CHAPTER XXV.

ELWELL’S POPULARITY.

Elwell manfully maintained his word, given to Peter Coleman, and the results were at once apparent. Perhaps, when he came to fully understand his dangerous position, he was not sorry to keep so clever an adviser as Peter near him all the time.

He fully understood the danger of his situation now, and could find no possible means of relief. He must trust altogether to chance, and chance might wreck him at any moment.

Luckily he had never had any confidants. Peter was the only one beside himself who really knew anything; and really when he came to consider it, there was very little chance for any one else to find out.

He had never been able to explain that meeting with Norine in the hotel corridor, and at this distance of time it seemed impossible. How could this simple country girl, who had never left that little farm, but to accompany him on that short bridal tour, be alone in a fashionable and expensive New York hotel?

It was impossible. In all probability it had been the result of his feverish imagination, or he had been misled in that dark corridor by some chance resemblance. At all events, it was beyond all the probability of chance that she should ever find her way to this little Michigan town. And even if she did, there was no one but himself and Peter that knew his divorce to be fraudulent.

It would be plenty good enough to impose on those simple-minded country people. And so he went on and hedged himself around with his fancied chances for security.

There was only one chance against him, that he could see, and that was the possibility of Peter proving treacherous. Well, he would try what friendship and patronage would do first; but if Peter turned restive, there were other means that could be employed in an emergency, and as he thought of them, there came a steely glitter in his eye that boded ill for Coleman should he prove himself a traitor.

There was no reason as yet, however, to fear Coleman. He was rapidly building up a business that would be profitable enough to render him independent of any future assistance from Elwell. He was attending strictly to it, and making a record as a successful lawyer.

Peter was not likely to kill the goose that laid _his_ golden eggs, by any means--he was too shrewd for that, and Elwell had not been called on for money but once when Peter first came.

In fact, Elwell soon began to find in his friend a very valuable ally. He was popular himself and very ambitious. He had tact, and could meet and make friends of men who were socially his equals, but he was deficient in that unscrupulous audacity necessary for a successful local politician.

This, Coleman supplied for him, and with his help the coveted nomination did not seem so impossible to obtain.

So, all things considered, Elwell had no reason to regret his intimacy with Coleman, for all that intimacy had been forced upon him.

The summer had passed away, leaving Elwell more engrossed in business than ever, and becoming daily more confident of his safety.

Fanny worried him for a time over his promised change of residence.

“Why will you persist in living here?” she cried fretfully. “You only do it to annoy me. You know how I detest the place, and besides that,” she continued in a deeply injured tone, “you know you promised before we were married.”

“But, dear,” protested Elwell, “it is impossible at present. I could not leave here now without serious injury to the business. Be patient for a little longer and we will move.”

But Fanny was hard to appease.

“You promised,” she repeated pettishly, “and you should keep your word.” And she repeated this so often that his life became a burden.

“Only wait,” he said one day, “and if things go right, you may have a chance to show your dresses to good advantage.”

“What things?” inquired his wife, incredulously. “Is it always to depend on chance?”

“Not altogether on chance this time. It is not yet settled; but I think I will get the nomination for Congress.”

Fanny gasped. This was beyond her wildest dreams.

“Oh, James,” she cried, “is it possible?”

“Yes; I think it more than possible. It is altogether probable. But you must remember that it is not yet settled; so you must beware of disappointment. You had better not count on it until you are sure.”

But Fanny was already sure. It was enough for her that her husband considered it probable. She accepted it as a certainty. And from that time forward she devoted a greater part of her time to the contemplation of herself as the wife of a member of Congress, and, of course, a leader of society in Washington.

That same afternoon Coleman dropped into the little office at the mill.

“I did not come to see you,” he said, on finding Elwell in the office. “But since you are here, you can tell me what our chances are for receiving some help from Mrs. Elwell.”

“How can she help us?” inquired her husband.

“Oh, she can help, if she will. Let her go out among the women, especially among the wives of the mill hands, and if she plays her cards right, she can help us a great deal.”

“I only mentioned the matter to her to-day,” Elwell said. “I did not expect that she would be called upon for assistance.”

“Oh, that is nothing,” protested Peter, misunderstanding him. “All the women do that; all she needs is a little tact.”

“That is just it,” replied his friend. “I rather doubt the expediency of calling upon her for help.”

Coleman thrust his hands deep into his trousers pockets and walked over to the window, whistling softly.

“If she can’t do it right, that settles it,” he said presently. “But we need some help.” He came back from the window and seated himself on the desk, swinging one of his short fat legs in the air. “I tell you what,” he said at last, “you get your wife to send for Lettie Allan. Oh, you need not look so indignant,” he went on. “If you can get her over here she will be worth a dozen men.”

“I am not likely to advocate any such thing,” replied Elwell coldly. “You must find some other way out.”

“There is no one else I know of that would do so well,” persisted Coleman. “It requires a peculiar tact. Mill women are hard to handle. It requires some one that will impress them by her appearance, and yet keep them friendly. Better take my advice.”

“Probably for your benefit,” sneered Elwell.

“No; you are altogether wrong there,” the other protested warmly. “I know more about that girl than you do. Why, we are not even friends--I wish we were,” he said slowly; “for I would marry her to-morrow if she would have me.”

Elwell stared incredulously.

“It is so,” continued Peter. “I made one of the greatest mistakes of my life there, and I wish I hadn’t. But you need not fear me; only take my advice and get her over here as soon as possible. See, now,” he went on, seeing some signs of wavering in his friend’s face. “I have always given you good advice. Take this now, and you will find it to your interest.”

“I hardly agree with you,” retorted Elwell. “But if you are determined to marry the girl, I suppose I must help you; but I must consult my wife about it first.”

“All right,” replied Peter briskly; “that settles it; and now I must see Morain. I want to have him elected to the convention, and, like you, I must consult with him first.”

“Not much danger there. I fancy he’ll go quick enough.”

“If he does, he will carry a heap of strength with him. Where is he?”

“Out in the yard, I guess, or down at the drive. Shall I send for him?”

“No,” laughed the other as he went out; “I want to find him good-natured. If he is only up to his waist in water now, he will be just right.” And he went away confident that he had accomplished his purpose and that Lettie would soon be with them.

Elwell went home that night in doubt as to the best course to pursue. There was very little to be expected of Fanny in the way of help; that he knew, and he was sharp enough to see the value of a woman’s assistance.

He did not doubt his wife’s willingness; but she was incapable. He found Fanny flushed with excitement over her probable elevation, socially. She noticed at once that he looked troubled.

“What is the matter?” she cried. “There is nothing wrong?”

Her husband seated himself in his easy-chair.

“There is nothing the matter,” he said. “I have only been thinking about you. You ought to have some one here with you for a while--some good, clever woman that could help you in case we have to entertain. Besides that, you need some company yourself.”

“I am sure I think so,” she replied, in her usual tone of deep injury. “I am just as lonesome as I can be.”

“Why not invite some one, then?”

“You have never mentioned it before,” she said; “and I really don’t know whom to invite.”

“You had better think of some one,” he returned carelessly. And having left it thus to chance, he said no more about it.

Peter called at the house that evening, expecting to find Elwell; and being disappointed in this, stopped for a moment to chat with Fanny.

“By the way,” he said, “have you heard from Miss Allan lately?”

This was the very inspiration Fanny needed.

“I have not heard from her in an age,” she cried, shrilly. “Where is she--at home?”

Coleman presumed so.

“And do you think I could get her to come over and visit me for a while? You have no idea how lonesome I am.”

He had no doubt but Miss Allan would be glad to come.

“Oh, I am so glad!” cried Fanny. “I have been dying to see the darling girl for ever so long. I will write at once and ask her.”

And Coleman went away smiling slyly, perfectly sure of the result. And he was right this time, for in less than a week Miss Allan was installed in the Morain household as a visitor for an indefinite period.

Peter managed to tell her what was expected of her without any unnecessary delay.

“You said you would be glad to come,” he said; “and now I want you to help us out, and I will see that Elwell makes it worth your while. And by the way,” he went on, hesitating a little, “you had better not mention what is past.”

“What do you mean?” inquired Lettie, turning on him haughtily.

“Why, I mean about that paper, you know, and all that.”

Lettie nodded quietly.

Coleman walked the floor for a moment, in an uneasy frame of mind. He was yet in doubt how far he should trust her. At last he said:

“You came near making trouble once, without knowing it; and I had better tell you that Elwell has a divorced wife living, and he does not care to have it known; so you will have to be a little careful.”

Lettie nodded again. It was a matter of indifference to her, and she was not likely to concern herself about it. She did all that was required of her, and did it well, proving herself an invaluable ally. Yet she had no interest in it at all. It was simply the excitement that she craved.

She could never become close friends with Fanny. She could find nothing congenial in that shallow nature. As for Elwell, they avoided each other tacitly, and the only one she cared for at all was Mr. Morain. They became close friends, and old Pat would have sworn by her.

She had many chances for doing good. There was no limit placed on the amount of money she spent, and she loved charity for its own sake. So she stayed through the short but exciting campaign, quiet and helpful, often shielding Fanny from the effects of her many blunders, and making friends of all she met.

She was there and received the telegram that notified the waiting family that the first step had been accomplished, and James Elwell had been nominated to represent that district in the National Congress, and the excitement engendered in the little town by the news was almost bewildering.

It was the first time in the history of the place that one of its citizens had been honored by a nomination to any Federal office, and the town went almost crazy over it.

Banners with mottoes more or less appropriate were stretched across the one business street, from almost every building, and flags, also covered with mottoes, were raised wherever a pole could be found able to bear one. The mottoes were almost as varied in wording as were the banners in shape and size, but “Elwell and Reform” predominated over all the others.

No one had any idea of the particular “reform” that he was expected to bring about; but he had been nominated as a “reform” candidate by a “reform” convention, and therefore the mottoes must be appropriate.

There was no doubt of his election; even the adherents of the rival candidate, who was also for “reform,” were disposed to hedge on the congressional ticket, in order, probably, to be on the winning side.

There was no doubt about his election, for he was not only a “reform” candidate, but he was also the “workingman’s” candidate. And so all the wealthy salt and lumber men of the district got together and contributed a large fund to cover the expenses of the campaign, and possibly to convince the workingmen that this was their candidate; and as there happened to be no wealthy salt and lumber men to contribute to the campaign expenses of the rival candidate, his defeat was conceded by all, no one appearing to think there was any “reform” necessary in this particular.

When Morain and Coleman returned from the nominating convention they received a tremendous ovation.

Old Pat had made a telling speech in favor of his candidate, and had paid the expenses of all the delegates who had favored him; and it was conceded by all that Peter had spent the money judiciously. And the entire town turned out in honor of these two “reformers;” they had some speech-making in public, and some other brands of enthusiasm in private, and the bar and billiard room of the hotel did not open until a late hour next morning, in consequence of some of these “reformers” becoming so overcome by enthusiasm that they could not be removed until they recovered.

And twice a week thereafter there were afternoon and evening meetings on the public square, in behalf of one of these “reform” candidates--with this difference: when a meeting was held for “Elwell and Reform,” the mills and salt blocks shut down, so that the hands could go, and to howl their approbation.

Of course, when the meeting was held for the other fellow and reform, the mills and salt blocks went on as usual. He was not a workingman’s candidate.

In the immediate family of the popular candidate the excitement was at fever heat.

Elwell had given Lettie a diamond ring, as a slight recompense, he said, for her valuable assistance, and old Pat had inclosed a check for a large amount in an envelope, and sent it to her as delicately as possible.

She was to stay with them until the election was over--that was settled--and, as Pat said, they expected with her help to have every woman in town with them. They all acknowledged the value of her quiet assistance, and were all--even Fanny--very gracious to her.

Even if he were elected, he would not be called to Washington for something over a year; but Fanny at once began her preparations. She began by counting up the numerous articles of wear that she must positively have; and that gave an excuse for her and Lettie making a visit to Grand Rapids to see if her few little necessaries could be prepared there.

But as this kept her out of mischief that might have been more expensive, they were all quite satisfied.

As Elwell was now away the greater part of the time, making speeches and otherwise convincing the voters that he, and not the other fellow, was the “reform” candidate, the two women were left alone to find such solace as they might in each other’s company.

Fanny was perfectly satisfied with this, for she could talk dress and society to Lettie very much better than to a man. But as her conversation was mainly confined to these topics, I am afraid that Lettie found it a trifle wearisome.

There was only one other topic that Fanny _could_ talk about, and that was her husband. She had never been an affectionate wife, probably because she had never been called upon to show her affection. But as the months went past and the certainty of his election became more apparent, she would talk of his many good qualities for hours at a time, and Lettie would listen with wearied indifference.

There was no relief. Coleman was busy writing leaders for the untrammeled press--that is, such of the untrammeled press as were in favor of _their_ “reform” candidate; and Mr. Morain was busy at the mill.

Lettie would go down there occasionally and talk with old Pat, while she watched the busy saw slice the massive logs of odorous pine into lumber as easily and smoothly as one could cut cheese. Or standing with him on the banks of the rapid saffron-hued river, watch the red-shirted raftsmen, while they sprang from log to log, running as lightly and surely on the rapidly moving logs as an ordinary person could over a kitchen floor.

This she could do occasionally; but the greater part of the time she was obliged to sit and listen to Fanny’s insane drivel. She would have fled from it, only that she dreaded to return to Chicago. And often during this time she would long for the quiet home and affectionate greetings that were waiting for her in that little Pennsylvania village.

She fully intended to return there some day, but she did not feel strong enough yet. She must wait until she became stronger and purer. She had been thinking of all this one day--thinking of her aunt and the pleasant village home, and of Lester Conway, until her heart ached with longing.

“If he were only away,” she murmured passionately, “I could go back there. Dear old auntie would forgive me, even if she knew; but I cannot face him yet.”

And so she thought and thought, until, fearing to be alone longer with her thoughts, she went wearily down to the sitting room to join Fanny.

“My goodness, Lettie, your eyes look perfectly shocking!” cried that amiable lady, as she entered the room. “Have you been crying?”

“No; I never cry,” returned Lettie coldly. “I have a headache, that is all.”

“Bathe it in cologne,” suggested Fanny. “That always cures my headache.”

“I am afraid it would not cure mine,” said Lettie. “I will lie down for a while, and perhaps it will get better.”

She lay down on a sofa near the window, and dreamily watched the clouds sail past. She could see the lake from where she was, and could see the waves roll in and break themselves upon the sandy shore.

“Like our hearts,” she thought; “they break over things that they should be able to cast aside;” and then her thoughts returned to her Pennsylvania home and to Lester Conway. “If it were not for _her_,” she thought bitterly, “he might have cared for me.”

She was thinking this with her heart full of bitterness, when Fanny spoke softly.

“Lettie,” she said, “did you ever know a woman named Norine?”

Lettie sprang from the sofa in her astonishment; for a moment her mask of cold indifference was lifted.

“Whom did you say?” she cried breathlessly.

“Dear me, how excited you get,” said Fanny peevishly. “I only asked you if you had heard the name before.”

The mask dropped again over Lettie’s face.

“You startled me a little,” she said coldly. “What was the name?”

“Norine.”

Lettie passed her hand over her heart. She was greatly excited, without exactly knowing why; but she would not let Fanny see her excitement.

“I have heard it somewhere,” she said quietly. “An Irish name, isn’t it?”

“Gracious! I don’t know,” replied Fanny. “I have heard it but once in my life.”

“When was that?” inquired Lettie indifferently.

She had returned to the window now, and was standing with her back to Fanny.

“It was the strangest thing that ever happened to me,” Fanny replied; “and I have never mentioned it to a living soul. It was when we were in New York, on our way to Europe, and James went out of the room for a moment, and returned as white as a sheet, looking for all the world as if he had seen a ghost. My, how frightened I was!”

Lettie was plainly interested now. She took a chair in front of Fanny, and stared at her intently. Fanny was greatly flattered by her attention.

“I declare,” she went on, “I was frightened almost to death.”

Lettie nodded attentively.

“Well, he burst into the room, as I have told you,” Fanny continued sensationally, “and dropped into a chair. I was going to call for assistance, but he would not let me. And just think! He staggered over to the table and drank a whole tumbler of wine at once! Just think of it!”

“And then what?” inquired Lettie.

“Well, then he got somewhat better--said it was a fit, and that he was subject to them; but he has never had one since.”

She said this as if it had just occurred to her as a very singular thing indeed.

Lettie got up and resumed her place by the window.

“But the strangest thing of all is, that when he fell asleep--from the effect of the wine, I suppose--he muttered names in his sleep----”

“What names?” inquired Lettie, turning again.

“He said ‘Norine’ and ‘Clinton,’” replied Fanny; “and I have never been able to find out what they meant.” And her voice fell to its usual tone of deep injury.

Lettie knew; she knew it all now. And this man was Norine Bright’s husband--her husband, and alive. Lester could not marry her after all.

She must get away from this little fool, and think it out. She made an indifferent reply.

“Some memory of his childhood, perhaps, or some one that he knew long ago.” And with that she retreated to her own room.

Yes, she understood it all now. From her constant correspondence with Conway she was conversant with all that had transpired at home, and she understood that this husband who had died so mysteriously was not dead at all.

Her first thought was one of exultation. “He cannot marry her now,” she thought.

But then her heart fell. What more hope was there for her? She was not fit to become Lester Conway’s wife.

He would spurn her from him, if he knew all of her past life; and she would not have deceived him, even to become his wife.

How should she use this information became her calmer thought. There was only one way that she could see. She thought of Conway, loving even as she loved, and thought, if this blow should strike him _after_ they were married! No; it was better for him, better for all, that he should know it as soon as possible.

Her aunt had only written that they were to be married. Lettie did not know how soon. They might be married even now.

There was no time to be lost. She must notify him at once. But then again, how? She could not do it from _his_ house. She must return to Chicago; and she got on her things to go out.

At the foot of the stairs she met Fanny.

“Why, where are you going?” she asked. “Are you better?”

“No, not much,” the girl replied feverishly. “I will walk down to the mill. Perhaps the air will do me good.”

Hurrying past her, she went out and took her way at a rapid pace to the mill.

“I must get away,” she thought; “I must get away at once. Perhaps even now I am too late.”

She found old Pat, and informed him briefly that she must go home for a time.

“Go home before the election!” cried Pat, in amazement. “Not a bit of it, my girl; we can’t spare you. What is the matter? Have you and Fanny had a falling out?”

Oh, no; it was nothing like that. She and Fanny were good friends; only she must go, and at once.

Morain noticed her partly repressed agitation.

“Well, my girl,” he said kindly, “if you must go, you must, and I will not prevent you. I am almighty sorry you are going; but then perhaps you can get back in time for the jollification;” and he patted her hand kindly.

“Yes, I will come if you ask me,” said Lettie, only anxious to get away; and she hurried back to the house to pack her things ready for the morning boat.

They were all greatly surprised at her sudden departure; but then, as Peter said, she always was a strange girl, and so they thought nothing about it. And the few remaining days went past until that chill November day came that told all the world that “Elwell and Reform” had triumphed, and that James Elwell was the duly elected member of Congress.