What did she know? What had she found out? Had she seen her father and talked to him? That was scarcely possible, since her mother had been ill and she had left at once. Austen had asked himself these questions many times, and was no nearer the solution. He had heard nothing of her since, and he told himself that perhaps it was better, after all, that she was still away. To know that she was at Fairview, and not to be able to see her, were torture indeed.
The note was formal enough, and at times he pretended to be glad that it was. How could it be otherwise? And why should he interpret her interest in him in other terms than those in which it was written? She had a warm heart—that he knew; and he felt for her sake that he had no right to wish for more than the note expressed. After several unsuccessful attempts; he had answered it in a line, “I thank you, and I understand.”
The Honourable Hilary Vane returned that day from Fairview in no very equable frame of mind. It is not for us to be present at the Councils on the Palatine when the “Book of Arguments” is opened, and those fitting the occasion are chosen and sent out to the faithful who own printing-presses and free passes. The Honourable Hilary Vane bore away from the residence of his emperor a great many memoranda in an envelope, and he must have sighed as he drove through the leafy roads for Mr. Hamilton Tooting, with his fertile mind and active body. A year ago, and Mr. Tooting would have seized these memoranda of majesty, and covered their margins with new suggestions: Mr. Tooting, on occasions, had even made additions to the “Book of Arguments” itself—additions which had been used in New York and other States with telling effect against Mr. Crewes there. Mr. Tooting knew by heart the time of going to press of every country newspaper which had passes (in exchange for advertising!). It was two o'clock when the Honourable Hilary reached his office, and by three all the edicts would have gone forth, and the grape-shot and canister would have been on their way to demolish the arrogance of this petty Lord of Leith..
“Tooting's a dangerous man, Vane. You oughtn't to have let him go,” Mr. Flint had said. “I don't care a snap of my finger for the other fellow.”
How Mr. Tooting's ears would have burned, and how his blood would have sung with pride to have heard himself called dangerous by the president of the Northeastern!
He who, during all the valuable years of his services, had never had a sign that that potentate was cognizant of his humble existence.
The Honourable Brush Bascom, as we know, was a clever man; and although it had never been given him to improve on the “Book of Arguments,” he had ideas of his own. On reading Mr. Crewe's defiance that morning, he had, with characteristic promptitude and a desire to be useful, taken the first train out of Putnam for Ripton, to range himself by the side of the Honourable Hilary in the hour of need. The Feudal System anticipates, and Mr. Bascom did not wait for a telegram.
On the arrival of the chief counsel from Fairview other captains had put in an appearance, but Mr. Bascom alone was summoned, by a nod, into the private office. What passed between them seems too sacred to write about. The Honourable Hilary would take one of the slips from the packet and give it to Mr. Bascom.
“If that were recommended, editorially, to the Hull Mercury, it might serve to clear away certain misconceptions in that section.
“Certain,” Mr. Bascom would reply.
“It has been thought wise,” the Honourable Hilary continued, “to send an annual to the Groveton News. Roberts, his name is. Suppose you recommend to Mr. Roberts that an editorial on this subject would be timely.”
Slip number two. Mr. Bascom marks it 'Roberts.' Subject: “What would the State do without the Railroad?”
“And Grenville, being a Prohibition centre, you might get this worked up for the Advertiser there.”
Mr. Bascom's agate eyes are full of light as he takes slip number three. Subject: “Mr. Humphrey Crewe has the best-stocked wine cellar in the State, and champagne every night for dinner.” Slip number four, taken direct from the second chapter of the “Book of Arguments”: “Mr. Crewe is a reformer because he has been disappointed in his inordinate ambitions,” etc. Slip number five: “Mr. Crewe is a summer resident, with a house in New York,” etc., etc.
Slip number six, “Book of Arguments,” paragraph, chapter: “Humphrey Crewe, Defamer of our State.” Assigned, among others, to the Ripton Record.
“Paul Pardriff went up to Leith to-day,” said Mr. Bascom.
“Go to see him,” replied the Honourable Hilary. “I've been thinking for some time that the advertising in the Ripton Record deserves an additional annual.”
Mr. Bascom, having been despatched on this business, and having voluntarily assumed control of the Empire Bureau of Publication, the chief counsel transacted other necessary legal business with State Senator Billings and other gentlemen who were waiting. At three o'clock word was sent in that Mr. Austen Vane was outside, and wished to speak with his father as soon as the latter was at leisure. Whereupon the Honourable Hilary shooed out the minor clients, leaned back in his chair, and commanded that his son be admitted.
“Judge,” said Austen, as he closed the door behind him, “I don't want to bother you.”
The Honourable Hilary regarded his son for a moment fixedly out of his little eyes.
“Humph” he said.
Austen looked down at his father. The Honourable Hilary's expression was not one which would have aroused, in the ordinary man who beheld him, a feeling of sympathy or compassion: it was the impenetrable look with which he had faced his opponents for many years. But Austen felt compassion.
“Perhaps I'd better come in another time—when you are less busy,” he suggested.
“Who said I was busy?” inquired the Honourable Hilary.
Austen smiled a little sadly. One would have thought, by that smile, that the son was the older and wiser of the two.
“I didn't mean to cast any reflection on your habitual industry, Judge,” he said.
“Humph!” exclaimed Mr. Vane. “I've got more to do than sit in the window and read poetry, if that's what you mean.”
“You never learned how to enjoy life, did you, Judge?” he said. “I don't believe you ever really had a good time. Own up.”
“I've had sterner things to think about. I've had 'to earn my living—and give you a good time.”
“I appreciate it,” said Austen.
“Humph! Sometimes I think you don't show it a great deal,” the Honourable Hilary answered.
“I show it as far as I can, Judge,” said his son. “I can't help the way I was made.”
“I try to take account of that,” said the Honourable Hilary.
Austen laughed.
“I'll drop in to-morrow morning,” he said.
But the Honourable Hilary pointed to a chair on the other side of the desk.
“Sit down. To-day's as good as to-morrow,” he remarked, with sententious significance, characteristically throwing the burden of explanation on the visitor.
Austen found the opening unexpectedly difficult. He felt that this was a crisis in their relations, and that it had come at an unfortunate hour.
“Judge,” he said, trying to control the feeling that threatened to creep into his voice, “we have jogged along for some years pretty peaceably, and I hope you won't misunderstand what I'm going to say.”
The Honourable Hilary grunted.
“It was at your request that I went into the law. I have learned to like that profession. I have stuck to it as well as my wandering, Bohemian nature will permit, and while I do not expect you necessarily to feel any pride in such progress as I have made, I have hoped—that you might feel an interest.”
The Honourable Hilary grunted again.
“I suppose I am by nature a free-lance,” Austen continued. “You were good enough to acknowledge the force of my argument when I told you it would be best for me to strike out for myself. And I suppose it was inevitable, such being the case, and you the chief counsel for the Northeastern Railroads, that I should at some time or another be called upon to bring suits against your client. It would have been better, perhaps, if I had not started to practise in this State. I did so from what I believe was a desire common to both of us to—to live together.”
The Honourable Hilary reached for his Honey Dew, but he did not speak.
“To live together,” Austen repeated. “I want to say that, if I had gone away, I believe I should always have regretted the fact.” He paused, and took from his pocket a slip of paper. “I made up my mind from the start that I would always be frank with you. In spite of my desire to amass riches, there are some suits against the Northeastern which I have—somewhat quixotically—refused. Here is a section of the act which permitted the consolidation of the Northeastern Railroads. You are no doubt aware of its existence.”
The Honourable Hilary took the slip of paper in his hand and stared at it. “The rates for fares and freights existing at the time of the passage of this act shall mot be increased on the roads leased or united under it.” What his sensations were when he read it no man might have read in his face, but his hand trembled a little, and along silence ensued before he gave it back to his son with the simple comment:—“Well?”
“I do not wish to be understood to ask your legal opinion, although you probably know that lumber rates have been steadily raised, and if a suit under that section were successful the Gaylord Lumber Company could recover a very large sum of money from the Northeastern Railroads,” said Austen. “Having discovered the section, I believe it to be my duty to call it to the attention of the Gaylords. What I wish to know is, whether my taking the case would cause you any personal inconvenience or distress? If so, I will refuse it.”
“No,” answered the Honourable Hilary, “it won't. Bring suit. Much use it'll be. Do you expect they can recover under that section?”
“I think it is worth trying,” said Austen.
“Why didn't somebody try it before?” asked the Honourable Hilary.
“See here, Judge, I wish you'd let me out of an argument about it. Suit is going to be brought, whether I bring it or another man. If you would prefer for any reason that I shouldn't bring it—I won't. I'd much rather resign as counsel for the Gaylords—and I am prepared to do so.”
“Bring suit,” answered the Honourable Hilary, quickly, “bring suit by all means. And now's your time. This seems to be a popular season for attacking the property which is the foundation of the State's prosperity.” (“Book of Arguments,” chapter 3.)
In spite of himself, Austen smiled again. Long habit had accustomed Hilary Vane to put business considerations before family ties; and this habit had been the secret of his particular success. And now, rather than admit by the least sign the importance of his son's discovery of the statute (which he had had in mind for many years, and to which he had more than once, by the way, called Mr. Flint's attention), the Honourable Hilary deliberately belittled the matter as part and parcel of the political tactics against the Northeastern.
Sears caused by differences of opinion are soon healed; words count for nothing, and it is the soul that attracts or repels. Mr. Vane was not analytical, he had been through a harassing day, and he was unaware that it was not Austen's opposition, but Austen's smile, which set the torch to his anger. Once, shortly after his marriage, when he had come home in wrath after a protracted quarrel with Mr. Tredway over the orthodoxy of the new minister, in the middle of his indignant recital of Mr. Tredway's unwarranted attitude, Sarah Austen had smiled. The smile had had in it, to be sure, nothing of conscious superiority, but it had been utterly inexplicable to Hilary Vane. He had known for the first time what it was to feel murder in the heart, and if he had not rushed out of the room, he was sure he would have strangled her. After all, the Hilary Vanes of this world cannot reasonably be expected to perceive the humour in their endeavours.
Now the son's smile seemed the reincarnation of the mother's. That smile was in itself a refutation of motive on Austen's part which no words could have made more emphatic; it had in it (unconsciously, too) compassion for and understanding of the Honourable Hilary's mood and limitations. Out of the corner of his mental vision—without grasping it—the Honourable Hilary perceived this vaguely. It was the smile in which a parent privately indulges when a child kicks his toy locomotive because its mechanism is broken. It was the smile of one who, unforgetful of the scheme of the firmament and the spinning planets, will not be moved to anger by him who sees but the four sides of a pit.
Hilary Vane grew red around the eyes—a danger signal of the old days.
“Take the suit,” he said. “If you don't, I'll make it known all over the State that you started it. I'll tell Mr. Flint to-morrow. Take it, do you hear me? You ask me if I have any pride in you. I answer, yes. I'd like to see what you can do. I've done what I could for you, and now I wash my hands of you. Go,—ruin yourself if you want to. You've always been headed that way, and there's no use trying to stop you. You don't seem to have any notion of decency or order, or any idea of the principle on which this government was based. Attack property destroy it. So much the better for you and your kind. Join the Humphrey Crewes—you belong with 'em. Give those of us who stand for order and decency as much trouble as you can. Brand us as rascals trying to enrich ourselves with politics, and proclaim yourselves saints nobly striving to get back the rights of the people. If you don't bring that suit, I tell you I'll give you the credit for it—and I mean what I say.”
Austen got to his feet. His own expression, curiously enough, had not changed to one of anger. His face had set, but his eyes held the look that seemed still to express compassion, and what he felt was a sorrow that went to the depths of his nature. What he had so long feared—what he knew they had both feared—had come at last.
“Good-by, Judge,” he said.
Hilary Vane stared at him dumbly. His anger had not cooled, his eyes still flamed, but he suddenly found himself bereft of speech. Austen put his hand on his father's shoulder, and looked down silently into his face. But Hilary was stiff as in a rigour, expressionless save for the defiant red in his eye.
“I don't think you meant all that, Judge, and I don't intend to hold it against you.”
Still Hilary stared, his lips in the tight line which was the emblem of his character, his body rigid. He saw his son turn and walk to the door, and turn again with his handle on the knob, and Hilary did not move. The door closed, and still he sat there, motionless, expressionless.
Austen was hailed by those in the outer office, but he walked through them as though the place were empty. Rumours sprang up behind him of which he was unconscious; the long-expected quarrel had come; Austen had joined the motley ranks of the rebels under Mr. Crewe. Only the office boy, Jimmy Towle, interrupted the jokes that were flying by repeating, with dogged vehemence, “I tell you it ain't so. Austen kicked Ham downstairs. Ned Johnson saw him.” Nor was it on account of this particular deed that Austen was a hero in Jimmy's eyes.
Austen, finding himself in the square, looked at his watch. It was four o'clock. He made his way under the maples to the house in Hanover Street, halted for a moment contemplatively before the familiar classic pillars of its porch, took a key from his pocket, and (unprecedented action!) entered by the front door. Climbing to the attic, he found two valises—one of which he had brought back from Pepper County—and took them to his own room. They held, with a little crowding, most of his possessions, including a photograph of Sarah Austen, which he left on the bureau to the last. Once or twice he paused in his packing to gaze at the face, striving to fathom the fleeting quality of her glance which the photograph had so strangely caught. In that glance nature had stamped her enigma—for Sarah Austen was a child of nature. Hers was the gentle look of wild things—but it was more; it was the understanding of—the unwritten law of creation, the law by which the flowers grow, and wither; the law by which the animal springs upon its prey, and, unerring, seeks its mate; the law of the song of the waters, and the song of the morning stars; the law that permits evil and pain and dumb, incomprehensible suffering; the law that floods at sunset the mountain lands with colour and the soul with light; and the law that rends the branches in the blue storm. Of what avail was anger against it, or the puny rage of man? Hilary Vane, not recognizing it, had spent his force upon it, like a hawk against a mountain wall, but Austen looked at his mother's face and understood. In it was not the wisdom of creeds and cities, but the unworldly wisdom which comprehends and condones.
His packing finished, with one last glance at the room Austen went downstairs with his valises and laid them on the doorstep. Then he went to the stable and harnessed Pepper, putting into the buggy his stable blanket and halter and currycomb, and, driving around to the front of the house, hitched the horse at the stone post, and packed the valises in the back of the buggy. After that he walked slowly to the back of the house and looked in at the kitchen window. Euphrasia, her thin arms bare to the elbow, was bending over a wash-tub. He spoke her name, and as she lifted her head a light came into her face which seemed to make her young again. She dried her hands hastily on her apron as she drew towards him. He sprang through the window, and patted her on the back—his usual salutation. And as she raised her eyes to his (those ordinarily sharp eyes of Euphrasia's), they shone with an admiration she had accorded to no other human being since he had come into the world. Terms of endearment she had, characteristically, never used, she threw her soul into the sounding of his name.
“Off to the hills, Austen? I saw you a-harnessing of Pepper.”
“Phrasie,” he said, still patting her, “I'm going to the country for a while.”
“To the country?” she repeated.
“To stay on a farm for a sort of vacation.”
Her face brightened.
“Goin' to take a real vacation, be you?”
He laughed.
“Oh, I don't have to work very hard, Phrasie. You know I get out a good deal. I just thought—I just thought I'd like to—sleep in the country—for a while.”
“Well,” answered Euphrasia, “I guess if you've took the notion, you've got to go. It was that way with your mother before you. I've seen her leave the house on a bright Sabbath half an hour before meetin' to be gone the whole day, and Hilary and all the ministers in town couldn't stop her.”
“I'll drop in once in a while to see you, Phrasie. I'll be at Jabe Jenney's.”
“Jabe's is not more than three or four miles from Flint's place,” Euphrasia remarked.
“I've thought of that,” said Austen.
“You'd thought of it!”
Austen coloured.
“The distance is nothing,” he said quickly, “with Pepper.”
“And you'll come and see me?” asked Euphrasia.
“If you'll do something for me,” he said.
“I always do what you want, Austen. You know I'm not able to refuse you.”
He laid his hands on her shoulders.
“You'll promise?” he asked.
“I'll promise,” said Euphrasia, solemnly.
He was silent for a moment, looking down at her.
“I want you to promise to stay here and take care of the Judge.”
Fright crept into her eyes, but his own were smiling, reassuring.
“Take care of him!” she cried, the very mention of Hilary raising the pitch of her voice. “I guess I'll have to. Haven't I took care of him nigh on forty years, and small thanks and recompense I get for it except when you're here. I've wore out my life takin' care of him” (more gently). “What do you mean by makin' me promise such a thing, Austen?”
“Well,” said Austen, slowly, “the Judge is worried now. Things are not going as smoothly with him as usual.”
“Money?” demanded Euphrasia. “He ain't lost money, has he?”
A light began to dance in Austen's eyes in spite of the weight within him.
“Now, Phrasie,” he said, lifting her chin a little, “you know you don't care any more about money than I do.”
“Lord help me,” she exclaimed, “Lord help me if I didn't! And as long as you don't care for it, and no sense can be knocked into your head about it, I hope you'll marry somebody that does know the value of it. If Hilary was to lose what he has now, before it comes rightly to you, he'd ought to be put in jail.”
Austen laughed, and shook his head.
“Phrasie, the Lord did you a grave injustice when he didn't make you a man, but I suppose he'll give you a recompense hereafter. No, I believe I am safe in saying that the Judge's securities are still secure. Not that I really know—or care—” (shakes of the head from Euphrasia). “Poor old Judge! Worse things than finance are troubling him now.”
“Not a woman!” cried Euphrasia, horror-stricken at the very thought. “He hasn't took it into his head after all these years—”
“No,” said Austen, laughing, “no, no. It's not quite as bad as that, but it's pretty bad.”
“In Heaven's name, what is it?” she demanded. “Reformers,” said Austen.
“Reformers?” she repeated. “What might they be?”
“Well,” answered Austen, “you might call them a new kind of caterpillar—only they feed on corporations instead of trees.”
Euphrasia shook her head vigorously.
“Go 'long,” she exclaimed. “When you talk like that I never can follow you, Austen. If Hilary has any worries, I guess he brought 'em on himself. I never knew him to fail.”
“Ambitious and designing persons are making trouble for his railroad.”
“Well, I never took much stock in that railroad,” said Euphrasia, with emphasis. “I never was on it but an engine gave out, and the cars was jammed, and it wasn't less than an hour late. And then they're eternally smashin' folks or runnin' 'em down. You served 'em right when you made 'em pay that Meader man six thousand dollars, and I told Hilary so.” She paused, and stared at Austen fixedly as a thought came into her head. “You ain't leavin' him because of this trouble, are you, Austen?”
“Phrasie,” he said, “I—I don't want to quarrel with him now. I think it would be easy to quarrel with him.”
“You mean him quarrel with you,” returned Euphrasia. “I'd like to see him! If he did, it wouldn't take me long to pack up and leave.”
“That's just it. I don't want that to happen. And I've had a longing to go out and pay a little visit to Jabe up in the hills, and drive his colts for him. You see,” he said, “I've got a kind of affection for the Judge.”
Euphrasia looked at him, and her lips trembled.
“He don't deserve it,” she declared, “but I suppose he's your father.”
“He can't get out of that,” said Austen.
“I'd like to see him try it,” said Euphrasia. “Come in soon, Austen,” she whispered, “come in soon.”
She stood on the lawn and watched him as he drove away, and he waved good-by to her over the hood of the buggy. When he was out of sight she lifted her head, gave her eyes a vigorous brush with her checked apron, and went back to her washing.
It was not until Euphrasia had supper on the table that Hilary Vane came home, and she glanced at him sharply as he took his usual seat. It is a curious fact that it is possible for two persons to live together for more than a third of a century, and at the end of that time understand each other little better than at the beginning. The sole bond between Euphrasia and Hilary was that of Sarah Austen and her son. Euphrasia never knew when Hilary was tired, or when he was cold, or hungry, or cross, although she provided for all these emergencies. Her service to him was unflagging, but he had never been under the slightest delusion that it was not an inheritance from his wife. There must have been some affection between Mr. Vane and his housekeeper, hidden away in the strong boxes of both but up to the present this was only a theory—not quite as probable as that about the inhabitants of Mars.
He ate his supper to-night with his usual appetite, which had always been sparing; and he would have eaten the same amount if the Northeastern Railroads had been going into the hands of a receiver the next day. Often he did not exchange a word with Euphrasia between home-coming and bed-going, and this was apparently to be one of these occasions. After supper he went, as usual, to sit on the steps of his porch, and to cut his piece of Honey Dew, which never varied a milligram. Nine o'clock struck, and Euphrasia, who had shut up the back of the house, was on her way to bed with her lamp in her hand, when she came face to face with him in the narrow passageway.
“Where's Austen?” he asked.
Euphrasia halted. The lamp shook, but she raised it to the level of his eyes.
“Don't you know?” she demanded.
“No,” he said, with unparalleled humility.
She put down the lamp on the little table that stood beside her.
“He didn't tell you he was a-goin'?”
“No,” said Hilary.
“Then how did you know he wasn't just buggy-ridin'?” she said.
Hilary Vane was mute.
“You've be'n to his room!” she exclaimed. “You've seen his things are gone!”
He confessed it by his silence. Then, with amazing swiftness and vigour for one of her age, Euphrasia seized him by the arms and shook him.
“What have you done to him?” she cried; “what have you done to him? You sent him off. You've never understood him—you've never behaved like a father to him. You ain't worthy to have him.” She flung herself away and stood facing Hilary at a little distance. “What a fool I was! What a fool! I might have known it, and I promised him.”
“Promised him?” Hilary repeated. The shaking, the vehemence and anger, of Euphrasia seemed to have had no effect whatever on the main trend of his thoughts.
“Where has he gone?”
“You can find out for yourself,” she retorted bitterly. “I wish on your account it was to China. He came here this afternoon, as gentle as ever, and packed up his things, and said he was goin' away because you was worried. Worried!” she exclaimed scornfully. “His worry and his trouble don't count—but yours. And he made me promise to stay with you. If it wasn't for him,” she cried, picking up the lamp, “I'd leave you this very night.”
She swept past him, and up the narrow stairway to her bedroom.
There is no blast so powerful, so withering, as the blast of ridicule. Only the strongest men can withstand it, only reformers who are such in deed, and not alone in name, can snap their fingers at it, and liken it to the crackling of thorns under a pot. Confucius and Martin Luther must have been ridiculed, Mr. Crewe reflected, and although he did not have time to assure himself on these historical points, the thought stayed him. Sixty odd weekly newspapers, filled with arguments from the Book, attacked him all at once; and if by chance he should have missed the best part of this flattering personal attention, the editorials which contained the most spice were copied at the end of the week into the columns of his erstwhile friend, the State Tribune, now the organ of that mysterious personality, the Honourable Adam B. Hunt. 'Et tu, Brute!'
Moreover, Mr. Peter Pardriff had something of his own to say. Some gentlemen of prominence (not among the twenty signers of the new Declaration of Independence) had been interviewed by the Tribune reporter on the subject of Mr. Crewe's candidacy. Here are some of the answers, duly tabulated.
“Negligible.”—Congressman Fairplay.
“One less vote for the Honourable Adam B. Hunt.”—The Honourable Jacob Botcher.
“A monumental farce.”—Ex-Governor Broadbent.
“Who is Mr. Crewe?”—Senator Whitredge. (Ah ha! Senator, this want shall be supplied, at least.)
“I have been very busy. I do not know what candidates are in the field.”—Mr. Augustus P. Flint, president of the Northeastern Railroads. (The unkindest cut of all!)
“I have heard that a Mr. Crewe is a candidate, but I do not know much about him. They tell me he is a summer resident at Leith.”—The Honourable Hilary Vane.
“A millionaire's freak—not to be taken seriously.—State Senator Nathaniel Billings.”
The State Tribune itself seemed to be especially interested in the past careers of the twenty signers. Who composed this dauntless band, whose members had arisen with remarkable unanimity and martyr's zeal in such widely scattered parts of the State? Had each been simultaneously inspired with the same high thought, and—more amazing still—with the idea of the same peerless leader? The Tribune modestly ventured the theory that Mr. Crewe had appeared to each of the twenty in a dream, with a flaming sword pointing to the steam of the dragon's breath. Or, perhaps, a star had led each of the twenty to Leith. (This likening of Mr. H—n T—g to a star caused much merriment among that gentleman's former friends and acquaintances.) The Tribune could not account for this phenomenon by any natural laws, and was forced to believe that the thing was a miracle—in which case it behooved the Northeastern Railroads to read the handwriting on the wall. Unless—unless the twenty did not exist! Unless the whole thing were a joke! The Tribune remembered a time when a signed statement, purporting to come from a certain Mrs. Amanda P. Pillow, of 22 Blair Street, Newcastle, had appeared, to the effect that three bottles of Rand's Peach Nectar had cured her of dropsy. On investigation there was no Blair Street, and Mrs. Amanda P. Pillow was as yet unborn. The one sure thing about the statement was that Rand's Peach Nectar could be had, in large or small quantities, as desired. And the Tribune was prepared to state; on its own authority, that a Mr. Humphrey Crewe did exist, and might reluctantly consent to take the nomination for the governorship. In industry and zeal he was said to resemble the celebrated and lamented Mr. Rand, of the Peach Nectar.
Ingratitude merely injures those who are capable of it, although it sometimes produces sadness in great souls. What were Mr. Crewe's feelings when he read this drivel? When he perused the extracts from the “Book of Arguments” which appeared (with astonishing unanimity, too!) in sixty odd weekly newspapers of the State—an assortment of arguments for each county.
“Brush Bascom's doin' that work now,” said Mr. Tooting, contemptuously, “and he's doin' it with a shovel. Look here! He's got the same squib in three towns within a dozen miles of each other, the one beginning 'Political conditions in this State are as clean as those of any State in the Union, and the United Northeastern Railroads is a corporation which is, fortunately, above calumny. A summer resident who, to satisfy his lust for office, is rolling to defame—'”
“Yes,” interrupted Mr. Crewe, “never mind reading any more of that rot.”
“It's botched,” said Mr. Tooting, whose artistic soul was jarred. “I'd have put that in Avalon County, and Weave, and Marshall. I know men that take all three of those papers in Putnam.”
No need of balloonists to see what the enemy is about, when we have a Mr. Tooting.
“They're stung!” he cried, as he ran rapidly through the bundle of papers—Mr. Crewe having subscribed, with characteristic generosity, to the entire press of the State. “Flint gave 'em out all this stuff about the railroad bein' a sacred institution. You've got 'em on the run right now, Mr. Crewe. You'll notice that, Democrats and Republicans, they've dropped everybody else, that they've all been sicked on to you. They're scared.”
“I came to that conclusion some time ago,” replied Mr. Crewe, who was sorting over his letters.
“And look there!” exclaimed Mr. Tooting, tearing out a paragraph, “there's the best campaign material we've had yet. Say, I'll bet Flint taken that doddering idiot's pass away for writing that.”
Mr. Crewe took the extract, and read:—
Mr. Crewe permitted himself to smile.
“They are playing into our hands, sure enough. What?”
This is an example of the spirit in which the ridicule and abuse was met.
It was Senator Whitredge—only, last autumn so pleased to meet Mr. Crewe at Mr. Flint's—who asked the hypocritical question, “Who is Humphrey Crewe?” A biography (in pamphlet form, illustrated,—send your name and address) is being prepared by the invaluable Mr. Tooting, who only sleeps six hours these days. We shall see it presently, when it emerges from that busy hive at Wedderburn.
Wedderburn was a hive, sure enough. Not having a balloon ourselves, it is difficult to see all that is going on there; but there can be no mistake (except by the Honourable Hilary's seismograph) that it has become the centre of extraordinary activity. The outside world has paused to draw breath at the spectacle, and members of the metropolitan press are filling the rooms of the Ripton House and adding to the prosperity of its livery-stable. Mr. Crewe is a difficult man to see these days—there are so many visitors at Wedderburn, and the representatives of the metropolitan press hitch their horses and stroll around the grounds, or sit on the porch and converse with gentlemen from various counties of the State who (as the Tribune would put it) have been led by a star to Leith.
On the occasion of one of these gatherings, when Mr. Crewe had been inaccessible for four hours, Mrs. Pomfret drove up in a victoria with her daughter Alice.
“I'm sure I don't know when we're going to see poor dear Humphrey again,” said Mrs. Pomfret, examining the group on the porch through her gold-mounted lenses; “these awful people are always here when I come. I wonder if they sleep here, in the hammocks and lounging chairs! Alice, we must be very polite to them—so much depends on it.”
“I'm always polite, mother,” answered Alice, “except when you tell me not to be. The trouble is I never know myself.”
The victoria stopped in front of the door, and the irreproachable Waters advanced across the porch.
“Waters,” said Mrs. Pomfret, “I suppose Mr. Crewe is too busy to come out.”
“I'm afraid so, madam,” replied Waters; “there's a line of gentlemen waitin' here” (he eyed them with no uncertain disapproval) “and I've positive orders not to disturb him, madam.”
“I quite understand, at a time like this,” said Mrs. Pomfret, and added, for the benefit of her audience, “when Mr. Crewe has been public-spirited and unselfish enough to undertake such a gigantic task. Tell him Miss Pomfret and I call from time to time because we are so interested, and that the whole of Leith wishes him success.”
“I'll tell him, madam,” said Waters.
But Mrs. Pomfret did not give the signal for her coachman to drive on. She looked, instead, at the patient gathering.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” she said.
“Mother!” whispered Alice, “what are you going to do?”
The gentlemen rose.
“I'm Mrs. Pomfret,” she said, as though that simple announcement were quite sufficient,—as it was, for the metropolitan press. Not a man of them who had not seen Mrs. Pomfret's important movements on both sides of the water chronicled. “I take the liberty of speaking to you, as we all seem to be united in a common cause. How is the campaign looking?”
Some of the gentlemen shifted their cigars from one hand to the other, and grinned sheepishly.
“I am so interested,” continued Mrs. Pomfret; “it is so unusual in America for a gentleman to be willing to undertake such a thing, to subject himself to low criticism, and to have his pure motives questioned. Mr. Crewe has rare courage—I have always said so. And we are all going to put our shoulder to the wheel, and help him all we can.”
There was one clever man there who was quick to see his opportunity, and seize it for his newspaper.
“And are you going to help Mr. Crewe in his campaign, Mrs. Pomfret?”
“Most assuredly,” answered Mrs. Pomfret. “Women in this country could do so much if they only would. You know,” she added, in her most winning manner, “you know that a woman can often get a vote when a man can't.”
“And you, and—other ladies will go around to the public meetings?”
“Why not, my friend; if Mr. Crewe has no objection? and I can conceive of none.”
“You would have an organization of society ladies to help Mr. Crewe?”
“That's rather a crude way of putting it,” answered Mrs. Pomfret, with her glasses raised judicially. “Women in what you call I society are, I am glad to say, taking an increasing interest in politics. They are beginning to realize that it is a duty.”
“Thank you,” said the reporter; “and now would you mind if I took a photograph of you in your carriage.”
“Oh, mother,” protested Alice, “you won't let him do that!”
“Be quiet, Alice. Lady Aylestone and the duchess are photographed in every conceivable pose for political purposes. Wymans, just drive around to the other side of the circle.”
The article appeared next day, and gave, as may be imagined, a tremendous impetus to Mr. Crewe's cause. “A new era in American politics!” “Society to take a hand in the gubernatorial campaign of Millionaire Humphrey Crewe!” “Noted social leader, Mrs. Patterson Pomfret, declares it a duty, and saga that English women have the right idea.” And a photograph of Mrs. Patterson Pomfret herself, in her victoria, occupied a generous portion of the front page.
“What's all this rubbish about Mrs. Pomfret?” was Mr. Crewe's grateful comment when he saw it. “I spent two valuable hours with that reporter givin' him material and statistics, and I can't find that he's used a word of it.”
“Never you mind about that,” Mr. Tooting replied. “The more advertising you get, the better, and this shows that the right people are behind you. Mrs. Pomfret's a smart woman, all right. She knows her job. And here's more advertising,” he continued, shoving another sheet across the desk, “a fine likeness of you in caricature labelled, 'Ajax defying the Lightning.' Who's Ajax? There was an Italian, a street contractor, with that name—or something like it—in Newcastle a couple of years ago—in the eighth ward.”
In these days, when false rumours fly apace to the injury of innocent men, it is well to get at the truth, if possible. It is not true that Mr. Paul Pardriff, of the 'Ripton Record,' has been to Wedderburn. Mr. Pardriff was getting into a buggy to go—somewhere—when he chanced to meet the Honourable Brush Bascom, and the buggy was sent back to the livery-stable. Mr. Tooting had been to see Mr. Pardriff before the world-quaking announcement of June 7th, and had found Mr. Pardriff a reformer who did not believe that the railroad should run the State. But the editor of the Ripton Record was a man after Emerson's own heart: “a foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds”—and Mr. Pardriff did not go to Wedderburn. He went off on an excursion up the State instead, for he had been working too hard; and he returned, as many men do from their travels, a conservative. He listened coldly to Mr. Tooting's impassioned pleas for cleaner politics, until Mr. Tooting revealed the fact that his pockets were full of copy. It seems that a biography was to be printed—a biography which would, undoubtedly, be in great demand; the biography of a public benefactor, illustrated with original photographs and views in the country. Mr. Tooting and Mr. Pardriff both being men of the world, some exceeding plain talk ensued between them, and when two such minds unite, a way out is sure to be found. One can be both a conservative and a radical—if one is clever. There were other columns in Mr. Pardriff's paper besides editorial columns; editorial columns, Mr. Pardriff said, were sacred to his convictions. Certain thumb-worn schedules were referred to. Paul Pardriff, Ripton, agreed to be the publisher of the biography.
The next edition of the Record was an example of what Mr. Emerson meant. Three columns contained extracts of absorbing interest from the forthcoming biography and, on another page, an editorial. “The Honourable Humphrey Crewe, of Leith, is an estimable gentleman and a good citizen, whose public endeavours have been of great benefit to the community. A citizen of Avalon County, the Record regrets that it cannot support his candidacy for the Republican gubernatorial nomination. We are not among those who seek to impugn motives, and while giving Mr. Crewe every credit that his charges against the Northeastern Railroads are made in good faith, we beg to differ from him. That corporation is an institution which has stood the test of time, and enriches every year the State treasury by a large sum in taxes. Its management is in safe, conservative hands. No one will deny Mr. Crewe's zeal for the State's welfare, but it must be borne in mind that he is a newcomer in politics, and that conditions, seen from the surface, are sometimes deceptive. We predict for Mr. Crewe a long and useful career, but we do not think that at this time, and on this platform, he will obtain the governorship.”
“Moral courage is what the age needs,” had been Mr. Crewe's true and sententious remark when he read this editorial. But, bearing in mind a biblical adage, he did not blame Mr. Tooting for his diplomacy. “Send in the next man.”
Mr. Tooting opened the study door and glanced over the public-spirited citizens awaiting, on the porch, the pleasure of their leader.
“Come along, Caldwell,” said Mr. Tooting. “He wants your report from Kingston. Get a hustle on!”
Mr. Caldwell made his report, received many brief and business-like suggestions, and retired, impressed. Whereupon Mr. Crewe commanded Mr. Tooting to order his automobile—an occasional and rapid spin over the country roads being the only diversion the candidate permitted himself. Wishing to be alone with his thoughts, he did not take Mr. Tooting with him on these excursions.
“And by the way,” said Mr. Crewe, as he seized the steering wheel a few moments later, “just drop a line to Austen Vane, will you, and tell him I want to see him up here within a day or two. Make an appointment. It has occurred to me that he might be very useful.”
Mr. Tooting stood on the driveway watching the cloud of dust settle on the road below. Then he indulged in a long and peculiarly significant whistle through his teeth, rolled his eyes heavenward, and went into the house. He remembered Austen's remark about riding a cyclone.
Mr. Crewe took the Tunbridge road. On his excursion of the day before he had met Mrs. Pomfret, who had held up her hand, and he had protestingly brought the car to a stop.
“Your horses don't frighten,” he had said.
“No, but I wanted to speak to you, Humphrey,” Mrs. Pomfret had replied; “you are becoming so important that nobody ever has a glimpse of you. I wanted to tell you what an interest we take in this splendid thing you are doing.”
“Well,” said Mr. Crewe, “it was a plain duty, and nobody else seemed willing to undertake it.”
Mrs. Pomfret's eyes had flashed.
“Men of that type are scarce,” she answered. “But you'll win. You're the kind of man that wins.”
“Oh, yes, I'll win,” said Mr. Crewe.
“You're so magnificently sure of yourself,” cried Mrs. Pomfret. “Alice is taking such an interest. Every day she asks, 'When is Humphrey going to make his first speech?' You'll let us know in time, won't you?”
“Did you put all that nonsense in the New York Flare?” asked Mr. Crewe.
“Oh, Humphrey, I hope you liked it,” cried Mrs. Pomfret. “Don't make the mistake of despising what women can do. They elected the Honourable Billy Aylestone—he said so himself. I'm getting all the women interested.”
“Who've you been calling on now?” he inquired.
Mrs. Pomfret hesitated.
“I've been up at Fairview to see about Mrs. Flint. She isn't much better.”
“Is Victoria home?” Mr. Crewe demanded, with undisguised interest.
“Poor dear girl!” said Mrs. Pomfret, “of course I wouldn't have mentioned the subject to her, but she wanted to know all about it. It naturally makes an awkward situation between you and her, doesn't it?”
“Oh, Victoria's level-headed enough,” Mr. Crewe had answered; “I guess she knows something about old Flint and his methods by this time. At any rate, it won't make any difference with me,” he added magnanimously, and threw in his clutch. He had encircled Fairview in his drive that day, and was, curiously enough, headed in that direction now. Slow to make up his mind in some things, as every eligible man must be, he was now coming rapidly to the notion that he might eventually decide upon Victoria as the most fitting mate for one in his position. Still, there was no hurry. As for going to Fairview House, that might be awkward, besides being open to misconstruction by his constituents. Mr. Crewe reflected, as he rushed up the hills, that he had missed Victoria since she had been abroad—and a man so continually occupied as he did not have time to miss many people. Mr. Crewe made up his mind he would encircle Fairview every day until he ran across her.
The goddess of fortune sometimes blesses the persistent even before they begin to persist—perhaps from sheer weariness at the remembrance of previous importuning. Victoria, on a brand-new and somewhat sensitive five-year-old, was coming out of the stone archway when Mr. Crewe (without any signal this time!) threw on his brakes. An exhibition of horsemanship followed, on Victoria's part, which Mr. Crewe beheld with admiration. The five-year-old swung about like a weathercock in a gust of wind, assuming an upright position, like the unicorn in the British coat of arms. Victoria cut him, and he came down on all fours and danced into the wire fence that encircled the Fairview domain, whereupon he got another stinging reminder that there was some one on his back.
“Bravo!” cried Mr. Crewe, leaning on the steering wheel and watching the performance with delight. Never, he thought, had Victoria been more appealing; strangely enough, he had not remembered that she was quite so handsome, or that her colour was so vivid; or that her body was so straight and long and supple. He liked the way in which she gave it to that horse, and he made up his mind that she would grace any position, however high. Presently the horse made a leap into the road in front of the motor and stood trembling, ready to bolt.
“For Heaven's sake, Humphrey,” she cried, “shut off your power? Don't sit there like an idiot—do you think I'm doing this for pleasure?”
Mr. Crewe good-naturedly turned off his switch, and the motor, with a dying sigh, was silent. He even liked the notion of being commanded to do a thing; there was a relish about it that was new. The other women of his acquaintance addressed him more deferentially.
“Get hold of the bridle,” he said to the chauffeur. “You've got no business to have an animal like that,” was his remark to Victoria.
“Don't touch him!” she said to the man, who was approaching with a true machinist's fear of a high-spirited horse. “You've got no business to have a motor like that, if you can't handle it any better than you do.”
“You managed him all right. I'll say that for you,” said Mr. Crewe.
“No thanks to you,” she replied. Now that the horse was comparatively quiet, she sat and regarded Mr. Crewe with an amusement which was gradually getting the better of her anger. A few moments since, and she wished with great intensity that she had been using the whip on his shoulders instead. Now that she had time to gather up the threads of the situation, the irresistibly comic aspect of it grew upon her, and little creases came into the corners of her eyes—which Mr. Crewe admired. She recalled—with indignation, to be sure—the conversation she had overheard in the dining room of the Duncan house, but her indignation was particularly directed, on that occasion, towards Mr. Tooting. Here was Humphrey Crewe, sitting talking to her in the road—Humphrey Crewe, whose candidacy for the governorship impugned her father's management of the Northeastern Railroads—and she was unable to take the matter seriously! There must be something wrong with her, she thought.
“So you're home again,” Mr. Crewe observed, his eyes still bearing witness to the indubitable fact. “I shouldn't have known it—I've been so busy.”
“Is the Legislature still in session?” Victoria soberly inquired.
“You are a little behind the times—ain't you?” said Mr. Crewe, in surprise. “How long have you been home? Hasn't anybody told you what's going on?”
“I only came up ten days ago,” she answered, “and I'm afraid I've been something of a recluse. What is going on?”
“Well,” he declared, “I should have thought you'd heard it, anyway. I'll send you up a few newspapers when I get back. I'm a candidate for the governorship.”
Victoria bit her lip, and leaned over to brush a fly from the neck of her horse.
“You are getting on rapidly, Humphrey,” she said. “Do you think you've got—any chance?”
“Any chance!” he repeated, with some pardonable force. “I'm sure to be nominated. There's an overwhelming sentiment among the voters of this State for decent politics. It didn't take me long to find that out. The only wonder is that somebody hasn't seen it before.”
“Perhaps,” she answered, giving him a steady look, “perhaps somebody has.”
One of Mr. Crewe's greatest elements of strength was his imperviousness to this kind of a remark.
“If anybody's seen it,” he replied, “they haven't the courage of their convictions.” Such were the workings of Mr. Crewe's mind that he had already forgotten that first talk with Mr. Hamilton Tooting. “Not that I want to take too much credit on myself,” he added, with becoming modesty, “I have had some experience in the world, and it was natural that I should get a fresh view. Are you coming down to Leith in a few days?”
“I may,” said Victoria.
“Telephone me,” said Mr. Crewe, “and if I can get off, I will. I'd like to talk to you. You have more sense than most women I know.”
“You overwhelm me, Humphrey. Compliments sound strangely on your lips.”
“When I say a thing, I mean it,” Mr. Crewe declared. “I don't pay compliments. I'd make it a point to take a little time off to talk to you. You see, so many men are interested in this thing from various parts of the State, and we are so busy organizing, that it absorbs most of my day.”
“I couldn't think of encroaching,” Victoria protested.
“That's all right—you can be a great help. I've got confidence in your judgment. By the way,” he asked suddenly, “you haven't seen your friend Austen Vane since you got back, have you?”
“Why do you call him my friend?” said Victoria. Mr. Crew perceived that the exercise had heightened her colour, and the transition appealed to his sense of beauty.
“Perhaps I put it a little strongly,” he replied. “You seemed to take an interest in him, for some reason. I suppose it's because you like new types.”
“I like Mr. Vane very much,—and for himself,” she said quietly. “But I haven't seen him since I came back. Nor do I think I am likely to see him. What made you ask about him?”
“Well, he seems to be a man of some local standing, and he ought to be in this campaign. If you happen to see him, you might mention the subject to him. I've sent for him to come up and see me.”
“Mr. Vane doesn't seem to me to be a person one can send for like that,” Victoria remarked judicially. “As to advising him as to what course he should take politically—that would even be straining my friendship for you, Humphrey. On reflection,” she added, smiling, “there may appear to you reasons why I should not care to meddle with—politics, just now.”
“I can't see it,” said Mr. Crewe; “you've got a mind of your own, and you've never been afraid to use it, so far as I know. If you should see that Vane man, just give him a notion of what I'm trying to do.”
“What are you trying to do?” inquired Victoria, sweetly.
“I'm trying to clean up this State politically,” said Mr. Crewe, “and I'm going to do it. When you come down to Leith, I'll tell you about it, and I'll send you the newspapers to-day. Don't be in a hurry,” he cried, addressing over his shoulder two farmers in a wagon who had driven up a few moments before, and who were apparently anxious to pass. “Wind her up, Adolphe.”
The chauffeur, standing by the crank, started the engine instantly, and the gears screamed as Mr. Crewe threw in his low speed. The five-year-old whirled, and bolted down the road at a pace which would have seemed to challenge a racing car; and the girl in the saddle, bending to the motion of the horse, was seen to raise her hand in warning.
“Better stay whar you be,” shouted one of the farmers; “don't go to follerin' her. The hoes is runnin' away.”
Mr. Crewe steered his car into the Fairview entrance, and backed into the road again, facing the other way. He had decided to go home.
“That lady can take care of herself,” he said, and started off towards Leith, wondering how it was that Mr. Flint had not confided his recent political troubles to his daughter.
“That hoss is ugly, sure enough,” said the farmer who had spoken before.
Victoria flew on, down the narrow road. After twenty strides she did not attempt to disguise from herself the fact that the five-year-old was in a frenzy of fear, and running away. Victoria had been run away with before, and having some knowledge of the animal she rode, she did not waste her strength by pulling on the curb, but sought rather to quiet him with her voice, which had no effect whatever. He was beyond appeal, his head was down, and his ears trembling backwards and straining for a sound of the terror that pursued him. The road ran through the forest, and Victoria reflected that the grade, on the whole, was downward to the East Tunbridge station, where the road crossed the track and took to the hills beyond. Once among them, she would be safe—he might run as far, as he pleased. But could she pass the station? She held a firm rein, and tried to keep her mind clear.
Suddenly, at a slight bend of the road, the corner of the little red building came in sight, some hundreds of yards ahead; and, on the side where it stood, in the clearing, was a white mass which Victoria recognized as a pile of lumber. She saw several men on the top of the pile, standing motionless; she heard one of them shout; the horse swerved, and she felt herself flung violently to the left.
Her first thought, after striking, was one of self-congratulation that her safety stirrup and habit had behaved properly. Before she could rise, a man was leaning over her—and in the instant she had the impression that he was a friend. Other people had had this impression of him on first acquaintance—his size, his genial, brick-red face, and his honest blue eyes all doubtless contributing.
“Are you hurt, Miss Flint?” he asked.
“Not in the least,” she replied, springing to her feet to prove the contrary. “What's become of my horse?”
“Two of the men have gone after him,” he said, staring at her with undisguised but honest admiration. Whereupon he became suddenly embarrassed, and pulled out a handkerchief the size of a table napkin. “Let me dust you off.”
“Thank you,” said Victoria, laughing, and beginning the process herself. Her new acquaintance plied the handkerchief, his face a brighter brick-red than ever.
“Thank God, there wasn't a freight on the siding,” he remarked, so fervently that Victoria stole a glance at him. The dusting process continued.
“There,” she exclaimed, at last, adjusting her stock and shaking her skirt, “I'm ever so much obliged. It was very foolish in me to tumble off, wasn't it?”
“It was the only thing you could have done,” he declared. “I had a good view of it, and he flung you like a bean out of a shooter. That's a powerful horse. I guess you're the kind that likes to take risks.”
Victoria laughed at his expressive phrase, and crossed the road, and sat down on the edge of the lumber pile, in the shade.
“There seems to be nothing to do but wait,” she said, “and to thank you again. Will you tell me your name?”
“I'm Tom Gaylord,” he replied.
Her colour, always so near the surface, rose a little as she regarded him. So this was Austen Vane's particular friend, whom he had tried to put out of his window. A Herculean task, Victoria thought, from Tom's appearance. Tom sat down within a few feet of her.
“I've seen you a good many times, Miss Flint,” he remarked, applying the handkerchief to his face.
“And I've seen you—once, Mr. Gaylord,” some mischievous impulse prompted her to answer. Perhaps the impulse was more deep-seated, after all.
“Where?” demanded Tom, promptly.
“You were engaged,” said Victoria, “in a struggle in a window on Ripton Square. It looked, for a time,” she continued, “as if you were going to be dropped on the roof of the porch.”
Tom gazed at her in confusion and surprise.
“You seem to be fond, too, of dangerous exercise,” she observed.
“Do you mean to say you remembered me from that?” he exclaimed. “Oh, you know Austen Vane, don't you?”
“Does Mr. Vane acknowledge the acquaintance?” Victoria inquired.
“It's funny, but you remind me of Austen,” said Tom, grinning; “you seem to have the same queer way of saying things that he has.” Here he was conscious of another fit of embarrassment. “I hope you don't mind what I say, Miss Flint.”
“Not at all,” said Victoria. She turned, and looked across the track.
“I suppose they are having a lot of trouble in catching my horse,” she remarked.
“They'll get him,” Tom assured her, “one of those men is my manager. He always gets what he starts out for. What were we talking about? Oh, Austen Vane. You see, I've known him ever since I was a shaver, and I think the world of him. If he asked me to go to South America and get him a zebra to-morrow, I believe I'd do it.”
“That is real devotion,” said Victoria. The more she saw of young Tom, the better she liked him, although his conversation was apt to be slightly embarrassing.
“We've been through a lot of rows together,” Tom continued, warming to his subject, “in school and college. You see, Austen's the kind of man who doesn't care what anybody thinks, if he takes it into his head to do a thing. It was a great piece of luck for me that he shot that fellow out West, or he wouldn't be here now. You heard about that, didn't you?”
“Yes,” said Victoria, “I believe I did.”
“And yet,” said Tom, “although I'm as good a friend as he has, I never quite got under his skin. There's some things I wouldn't talk to him about. I've learned that. I never told him, for instance, that I saw him out in a sleigh with you at the capital.”
“Oh,” said Victoria; and she added, “Is he ashamed of it?”
“It's not that,” replied Tom, hastily, “but I guess if he'd wanted me to know about it, he'd have told me.”
Victoria had begun to realize that, in the few minutes which had elapsed since she had found herself on the roadside, gazing up into young Tom's eyes, she had somehow become quite intimate with him.