By the Fireplace
7 At Mount Eagle
A few hours later Clarice Ransome, Mary Pelham, and Lucy Hastings were sitting by the fire in Clarice’s room, lingering there a while before they went to bed. The wood fires are one of the chief delights of this old-fashioned house; there is such a plenty of wood and they burn with such a lively blaze and such a fine crackle that, in these last luxurious minutes before yielding to sleep, one has to be a resolute pessimist indeed to feel gloomy! Moreover, at such a time people grow retrospective and seeing the past through a mellowed glow like to talk about it. Then they cast up the day’s accounts.
The evening had been quiet and they were willing that it should be so. The young governor was still in his office at the Capitol, looking over papers—applications for the pardon of convicts, legislative measures requiring his signature or veto, and all the great bulk of business that must pass through a governor’s hands. At this time of the year he often stayed at his office until two or three o’clock in the morning.
“Did you have a pleasant drive, Clarice?” asked Lucy Hastings.
“Very,” Clarice replied without any attempt at concealment, and even with a trace of enthusiasm. “The country was beautiful—you know how beautiful it can be in winter—I even thought it looked romantic.”
Mary Pelham smiled faintly, but said nothing.
“And Mr. Guthrie?” asked Lucy, “How do you like him?”
“I know that he is a particular friend of the Governor and yourself,” replied Clarice, “and hence I am afraid not to like him. But, really, I do like him for himself.”
She paused, and gazed thoughtfully into the coals, which were forming themselves into glowing castles and churches. The other two said nothing.
“Yes, I like him for his own sake,” she continued, her voice as meditative as her gaze. “He seemed to me a little odd in several particulars—neglecting some of the things that are valued by the people to whom I am accustomed, but—he might be taught.”
“I have no doubt that he can learn,” replied Lucy quietly, “that is, if he should have the right kind of a teacher.”
Mary Pelham smiled again, but Clarice did not notice it; she was still gazing into the red coals, and her mind was somewhere else.
“You spoke of the Count’s coming to America soon,” said Lucy, who had, to a singular degree, the gift of mild tenacity. “Has he decided?”
A slight frown appeared on Clarice’s face, and in a moment she was ashamed of herself because the mention of Raoul’s name had disturbed her. Then she created his image in her mind’s eye and she smiled.
Raoul’s gayety, his easy manners, his unimpeachable taste in neckties, the easy grace that he showed in any position, appealed to her. He pleased her eye because he not only looked well in any place, but was also ornamental. And then, too, as her mother had said truly, he was of such an old family. His ancestors had served in three of the Crusades, and there was royal blood half a dozen generations back—it was not well to inquire too closely into its origin—but it was there. She remembered how easy and restful Raoul was. She forgot that time when she had the faintest suspicion that he believed himself to have condescended, and she felt a desire to see him again—he bothered her with no troublesome questions.
“He is coming,” she responded at last, “but I do not know definitely when it will be; in the spring, perhaps.”
“If he comes this winter, I hope that you will bring him down here,” said Lucy. “If he really wants to see our American life, he cannot see it in the small circles of our large cities. There, I hear Paul’s footsteps, so I’ll tell you good night.”
She went out leaving Clarice and Mary together. Mary sat only a minute or two, but when she arose and reached the door, she said,
“I admire Mr. Guthrie for many things, and most of all because of his devotion to his friends.”
Then she went out before Clarice could reply.
Guthrie, meanwhile, had gone to his dinner after leaving the Governor’s house, and then he strolled into the lobby of the hotel, the news-centre of the capital. He quickly saw that he would have but little to add to his brief despatch filed in the afternoon, and, when he returned from the telegraph office to the hotel, he was joined by Tommy Newlands, the assistant clerk of the House.
“There’s no news here, Billy,” said Newlands, slipping his arm into Guthrie’s, an act that Guthrie never liked. “Don’t waste your time, but come up to my room; I’ve got something really important.”
Tommy was a slender youth with mild blue eyes, a confiding air, and the most honest face in the world; and he spoke with so much earnestness and impressiveness that Guthrie was persuaded and went with him.
“I’ll tell you what it is when we get there,” said Tommy in a mysterious whisper.
His room was across the street in a boarding-house, and, when they reached it, Tommy carefully locked themselves in, and put the key in his pocket. Then he produced a large porfolio from a bureau drawer, waved Guthrie to a chair, and took another himself.
“Just listen to it, Billy,” he said, smiling his child-like smile, “I wrote it all to-day, and I think it’s the best I’ve ever done.”
Guthrie arose in alarm, and his brow became menacing.
“Look you, Tommy Newlands!” he cried. “Have you brought me over here and locked me up in your room in order that you may force me to listen to your original poetry?”
“Why, Billy,” exclaimed Newlands, “I intended that you should be the very first to hear it.”
“I’d rather be the last,” said Guthrie defiantly. “But answer me one question, Tommy. Have you ever had a line of your poetry published?”
“Not yet,” replied Newlands confidently, “but the last editor who returned my verses wrote me that they contained promise, though they were not exactly suited to his needs. I think that looks favourable, don’t you?”
“Oh, yes—from your point of view. But I won’t listen to any of it until it is published. It takes the edge off either prose or poetry to hear it read in manuscript. It’s so much better in print.”
“But we are here, and everything is so handy,” entreated Newlands.
“No, I won’t stand for it, and, if you don’t produce that key and unlock the door at once, I’ll say in the Times that you’re the very worst assistant clerk of the House the Legislature has known in a history of more than a hundred years.”
“You wouldn’t do that, Billy?” pleaded Newlands.
“I would,” replied Guthrie gravely. “Just think of the alternative, Tommy!”
Newlands reluctantly produced the key, and unlocked the door.
“I thought to find in you a sympathetic soul. We are both writers, you know,” he said reproachfully.
“One of us isn’t,” said Guthrie. “Tommy, I’m your friend, as you know, but you mustn’t take advantage of me. As a matter of fact, I think you are an admirable assistant clerk of the House—you write such a nice, round hand. Now, come along. Let’s go over to the hotel, and talk politics.”
“I do not care for politics,” said Newlands. “It’s a coarse and common subject. It does not appeal to one’s finer nature. I do my work in the House because I want my bread, but I take no other interest in it whatever. Neither do I care for those common and pushing men about us. A higher type appeals to me.”
Guthrie laughed. He was only a year older than Tommy Newlands, but he felt as if the difference were ten years instead of one. Tommy with his desire to shun all the hard knocks—with his instinct always to confound strength with mere roughness, seemed to him to have in him something womanish, for which Guthrie felt contempt; yet he liked him, his amiability and honesty.
“Come, Tommy,” he repeated. “These are much better people than you think. Men in working clothes look rougher than those in evening dress, but it may be looks only. Come, it will do you good.”
But Newlands was obstinate; they could neither amuse nor instruct him, he said, and Guthrie leaving him returned to the hotel. Jimmy Warfield was sitting in a corner, singularly silent for him, but he gave Guthrie a slight signal, and then strolled quietly into the hall. After a discreet wait, Guthrie followed, and the two walked down the long hall to the side entrance where they were alone.
“Billy,” said Warfield, “if I give you an important piece of news, will you pledge your word not to use it to-night.”
“Are you sure that I could not get it except from you?”
“Quite sure.”
“I’m released from my promise, if anybody else should come to me of his own volition and tell it to me?”
“Certainly.”
“All right; I promise. What is it?”
Warfield showed slight signs of agitation. “Billy,” he said, “they are going to impeach Carton, or try it.”
Guthrie looked incredulous.
“Why, that’s moonshine!” he said. “Such a thing was never done in this State—not even under the worst political or factional pressure!”
“It’s going to be tried all the same,” said Warfield with emphasis, “and I tell you, Mr. William Guthrie, it will stir this State from centre to circumference! Carton, with his high and haughty ways, has made lots of enemies, and besides there are many men against him in this matter who believe he has done wrong. I’ve got it from a straight source; it’s absolutely true, and it’s coming quick.”
“Does Carton know of it?”
“Not yet; that’s what I want to talk to you about. Oughtn’t we to warn him? If we don’t, the thing is likely to burst upon him and catch him unprepared, and then, without time to think, he’s likely to do something hot-tempered and rash.”
“Where is he?” asked Guthrie.
“In his room. He came into the lobby about eight o’clock, and spent half an hour—as lordly as you please—then he stalked off upstairs. But I walked down the hall in front of his room fifteen minutes ago, and I saw the light shining under his door. I know that he’s sitting there, glowering. They’ve struck him in two ways: they are threatening him with the ruin of all his political ambitions, and Mary Pelham’s folks, since they’ve heard of this thing, are putting all sorts of pressure on her to make her give him up.”
“Come on,” said Guthrie, always ready to act in an emergency. “I think we’d better tell him at once.”
The light was still shining under Carton’s door, and Guthrie knocked briskly, but received no answer.
“Let us in, Carton,” shouted Warfield through the keyhole. “It is Guthrie and I, Guthrie and Warfield, and we must speak to you.”
“Come in!” replied Carton, and, pushing open the door, they entered.
Carton was sitting at the window, looking vaguely out at the darkness. Warfield had surmised truly: he was “glowering.” But Guthrie’s first sensation was of pity. Carton’s pride seemed to have slipped from him for the moment while he was sitting there alone, and his attitude was full of depression and despair. That one so strong should feel crushed and show it gave Guthrie a painful thrill.
Guthrie and Warfield exchanged glances. Warfield’s asked: “Is it the Speakership or the girl?” and Guthrie’s replied: “Both.” Carton turned his head wearily.
“Boys,” he said, “it’s good of you to come here and see me.”
“Well,” replied Warfield cheerily, “you look so gay and frivolous, sitting there by the window, that we think we ought to have a share in the sport.”
“You’re welcome to all the fun that’s going,” said Carton, smiling. “But sit down.”
They seated themselves and then there were a few moments of embarrassed silence, because Carton glanced at them inquiringly, as if he wished to know why they came, seeing at once that it was no mere social visit. Warfield looked at Guthrie, and Guthrie looked at Warfield. At last Jimmy cleared his throat defiantly, as much as to say: “I will speak even if what I say is unwelcome!”
“Look here, Phil, you know that Billy and I are good friends of yours,” he began irrelevantly, “and you’ve got lots more friends in the Legislature and throughout the State.”
“Now I know that your news is personal to me and unpleasant,” said Carton, speaking clearly and decisively. Suddenly he put on his fighting habit. His figure expanded and stiffened, and his look was challenging.
“It is both,” said Guthrie.
“Then,” said Carton, “I thank you two for coming to me with it, because I know that you come to warn me and stand by me and not to hurt me.”
“That’s so!” said Warfield, feeling great relief. Then he continued: “Now, Phil, I won’t tell you just how I found this out, but it is true. This fight on you is even bolder and more bitter than you think it is. Your enemies—and I don’t know just who is leading them—are going to push it to the utmost. They are going to try to expel you, to impeach you, not merely to drive you from the House, but to disfranchise you, to deprive you of your rights as a citizen.”
“Why, such a thing was never done in this State!” exclaimed Carton, unconsciously repeating Guthrie’s own comment.
“I know it, but they mean to do it now, if they can,” said Warfield.
“And I should be a marked man all my life, a pariah!” exclaimed Carton, for the moment aghast. But in another moment all his courage returned. “They can’t do it!” he said.
“No,” said Jimmy Warfield, “we’ll give ’em a fight they’ll never forget!”
“I think I can swing the Times,” said Guthrie.
Carton, despite his effort to control himself, showed agitation, and walked back and forth in the room. He saw clearly that his personal happiness and his whole political future alike were at stake. Everything told him to be cautious, to show the wisdom of the serpent, but also every instinct in him rose against the use of what is called diplomacy. He wanted to speak out against these men, to tell Pursley just what he thought of him and to defy him. But he was conscious, too, that Guthrie and Warfield were watching him, and while he could have ridden rough-shod over Warfield’s opinion, he hesitated when confronted by Guthrie.
Yet Guthrie did not say much; he felt himself to be to a certain extent an outsider—that is, he was not really a part of the Legislature, his mission in the capital being the collection of news. Hence by suggestion and brief interjected words he pointed out to Warfield the line of argument he should adopt with Carton. Under the deft hand of his second, Warfield gave good advice. The other side, he said, was showing craft and cunning at every stage of the battle; their forces had been masked from the beginning and were still masked; no hostile hand was yet in sight save Pursley’s; he was trumpeter, standard-bearer, vanguard—everything so far; Carton then should not waste his temper and his strength striking at an invisible foe.
Warfield had the gift of smooth speech by indirection if he chose, and under his persuasive words, Carton dismissed the slight agitation that he had shown. “Boys,” he said, at last, “I don’t know how I ever can reward you for the way that you stand by me.”
His words were brief but full of feeling. Warfield laughed and said lightly:
“Nonsense, if I ever get into trouble I expect you to do at least five times as much for me.”
They left him and again he sat down by the window and began to gaze vaguely into the darkness.
The second day following was Saturday, and an excursion had been arranged to Mount Eagle, the great stock-farm in the very finest part of the lowlands, about fifteen miles from the capital. This noble place is the pride of the State. Covering thousands of acres of gently rolling hills and valleys, it is unsurpassed for beauty and fertility. Here since the early days have been bred race-horses that sell for their weight in silver and more, and their fame has extended over the world. Here breeders from all parts of the Union come to renew the original and powerful strains of blood. The sideboards in the house are covered with plate, won on a hundred courses, and, in a State which has the inborn love of horses, people go every year as to a shrine to see the stall in which was born the colt that successively broke the world’s one-, two-, three-, and four-mile records. The owners never bet on their own horses, but run them for pride and glory.
A number of members of the Legislature, ladies of the political families, and other guests had been invited to Saturday luncheon at Mount Eagle—the Legislature never meets on Saturday. Guthrie was on the list, and so was Tommy Newlands. Five carriages, of different types but sufficient to carry twenty-four people, had been engaged, and the start was to be made from the hotel at eight o’clock of a beautiful frosty morning.
Guthrie was early at the meeting-place, glad of the excursion and the holiday after a week that he had found trying. Moreover, he would be with the people and the kind of society that he liked best, and he expected enjoyment.
The Governor and his wife with Miss Pelham and Miss Ransome in their train arrived in a few minutes, and they exchanged joyous greetings, for they were young, and their spirits rose in the cold, crisp morning. Then came the gigantic United States Senator, Mr. Dennison, willingly following the lead of his much younger wife, and after them the Speaker and Jimmy Warfield, and Tommy Newlands, and Senator Cobb, and Mr. Pike, and others, until they formed a noisy, talkative group on the hotel steps.
Guthrie glanced at Carton. The Speaker and Mary Pelham had greeted each other in a rather constrained, formal manner, but Guthrie was perhaps the only one who had noticed it, and the Speaker here in the presence of Mary showed no care in his face. All the vehicles were filled except the last, a tally-ho with seats for six persons.
“Is not everybody here?” asked Carton, one of the little group still standing on the steps.
“No,” said the driver, “there is one more gentleman to come,” and at that moment the gentleman, in heavy fur overcoat, fur gloves, and sealskin cap, appeared—no less a personage than the Honourable Mr. Pursley. “How does he happen to be here?” exclaimed Carton, but in a low voice. Guthrie divined at once that the owners of Mount Eagle, not knowing Mr. Pursley as he was, had invited him under the impression that he was a leader in the House a fact, within its limits. All the other carriages had gone on, and there was an embarrassed pause. Those left upon the steps under the deft manipulation of Mrs. Dennison were Miss Ransome, Miss Pelham, Carton, Jimmy Warfield, and Guthrie. The ladies knowing the state of affairs looked apprehensively at the Speaker and Mr. Pursley, but Guthrie in a moment seized the occasion, and ruthlessly sacrificed his friend Jimmy Warfield, as the good-natured are always put to the knife.
“You and Jimmy are to sit together, Mr. Pursley,” he said cheerily; “now up with you two there into the seat next to the driver!” and he half pushed them into place. Then he helped Miss Ransome into the next seat and sat beside her, while the seat behind was left for Miss Pelham and the Speaker. Then the horses rattled away at a swift trot, and Guthrie congratulated himself on his diplomacy. Mr. Pursley was safely stowed next to a man who did not know how to be anything but polite and cheerful, while he and Miss Ransome sat as a guard between the Speaker and his pet hatred. Then his spirits rose still further. He relished a dramatic situation, and, after all, the presence of Pursley lent to the excursion a spice which it would have otherwise lacked. It would rest with him and Jimmy Warfield to keep the peace between Carton and Pursley for a whole day and to enjoy themselves at the same time—a task to arouse ambition.
So Guthrie talked much more than usual and in a lighter manner than was his custom until Clarice Ransome said,
“Mr. Guthrie, I did not know you could be so frivolous!”
Jimmy Warfield, twisting his neck, turned a solemn countenance.
“It’s only his true nature coming out, Miss Ransome,” he said; “he’s the official humourist of the Times”
“That’s the reason they send me to report the Legislature,” said Guthrie.
“Because they know his reports will be a joke,” said Warfield.
“No, to report a joke,” said Guthrie.
“I will have no fighting,” said Clarice in mock alarm, “between the Fourth Estate and, and—”
“The lost estate,” replied Guthrie.
“Oh, well, as a body we have our redeeming qualities!” said Warfield. “At least we are a refuge. You know, Miss Ransome, down in some of the country counties, when they develop a smart young lawyer that they’re a bit afraid of, the old farmers get together and say, ‘We’ll just send him to the Legislature where he can’t do us any harm, but can do the other fellers.’”
“And did they send you here on that account, Mr. Warfield?” asked Clarice serenely.
Warfield held up his hands in horror.
“Behold my importance!” he said. “I hail from the city, and Carton is continually recognising me as the gentleman from the Third Ward, but Miss Ransome does not remember it a day.”
“Jimmy, you must speak twice as often as you do, and get noticed,” said Guthrie.
“Do you want him to exclude all the others?” asked Carton.
“I hope he’ll leave a few minutes for me,” said Mr. Pursley, with the evident intention of being amiable.
“I’ll do it,” said Warfield. “I’m thinking of never making another speech again. There was a fellow here last session from one of the western counties. He never opened his mouth the whole session, but you could fairly see his reputation for wisdom growing. People said that when Horton of Bond County did speak, he would say something. He never did speak, but it made no difference. People said, ‘Just you wait; look what an amount of reserve strength is there!’ Now, I had been speaking brilliantly all the session, saying solid truths in the most terse, epigrammatic and illuminating manner, and I got no praise at all, and, instead of me, the Legislature elected Carton to the Speakership this term. But, after all, that’s no credit to him. In a legislature, ladies, a Speaker is the only man who can’t speak; so always, in order to suppress him and for the general credit, we elect the worst talker of us all to that position.”
There was a general laugh, but Mary Pelham said: “Two weeks ago, I read a speech by Mr. Carton in the Times; how do you account for that Mr. Warfield?”
“Carton never made that speech,” Warfield replied, “It was written by Guthrie there and attributed to him, and, as it rather took with the people, Phil accepts it. We’re all in the secret here, at the capital, but, of course, we can’t betray a fellow-member. It’s like that jury out in one of the mountain counties where they are rather fond of shooting at each other. They were trying a man for severely wounding one of his neighbours; there was no doubt about the shooting—the man didn’t even deny it, but the jury returned a verdict of acquittal, and when the astonished judge asked them why, the foreman replied: ‘Of course he is guilty—we all know that—but if, in a little case like this, we fellows don’t stand together, what’s to become of our privileges?’”
“It’s lucky that Mr. Pike is in the next carriage!” said Guthrie.
“Oh! I should have located that story in the low-lands, if he had been here,” replied Warfield airily, “but it tells the truth about the mountaineers, all the same. They won’t give up their feuds because it’s a time-honoured custom, and, if you were to dissect Mr. Pike himself, you would find this feeling right in his marrow.”
The driver increased his speed a little, and in a few moments they overtook the next carriage in which Mr. Pike was sitting, silent and solemn. Jimmy Warfield upbraided him for his melancholy looks, and Mrs. Dennison replied for him that it was due to his being a Republican.
“It’s his conscience!” said Jimmy Warfield, “1 don’t see how any man can be a Republican and have a sound conscience!”
Mr. Pike was the only Republican in the party, and they jested with him at some length on the bad complexion of his politics, all of which he took in good part, merely replying that he was in the midst of enemies. Guthrie was struck by his use of the phrase “in the midst of enemies,” and by the underlying sadness in Mr. Pike’s eyes. He remembered, too, the scene on the raft, and he was sure the mountain member was really in trouble. But no one else noticed, so good was Mr. Pike’s concealment, and the excursion was all high spirits—even Carton and Pursley, separated by the craft and guile of Guthrie and Warfield, forgot their enmity, and Carton, from sympathy as well as pride, joined in the flow of geniality.
From the crest of a gentle slope, they caught the first view of Mount Eagle and its five thousand acres within a ring fence of stone. The frosty sun glistened in alternate streaks of silver and gold on the white walls and the red roofs of buildings, and before them, mile after mile of hill and valley, lay the pleasant country, beautiful even in the winter robe of brown. It told everywhere of fertility and comfort.
“I don’t wonder that the Indians hated to give it up,” said Mary Pelham.
“The Indians never had it,” said Jimmy Warfield with his usual vivacity. “It’s one of the weaknesses of an advancing civilisation, Miss Pelham, to lament the passing of a hideous, painted savage, and to delude itself with the idea that it has committed a crime in planting enlightenment in the place of barbarism. As a matter of fact, the northern and southern tribes merely met and fought here and this land was occupied by nobody. Here we are now; this is the gate that leads to Mount Eagle.”
They drove over a white road between a noble avenue of trees toward the house, a great rambling structure of stone, redolent of ease and dignity.
“It reminds me of an old chateau in France,” said Clarice Ransome.
“Only this is our own,” said Guthrie.
“I begin to think that you are very much of a patriot,” said Clarice.
“So I am,” replied Guthrie, “and I give you fair warning, Miss Ransome, that a lot of us mean to make you one, too.”
“I am already making more progress than I anticipated,” she replied frankly.
“And here we are at the house,” said Jimmy Warfield, “and there stand our host and hostess on the steps.”
Guthrie helped Clarice out of the carriage, and her fingers tingled slightly even through her gloves, when his hand clasped hers. Had Guthrie been looking, he would have seen a faint colour rise in her face. Then Clarice took a resolve: she had been too much with Guthrie, and she would make the return journey in another carriage. She began to have a suspicion that she was being managed by somebody, and she resented it. Nevertheless, Guthrie was by her side as the guests were received, and thus they passed into the house.
They were in a wide hall, running the full length of the building—a wall hung with portraits and the stuffed heads of deer and bison. In open rooms on either side, great fires roared and crackled in wide fireplaces.
“To enjoy this fully one must have driven fifteen miles in the cold as we have done,” said Jimmy Warfield.
The men turned off to the right and the women to the left. The men closed the door behind them when they entered a room in which a fire was roaring and the black servants were already clinking the glasses.
“This is glorious after a long ride in the cold,” said Jimmy Warfield. “Here’s to all our healths!”
When they had refreshed themselves, they met the the ladies again in the hall, and began their trip about the place, the stables being the first point of departure. It was Clarice’s plan to go with the Senator and Mrs. Dennison, but she found herself, instead, between Guthrie and Mr. Pike, and she did not know how long Mr. Pike would stay. She was not sure whether Guthrie or some one else had managed it. She yielded, but was displeased with herself because she did not feel more reluctance at yielding.
“We shall see some of the most famous horses in the world,” said Guthrie, “but, to be perfectly frank with you, most horses look alike to me.”
In a State devoted to the horse, Guthrie was not a zealous horseman. He looked upon the horse as merely one of the adjuncts of human life, not its main interest; but he enjoyed looking at them in a place such as this, where they were cherished like children. In the first stall, and gazing at the visitors out of mild incurious eyes, was the bay stallion that had won as a two-year-old the great Futurity in New York, and the next year both the Brooklyn Handicap and the Suburban.
“He’s got lots more sense than some people, and he’s as gentle as a child,” said the black trainer.
Clarice held out some oats, and the lazy king of a horse nibbled them gently from her hand.
“Of course, no horse would hurt you, Miss Ransome,” said Jimmy Warfield.
Thus they paused, from stall to stall, inspecting the kings and queens of the turf, some resting between campaigns, others with all their campaigns done and looking, as they placidly chewed their oats, as if they were meditating over old triumphs. Then they went into the pasture where the grass still lingered on the sunny slopes, and examined the youngsters with their victories yet to come.
“The older horses in the stables impress me the most,” said Mrs. Dennison. “What if one could see the ablest men and women collected in one company in that manner! It ought at least to make an interesting society.”
“More likely it would be as dull as ditch-water!” said Jimmy Warfield. “Everybody in it would be bored to death by everybody else!”
Then they went in to luncheon. Guthrie always remembers that luncheon with the keenest of pleasure. He was in the best of company; he was hungry and his cares had rolled away. All the tables had been spread in the larger dining-room, and they were covered with a “hunter’s luncheon,” that is, with a luncheon reminiscent of the State’s early days, as they had been told would be the case when the invitations were sent. There were partridges, wild turkeys, venison from the mountains, bear from Mississippi, trout and perch from the State’s own streams, all flanked by liquids of every kind.
“I foresee a better business than making dry speeches in the House!” said Jimmy Warfield.
Clarice’s conscience began to hurt her again, and, by careful planning, she found herself in a seat between Senator Cobb and Tommy Newlands. Guthrie was some distance away, but biding his time. Lucy Hastings was on his right, and, with an intuitive sense of what was wise under the circumstances, he was scrupulous in his attention to her. Clarice observed him, and by and by she was sorry that his glance did not meet hers. She was conscious now that there had always been something solid and interesting in Guthrie’s talk; she always had the feeling afterward that it had been stimulating, and now, by contrast, the chatter of Tommy Newlands seemed unusually light, frothy, and vapid.
Tommy had a soul with a large S. He could not abide the raw and crude. Strength appealed to him less than form. In fiction, he preferred the small parlour-scenes of life, the tea-table tragedies, which loomed very large to him, and in poetry his soul turned with an infinite longing to the vers de société. He had never been abroad, but the Old World contained for him all there was of art and architecture, and hence Tommy amid his surroundings was blasé and cynical to a degree that often entertained.
“I should like to live in a house like this,” said Clarice to him in the course of their conversation.
“I understand that it has the architecture of all nations and the beauty of none,” replied Tommy.
“I do not see why that matters,” said Clarice, “if it is beautiful, then the rules do not count.”
Senator Cobb on the other side of her looked puzzled. He had spent a life wrestling with men, and to him these things seemed unimportant. The blood of the old Indian-fighters was yet in his veins, and the battle of life had little to do with architecture.
“I should think that the first question was comfort,” he said, “and it appears that they have attained it here.”
But Tommy could scarcely conceal his scorn—these rude men from the hills always jarred upon his finer fibre. He had a cult, and, as for himself, he said, he was fond of the beauty of life. He preferred the fine, the minute, the indirect, the delicate shadings, to the abrupt and obvious. Americans were too material; he was often ashamed of his countrymen, for they neglected the essence in favour of the substance. Most of the men were well enough in their way, but it must be confessed that they represented a low order of development. Those who had the true spirit always pined for something higher.
Clarice listened in some amusement. She read Tommy Newlands at once. She saw the lack of earnestness in all that he said, and knew that it was an affectation, although Tommy himself believed it to be vital and real; it was a feeble growth upon a feeble stem. But Senator Cobb, whose experience of the world was in some sense inferior to Clarice’s, was not amused. At first he was ashamed for Tommy, and then he became angry. At last he said impatiently,
“Then I take it, Mr. Newlands, that you would rather live on air than on roast beef!”
“I was not speaking of so material a thing as the physical appetite,” replied Tommy. “I was referring to the finer and more subtle things that are the nuances of life.” .
Senator Cobb did not know what “nuances” meant, but his keen mind enabled him to guess.
“Is a continent like this to be won with men of the type you like?” he asked.
But Tommy flew the question. Life in the older countries where everything had settled into its appointed place appealed to him; there was more poetry in a bit of ivy on an old wall than in any contest that ever took place in a Legislature, and thus he rambled on to his great satisfaction. But Senator Cobb shook his head disapprovingly; it did not seem to him that Tommy was dealing with the stuff of which our lives are made.
Clarice was glad when Jimmy Warfield on the other side of the table came to their relief. Warfield beneath all his lightness and good nature had a penetrating mind: his feet never left the earth nor did his head reach the clouds. His nimble satire played around Tommy with such an easy touch that the expounder of a cult was not aware for some time that he was a target. When he saw it at last he said little more, because he had an instinctive fear of Warfield, whom he regarded as one of those rough beings without a subconscious soul.
The luncheon was finished, and then they heard the great organ in the music-room, the finest in the State. Guthrie was really fond of music, a science of whose theory and art he knew nothing, and did not wish to know anything. It appealed to him as a melodious voice expressing many emotions, and the knowledge of how it was produced would detract from the charm of hearing it. But he never talked about his love of music; he indulged in no cant, and he advocated no school. Therefore, he was able to enjoy.
Clarice wandered away from Tommy Newlands, finding that his “protection” had become a burden. His chatter ceased to be amusing, and, when Guthrie took the vacant chair beside her, she neither indicated nor felt any objection. After all, it was a pleasure to return to him, because here was something tangible and solid upon which one could get a mental grasp. Guthrie said nothing, as the music had begun, and Clarice, too, was soon affected by the solemnity and majesty of the organ tones.
She glanced presently at Guthrie’s face, and she was astonished at the change she saw there. He had impressed her hitherto as one so intensely in the present that he had no time for dreams or reflections. Now he was far away on the wings of fancy, and, after all, he did have imagination, ideality, and sentiment. She, too, was modern and practical; but the springs of romance were not dry within her, and she liked this new phase that she beheld in Guthrie, softening and refining him to a woman’s standard.
“Music of that type,” said Guthrie when they were leaving the room, “is the only thing that can bring absolute forgetfulness of the world besides. It really takes one quite out of oneself.”
He said it simply, quite without affectation—so simply that no reply was needed, and they walked together into the drawing-room. For the moment, Count Raoul d’Estournelle, and his coming visit to America were forgotten by both.
“We shall start on the return journey in an hour,” said Guthrie, “and I hope that you will permit me to occupy the same seat in the carriage beside you. I feel that I am in some sense your guide, and also to save trouble in rearranging the party, it was decided that we should go back just as we came.”
“Then why ask me when it is my orders to say yes?”
Guthrie laughed.
“I want you to be a willing victim and to admit it,” he replied.
She smiled but did not say no, and left him to get her wraps. Out of his presence, her conscience assailed her once more. She had firmly resolved not to be his immediate company on the return journey; she had broken her resolve, and it not two hours old! She felt once more that she was doing a wrong to Raoul, and she could see her mother’s cold, disapproving eye. She comforted herself with the old and convenient proverb that, in Rome, one must do as the Romans do, and, as she was thrown with this group, she must accept in it the rolé that chance seemed to have marked for her.
Guthrie turned down the narrow hall toward the room set aside for the men, where his overcoat was hanging, and saw a broad figure just ahead of him. The figure belonged to Mr. Pursley, and he was hailing Carton who stood in front of a picture near the doorway.
“It would be pleasant, wouldn’t it Carton, to have a place like this?” he said with an air of friendliness.
Carton did not reply, but studied the picture more intently than ever; and Mr. Pursley, who was delicate neither of perception nor sensibility, repeated his remark. Then Carton turned about, his face white with anger, and his figure stiffening into the haughty pose with which Guthrie was so familiar.
“Pursley,” he exclaimed, “I cannot say that I hate you—that dignifies you too much, but I do despise you. I told you once before that I wished you not to speak to me again.”
“I regarded it as the request of a foolish young man,” placidly replied Mr. Pursley, whose great strength lay in his ability to keep his temper under any circumstances.
Helplessness was added to Carton’s look of anger. His eyes plainly asked, “What can I do when confronted by such a man?” At last he said lamely:
“Pursley, whenever I undertake to go anywhere, I shall find out whether you are going, and then I shall stay away.”
Pursley laughed, and sauntered into the room in search of his coat, leaving Carton frowning with chagrin. Guthrie took Carton by the arm.
“Phil, old man,” he said—they were great friends, and Carton himself was under thirty—“would you mind a little piece of advice from me? The looker-on, you know, is always in a better position to judge than the actor.”
Carton frowned again, but reluctantly subdued his pride, and consented.
“It’s this,” said Guthrie. “It’s not worth while to attack a man like Pursley with words. His thick skin turns them off like water. Besides, he’s a member of the House where you will have to meet him almost every day, and you give him an advantage when you lose your tongue and he keeps his.”
“Billy,” said Carton, “it hurts me to hear you say this—hurts me that any one should think it necessary to say such things to me, but I suppose it is true. The very sight of the man infuriates me; I cannot help it.”
“Let’s get our overcoats,” said Guthrie quietly. “I think the others are about ready for the start.”
They entered the room together, and no other present save Mr. Pursley knew of the brief encounter. Guthrie put on his overcoat and went out on the step in front of which the carriages were waiting.
“I offer you my condolences, old man,” said Tommy Newlands, clapping his hand on Guthrie’s shoulder.
“Why so?” asked Guthrie.
“Because Miss Ransome is going to sit by me on the way back home. I have just asked her for the privilege and she has consented.”
“See here, Tommy,” said Guthrie, “You can’t cut me out in that fashion. Miss Ransome has an engagement with me, and I won’t let her break it, even if I have to kidnap her.”
Tommy looked at him aghast.
“But she said I could have the seat!” he remonstrated.
“Oh, that’s nothing,” said Guthrie briskly. “She forgot, for the moment, her engagement with me. Ah! Miss Ransome, the carriage is waiting for us and here is our place.”
She had appeared that moment upon the steps, her cheeks rosy with the day’s exercise, and her eyes seeking Tommy Newlands. She had resolved at the last moment that she would break her unspoken word, escape from Guthrie, and sacrifice herself to Tommy. But she was caught by the fowler in his net; almost before she was aware of it, Guthrie was assisting her into the carriage, and the next moment he was in the seat beside her, while the poet was left lamenting on the steps.
“Mr. Guthrie,” said Clarice, “do you know that I accepted Mr. Newlands’ escort home?”
“It was very wrong of you,” replied Guthrie gravely, “to make a promise which, you see, you could not keep. Moreover, I claim to be quite as good company as Tommy Newlands.”
Clarice was silent, overborne by him—and yet she liked his masterful ways. Had he asked again for the place, she would not have given it to him; but, as he took it without asking, she was reconciled. She had once more the singular feeling of relief that a strong personality brings.
The drive home was quieter, as the return always is. The winter twilight fell long before they reached the capital. The sun sank in the west and the dusk came in, fold on fold, like a blanket over the sky, but the moonlight glittered like silver through it on the brown woods and the hills. All the world was brooding and peaceful.
“I think sometimes that winter is as beautiful as summer,” said Clarice.
“It is,” replied Guthrie, “both in its own way and because it is the omen of that which is to come. What is it that Shelley says—‘if winter come, can spring be far behind?’”
Clarice looked up at the star-shot sky.
“Yes,” she said, “that is it—after sorrow, joy.”
All of them were quiet and subdued when they reached the capital, and bade each other good night.