The Hermit and the Wild Woman

SHACKWELL and the Governor sat over the evening embers.  It was after ten o’clock, and the servant had carried away the coffee and liqueurs, leaving the two men to their cigars.  Mornway had once more lapsed into his arm-chair, and sat with out-stretched feet, gazing comfortably at his friend.

Shackwell was a small dry man of fifty, with a face as sallow and freckled as a winter pear, a limp mustache, and shrewd, melancholy eyes.

“I am glad you have given yourself a day’s rest,” he said, looking at the Governor.

“Well, I don’t know that I needed it.  There’s such exhilaration in victory that I never felt fresher.”

“Ah, but the fight’s just beginning.”

“I know—­but I’m ready for it.  You mean the campaign against Fleetwood.  I understand there is to be a big row.  Well, he and I are used to rows.”

Shackwell paused, surveying his cigar.  “You knew the ‘Spy’ meant to lead the attack?”

“Yes.  I was offered a glimpse of the documents this afternoon.”

Shackwell started up.  “You didn’t refuse?”

Mornway related the incident of Gregg’s visit.  “I could hardly buy my information at that price,” he said, “and, besides, it is really Fleetwood’s business this time.  I suppose he has heard the report, but it doesn’t seem to bother him.  I rather thought he would have looked in to-day to talk things over, but I haven’t seen him.”

Shackwell continued to twist his cigar through his sallow fingers without remembering to light it.  “You’re determined to reappoint Fleetwood?” he asked at length.

The Governor caught him up.  “You’re the fourth person who has asked me that to-day!  You haven’t lost faith in him, have you, Hadley?”

“Not an atom!” said the other with emphasis.

“Well, then, what are you all thinking of, to suppose I can be frightened by a little newspaper talk?  Besides, if Fleetwood is not afraid, why should I be?”

“Because you’ll be involved in it with him.”

The Governor laughed.  “What have they got against me now?”

Shackwell, standing up, confronted his friend solemnly.  “This—­that Fleetwood bought his appointment two years ago.”

“Ah—­bought it of me?  Why didn’t it come out at the time?”

“Because it wasn’t known then.  It has only been found out lately.”

“Known—­found out?  This is magnificent!  What was my price, and what did I do with the money?”

Shackwell glanced about the room, and his eyes returned to Mornway’s face.

“Look here, John, Fleetwood is not the only man in the world.”

“The only man?”

“The only Attorney-General.  “The ‘Spy’ has the Lead Trust behind it and means to put up a savage fight.  Mud sticks, and—­”

“Hadley, is this a conspiracy?  You’re saying to me just what Ella said this afternoon.”

At the mention of Mrs. Mornway’s name a silence fell between the two men and the Governor moved uneasily in his chair.

“You are not advising me to chuck Fleetwood because the ‘Spy’ is going to accuse me of having sold him his first appointment?” he said at length.

Shackwell drew a deep breath.  “You say yourself that Mrs. Mornway gave you the same advice this afternoon.”

“Well, what of that?  Do you imagine that my wife distrib—­” The Governor broke off with an exasperated laugh.

Shackwell, leaning against the mantelpiece, looked down into the embers.  “I didn’t say the ‘Spy’ meant to accuse youof having sold the office.”

Mornway stood up slowly, his eyes on his friend’s averted face.  The ashes dropped from his cigar, scattering a white trail across the carpet which had excited Mrs. Nimick’s envy.

“The office is in my gift.  If I didn’t sell it, who did?” he demanded.

Shackwell laid a hand on his arm.  “For heaven’s sake, John—­”

“Who did, who did?” the Governor violently repeated.

The two men faced each other in the closely curtained silence of the dim luxurious room.  Shackwell’s eyes again wandered, as if summoning the walls to reply.  Then he said, “I have positive information that the ‘Spy’ will say nothing if you don’t appoint Fleetwood.”

“And what will it say if I do appoint him?”

“That he bought his first appointment from your wife.”

The Governor stood silent, immovable, while the blood crept slowly from his strong neck to his lowering brows.  Once he laughed, then he set his lips and continued to gaze into the fire.  After a while he looked at his cigar and shook the freshly formed cone of ashes carefully upon the hearth.  He had just turned again to Shackwell when the door opened and the butler announced:  “Mr. Fleetwood.”

The room swam about Shackwell, and when he recovered himself, Mornway, with outstretched hand, was advancing quietly to meet his guest.

Fleetwood was a smaller man than the Governor.  He was erect and compact, with a face full of dry energy, which seemed to press forward with the spring of his prominent features, as though it were the weapon with which he cleared his way through the world.  He was in evening dress, scrupulously appointed, but pale and nervous.  Of the two men, it was Mornway who was the more composed.

“I thought I should have seen you before this,” he said.

Fleetwood returned his grasp and shook hands with Shackwell.

“I knew you needed to be let alone.  I didn’t mean to come to-night, but I wanted to say a word to you.”

At this, Shackwell, who had fallen into the background, made a motion of leave-taking, but the Governor arrested it.

“We haven’t any secrets from Hadley, have we, Fleetwood?”

“Certainly not.  I am glad to have him stay.  I have simply come to say that I have been thinking over my future arrangements, and that I find it will not be possible for me to continue in office.”

There was a long pause, during which Shackwell kept his eyes on Mornway.  The Governor had turned pale, but when he spoke his voice was full and firm.

“This is sudden,” he said.

Fleetwood stood leaning against a high chair-back, fretting its carved ornaments with restless fingers.  “It is sudden—­yes.  I—­there are a variety of reasons.”

“Is one of them the fact that you are afraid of what the ‘Spy’ is going to say?”

The Attorney-General flushed deeply and moved away a few steps.  “I’m sick of mud-throwing,” he muttered.

“George Fleetwood!” Mornway exclaimed.  He had advanced toward his friend, and the two stood confronting each other, already oblivious of Shackwell’s presence.

“It’s not only that, of course.  I’ve been frightfully hard-worked.  My health has given way—­”

“Since yesterday?”

Fleetwood forced a smile.  “My dear fellow, what a slave-driver you are!  Hasn’t a man the right to take a rest?”

“Not a soldier on the eve of battle.  You have never failed me before.”

“I don’t want to fail you now.  But it isn’t the eve of battle—­you’re in, and that’s the main thing.”

“The main thing at present is that you promised to stay in with me, and that I must have your real reason for breaking your word.”

Fleetwood made a deprecatory movement.  “My dear Governor, if you only knew it, I’m doing you a service in backing out.”

“A service—­why?”

“Because I’m hated—­because the Lead Trust wants my blood, and will have yours too if you appoint me.”

“Ah, that’s the real reason, then—­you’re afraid of the ’Spy’?”

“Afraid—?”

The Governor continued to speak with dry deliberation.  “Evidently, then, you know what they mean to say.”

Fleetwood laughed.  “One needn’t do that to be sure it will be abominable!”

“Who cares how abominable it is if it isn’t true?”

Fleetwood shrugged his shoulders and was silent.  Shackwell, from a distant seat, uttered a faint protesting sound, but no one heeded him.  The Governor stood squarely before Fleetwood, his hands in his pockets.  “It istrue, then?” he demanded.

“What is true?”

“What the ‘Spy’ means to say—­that you bought my wife’s influence to get your first appointment.”

In the silence Shackwell started suddenly to his feet.  A sound of carriage-wheels had disturbed the quiet street.  They paused and then rolled up the semicircle to the door of the Executive Mansion.

“John!” Shackwell warned him.

The Governor turned impatiently; there was the sound of a servant’s steps in the hall, followed by the opening and closing of the outer door.

“Your wife—­Mrs. Mornway!” Shackwell cried.

Another step, accompanied by a soft rustle of skirts, was advancing toward the library.

“My wife?  Let her come!” said the Governor.