Mr. Crewe's Career — Complete. Winston Churchill
in her most imperial voice, “we ought to be going instantly, or we shan't have time to drop you at the Hammonds'.”
“I'll take you over in the new motor car,” said Mr. Crewe, with his air of conferring a special train.
“How much is gasoline by the gallon?” inquired Victoria.
“I did a favour once for the local manager, and get a special price,” said Mr. Crewe.
“Humphrey,” said Mrs. Pomfret, taking his hand, “don't forget you are coming to dinner to-night. Four people gave out at the last minute, and there will be just Alice and myself. I've asked old Mr. Fitzhugh.”
“All right,” said Mr. Crewe, “I'll have the motor car brought around.”
The latter part of this remark was, needless to say, addressed to Victoria.
“It's awfully good of you, Humphrey,” she answered, “but the Hammonds are on the road to Ripton, and I am going to ask Mr. Vane to drive me down there behind that adorable horse of his.”
This announcement produced a varied effect upon those who heard it, although all experienced surprise. Mrs. Pomfret, in addition to an anger which she controlled only as the result of long practice, was horrified, and once more levelled her glasses at Austen.
“I think, Victoria, you had better come with us,” she said. “We shall have plenty of time, if we hurry.”
By this time Austen had recovered his breath.
“I'll be ready in an instant,” he said, and made brief but polite adieus to the three others.
“Good-by,” said Alice, vaguely.
“Let me know when anything develops,” said Mr. Crewe, with his back to his attorney.
Austen found Victoria, her colour heightened a little, waiting for him by the driveway. The Pomfrets had just driven off, and Mr. Crewe was nowhere to be seen.
“I do not know what you will think of me for taking this for granted, Mr. Vane,” she said as he took his seat beside her, “but I couldn't resist the chance of driving behind your horse.”
“I realized,” he answered smilingly, “that Pepper was the attraction, and I have more reason than ever to be grateful to him.”
She glanced covertly at the Vane profile, at the sure, restraining hands on the reins which governed with so nice a touch the mettle of the horse. His silence gave her time to analyze again her interest in this man, which renewed itself at every meeting. In the garden she had been struck by the superiority of a nature which set at naught what had been, to some smaller spirits, a difficult situation. She recognized this quality as inborn, but, not knowing of Sarah Austen, she wondered where he got it. Now it was the fact that he refrained from comment that pleased her most.
“Did Humphrey actually send for you to take up the injured horse case?” she asked.
Austen flushed.
“I'm afraid he did. You seem to know all about it,” he added.
“Know all about it Every one within twenty miles of Leith knows about it. I'm sure the horse was doctored when he bought him.”
“Take care, you may be called as a witness.”
“What I want to know is, why you accepted such a silly case,” said Victoria.
Austen looked quizzically into her upturned face, and she dropped her eyes.
“That's exactly what I should have asked myself—after a while,” he said.
She laughed with a delicious understanding of “after a while.”
“I suppose you think me frightfully forward,” she said, in a lowered voice, “inviting myself to drive and asking you such a question when I scarcely know you. But I just couldn't go on with Mrs. Pomfret—she irritated me so—and my front teeth are too valuable to drive with Humphrey Crewe.”
Austen smiled, and secretly agreed with her.
“I should have offered, if I had dared,” he said.
“Dared! I didn't know that was your failing. I don't believe you even thought of it.”
“Nevertheless, the idea occurred to me, and terrified me,” said Austen.
“Why?” she asked, turning upon him suddenly. “Why did it terrify you?”
“I should have been presuming upon an accidental acquaintance, which I had no means of knowing you wished to continue,” he replied, staring at his horse's head.
“And I?” Victoria asked. “Presumption multiplies tenfold in a woman, doesn't it?”
“A woman confers,” said Austen.
She smiled, but with a light in her eyes. This simple sentence seemed to reveal yet more of an inner man different from some of those with whom her life had been cast. It was an American point of view—this choosing to believe that the woman conferred. After offering herself as his passenger Victoria, too, had had a moment of terror: the action had been the result of an impulse which she did not care to attempt to define. She changed the subject.
“You have been winning laurels since I saw you last summer,” she said. “I hear incidentally you have made our friend Zeb Meader a rich man.”
“As riches go, in the town of Mercer,” Austen laughed. “As for my laurels, they have not yet begun to chafe.”
Here was a topic he would have avoided, and yet he was curious to discover what her attitude would be. He had antagonized her father, and the fact that he was the son of Hilary Vane had given his antagonism prominence.
“I am glad you did it for Zeb.”
“I should have done it for anybody—much as I like Zeb,” he replied briefly.
She glanced at him.
“It was—courageous of you,” she said.
“I have never looked upon it in that light,” he answered. “May I ask you how you heard of it?”
She coloured, but faced the question.
“I heard it from my father, at first, and I took an interest—on Zeb Meader's account,” she added hastily.
Austen was silent.
“Of course,” she continued, “I felt a little like boasting of an 'accidental acquaintance' with the man who saved Zeb Meader's life.”
Austen laughed. Then he drew Pepper down to a walk, and turned to her.
“The power of making it more than an accidental acquaintance lies with you,” he said quietly.
“I have always had an idea that aggression was a man's prerogative,” Victoria answered lightly. “And seeing that you have not appeared at Fairview for something over a year, I can only conclude that you do not choose to exercise it in this case.”
Austen was in a cruel quandary.
“I did wish to come,” he answered simply, “but—the fact that I have had a disagreement with your father has—made it difficult.” “Nonsense” exclaimed Victoria; “just because you have won a suit against his railroad. You don't know my father, Mr. Vane. He isn't the kind of man with whom that would make any difference. You ought to talk it over with him. He thinks you were foolish to take Zeb Meader's side.”
“And you?” Austen demanded quickly.
“You see, I'm a woman,” said Victoria, “and I'm prejudiced—for Zeb Meader. Women are always prejudiced—that's our trouble. It seemed to me that Zeb was old, and unfortunate, and ought to be compensated, since he is unable to work. But of course I suppose I can't be expected to understand.”
It