“Do you want to see me, Judge?” he asked.
The Honourable Hilary faced about quickly.
“Yes, if you've got any spare time.”
“I'll go to your room at half-past nine to-night, if that's convenient.”
“All right,” said the Honourable Hilary, starting up the stairs.
Austen turned, and found Mr. Hamilton Tooting at his elbow.
The storm was over, and the bare trees, when the moon shone between the hurrying clouds, cast lacelike shadows on the white velvet surface of the snow as Austen forged his way up the hill to the Widow Peasley's in keeping with his promise to Mr. Redbrook. Across the street he paused outside the picket-fence to gaze at the yellow bars of light between the slats of the windows of the Duncan house. It was hard to realize that she was there, within a stone's throw of where he was to sleep; but the strange, half-startled expression in her eyes that afternoon and the smile—which had in it a curious quality he could not analyze—were so vivid in his consciousness as to give him pain. The incident, as he stood there ankle-deep in the snow, seemed to him another inexplicable and uselessly cruel caprice of fate.
As he pictured her in the dining room behind Mr. Crewe's silver and cut glass and flowers, it was undoubtedly natural that he should wonder whether she were thinking of him in the Widow Peasley's lamp-lit cottage, and he smiled at the contrast. After all, it was the contrast between his life and hers. As an American of good antecedents and education, with a Western experience thrown in, social gulfs, although awkward, might be crossed in spite of opposition from ladies like the Rose of Sharon,—who had crossed them. Nevertheless, the life which Victoria led seemingly accentuated—to a man standing behind a picket-fence in the snow—the voids between.
A stamping of feet in the Widow Peasley's vestibule awoke in him that sense of the ridiculous which was never far from the surface, and he made his way thither in mingled amusement and pain. What happened there is of interest, but may be briefly chronicled. Austen was surprised, on entering, to find Mrs. Peasley's parlour filled with men; and a single glance at their faces in the lamplight assured him that they were of a type which he understood—countrymen of that rugged New England stock to which he himself belonged, whose sons for generations had made lawyers and statesmen and soldiers for the State and nation. Some were talking in low voices, and others sat silent on the chairs and sofa, not awkwardly or uncomfortably, but with a characteristic self-possession and repose. Mr. Redbrook, towering in front of the stove, came forward.
“Here you be,” he said, taking Austen's hand warmly and a little ceremoniously; “I asked 'em here to meet ye.”
“To meet me!” Austen repeated.
“Wanted they should know you,” said Mr. Redbrook.
“They've all heard of you and what you did for Zeb.”
Austen flushed. He was aware that he was undergoing a cool and critical examination by those present, and that they were men who used all their faculties in making up their minds.
“I'm very glad to meet any friends of yours, Mr. Redbrook,” he said. “What I did for Meader isn't worth mentioning. It was an absolutely simple case.”
“Twahn't so much what ye did as how ye did it,” said Mr. Redbrook. “It's kind of rare in these days,” he added, with the manner of commenting to himself on the circumstance, “to find a young lawyer with brains that won't sell 'em to the railrud. That's what appeals to me, and to some other folks I know—especially when we take into account the situation you was in and the chances you had.”
Austen's silence under this compliment seemed to create an indefinable though favourable impression, and the member from Mercer permitted himself to smile.
“These men are all friends of mine, and members of the House,” he said, “and there's more would have come if they'd had a longer notice. Allow me to make you acquainted with Mr. Widgeon of Hull.”
“We kind of wanted to look you over,” said Mr. Widgeon, suiting the action to the word. “That's natural ain't it?”
“Kind of size you up,” added Mr. Jarley of Wye, raising his eyes. “Callate you're sizable enough.”
“Wish you was in the House,” remarked Mr. Adams of Barren. “None of us is much on talk, but if we had you, I guess we could lay things wide open.”
“If you was thar, and give it to 'em as hot as you did when you was talkin' for Zeb, them skunks in the front seats wouldn't know whether they was afoot or hossback,” declared Mr. Williams of Devon, a town adjoining Mercer.
“I used to think railrud gov'ment wahn't so bad until I come to the House this time,” remarked a stocky member from Oxford; “it's sheer waste of money for the State to pay a Legislature. They might as well run things from the New York office—you know that.”
“We might as well wear so many Northeastern uniforms with brass buttons,” a sinewy hill farmer from Lee put in. He had a lean face that did not move a muscle, but a humorous gray eye that twinkled.
In the meantime Mr. Redbrook looked on with an expression of approval which was (to Austen) distinctly pleasant, but more or less mystifying.
“I guess you ain't disappointed 'em much,” he declared, when the round was ended; “most of 'em knew me well enough to understand that cattle and live stock in general, includin' humans, is about as I represent 'em to be.”
“We have some confidence in your judgment, Brother Redbrook,” answered Mr. Terry of Lee, “and now we've looked over the goods, it ain't set back any, I callate.”
This observation, which seemed to meet with a general assent, was to Austen more mystifying than ever. He laughed.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “I feel as though some expression of thanks were due you for this kind and most unexpected reception.” Here a sudden seriousness came into his eyes which served, somehow, only to enhance his charm of manner, and a certain determined ring into his voice. “You have all referred to a condition of affairs,” he added, “about which I have thought a great deal, and which I deplore as deeply as you do. There is no doubt that the Northeastern Railroads have seized the government of this State for three main reasons: to throttle competition; to control our railroad commission in order that we may not get the service and safety to which we are entitled,—so increasing dividends; and to make and maintain laws which enable them to bribe with passes, to pay less taxes than they should, and to manipulate political machinery.”
“That's right,” said Mr. Jarley of Wye, with a decided emphasis.
“That's the kind of talk I like to hear,” exclaimed Mr. Terry.
“And nobody's had the gumption to fight 'em,” said Mr. Widgeon.
“It looks,” said Austen, “as though it must come to a fight in the end. I do not think they will listen to reason. I mean,” he added, with a flash of humour, “that they will listen to it, but not act upon it. Gentlemen, I regret to have to say, for obvious reasons, something which you all know, that my father is at the head of the Northeastern machine, which is the Republican party organization.”
There was a silence.
“You went again' him, and we honour you for it, Austen,” said Mr. Redbrook, at length.
“I want to say,” Austen continued, “that I have tried to look at things as Mr. Vane sees them, and that I have a good deal of sympathy for his point of view. Conditions as they exist are the result of an evolution for which no one man is responsible. That does not alter the fact that the conditions are wrong. But the railroads, before they consolidated, found the political boss in power, and had to pay him for favours. The citizen was the culprit to start with, just as he is the culprit now, because he does not take sufficient interest in his government to make it honest. We mustn't blame the railroads too severely, when they grew strong enough, for substituting their own political army to avoid being blackmailed. Long immunity has reenforced them in the belief that they have but one duty to pay dividends. I am afraid,” he added, “that they will have to be enlightened somewhat as Pharaoh was enlightened.”
“Well, that's sense, too,” said Mr. Widgeon; “I guess you're the man to enlighten 'em.”
“Moderate talk appeals to me,” declared Mr. Jarley.
“And when that fails,” said Mr. Terry, “hard, tellin' blows.”
“Don't lose track of the fact that we've got our eye on you,” said Mr. Emerson of Oxford, who had a blacksmith's grip, and came back to renew it after he had put on his overshoes. He was the last to linger, and when the door had closed on him Austen turned to Mr. Redbrook.
“Now what does all this mean?” he demanded.
“It means,” said Mr. Redbrook, “that when the time comes, we want you to run for governor.”
Austen went to the mantelpiece, and stood for a long time with his back turned, staring at a crayon portrait of Colonel Peasley, in the uniform in which he had fallen at the battle of Gettysburg. Then he swung about and seized the member from Mercer by both broad shoulders.
“James Redbrook,” he said, “until to-night I thought you were about as long-headed and sensible a man as there was in the State.”
“So I be,” replied Mr. Redbrook, with a grin. “You ask young Tom Gaylord.”
“So Tom put you up to this nonsense.”
“It ain't nonsense,” retorted Mr. Redbrook, stoutly, “and Tom didn't put me up to it. It's the' best notion that ever came into my mind.”
Austen, still clinging to Mr. Redbrook's shoulders, shook his head slowly.
“James,” he said, “there are plenty of men who are better equipped than I for the place, and in a better situation to undertake it. I—I'm much obliged to you. But I'll help. I've got to go,” he added; “the Honourable Hilary wants to see me.”
He went into the entry and put on his overshoes and his coat, while James Redbrook regarded him with a curious mingling of pain and benevolence on his rugged face.
“I won't press you now, Austen,” he said, “but think on it. For God's sake, think on it.”
Outside, Austen paused in the snow once more, his brain awhirl with a strange exaltation the like of which he had never felt before. Although eminently human, it was not the fact that honest men had asked him to be their governor which uplifted him,—but that they believed him to be as honest as themselves. In that hour he had tasted life as he had never yet tasted it, he had lived as he might never live again. Not one of them, he remembered suddenly, had uttered a sentence of the political claptrap of which he had heard so much. They had spoken from the soul; not bitterly, not passionately, but their words had rung with the determination which had made their forefathers and his leave home, toil, and kindred to fight and die at Bunker Hill and Gettysburg for a principle. It had bean given him to look that eight into the heart of a nation, and he was awed.
As he stood there under the winter moon, he gradually became conscious of music, of an air that seemed the very expression of his mood. His eyes, irresistibly drawn towards the Duncan house, were caught by the fluttering of lace curtains at an open window. The notes were those of a piano,—though the instrument mattered little,—that with which they were charged for him set the night wind quivering. It was not simple music, although it had in it a grand simplicity. At times it rose, vibrant with inexpressible feeling, and fell again into gentler, yearning cadences that wrung the soul with a longing that was world-old and world-wide, that reached out towards the unattainable stare—and, reaching, became immortal. Thus was the end of it, fainting as it drifted heavenward.
Then the window was closed.
Austen walked on; whither, he knew not. After a certain time of which he had no cognizance he found himself under the glaring arc-light that hung over Main Street before the Pelican Hotel, in front of what was known as the ladies' entrance. He slipped in there, avoiding the crowded lobby with its shifting groups and its haze of smoke,—plainly to be seen behind the great plates of glass,—went upstairs, and gained room Number. Seven unnoticed. Then, after the briefest moment of hesitation, he knocked. A voice responded—the Honourable Hilary's. There was but one light burning in the room, and Mr. Vane sat in his accustomed chair in the corner, alone. He was not reading, nor was he drowsing, but his head was dropped forward a little on his breast. He raised it slowly at his son's entrance, and regarded Austen fixedly, though silently.
“You wanted to see me, Judge?” said Austen.
“Come at last, have you?” said Mr. Vane.
“I didn't intend to be late,” said Austen.
“Seem to have a good deal of business on hand these days,” the Honourable Hilary remarked.
Austen took a step forward, and stopped. Mr. Vane was preparing a piece of Honey Dew.
“If you would like to know what the business was, Judge, I am here to tell you.”
The Honourable Hilary grunted.
“I ain't good enough to be confided in, I guess,” he said; “I wouldn't understand motives from principle.”
Austen looked at his father for a few moments in silence. To-night he seemed at a greater distance than ever before, and more lonely than ever. When Austen had entered the room and had seen him sitting with his head bowed forward, the hostility of months of misunderstanding had fallen away from the son, and he had longed to fly to him as he had as a child after punishment. Differences in after life, alas, are not always to be bridged thus.
“Judge,” he said slowly, with an attempt to control his voice, “wouldn't it have been fairer to wait awhile, before you made a remark like that? Whatever our dealings may have been, I have never lied to you. Anything you may want to know, I am here to tell you.”
“So you're going to take up lobbying, are you? I had a notion you were above lobbying.”
Austen was angered. But like all men of character, his face became stern under provocation, and he spoke more deliberately.
“Before we go any farther,” he said, “would you mind telling me who your informant is on this point?”
“I guess I don't need an informant. My eyesight is as good as ever,” said the Honourable Hilary.
“Your deductions are usually more accurate. If any one has told you that I am about to engage in lobbying, they have lied to you.”
“Wouldn't engage in lobbying, would you?” the Honourable Hilary asked, with the air of making a casual inquiry.
Austen flushed, but kept his temper.
“I prefer the practice of law,” he replied.
“Saw you were associatin' with saints,” his father remarked.
Austen bit his lip, and then laughed outright,—the canonization of old Tom Gaylord being too much for him.
“Now, Judge,” he said, “it isn't like you to draw hasty conclusions. Because I sat down to supper with the Gaylords it isn't fair to infer that they have retained me in a legislative case.”
The Honourable Hilary did not respond to his son's humour, but shifted the Honey Dew to the left cheek.
“Old Tom going in for reform?”
“He may bring it about,” answered Austen, instantly becoming serious again, “whether he's going in for it or not.”
For the first time the Honourable Hilary raised his eyes to his son's face, and shot at him a penetrating look of characteristic shrewdness. But he followed in conversation the same rule as in examining a witness, rarely asking a direct question, except as a tactical surprise.
“Old Tom ought to have his railroad, oughtn't he?”
“So far as I can see, it would be a benefit to the people of that part of the State,” said Austen.
“Building it for the people, is he?”
“His motive doesn't count. The bill should be judged on its merits, and proper measures for the safeguarding of public interests should be put into it.”
“Don't think the bill will be judged on its merits, do you?”
“No, I don't,” replied Austen, “and neither do you.”
“Did you tell old Tom so?” asked Mr. Vane, after a pause. “Did you tell old Tom so when he sent for you to take hold?”
“He didn't send for me,” answered Austen, quietly, “and I have no business dealings with him except small suits. What I did tell him was that he would never get the bill through this session or next by lobbying.”
The Honourable Hilary never showed surprise. He emitted a grunt which evinced at once impatience and amusement.
“Why not?” he asked.
“Well, Judge, I'll tell you what I told him—although you both know. It's because the Northeastern owns the Republican party machine, which is the lobby, and because most of the twenty State senators are dependent upon the Northeastern for future favours.”
“Did you tell Tom Gaylord that?” demanded Mr. Vane. “What did he say?”
Austen braced himself. He did not find the answer easy.
“He said he knew about Number Seven as well as I did.”
The Honourable Hilary rose abruptly—perhaps in some secret agitation—Austen could not discern. His father walked as far as the door, and turned slowly and faced him, but he did not speak. His mouth was tightly closed, almost as in pain, and Austen went towards him, appealingly.
“Judge,” he said, “you sent for me. You have asked me questions which I felt obliged in honesty to answer. God knows I don't wish to differ with you, but circumstances seem always against us. I will talk plainly, if you will let me. I try to look at things from your point of view. I know that you believe that a political system should go hand in hand with the great commercial system which you are engaged in building. I disagree with your beliefs, but I do not think that your pursuit of them has not been sincere, and justified by your conscience. I suppose that you sent for me to know whether Mr. Gaylord has employed me to lobby for his bill. He has not, because I refused that employment. But I will tell you that, in my opinion, if a man of any ability whatever should get up on the floor of the House and make an argument for the Pingsquit bill, the sentiment against the Northeastern and its political power is so great that the House would compel the committee to report the bill, and pass it. You probably know this already, but I mention it for your own good if you do not, in the hope that, through you, the Northeastern Railroads may be induced to relax their grip upon the government of this State.”
The Honourable Hilary advanced, until only the marble-topped table was between himself and his son. A slight noise in the adjoining room caused him to turn his head momentarily. Then he faced Austen again.
“Did you tell Gaylord this?” he asked.
Austen made a gesture of distaste, and turned away.
“No,” he said, “I reserved the opinion, whatever it is worth, for your ears alone.”
“I've heard that kind of calculation before,” said the Honourable Hilary. “My experience is that they never come to much. As for this nonsense about the Northeastern Railroads running things,” he added more vigorously, “I guess when it's once in a man's head there's no getting it out. The railroad employs the best lawyers it can find to look after its interests. I'm one of 'em, and I'm proud of it. If I hadn't been one of 'em, the chances are you'd never be where you are, that you'd never have gone to college and the law school. The Republican party realizes that the Northeastern is most vitally connected with the material interests of this State; that the prosperity of the road means the prosperity of the State. And the leaders of the party protect the road from vindictive assaults on it like Gaylord's, and from scatterbrains and agitators like your friend Redbrook.”
Austen shook his head sadly as he gazed at his father. He had always recognized the futility of arguments, if argument on this point ever arose between them.
“It's no use, Judge,” he said. “If material prosperity alone were to be considered, your contention would have some weight. The perpetuation of the principle of American government has to be thought of. Government by a railroad will lead in the end to anarchy. You are courting destruction as it is.”
“If you came in here to quote your confounded Emerson—” the Honourable Hilary began, but Austen slipped around the table and took him by the arm and led him perforce to his chair.
“No, Judge, that isn't Emerson,” he answered. “It's just common sense, only it sounds to you like drivel. I'm going now,—unless you want to hear some more about the plots I've been getting into. But I want to say this. I ask you to remember that you're my father, and that—I'm fond of you. And that, if you and I happen to be on opposite sides, it won't make any difference as far as my feelings are concerned. I'm always ready to tell you frankly what I'm doing, if you wish to know. Good-by. I suppose I'll see you in Ripton at the end of the week.” And he pressed his father's shoulder.
Mr. Vane looked up at his son with a curious expression. Perhaps (as when Austen returned from the shooting of Mr. Blodgett in the West) there was a smattering of admiration and pride in that look, and something of an affection which had long ceased in its strivings for utterance. It was the unconscious tribute, too,—slight as was its exhibition,—of the man whose life has been spent in the conquest of material things to the man who has the audacity, insensate though it seem, to fling these to the winds in his search after ideals.
“Good-by, Austen,” said Mr. Vane.
Austen got as far as the door, cast another look back at his father,—who was sitting motionless, with head bowed, as when he came,—and went out. So Mr. Vane remained for a full minute after the door had closed, and then he raised his head sharply and gave a piercing glance at the curtains that separated Number Seven from the governor's room. In three strides he had reached them, flung them open, and the folding doors behind them, already parted by four inches. The gas was turned low, but under the chandelier was the figure of a young man struggling with an overcoat. The Honourable Hilary did not hesitate, but came forward with a swiftness that paralyzed the young man, who turned upon him a face on which was meant to be written surprise and a just indignation, but in reality was a mixture of impudence and pallid fright. The Honourable Hilary, towering above him, and with that grip on his arm, was a formidable person.
“Listening, were you, Ham?” he demanded.
“No,” cried Mr. Tooting, with a vehemence he meant for force. “No, I wasn't. Listening to who?”
“Humph!” said the Honourable Hilary, still retaining with one hand the grip on Mr. Tooting 's arm, and with the other turning up the gas until it flared in Mr. Tooting's face. “What are you doing in the governor's room?”
“I left my overcoat in here this afternoon when you sent me to bring up the senator.”
“Ham,” said Mr. Vane, “it isn't any use lying to me.”
“I ain't lying to you,” said Mr. Tooting, “I never did. I often lied for you,” he added, “and you didn't raise any objections that I remember.”
Mr. Vane let go of the arm contemptuously.
“I've done dirty work for the Northeastern for a good many years,” cried Mr. Tooting, seemingly gaining confidence now that he was free; “I've slaved for 'em, and what have they done for me? They wouldn't even back me for county solicitor when I wanted the job.”
“Turned reformer, Ham?”
“I guess I've got as much right to turn reformer as some folks I know.”
“I guess you have,” agreed the Honourable Hilary; unexpectedly. He seated himself on a chair, and proceeded to regard Mr. Tooting in a manner extremely disconcerting to that gentleman. This quality of impenetrability, of never being sure when he was angry, had baffled more able opponents of Hilary Vane than Mr. Hamilton Tooting.
“Good-night, Ham.”
“I want to say—” Mr. Tooting began.
“Good-night, Ham,” said Mr. Vane, once more.
Mr. Tooting looked at him, slowly buttoned up his overcoat, and departed.
The eventful day of Mr. Humphrey Crewe's speech on national affairs dawned without a cloud in the sky. The snow was of a dazzling whiteness and sprinkled with diamond dust; and the air of such transcendent clearness that Austen could see—by leaning a little out of the Widow Peasley's window—the powdered top of Holdfast Mountain some thirty miles away. For once, a glance at the mountain sufficed him; and he directed his gaze through the trees at the Duncan house, engaging in a pleasant game of conjecture as to which was her window. In such weather the heights of Helicon seemed as attainable as the peak of Holdfast; and he had but to beckon a shining Pegasus from out a sun-shaft in the sky. Obstacles were mere specks on the snow.
He forgot to close the window, and dressed in a temperature which would have meant, for many mortals, pneumonia. The events of yesterday; painful and agitating as they had been, had fallen away in the prospect that lay before him—he would see her to-day, and speak with her. These words, like a refrain; were humming in his head as honest Mr. Redbrook talked during breakfast, while Austen's answers may have been both intelligent and humorous. Mr. Redbrook, at least; gave no sign that they were not. He was aware that Mr. Redbrook was bringing arguments to bear on the matter of the meeting of the evening before, but he fended these lightly, while in spirit he flung a gem-studded bridle aver the neck of Pegasus.
And after breakfast—away from the haunts of men! Away from the bickerings, the subjection of mean spirits; material loss and gain and material passion! By eight o'clock (the Widow Peasley's household being an early and orderly one) he was swinging across the long hills, cleaving for himself a furrowed path in the untrodden snow, breathing deep as he gazed across the blue spaces from the crests. Bellerophon or Perseus, aided by immortals, felt no greater sense of achievements to come than he. Out here, on the wind-swept hills that rolled onward and upward to the mountains, the world was his.
With the same speed he returned, still by untrodden paths until he reached the country road that ended in the city street. Some who saw him paused in their steps, caught unconsciously by the rhythmic perfection of his motion. Ahead of him he beheld the state-house, its dial aflame in the light, emblematic to him of the presence within it of a spirit which cleansed it of impurities. She would be there; nay, when he looked at the dial from a different angle, was there. As he drew nearer, there rose out of the void her presence beside him which he had daily tried to summon since that autumn afternoon—her voice and her eyes, and many of the infinite expressions of each and both. Sprites that they were, they had failed him until to-day, when he was to see her again!
And then, somehow, he had threaded the groups beside the battle-flags in the corridor, and mounted the stairway. The doorkeeper of the House looked into his face, and, with that rare knowledge of mankind which doorkeepers possess, let him in. There were many ladies on the floor (such being the chivalrous custom when a debate or a speech of the importance of Mr. Crewe's was going on), but Austen swept them with a glance of disappointment. Was it possible, after all, that she had not come, or—more agitating thought—had gone back to New York?
At this disturbing point in his reflections Austen became aware that the hall was ringing with a loud and compelling voice which originated in front of the Speaker's desk.
The Honourable Humphrey Crewe was delivering his long-heralded speech on national affairs, and was arrayed for the occasion in a manner befitting the American statesman, with the conventional frock coat, which he wore unbuttoned. But the Gladstone collar and a tie gave the touch of individuality to his dress which was needed to set him aside as a marked man. Austen suddenly remembered, with an irresistible smile, that one of the reasons which he had assigned for his visit to the capital was to hear this very speech, to see how Mr. Crewe would carry off what appeared to be a somewhat difficult situation. Whether or not this motive had drawn others,—for the millionaire's speech had not lacked advertisement,—it is impossible to say, but there was standing room only on the floor of the House that day.
The fact that Mr. Crewe was gratified could not be wholly concealed. The thing that fascinated Austen Vane and others who listened was the aplomb with which the speech was delivered. The member from Leith showed no trace of the nervousness naturally to be expected in a maiden effort, but spoke with the deliberation of an old campaigner, of the man of weight and influence that he was. He leaned, part of the time, with his elbow on the clerk's desk, with his feet crossed; again, when he wished to emphasize a point, he came forward and seized with both hands the back of his chair. Sometimes he thrust his thumb in his waistcoat pocket, and turned with an appeal to Mr. Speaker Doby, who was apparently too thrilled and surprised to indulge in conversation with those on the bench beside him, and who made no attempt to quell hand-clapping and even occasional whistling; again, after the manner of experts, Mr. Crewe addressed himself forcibly to an individual in the audience, usually a sensitive and responsive person like the Honourable Jacob Botcher, who on such occasions assumed a look of infinite wisdom and nodded his head slowly. There was no doubt about it that the compelling personality of Mr. Humphrey Crewe was creating a sensation. Genius is sure of itself, and statesmen are born, not made.
Able and powerful as was Mr. Crewe's discourse, the man and not the words had fastened the wandering attention of Austen Vane. He did not perceive his friend of the evening before, Mr. Widgeon, coming towards him up the side aisle, until he felt a touch on the arm.
“Take my seat. It ain't exactly a front one,” whispered the member from Hull, “my wife's cousin's comin' on the noon train. Not a bad speech, is it?” he added. “Acts like a veteran. I didn't callate he had it in him.”
Thus aroused, Austen made his way towards the vacant chair, and when he was seated raised his eyes to the gallery rail, and Mr. Crewe, the legislative chamber, and its audience ceased to exist. It is quite impossible—unless one is a poetical genius—to reproduce on paper that gone and sickly sensation which is, paradoxically, so exquisite. The psychological cause of it in this instance was, primarily, the sight, by Austen Vane, of his own violets on a black, tailor-made gown trimmed with wide braid, and secondarily of an oval face framed in a black hat, the subtle curves of which no living man could describe. The face was turned in his direction, and he felt an additional thrill when he realized that she must have been watching him as he came in, for she was leaning forward with a gloved hand on the railing.
He performed that act of conventionality known as a bow, and she nodded her head—black hat and all. The real salutation was a divine ray which passed between their eyes—hers and his—over the commonplace mortals between. And after that, although the patient legislative clock in the corner which had marked the space of other great events (such as the Woodchuck Session) continued to tick, undisturbed in this instance by the pole of the sergeant-at-arms, time became a lost dimension for Austen Vane. He made a few unimportant discoveries such as the fact that Mrs. Pomfret and her daughter were seated beside Victoria, listening with a rapt attention; and that Mr. Crewe had begun to read statistics; and that some people were gaping and others leaving. He could look up at the gallery without turning his head, and sometimes he caught her momentary glance, and again, with her chin in her hand, she was watching Mr. Crewe with a little smile creasing the corners of her eyes.
A horrible thought crossed Austen's mind—perhaps they were not his violets after all! Because she had smiled at him, yesterday and to-day, he had soared heavenwards on wings of his own making. Perhaps they were Mr. Crewe's violets. Had she not come to visit Mr. Crewe, to listen to his piece de resistance, without knowing that he, Austen Vane, would be in the capital? The idea that her interest in Austen Vane was possibly connected with the study of mankind had a sobering effect on him; and the notion that she had another sort of interest in Mr. Crewe seemed ridiculous enough, but disturbing, and supported by feats.
Austen had reached this phase in his reflections when he was aroused by a metallic sound which arose above the resonant tones of the orator of the day. A certain vessel, to the use of which, according to Mr. Dickens, the satire male portion of the American nation was at one time addicted,—a cuspidor, in plain language,—had been started, by some unknown agency in the back seats, rolling down the centre aisle, and gathering impetus as it went, bumped the louder on each successive step until it hurled itself with a clash against the clerk's desk, at the feet of the orator himself. During its descent a titter arose which gradually swelled into a roar of laughter, and Austen's attention was once more focused upon the member from Leith. But if any man had so misjudged the quality of Humphrey Crewe as to suppose for an instant that he could be put out of countenance by such a manoeuvre, that man was mightily mistaken. Mr. Crewe paused, with his forefinger on the page, and fixed a glassy eye on the remote neighbourhood in the back seats where the disturbance had started.
“I am much obliged to the gentleman,” he said coldly, “but he has sent me an article which I never use, under any conditions. I would not deprive him of its convenience.”
Whereupon, it is not too much to say, Mr. Crews was accorded an ovation, led by his stanch friend and admirer, the Honourable Jacob Botcher, although that worthy had been known to use the article in question.
Mr. Speaker Doby glanced at the faithful clock, and arose majestically.
“I regret to say,” he announced, “that the time of the gentleman from Leith is up.”
Mr. Botcher rose slowly to his feet.
“Mr. Speaker,” he began, in a voice that rumbled through the crevices of the gallery, “I move you, sir, that a vote of thanks be accorded to the gentleman from Leith for his exceedingly able and instructive speech on national affairs.”
“Second the motion,” said the Honourable Brush Bascom, instantly.
“And leave to print in the State Tribune!” cried a voice from somewhere among the submerged four hundred and seventy.
“Gentlemen of the House,” said Mr. Crewe, when the laughter had subsided, “I have given you a speech which is the result of much thought and preparation on my part. I have not flaunted the star-spangled banner in your faces, or indulged in oratorical fireworks. Mine have been the words of a plain business man, and I have not indulged in wild accusations or flights of imagination. Perhaps, if I had,” he added, “there are some who would have been better pleased. I thank my friends for their kind attention and approbation.”
Nevertheless, amidst somewhat of a pandemonium, the vote of thanks was given and the House adjourned; while Mr. Crewe's friends of whom he had spoken could be seen pressing around him and shaking him by the hand. Austen got to his feet, his eyes again sought the gallery, whence he believed he received a look of understanding from a face upon which amusement seemed plainly written. She had turned to glance down at him, despite the fact that Mrs. Pomfret was urging her to leave. Austen started for the door, and managed to reach it long before his neighbours had left the vicinity of their seats. Once in the corridor, his eye singled her out amongst those descending the gallery stairs, and he had a little thrill of pride and despair when he realized that she was the object of the scrutiny, too, of the men around him; the women were interested, likewise, in Mrs. Pomfret, whose appearance, although appropriate enough for a New York matinee, proclaimed her as hailing from that mysterious and fabulous city of wealth. This lady, with her lorgnette, was examining the faces about her in undisguised curiosity, and at the same time talking to Victoria in a voice which she took no pains to lower.
“I think it outrageous,” she was saying. “If some Radical member had done that in Parliament, he would have been expelled from the House. But of course in Parliament they wouldn't have those horrid things to roll down the aisles. Poor dear Humphrey! The career of a gentleman in politics is a thankless one in this country. I wonder at his fortitude.”
Victoria's eyes alone betokened her amusement.
“How do you do, Mr. Vane?” she said. “I'm so glad to see you again.”
Austen said something which he felt was entirely commonplace and inadequate to express his own sentiments, while Alice gave him an uncertain bow, and Mrs. Pomfret turned her glasses upon him.
“You remember Mr. Vane,” said Victoria; “you met him at Humphrey's.”
“Did I?” answered Mrs. Pomfret. “How do you do? Can't something be done to punish those rowdies?”
Austen grew red.
“Mr. Vane isn't a member of the House,” said Victoria.
“Oh,” exclaimed Mrs. Pomfret. “Something ought to be done about it. In England such a thing wouldn't be allowed to drop for a minute. If I lived in this State, I think I should do something. Nobody in America seems to have the spirit even to make a protest.”
Austen turned quietly to Victoria.
“When are you going away?” he asked.
“To-morrow morning—earlier than I like to think of. I have to be in New York by to-morrow night.”
She flashed at him a look of approbation for his self-control, and then, by a swift transition which he had often remarked, her expression changed to one of amusement, although a seriousness lurked in the depths of her eyes. Mrs. Pomfret had gone on, with Alice, and they followed.
“And—am I not to see you again before you go?” he exclaimed.
He didn't stop to reason than upon the probable consequences of his act in seeking her. Nature, which is stronger than reason, was compelling him.
“That depends,” said Victoria.
“Upon whom?”
“Upon you.”
They were on the lower stairs by this times, and there was silence between then for a few moments as they descended,—principally because, after this exalting remark, Austen could not trust himself to speak.
“Will you go driving with me?” he asked, and was immediately thunderstruck at his boldness.
“Yes,” she answered, simply.
“How soon may I come?” he demanded.
She laughed softly, but with a joyous note which was not hidden from him as they stepped out of the darkened corridor into the dazzling winter noonday.
“I will be ready at three o'clock,” she said.
He looked at his watch.
“Two hours and a half!” he cried.
“If that is too early,” she said mischievously, “we can go later.”
“Too early!” he repeated. But the rest of his protest was cut short by Mr. Crewe.
“Hello, Victoria, what did you think of my speech?”
“The destinies of the nation are settled,” said Victoria. “Do you know Mr. Vane?”
“Oh, yes, how are you?” said Mr. Crewe; “glad to see you,” and he extended a furred glove. “Were you there?”
“Yes,” said Austen.
“I'll send you a copy. I'd like to talk it over with you. Come on, Victoria, I've arranged for an early lunch. Come on, Mrs. Pomfret—get in, Alice.”
Mrs. Pomfret, still protesting against the profane interruption to Mr. Crewe's speech, bent her head to enter Mr. Crewe's booby sleigh, which had his crest on the panel. Alice was hustled in next, but Victoria avoided his ready assistance and got in herself, Mr. Crewe getting in beside her.
“Au revoir,” she called out to Austen, as the door slammed. The coachman gathered his horses together, and off they went at a brisk trot. Then the little group which had been watching the performance dispersed. Halfway across the park Austen perceived some one signaling violently to him, and discovered his friend, young Tom Gaylord.
“Come to dinner with me,” said young Tom, “and tell me whether the speech of your friend from Leith will send him to Congress. I saw you hobnobbing with him just now. What's the matter, Austen? I haven't seen that guilty expression on your face since we were at college together.”
“What's the best livery-stable in town?” Austen asked.
“By George, I wondered why you came down here. Who are you going to take out in a sleigh? There's a girl in it, is there?”
“Not yet, Tom,” said Austen.
“I've often asked myself why I ever had any use for such a secretive cuss as you,” declared young Mr. Gaylord. “But if you're really goin' to get interested in girls, you ought to see old Flint's daughter. I wrote you about her. Why,” exclaimed Tom, “wasn't she one of those that got into Crewe's sleigh?”
“Tom,” said Austen, “where did you say that livery-stable was?”
“Oh, dang the livery-stable!” answered Mr. Gaylord. “I hear there's quite a sentiment for you for governor. How about it? You know I've always said you could be United States senator and President. If you'll only say the word, Austen, we'll work up a movement around the State that'll be hard to beat.”
“Tom,” said Austen, laying his hand on young Mr. Gaylord's farther shoulder, “you're a pretty good fellow. Where did you say that livery-stable was?
“I'll go sleigh-riding with you,” said Mr. Gaylord. “I guess the Pingsquit bill can rest one afternoon.”
“Tom, I don't know any man I'd rather take than you,” said Austen.
The unsuspecting Tom was too good-natured to be offended, and shortly after dinner Austen found himself in the process of being looked over by a stout gentleman named Putter, proprietor of Putter's Livery, who claimed to be a judge of men as well as horses. Austen had been through his stalls and chosen a mare.
“Durned if you don't look like a man who can handle a horse,” said Mr. Putter. “And as long as you're a friend of Tom Gaylord's I'll let you have her. Nobody drives that mare but me. What's your name?”
“Vane.”
“Ain't any relation to old Hilary, be you?”
“I'm his son,” said Austen, “only he doesn't boast about it.”
“Godfrey!” exclaimed Mr. Putter, with a broad grin, “I guess you kin have her. Ain't you the man that shot a feller out West? Seems to me I heerd somethin' about it.”
“Which one did you hear about?” Austen asked.
“Good Lord!” said Mr. Putter, “you didn't shoot more'n one, did you?”
It was just three o'clock when Austen drove into the semicircle opposite the Widow Peasley's, rang Mr. Crewe's door-bell, and leaped into the sleigh once more, the mare's nature being such as to make it undesirable to leave her. Presently Mr. Crewe's butler appeared, and stood dubiously in the vestibule.
“Will you tell Miss Flint that Mr. Vane has called for her, and that I cannot leave the horse?”
The man retired with obvious disapproval. Then Austen heard Victoria's voice in the hallway:—“Don't make a goose of yourself, Humphrey.” Here she appeared, the colour fresh in her cheeks, her slender figure clad in a fur which even Austen knew was priceless. She sprang into the sleigh, the butler, with annoying deliberation, and with the air of saying that this was an affair of which he washed his hands, tucked in Mr. Putter's best robe about her feet, the mare leaped forward, and they were off, out of the circle and flying up the hill on the hard snow-tracks.
“Whew!” exclaimed Victoria, “what a relief! Are you staying in that dear little house?” she asked, with a glance at the Widow Peasley's.
“Yes,” said Austen.
“I wish I were.”
He looked at her shyly. He was not a man to do homage to material gods, but the pomp and circumstance with which she was surrounded had had a sobering effect upon him, and added to his sense of the instability and unreality of the present moment. He had an almost guilty feeling of having broken an unwritten law, of abducting a princess, and the old Duncan house had seemed to frown protestingly that such an act should have taken place under its windows. If Victoria had been—to him—an ordinary mortal in expensive furs instead of a princess, he would have snapped his fingers at the pomp and circumstance. These typified the comforts which, in a wild and forgetful moment, he might ask her to leave. Not that he believed she would leave them. He had lived long enough to know that an interest by a woman in a man—especially a man beyond the beaten track of her observation—did not necessarily mean that she might marry him if he asked her. And yet—oh, Tantalus! here she was beside him, for one afternoon again his very own, their two souls ringing with the harmony of whirling worlds in sunlit space. He sought refuge in thin thought; he strove, in oblivion, to drain the cup of the hour of its nectar, even as he had done before. Generations of Puritan Vanes (whose descendant alone had harassed poor Sarah Austere) were in his blood; and there they hung in the long gallery of Time, mutely but sternly forbidding when he raised his hand to the stem.
In silence they reached the crest where the little city ended abruptly in view of the paradise of the silent hills,—his paradise, where there were no palaces or thought of palaces. The wild wind of the morning was still. In this realm at least, a heritage from his mother, seemingly untrodden by the foot of man, the woman at his side was his. From Holdfast over the spruces to Sawanec in the blue distance he was lord, a domain the wealth of which could not be reckoned in the coin of Midas. He turned to her as they flew down the slope, and she averted her face, perchance perceiving in that look a possession from which a woman shrinks; and her remark, startlingly indicative of the accord between them, lent a no less startling reality to the enchantment.
“This is your land, isn't it?” she said.
“I sometimes feel as though it were,” he answered. “I was out here this morning, when the wind was at play,” and he pointed with his whip at a fantastic snowdrift, “before I saw you.”
“You looked as though you had come from it,” she answered. “You seemed—I suppose you will think me silly—but you seemed to bring something of this with you into that hail. I always think of you as out on the hills and mountains.”
“And you,” he said, “belong here, too.”
She drew a deep breath.
“I wish I did. But you—you really do belong here. You seem to have absorbed all the clearness of it, and the strength and vigour. I was watching you this morning, and you were so utterly out of place in those surroundings.” Victoria paused, her colour deepening.
His blood kept pace with the mare's footsteps, but he did not reply.
“What did you think of Humphrey's speech?” she asked, abruptly changing the subject.
“I thought it a surprisingly good one,—what I heard of it,” he answered. “That wasn't much. I didn't think he'd do as well.”
“Humphrey's clever in a great many ways,” Victoria agreed. “If he didn't have such an impenetrable conceit, he might go far, because he learns quickly, and has an industry that is simply appalling. But he hasn't quite the manner for politics, has he?”
“I think I should call his manner a drawback,” said Austen, “though not by any means an insurmountable one.”
Victoria laughed.
“The other qualities all need to be very great,” she said. “He was furious at me for coming out this afternoon. He had it all arranged to drive over to the Forge, and had an early lunch.”
“And I,” said Austen, “have all the more reason to be grateful to you.”
“Oh, if you knew the favour you were doing me,” she cried, “bringing me out here where I can breathe. I hope you don't think I dislike Humphrey,” she went on. “Of course, if I did, I shouldn't visit him. You see, I have known him for so long.”
“I hadn't a notion that you disliked him,” said Austen. “I am curious about his career; that's one reason I came down. He somehow inspires curiosity.”
“And awe,” she added. “Humphrey's career has all the fascination of a runaway locomotive. One watches it transfixed, awaiting the inevitable crash.”
Their eyes met, and they both laughed.
“It's no use trying to be a humbug,” said Victoria, “I can't. And I do like Humphrey, in spite of his career.”
And they laughed again. The music of the bells ran faster and faster still, keeping time to a wilder music of the sunlit hills and sky; nor was it strange that her voice, when she spoke, did not break the spell, but laid upon him a deeper sense of magic.
“This brings back the fairy books,” she said, “and all those wonderful and never-to-be-forgotten sensations of the truant, doesn't it? You've been a truant—haven't you?”
“Yes,” he laughed, “I've been a truant, but I never quite realized the possibilities of the part—until to-day.”
She was silent a moment, and turned away her head, surveying the landscape that fell away for miles beyond.
“When I was a child,” she said, “I used to think that by opening a door I could step into an enchanted realm like this. Only I could never find the door. Perhaps,” she added, gayly pursuing the conceit, “it was because you had the key, and I didn't know you in those days.” She gave him a swift, searching look, smiling, whimsical yet startled,—so elusive that the memory of it afterwards was wont to come and go like a flash of light. “Who are you?” she asked.
His blood leaped, but he smiled in delighted understanding of her mood. Sarah Austen had brought just such a magic touch to an excursion, and even at that moment Austen found himself marvelling a little at the strange resemblance between the two.
“I am a plain person whose ancestors came from a village called Camden Street,” he replied. “Camden Street is there, on a shelf of the hills, and through the arch of its elms you can look off over the forests of the lowlands until they end in the blue reaches of the ocean,—if you could see far enough.”
“If you could see far enough,” said Victoria, unconsciously repeating his words. “But that doesn't explain you,” she exclaimed: “You are like nobody I ever met, and you have a supernatural faculty of appearing suddenly, from nowhere, and whisking me away like the lady in the fable, out of myself and the world I live in. If I become so inordinately grateful as to talk nonsense, you mustn't blame me. Try not to think of the number of times I've seen you, or when it was we first met.”
“I believe,” said Austen, gravely, “it was when a mammoth beast had his cave on Holdfast, and the valleys were covered with cocoanut-palms.”
“And you appeared suddenly then, too, and rescued me. You have always been uniformly kind,” she said, “but—a little intangible.”
“A myth,” he suggested, “with neither height, breadth, nor thickness.”
“You have height and breadth,” she answered, measuring him swiftly with her eye; “I am not sure about the thickness. Perhaps. What I mean to say is, that you seem to be a person in the world, but not of it. Your exits and entrances are too mysterious, and then you carry me out of it,—although I invite myself, which is not at all proper.”
“I came down here to see you,” he said, and took a firmer grip on the reins. “I exist to that extent.”
“That's unworthy of you,” she cried. “I don't believe you—would have known I was here unless you had caught eight of me.”
“I should have known it,” he said.
“How?”
“Because I heard you playing. I am sure it was you playing.”
“Yes, it was I,” she answered simply, “but I did not know that—you heard. Where were you?
“I suppose,” he replied, “a sane witness would have testified that I was in the street—one of those partial and material truths which are so misleading.”
She laughed again, joyously.
“Seriously, why did you come down here?” she insisted. “I am not so absorbed in Humphrey's career that I cannot take an interest in yours. In fact, yours interests me more, because it is more mysterious. Humphrey's,” she added, laughing, “is charted from day to day, and announced in bulletins. He is more generous to his friends than—you.”
“I have nothing to chart,” said Austen, “except such pilgrimages as this,—and these, after all, are unchartable. Your friend, Mr. Crewe, on the other hand, is well away on his voyage after the Golden Fleece. I hope he is provided with a Lynceus.”
She was silent for a long time, but he was feverishly conscious of her gaze upon him, and did not dare to turn his eyes to hers. The look in them he beheld without the aid of physical vision, and in that look was the world-old riddle of her sex typified in the image on the African desert, which Napoleon had tried to read, and failed. And while wisdom was in the look, there was in it likewise the eternal questioning of a fate quite as inscrutable, against which wisdom would avail nothing. It was that look which, for Austen, revealed in her in their infinite variety all women who had lived; those who could resist, and those who could yield, and yielding all, bestow a gift which left them still priceless; those to whom sorrow might bring sadness, and knowledge mourning, and yet could rob them of no jot of sweetness. And knowing this, he knew that to gain her now (could such a high prize be gained!) would be to lose her. If he were anything to her (realize it or not as she might), it was because he found strength to resist this greatest temptation of his life. Yield, and his guerdon was lost, and he would be Austen Vane no longer—yield, and his right to act, which would make him of value in her eyes as well as in his own, was gone forever.
Well he knew what the question in her eyes meant or something of what it meant, so inexplicably is the soul of woman linked to events. He had pondered often on that which she had asked him when he had brought her home over the hills in the autumn twilight. He remembered her words, and the very inflection of her voice. “Then you won't tell me?” How could he tell her? He became aware that she was speaking now, in an even tone.
“I had an odd experience this morning, when I was waiting for Mrs. Pomfret outside the state-house,” she said. “A man was standing looking up at the statue of the patriot with a strange, rapt expression on his face,—such a good face,—and he was so big and honest and uncompromising I wanted to talk to him. I didn't realize that I was staring at him so hard, because I was trying to remember where I had seen him before,—and then I remembered suddenly that it was with you.”
“With me?” Austen repeated.
“You were standing with him, in front of the little house, when I save you yesterday. His name was Redbrook. It appears that he had seen me,” Victoria replied, “when I went to Mercer to call on Zeb Meader. And he asked me if I knew you.”
“Of course you denied it,” said Austen.
“I couldn't, very well,” laughed Victoria, “because you had confessed to the acquaintance first.”
“He merely wished to have the fact corroborated. Mr. Redbrook is a man who likes to be sure of his ground.”
“He told me a very interesting thing about you,” she continued slowly, with her eye upon. Austen's profile. “He said that a great many men wanted you to be their candidate for governor of the State,—more than you had any idea of,—and that you wouldn't consent. Mr. Redbrook grew so enthusiastic that he forgot, for the moment, my—relationship to the railroad. He is not the only person with whom I have talked who has—forgotten it, or hasn't known of it.”
Austen was silent.
“Why won't you be a candidate,” she asked, in a low voice, “if such men as that want you?”
“I am afraid Mr. Redbrook exaggerates,” he said. “The popular demand of which he spoke is rather mythical. And I should be inclined to accuse him, too, of a friendly attempt to install me in your good graces.”
“No,” answered Victoria, smiling, with serious eyes, “I won't be put off that way. Mr. Redbrook isn't the kind of man that exaggerates—I've seen enough of his type to know that. And he told me about your—reception last night at the Widow Peasley's. You wouldn't have told me,” she added reproachfully.
He laughed.
“It was scarcely a subject I could have ventured,” he said.
“But I asked you,” she objected. “Now tell me, why did you refuse to be their candidate? It wasn't because you were not likely to get elected, was it?”
He permitted himself a glance which was a tribute of admiration—a glance which she returned steadfastly.
“It isn't likely that I should have been elected,” he answered, “but you are right—that is not the reason I refused.”
“I thought not,” she said, “I did not believe you were the kind of man to refuse for that reason. And you would have been elected.”
“What makes you think so?” he asked curiously.
“I have been thinking since I saw you last—yes, and I have been making inquiries. I have been trying to find out things—which you will not tell me.” She paused, with a little catch of her breath, and went on again. “Do you believe I came all the way up here just to hear Humphrey Crewe make a speech and to drive with him in a high sleigh and listen to him talk about his career? When serious men of the people like Mr. Redbrook and that nice Mr. Jenney at Leith and a lot of others who do not ordinarily care for politics are thinking and indignant, I have come to the conclusion there must be a cause for it. They say that the railroad governs them through disreputable politicians,—and I—I am beginning to believe it is true. I have had some of the politicians pointed out to me in the Legislature, and they look like it.”
Austen did not smile. She was speaking quietly, but he saw that she was breathing deeply, and he knew that she possessed a courage which went far beyond that of most women, and an insight into life and affairs.
“I am going to find out,” she said, “whether these things are true.”
“And then?” he asked involuntarily.
“If they are true, I am going to tell my father about them, and ask him to investigate. Nobody seems to have the courage to go to him.”
Austen did not answer. He felt the implication; he knew that, without realizing his difficulties, and carried on by a feeling long pent up, she had measured him unjustly, and yet he felt no resentment, and no shock. Perhaps he might feel that later. Now he was filled only with a sympathy that was yet another common bond between them. Suppose she did find out? He knew that she would not falter until she came to the end of her investigation, to the revelation of Mr. Flint's code of business ethics. Should the revolt take place, she would be satisfied with nothing less than the truth, even as he, Austen Vane, had not been satisfied. And he thought of the life-long faith that would be broken thereby.
They had made the circle of the hills, and the sparkling lights of the city lay under them like blue diamond points in the twilight of the valley. The crests behind them deepened in purple as the saffron faded in the west, and a gossamer cloud of Tyrian dye floated over Holdfast. In silence they turned for a last lingering look, and in silence went down the slope into the world again, and through the streets to the driveway of the Duncan house. It was only when they had stopped before the door that she trusted herself to speak.
“I ought not to have said what I did,” she began, in a low voice; “I didn't realize—but I cannot understand you.”
“You have said nothing which you need ever have cause to regret,” he replied. He was too great for excuses, too great for any sorrow save what she herself might feel, as great as the silent hills from which he came.
She stood for a moment on the edge of the steps, her eyes lustrous,—yet gazing into his with a searching, troubled look that haunted him for many days. But her self-command was unshaken, her power to control speech was the equal of his. And this power of silence in her revealed in such instants—was her greatest fascination for Austen, the thing which set her apart among women; which embodied for him the whole charm and mystery of her sex.
“Good-by,” she said simply.
“Good-by,” he said, and seized her hand—and drove away.
Without ringing the bell Victoria slipped into the hall,—for the latch was not caught,—and her first impulse was to run up the staircase to her room. But she heard Mrs. Pomfret's voice on the landing above and fled, as to a refuge, into the dark drawing-room, where she stood for a moment motionless, listening for the sound of his sleigh-bells as they fainted on the winter's night. Then she seated herself to think, if she could, though it is difficult to think when one's heart is beating a little wildly. It was Victoria's nature to think things out. For the first time in her life she knew sorrow, and it made it worse that that sorrow was indefinable. She felt an accountable attraction for this man who had so strangely come into her life, whose problems had suddenly become her problems. But she did not connect the attraction for Austen Vane with her misery. She recalled him as he had left her, big and strong and sorrowful, with a yearning look that was undisguised, and while her faith in him came surging back again, she could not understand.