Mr. Crewe's Career — Complete. Winston Churchill
hain't got nothing against her,” he declared; “I tried to make that plain. She's as nice and common a young lady as I ever see, and I don't believe she had a thing to do with it. But I suspicioned they was up to somethin' when she brought them baskets. And when she give me the message from old Flint, I was sure of it.”
“Miss Flint was entirely innocent, I'm sure,” said Austen, emphatically.
“If I could see old Flint, I'd tell him what I thought of him usin' wimmen-folks to save 'em money,” said Mr. Meader. “I knowed she wahn't that kind. And then that other thing come right on top of it.”
“What other thing?”
“Say,” demanded Mr. Meader, “don't you know?”
“I know nothing,” said Austen.
“Didn't know Hilary Vane's be'n here?”
“My father!” Austen ejaculated.
“Gittin' after me pretty warm, so they be. Want to know what my price is now. But say, I didn't suppose your fayther'd come here without lettin' you know.”
Austen was silent. The truth was that for a few moments he could not command himself sufficiently to speak.
“He is the chief counsel for the road,” he said at length; “I am not connected with it.”
“I guess you're on the right track. He's a pretty smooth talker, your fayther. Just dropped in to see how I be, since his son was interested. Talked a sight of law gibberish I didn't understand. Told me I didn't have much of a case; said the policy of the railrud was to be liberal, and wanted to know what I thought I ought to have.”
“Well?” said Austen, shortly.
“Well,” said Mr. Mender, “he didn't git a mite of satisfaction out of me. I've seen enough of his kind of folks to know how to deal with 'em, and I told him so. I asked him what they meant by sending that slick Mr. Tooting 'raound to offer me five hundred dollars. I said I was willin' to trust my case on that crossin' to a jury.”
Austen smiled, in spite of his mingled emotions.
“What else did Mr. Vane say?” he asked.
“Not a great sight more. Said a good many folks were foolish enough to spend money and go to law when they'd done better to trust to the liberality of the railrud. Liberality! Adams' widow done well to trust their liberality, didn't she? He wanted to know one more thing, but I didn't give him any satisfaction.”
“What was that?”
“I couldn't tell you how he got 'raound to it. Guess he never did, quite. He wanted to know what lawyer was to have my case. Wahn't none of his affair, and I callated if you'd wanted him to know just yet, you'd have toad him.”
Austen laid his hand on the farmer's, as he rose to go.
“Zeb,” he said, “I never expect to have a more exemplary client.”
Mr. Mender shot a glance at him.
“Mebbe I spoke a mite too free about your fayther, Austen,” he said; “you and him seem kind of different.”
“The Judge and I understand each other,” answered Austen.
He had got as far as the door, when he stopped, swung on his heel, and came back to the bedside.
“It's my duty to tell you, Zeb, that in order to hush this thing up they may offer you more than you can get from a jury. In that case I should have to advise you to accept.”
He was aware that, while he made this statement, Zeb Meader's eyes were riveted on him, and he knew that the farmer was weighing him in the balance.
“Sell out?” exclaimed Mr. Meader. “You advise me to sell out?”
Austen did not get angry. He understood this man and the people from which he sprang.
“The question is for you to decide—whether you can get more money by a settlement.”
“Money!” cried Zeb Meader, “I have found it pretty hard to git, but there's some things I won't do for it. There's a reason why they want this case hushed up, the way they've be'n actin'. I ain't lived in Mercer and Putnam County all my life for nothin'. Hain't I seen 'em run their dirty politics there under Brush Bascom for the last twenty-five years? There's no man has an office or a pass in that county but what Bascom gives it to him, and Bascom's the railrud tool.” Suddenly Zeb raised himself in bed. “Hev' they be'n tamperin' with you?” he demanded.
“Yes,” answered Austen, dispassionately. He had hardly heard what Zeb had said; his mind had been going onward. “Yes. They sent me an annual pass, and I took it back.”
Zeb Meader did not speak for a few moments.
“I guess I was a little hasty, Austen,” he said at length.
“I might have known you wouldn't sell out. If you're' willin' to take the risk, you tell 'em ten thousand dollars wouldn't tempt me.”
“All right, Zeb,” said Austen.
He left the hospital and struck out across the country towards the slopes of Sawanec, climbed them, and stood bareheaded in the evening light, gazing over the still, wide valley northward to the wooded ridges where Leith and Fairview lay hidden. He had come to the parting of the ways of life, and while he did not hesitate to choose his path, a Vane inheritance, though not dominant, could not fail at such a juncture to point out the pleasantness of conformity. Austen's affection for Hilary Vane was real; the loneliness of the elder man appealed to the son, who knew that his father loved him in his own way. He dreaded the wrench there.
And nature, persuasive in that quarter, was not to be stilled in a field more completely her own. The memory and suppliance of a minute will scarce suffice one of Austen's temperament for a lifetime; and his eyes, flying with the eagle high across the valley, searched the velvet folds of the ridges, as they lay in infinite shades of green in the level light, for the place where the enchanted realm might be. Just what the state of his feelings were at this time towards Victoria Flint is too vague—accurately to be painted, but he was certainly not ready to give way to the attraction he felt for her. His sense of humour intervened if he allowed himself to dream; there was a certain folly in pursuing the acquaintance, all the greater now that he was choosing the path of opposition to the dragon. A young woman, surrounded as she was, could be expected to know little of the subtleties of business and political morality: let him take Zeb Meader's case, and her loyalty would naturally be with her father—if she thought of Austen Vane at all.
And yet the very contradiction of her name, Victoria joined with Flint, seemed to proclaim that she did not belong to her father or to the Rose of Sharon. Austen permitted himself to dwell, as he descended the mountain in the gathering darkness, upon the fancy of the springing of a generation of ideals from a generation of commerce which boded well for the Republic. And Austen Vane, in common with that younger and travelled generation, thought largely in terms of the Republic. Pepper County and Putnam County were all one to him—pieces of his native land. And as such, redeemable.
It was long past the supper hour when he reached the house in Hanover Street; but Euphrasia, who many a time in days gone by had fared forth into the woods to find Sarah Austen, had his supper hot for him. Afterwards he lighted his pipe and went out into the darkness, and presently perceived a black figure seated meditatively on the granite doorstep.
“Is that you, Judge?” said Austen.
The Honourable Hilary grunted in response.
“Be'n on another wild expedition, I suppose.”
“I went up Sawanec to stretch my legs a little,” Austen answered, sitting down beside his father.
“Funny,” remarked the Honourable Hilary, “I never had this mania for stretchin' my legs after I was grown.”
“Well,”