“Do come and sit down,” she cried; “there's a chair beside me. And oh, what a nice baby! Won't you let me hold him?”
“Why, yes, ma'am,” said the woman, looking up at Victoria with grateful, patient eyes, and then with awe at what seemed to her the priceless embroidery on Victoria's waist, “won't he spoil your dress?”
“Bless him, no,” said Victoria, poking her finger into a dimple—for he was smiling at her. “What if he does?” and forthwith she seized him in her arms and bore him to the porch, amidst the laughter of those who beheld her, and sat him down on her knee in front of the lemonade bowl, the tired mother beside her. “Will a little lemonade hurt him? Just a very, very little, you know?”
“Why, no, ma'am,” said the mother.
“And just a teeny bit of cake,” begged Victoria, daintily breaking off a piece, while the baby gurgled and snatched for it. “Do tell me how old he is, and how many more you have.”
“He's eleven months on the twenty-seventh,” said the mother, “and I've got four more.” She sighed, her eyes wandering back to the embroidery. “What between them and the housework and the butter makin', it hain't easy. Be you married?”
“No,” said Victoria, laughing and blushing a little.
“You'll make a good wife for somebody,” said the woman. “I hope you'll get a good man.”
“I hope so, too,” said Victoria, blushing still deeper amidst the laughter, “but there doesn't seem to be much chance of it, and good men are very scarce.”
“I guess you're right,” said the mother, soberly. “Not but what my man's good enough, but he don't seem to get along, somehow. The farm's wore out, and the mortgage comes around so regular.”
“Where do you live?” asked Victoria, suddenly growing serious.
“Fitch's place. 'Tain't very far from the Four Corners, on the Avalon road.”
“And you are Mrs. Fitch?”
“Callate to be,” said the mother. “If it ain't askin' too much, I'd like to know your name.”
“I'm Victoria Flint. I live not very far from the Four Corners—that is, about eight miles. May I come over and see you sometime?”
Although Victoria said this very simply, the mother's eyes widened until one might almost have said they expressed a kind of terror.
“Land sakes alive, be you Mr. Flint's daughter? I might have knowed it from the lace—that dress must have cost a fortune. But I didn't think to find you so common.”
Victoria did not smile. She had heard the word “common” so used before, and knew that it was meant for a compliment, and she turned to the woman with a very expressive light in her eyes.
“I will come to see you—this very week,” she said. And just then her glance, seemingly drawn in a certain direction, met that of a tall young man which had been fixed upon her during the whole of this scene. She coloured again, abruptly handed the baby back to his mother, and rose.
“I'm neglecting all these people,” she said, “but do sit there and rest yourself and—have some more lemonade.”
She bowed to Austen, and smiled a little as she filled the glasses, but she did not beckon him. She gave no further sign of her knowledge of his presence until he stood beside her—and then she looked up at him.
“I have been looking for you, Miss Flint,” he said.
“I suppose a man would never think of trying the obvious places first,” she replied. “Hastings, don't you see that poor old woman over there? She looks so thirsty—give her this.”
The boy addressed, with a glance at Austen, did as he was bid, and she sent off a second on another errand.
“Let me help,” said Austen, seizing the cake; and being seized at the same time, by an unusual and inexplicable tremor of shyness, thrust it at the baby.
“Oh, he can't have anymore; do you want to kill him?” cried Victoria, seizing the plate, and adding mischievously, “I don't believe you're of very much use—after all!”
“Then it's time I learned,” said Austen. “Here's Mr. Jenney. I'm sure he'll have a piece.”
“Well,” said Mr. Jenney, the same Mr. Jenney of the apple orchard, but holding out a horny hand with unmistakable warmth, “how be you, Austen?” Looking about him, Mr. Jenney put his hand to his mouth, and added, “Didn't expect to see you trailin' on to this here kite.” He took a piece of cake between his thumb and forefinger and glanced bashfully at Victoria.
“Have some lemonade, Mr. Jenney? Do,” she urged.
“Well, I don't care if I do,” he said, “just a little mite.” He did not attempt to stop her as she filled the glass to the brim, but continued to regard her with a mixture of curiosity and admiration. “Seen you nursin' the baby and makin' folks at home. Guess you have the knack of it better'n some I could mention.”
This was such a palpable stroke at their host that Victoria laughed, and made haste to turn the subject from herself.
“Mr. Vane seems to be an old friend of yours,” she said.
“Why,” said Mr. Jenney, laying his hand on Austen's shoulder, “I callate he is. Austen's broke in more'n one of my colts afore he went West and shot that feller. He's as good a judge of horse-flesh as any man in this part of the State. Hear Tom Gaylord and the boys wanted him to be State senator.”
“Why didn't you accept, Mr. Vane?”
“Because I don't think the boys could have elected me,” answered Austen, laughing.
“He's as popular a man as there is in the county,” declared Mr. Jenney. “He was a mite wild as a boy, but sence he's sobered down and won that case against the railrud, he could get any office he'd a mind to. He's always adoin' little things for folks, Austen is.”
“Did—did that case against the railroad make him so popular?” asked Victoria, glancing at Austen's broad back—for he had made his escape with the cake.
“I guess it helped considerable,” Mr. Jenney admitted.
“Why?” asked Victoria.
“Well, it was a fearless thing to do—plumb against his own interests with old Hilary Vane. Austen's a bright lawyer, and I have heard it said he was in line for his father's place as counsel.”
“Do—do people dislike the railroad?”
Mr. Jenney rubbed his beard thoughtfully. He began to wonder who this young woman was, and a racial caution seized him.
“Well,” he said, “folks has an idea the railrud runs this State to suit themselves. I guess they hain't far wrong. I've be'n to the Legislature and seen some signs of it. Why, Hilary Vane himself has charge of the most considerable part of the politics. Who be you?” Mr. Jenney demanded suddenly.
“I'm Victoria Flint,” said Victoria.
“Godfrey!” exclaimed Mr. Jenney, “you don't say so! I might have known it—seen you on the rud more than once. But I don't know all you rich folks apart. Wouldn't have spoke so frank if I'd knowed who you was.”
“I'm glad you did, Mr. Jenney,” she answered. “I wanted to know what people think.”
“Well, it's almighty complicated,” said Mr. Jenney, shaking his head. “I don't know by rights what to think. As long as I've said what I have, I'll say this: that the politicians is all for the railrud, and I hain't got a mite of use for the politicians. I'll vote for a feller like Austen Vane every time, if he'll run, and I know other folks that will.”
After Mr. Jenney had left her, Victoria stood motionless, gazing off into the haze, until she was startled by the voice of Hastings Weare beside her.
“Say, Victoria, who is that man?” he asked.
“What man?”
Hastings nodded towards Austen, who, with a cake basket in his hand, stood chatting with a group of country people on the edge of the porch.
“Oh, that man!” said Victoria. “His name's Austen Vane, and he's a lawyer in Ripton.”
“All I can say is,” replied Hastings, with a light in his face, “he's one I'd like to tie to. I'll bet he could whip any four men you could pick out.”
Considering that Hastings had himself proposed—although in a very mild form—more than once to Victoria, this was generous.
“I daresay he could,” she agreed absently.
“It isn't only the way he's built,” persisted Hastings, “he looks as if he were going to be somebody some day. Introduce me to him, will you?”
“Certainly,” said Victoria. “Mr. Vane,” she called, “I want to introduce an admirer, Mr. Hastings Weare.”
“I just wanted to know you,” said Hastings, reddening, “and Victoria—I mean Miss Flint—said she'd introduce me.”
“I'm much obliged to her,” said Austen, smiling.
“Are you in politics?” asked Hastings.
“I'm afraid not,” answered Austen, with a glance at Victoria.
“You're not helping Humphrey Crewe, are you?”
“No,” said Austen, and added with an illuminating smile, “Mr. Crewe doesn't need any help.”
“I'm glad you're not,” exclaimed the downright Hastings, with palpable relief in his voice that an idol had not been shattered. “I think Humphrey's a fakir, and all this sort of thing tommyrot. He wouldn't get my vote by giving me lemonade and cake and letting me look at his cows. If you ever run for office, I'd like to cast it for you. My father is only a summer resident, but since he has gone out of business he stays here till Christmas, and I'll be twenty-one in a year.”
Austen had ceased to smile; he was looking into the boy's eyes with that serious expression which men and women found irresistible.
“Thank you, Mr. Weare,” he said simply.
Hastings was suddenly overcome with the shyness of youth. He held out his hand, and said, “I'm awfully glad to have met you,” and fled.
Victoria, who had looked on with a curious mixture of feelings, turned to Austen.
“That was a real tribute,” she said. “Is this the way you affect everybody whom you meet?”
They were standing almost alone. The sun was nearing the western hills beyond the river, and people had for some time been wending their way towards the field where the horses were tied. He did not answer her question, but asked one instead.
“Will you let me drive you home?”
“Do you think you deserve to, after the shameful manner in which you have behaved?”
“I'm quite sure that I don't deserve to,” he answered, still looking down at her.
“If you did deserve to, being a woman, I probably shouldn't let you,” said Victoria, flashing a look upwards; “as it is, you may.”
His face lighted, but she halted in the grass, with her hands behind her, and stared at him with a puzzled expression.
“I'm sure you're a dangerous man,” she declared. “First you take in poor little Hastings, and now you're trying to take me in.”
“Then I wish I were still more dangerous,” he laughed, “for apparently I haven't succeeded.”
“I want to talk to you seriously,” said Victoria; “that is the only reason I'm permitting you to drive me home.”
“I am devoutly thankful for the reason then,” he said,—“my horse is tied in the field.”
“And aren't you going to say good-by to your host and hostess?”
“Hostess?” he repeated, puzzled.
“Hostesses,” she corrected herself, “Mrs. Pomfret and Alice. I thought you had eyes in your head,” she added, with a fleeting glance at them.
“Is Crewe engaged to Miss Pomfret?” he asked.
“Are all men simpletons?” said Victoria. “He doesn't know it yet, but he is.”
“I think I'd know it, if I were,” said Austen, with an emphasis that made her laugh.
“Sometimes fish don't know they're in a net until—until the morning after,” said Victoria. “That has a horribly dissipated sound—hasn't it? I know to a moral certainty that Mr. Crewe will eventually lead Miss Pomfret away from the altar. At present,” she could not refrain from adding, “he thinks he's in love with some one else.”
“Who?”
“It doesn't matter,” she replied. “Humphrey's perfectly happy, because he believes most women are in love with him, and he's making up his mind in that magnificent, thorough way of his whether she is worthy to be endowed with his heart and hand, his cows, and all his stocks and bonds. He doesn't know he's going to marry Alice. It almost makes one a Calvinist, doesn't it. He's predestined, but perfectly happy.”
“Who is he in love with?” demanded Austen, ungrammatically.
“I'm going to say good-by to him. I'll meet you in the field, if you don't care to come. It's only manners, after all, although the lemonade's all gone and I haven't had a drop.”
“I'll go along too,” he said.
“Aren't you afraid of Mrs. Pomfret?”
“Not a bit!”
“I am,” said Victoria, “but I think you'd better come just the same.”
Around the corner of the house they found them,—Mr. Crewe urging the departing guests to remain, and not to be bashful in the future about calling.
“We don't always have lemonade and cake,” he was saying, “but you can be sure of a welcome, just the same. Good-by, Vane, glad you came. Did they show you through the stables? Did you see the mate to the horse I lost? Beauty, isn't he? Stir 'em up and get the money. I guess we won't see much of each other politically. You're anti-railroad. I don't believe that tack'll work—we can't get along without corporations, you know. You ought to talk to Flint. I'll give you a letter of introduction to him. I don't know what I'd have done without that man Tooting in your father's office. He's a wasted genius in Ripton. What? Good-by, you'll find your wagon, I guess. Well, Victoria, where have you been keeping yourself? I've been so busy I haven't had time to look for you. You're going to stay to dinner, and Hastings, and all the people who have helped.”
“No, I'm not,” answered Victoria, with a glance at Austen, before whom this announcement was so delicately made, “I'm going home.”
“But when am I to see you?” cried Mr. Crewe, as near genuine alarm as he ever got. “You never let me see you. I was going to drive you home in the motor by moonlight.”
“We all know that you're the most original person, Victoria,” said Mrs. Pomfret, “full of whims and strange fancies,” she added, with the only brief look at Austen she had deigned to bestow on him. “It never pays to count on you for twenty-four hours. I suppose you're off on another wild expedition.”
“I think I've earned the right to it,” said Victoria;—“I've poured lemonade for Humphrey's constituents the whole afternoon. And besides, I never said I'd stay for dinner. I'm going home. Father's leaving for California in the morning.”
“He'd better stay at home and look after her,” Mrs. Pomfret remarked, when Victoria was out of hearing.
“Since Mrs. Harry Haynes ran off, one can never tell what a woman will do. It wouldn't surprise me a bit if Victoria eloped with a handsome nobody like that. Of course he's after her money, but he wouldn't get it, not if I know Augustus Flint.”
“Is he handsome?” said Mr. Crewe, as though the idea were a new one. “Great Scott, I don't believe she gives him a thought. She's only going as far as the field with him. She insisted on leaving her horse there instead of putting him in the stable.”
“Catch Alice going as far as the field with him,” said Mrs. Pomfret, “but I've done my duty. It's none of my affair.”
In the meantime Austen and Victoria had walked on some distance in silence.
“I have an idea with whom Mr. Crewe is in love,” he said at length.
“So have I,” replied Victoria, promptly. “Humphrey's in love with himself. All he desires in a wife—if he desires one—is an inanimate and accommodating looking-glass, in whom he may see what he conceives to be his own image daily. James, you may take the mare home. I'm going to drive with Mr. Vane.”
She stroked Pepper's nose while Austen undid the hitch-rope from around his neck.
“You and I are getting to be friends, aren't we, Pepper?” she asked, as the horse, with quivering nostrils, thrust his head into her hand. Then she sprang lightly into the buggy by Austen's side. The manner of these acts and the generous courage with which she defied opinion appealed to him so strongly that his heart was beating faster than Pepper's hoof-beats on the turf of the pasture.
“You are very good to come with me,” he said gravely, when they had reached the road; “perhaps I ought not to have asked you.”
“Why?” she asked, with one of her direct looks.
“It was undoubtedly selfish,” he said, and added, more lightly, “I don't wish to put you into Mrs. Pomfret's bad graces.”
Victoria laughed.
“She thought it her duty to tell father the time you drove me to the Hammonds'. She said I asked you to do it.”
“What did he say?” Austen inquired, looking straight ahead of him.
“He didn't say much,” she answered. “Father never does. I think he knows that I am to be trusted.”
“Even with me?” he asked quizzically, but with a deeper significance.
“I don't think he realizes how dangerous you are,” she replied, avoiding the issue. “The last time I saw you, you were actually trying to throw a fat man out of your window. What a violent life you lead, Mr. Vane. I hope you haven't shot any more people—”
“I saw you,” he said.
“Is that the way you spend your time in office hours,—throwing people out of the windows?”
“It was only Tom Gaylord.”
“He's the man Mr. Jenney said wanted you to be a senator, isn't he?” she asked.
“You have a good memory,” he answered her. “Yes. That's the reason I tried to throw him out of the window.”
“Why didn't you be a senator?” she asked abruptly. “I always think of you in public life. Why waste your opportunities?”
“I'm not at all sure that was an opportunity. It was only some of Tom's nonsense. I should have had all the politicians in the district against me.”
“But you aren't the kind of man who would care about the politicians, surely. If Humphrey Crewe can get elected by the people, I should think you might.”
“I can't afford to give garden-parties and buy lemonade,” said Austen, and they both laughed. He did not think it worth while mentioning Mr. Braden.
“Sometimes I think you haven't a particle of ambition,” she said. “I like men with ambition.”
“I shall try to cultivate it,” said Austen.
“You seem to be popular enough.”
“Most worthless people are popular, because they don't tread on anybody's toes.”
“Worthless people don't take up poor people's suits, and win them,” she said. “I saw Zeb Meader the other day, and he said you could be President of the United States.”
“Zeb meant that I was eligible—having been born in this country,” said Austen. “But where did you see him?”
“I—I went to see him.”
“All the way to Mercer?”
“It isn't so far in an automobile,” she replied, as though in excuse, and added, still more lamely, “Zeb and I became great friends, you know, in the hospital.”
He did not answer, but wondered the more at the simplicity and kindness in one brought up as she had been which prompted her to take the trouble to see the humblest of her friends: nay, to take the trouble to have humble friends.
The road wound along a ridge, and at intervals was spread before them the full glory of the September sunset,—the mountains of the west in blue-black silhouette against the saffron sky, the myriad dappled clouds, the crimson fading from the still reaches of the river, and the wine-colour from the eastern hills. Both were silent under the spell, but a yearning arose within him when he glanced at the sunset glow on her face: would sunsets hereafter bring sadness?
His thoughts ran riot as the light faded in the west. Hers were not revealed. And the silence between them seemed gradually to grow into a pact, to become a subtler and more intimate element than speech. A faint tang of autumn smoke was in the air, a white mist crept along the running waters, a silver moon like a new-stamped coin rode triumphant in the sky, impatient to proclaim her glory; and the shadows under the ghost-like sentinel trees in the pastures grew blacker. At last Victoria looked at him.
“You are the only man I know who doesn't insist on talking,” she said. “There are times when—”
“When there is nothing to say,” he suggested.
She laughed softly. He tried to remember the sound of it afterwards, when he rehearsed this phase of the conversation, but couldn't.
“It's because you like the hills, isn't it?” she asked. “You seem such an out-of-door person, and Mr. Jenney said you were always wandering about the country-side.”
“Mr. Jenney also made other reflections about my youth,” said Austen.
She laughed again, acquiescing in his humour, secretly thankful not to find him sentimental.
“Mr. Jenney said something else that—that I wanted to ask you about,” she went on, breathing more deeply. “It was about the railroad.”
“I am afraid you have not come to an authority,” he replied.
“You said the politicians would be against you if you tried to become a State senator. Do you believe that the politicians are owned by the railroad?”
“Has Jenney been putting such things into your head?”
“Not only Mr. Jenney, but—I have heard other people say that. And Humphrey Crewe said that you hadn't a chance politically, because you had opposed the railroad and had gone against your own interests.”
Austen was amazed at this new exhibition of courage on her part, though he was sorely pressed.
“Humphrey Crewe isn't much of an authority, either,” he said briefly.
“Then you won't tell me?” said Victoria. “Oh, Mr. Vane,” she cried, with sudden vehemence, “if such things are going on here, I'm sure my father doesn't know about them. This is only one State, and the railroad runs through so many. He can't know everything, and I have heard him say that he wasn't responsible for what the politicians did in his name. If they are bad, why don't you go to him and tell him so? I'm sure he'd listen to you.”
“I'm sure he'd think me a presumptuous idiot,” said Austen. “Politicians are not idealists anywhere—the very word has become a term of reproach. Undoubtedly your father desires to set things right as much as any one else—probably more than any one.”
“Oh, I know he does,” exclaimed Victoria.
“If politics are not all that they should be,” he went on, somewhat grimly, with an unpleasant feeling of hypocrisy, “we must remember that they are nobody's fault in particular, and can't be set right in an instant by any one man, no matter how powerful.”
She turned her face to him gratefully, but he did not meet her look. They were on the driveway of Fairview.
“I suppose you think me very silly for asking such questions,” she said.
“No,” he answered gravely, “but politics are so intricate a subject that they are often not understood by those who are in the midst of them. I admire—I think it is very fine in you to want to know.”
“You are not one of the men who would not wish a woman to know, are you?”
“No,” he said, “no, I'm not.”
The note of pain in his voice surprised and troubled her. They were almost in sight of the house.
“I asked you to come to Fairview,” she said, assuming a lightness of tone, “and you never appeared. I thought it was horrid of you to forget, after we'd been such friends.”
“I didn't forget,” replied Austen.
“Then you didn't want to come.”
He looked into her eyes, and she dropped them.
“You will have to be the best judge of that,” he said.
“But what am I to think?” she persisted.
“Think the best of me you can,” he answered, as they drew up on the gravel before the open door of Fairview house. A man was standing in the moonlight on the porch.
“Is that you, Victoria?”
“Yes, father.”
“I was getting worried,” said Mr. Flint, coming down on the driveway.
“I'm all right,” she said, leaping out of the buggy, “Mr. Vane brought me home.”
“How are you, Hilary?” said Mr. Flint.
“I'm Austen Vane, Mr. Flint,” said Austen.
“How are you?” said Mr. Flint, as curtly as the barest politeness allowed. “What was the matter with your own horse, Victoria?”
“Nothing,” she replied, after an instant's pause. Austen wondered many times whether her lips had trembled. “Mr. Vane asked me to drive with him, and I came. Won't—won't you come in, Mr. Vane?”
“No, thanks,” said Austen, “I'm afraid I have to go back to Ripton.”
“Good-by, and thank you,” she said, and gave him her hand. As he pressed it, he thought he felt the slightest pressure in return, and then she fled up the steps. As he drove away, he turned once to look at the great house, with its shades closely drawn, as it stood amidst its setting of shrubbery silent under the moon.
An hour later he sat in Hanover Street before the supper Euphrasia had saved for him. But though he tried nobly, his heart was not in the relation, for her benefit, of Mr. Crewe's garden-party.
Those portions of the biographies of great men which deal with the small beginnings of careers are always eagerly devoured, and for this reason the humble entry of Mr. Crewe into politics may be of interest. Great revolutions have had their origins in back cellars; great builders of railroads have begun life with packs on their shoulders, trudging over the wilderness which they were to traverse in after years in private cars. The history of Napoleon Bonaparte has not a Sunday-school moral, but we can trace therein the results of industry after the future emperor got started. Industry, and the motto “nil desperandum” lived up to, and the watchword “thorough,” and a torch of unsuspected genius, and “l'audace, toujours l'audace,” and a man may go far in life.
Mr. Humphrey Crewe possessed, as may have been surmised, a dash of all these gifts. For a summary of his character one would not have used the phrase (as a contemporary of his remarked) of “a shrinking violet.” The phrase, after all, would have fitted very few great men; genius is sure of itself, and seeks its peers.
The State capital is an old and beautiful and somewhat conservative town. Life there has its joys and sorrows and passions, its ambitions, and heart-burnings, to be sure; a most absorbing novel could be written about it, and the author need not go beyond the city limits or approach the state-house or the Pelican Hotel. The casual visitor in that capital leaves it with a sense of peace, the echo of church bells in his ear, and (if in winter) the impression of dazzling snow. Comedies do not necessarily require a wide stage, nor tragedies an amphitheatre for their enactment.
No casual visitor, for instance, would have suspected from the faces or remarks of the inhabitants whom he chanced to meet that there was excitement in the capital over the prospective arrival of Mr. Humphrey Crewe for the legislative session that winter. Legislative sessions, be it known, no longer took place in the summer, a great relief to Mr. Crewe and to farmers in general, who wished to be at home in haying time.
The capital abounded in comfortable homes and boasted not a dwellings of larger pretensions. Chief among these was the Duncan house—still so called, although Mr. Duncan, who built it, had been dead these fifteen years, and his daughter and heiress, Janet, had married an Italian Marquis and lived in a Roman palace, rehabilitated by the Duncan money. Mr. Duncan, it may be recalled by some readers of “Coniston,” had been a notable man in his day, who had married the heiress of the State, and was president of the Central Railroad, now absorbed in the United Northeastern. The house was a great square of brick, with a wide cornice, surrounded by a shaded lawn; solidly built, in the fashion of the days when rich people stayed at home, with a conservatory and a library that had once been Mr. Duncan's pride. The Marchesa cared very little about the library, or about the house, for that matter; a great aunt and uncle, spinster and bachelor, were living in it that winter, and they vacated for Mr. Crewe. He travelled to the capital on the legislative pass the Northeastern Railroads had so kindly given him, and brought down his horses and his secretary and servants from Leith a few days before the first of January, when the session was to open, and laid out his bills for the betterment of the State on that library table where Mr. Duncan had lovingly thumbed his folios. Mr. Crewe, with characteristic promptitude, set his secretary to work to make a list of the persons of influence in the town, preparatory to a series of dinner-parties; he dropped into the office of Mr. Ridout, the counsel of the Northeastern and of the Winona Corporation in the capital, to pay his respects as a man of affairs, and incidentally to leave copies of his bills for the improvement of the State. Mr. Ridout was politely interested, and promised to read the bills, and agreed that they ought to pass.
Mr. Crewe also examined the Pelican Hotel, so soon to be a hive, and stood between the snow-banks in the capital park contemplating the statue of the great statesman there, and repeating to himself the quotation inscribed beneath. “The People's Government, made for the People, made by the People, and answerable to the People.” And he wondered, idly,—for the day was not cold,—how he would look upon a pedestal with the Gladstone collar and the rough woollen coat that would lend themselves so readily to reproduction in marble. Stranger things had happened, and grateful States had been known to reward benefactors.
At length comes the gala night of nights,—the last of the old year,—and the assembling of the five hundred legislators and of the army that is wont to attend them. The afternoon trains, steaming hot, are crowded to the doors, the station a scene of animation, and Main Street, dazzling in snow, is alive with a stream of men, with eddies here and there at the curbs and in the entries. What handshaking, and looking over of new faces, and walking round and round! What sightseeing by the country members and their wives who have come to attend the inauguration of the new governor, the Honourable Asa P. Gray! There he is, with the whiskers and the tall hat and the comfortable face, which wears already a look of gubernatorial dignity and power. He stands for a moment in the lobby of the Pelican Hotel,—thronged now to suffocation,—to shake hands genially with new friends, who are led up by old friends with two fingers on the elbow. The old friends crack jokes and whisper in the ear of the governor-to-be, who presently goes upstairs, accompanied by the Honourable Hilary Vane, to the bridal suite, which is reserved for him, and which has fire-proof carpet on the floor. The Honourable Hilary has a room next door, connecting with the new governor's by folding doors, but this fact is not generally known to country members. Only old timers, like Bijah Bixby and Job Braden, know that the Honourable Hilary's room corresponds to one which in the old Pelican was called the Throne Room, Number Seven, where Jethro Bass sat in the old days and watched unceasingly the groups in the street from the window.
But Jethro Bass has been dead these twenty years, and his lieutenants shorn of power. An empire has arisen out of the ashes of the ancient kingdoms. Bijah and Job are old, all-powerful still in Clovelly and Leith—influential still in their own estimations; still kicking up their heels behind, still stuttering and whispering into ears, still “going along by when they are talking sly.” But there are no guerrillas now, no condottieri who can be hired: the empire has a paid and standing army, as an empire should. The North Country chiefs, so powerful in the clan warfare of bygone days, are generals now,—chiefs of staff. The captain-general, with a minute piece of Honey Dew under his tongue, sits in Number Seven. A new Number Seven,—with electric lights and a bathroom and a brass bed. Tempora mutantur. There is an empire and a feudal system, did one but know it. The clans are part of the empire, and each chief is responsible for his clan—did one but know it. One doesn't know it.
The Honourable Brush Bascom, Duke of Putnam, member of the House, has arrived unostentatiously—as is his custom—and is seated in his own headquarters, number ten (with a bathroom). Number nine belongs from year to year to Mr. Manning, division superintendent of that part of the Northeastern which was the old Central,—a thin gentleman with side-whiskers. He loves life in the capital so much that he takes his vacations there in the winter,—during the sessions of the Legislature,—presumably because it is gay. There are other rooms, higher up, of important men, to be sure, but to enter which it is not so much of an honour. The Honourable Bill Fleming, postmaster of Brampton in Truro (Ephraim Prescott being long since dead and Brampton a large place now), has his vacation during the session in room thirty-six (no bathroom); and the Honourable Elisha Jane, Earl of Haines County in the North Country, and United States consul somewhere, is home on his annual vacation in room fifty-nine (no bath). Senator Whitredge has a room, and Senator Green, and Congressmen Eldridge and Fairplay (no baths, and only temporary).
The five hundred who during the next three months are to register the laws find quarters as best they can. Not all of them are as luxurious as Mr. Crewe in the Duncan house, or the Honourable Brush Bascom in number ten of the Pelican, the rent of either of which would swallow the legislative salary in no time. The Honourable Nat Billings, senator from the Putnam County district, is comfortably installed, to be sure. By gradual and unexplained degrees, the constitution of the State has been changed until there are only twenty senators. Noble five hundred! Steadfast twenty!
A careful perusal of the biographies of great men of the dynamic type leads one to the conclusion that much of their success is due to an assiduous improvement of every opportunity,—and Mr. Humphrey Crewe certainly possessed this quality, also. He is in the Pelican Hotel this evening, meeting the men that count. Mr. Job Braden, who had come down with the idea that he might be of use in introducing the new member from Leith to the notables, was met by this remark:—“You can't introduce me to any of 'em—they all know who I am. Just point any of 'em out you think I ought to know, and I'll go up and talk to 'em. What? Come up to my house after a while and smoke a cigar. The Duncan house, you know—the big one with the conservatory.”
Mr. Crewe was right—they all knew him. The Leith millionaire, the summer resident, was a new factor in politics, and the rumours of the size of his fortune had reached a high-water mark in the Pelican Hotel that evening. Pushing through the crowd in the corridor outside the bridal suite waiting to shake hands with the new governor, Mr. Crewe gained an entrance in no time, and did not hesitate to interrupt the somewhat protracted felicitations of an Irish member of the Newcastle delegation.
“How are you, Governor?” he said, with the bonhomie of a man of the world. “I'm Humphrey Crewe, from Leith. You got a letter from me, didn't you, congratulating you upon your election? We didn't do badly for you up there. What?”
“How do you do, Mr. Crewe?” said Mr. Gray, with dignified hospitality, while their fingers slid over each other's; “I'm glad to welcome you here. I've noticed the interest you've taken in the State, and the number of ahem—very useful societies to which you belong.”
“Good,” said Mr. Crewe, “I do what I can. I just dropped in to shake your hand, and to say that I hope we'll pull together.”
The governor lifted his eyebrows a little.
“Why, I hope so, I'm sere, Mr. Crewe,” said he.
“I've looked over the policy of the State for the last twenty years in regard to public improvements and the introduction of modern methods as concerns husbandry, and I find it deplorable. You and I, Governor, live in a progressive age, and we can't afford not to see something done. What? It is my desire to do what I can to help make your administration a notable advance upon those of your predecessors.”
“Why—I greatly appreciate it, Mr. Crewe,” said Mr. Gray.
“I'm sure you do. I've looked over your record, and I find you've had experience in State affairs, and that you are a successful and conservative business man. That is the type we want—eh? Business men. You've read over the bills I sent you by registered mail?”
“Ahem,” said Mr. Gray, “I've been a good deal occupied since election day, Mr. Crewe.”
“Read 'em,” said Mr. Crewe, “and I'll call in on you at the state-house day after to-morrow at five o'clock promptly. We'll discuss 'em, Governor, and if, by the light of your legislative experience, you have any suggestions to make, I shall be glad to hear 'em. Before putting the bills in their final shape I've taken the trouble to go over them with my friend, Mr. Flint—our mutual friend, let us say.”
“I've had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Flint,” said Mr. Gray. “I—ahem—can't say that I know him intimately.”
Mr. Crewe looked at Mr. Gray in a manner which plainly indicated that he was not an infant.
“My relations with Mr. Flint and the Northeastern have been very pleasant,” said Mr. Crewe. “I may say that I am somewhat of a practical railroad and business man myself.”
“We need such men,” said Mr. Gray. “Why, how do you do, Cary? How are the boys up in Wheeler?”
“Well, good-by, Governor. See you day after to-morrow at five precisely,” said Mr. Crewe.
The next official call of Mr. Crewe was on the Speaker-to-be, Mr. Doby of Hale (for such matters are cut and dried), but any amount of pounding on Mr. Doby's door (number seventy-five) brought no response. Other rural members besides Mr. Crewe came and pounded on that door, and went away again; but Mr. Job Braden suddenly appeared from another part of the corridor, smiling benignly, and apparently not resenting the refusal of his previous offers of help.
“W—want the Speaker?” he inquired.
Mr. Crewe acknowledged that he did.
“Ed only sleeps there,” said Mr. Braden. “Guess you'll find him in the Railroad-Room.”
“Railroad Room?”
“Hilary Vane's, Number Seven.” Mr. Braden took hold of the lapel of his fellow-townsman's coat. “Callated you didn't know it all,” he said; “that's the reason I come down—so's to help you some.”
Mr. Crewe, although he was not wont to take a second place, followed Mr. Braden down the stairs to the door next to the governor's, where he pushed ahead of his guide, through the group about the doorway,—none of whom, however, were attempting to enter. They stared in some surprise at Mr. Crewe as he flung open the door without knocking, and slammed it behind him in Mr. Braden's face. But the bewilderment caused by this act of those without was as nothing to the astonishment of those within—had Mr. Crewe but known it. An oil painting of the prominent men gathered about the marble-topped table in the centre of the room, with an outline key beneath it, would have been an appropriate work of art to hang in the state-house, as emblematic of the statesmanship of the past twenty years. The Honourable Hilary Vane sat at one end in a padded chair; Mr. Manning, the division superintendent, startled out of a meditation, was upright on the end of the bed; Mr. Ridout, the Northeastern's capital lawyer, was figuring at the other end of the table; the Honourable Brush Bascom was bending over a wide, sad-faced gentleman of some two hundred and fifty pounds who sat at the centre in his shirt-sleeves, poring over numerous sheets in front of him which were covered with names of the five hundred. This gentleman was the Honourable Edward Doby of Hale, who, with the kind assistance of the other gentlemen above-named, was in this secluded spot making up a list of his committees, undisturbed by eager country members. At Mr. Crewe's entrance Mr. Bascom, with great presence of mind, laid down his hat over the principal list, while Mr. Ridout, taking the hint, put the Revised Statutes on the other. There was a short silence; and the Speaker-to-be, whose pencil had been knocked out of his hand; recovered himself sufficiently to relight an extremely frayed cigar.
Not that Mr. Crewe was in the least abashed. He chose this opportunity to make a survey of the situation, nodded to Mr. Ridout, and walked up to the padded armchair.
“How are you, Mr. Vane?” he said. “I thought I'd drop in to shake hands with you, especially as I have business with the Speaker, and heard he was here. But I'm glad to have met you for many reasons. I want you to be one of the vice-presidents of the State Economic League—it won't cost you anything. Ridout has agreed to let his name go on.”
The Honourable Hilary, not being an emotional man, merely grunted as he started to rise to his feet. What he was about to say was interrupted by a timid knock, and there followed another brief period of silence.
“It ain't anybody,” said Mr. Bascom, and crossing the room, turned the key in the lock. The timid knock was repeated.
“I suppose you're constantly interrupted here by unimportant people,” Mr. Crewe remarked.
“Well,” said Mr. Vane, slowly, boring into Mr. Crewe with his eye, “that statement isn't far out of the way.”
“I don't believe you've ever met me, Mr. Vane. I'm Humphrey Crewe. We have a good friend in common in Mr. Flint.”
The Honourable Hilary's hand passed over Mr. Crewe's lightly.
“Glad to meet you, Mr. Crewe,” he said, and a faint twinkle appeared in his eye. “Job has told everybody you were coming down. Glad to welcome a man of your ahem—stamp into politics.”
“I'm a plain business man,” answered Mr. Crewe, modestly; “and although I have considerable occupation, I believe that one in my position has duties to perform. I've certain bills—”
“Yes, yes,” agreed the Honourable Hilary; “do you know Mr. Brush Bascom and Mr. Manning? Allow me to introduce you,—and General Doby.”
“How are you, General?” said Mr. Crewe to the Speaker-to-be, “I'm always glad to shake the hand of a veteran. Indeed, I have thought that a society—”
“I earned my title,” said General Doby, somewhat sheepishly, “fighting on Governor Brown's staff. There were twenty of us, and we were resistless, weren't we, Brush?”
“Twenty on a staff!” exclaimed Mr. Crewe.
“Oh, we furnished our own uniforms and paid our own way—except those of us who had passes,” declared the General, as though the memory of his military career did not give him unalloyed pleasure. “What's the use of State sovereignty if you can't have a glittering army to follow the governor round?”
Mr. Crewe had never considered this question, and he was not the man to waste time in speculation.
“Doubtless you got a letter from me, General Doby,” he said. “We did what we could up our way to put you in the Speaker's chair.”
General Doby creased a little in the middle, to signify that he was bowing.
“I trust it will be in my power to reciprocate, Mr. Crewe,” he replied.
“We want to treat Mr. Crewe right,” Mr. Bascom put in.
“You have probably made a note of my requests,” Mr. Crewe continued. “I should like to be on the Judiciary Committee, for one thing. Although I am not a lawyer, I know something of the principles of law, and I understand that this and the Appropriations Committee are the most important. I may say with truth that I should be a useful member of that, as I am accustomed to sitting on financial boards. As my bills are of some considerable importance and deal with practical progressive measures, I have no hesitation in asking for the chairmanship of Public Improvements,—and of course a membership in the Agricultural is essential, as I have bills for them. Gentlemen,” he added to the room at large, “I have typewritten manifolds of those bills which I shall be happy to leave here—at headquarters.” And suiting the action to the word, he put down a packet on the table.
The Honourable Brush Bascom, accompanied by Mr. Ridout, walked to the window and stood staring at the glitter of the electric light on the snow. The Honourable Hilary gazed steadily at the table, while General Doby blew his nose with painful violence.
“I'll do what I can for you, certainly, Mr. Crewe,” he said. “But—what is to become of the other four hundred and ninety-nine? The ways of a Speaker are hard, Mr. Crewe, and I have to do justice to all.”
“Well,” answered Mr. Crewe, “of course I don't want to be unreasonable, and I realize the pressure that's put upon you. But when you consider the importance of the work I came down here to do—”
“I do consider it,” said the Speaker, politely. “It's a little early to talk about the make-up of committees. I hope to be able to get at them by Sunday. You may be sure I'll do my best for you.”
“We'd better make a note of it,” said Mr. Crewe; “give me some paper,” and he was reaching around behind General Doby for one of the precious sheets under Mr. Bascom's hat, when the general, with great presence of mind, sat on it. We have it, from a malicious and untrustworthy source, that the Northeastern Railroads paid for a new one.
“Here, here,” cried the Speaker, “make the memorandum here.”
At this critical juncture a fortunate diversion occurred. A rap—three times—of no uncertain quality was heard at the door, and Mr. Brush Bascom hastened to open it. A voice cried out:—“Is Manning here? The boys are hollering for those passes,” and a wiry, sallow gentleman burst in, none other than the Honourable Elisha Jane, who was taking his consular vacation. When his eyes fell upon Mr. Crewe he halted abruptly, looked a little foolish, and gave a questioning glance at the Honourable Hilary.
“Mountain passes, Lish? Sit down. Did I ever tell you that story about the slide in Rickets Gulch?” asked the Honourable Brush Bascom. “But first let me make you acquainted with Mr. Humphrey Crewe of Leith. Mr. Crewe has come down here with the finest lot of bills you ever saw, and we're all going to take hold and put 'em through. Here, Lish, I'll give you a set.”
“Read 'em, Mr. Jane,” urged Mr. Crewe. “I don't claim much for 'em, but perhaps they will help to set a few little matters right—I hope so.”
Mr. Jane opened the bills with deliberation, and cast his eyes over the headings.
“I'll read 'em this very night, Mr. Crewe,” he said solemnly; “this meeting you is a particular pleasure, and I have heard in many quarters of these measures.”
“Well,” admitted Mr. Crewe, “they may help some. I have a few other matters to attend to this evening, so I must say good-night, gentlemen. Don't let me interfere with those I mountain passes, Mr. Manning.”
With this parting remark, which proved him to be not merely an idealist in politics, but a practical man, Mr. Crewe took his leave. And he was too much occupied with his own thoughts to pay any attention to the click of the key as it turned in the lock, or to hear United States Senator Whitredge rap (three times) on the door after he had turned the corner, or to know that presently the sliding doors into the governor's bridal suite—were to open a trifle, large enough for the admission of the body of the Honourable Asa P. Gray.
Number Seven still keeps up its reputation as the seat of benevolence, and great public benefactors still meet there to discuss the welfare of their fellow-men: the hallowed council chamber now of an empire, seat of the Governor-general of the State, the Honourable Hilary Vane, and his advisers. For years a benighted people, with a fond belief in their participation of Republican institutions, had elected the noble five hundred of the House and the stanch twenty of the Senate. Noble five hundreds (biggest Legislature in the world) have come and gone; debated, applauded, fought and on occasions denounced, kicked over the traces, and even wept—to no avail. Behold that political institution of man, representative government There it is on the stage, curtain up, a sublime spectacle for all men to see, and thrill over speeches about the Rights of Man, and the Forefathers in the Revolution; about Constituents who do not constitute. The High Heavens allow it and smile, and it is well for the atoms that they think themselves free American representatives, that they do not feel the string of predestination around their ankles. The senatorial twenty, from their high carved seats, see the strings and smile, too; yes, and see their own strings, and smile. Wisdom does not wish for flight. “The people” having changed the constitution, the blackbirds are reduced from four and forty to a score. This is cheaper—for the people.
Democracy on the front of the stage before an applauding audience; performers absorbed in their parts, forgetting that the landlord has to be paid in money yet to be earned. Behind the stage, the real play, the absorbing interest, the high stakes—occasional discreet laughter through the peep-hole when an actor makes an impassioned appeal to the gods. Democracy in front, the Feudal System, the Dukes and Earls behind—but in plain clothes; Democracy in stars and spangles and trappings and insignia. Or, a better figure, the Fates weaving the web in that mystic chamber, Number Seven, pausing now and again to smile as a new thread is put in. Proclamations, constitutions, and creeds crumble before conditions; the Law of Dividends is the high law, and the Forum an open vent through which the white steam may rise heavenward and be resolved again into water.
Mr. Crewe took his seat in the popular assemblage next day, although most of the five hundred gave up theirs to the ladies who had come to hear his Excellency deliver his inaugural. The Honourable Asa made a splendid figure, all agreed, and read his speech in a firm and manly voice. A large part of it was about the people; some of it about the sacred government they had inherited from their forefathers; still another concerned the high character and achievements of the inhabitants within the State lines; the name of Abraham Lincoln was mentioned, and, with even greater reverence and fervour, the Republican party which had ennobled and enriched the people—and incidentally elected the governor. There was a noble financial policy, a curtailment of expense. The forests should be protected, roads should be built, and, above all, corporations should be held to a strict accounting.
Needless to say, the speech gave great satisfaction to all, and many old friends left the hall exclaiming that they didn't believe Asa had it in him. As a matter of fact (known only to the initiated), Asa didn't have it in him until last night, before he squeezed through the crack in the folding doors from room number six to room Number Seven. The inspiration came to him then, when he was ennobled by the Governor-general, who represents the Empire. Perpetual Governor-general, who quickens into life puppet governors of his own choosing Asa has agreed, for the honour of the title of governor of his State, to act the part, open the fairs, lend his magnificent voice to those phrases which it rounds so well. It is fortunate, when we smoke a fine cigar from Havana, that we cannot look into the factory. The sight would disturb us. It was well for the applauding, deep-breathing audience in the state-house that first of January that they did not have a glimpse in room Number Seven the night before, under the sheets that contained the list of the Speaker's committees; it was well that they could not go back to Ripton into the offices on the square, earlier in December, where Mr. Hamilton Tooting was writing the noble part of that inaugural from memoranda given him by the Honourable Hilary Vane. Yes, the versatile Mr. Tooting, and none other, doomed forever to hide the light of his genius under a bushel! The financial part was written by the Governor-general himself—the Honourable Hilary Vane. And when it was all finished and revised, it was put into a long envelope which bore this printed address: Augustus P. Flint, Pres't United Northeastern Railroads, New York. And came back with certain annotations on the margin, which were duly incorporated into it. This is the private history (which must never be told) of the document which on January first became, as far as fame and posterity is concerned, the Honourable Asa P. Gray's—forever and forever.
Mr. Crewe liked the inaugural, and was one of the first to tell Mr. Gray so, and to express his pleasure and appreciation of the fact that his request (mailed in November) had been complied with, that the substance of his bills had been recommended in the governor's programme.
He did not pause to reflect on the maxim, that platforms are made to get in by and inaugurals to get started by.
Although annual efforts have been made by various public-spirited citizens to build a new state-house, economy—with assistance from room Number Seven has triumphed. It is the same state-house from the gallery of which poor William Wetherell witnessed the drama of the Woodchuck Session, although there are more members now, for the population of the State has increased to five hundred thousand. It is well for General Doby, with his two hundred and fifty pounds, that he is in the Speaker's chair; five hundred seats are a good many for that hall, and painful in a long session. The Honourable Brush Bascom can stretch his legs, because he is fortunate enough to have a front seat. Upon inquiry, it turns out that Mr. Bascom has had a front seat for the last twenty years—he has been uniformly lucky in drawing. The Honourable Jacob Botcher (ten years' service) is equally fortunate; the Honourable Jake is a man of large presence, and a voice that sounds as if it came, oracularly, from the caverns of the earth. He is easily heard by the members on the back seats, while Mr. Bascom is not. Mr. Ridout, the capital lawyer, is in the House this year, and singularly enough has a front seat likewise. It was Mr. Crewe's misfortune to draw number 415, in the extreme corner of the room, and next the steam radiator. But he was not of the metal to accept tamely such a ticketing from the hat of destiny (via the Clerk of the House). He complained, as any man of spirit would, and Mr. Utter, the polite clerk, is profoundly sorry,—and says it maybe managed. Curiously enough, the Honourable Brush Bascom and the Honourable Jacob Botcher join Mr. Crewe in his complaint, and reiterate that it is an outrage that a man of such ability and deserving prominence should be among the submerged four hundred and seventy. It is managed in a mysterious manner we don't pretend to fathom, and behold Mr. Crewe in the front of the Forum, in the seats of the mighty, where he can easily be pointed out from the gallery at the head of the five hundred, between those shining leaders and parliamentarians, the Honourables Brush Bascom and Jake Botcher.
For Mr. Crewe has not come to the Legislature, like the country members in the rear, to acquire a smattering of parliamentary procedure by the day the Speaker is presented with a gold watch, at the end of the session. Not he! Not the practical business man, the member of boards, the chairman and president of societies. He has studied the Rules of the House and parliamentary law, you may be sure. Genius does not come unprepared, and is rarely caught napping. After the Legislature adjourned that week the following telegram was sent over the wires:—