this candidate," said Mr. Flint, eyeing his counsel
significantly, "and now young Gaylord has been going quietly around the
State in his interest."

Suddenly the listless figure of Hilary Vane straightened, and the old
look which had commanded the respect and obedience of men returned to his
eye.

"You mean my son?" he demanded.

"Yes," said Mr. Flint; "they tell me that when the time comes, your, son
will be a candidate on a platform opposed to our interests."

"Then," said Hilary, "they tell you a damned lie."

Hilary Vane had not sworn for a quarter of a century, and yet it is to be
doubted if he ever spoke more nobly. He put his hands on the arms of his
chair and lifted himself to his feet, where he stood for a moment, a tell
figure to be remembered. Mr. Flint remembered it for many years. Hilary
Vane's long coat was open, and seemed in itself to express this strange
and new-found vigour in its flowing lines; his head was thrown back, and
a look on his face which Mr. Flint had never seen there. He drew from an
inner pocket a long envelope, and his hand trembled, though with seeming
eagerness, as he held it out to Mr. Flint.

"Here!" he said.

"What's this?" asked Mr. Flint. He evinced no desire to take it, but
Hilary pressed it on him.

"My resignation as counsel for your road."

The president of the Northeastern, bewildered by this sudden
transformation, stared at the envelope.

"What? Now--to-day?" he said.

"No," answered Hilary; "read it. You'll see it takes effect the day after
the State convention. I'm not much use any more you've done your best to
bring that home to me, and you'll need a new man to do--the kind of work
I've been doing for you for twenty-five years. But you can't get a new
man in a day, and I said I'd stay with you, and I keep my word. I'll go
to the convention; I'll do my best for you, as I always have. But I don't
like it, and after that I'm through. After that I become a
lawyer--lawyer, do you understand?"

"A lawyer?" Mr. Flint repeated.

"Yes, a lawyer. Ever since last June, when I came up here, I've realized
what I was. A Brush Bascom, with a better education and more brains, but
a Brush Bascom--with the brains prostituted. While things were going
along smoothly I didn't know--you never attempted to talk to me this way
before. Do you remember how you took hold of me that day, and begged me
to stay? I do, and I stayed. Why? Because I was a friend of yours.
Association with you for twenty-five years had got under my skin, and I
thought it had got under yours." Hilary let his hand fall. "To-day you've
given me a notion of what friendship is. You've given me a chance to
estimate myself on a new basis, and I'm much obliged to you for that. I
haven't got many years left, but I'm glad to have found out what my life
has been worth before I die."

He buttoned up his coat slowly, glaring at Mr. Flint the while with a
courage and a defiance that were superb. And he had picked up his hat
before Mr. Flint found his tongue.

"You don't mean that, Vane," he cried. "My God, think what you've said!"

Hilary pointed at the desk with a shaking finger.

"If that were a scaffold, and a rope were around my neck, I'd say it over
again. And I thank God I've had a chance to say it to you." He paused,
cleared his throat, and continued in a voice that all at once had become
unemotional and natural. "I've three tin boxes of the private papers you
wanted. I didn't think of 'em to-day, but I'll bring 'em up to you myself
on Thursday."

Mr. Flint reflected afterwards that what made him helpless must have been
the sudden change in Hilary's manner to the commonplace. The president of
the Northeastern stood where he was, holding the envelope in his hand,
apparently without the power to move or speak. He watched the tall form
of his chief counsel go through the doorway, and something told him that
that exit was coincident with the end of an era.

The end of an era of fraud, of self-deception, of conditions that
violated every sacred principle of free government which men had shed
blood to obtain.

CHAPTER XXIV

AN ADVENTURE OF VICTORIA'S

Mrs. Pomfret was a proud woman, for she had at last obtained the consent
of the lion to attend a lunch party. She would have liked a dinner much
better, but beggars are not choosers, and she seized eagerly on the
lunch. The two days before the convention Mr. Crewe was to spend at
Leith; having continual conferences, of course, receiving delegations,
and discussing with prominent citizens certain offices which would be in
his gift when he became governor. Also, there was Mr. Watling's
nominating speech to be gone over carefully, and Mr. Crewe's own speech
of acceptance to be composed. He had it in his mind, and he had decided
that it should have two qualities: it should be brief and forceful.

Gratitude, however, is one of the noblest qualities of man, and a
statesman should not fail to reward his faithful workers and adherents.
As one of the chiefest of these, Mrs. Pomfret was entitled to high
consideration. Hence the candidate had consented to have a lunch given in
his honour, naming the day and the hour; and Mrs. Pomfret, believing that
a prospective governor should possess some of the perquisites of royalty,
in a rash moment submitted for his approval a list of guests. This
included two distinguished foreigners who were staying at the Leith Inn,
an Englishman and an Austrian, and an elderly lady of very considerable
social importance who was on a visit to Mrs. Pomfret.

Mr. Crewe had graciously sanctioned the list, but took the liberty of
suggesting as an addition to it the name of Miss Victoria Flint,
explaining over the telephone to Mrs. Pomfret that he had scarcely seen
Victoria all summer, and that he wanted particularly to see her. Mrs.
Pomfret declared that she had only left out Victoria because her presence
might be awkward for both of them, but Mr. Crewe waved this aside as a
trivial and feminine objection; so Victoria was invited, and another
young man to balance the table.

Mrs. Pomfret, as may have been surmised, was a woman of taste, and her
villa at Leith, though small, had added considerably to her reputation
for this quality. Patterson Pomfret had been a gentleman with red cheeks
and an income, who incidentally had been satisfied with both. He had
never tried to add to the income, which was large enough to pay the dues
of the clubs the lists of which he thought worthy to include his name;
large enough to pay hotel bills in London and Paris and at the baths, and
to free the servants at country houses; large enough to clothe his wife
and himself, and to teach Alice the three essentials of music, French,
and deportment. If that man is notable who has mastered one thing well,
Patterson Pomfret was a notable man: he had mastered the possibilities of
his income, and never in any year had he gone beyond it by so much as a
sole d vin blanc or a pair of red silk stockings. When he died, he left a
worthy financial successor in his wife.

Mrs. Pomfret, knowing the income, after an exhaustive search decided upon
Leith as the place to build her villa. It must be credited to her
foresight that, when she built, she saw the future possibilities of the
place. The proper people had started it. And it must be credited to her
genius that she added to these possibilities of Leith by bringing to it
such families as she thought worthy to live in the neighbourhood
--families which incidentally increased the value of the land. Her villa
had a decided French look, and was so amazingly trim and neat and
generally shipshape as to be fit--for only the daintiest and most
discriminating feminine occupation. The house was small, and its
metamorphosis from a plain wooden farm-house had been an achievement that
excited general admiration. Porches had been added, and a coat of
spotless white relieved by an orange striping so original that many
envied, but none dared to copy it. The striping went around the white
chimneys, along the cornice, under the windows and on the railings of the
porch: there were window boxes gay with geraniums and abundant awnings
striped white and red, to match the flowers: a high, formal hemlock hedge
hid the house from the road, through which entered a blue-stone drive
that cut the close-cropped lawn and made a circle to the doorway. Under
the great maples on the lawn were a tea-table, rugs, and wicker chairs,
and the house itself was furnished by a variety of things of a design not
to be bought in the United States of America: desks, photograph frames,
writing-sets, clocks, paperknives, flower baskets, magazine racks,
cigarette boxes, and dozens of other articles for the duplicates of which
one might have searched Fifth Avenue in vain.

Mr. Crewe was a little late. Important matters, he said, had detained him
at the last moment, and he particularly enjoined Mrs. Pomfret's butler to
listen carefully for the telephone, and twice during lunch it was
announced that Mr. Crewe was wanted. At first he was preoccupied, and
answered absently across the table the questions of the Englishman and
the Austrian about American politics, and talked to the lady of social
prominence on his right not at all; nor to Mrs. Pomfret'--who excused
him. Being a lady of discerning qualities, however, the hostess remarked
that Mr. Crewe's eyes wandered more than once to the far end of the oval
table, where Victoria sat, and even Mrs. Pomfret could not deny the
attraction. Victoria wore a filmy gown of mauve that infinitely became
her, and a shadowy hat which, in the semi-darkness of the dining room,
was a wondrous setting for her shapely head. Twice she caught Mr. Crewe's
look upon her and returned it amusedly from under her lashes,--and once
he could have sworn that she winked perceptibly. What fires she kindled
in his deep nature it is impossible to say.

She had kindled other fires at her side. The tall young Englishman had
lost interest in American politics, had turned his back upon poor Alice
Pomfret, and had forgotten the world in general. Not so the Austrian, who
was on the other side of Alice, and who could not see Victoria. Mr.
Crewe, by his manner and appearance, had impressed him as a person of
importance, and he wanted to know more. Besides, he wished to improve his
English, and Alice had been told to speak French to him. By a lucky
chance, after several blind attempts, he awakened the interest of the
personality.

"I hear you are what they call reform in America?"

This was not the question that opened the gates.

"I don't care much for the word," answered Mr. Crewe, shortly; "I prefer
the word progressive."

Discourse on the word "progressive" by the Austrian almost a monologue.
But he was far from being discouraged.

"And Mrs. Pomfret tells me they play many detestable tricks on you--yes?"

"Tricks!" exclaimed Mr. Crewe, the memory of many recent ones being fresh
in his mind; "I should say so. Do you know what a caucus is?"

"Caucus--caucus? It brings something to my head. Ah, I have seen a
picture of it, in some English book. A very funny picture--it is in fun,
yes?"

"A picture?" said Mr. Crewe. "Impossible!"

"But no," said the Austrian, earnestly, with one finger to his temples.
"It is a funny picture, I know. I cannot recall. But the word caucus I
remember. That is a droll word."

"Perhaps, Baron," said Victoria, who had been resisting an almost
uncontrollable desire to laugh, "you have been reading 'Alice in
Wonderland.'"

The Englishman, Beatrice Chillingham, and some others (among whom were
not Mr. Crewe and Mrs. Pomfret) gave way to an extremely pardonable
mirth, in which the good-natured baron joined.

"Ach!" he cried. "It is so, I have seen it in 'Alice in Wonderland.'"
Here the puzzled expression returned to his face, "But they are birds,
are they not?"

Men whose minds are on serious things are impatient of levity, and Mr.
Crewe looked at the baron:

"No," he said, "they are not birds."

This reply was the signal for more laughter.

"A thousand pardons," exclaimed the baron. "It is I who am so ignorant.
You will excuse me--yes?"

Mr. Crewe was mollified. The baron was a foreigner, he had been the
object of laughter, and Mr. Crewe's chivalrous spirit resented it.

"What we call a caucus in the towns of this State," he said, "is a
meeting of citizens of one party to determine who their candidates shall
be. A caucus is a primary. There is a very loose primary law in this
State, purposely kept loose by the politicians of the Northeastern
Railroads, in order that they may play such tricks on decent men as they
have been playing on me."

At this mention of the Northeastern Railroads the lady on Mr. Crewe's
right, and some other guests, gave startled glances at Victoria. They
observed with surprise that she seemed quite unmoved.

"I'll tell you one or two of the things those railroad lobbyists have
done," said Mr. Crewe, his indignation rising with the subject, and still
addressing the baron. "They are afraid to let the people into the
caucuses, because they know I'll get the delegates. Nearly everywhere I
speak to the people, I get the delegates. The railroad politicians send
word to the town rings to hold snap caucuses' when they hear I'm coming
into a town to speak, and the local politicians give out notices only a
day before, and only to the voters they want in the caucus. In Hull the
other day, out of a population of two thousand, twenty men elected four
delegates for the railroad candidate."

"It is corruption!" cried the baron, who had no idea who Victoria was,
and a very slim notion of what Mr. Crewe was talking about.

"Corruption!" said Mr. Crewe. "What can you expect when a railroad owns a
State? The other day in Britain, where they elect fourteen delegates, the
editor of a weekly newspaper printed false ballots with two of my men at
the top and one at the bottom, and eleven railroad men in the middle.
Fortunately some person with sense discovered the fraud before it was too
late."

"You don't tell me!" said the baron.

"And every State and federal office-holder has been distributing passes
for the last three weeks."

"Pass?" repeated the baron. "You mean they fight with the fist--so? To
distribute a pass--so," and the baron struck out at an imaginary enemy.
"It is the American language. I have read it in the prize-fight. I am
told to read the prize-fight and the base-ball game."

Mr. Crewe thought it obviously useless to continue this conversation.

"The railroad," said the baron, "he is the modern Machiavelli."

"I say," Mr. Rangely, the Englishman, remarked to Victoria, "this is a
bit rough on you, you know."

"Oh, I'm used to it," she laughed.

"Mr. Crewe," said Mrs. Pomfret, to the table at large, "deserves
tremendous credit for the fight he has made, almost single-handed. Our
greatest need in this country is what you have in England, Mr. Rangely,
--gentlemen in politics. Our country gentlemen, like Mr. Crewe, are now
going to assume their proper duties and responsibilities." She laid her
napkin on the table and glanced at Alice as she continued: "Humphrey, I
shall have to appoint you, as usual, the man of the house. Will you take
the gentlemen into the library?"

Another privilege of celebrity is to throw away one's cigar, and walk out
of the smoking room if one is bored. Mr. Crewe was, in a sense, the host.
He indicated with a wave of his hand the cigars and cigarettes which Mrs.
Pomfret had provided, and stood in a thoughtful manner before the empty
fireplace, with his hands in his pockets, replying in brief sentences to
the questions of Mr. Chillingham and the others. To tell the truth, Mr.
Crewe was bringing to bear all of his extraordinary concentration of mind
upon a problem with which he had been occupied for some years past. He
was not a man, as we know, to take the important steps of life in a
hurry, although; like the truly great, he was capable of making up his
mind in a very brief period when it was necessary to strike. He had now,
after weighing the question with the consideration which its gravity
demanded, finally decided upon definite action. Whereupon he walked out
of the library, leaving the other guests to comment as they would; or not
comment at all, for all he cared. Like all masterful men, he went direct
to the thing he wanted.

The ladies were having coffee under the maples, by the tea-table. At some
little distance from the group Beatrice Chillingham was walking with
Victoria, and it was evident that Victoria found Miss Chillingham's
remarks amusing. These were the only two in the party who did not observe
Mr. Crewe's approach. Mrs. Pomfret, when she saw the direction which he
was taking, lost the thread of her conversation, and the lady who was
visiting her wore a significant expression.

"Victoria," said Mr. Crewe, "let's go around to the other side of the
house and look at the view."

Victoria started and turned to him from Miss Chillingham, with the fun
still sparkling in her eyes. It was, perhaps, as well for Mr. Crewe that
he had not overheard their conversation; but this might have applied to
any man.

"Are you sure you can spare the time?" she asked.

Mr. Crewe looked at his watch--probably from habit.

"I made it a point to leave the smoking room early," he replied.

"We're flattered--aren't we, Beatrice?"

Miss Chillingham had a turned-up nose, and a face which was apt to be
slightly freckled at this time of year; for she contemned vanity and
veils. For fear of doing her an injustice, it must be added that she was
not at all bad-looking; quite the contrary All that can be noted in this
brief space is that Beatrice Chillingham was herself. Some people
declared that she was possessed of the seven devils of her sex which Mr.
Stockton wrote about.

"I'm flattered," she said, and walked off towards the tea-table with a
glance in which Victoria read many meanings. Mr. Crewe paid no attention
either to words, look, or departure.

"I want to talk to you," he said.

"You've made that very plain, at least," answered Victoria. "Why did you
pretend it was the view?"

"Some conventionalities have to be observed, I suppose," he said. "Let's
go around there. It is a good view."

"Don't you think this is a little--marked?" asked Victoria, surveying him
with her hands behind her back.

"I can't help it if it is," said Mr. Crewe. "Every hour is valuable to
me, and I've got to take my chances when I get 'em. For some reason, you
haven't been down at Leith much this summer. Why didn't you telephone me,
as I asked you."

"Because I've suddenly grown dignified, I suppose," she said. "And then,
of course, I hesitated to intrude upon such a person of importance as you
have become, Humphrey."

"I've always got time to see you," he replied. "I always shall have. But
I appreciate your delicacy. That sort of thing counts with a man more
than most women know."

"Then I am repaid," said Victoria, "for exercising self-control."

"I find it always pays," declared Mr. Crewe, and he glanced at her with
distinct approval. They were skirting the house, and presently came out
upon a tiny terrace where young Ridley had made a miniature Italian
garden when the Electric dividends had increased, and from which there
was a vista of the shallows of the Blue. Here was a stone garden-seat
which Mrs. Pomfret had brought from Italy, and over which she had
quarrelled with the customs authorities. Mr. Crewe, with a wave of his
hand, signified his pleasure that they should sit, and cleared his
throat.

"It's just as well, perhaps," he began, "that we haven't had the chance
to see each other earlier. When a man starts out upon an undertaking of
the gravest importance, wherein he stakes his reputation, an undertaking
for which he is ridiculed and reviled, he likes to have his judgment
justified. He likes to be vindicated, especially in the eyes of--people
whom he cares about. Personally, I never had any doubt that I should be
the next governor, because I knew in the beginning that I had estimated
public sentiment correctly. The man who succeeds in this world is the man
who has sagacity enough to gauge public sentiment ahead of time, and the
courage to act on his beliefs." Victoria looked at him steadily. He was
very calm, and he had one knee crossed over the other.

"And the sagacity," she added, "to choose his lieutenants in the fight."

"Exactly," said Mr. Crewe. "I have always declared, Victoria, that you
had a natural aptitude for affairs."

"I have heard my father say," she continued, still maintaining her steady
glance, "that Hamilton Tooting is one of the shrewdest politicians he has
ever known. Isn't Mr. Tooting one of your right-hand men?"

"He could hardly be called that," Mr. Crewe replied. "In fact, I haven't
any what you might call 'right-hand men.' The large problems I have had
to decide for myself. As for Tooting, he's well enough in his way; he
understands the tricks of the politicians--he's played 'em, I guess. He's
uneducated; he's merely a worker. You see," he went on, "one great reason
why I've been so successful is because I've been practical. I've taken
materials as I've found them."

"I see," answered Victoria, turning her head and gazing over the terrace
at the sparkling reaches of the river. She remembered the close of that
wintry afternoon in Mr. Crewe's house at the capital, and she was quite
willing to do him exact justice, and to believe that he had forgotten it
--which, indeed, was the case.

"I want to say," he continued, "that although I have known and--ahem
--admired you for many years, Victoria, what has struck me most forcibly
in your favour has been your open-mindedness--especially on the great
political questions this summer. I have no idea how much you know about
them, but one would naturally have expected you, on account of your
father, to be prejudiced. Sometime, when I have more leisure, I shall go
into them, fully with you. And in the meantime I'll have my secretary
send you the complete list of my speeches up to date, and I know you will
read them carefully."

"You are very kind, Humphrey," she said.

Absorbed in the presentation of his subject (which chanced to be
himself), Mr. Crewe did not observe that her lips were parted, and that
there were little creases around her eyes.

"And sometime," said Mr. Crewe, when all this has blown over a little, I
shall have a talk with your father. He undoubtedly understands that there
is scarcely any question of my election. He probably realizes, too, that
he has been in the--wrong, and that railroad domination must cease--he
has already made several concessions, as you know. I wish you would tell
him from me that when I am governor, I shall make it a point to discuss
the whole matter with him, and that he will find in me no foe of
corporations. Justice is what I stand for. Temperamentally, I am too
conservative, I am too much of a business man, to tamper with vested
interests."

"I will tell him, Humphrey," said Victoria.

Mr. Crewe coughed, and looked at his watch once, more. "And now, having
made that clear," he said, "and having only a quarter of an hour before I
have to leave to keep an appointment, I am going to take up another
subject. And I ask you to believe it is not done lightly, or without due
consideration, but as the result of some years of thought."

Victoria turned to him seriously--and yet the creases were still around
her eyes.

"I can well believe it, Humphrey," she answered. "But--have you time?"

"Yes," he said, "I have learned the value of minutes."

"But not of hours, perhaps," she replied.

"That," said Mr. Crewe, indulgently, "is a woman's point of view. A man
cannot dally through life, and your kind of woman has no use for a man
who dallies. First, I will give you my idea of a woman."

"I am all attention," said Victoria.

"Well," said Mr. Crewe, putting the tops of his fingers together, "she
should excel as a housewife. I haven't any use for your so-called
intellectual woman. Of course, what I mean by a housewife is something a
little less bourgeoise; she should be able to conduct an establishment
with the neatness and despatch and economy of a well-run hotel. She
should be able to seat a table instantly and accurately, giving to the
prominent guests the prestige they deserve. Nor have I any sympathy with
the notion that makes a married woman a law unto herself. She enters
voluntarily into an agreement whereby she puts herself under the control
of her husband: his interests, his career, his--"

"Comfort?" suggested Victoria.

"Yes, his comfort--all that comes first. And his establishment is
conducted primarily, and his guests selected, in the interests of his
fortunes. Of course, that goes without saying of a man in high place in
public life. But he must choose for his wife a woman who is equal to all
these things,--to my mind her highest achievement,--who makes the most of
the position he gives her, presides at his table and entertainments, and
reaches such people as, for any reason, he is unable to reach. I have
taken the pains to point out these things in a general way, for obvious
reasons. My greatest desire is to be fair."

"What," asked Victoria, with her eyes on the river, "what are the wages?"

Mr. Crewe laughed. Incidentally, he thought her profile very fine.

"I do not believe in flattery," he said, "but I think I should add to the
qualifications personality and a sense of humour. I am quite sure I could
never live with a woman--who didn't have a sense of humour."

"I should think it would be a little difficult," said Victoria, "to get a
woman with the qualifications you enumerate and a sense of humour thrown
in."

"Infinitely difficult," declared Mr. Crewe, with more ardour than he had
yet shown. "I have waited a good many years, Victoria."

"And yet," she said, "you have been happy. You have a perpetual source of
enjoyment denied to some people."

"What is that?" he asked. It is natural for a man to like to hear the
points of his character discussed by a discerning woman.

"Yourself," said Victoria, suddenly looking him full in the face. "You
are complete, Humphrey, as it is. You are happily married already.
Besides," she added, laughing a little, "the qualities you have
mentioned--with the exception of the sense of humour--are not those of a
wife, but of a business partner of the opposite sex. What you really want
is a business partner with something like a fifth interest, and whose
name shall not appear in the agreement."

Mr. Crewe laughed again. Nevertheless, he was a little puzzled over this
remark.

"I am not sentimental," he began.

"You certainly are not," she said.

"You have a way," he replied, with a shade of reproof in his voice, "you
have a way at times of treating serious things with a little less gravity
than they deserve. I am still a young man, but I have seen a good deal of
life, and I know myself pretty well. It is necessary to treat matrimony
from a practical as well as a sentimental point of view. There wouldn't
be half the unhappiness and divorces if people took time to do this,
instead of rushing off and getting married immediately. And of course it
is especially important for a man in my position to study every aspect of
the problem before he takes a step."

By this time a deep and absorbing interest in a new aspect of Mr. Crewe's
character had taken possession of Victoria.

"And you believe that, by taking thought, you can get the kind of a wife
you want?" she asked.

"Certainly," he replied; "does that strike you as strange?"

"A little," said Victoria. "Suppose," she added gently, "suppose that the
kind of wife you'd want wouldn't want you?"

Mr. Crewe laughed again.

"That is a contingency which a strong man does not take into
consideration," he answered. "Strong men get what they want. But upon my
word, Victoria, you have a delicious way of putting things. In your
presence I quite forget the problems and perplexities which beset me.
That," he said, with delicate meaning, "that is another quality I should
desire in a woman."

"It is one, fortunately, that isn't marketable," she said, "and it's the
only quality you've mentioned that's worth anything."

"A woman's valuation," said Mr. Crewe.

"If it made you forget your own affairs, it would be priceless."

"Look here, Victoria," cried Mr. Crewe, uncrossing his knees, "joking's
all very well, but I haven't time for it to-day. And I'm in a serious
mood. I've told you what I want, and now that I've got to go in a few
minutes, I'll come to the point. I don't suppose a man could pay a woman
a higher compliment than to say that his proposal was the result of some
years of thought and study."

Here Victoria laughed outright, but grew serious again at once.

"Unless he proposed to her the day he met her. That would be a real
compliment."

"The man," said Mr. Crewe, impatiently, "would be a fool."

"Or else a person of extreme discernment," said Victoria. "And love is
lenient with fools. By the way, Humphrey, it has just occurred to me that
there's one quality which some people think necessary in a wife, which
you didn't mention."

"What's that?"

"Love," said Victoria.

"Love, of course," he agreed; "I took that for granted."

"I supposed you did," said Victoria, meekly.

"Well, now, to come to the point--" he began again.

But she interrupted him by glancing at the watch on her gown, and rising.

"What's the matter?" he asked, with some annoyance.

"The fifteen minutes are up," she announced. "I cannot take the
responsibility of detaining you."

"We will put in tantalizing as another attractive quality," he laughed.
"I absolve you of all responsibility. Sit down."

"I believe you mentioned obedience," she answered, and sat down again at
the end of the bench, resting her chin on her gloved hand, and looking at
him. By this time her glances seemed to have gained a visibly disturbing
effect. He moved a little nearer to her, took off his hat (which he had
hitherto neglected to do), and thrust his hands abruptly into his
pockets--as much as to say that he would not be responsible for their
movements if they were less free.

"Hang it all, Victoria," he exclaimed, "I'm a practical man, and I try to
look at this, which is one of the serious things in life, in a practical
way."

"One of the serious things," she repeated, as though to herself.

"Yes," he said, "certainly."

"I merely asked to be sure of the weight you gave it. Go on."

"In a practical way, as I was saying. Long ago I suspected that you had
most of those qualities."

"I'm overwhelmed, Humphrey," she cried, with her eyes dancing.  "But--do
you think I could cultivate the rest?"

"Oh, well," said Mr. Crewe, I put it that way because no woman is
perfect, and I dislike superlatives."

"I should think superlatives would be very hard to live with," she
reflected. "But--dreadful thought!--suppose I should lack an essential?"

"What--for instance?"

"Love--for instance. But then you did not put it first. It was I who
mentioned it, and you who took it for granted."

"Affection seems to be a more sensible term for it," he said. "Affection
is the lasting and sensible thing. You mentioned a partnership, a word
that singularly fits into my notion of marriage. I want to be honest with
you, and understate my feelings on that subject."

Victoria, who had been regarding him with a curious look that puzzled
him, laughed again.

"I have been hoping you haven't exaggerated them," she replied.

"They're stronger than you think," he declared. "I never felt this way in
my life before. What I meant to say was, that I never understood running
away with a woman."

"That does not surprise me," said Victoria.

"I shouldn't know where to run to," he proclaimed.

"Perhaps the woman would, if you got a clever one. At any rate, it
wouldn't matter. One place is as good as another. Some go to Niagara, and
some to Coney Island, and others to Venice. Personally, I should have no
particular preference."

"No preference!" he exclaimed.

"I could be happy in Central Park," she declared.

"Fortunately," said Mr. Crewe, "you will never be called upon to make the
trial."

Victoria was silent. Her thoughts, for the moment, had flown elsewhere,
but Mr. Crewe did not appear to notice this. He fell back into the
rounded hollow of the bench, and it occurred to him that he had never
quite realized that profile. And what an ornament she would be to his
table.

"I think, Humphrey," she said, "that we should be going back."

"One moment, and I'll have finished," he cried. "I've no doubt you are
prepared for what I am going to say. I have purposely led up to it, in
order that there might be no misunderstanding. In short, I have never
seen another woman with personal characteristics so well suited for my
life, and I want you to marry me, Victoria. I can offer you the position
of the wife of a man with a public career--for which you are so well
fitted."

Victoria shook her head slowly, and smiled at him.

"I couldn't fill the position," she said.

"Perhaps," he replied, smiling back at her, "perhaps I am the best judge
of that."

"And you thought," she asked slowly, "that I was that kind of a woman?"

"I know it to be a practical certainty," said Mr. Crewe.

"Practical certainties," said Victoria, "are not always truths. If I
should sign a contract, which I suppose, as a business man, you would
want, to live up to the letter of your specifications,--even then I could
not do it. I should make life a torture for you, Humphrey. You see, I am
honest with you, too--much as your offer dazzles me." And she shook her
head again.

"That," exclaimed Mr. Crewe, impatiently, "is sheer nonsense. I want you,
and I mean to have you."

There came a look into her eyes which Mr. Crewe did not see, because her
face was turned from him.

"I could be happy," she said, "for days and weeks and years in a but on
the side of Sawanec. I could be happy in a farm-house where I had to do
all the work. I am not the model housewife which your imagination
depicts, Humphrey. I could live in two rooms and eat at an Italian
restaurant--with the right man. And I am afraid the wrong one would wake
up one day and discover that I had gone. I am sorry to disillusionize
you, but I don't care a fig for balls and garden-parties and salons. It
would be much more fun to run away from them to the queer places of the
earth--with the right man. And I should have to possess one essential to
put up with--greatness and what you call a public career."

"And what is that essential?" he asked.

"Love," said Victoria. He heard the word but faintly, for her face was
still turned away from him. "You've offered me the things that are
attainable by taking thought, by perseverance, by pertinacity, by the
outwitting of your fellow-men, by the stacking of coins. And I want--the
unattainable, the divine gift which is bestowed, which cannot be
acquired. If it could be acquired, Humphrey," she added, looking at him,
"I am sure you would acquire it--if you thought it worth while."

"I don't understand you," he said,--and looked it.

"No," said Victoria, "I was afraid you wouldn't. And moreover, you never
would. There is no use in my trying to make myself any clearer, and
you'll have to keep your appointment. I hesitate to contradict you, but I
am not the kind of woman you want. That is one reason I cannot marry you.
And the other is, that I do not love you."

"You can't be in love with any one else?" he cried.

"That does seem rather preposterous, I'll admit," she answered. "But if I
were, it wouldn't make any difference."

"You won't marry me?" he said, getting to his feet. There was incredulity
in his voice, and a certain amount of bewilderment. The thing was indeed
incredible!

"No," said Victoria, "I won't."

And he had only to look into her face to see that it was so. Hitherto nil
desperandum had been a good working motto, but something told him it was
useless in this case. He thrust on his hat and pulled out his watch.

"Well," he said, "that settles it. I must--say I can't see your point of
view--but that settles it. I must say, too, that your refusal is
something of a shock after what I had been led to expect after the past
few years."

"The person you are in love with led you to expect it, Humphrey, and that
person is--yourself. You are in love temporarily with your own ideal of
me."

"And your refusal comes at an unfortunate tune for me," he continued, not
heeding her words, "when I have an affair on my hands of such magnitude,
which requires concentrated thought. But I'm not a man to cry, and I'll
make the best of it."

"If I thought it were more than a temporary disappointment, I should be
sorry for you," said Victoria. "I remember that you felt something like
this when Mr. Rutter wouldn't sell you his land. The lady you really
want," she added, pointing with her parasol at the house, "is in there,
waiting for you."

Mr. Crewe did not reply to this prophecy, but followed Victoria around
the house to the group on the lawn, where he bade his hostess a somewhat
preoccupied farewell, and bowed distantly to the guests.

"He has so much on his mind," said Mrs. Pomfret. "And oh, I quite
forgot--Humphrey!" she cried, calling after him, "Humphrey!"

"Yes," he said, turning before he reached his automobile. "What is it?"

"Alice and I are going to the convention, you know, and I meant to tell
you that there would be ten in the party--but I didn't have a chance."
Here Mrs. Pomfret glanced at Victoria, who had been joined at once by the
tall Englishman.  "Can you get tickets for ten?"

Mr. Crewe made a memorandum.

"Yes," he said, "I'll get the tickets--but I don't see what you want to
go for."

CHAPTER XXV

MORE ADVENTURER

Victoria had not, of course, confided in Beatrice Chillingham what had
occurred in the garden, although that lady had exhibited the liveliest
interest, and had had her suspicions. After Mr. Crewe's departure Mr.
Rangely, the tall young Englishman, had renewed his attentions
assiduously, although during the interval in the garden he had found Miss
Chillingham a person of discernment.

"She's not going to marry that chap, is she, Miss Chillingham?" he had
asked.

"No," said Beatrice; "you have my word for it, she isn't."

As she was leaving, Mrs. Pomfret had taken Victoria's hand and drawn her
aside, and looked into her face with a meaning smile.

"My dear!" she exclaimed, "he particularly asked that you be invited."

"Who?" said Victoria.

"Humphrey. He stipulated that you should be here."

"Then I'm very much obliged to him," said Victoria, "for I've enjoyed
myself immensely. I like your Englishman so much."

"Do you?" said Mrs. Pomfret, searching Victoria's face, while her own
brightened. "He's heir to one of the really good titles, and he has an
income of his own. I couldn't put him up here, in this tiny box, because
I have Mrs. Fronde. We are going to take him to the convention--and if
you'd care to go, Victoria--?"

Victoria laughed.

"It isn't as serious as that," she said. "And I'm afraid I can't go to
the convention--I have some things to do in the neighbourhood."

Mrs. Pomfret looked wise.

"He's a most attractive man, with the best prospects. It would be a
splendid match for you, Victoria."

"Mrs. Pomfret," replied Victoria, wavering between amusement and a desire
to be serious, "I haven't the slightest intention of making what you call
a 'match.'" And there was in her words a ring of truth not to be
mistaken.

Mrs. Pomfret kissed her.

"One never can tell what may happen," she said. "Think of him, Victoria.
And your dear mother--perhaps you will know some day what the
responsibility is of seeing a daughter well placed in life."

Victoria coloured, and withdrew her hand.

"I fear that time is a long way off, Mrs. Pomfret," she replied.

"I think so much of Victoria," Mrs. Pomfret declared a moment later to
her guest; "she's like my own daughter. But at times she's so hopelessly
unconventional. Why, I believe Rangely's actually going home with her."

"He asked her to drop him at the Inn," said Mrs. Fronde. "He's head over
heels in love already."

"It would be such a relief to dear Rose," sighed Mrs. Pomfret.

"I like the girl," replied Mrs. Fronde, dryly. "She has individuality,
and knows her own mind. Whoever she marries will have something to him."

"I devoutly hope so!" said Mrs. Pomfret.

It was quite true that Mr. Arthur Rangely had asked Victoria to drop him
at the Inn. But when they reached it he made another request.

"Do you mind if I go a bit farther, Miss Flint?" he suggested. "I'd
rather like the walk back."

Victoria laughed.

"Do come," she said.

He admired the country, but he looked at Victoria, and asked a hundred
exceedingly frank questions about Leith, about Mrs. Pomfret, whom he had
met at his uncle's seat in Devonshire, and about Mr. Crewe and the
railroads in politics. Many of these Victoria parried, and she came
rapidly to the conclusion that Mr. Arthur Rangely was a more astute
person than--to a casual observer he would seem.

He showed no inclination to fix the limits of his walk, and made no
protest as she drove under the stone archway at the entrance of Fairview.
Victoria was amused and interested, and she decided that she liked Mr.
Rangely.

"Will you come up for tea?" she asked. "I'll send you home."

He accepted with alacrity. They had reached the first turn when their
attention was caught by the sight of a buggy ahead of them, and facing
towards them. The horse, with the reins hanging loosely over the shafts,
had strayed to the side of the driveway and was contentedly eating the
shrubbery that lined it. Inside the vehicle, hunched up in the corner of
the seat, was a man who presented an appearance of helplessness which
struck them both with a sobering effect.

"Is the fellow drunk?" said Mr. Rangely.

Victoria's answer was a little cry which startled him, and drew his look
to her. She had touched her horse with the whip, and her eyes had widened
in real alarm.

"It's Hilary Vane!" she exclaimed. "I--I wonder what can have happened!"

She handed the reins to Mr. Rangely, and sprang out and flew to Hilary's
side.

"Mr. Vane!" she cried. "What's the matter? Are you ill?"

She had never seen him look so. To her he had always been as one on whom
pity would be wasted, as one who long ago had established his credit with
the universe to his own satisfaction. But now, suddenly, intense pity
welled up within her, and even in that moment she wondered if it could be
because he was Austen's father. His hands were at his sides, his head was
fallen forward a little, and his face was white. But his eyes frightened
her most; instead of the old, semi-defiant expression which she
remembered from childhood, they had in them a dumb suffering that went to
her heart. He looked at her, tried to straighten up, and fell back again.

"N--nothing's the matter," he said, "nothing. A little spell. I'll be all
right in a moment."

Victoria did not lose an instant, but climbed into the buggy at his side
and gathered up the reins, and drew the fallen lap-robe over his knees.

"I'm going to take you back to Fairview," she said. "And we'll telephone
for a doctor."

But she had underrated the amount of will left in him. He did not move,
though indeed if he had seized the reins from her hands, he could have
given her no greater effect of surprise. Life came back into the eyes at
the summons, and dominance into the voice, although he breathed heavily.

"No, you're not," he said; "no, you're not. I'm going to Ripton--do you
understand? I'll be all right in a minute, and I'll take the lines."

Victoria, when she got over her astonishment at this, reflected quickly.
She glanced at him, and the light of his expression was already fading.
There was some reason why he did not wish to go back to Fairview, and
common sense told her that agitation was not good for him; besides, they
would have to telephone to Ripton for a physician, and it was quicker to
drive there. Quicker to drive in her own runabout, did she dare to try to
move him into it. She made up her mind.

"Please follow on behind with that trap," she called out to Rangely; "I'm
going to Ripton."

He nodded understandingly, admiringly, and Victoria started Hilary's
horse out of the bushes towards the entrance way. From time to time she
let her eyes rest upon him anxiously.

"Are you comfortable?" she asked.

"Yes," he said, "yes. I'm all right. I'll be able to drive in a minute."

But the minutes passed, and he made no attempt to take the reins.
Victoria had drawn the whalebone whip from its socket, and was urging on
the horse as fast as humanity would permit; and the while she was aware
that Hilary's look was fixed upon her--in fact, never left her. Once or
twice, in spite of her anxiety to get him home, Victoria blushed faintly,
as she wondered what he was thinking about.

And all the while she asked herself what it was that had brought him to
this condition. Victoria knew sufficient of life and had visited
hospitals enough to understand that mental causes were generally
responsible for such breakdowns--Hilary had had a shock. She remembered
how in her childhood he had been the object of her particular animosity;
how she used to put out her tongue at him, and imitate his manner, and
how he had never made the slightest attempt to conciliate her; most
people of this sort are sensitive to the instincts of children; but
Hilary had not been. She remembered--how long ago it seemed now!--the day
she had given him, in deviltry, the clipping about Austen shooting Mr.
Blodgett.

The Hilary Vane who sat beside her to-day was not the same man. It was
unaccountable, but he was not. Nor could this changed estimate of him be
attributed to her regard for Austen, for she recalled a day only a few
months since--in June--when he had come up to Fairview and she was
standing on the lawn, and she had looked at him without recognition; she
had not, then, been able to bring herself to bow to him; to her childhood
distaste had been added the deeper resentment of Austen's wrongs. Her
early instincts about Hilary had been vindicated, for he had treated his
son abominably and driven Austen from his mother's home. To misunderstand
and maltreat Austen Vane, of all people Austen, whose consideration for
his father had been what it had! Could it be that Hilary felt remorse?
Could it be that he loved Austen in some peculiar manner all his own?

Victoria knew now--so strangely--that the man beside her was capable of
love, and she had never felt that way about Hilary Vane. And her mind was
confused, and her heart was troubled and wrung. Insight flashed upon her
of the terrible loneliness of a life surrounded by outstretched, loving
arms to which one could not fly; scenes from a famous classic she had
read with a favourite teacher at school came to her, and she knew that
she was the witness of a retribution, of a suffering beyond conception of
a soul prepared for suffering,--not physical suffering, but of that
torture which is the meaning of hell.

However, there was physical suffering. It came and went, and at such
moments she saw the traces of it in the tightening of his lips, and
longed with womanly intuition to alleviate it. She had not spoken
--although she could have cried aloud; she knew not what to say. And then
suddenly she reached out and touched his hand. Nor could she have
accounted for the action.

"Are you in much pain?" she asked.

She felt him tremble.

"No," he said; "it's only a spell--I've had 'em before. I--I can drive in
a few minutes."

"And do you think," she asked, "that I would allow you to go the rest of
the way alone?"

"I guess I ought to thank you for comin' with me," he said.

Victoria looked at him and smiled. And it was an illuminating smile for
her as well as for Hilary. Suddenly, by that strange power of sympathy
which the unselfish possess, she understood the man, understood Austen's
patience with him and affection for him. Suddenly she had pierced the
hard layers of the outer shell, and had heard the imprisoned spirit
crying with a small persistent voice,--a spirit stifled for many years
and starved--and yet it lived and struggled still.

Yes, and that spirit itself must have felt her own reaching out to it
--who can, say? And how it must have striven again for utterance--

"It was good of you to come," he said.

"It was only common humanity," she answered, touching the horse.

"Common humanity," he repeated. "You'd have done it for anybody along the
road, would you?"

At this remark, so characteristic of Hilary, Victoria, hesitated. She
understood it now. And yet she hesitated to give him an answer that was
hypocritical.

"I have known you all my life, Mr. Vane, and you are a very old friend of
my father's."

"Old," he repeated, "yes, that's it. I'm ready for the scrap-heap
--better have let me lie, Victoria."

Victoria started. A new surmise had occurred to her upon which she did
not like to dwell.

"You have worked too hard, Mr. Vane--you need a rest. And I have been
telling father that, too. You both need a rest."

He shook his head.

"I'll never get it," he said. "Stopping work won't give it to me."

She pondered on these words as she guided the horse over a crossing. And
all that Austen had said to her, all that she had been thinking of for a
year past, helped her to grasp their meaning. But she wondered still more
at the communion which, all at once, had been established between Hilary
Vane and herself, and why he was saying these things to her. It was all
so unreal and inexplicable.

"I can imagine that people who have worked hard all their lives must feel
that way," she answered, though her voice was not as steady as she could
have wished. "You--you have so much to live for."

Her colour rose. She was thinking of Austen--and she knew that Hilary
Vane knew that she was thinking of Austen. Moreover, she had suddenly
grasped the fact that the gentle but persistently strong influence of the
son's character had brought about the change in the father. Hilary Vane's
lips closed again, as in pain, and she divined the reason.

Victoria knew the house in Hanover Street, with its classic porch, with
its certain air of distinction and stability, and long before she had
known it as the Austen residence she remembered wondering who lived in
it. The house had individuality, and (looked at from the front) almost
perfect proportions; consciously--it bespoke the gentility of its
builders. Now she drew up before it and called to Mr. Rangely, who was
abreast, to tie his horse and ring the bell. Hilary was already feeling
with his foot for the step of the buggy.

"I'm all right," he insisted; "I can manage now," but Victoria seized his
arm with a firm, detaining hand.

"Please wait,--Mr. Vane," she pleaded.

But the feeling of shame at his helplessness was strong.

"It's over now. I--I can walk. I'm much obliged to you, Victoria--much
obliged."

Fortunately Hilary's horse showed no inclination to go any farther--even
to the stable. And Victoria held on to his arm. He ceased to protest, and
Mr. Rangely quickly tied the other horse and came to Victoria's aid.
Supported by the young Englishman, Hilary climbed the stone steps and
reached the porch, declaring all the while that he needed no assistance,
and could walk alone. Victoria rang the bell, and after an interval the
door was opened by Euphrasia Cotton.

Euphrasia stood upright with her hand on the knob, and her eyes flashed
over the group and rested fixedly on the daughter of Mr. Flint.

"Mr. Vane was not very well," Victoria explained, "and we came home with
him."

"I'm all right," said Hilary, once more, and to prove it he stepped--not
very steadily--across the threshold into the hall, and sat down on a
chair which had had its place at the foot of the stairs from time
immemorial. Euphrasia stood still.

"I think," said Victoria, "that Mr. Vane had better see a doctor. Have
you a telephone?"

"No, we haven't," said Euphrasia.

Victoria turned to Mr. Rangely, who had been a deeply interested
spectator to this scene.

"A little way down the street, on the other side, Dr. Tredway lives. You
will see his sign."

"And if he isn't in, go to the hospital. It's only a few doors farther
on."

"I'll wait," said Victoria, simply, when he had gone; "my father will
wish to know about Mr. Vane."

"Hold on," said Hilary, "I haven't any use for a doctor--I won't see one.
I know what the trouble is, and I'm all right."

Victoria became aware--for the first time that Hilary Vane's housekeeper
had not moved; that Euphrasia Cotton was still staring at her in a most
disconcerting manner, and was paying no attention whatever to Hilary.

"Come in and set down," she said; and seeing Victoria glance at Hilary's
horse, she added, "Oh, he'll stand there till doomsday."

Victoria, thinking that the situation would be less awkward, accepted the
invitation, and Euphrasia shut the door. The hall, owing to the fact that
the shutters of the windows by the stairs were always closed, was in
semidarkness. Victoria longed to let in the light, to take this strange,
dried-up housekeeper and shake her into some semblance of natural
feeling. And this was Austen's home! It was to this house, made gloomy by
these people, that he had returned every night! Infinitely depressed, she
felt that she must take some action, or cry aloud.

"Mr. Vane," she said, laying a hand upon his shoulder, "I think you
ought, at least, to lie down for a little while. Isn't there a sofa in
--in the parlour?" she asked Euphrasia.

"You can't get him to do anything," Euphrasia replied, with decision;
"he'll die some day for want of a little common sense. I shouldn't wonder
if he was took on soon."

"Oh!" cried Victoria. She could think of no words to answer this remark.

"It wouldn't surprise me," Euphrasia continued. "He fell down the stairs
here not long ago, and went right on about his business. He's never paid
any attention to anybody, and I guess it's a mite late to expect him to
begin now. Won't you set down?"

There was another chair against the low wainscoting, and Victoria drew it
over beside Hilary and sat down in it. He did not seem to notice the
action, and Euphrasia continued to stand. Standing seemed to be the
natural posture of this remarkable woman, Victoria thought--a posture of
vigilance, of defiance. A clock of one of the Austen grandfathers stood
obscurely at the back of the hall, and the measured swing of its pendulum
was all that broke the silence. This was Austen's home. It seemed
impossible for her to realize that he could be the product of this
environment--until a portrait on the opposite wall, above the stairs,
came out of the gloom and caught her eye like the glow of light. At
first, becoming aware of it with a start, she thought it a likeness of
Austen himself. Then she saw that the hair was longer, and more wavy than
his, and fell down a little over the velvet collar of a coat with a wide
lapel and brass buttons, and that the original of this portrait had worn
a stock. The face had not quite the strength of Austen's, she thought,
but a wondrous sweetness and intellect shone from it, like an expression
she had seen on his face. The chin rested on the hand, an intellectual
hand,--and the portrait brought to her mind that of a young English
statesman she had seen in the National Gallery in London.

"That's Channing Austen,--he was minister to Spain."

Victoria started. It was Euphrasia who was speaking, and unmistakable
pride was in her voice.

Fortunately for Victoria, who would not in the least have known what to
reply, steps were heard on the porch, and Euphrasia opened the door. Mr.
Rangely had returned.

"Here's the doctor, Miss Flint," he said, "and I'll wait for you
outside."

Victoria rose as young Dr. Tredway came forward. They were old friends,
and the doctor, it may be recalled, had been chiefly responsible for the
preservation of the life of Mr. Zebulun Meader.

"I have sent for you, Doctor," she said, "against instructions and on my
own responsibility. Mr. Vane is ill, although he refuses to admit it."

Dr. Tredway had a respect for Victoria and her opinions, and he knew
Hilary. He opened the door a little wider, and looked critically at Mr.
Vane.

"It's nothing but a spell," Hilary insisted. "I've had 'em before. I
suppose it's natural that they should scare the women-folks some."

"What kind of a spell was it, Mr. Vane?" asked the doctor.

"It isn't worth talking about," said Hilary. "You might as well pick up
that case of yours and go home again. I'm going down to the square in a
little while."

"You see," Euphrasia put in, "he's made up his mind to kill himself."

"Perhaps," said the doctor, smiling a little, "Mr. Vane wouldn't object
to Miss Flint telling me what happened."

Victoria glanced at the doctor and hesitated. Her sympathy for Hilary,
her new understanding of him, urged her on--and yet never in her life had
she been made to feel so distinctly an intruder. Here was the doctor,
with his case; here was this extraordinary housekeeper, apparently ready
to let Hilary walk to the square, if he wished, and to shut the door on
their backs; and here was Hilary himself, who threatened at any moment to
make his word good and depart from their midst. Only the fact that she
was convinced that Hilary was in real danger made her relate, in a few
brief words, what had occurred, and when she had finished Mr. Vane made
no comment whatever.

Dr. Tredway turned to Hilary.

"I am going to take a mean advantage of you, Mr. Vane," he said, "and sit
here awhile and talk to you. Would you object to waiting a little while,
Miss Flint? I have something to say to you," he added significantly, "and
this meeting will save me a trip to Fairview."

"Certainly I'll wait," she said.

"You can come along with me," said Euphrasia, "if you've a notion to."

Victoria was of two minds whether to accept this invitation. She had an
intense desire to get outside, but this was counter-balanced by a sudden
curiosity to see more of this strange woman who loved but one person in
the world. Tom Gaylord had told Victoria that. She followed Euphrasia to
the back of the hall.

"There's the parlour," said Euphrasia; "it's never be'n used since Mrs.
Vane died,--but there it is."

"Oh," said Victoria, with a glance into the shadowy depths of the room,
"please don't open it for me. Can't we go," she added, with an
inspiration, "can't we go into--the kitchen?" She knew it was Euphrasia's
place.

"Well," said Euphrasia, "I shouldn't have thought you'd care much about
kitchens." And she led the way onward; through the little passage, to the
room where she had spent most of her days. It was flooded with level,
yellow rays of light that seemed to be searching the corners in vain for
dust. Victoria paused in the doorway.

"I'm afraid you do me an injustice," she said. "I like some kitchens."

"You don't look as if you knew much about 'em," was Euphrasia's answer.
With Victoria once again in the light, Euphrasia scrutinized her with
appalling frankness, taking in every detail of her costume and at length
raising her eyes to the girl's face. Victoria coloured. On her visits
about the country-side she had met women of Euphrasia's type before, and
had long ago ceased to be dismayed by their manner. But her instinct
detected in Euphrasia a hostility for which she could not account.

In that simple but exquisite gown which so subtly suited her, the
creation of which had aroused the artist in a celebrated Parisian
dressmaker, Victoria was, indeed, a strange visitant in that kitchen. She
took a seat by the window, and an involuntary exclamation of pleasure
escaped her as her eyes fell upon the little, old-fashioned flower garden
beneath it. The act and the exclamation for the moment disarmed
Euphrasia.

"They were Sarah Austen's--Mrs. Vane's," she explained, "just as she
planted them the year she died. I've always kept 'em just so."

"Mrs. Vane must have loved flowers," said Victoria.

"Loved 'em! They were everything to her--and the wild flowers, too. She
used to wander off and spend whole days in the country, and come back
after sunset with her arms full."

"It was nature she loved," said Victoria, in a low voice.

"That was it--nature," said Euphrasia. "She loved all nature. There
wasn't a living, creeping thing that wasn't her friend. I've seen birds
eat out of her hand in that window where you're settin', and she'd say to
me, 'Phrasie, keep still! They'd love you, too, if they only knew you,
but they're afraid you'll scrub 'em if you get hold of them, the way you
used to scrub me.'"

Victoria smiled--but it was a smile that had tears in it. Euphrasia
Cotton was standing in the shaft of sunlight at the other window, staring
at the little garden.

"Yes, she used to say funny things like that, to make you laugh when you
were all ready to cry. There wasn't many folks understood her. She knew
every path and hilltop within miles of here, and every brook and spring,
and she used to talk about that mountain just as if it was alive."

Victoria caught her breath.

"Yes," continued Euphrasia, "the mountain was alive for her. 'He's angry
to-day, Phrasie. That's because, you lost your temper and scolded
Hilary.' It's a queer thing, but there have been hundreds of times since
when he needed scoldin' bad, and I've looked at the mountain and held my
tongue. It was just as if I saw her with that half-whimsical,
half-reproachful expression in her eyes, holding up her finger at me. And
there were other mornings when she'd say, 'The mountain's lonesome today,
he wants me.' And I vow, I'd look at the mountain and it would seem
lonesome. That sounds like nonsense, don't it?" Euphrasia demanded, with
a sudden sharpness.

"No," said Victoria, "it seems very real to me."

The simplicity, the very ring of truth, and above all the absolute lack
of self-consciousness in the girl's answer sustained the spell.

"She'd go when the mountain called her, it didn't make any difference
whether it was raining--rain never appeared to do her any hurt. Nothin'
natural ever did her any hurt. When she was a little child flittin' about
like a wild creature, and she'd come in drenched to the skin, it was all
I could do to catch her and change her clothes. She'd laugh at me. 'We're
meant to be wet once in a while, Phrasie,' she'd say; 'that's what the
rain's for, to wet us. It washes some of the wickedness out of us.' It
was the unnatural things that hurt her--the unkind words and makin' her
act against her nature. 'Phrasie,' she said once, 'I can't pray in the
meeting-house with my eyes shut--I can't, I can't. I seem to know what
they're all wishing for when they pray,--for more riches, and more
comfort, and more security, and more importance. And God is such a long
way off. I can't feel Him, and the pew hurts my back.' She used to read
me some, out of a book of poetry, and one verse I got by heart--I guess
her prayers were like that."

"Do you--remember the verse?" asked Victoria.

Euphrasia went to a little shelf in the corner of the kitchen and
produced a book, which, she opened and handed to Victoria.

"There's the verse!" she said; "read it aloud. I guess you're better at
that than I am."

And Victoria read:--

     "Higher still and higher
      From the earth thou springest
     Like a cloud of fire;
      The blue deep thou wingest,
     And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest."

Victoria let fall the volume on her lap.

"There's another verse in that book she liked," said Euphrasia, "but it
always was sad to me."

Victoria took the book, and read again:--

     "Weary wind, who wanderest
      Like the world's rejected guest,
     Hast thou still some secret nest
      On the tree or billow?"

Euphrasia laid the volume tenderly on the shelf, and turned and faced
Victoria.

"She was unhappy like that before she died," she exclaimed, and added,
with a fling of her head towards the front of the house, "he killed her."

"Oh, no!" cried Victoria, involuntarily rising to her feet. "Oh, no! I'm
sure he didn't mean to. He didn't understand her!"

"He killed her," Euphrasia repeated. "Why didn't he understand her? She
was just as simple as a child, and just as trusting, and just as loving.
He made her unhappy, and now he's driven her son out of her house, and
made him unhappy. He's all of her I have left, and I won't see him
unhappy."

Victoria summoned her courage.

"Don't you think," she asked bravely, "that Mr. Austen Vane ought to be
told that his father is--in this condition?"

"No," said Euphrasia, determinedly. "Hilary will have to send for him.
This time it'll be Austen's victory."

"But hasn't he had--a victory?" Victoria persisted earnestly. "Isn't
this--victory enough?"

"What do you mean?" Euphrasia cried sharply.

"I mean," she answered, in a low voice, "I mean that Mr. Vane's son is
responsible for his condition to-day. Oh--not consciously so. But the
cause of this trouble is mental--can't you see it? The cause of this
trouble is remorse. Can't you see that it has eaten into his soul? Do you
wish a greater victory than this, or a sadder one? Hilary Vane will not
ask for his son--because he cannot. He has no more power to send that
message than a man shipwrecked on an island. He can only give signals of
distress--that some may heed. Would She have waited for such a victory as
you demand? And does Austen Vane desire it? Don't you think that he would
come to his father if he knew? And have you any right to keep the news
from him? Have you any right to decide what their vengeance shall be?"

Euphrasia had stood mute as she listened to these words which she had so
little expected, but her eyes flashed and her breath came quickly. Never
had she been so spoken to! Never had any living soul come between her and
her cherished object the breaking of the heart of Hilary Vane! Nor,
indeed, had that object ever been so plainly set forth as Victoria had
set it forth. And this woman who dared to do this had herself brought
unhappiness to Austen. Euphrasia had almost forgotten that, such had been
the strange harmony of their communion.

"Have you the right to tell Austen?" she demanded.

"Have I?" Victoria repeated. And then, as the full meaning of the
question came to her; the colour flooded into her face, and she would
have fled, if she could, bud Euphrasia's words came in a torrent.

"You've made him unhappy, as well as Hilary. He loves you--but he
wouldn't speak of it to you. Oh, no, he didn't tell me who it was, but I
never rested till I found out. He never would have told me about it at
all, or anybody else, but that I guessed it. I saw he was unhappy, and I
calculated it wasn't Hilary alone made him so. One night he came in here,
and I knew all at once--somehow--there was a woman to blame, and I asked
him, and he couldn't lie to me. He said it wasn't anybody's fault but his
own--he wouldn't say any more than that, except that he hadn't spoken to
her. I always expected the time was coming when there would be--a woman.
And I never thought the woman lived that he'd love who wouldn't love him.
I can't see how any woman could help lovin' him.

"And then I found out it was that railroad. It came between Sarah Austen
and her happiness, and now it's come between Austen and his. Perhaps you
don't love him!" cried Euphrasia. "Perhaps you're too rich and high and
mighty. Perhaps you're a-going to marry that fine young man who came with
you in the buggy. Since I heard who you was, I haven't had a happy hour.
Let me tell you there's no better blood in the land than the Austen
blood. I won't mention the Vanes. If you've led him on, if you've
deceived him, I hope you may be unhappy as Sarah Austen was--"

"Don't!" pleaded Victoria; "don't! Please don't!" and she seized
Euphrasia by the arms, as though seeking by physical force to stop the
intolerable flow of words. "Oh, you don't know me; you can't understand
me if you say that. How can you be so cruel?"

In another moment she had gone, leaving Euphrasia standing in the middle
of the floor, staring after her through the doorway.

CHAPTER XXVI

THE FOCUS OF WRATH

Victoria, after leaving Euphrasia, made her way around the house towards
Mr. Rangely, who was waiting in the runabout, her one desire for the
moment being to escape. Before she had reached the sidewalk under the
trees, Dr. Tredway had interrupted her.

"Miss Flint," he called out, "I wanted to say a word to you before you
went."

"Yes," she said, stopping and turning to him.

He paused a moment before speaking, as he looked into her face.

"I don't wonder this has upset you a little," he said; "a reaction always
comes afterwards--even with the strongest of us."

"I am all right," she replied, unconsciously repeating Hilary's words.
"How is Mr. Vane?"

"You have done a splendid thing," said the doctor, gravely. And he
continued, after a moment: "It is Mr. Vane I wanted to speak to you
about. He is an intimate friend, I believe, of your father's, as well as
Mr. Flint's right-hand man in--in a business way in this State. Mr. Vane
himself will not listen to reason. I have told him plainly that if he
does not drop all business at once, the chances are ten to one that he
will forfeit his life very shortly. I understand that there is a--a
convention to be held at the capital the day after to-morrow, and that it
is Mr. Vane's firm intention to attend it. I take the liberty of
suggesting that you lay these facts before your father, as Mr. Flint
probably has more influence with Hilary Vane than any other man.
However," he added, seeing Victoria hesitate, "if there is any reason
why you should not care to speak to Mr. Flint--"

"Oh, no," said Victoria; "I'll speak to him, certainly. I was going to
ask you--have you thought of Mr. Austen Vane? He might be able to do
something."

"Of course," said the doctor, after a moment, "it is an open secret that