“Austen kicked him downstairs,” said Jimmy Towle, the office boy, who had made a breathless entrance during the conversation, and felt it to be the psychological moment to give vent to the news with which he was bursting.
“Is that straight?” Mr. Billings demanded. He wished he had done it himself. “Is that straight?” he repeated, but Austen had gone.
“Of course it's straight,” said Jimmy Towle, vigorously. A shrewd observer of human nature, he had little respect for Senator Billings. “Ned Johnson saw him pick himself up at the foot of Austen's stairway.”
The Honourable Brush's agate eyes caught the light, and he addressed Mr. Billings in a voice which, by dint of long training, only carried a few feet.
“There's the man the Northeastern's got to look out for,” he said. “The Humphrey Crewes don't count. But if Austen Vane ever gets started, there'll be trouble. Old man Flint's got some such idea as that, too. I overheard him givin' it to old Hilary once, up at Fairview, and Hilary said he couldn't control him. I guess nobody else can control him. I wish I'd seen him kick Ham downstairs.”
“I'd like to kick him downstairs,” said Mr. Billings, savagely biting off another cigar.
“I guess you hadn't better try it, Nat,” said Mr. Bascom.
Meanwhile Austen had returned to his own office, and shut the door. His luncheon hour came and went, and still he sat by the open window gazing out across the teeming plain, and up the green valley whence the Blue came singing from the highlands. In spirit he followed the water to Leith, and beyond, where it swung in a wide circle and hurried between wondrous hills like those in the backgrounds of the old Italians: hills of close-cropped pastures, dotted with shapely sentinel oaks and maples which cast sharp, rounded shadows on the slopes at noonday; with thin fantastic elms on the gentle sky-lines, and forests massed here and there—silent, impenetrable hills from a story-book of a land of mystery. The river coursed between them on its rocky bed, flinging its myriad gems to the sun. This was the Vale of the Blue, and she had touched it with meaning for him, and gone.
He drew from his coat a worn pocket-book, and from the pocket-book a letter. It was dated in New York in February, and though he knew it by heart he found a strange solace in the pain which it gave him to reread it. He stared at the monogram on the paper, which seemed so emblematic of her; for he had often reflected that her things—even such minute insignia as this—belonged to her. She impressed them not only with her taste, but with her character. The entwined letters, Y. F., of the design were not, he thought, of a meaningless, frivolous daintiness, but stood for something. Then he read the note again. It was only a note.
“MY DEAR MR. VANE: I have come back to find my mother ill, and I am
taking her to France. We are sailing, unexpectedly, to-morrow,
there being a difficulty about a passage later. I cannot refrain
from sending you a line before I go to tell you that I did you an
injustice. You will no doubt think it strange that I should write
to you, but I shall be troubled until it is off my mind. I am
ashamed to have been so stupid. I think I know now why you would
not consent to be a candidate, and I respect you for it.
“Sincerely your friend,
“VICTORIA FLINT.”