Rose’s face fell but hope kindled, one step was gained, and like every wedge it makes the other easier. “But I must go abroad to be finished for any really great success,” she said; “father, can’t you go with me?”
The judge looked at her strangely. “Child, I never thought,” he said harshly; “I haven’t the money to send you yet,—you’ll have to wait until we can save it; it’s another denial for you, Rose. You know I sent a large check to Allestree the other day, and there is little left now.”
A wild hope leaped in her heart, she knew the check would come back, but dared she tell him? Would he take it if it came? Her lips trembled, she was glad of the darkness. “Father, I shall sing,” she said bravely, “perhaps,—who knows,—I shall sing so well that you’ll be proud of me and sit and applaud and send me bouquets.”
He wiped away the gathering moisture in his eyes. “I’ve always been proud of you, Rose!” he said sadly, “but that a child of mine should have to sing for a living! The Lord’s hand is heavy upon me in my old age,” he added pitifully, completely broken down.
The girl’s arms were closer about his neck; her own sorrow, her thoughts of Fox were lost in her love for the old man in his distress. “Who knows?” she cried with new sweet courage, almost gay in her bravery, “perhaps I shall be as lucky as Patti and we’ll have a great fortune and a palace to live in! Oh, daddy, I shall be so happy to sing!”
But he sat motionless, his chin upon his breast and his dull eyes fixed on the open space beyond the window where the lilac bush stood like a ghost amidst the gathering night.
XIX
FOX sat at his writing-table turning over and signing some papers left there in methodical order by his stenographer. He was going out of town at last, and the thought of escape from the oppression of the last few weeks was like a breath of sweet fresh air from the hills where he was born. But even with the prospect of this reprieve he did his work mechanically, glancing up occasionally at the waving tree-tops which were on a level with his open windows and limited his view.
Sandy lay at his feet waiting impatiently for his daily run and in sympathy with his master’s mood. Fox spoke to him once or twice as he paused in his work, and once he bent down and caressed the faithful creature’s head; there was comfort in the sense of dumb companionship. Yet at this very moment of depression he was aware that he had achieved a signal political triumph. His last speech before the closing of Congress had resounded from one end of the country to the other, and been caught up and echoed abroad. He had healed a breach in the party, plucked victory from defeat, and his name was on every lip.
A few months ago the significance of it would have stirred him deeply, his keen political foresight would have shown him the greatest possibilities; now it was dead sea fruit. He knew that in a year, perhaps in less time, he must take a step which would inflict a sharp injury to his career, which would, perhaps, lose him his popularity forever.