Part 74 (1/2)

”It's easy enough to learn how,” said Jeff impatiently. ”The thing is to vote for the right man. That's what I'm coming down for.”

Andrea backed away, deferentially implying that Jeff would be most welcome always, but that it was a pity he should be put to so much pains. And he did go, and found only a few scattering listeners. The others, he learned afterward, were peaceably at a singing club of their own. They had not, Jeff thought, with mortification, considered him of enough importance to listen to.

Weedon Moore, in these last days, seemed to be scoring; at least circ.u.mstance gave him his own head and he was much in evidence. He spoke a great deal, flamboyantly, on the wrongs suffered by labour, and his own consecration to the holy joy of righting them. He spoke in English wholly, because Andrea, with picturesque misery, had regretted his own inability to interpret. Andrea's throat hurt him now, he said. He had been forbidden to interpret any more. Weedie mourned the defection of Andrea. It had, he felt, made a difference, not only in the size but the responsiveness of his audiences. Sometimes he even felt they came to be amused, or to lull his possible suspicion of having lost their old allegiance. But they came.

That year every man capable of moving on two legs or of being supported into a carriage, turned out to vote. Something had been done by infection. Jeff had done it through his fervour, and Madame Beattie a thousand times more by pure dramatic eccentricity. People were at least amusedly anxious to see how it was going, and old Addingtonians felt it a cheerful duty to stand by Alston Choate. The Mill Enders voted late, all of them, so late that Weedon Moore, who kept track of their activities, wondered if they meant to vote at all. But they did vote, they also to the last man, and a rumour crept about that some irregularity was connected with the ballot. But whatever they did, it was by concerted action, after a definite design. Weedon Moore, an agitated figure, meeting Jeff, was so worried and excited by it that he had to cackle his anxiety.

”What are they doing?” he said, stopping before Jeff on the pavement.

”They've got up some d.a.m.ned thing or other. It's illegal, Blake. I give you my word it's illegal.”

”What is it?” Jeff inquired, looking down on Weedie with something of the feeling once popularly supposed to be the desert of toads before that warty personality had been advertised as beneficent to gardens.

”I don't know what it is,” said Moore, almost weeping. ”But it's some d.a.m.ned trick, and I'll be even with them.”

”If they elect you--” Jeff began coldly.

”They won't elect me,” said Moore, from his general overthrow. ”Six months ago every man Jack of 'em was promised to me. Somebody's tampered with 'em. I don't know whether it's you or Madame Beattie. She led me on, a couple of weeks ago, into telling her what I knew about trickery at the polls--”

”All you knew?” Jeff could not resist saying. ”All you know about trickery, Weedie?”

”As a lawyer,” said Weedie, ”I told her about writing in names. I told her about stickers--”

”What did she want to know for?” Jeff asked. He, too, was roused to sudden startled interest.

”You know as much as I do. She was interested in my election, said she was speaking for me, wanted to know how we managed to crowd in an extra name not on the ballot. Had heard of that. It worried her, she said.

Blake, that old woman is as clever as the devil.”

Jeff made his way past the fuming candidate and walked on, speculating.

Madame Beattie had a.s.suredly done something. She had left the inheritance of her unleashed energy, in some form, behind her.

He did not go home that late afternoon and in the early evening strolled about the streets, once meeting Choate and pa.s.sing on Weedie's agonised forecast. Alston was mildly interested. He thought she couldn't have done anything effective. Her line seemed to be the wildly dramatic.

Stage tricks wouldn't tip the scales, when it came to balloting.

Whatever she had done, Alston, in his heart, hoped it would defeat him, and leave him to the rich enjoyment of his play-day office and his books. His mother could realise then that he had done his best, and leave him to a serene progress toward middle age. But when he got as far as that he remembered that his defeat would magnify Weedon Moore and miserably concluded he ought rather to suffer the martyrdom of office.

Would Anne like him if he were defeated? He, too, was wandering about the town, and the bravado of his suit to her came back to him. It was easy to seek her out, it seemed so natural to be with her, so strange to live without her. Laughing a little, though nervously, at himself, he walked up the winding pathway to her house and asked for her. No, he would not come in, if she would be so good as to come to him. Anne came, the warmth of the firelight on her cheeks and hands. She had been sitting by the hearth reading to the colonel. Alston took her hands and drew her out to him.

”It's not very cold,” he said. ”One minute, Anne. Won't you love me if I am not a mayor?”

Anne didn't answer. She stood there, her hands in his, and Alston thought she was the stillest thing he had ever seen.

”You might be a snow maiden,” he said. ”Or an ice maiden. Or marble.

Anne, I've got to melt you if you're snow and ice. Are you?” Then all he could think of was the old foolishness, ”Darling Anne.”

When he kissed her, immediately upon this, it was in quite a commonplace way, as if they were parting for an hour or so and had the habit of easy kissing.

”Why don't you speak,” said Alston, in a rage of delight in her, ”you little dumb person, you?”

Anne did better. She got her hands out of his and lifted them to draw his face again to hers.