Mr. Crewe\'s Career, Book II.

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MR. CREWE'S CAREER

By Winston Churchill


BOOK 2.




CHAPTER XI

THE HOPPER

It is certainly not the function of a romance to relate, with the
exactness of a House journal, the proceedings of a Legislature. Somebody
has likened the state-house to pioneer Kentucky, a dark and bloody ground
over which the battles of selfish interests ebbed and flowed,--no place
for an innocent and unselfish bystander like Mr. Crewe, who desired only
to make of his State an Utopia; whose measures were for the public good
--not his own. But if any politician were fatuous enough to believe that
Humphrey Crewe was a man to introduce bills and calmly await their fate;
a man who, like Senator Sanderson, only came down to the capital when he
was notified by telegram, that politician was entirely mistaken.

No sooner had his bills been assigned to the careful and just
consideration of the committees in charge of the Honourable Brush Bascom,
Mr. Botcher, and others than Mr. Crewe desired of each a day for a
hearing. Every member of the five hundred was provided with a copy; nay,
nearly every member was personally appealed to, to appear and speak for
the measures. Foresters, road builders, and agriculturists (expenses
paid) were sent for from other States; Mr. Ball and others came down from
Leith, and gentlemen who for a generation had written letters to the
newspapers turned up from other localities. In two cases the largest
committee rooms proved too small for the gathering which was the result
of Mr. Crewe's energy, and the legislative hall had to be lighted. The
State Tribune gave column reports of the hearings, and little editorial
pushes besides. And yet, when all was over, when it had been proved
beyond a doubt that, if the State would consent to spend a little money,
she would take the foremost rank among her forty odd sisters for
progression, the bills were still under consideration by those hardheaded
statesmen, Mr. Bascom and Mr. Botcher and their associates.

It could not be because these gentlemen did not know the arguments and
see the necessity. Mr. Crewe had had them to dinner, and had spent so
much time in their company presenting his case--to which they absolutely
agreed--that they took to a forced seclusion. The member from Leith also
wrote letters and telegrams, and sent long typewritten arguments and
documents to Mr. Flint. Mr. Crewe, although far from discouraged, began
to think there was something mysterious about all this seemingly
unnecessary deliberation.

Mr. Crewe, though of great discernment, was only mortal, and while he was
fighting his battle single-handed, how was he to know that the gods above
him were taking sides and preparing for conflict? The gods do not give
out their declarations of war for publication to the Associated Press;
and old Tom Gaylord, who may be likened to Mars, had no intention of
sending Jupiter notice until he got his cohorts into line. The strife,
because it was to be internecine, was the more terrible. Hitherto the
Gaylord Lumber Company, like the Winona Manufacturing Company of
Newcastle (the mills of which extended for miles along the Tyne), had
been a faithful ally of the Empire; and, on occasions when it was needed,
had borrowed the Imperial army to obtain grants, extensions, and
franchises.

The fact is that old Tom Gaylord, in the autumn previous, had quarreled
with Mr. Flint about lumber rates, which had been steadily rising. Mr.
Flint had been polite, but firm; and old Tom, who, with all his
tremendous properties, could ship by no other railroad than the
Northeastern, had left the New York office in a black rage. A more
innocent citizen than old Tom would have put his case (which was without
doubt a strong one) before the Railroad Commission of the State, but old
Tom knew well enough that the Railroad Commission was in reality an
economy board of the Northeastern system, as much under Mr. Flint's
orders as the conductors and brakemen. Old Tom, in consulting the map,
conceived an unheard-of effrontery, a high treason which took away the
breath of his secretary and treasurer when it was pointed out to him. The
plan contemplated a line of railroad from the heart of the lumber regions
down the south side of the valley of the Pingsquit to Kingston, where the
lumber could take to the sea. In short, it was a pernicious revival of an
obsolete state of affairs, competition, and if persisted in, involved
nothing less than a fight to a finish with the army, the lobby of the
Northeastern. Other favoured beings stood aghast when they heard of it,
and hastened to old Tom with timely counsel; but he had reached a frame
of mind which they knew well. He would listen to no reason, and
maintained stoutly that there were other lawyers in the world as able in
political sagacity and lobby tactics as Hilary Vane; the Honourable
Galusha Hammer, for instance, an old and independent and wary war-horse
who had more than once wrung compromises out of the Honourable Hilary.
The Honourable Galusha Hammer was sent for, and was now industriously, if
quietly and unobtrusively, at work. The Honourable Hilary was likewise at
work, equally quietly and unobtrusively. When the powers fall out, they
do not open up at once with long-distance artillery. There is always a
chance of a friendly settlement. The news was worth a good deal, for
instance, to Mr. Peter Pardriff (brother of Paul, of Ripton), who
refrained, with praiseworthy self-control, from publishing it in the
State Tribune, although the temptation to do so must have been great. And
most of the senatorial twenty saw the trouble coming and braced their
backs against it, but in silence. The capital had seen no such war as
this since the days of Jethro Bass.

In the meantime Mr. Crewe, blissfully ignorant of this impending
conflict, was preparing a speech on national affairs and national issues
which was to startle an unsuspecting State. Mrs. Pomfret, who had
received many clippings and pamphlets, had written him weekly letters of
a nature spurring to his ambition, which incidentally contained many
references to Alice's interest in his career. And Mr. Crewe's mind, when
not intent upon affairs of State, sometimes reverted pleasantly to
thoughts of Victoria Flint; it occurred to him that the Duncan house was
large enough for entertaining, and that he might invite Mrs. Pomfret to
bring Victoria and the inevitable Alice to hear his oration, for which
Mr. Speaker Doby had set a day.

In his desire to give other people pleasure, Mr. Crewe took the trouble
to notify a great many of his friends and acquaintances as to the day of
his speech, in case they might wish to travel to the State capital and
hear him deliver it. Having unexpectedly received in the mail a cheque
from Austen Vane in settlement of the case of the injured horse, Austen
was likewise invited.

Austen smiled when he opened the letter, and with its businesslike
contents there seemed to be wafted from it the perfume and suppliance of
a September day in the Vale of the Blue. From the window of his back
office, looking across the railroad tracks, he could see Sawanec, pale in
her winter garb against a pale winter sky, and there arose in him the old
restless desire for the woods and fields which at times was almost
irresistible. His thoughts at length descending from the azure above
Sawanec, his eyes fell again on Mr. Crewe's typewritten words: "It may be
of interest to you that I am to deliver, on the 15th instant, and as the
Chairman of the House Committee on National Affairs, a speech upon
national policies which is the result of much thought, and which touches
upon such material needs of our State as can be supplied by the Federal
Government."

Austen had a brief fancy, whimsical as it was, of going to hear him. Mr.
Crewe, as a type absolutely new to him, interested him. He had followed
the unusual and somewhat surprising career of the gentleman from Leith
with some care, even to the extent of reading of Mr. Crewe's activities
in the State Tribunes which had been sent him. Were such qualifications
as Mr. Crewe possessed, he wondered, of a kind to sweep their possessor
into high office? Were industry, persistency, and a capacity for taking
advantage of a fair wind sufficient?

Since his return from Pepper County, Austen Vane had never been to the
State capital during a session, although it was common for young lawyers
to have cases before the Legislature. It would have been difficult to say
why he did not take these cases, aside from the fact that they were not
very remunerative. On occasions gentlemen from different parts of the
State, and some from outside of it who had certain favours to ask at the
hands of the lawmaking body, had visited his back office and closed the
door after them, and in the course of the conversation had referred to
the relationship of the young lawyer to Hilary Vane. At such times Austen
would freely acknowledge the debt of gratitude he owed his father for
being in the world--and refer them politely to Mr. Hilary Vane himself.
In most cases they had followed his advice, wondering not a little at
this isolated example of quixotism.

During the sessions, except for a day or two at week ends which were
often occupied with conferences, the Honourable Hilary's office was
deserted; or rather, as we have seen, his headquarters were removed to
room Number Seven in the Pelican Hotel at the capital. Austen got many of
the lay clients who came to see his father at such times; and--without
giving an exaggerated idea of his income--it might be said that he was
beginning to have what may be called a snug practice for a lawyer of his
experience. In other words, according to Mr. Tooting, who took an intense
interest in the matter, "not wearing the collar" had been more of a
financial success for Austen than that gentleman had imagined. There
proved to be many clients to whom the fact that young Mr. Vane did not
carry a "retainer pass" actually appealed. These clients paid their
bills, but they were neither large nor influential, as a rule, with the
notable exception of the Gaylord Lumber Company, where the matters for
trial were not large. If young Tom Gaylord had had his way, Austen would
have been the chief counsel for the corporation.

To tell the truth, Austen Vane had a secret aversion to going to the
capital during a session, a feeling that such a visit would cause him
unhappiness. In spite of his efforts, and indeed in spite of Hilary's,
Austen and his father had grown steadily apart. They met in the office
hallway, in the house in Hanover Street when Hilary came home to sleep,
and the elder Mr. Vane was not a man to thrive on small talk. His world
was the battlefield from which he directed the forces of the great
corporation which he served, and the cherished vision of a son in whom he
could confide his plans, upon whose aid and counsel he could lean, was
gone forever. Hilary Vane had troublesome half-hours, but on the whole he
had reached the conclusion that this son, like Sarah Austen, was one of
those inexplicable products in which an extravagant and inscrutable
nature sometimes indulged. On the rare evenings when the two were at home
together, the Honourable Hilary sat under one side of the lamp with a
pile of documents and newspapers, and Austen under the other with a book
from the circulating library. No public questions could be broached upon
which they were not as far apart as the poles, and the Honourable Hilary
put literature in the same category as embroidery. Euphrasia, when she
paused in her bodily activity to darn their stockings, used to glance at
them covertly from time to time, and many a silent tear of which they
knew nothing fell on her needle.

On the subject of his protracted weekly absences at the State capital,
the Honourable Hilary was as uncommunicative as he would have been had he
retired for those periods to a bar-room. He often grunted and cleared his
throat and glanced at his son when their talk bordered upon these
absences; and he was even conscious of an extreme irritation against
himself as well as Austen because of the instinct that bade him keep
silent. He told himself fiercely that he had nothing to be ashamed of,
nor would he have acknowledged that it was a kind of shame that bade him
refrain even from circumstantial accounts of what went on in room Number
Seven of the Pelican. He had an idea that Austen knew and silently
condemned; and how extremely maddening was this feeling to the Honourable
Hilary may well be imagined. All his life long he had deemed himself
morally invulnerable, and now to be judged and ethically found wanting by
the son of Sarah Austen was, at times, almost insupportable. Were the
standards of a long life to be suddenly reversed by a prodigal son?

To get back to Austen. On St. Valentine's Day of that year when, to tell
the truth, he was seated in his office scribbling certain descriptions of
nature suggested by the valentines in Mr. Hayman's stationery store, the
postman brought in a letter from young Tom Gaylord. Austen laughed as he
read it. "The Honourable Galusha Hammer is well named," young Tom wrote,
"but the conviction has been gaining ground with me that a hammer is
about as much use as a shovel would be at the present time. It is not the
proper instrument." "But the 'old man'" (it was thus young Tom was wont
to designate his parent) "is pig-headed when he gets to fighting, and
won't listen to reason. If he believes he can lick the Northeastern with
a Hammer, he is durned badly mistaken, and I told him so. I have been
giving him sage advice in little drops--after meals. I tell him there is
only one man in the State who has sense enough even to shake the
Northeastern, and that's you. He thinks this a pretty good joke. Of
course I realize where your old man is planted, and that you might have
some natural delicacy and wish to refrain from giving him a jar. But come
down for an hour and let me talk to you, anyway. The new statesman from
Leith is cutting a wide swath. Not a day passes but his voice is heard
roaring in the Forum; he has visited all the State institutions, dined
and wined the governor and his staff and all the ex-governors he can lay
his hands on, and he has that hard-headed and caustic journalist, Mr.
Peter Pardriff, of the State Tribune, hypnotized. He has some swells up
at his house to hear his speech on national affairs, among them old
Flint's daughter, who is a ripper to look at, although I never got nearer
to her than across the street. As you may guess, it is something of a
card for Crewe to have Flint's daughter here."

Austen sat for a long time after reading this letter, idly watching the
snow-clouds gathering around Sawanec. Then he tore up the paper, on which
he had been scribbling, into very small bits, consulted a time-table, and
at noon, in a tumult of feelings, he found himself in a back seat of the
express, bound for the capital.

Arriving at the station, amidst a hurry and bustle of legislators and
politicians coming and going, many of whom nodded to him, he stood for a
minute in the whirling snow reflecting. Now that he was here, where was
he to stay? The idea of spending the night at the Pelican was repellent
to him, and he was hesitating between two more modest hostelries when he
was hailed by a giant with a flowing white beard, a weather-beaten face,
and a clear eye that shone with a steady and kindly light. It was James
Redbrook, the member from Mercer.

"Why, how be you, Austen?" he cried, extending a welcome hand; and, when
Austen had told him his dilemma: "Come right along up to my lodgings. I
live at the Widow Peasley's, and there's a vacant room next to mine."

Austen accepted gratefully, and as they trudged through the storm up the
hill, he inquired how legislative matters were progressing. Whereupon Mr.
Redbrook unburdened himself.

"Say, I just warmed up all over when I see you, Austen. I'm so glad to
run across an honest man. We ain't forgot in Mercer what you did for Zeb
Meader, and how you went against your interests. And I guess it ain't
done you any harm in the State. As many as thirty or forty members have
spoke to me about it. And down here I've got so I just can't hold in any
more."

"Is it as bad as that, Mr. Redbrook?" asked Austen, with a serious glance
at the farmer's face.

"It's so bad I don't know how to begin," said the member from Mercer, and
paused suddenly. "But I don't want to hurt your feelings, Austen, seeing
your father is--where he is."

"Go on," said Austen, "I understand."

"Well," said Mr. Redbrook, "it just makes me tremble as an American
citizen. The railrud sends them slick cusses down here that sit in the
front seats who know all this here parliamentary law and the tricks of
the trade, and every time any of us gets up to speak our honest minds,
they have us ruled out of order or get the thing laid on the table until
some Friday morning when there ain't nobody here, and send it along up to
the Senate. They made that fat feller, Doby, Speaker, and he's stuffed
all the important committees so that you can't get an honest measure
considered. You can talk to the committees all you've a mind to, and
they'll just listen and never do anything. There's five hundred in the
House, and it ain't any more of a Legislature than a camp-meetin' is.
What do you suppose they done last Friday morning, when there wahn't but
twenty men at the session? We had an anti-pass law, and all these fellers
were breakin' it. It forbid anybody riding on a pass except railroad
presidents, directors, express messengers, and persons in misfortune, and
they stuck in these words, 'and others to whom passes have been granted
by the proper officers.' Ain't that a disgrace to the State? And those
twenty senators passed it before we got back on Tuesday. You can't get a
bill through that Legislature unless you go up to the Pelican and get
permission of Hilary--"

Here Mr. Redbrook stopped abruptly, and glanced contritely at his
companion.

"I didn't mean to get goin' so," he said, "but sometimes I wish this
American government'd never been started."

"I often feel that way myself, Mr. Redbrook," said Austen.

"I knowed you did. I guess I can tell an honest man when I see one. It's
treason to say anything against this Northeastern louder than a whisper.
They want an electric railrud bad up in Greenacre, and when some of us
spoke for it and tried to get the committee to report it, those cheap
fellers from Newcastle started such a catcall we had to set down."

By this time they were at the Widow Peasley's, stamping the snow from off
their boots.

"How general is this sentiment?" Austen asked, after he had set down his
bag in the room he was to occupy.

"Why," said Mr. Redbrook, with conviction, "there's enough feel as I do
to turn that House upside down--if we only had a leader. If you was only
in there, Austen."

"I'm afraid I shouldn't be of much use," Austen answered. "They'd have
given me a back seat, too."

The Widow Peasley's was a frame and gabled house of Revolutionary days
with a little terrace in front of it and a retaining wall built up from
the sidewalk. Austen, on the steps, stood gazing across at a square
mansion with a wide cornice, half hidden by elms and maples and pines. It
was set far back from the street, and a driveway entered the picket-fence
and swept a wide semicircle to the front door and back again. Before the
door was a sleigh of a pattern new to him, with a seat high above the
backs of two long-bodied, deep-chested horses, their heads held with
difficulty by a little footman with his arms above him. At that moment
two figures in furs emerged from the house. The young woman gathered up
the reins and leaped lightly to the box, the man followed; the little
groom touched his fur helmet and scrambled aboard as the horses sprang
forward to the music of the softest of bells. The sleigh swept around the
curve, avoided by a clever turn a snow-pile at the entrance, the young
woman raised her eyes from the horses, stared at Austen, and bowed. As
for Austen, he grew warm as he took off his hat, and he realized that his
hand was actually trembling. The sleigh flew on up the hill, but she
turned once more to look behind her, and he still had his hat in his
hand, the snowflakes falling on his bared head. Then he was aware that
James Redbrook was gazing at him curiously.

"That's Flint's daughter, ain't it?" inquired the member from Mercer.
"Didn't callate you'd know her."

Austen flushed. He felt exceedingly foolish, but an answer came to him.

"I met her in the hospital. She used to go there to see Zeb Meader."

"That's so," said Mr. Redbrook; "Zeb told me about it, and she used to
come to Mercer to see him after he got out. She ain't much like the old
man, I callate."

"I don't think she is," said Austen.

"I don't know what she's stayin' with that feller Crewe for," the farmer
remarked; of all the etarnal darn idiots--why, Brush Bascom and that
Botcher and the rest of 'em are trailin' him along and usin' him for the
best thing that ever came down here. He sets up to be a practical man,
and don't know as much as some of us hayseeds in the back seats. Where be
you goin'?"

"I was going to the Pelican."

"Well, I've got a committee meetin' of Agriculture," said Mr. Redbrook.
"Could you be up here at Mis' Peasley's about eight to-night?"

"Why, yes," Austen replied, "if you want to see me."

"I do want to see you," said Mr. Redbrook, significantly, and waved a
farewell.

Austen took his way slowly across the state-house park, threading among
the groups between the snow-banks towards the wide facade of the Pelican
Hotel. Presently he paused, and then with a sudden determination crossed
the park diagonally into Main Street, walking rapidly southward and
scrutinizing the buildings on either side until at length these began to
grow wide apart, and he spied a florist's sign with a greenhouse behind
it. He halted again, irresolutely, in front of it, flung open the door,
and entered a boxlike office filled with the heated scents of flowers. A
little man eyed him with an obsequious interest which he must have
accorded to other young men on similar errands. Austen may be spared a
repetition of the very painful conversation that ensued; suffice it to
say that, after mature deliberation, violets were chosen. He had a
notion--not analyzed--that she would prefer violets to roses. The
information that the flowers were for the daughter of the president of
the Northeastern Railroads caused a visible quickening of the little
florist's regard, an attitude which aroused a corresponding disgust and
depression in Austen.

"Oh, yes," said the florist, "she's up at Crewe's." He glanced at Austen
apologetically. "Excuse me," he said, "I ought to know you. Have you a
card?"

"No," said Austen, with emphasis.

"And what name, please?"

"No name," said the donor, now heartily repenting of his rashness, and
slamming the glass door in a manner that made the panes rattle behind
him.

As he stood hesitating on the curb of the crossing, he began to wish that
he had not left Ripton.

"Hello, Austen," said a voice, which he recognized as the Honourable
Brush Bascom's, "didn't know you ever came down here in session time."

"What are you doing down here, Brush?" Austen asked.

Mr. Bascom grinned in appreciation of this pleasantry.

"I came for my health," he said; "I prefer it to Florida."

"I've heard that it agrees with some people," said Austen.

Mr. Bascom grinned again.

"Just arrived?" he inquired.

"Just," said Austen.

"I thought you'd get here sooner or later," said Mr. Bascom. "Some folks
try stayin' away, but it ain't much use. You'll find the honourable
Hilary doing business at the same old stand, next to the governor, in
Number Seven up there." And Mr. Bascom pointed to the well-known window
on the second floor.

"Thanks, Brush," said Austen, indifferently. "To tell the truth, I came
down to hear that promising protege of yours speak on national affairs. I
understand you're pushing his bills along."

Mr. Bascom, with great deliberation, shut one of his little eyes.

"So long," he said, "come and see me when you get time."

Austen went slowly down the street and entered the smoke-clouded lobby of
the Pelican. He was a man to draw attention, and he was stared at by many
politicians there and spoken to by some before he reached the stairs.
Mounting, he found the door with the numeral, and knocked. The medley of
voices within ceased; there were sounds of rattling papers, and of
closing of folding doors. The key turned in the lock, and State Senator
Nathaniel Billings appeared in the doorway, with a look of polite inquiry
on his convivial face. This expression, when he saw Austen, changed to
something like consternation.

"Why, hello, hello," said the senator. "Come in, come in. The Honourable
Hilary's here. Where'd you come down?"

"Hello, Nat," said Austen, and went in.

The Honourable Hilary sat in his usual arm-chair; Mr. Botcher severely
strained the tensile strength of the bedsprings; Mr. Hamilton Tooting
stood before the still waving portieres in front of the folding doors;
and Mr. Manning, the division superintendent, sat pensively, with his pen
in his mouth, before the marble-topped table from which everything had
been removed but a Bible. Two gentlemen, whom Austen recognized as
colleagues of Mr. Billings in the State Senate, stood together in a
window, pointing out things of interest in the street. Austen walked up
to his father and laid a hand on his shoulder.