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Victoria raised her eyes, sparkling with humour, and they met Austen's.
“We was just talkin' about you,” cried Mr. Meader, cordially; “come right in.” He turned to Victoria. “I want to make you acquainted,” he said, “with Austen Vane.”
“And won't you tell him who I am, Mr. Meader?” said Victoria.
“Well,” said Mr. Meader, apologetically, “that was stupid of me—wahn't it? But I callated he'd know. She's the daughter of the railrud president—the 'one that was askin' about you.”
There was an instant's pause, and the colour stole into Victoria's cheeks. Then she glanced at Austen and bit her lip-and laughed. Her laughter was contagious.
“I suppose I shall have to confess that you have inspired my curiosity, Mr. Vane,” she said.
Austen's face was sunburned, but it flushed a more vivid red under the tan. It is needless to pretend that a man of his appearance and qualities had reached the age of thirty-two without having listened to feminine comments of which he was the exclusive subject. In this remark of Victoria's, or rather in the manner in which she made it, he recognized a difference.
“It is a tribute, then, to the histrionic talents of Mr. Meader, of which you were speaking,” he replied laughingly.
Victoria glanced at him with interest as he looked down at Mr. Meader.
“And how is it to-day, Zeb?” he said.
“It ain't so bad as it might be—with sech folks as her and you araound,” admitted Mr. Meader. “I'd almost agree to get run over again. She was askin' about you, and that's a fact, and I didn't slander you, neither. But I never callated to comprehend wimmen-folks.”
“Now, Mr. Meader,” said Victoria, reprovingly, but there were little creases about her eyes, “don't be a fraud.”
“It's true as gospel,” declared the invalid; “they always got the better of me. I had one of 'em after me once, when I was young and prosperin' some.”
“And yet you have survived triumphant,” she exclaimed.
“There wahn't none of 'em like you,” said Mr. Meader, “or it might have be'n different.”
Again her eyes irresistibly sought Austen's—as though to share with him the humour of this remark—and they laughed together. Her colour, so sensitive, rose again, but less perceptibly this time. Then she got up.
“That's unfair, Mr. Meader!” she protested.
“I'll leave it to Austen,” said Mr. Meader, “if it ain't probable. He'd ought to know.”
In spite of a somewhat natural embarrassment, Austen could not but acknowledge to himself that Mr. Meader was right. With a womanly movement which he thought infinitely graceful, Victoria leaned over the bed.
“Mr. Meader,” she said, “I'm beginning to think it's dangerous for me to come here twice a week to see you, if you talk this way. And I'm not a bit surprised that that woman didn't get the better of you.”
“You hain't a-goin'!” he exclaimed. “Why, I callated—”
“Good-by,” she said quickly; “I'm glad to see that you are doing so well.” She raised her head and looked at Austen in a curious, inscrutable way. “Good-by, Mr. Vane,” she said; “I—I hope Mr. Blodgett has recovered.”
Before he could reply she had vanished, and he was staring at the empty doorway. The reference to the unfortunate Mr. Blodgett, after taking his breath away, aroused in him an intense curiosity betraying, as it did, a certain knowledge of past events in his life in the hitherto unknown daughter of Augustus interest could she have in him? Such a Flint. What question, from similar sources, has heightened the pulse of young men from time immemorial.
CHAPTER IV. “TIMEO DANAOS”
The proverbial little birds that carry news and prophecies through the air were evidently responsible for an official-looking letter which Austen received a few mornings later. On the letter-head was printed “The United Northeastern Railroads,” and Mr. Austen Vane was informed that, by direction of the president, the enclosed was sent to him in an entirely complimentary sense. “The enclosed” was a ticket of red cardboard, and its face informed him that he might travel free for the rest of the year. Thoughtfully turning it over, he read on the back the following inscription:—“It is understood that this pass is accepted by its recipient as a retainer.”
Austen stared at it and whistled. Then he pushed back his chair, with the pass in his hand, and hesitated. He seized a pen and wrote a few lines: “Dear sir, I beg to return the annual pass over the Northeastern Railroads with which you have so kindly honoured me”—when he suddenly changed his mind again, rose, and made his way through the corridors to his father's office. The Honourable Hilary was absorbed in his daily perusal of the Guardian.
“Judge,” he asked, “is Mr. Flint up at his place this week?”
The Honourable Hilary coughed.
“He arrived yesterday on the three. Er—why?”
“I wanted to go up and thank him for this,” his son answered, holding up the red piece of cardboard. “Mr. Flint is a very thoughtful man.”
The Honourable Hilary tried to look unconcerned, and succeeded.
“Sent you an annual, has he? Er—I don't know as I'd bother him personally, Austen. Just a pleasant note of acknowledgment.”
“I don't flatter myself that my achievements in the law can be responsible for it,” said Austen. “The favour must be due to my relationship with his eminent chief counsel.”
Hilary Vane's keen eyes rested on his son for an instant. Austen was more than ever an enigma to him.
“I guess relationship hasn't got much to do with business,” he replied. “You have be'n doing—er—better than I expected.”
“Thank you, Judge,” said Austen, quietly. “I don't mind saying that I would rather have your approbation than—this more substantial recognition of merit.”
The Honourable Hilary's business was to deal with men, and by reason of his ability in so doing he had made a success in life. He could judge motives more than passably well, and play upon weaknesses. But he left Austen's presence that morning vaguely uneasy, with a sense of having received from his own son an initial defeat at a game of which he was a master. Under the excuse of looking up some precedents, he locked his doors to all comers for two hours, and paced his room. At one moment he reproached himself for not having been frank; for not having told Austen roundly that this squeamishness about a pass was unworthy of a strong man of affairs; yes, for not having revealed to him the mysteries of railroad practice from the beginning. But frankness was not an ingredient of the Honourable Hilary's nature, and Austen was not the kind of man who would accept a hint and a wink. Hilary Vane had formless forebodings, and found himself for once in his life powerless to act.
The cost of living in Ripton was not so high that Austen Vane could not afford to keep a horse and buggy. The horse, which he tended himself, was appropriately called Pepper; Austen had found him in the hills, and he was easily the finest animal in Ripton: so good, in fact, that Mr. Humphrey Crewe (who believed he had an eye for horses) had peremptorily hailed Austen from a motorcar and demanded the price, as was Mr. Crewe's wont when he saw a thing he desired. He had been somewhat surprised and not inconsiderably offended by the brevity and force of the answer which he had received.
On the afternoon of the summer's day in which Austen had the conversation with his father just related, Pepper was trotting at a round clip