CHAPTER XXV — THE IRONY OF FATE
Morris King had ended a brilliant campaign for the Governorship of New York with victory. The entire ticket was elected by large pluralities.
The campaign had given scope to his ability, and he more than fulfilled the hopes of his friends. From the moment of his election, he became the leader of the party in the nation, and began at once the work of strengthening his position as a Presidential possibility.
Yet in the din and clash of this battle in which his personal fortunes, his future career, and perhaps the destiny of a great national party hung, he had not forgotten Ruth.
He made it a point every day, wherever he was, or whatever the task or excitement of the hour, to write her a love letter. Sometimes it was only a few lines hastily scrawled while on the train between stations where he addressed the crowds at each stop. Sometimes he sent a dainty box of flowers.
She never replied to his letters or little gifts. But it made no difference. He kept steadily on the course he had mapped out, dogged, purposeful, persistent.
The night of the election, when he received the first assurance of his success, before he spoke to any of his lieutenants or received a single congratulation, he closed his door, locked it, and called Ruth over his telephone, which he had connected with her house by special secret arrangement that afternoon.
He recognised her soft contralto voice, and his hand trembled with the joy of the triumph which he felt brought him nearer to his heart’s desire.
He was so excited he could not speak for a moment, and again the low soft voice called,
“What is it? Who is it?”