I should declare, from this day onward, that the issue of political passes, newspaper passes, and all other subterfuges would be stopped, and that all political hirelings would be dismissed.  I should appeal to the people of this State to raise up political leaders who would say to the corporations, ’We will protect you from injustice if you will come before the elected representatives of the people, openly, and say what you want and why you want it.’  By such a course you would have, in a day, the affection of the people instead of their distrust.  They would rally to your defence.  And, more than that, you would have done a service for American government the value of which cannot well be estimated.”

Mr. Flint rang the bell on his desk, and his secretary appeared.

“Put these in my private safe, Mr. Freeman,” he said.

Mr. Freeman took the boxes, glanced curiously at Austen, and went out.  It was the same secretary, Austen recalled, who had congratulated him four years before.  Then Mr. Flint laid his hand deliberately on the desk, and smiled slightly as he turned to Austen.

“If you had run a railroad as long as I have, Mr. Vane,” he said, “I do you the credit of thinking that you would have intelligence enough to grasp other factors which your present opportunities for observation have not permitted you to perceive.  Nevertheless, I am much obliged to you for your opinion, and I value the—­frankness in which it was given.  And I shall hope to hear good news of your father.  Remember me to him, and tell him how deeply I feel his affliction.  I shall call again in a day or two.”

Austen took up his hat.

“Good day, Mr. Flint,” he said; “I will tell him.”

By the time he had reached the door, Mr. Flint had gone back to the window once more, and appeared to have forgotten his presence.

CHAPTER XXIX

THE VALE OF THE BLUE

Austen himself could not well have defined his mental state as he made his way through the big rooms towards the door, but he was aware of one main desire—­to escape from Fairview.  With the odours of the flowers in the tall silver vases on the piano—­her piano!—­the spirit of desire which had so long possessed him, waking and sleeping, returned,—­returned to torture him now with greater skill amidst these her possessions; her volume of Chopin on the rack, bound in red leather and stamped with her initials, which compelled his glance as he passed, and brought vivid to his memory the night he had stood in the snow and heard her playing.  So, he told himself, it must always be, for him to stand in the snow listening.

He reached the hall, with a vast relief perceived that it was empty, and opened the door and went out.  Strange that he should note, first of all, as he parsed a moment at the top of the steps, that the very day had changed.  The wind had fallen; the sun, well on his course towards the rim of western hills, poured the golden light of autumn over field and forest, while Sawanec was already in the blue shadow; the expectant stillness of autumn reigned, and all unconsciously Austen’s blood was quickened though a quickening of pain.