Coniston, Complete

W >> Winston Churchill >> Coniston, Complete


It was now Cynthia's turn to be a little confused.

"Uncle Jethro--that is, Mr. Bass" (the President nodded), "went to Cousin
Eph when he couldn't make harness any more and said he'd give him the
Brampton post-office."

The President's eyes met the senator's, and both gentlemen laughed.
Cynthia bit her lip, not seeing any cause for mirth in her remark, while
Ephraim looked uncomfortable and mopped the perspiration from his brow.

"He said he'd give it to him, did he?" said the President. "Is Mr. Bass
your uncle?"

"Oh, no, General," replied Cynthia, "he's really no relation. He's done
everything for me, and I live with him since my father died. He was going
to meet us here," she continued, looking around hurriedly, "I'm sure I
can't think what's kept him."

"Mr. President, we are half an hour late already," said the senator,
hurriedly.

"Well, well," said the President, "I suppose I must go. Good-by, Miss
Cynthia," said he, taking the girl's hand warmly. "Good-by, Comrade. If
ever you want to see General Grant, just send in your name. Good-by."

The President lifted his hat politely to Cynthia and passed. He said
something to the senator which they did not hear, and the senator laughed
heartily. Ephraim and Cynthia watched them until they were out of sight.

"Godfrey!" exclaimed Ephraim, "they told me he was hard to talk to. Why,
Cynthy, he's as simple as a child."

"I've always thought that all great men must be simple," said Cynthia;
"Uncle Jethro is."

"To think that the President of the United States stood talkin' to us on
the sidewalk for half an hour," said Ephraim, clutching Cynthia's arm.
"Cynthy, I'm glad we didn't press that post-office matter it was worth
more to me than all the post-offices in the Union to have that talk with
General Grant."

They waited some time longer under the tree, happy in the afterglow of
this wonderful experience. Presently a clock struck twelve.

"Why, it's dinner-time, Cynthy," said Ephraim. "I guess Jethro haint'
a-comin'--must hev b'en delayed by some of them politicians."

"It's the first time I ever knew him to miss an appointment," said
Cynthia, as they walked back to the hotel.

Jethro was not in the corridor, so they passed on to the dining room and
looked eagerly from group to group. Jethro was not there, either, but
Cynthia heard some one laughing above the chatter of the guests, and drew
back into the corridor. She had spied the Duncans and the Worthingtons
making merry by themselves at a corner table, and it was Somers's laugh
that she heard. Bob, too, sitting next to Miss Duncan, was much amused
about something. Suddenly Cynthia's exaltation over the incident of the
morning seemed to leave her, and Bob Worthington's words which she had
pondered over in the night came back to her with renewed force. He did
not find it necessary to steal away to see Miss Duncan. Why should he
have "stolen away" to see her? Was it because she was a country girl, and
poor? That was true; but on the other hand, did she not live in the
sunlight, as it were, of Uncle Jethro's greatness, and was it not an
honor to come to his house and see any one? And why had Mr. Worthington
turned hid back on Jethro, and sent for Bob when he was talking to them?
Cynthia could not understand these things, and her pride was sorely
wounded by them.

"Perhaps Jethro's in his room," suggested Ephraim.

And indeed they found him there seated on the bed, poring over some
newspapers, and both in a breath demanded where he had been. Ephraim did
not wait for an answer.

"We seen General Grant, Jethro," he cried; "while we was waitin' for you
under the tree he come up and stood talkin' to us half an hour. Full half
an hour, wahn't it, Cynthy?"

"Oh, yes," answered Cynthia, forgetting her own grievance at the
recollection; "only it didn't seem nearly that long."

"W-want to know!" exclaimed Jethro, in astonishment, putting down his
paper. "H-how did it happen?"

"Come right up and spoke to us," said Ephraim, in a tone he might have
used to describe a miracle, "jest as if he was common folk. Never had a
more sociable talk with anybody. Why, there was times when I clean forgot
he was President of the United States. The boys won't believe it when we
git back at Coniston."

And Ephraim, full of his subject, began to recount from the beginning the
marvellous affair, occasionally appealing to Cynthia for confirmation.
How he had lived over again the Wilderness and Five Forks; how the
General had changed since he had seen him whittling under a tree; how the
General had asked about his pension.

"D-didn't mention the post-office, did you, Ephraim?"

"Why, no," replied Ephraim, "I didn't like to exactly. You see, we was
havin' such a good time I didn't want to spoil it, but Cynthy--"

"I told the President about it, Uncle Jethro; I told him how sick Cousin
Eph had been, and that you were going to give him the postmastership
because he couldn't work any more with his hands."

The training of a lifetime had schooled Jethro not to betray surprise.

"K-kind of mixin' up in politics, hain't you, Cynthy? P-President say
he'd give you the postmastership, Eph?" he asked.

"He didn't say nothin' about it, Jethro," answered Ephraim slowly; "I
callate he has other views for the place, and he was too kind to come
right out with 'em and spoil our mornin'. You see, Jethro, I wahn't only
a sergeant, and Brampton's gittin' to be a big town."

"But, surely," cried Cynthia, who could scarcely wait for him to finish,
"surely you're going to give Cousin Eph the post-office, aren't you,
Uncle Jethro? All you have to do is to tell the President that you want
it for him. Why, I had an idea that we came down for that."

"Now, Cynthy," Ephraim put in, deprecatingly.

"Who else would get the post-office?" asked Cynthia. "Surely you're not
going to let Mr. Sutton have it for Dave Wheelock!"

"Er--Cynthy," said Jethro, slyly, "w-what'd you say to me once about
interferin' with women's fixin's?"

Cynthia saw the point. She perceived also that the mazes of politics were
not to be understood by a young woman, of even by an old soldier. She
laughed and seized Jethro's hands and pulled him from the bed.

"We won't get any dinner unless we hurry," she said.

When they reached the dining room she was relieved to discover that the
party in the corner had gone.

In the afternoon there were many more sights to be viewed, but they were
back in the hotel again by half-past four, because Ephraim's Wilderness
leg had its limits of endurance. Jethro (though he had not mentioned the
fact to them) had gone to the White House.

It was during the slack hours that our friend the senator, whose interest
in the matter of the Brampton post office out-weighed for the present
certain grave problems of the Administration in which he was involved,
hurried into the Willard Hotel, looking for Jethro Bass. He found him
without much trouble in his usual attitude, occupying one of the chairs
in the corridor.

"Well," exclaimed the senator, with a touch of eagerness he did not often
betray, "did you see Grant? How about your old soldier? He's one of the
most delightful characters I ever met--simple as a child," and he laughed
at the recollection. "That was a masterstroke of yours, Bass, putting him
under that tree with that pretty girl. I doubt if you ever did anything
better in your life. Did they tell you about it?"

"Yes," said Jethro, "they told me about it."

"And how about Grant? What did he say to you?"

"W-well, I went up there and sent in my card. D-didn't have to wait a
great while, as I was pretty early, and soon he came in, smokin' a black
cigar, head bent forward a little. D-didn't ask me to sit down, and what
talkin' we did we did standin'. D-didn't ask me what he could do for me,
what I wanted, or anything else, but just stood there, and I stood there.
F-fust time in my life I didn't know how to commerce or what to say;
looked--looked at me--didn't take his eye off me. After a while I got
started, somehow; told him I was there to ask him to appoint Ephraim
Prescott to the Brampton postoffice--t-told him all about Ephraim from
the time he was locked in the cradle--never was so hard put that I could
remember. T-told him how Ephraim shook butternuts off my fathers
tree--for all I know. T-told him all about Ephraim's war
record--leastways all I could call to mind--and, by Godfrey! before I got
through, I wished I'd listened to more of it. T-told him about Ephraim's
Wilderness bullets--t-told him about Ephraim's rheumatism,--how it
bothered him when he went to bed and when he got up again."

If Jethro had glanced at his companion, he would have seen the senator
was shaking with silent and convulsive laughter.

"All the time I talked to him I didn't see a muscle move in his face,"
Jethro continued, "so I started in again, and he looked--looked--looked
right at me. W-wouldn't wink--don't think he winked once while I was in
that room. I watched him as close as I could, and I watched to see if a
muscle moved or if I was makin' any impression. All he would do was to
stand there and look--look--look. K-kept me there ten minutes and never
opened his mouth at all. Hardest man to talk to I ever met--never see a
man before but what I could get him to say somethin', if it was only a
cuss word. I got tired of it after a while, made up my mind that I had
found one man I couldn't move. Then what bothered me was to get out of
that room. If I'd a had a Bible I believe I'd a read it to him. I didn't
know what to say, but I did say this after a while:--"'W-well, Mr.
President, I guess I've kept you long enough--g-guess you're a pretty
busy man. H-hope you'll give Mr. Prescott that postmastership. Er--er
good-by.'

"'Wait, sir,' he said.

"'Yes,' I said, 'I-I'll wait.'

"Thought you was goin' to give him that postmastership, Mr. Bass,' he
said."

At this point the senator could not control his mirth, and the empty
corridor echoed his laughter.

"By thunder! what did you say to that?"

"Er--I said, 'Mr. President, I thought I was until a while ago.'

"'And when did you change your mind?' says he."

Then he laughed a little--not much--but he laughed a little.

"'I understand that your old soldier lives within the limits of the
delivery of the Brampton office,' said he."

"'That's correct, Mr. President,' said I."

"'Well,' said he, 'I will app'int him postmaster at Brampton, Mr. Bass.'"

"'When?' said I."

Then he laughed a little more.

"I'll have the app'intment sent to your hotel this afternoon,' said he."

"'Then I said to him, 'This has come out full better than I expected, Mr.
President. I'm much obliged to you.' He didn't say nothin' more, so I
come out."

"Grant didn't say anything about Worthington or Duncan, did he?" asked
the senator, curiously, as he rose to go.

"G-guess I've told you all he said," answered Jethro; "'twahn't a great
deal."

The senator held out his hand.

"Bass," he said, laughing, "I believe you came pretty near meeting your
match. But if Grant's the hardest man in the Union to get anything out
of, I've a notion who's the second." And with this parting shot the
senator took his departure, chuckling to himself as he went.

As has been said, there were but few visitors in Washington at this time,
and the hotel corridor was all but empty. Presently a substantial-looking
gentleman came briskly in from the street, nodding affably to the colored
porters and bell-boys, who greeted him by name. He wore a flowing Prince
Albert coat, which served to dignify a growing portliness, and his
coal-black whiskers glistened in the light. A voice, which appeared to
come from nowhere in particular, brought the gentleman up standing.

"How be you, Heth?"

It may not be that Mr. Sutton's hand trembled, but the ashes of his cigar
fell to the floor. He was not used to visitations, and for the instant,
if the truth be told, he was not equal to looking around.

"Like Washington, Heth--like Washington?"

Then Mr. Sutton turned. His presence of mind, and that other presence of
which he was so proud, seemed for the moment to have deserted him.

"S-stick pretty close to business, Heth, comin' down here out of session
time. S-stick pretty close to business, don't you, since the people sent
you to Congress?"

Mr. Sutton might have offered another man a cigar or a drink, but (as is
well known) Jethro was proof against tobacco or stimulants.

"Well," said the Honorable Heth, catching his breath and making a dive,
"I am surprised to see you, Jethro," which was probably true.

"Th-thought you might be," said Jethro. "Er--glad to see me, Heth--glad
to see me?"

As has been recorded, it is peculiarly difficult to lie to people who are
not to be deceived.

"Why, certainly I am," answered the Honorable Heth, swallowing hard,
"certainly I am, Jethro. I meant to have got to Coniston this summer, but
I was so busy--"

"Peoples' business, I understand. Er--hear you've gone in for high-minded
politics, Heth--r-read a highminded speech of yours--two high-minded
speeches. Always thought you was a high-minded man, Heth."

"How did you like those speeches, Jethro?" asked Mr. Sutton, striving as
best he might to make some show of dignity.

"Th-thought they was high-minded," said Jethro.

Then there was a silence, for Mr. Sutton could think of nothing more to
say. And he yearned to depart with a great yearning, but something held
him there.

"Heth," said Jethro after a while, "you was always very friendly and
obliging. You've done a great many favors for me in your life."

"I've always tried to be neighborly, Jethro," said Mr. Sutton, but his
voice sounded a little husky even to himself.

"And I may have done one or two little things for you, Heth," Jethro
continued, "but I can't remember exactly. Er--can you remember, Heth."

Mr. Sutton was trying with becoming nonchalance to light the stump of his
cigar. He did not succeed this time. He pulled himself together with a
supreme effort.

"I think we've both been mutually helpful, Jethro," he said, "mutually
helpful."

"Well," said Jethro, reflectively, "I don't know as I could have put it
as well as that--there's somethin' in being an orator."

There was another silence, a much longer one. The Honorable Heth threw
his butt away, and lighted another cigar. Suddenly, as if by magic, his
aplomb returned, and in a flash of understanding he perceived the
situation. He saw himself once more as the successful congressman, the
trusted friend of the railroad interests, and he saw Jethro as a
discredited boss. He did not stop to reflect that Jethro did not act like
a discredited boss, as a keener man might have done. But if the Honorable
Heth had been a keener man, he would not have been at that time a
congressman. Mr. Sutton accused himself of having been stupid in not
grasping at once that the tables were turned, and that now he was the one
to dispense the gifts.

"K-kind of fortunate you stopped to speak to me, Heth. N-now I come to
think of it, I hev a little favor to ask of you."

"Ah!" exclaimed Mr. Sutton, blowing out the smoke; "of course anything I
can do, Jethro--anything in reason."

"W-wouldn't ask a high-minded man to do anything he hadn't ought to,"
said Jethro; "the fact is, I'd like to git Eph Prescott appointed at the
Brampton post-office. You can fix that, Heth--can't you--you can fix
that?"

Mr. Sutton stuck his thumb into his vest pocket and cleared his throat.

"I can't tell you how sorry I am not to oblige you, Jethro, but I've
arranged to give that post-office to Dave Wheelock."

"A-arranged it, hev You--a-arranged it?"

"Why, yes," said Mr. Sutton, scarcely believing his own ears. Could it be
possible that he was using this patronizingly kind tone to Jethro Bass?

"Well, that's too bad," said Jethro; "g-got it all fixed, hev you?"

"Practically," answered Mr. Sutton, grandly; "indeed, I may go as far as
to say that it is as certain as if I had the appointment here in my
pocket. I'm sorry not to oblige you, Jethro; but these are matters which
a member of Congress must look after pretty closely." He held out his
hand, but Jethro did not appear to see it,--he had his in his pockets.
"I've an important engagement," said the Honorable Heth, consulting a
large gold watch. "Are you going to be in Washington long?"

"G-guess I've about got through, Heth--g-guess I've about got through,"
said Jethro.

"Well, if you have time and there's any other little thing, I'm in Room
29," said Mr. Sutton, as he put his foot on the stairway.

"T-told Worthington you got that app'intment for Wheelock--t-told
Worthington?" Jethro called out after him.

Mr. Sutton turned and waved his cigar and smiled in acknowledgment of
this parting bit of satire. He felt that he could afford to smile. A few
minutes later he was ensconced on the sofa of a private sitting room
reviewing the incident, with much gusto, for the benefit of Mr. Isaac D.
Worthington and Mr. Alexander Duncan. Both of these gentlemen laughed
heartily, for the Honorable Heth Sutton knew the art of telling a story
well, at least, and was often to be seen with a group around him in the
lobbies of Congress.




CHAPTER VI

About five o'clock that afternoon Ephraim was sitting in his
shirt-sleeves by the window of his room, and Cynthia was reading aloud to
him an article (about the war, of course) from a Washington paper, which
his friend, Mr. Beard, had sent him. There was a knock at the door, and
Cynthia opened it to discover a colored hall-boy with a roll in his hand.

"Mistah Ephum Prescott?" he said.

"Yes," answered Ephraim, "that's me."

Cynthia shut the door and gave him the roll, but Ephraim took it as
though he were afraid of its contents.

"Guess it's some of them war records from Amasy," he said.

"Oh, Cousin Eph," exclaimed Cynthia, excitedly, "why don't you open it?
If you don't I will."

"Guess you'd better, Cynthy," and he held it out to her with a trembling
hand.

Cynthia did open it, and drew out a large document with seals and
printing and signatures.

"Cousin Eph," she cried, holding it under his nose, "Cousin Eph, you're
postmaster of Brampton!"

Ephraim looked at the paper, but his eyes swam, and he could only make
out a dancing, bronze seal.

"I want to know!" he exclaimed. "Fetch Jethro."

But Cynthia had already flown on that errand. Curiously enough, she ran
into Jethro in the hall immediately outside of Ephraim's door. Ephraim
got to his feet; it was very difficult for him to realize that his
troubles were ended, that he was to earn his living at last. He looked at
Jethro, and his eyes filled with tears. "I guess I can't thank you as I'd
ought to, Jethro," he said, "leastways, not now."

"I'll thank him for you, Cousin Eph," said Cynthia. And she did.

"D-don't thank me," said Jethro, "I didn't have much to do with it, Eph.
Thank the President."

Ephraim did thank the President, in one of the most remarkable letters,
from a literary point of view, ever received at the White House. For the
art of literature largely consists in belief in what one is writing, and
Ephraim's letter had this quality of sincerity, and no lack of vividness
as well. He spent most of the evening in composing it.

Cynthia, too, had received a letter that day--a letter which she had read
several times, now with a smile, and again with a pucker of the forehead
which was meant for a frown. "Dear Cynthia," it said. "Where do you keep
yourself? I am sure you would not be so cruel if you knew that I was
aching to see you." Aching! Cynthia repeated the word, and remembered the
glimpse she had had of him in the dining room with Miss Janet Duncan.
"Whenever I have been free" (Cynthia repeated this also, somewhat
ironically, although she conceded it the merit of frankness), "Whenever I
have been free, I have haunted the corridors for a sight of you. Think of
me as haunting the hotel desk for an answer to this, telling me when I
can see you--and where. P.S. I shall be around all evening." And it was
signed, "Your friend and playmate, R. Worthington."

It is a fact--not generally known--that Cynthia did answer the
letter--twice. But she sent neither answer. Even at that age she was
given to reflection, and much as she may have approved of the spirit of
the letter, she liked the tone of it less. Cynthia did not know a great
deal of the world, it is true, but the felt instinctively that something
was wrong when Bob resorted to such means of communication. And she was
positively relieved, or thought that she was, when she went down to
supper and discovered that the table in the corner was empty.

After supper Ephraim had his letter to write, and Jethro wished to sit in
the corridor. But Cynthia had learned that the corridor was not the place
for a girl, so she explained--to Jethro that he would find her in the
parlor if he wanted her, and that she was going there to read. That
parlor Cynthia thought a handsome room, with its high windows and lace
curtains, its long mirrors and marble-topped tables. She established
herself under a light, on a sofa in one corner, and sat, with the book on
her lap watching the people who came and went. She had that delicious
sensation which comes to the young when they first travel--the sensation
of being a part of the great world; and she wished that she knew these
people, and which were the great, and which the little ones. Some of them
looked at her intently, she thought too intently, and at such times she
pretended to read. She was aroused by hearing some one saying:--"Isn't
this Miss Wetherell?"

Cynthia looked up and caught her breath, for the young lady who had
spoken was none other than Miss Janet Duncan herself. Seen thus
startlingly at close range, Miss Duncan was not at all like what Cynthia
had expected--but then most people are not. Janet Duncan was, in fact,
one of those strange persons who do not realize the picture which their
names summon up. She was undoubtedly good-looking; her hair, of a more
golden red than her brother's, was really wonderful; her neck was
slender; and she had a strange, dreamy face that fascinated Cynthia, who
had never seen anything like it.

She put down her book on the sofa and got up, not without a little tremor
at this unexpected encounter.

"Yes, I'm Cynthia Wetherell," she replied.

To add to her embarrassment, Miss Duncan seized both her hands
impulsively and gazed into her face.

"You're really very beautiful," she said. "Do you know it?"

Cynthia's only answer to this was a blush. She wondered if all city girls
were like Miss Duncan.

"I was determined to come up and speak to you the first chance I had,"
Janet continued. "I've been making up stories about you."

"Stories!" exclaimed Cynthia, drawing away her hands.

"Romances," said Miss Duncan--"real romances. Sometimes I think I'm going
to be a novelist, because I'm always weaving stories about people that I
see people who interest me, I mean. And you look as if you might be the
heroine of a wonderful romance."

Cynthia's breath was now quite taken away.

"Oh," she said, "I--had never thought that I looked like that."

"But you do," said Miss Duncan; "you've got all sorts of possibilities in
your face--you look as if you might have lived for ages."

"As old as that?" exclaimed Cynthia, really startled.

"Perhaps I don't express myself very well" said the other, hastily; "I
wish you could see what I've written about you already. I can do it so
much better with pen and ink. I've started quite a romance already."

"What is it?" asked Cynthia, not without interest.

"Sit down on the sofa and I'll tell you," said Miss Duncan; "I've done it
all from your face, too. I've made you a very poor girl brought up by
peasants, only you are really of a great family, although nobody knows
it. A rich duke sees you one day when he is hunting and falls in love
with you, and you have to stand a lot of suffering and persecution
because of it, and say nothing. I believe you could do that," added
Janet, looking critically at Cynthia's face.

"I suppose I could if I had to," said Cynthia, "but I shouldn't like it."

"Oh, it would do you good," said Janet; "it would ennoble your character.
Not that it needs it," she added hastily. "And I could write another
story about that quaint old man who paid the musicians to go away, and
who made us all laugh so much."

Cynthia's eye kindled.

"Mr. Bass isn't a quaint old man," she said; "he's the greatest man in
the state."

Miss Duncan's patronage had been of an unconscious kind. She knew that
she had offended, but did not quite realize how.

"I'm so sorry," she cried, "I didn't mean to hurt you. You live with him,
don't you--Coniston?"

"Yes," replied Cynthia, not knowing whether to laugh or cry.

"I've heard about Coniston. It must be quite a romance in itself to live
all the year round in such a beautiful place and to make your own
clothes. Yours become you very well," said Miss Duncan, "although I don't
know why. They're not at all in style, and yet they give you quite an air
of distinction. I wish I could live in Coniston for a year, anyway, and
write a book about you. My brother and Bob Worthington went out there one
night and serenaded you, didn't they?"