Weak men don"t dominate political parties."
"This political game looks mighty queer to me," the admiral remarked.
"I"ve never voted in my life, but I guess I"ll try it now they"ve put me on the shelf. Do you vote, Mr. Ware?"
"Oh, yes! I"m one of these sentimentalists who tries to vote for the best man. Naturally no man I ever vote for is elected."
"If I voted I should want to see the man first," Mrs. Owen averred. "I should ask him how much he expected to make out of the job."
"You"d be a tartar in politics, Sally," said the admiral. "The Governor told me the other day that when he hears that you"re coming to the State House to talk about the Woman"s Reformatory,--or whatever it is you"re trustee of,--he crawls under the table. He says they were going to cut down the Reformatory"s appropriation last winter, but that you went to the legislature and gave an example of lobbying that made the tough old railroad campaigners green with envy."
"I reckon I did! I told the members of that committee that if they cut that appropriation I"d go into their counties and spend every cent I"ve got fighting "em if they ever ran for office again. Joshua, fill the gla.s.ses."
Sylvia was anxious to know the rest of the story.
"I hope they gave you the money, Mrs. Owen," she said.
Did they give it to me? Why, child, they raised it twenty thousand dollars! I had to hold "em down. Then Morton Ba.s.sett pulled it through the senate for me. I told him if he didn"t I"d cut his acquaintance."
"There"s Ed Thatcher, too, if we"re restricted to the Democratic camp,"
the minister was saying. "Thatcher has a fortune to use if he ever wants to try for something big in politics, which doesn"t seem likely."
"He has a family that can spend his money," said Mrs. Martin. "What would he want with an office anyway? The governorship would bore him to death."
"It might tickle him to go to the senate, particularly if he had a score to clean up in connection with it," remarked Ware.
"Just what do you mean by that?" asked the admiral.
"Well," Ware replied, "he and Ba.s.sett are as thick as thieves just now in business operations. If some day it came about that they didn"t get on so well,--if Ba.s.sett tried to drop him as they say he has sometimes dropped men when he didn"t have any more use for them,--then Thatcher"s sporting blood might a.s.sert itself. I should be sorry for Ba.s.sett if that time came."
"Edward Thatcher knows a horse," interposed Mrs. Owen. "I like Edward Thatcher."
"I"ve fished with Ba.s.sett," said the minister. "A good fisherman ought to make a good politician; there"s a lot, I guess, in knowing just how to bait the hook, or where to drop the fly, and how to play your fish.
And Ba.s.sett is a man of surprising tastes. He"s a book collector,--rare editions and fine bindings and that sort of thing."
"Is it possible! The newspapers that abuse him never mention those things, of course," said Mrs. Martin.
A brief restraint fell upon the company, as they realized suddenly that they were discussing the husband of their hostess"s niece, whom the opposition press declared to be the most vicious character that had ever appeared in the public life of the state. The minister had spoken well of him; the others did not know him, or spoke cautiously; and Mrs. Owen herself seemed, during Ware"s last speech, to be a trifle restless. She addressed some irrelevant remark to the admiral as they rose and adjourned to the long side veranda where the men lighted cigars.
"I think I like this corner best," remarked Ware when the others had disposed themselves. "Miss Sylvia, won"t you sit by me?" She watched his face as the match flamed to his cigar. It was deep-lined and rugged, with high cheek bones, that showed plainly when he shut his jaws. It occurred to Sylvia that but for his mustache his face would have been almost typically Indian. She had seen somewhere a photograph of a Sioux chief whose austere countenance was very like the minister"s. Ware did not fit into any of her preconceived ideas of the clerical office. Dr.
Wandless, the retired president of Madison College, was a minister, and any one would have known it, for the fact was proclaimed by his dress and manner; he might, in the most casual meeting on the campus, have raised his hands in benediction without doing anything at all extraordinary. Ware belonged to a strikingly different order, and Sylvia did not understand him. He had been a soldier; and Sylvia could not imagine Dr. Wandless in a cavalry charge. Ware flung the match-stick away and settled himself comfortably into his chair. The others were talking amongst themselves of old times, and Sylvia experienced a sense of ease and security in the minister"s company.
"Those people across there are talking of the Hoosiers that used to be, and about the good folks who came into the wilderness and made Indiana a commonwealth. I"m a pilgrim and a stranger comparatively speaking. I"m not a Hoosier; are you?"
"No, Mr. Ware; I was born in New York City."
"Ho! I might have known there was some sort of tie between us. I was born in New York myself--"way up in the Adirondack country. You"ve heard of Old John Brown? My father"s farm was only an hour"s march from Brown"s place. I used to see the old man, and it wasn"t my fault I wasn"t mixed up in some of his sc.r.a.pes. Father caught me and took me home--didn"t see any reason why I should go off and get killed with a crazy man. Didn"t know Brown was going to be immortal."
"There must have been a good many people that didn"t know it," Sylvia responded.
She hoped that Ware would talk of himself and of the war; but in a moment his thoughts took a new direction.
"Stars are fine to-night. It"s a comfort to know they"re up there all the time. Know Matthew Arnold"s poems? He says "With joy the stars perform their shining." I like that. When I"m off camping the best fun of it is lying by running water at night and looking at the stars. Odd, though, I never knew the names of many of them; wouldn"t know any if it weren"t for the dippers,--not sure of them as it is. There"s the North Star over there. Suppose your grandfather knows "em all."
"I think he does," replied Sylvia. "He still lectures about them sometimes."
"Wonder what that is, just across the farthest tip of that maple? It"s familiar, but I can"t name it."
"That," said Sylvia, "is Ca.s.siopeia."
"So? How many constellations do you know?"
Sylvia was silent a moment. She was not sure that it was polite to disclose her knowledge of the subject to a man who had just confessed his ignorance. She decided that anything beyond the most modest admission would be unbecoming.
"I know several, or I think I do. This is June. That"s the North Star over the point of that tree, as you said, and above it is Ursa Minor, and winding in and out between it and the Big Dipper is Draco. Then to the east, higher up, are Cygnus, Lyra, and Aquila. And in the west--"
She paused, feeling that she had satisfied the amenities of conversation with this gentleman who had so frankly stated his lack of knowledge.
Ware struck his knee with his hand and chuckled.
"I should say you do know a few! You"ve mentioned some I"ve always wanted to get acquainted with. Now go back to Cygnus, the Swan. I like the name of that one; I must be sure to remember it."
Politeness certainly demanded that Sylvia should answer; and now that the minister plied her with questions, her own interest was aroused, and she led him back and forth across the starry lanes, describing in the most artless fashion her own method of remembering the names and positions of the constellations. As their range of vision on the veranda was circ.u.mscribed, Ware suggested that they step down upon the lawn to get a wider sweep, a move which attracted the attention of the others.
"Sylvia, be careful of the wet. Josephus just moved the sprinkler and that ground is soaked."
"Don"t call attention to our feet; our heads are in the stars," answered Ware. "I must tell the Indian boys on the Nipigon about this," he said to Sylvia as they returned to the veranda. "I didn"t know anybody knew as much as you do. You make me ashamed of myself."
"You needn"t be," laughed Sylvia. "Very likely most that I"ve told you is wrong. I"m glad grandfather didn"t hear me."
The admiral and Professor Kelton were launched upon a fresh exchange of reminiscences and the return of Ware and Sylvia did not disturb them. It seemed, however, that Ware was a famous story-teller, and when he had lighted a fresh cigar he recounted a number of adventures, speaking in his habitual, dry, matter-of-fact tone, and with curious unexpected turns of phrase. Conversation in Indiana seems to drift into story-telling inevitably. John Ware once read a paper before the Indianapolis Literary Club to prove that this Hoosier trait was derived from the South. He drew a species of ellipsoid of which the Ohio River was the axis, sketching his line to include the Missouri of Mark Twain, the Illinois of Lincoln, the Indiana of Eggleston and Riley, and the Kentucky that so generously endowed these younger commonwealths. North of the Ohio the anecdotal genius diminished, he declared, as one moved toward the Great Lakes into a region where there had been an infusion of population from New England and the Middle States. He suggested that the early pioneers, having few books and no newspapers, had cultivated the art of story-telling for their own entertainment and that the soldiers returning from the Civil War had developed it further. Having made this note of his thesis I hasten to run away from it. Let others, p.r.o.ne to interminable debate, tear it to pieces if they must. This kind of social intercourse, with its intimate talk, the references to famous public characters, as though they were only human beings after all, the anecdotal interchange, was wholly novel to Sylvia. She thought Ware"s stories much droller than the admiral"s, and quite as good as her grandfather"s, which was a great concession.
The minister was beginning a new story. He knocked the ashes from his cigar and threw out his arms with one of his odd, jerky gestures.
"There"s a good deal of fun in living in the woods. Up in the Adirondacks there was a lot for the boys to do when I was a youngster. I liked winter better than summer; school was in winter, but when you had the fun of fighting big drifts to get to it you didn"t mind getting licked after you got there. The silence of night in the woods, when the snow is deep, the wind still, and the moon at full, is the solemnest thing in the world. Not really of this world, I guess. Sometimes you can hear a bough break under the weight of snow, with a report like a cannon. The only thing finer than winter is spring. I don"t mean lilac time; but before that, the very earliest hint of the break-up. Used to seem that there was something wild in me that wanted to be on the march before there was a bud in sight. I"m a Northern animal some way; born in December; always feel better in winter. I used to watch for the northward flight of the game fowl--wanted to go with the birds. Too bad they"re killing them all off. Wild geese are getting mighty scarce; geese always interested me. I once shot a gander in a Kankakee marsh that had an Eskimo arrow in its breast. A friend of mine, distinguished ethnologist, verified that; said he knew the tribe that made arrows of that pattern. But I was going to say that one night,--must have been when I was fourteen,--I had some fun with a bear ..."
Sylvia did not hear the rest of the story. She had been sitting in the shadow of the porch, with her lips apart, listening, wondering, during this prelude. Ware"s references to the North woods had touched lightly some dim memory of her own; somewhere she had seen moon-flooded, snowy woodlands where silence lay upon the world as soft as moonlight itself.
The picture drawn by the minister had been vivid enough; for a moment her own memory of a similar winter landscape seemed equally clear; but she realized with impatience that it faded quickly and became dim and illusory, like a scene in an ill-lighted steropticon. To-night she felt that a barrier lay between her and those years of her life that antedated her coming to her grandfather"s house by the college. It troubled her, as such mirages of memory trouble all of us; but Ware finished his story, and amid the laughter that followed Mrs. Martin rose.
"Late hours, Sylvia," said Professor Kelton when they were alone. "It"s nearly eleven o"clock and time to turn in."
CHAPTER IV
WE LEARN MORE OF SYLVIA
Andrew Kelton put out his hand to say good-night a moment after Sylvia had vanished.