Elizabeth Darrell consented to marry him within a few weeks of his
widowerhood. But this Clavering knew was not to be thought of. A week
after his wife’s death he wrote to Elizabeth. He quietly assumed that
all arrangements had been made for their marriage, as soon as he
should have got his divorce. In his letter he reminded Elizabeth there
could now be no question or scruple in regard to her marrying him. He
told her he would be in Washington at the end of the week, when the
proceedings in the Senate would take place, and that he should expect
to see her. He asked her to write and let him know where they should
meet.
Elizabeth realized that she had gone too far to refuse Clavering a
meeting, nor, in fact, did she desire to avoid him. Her feelings toward
him had become more and more chaotic; they did not remain the same for
an hour together. She felt that a powerful blow had been dealt her
objection to marrying him in the removal of the divorce question; she
doubted in her heart whether she ever could have been brought to the
point of marrying him had his wife not died.
And then there had been another interview with McBean. He had told
Elizabeth he was about to leave Washington to be absent a month, as he
was combining pleasure with business on his visit to America, but that
on his return, if the necklace were not forthcoming, he should begin
legal proceedings immediately. Mr. McBean was fully persuaded, while
he was talking to Elizabeth, that the necklace was around her neck,
under her high gown, or in her pocket, or in a secret drawer of her
writing–desk—in any one of those strange places where women keep their
valuables. Elizabeth, in truth, did not know whether the necklace was
in America, Europe, Asia, Africa, or Australia.
Then Baskerville, in spite of the crisis in his own affairs, had not
neglected Elizabeth. He had managed to see McBean, and had discovered
that the solicitor was perfectly justified in all he had done, from
the legal point of view. When Baskerville came to inquire how far
Major Pelham was responsible for what was done, he was met by an icy
reticence on the part of Mr. McBean, who replied that Baskerville was
asking unprofessional questions, and in embarrassment Baskerville
desisted. It became clear, however, and Baskerville so wrote to
Elizabeth, that her concealment of the pawning of the necklace, and her
inability to pay back the money she had raised on it, were very serious
matters, and she should at once lay the matter before her father.
Elizabeth, however, had not been able to bring herself to that. She
thought of all sorts of wild alternatives, such as asking Clavering
to lend her the money; but her soul recoiled from that. She even
considered writing another letter to Hugh Pelham; but at that, too, her
heart cried aloud in protest. She did not know where Pelham was, but
surmised that he was still in West Africa. A letter addressed to the
War Office would reach him—but when?
The more she thought of this, the simplest of alternatives and the one
urged by Baskerville, the more impossible it seemed. She had loved
Pelham well—loved him with all her soul, her mind, her heart; and that,
too, when she was a married woman, loving another than her husband,
without the slightest stain of any sort upon her mind, her soul, her
heart. She doubted if she would have been half so dutiful a wife, but
for Pelham’s love for her and her love for him. It seemed to her
that his respect was as necessary to her as her self–respect. Their
unfortunate attachment had been in the highest sense elevating. It had
not required the soft consolation, the assurances, of weaker passions;
but, lofty and austere, it was as strong and as silent as death, it
seemed to be everlasting. And could a thing seem to be for ten years of
storm and stress and not be?
As Heinrich Heine says, it seemed to Elizabeth as if there were no
longer a great God in heaven since he had made his creatures so
deceitful. What agony was Elizabeth Darrell’s? To have failed in her
duty as a wife would have been the surest way to lower herself in
Pelham’s eyes.
Clavering had reckoned upon Elizabeth’s neither knowing nor
appreciating the effect of the revelations about him; in this, however,
he was mistaken. She had read the newspapers diligently and understood
his affairs far better than Clavering dreamed. The case had made a
tremendous sensation. The tragic circumstances of the catastrophe,
the probable action of the Senate which was known in advance, the
far–reaching scandals which would result from the making public of the
findings, all combined to give the country a profound shock—a shock so
profound that it was known it would seriously jeopardize for the party
in power the states in which Clavering and his gang had operated.
Among public men in Washington the feeling was intense. The senators
who from a combination of honesty and policy had advocated going to
the bottom of the scandals and punishing everybody found guilty, were
in the position of doctors who have successfully performed a hazardous
operation, but are uncertain whether the patient will survive or not.
There was no doubt that many criminal prosecutions would follow, but
there was a general belief that Clavering was too able and resourceful
a man, and had too much money, to be actually punished for the crimes
he had undoubtedly committed. His real punishment was his expulsion
from the Senate.
Elizabeth Darrell knew all these things, and turned them over in her
mind until she was half distracted. Another thing, small to a man but
large to a woman, tormented her. She must meet Clavering—but where?
Not in her father’s house; that could only be done secretly, and she
could not stoop to deceive her father. The only way she could think of
was in the little park, far at the other end of the town, where their
first momentous meeting had taken place. So, feeling the humiliation
of what she was doing, Elizabeth replied to Clavering’s letter, and
named a day—the day before the one set for the final proceedings in
the Senate—when she would see him; and she named six o’clock in the
afternoon, in the little out–of–the–way park.
It was March then of a forward spring. The day had been one of those
sudden warm and balmy days which come upon Washington at the most
unlikely seasons. Already the grass was green and the miles upon miles
of shade trees were full of sap and the buds were near to bursting.
Six o’clock was not quite dusk, but it was as late as Elizabeth dared
to make her appointment. Her heart was heavy as she walked along the
quiet, unfamiliar streets toward the park—as heavy as on that day, only
a few months before, when she had returned to Washington after her
widowhood. Then she had been oppressed with the thought that life was
over for her, nothing interesting would ever again happen to her. And
what had not happened to her!
When Elizabeth reached the park she found Clavering awaiting her. He
could not but note the grace of her walk and the beauty of her figure
as she approached him. She was one of those women who become more
interesting, if less handsome, under the stress of feeling. Her dark
eyes were appealing, and she sank rather than sat upon the park bench
to which Clavering escorted her.
“You seem to have taken my troubles to heart,” he said with the air and
manner of an accepted lover.
Elizabeth made no reply. She had not been able to discover, in the
chaos of her emotions, how far Clavering’s troubles really touched her.
“However,” said Clavering, “the worst will be over to–morrow. I wish
you could be in the Senate gallery, to see how I bear it. The vote on
expulsion takes place to–morrow, directly after the morning hour, and
I know precisely the majority against me—it will be quite enough to do
the work.” Then he added with a cool smile: “I believe if you could
be present, you would realize what a pack of rascals have sacrificed
me to political expediency! Unluckily I can’t offer you a seat in
the Senators’ Gallery, as I might have done a short while ago. The
fools think I will stay away, but I shall be in my seat, and from it
I shall make my defence and my promise to return to the Senate by the
mandate of my state. It will sound well, but to tell you the truth I
have no more wish to return than the legislature has the intention of
returning me. I have something pleasanter in view—it is life with you.”
Elizabeth, beguiled in spite of herself, as women are by courage,
glanced at Clavering. Yes, he was not afraid of any man or of anything,
while she was consumed with terror over a paltry five hundred pounds
and the loss of a necklace worth only a trifle in Clavering’s eyes. She
longed that he would break through her prohibition and speak about the
necklace. But Clavering did not, and he never intended to do so. He
knew very well that Elizabeth’s necessities were his best advocates,
and he did not purpose silencing any of them.
Elizabeth’s reply, after a pause, to Clavering’s remark was: “I
shouldn’t like to see you to–morrow. It will be too tragic.”
“It’s a pity that I’m not divorced instead of being so recent a
widower,” Clavering replied. “Then you could marry me at the moment of
misfortune, as Richard Baskerville proposes to marry my daughter Anne.
It would be a great help to me now, if it were possible. As it is, we
shall have to postpone our marriage until the autumn.”
“No,” replied Elizabeth, decisively, “it cannot be until next year.”
Clavering’s eyes flashed. It was the first time that she had ever
fully admitted that she meant to marry him, although he had from the
beginning assumed it. He had very little doubt that he could induce her
to shorten the time of waiting.
“We will talk about that later. Meanwhile I suppose you will stay here
with your father. We can’t enjoy the London house this season, but I
shall go abroad in June. I shall have straightened things out by that
time, and I can select a house. It will be as fine a one as that which
I have lived in here. I can ship all the furnishings, pictures, and
plate, with the horses and carriages, to London in advance, and have
your establishment ready for you when you arrive. Perhaps it would be
better for us to be married in London.”
Elizabeth Darrell was not what is called a mercenary woman. She had
hesitated when offered vast wealth, and had even declined it on the
terms first offered to her; nor did she believe that she would ever
have agreed to marry Clavering, in the event of his divorce, but for
the removal of her scruples of conscience on finding that his first
marriage was illegal. But these words of Clavering’s about the London
establishment brought to mind her former life there. She made a rapid
mental comparison of Clavering with poor, honest, brave, stupid dead
Jack Darrell; with Pelham as he had been; with her father; and the
comparison staggered and revolted her. If it were written, however, in
the book of destiny that she should marry Clavering, it were better
that they should be married in London, as he suggested. She would
rather escape her father’s eye when that transaction took place, and
nobody else in the world cared how or when she was married or what
might become of her.
Clavering spent the time of their interview in planning their future
life together. He offered her luxury in every form, but he was too
astute a man to make his purchase of her too obvious. He by no means
left out his love for her, which was in truth the master passion of his
life just then. But he did not force it upon Elizabeth, seeing that she
was as yet restless and but half tamed to his hand. Elizabeth listened
to him, with the conviction growing in her mind that she must marry
this man.
Their conversation lasted barely half an hour. Clavering urged
Elizabeth to meet him again before he left Washington, which would be
the next night, at midnight; but to this Elizabeth would not agree.
Clavering saw that he must wait at least six months before she would
tolerate any attentions from him, and he quickly made up his mind that
it was best not to urge her too much now. He had practically received
her promise to marry him at the end of a year, and considering the
obstacles he had to contend with he felt pretty well satisfied. As on
the former occasion when they had met in the little park, Clavering
went after a cab for Elizabeth, put her in it, and they separated.
Elizabeth spent a solitary evening. The calm which reigned in
Clavering’s breast was by no means her portion. She felt that she had
finally committed herself to marry him, and the prospect frightened
her. She recalled Baskerville’s words—the “dreadful possibilities”
which might await a woman married to Clavering. Their contemplation
frightened her more than ever. She was so absorbed in her own troubles
that she scarcely gave a thought to Clavering’s impending fate on the
morrow. She remained up late, and the clock had struck midnight before
her light was out.
Once in bed, Elizabeth was seized with a maddening restlessness,
against which she fought for four hours. When the sky of night
was wan and pale with the coming dawn, she rose and, going to her
writing–table, began to write steadily. Her letter was to Hugh Pelham.
She told him everything, without concealment—the story of the need
that made her pawn the necklace, the story of Clavering, the story of
her life in Washington, of her grief and amazement at what seemed to be
Pelham’s persecution of her, and it closed with a torrent of reproaches
that came from the depths of her heart.
She sealed the letter and addressed it to Pelham in the care of the War
Office at London. She had no idea where Pelham was or when the letter
would reach him; but some time or other he would get it, and then he
would know how cruel his conduct was and how far–reaching was the
effect of his ill–treatment of her. She had glossed over nothing about
Clavering, she had painted him in his true colors; and she had told
Pelham that but for him there would have been no temptation for her to
have married such a man as Clavering.
When she had finished and sealed and stamped her letter, Elizabeth went
to the window and drew the curtain. The flush that precedes the dawn
was over the opaline sky; it was the beginning of an exquisite spring
day. The city lay still and quiet; only one footfall was heard, that of
the postman collecting the letters from the mail–box at the corner. As
he passed briskly along the street under Elizabeth’s window, a letter
softly fluttered down and fell at his feet. He glanced up and saw a
window high above him being closed. The postman picked up the letter,
put it in his bag, and went on, whistling.
Elizabeth, up in her bedroom, threw herself upon her bed and sank into
a heavy and dreamless sleep that lasted until Serena knocked at her
door at nine o’clock. Elizabeth rose, dressed, and breakfasted like
a person in a dream. She remembered her letter instantly, and the
recollection of it made her uneasy. Gradually her uneasiness turned to
an agony of regret. She would have made almost any sacrifice to recall
the letter, but she supposed it was now impossible.
Her great concern made her forget all about Clavering’s impending doom
that day, until quite noon. As she began to consider it, the spirit
of restlessness which seemed to possess her impelled her to wish that
she could witness the scene in the Senate chamber. It might take her
mind from her letter, which burned in her memory and was eating her
heart out with shame and unavailing repentance. She knew there would be
vast crowds at the Capitol, but she felt sure that not one of her few
acquaintances in Washington would be there.
About one o’clock she suddenly resolved to go to the Capitol. Covering
her face, as well as her hat, with a thick black veil, she started for
the white–domed building on the hill. When she reached the plaza, she
found a great crowd surrounding the north wing. Not in the memory of
man had such an event as the expulsion of a senator occurred, and it
was the very thing to stimulate the unhealthy curiosity of thousands.
A steady stream poured into the doorways and jammed the corridors.
Elizabeth doubted whether she would ever get nearer than the Senate
corridor, much less be able to get into the small public gallery. She
noticed, however, that the multitude was pouring into the ground–floor
entrance; so she determined to mount the long, wide flight of steps on
the east front and enter the rotunda through the great bronze doors.
It was a beautiful spring day, and the crowd was a well–dressed and
cheerful one. Nobody would have dreamed that they were about to attend
a great public tragedy. As Elizabeth reached the top of the flight, she
turned involuntarily to look at the beautiful panorama outspread before
her in the Southern sunshine. Fair and faintly green lay the park–like
gardens around the Capitol, while the golden dome of the National
Library flashed and gleamed in the noonday radiance. Never before
had she thought Washington a joyous–looking city, but to–day, with
sunshine and life and motion, with its animated throng of persons, this
continual passing to and fro, it reminded her of Paris on a fête day.
While Elizabeth was looking upon the charming scene outspread before
her, she heard the sound of trampling hoofs and the roll of a carriage
below. Clavering, in his handsomest brougham, with a superb pair of
horses, had just driven up. The coachman and footman wore the newest,
smartest, and blackest of mourning liveries for the mistress they
had seen ignored, when not insulted, during the whole term of their
service. Forth from the carriage, a cynosure for the staring, curious
crowd, stepped Clavering. He, too, was dressed in new and immaculate
mourning, with a crape–covered hat.
Elizabeth shrank behind one of the huge pillars, but from it she saw
Clavering’s dignified and ever graceful air as he braved the glances
of the multitude. The lower entrance being jammed with people, he
leisurely mounted the great flight of steps, a thing he had never
before done in all his senatorial service. The crowd watched him with
admiration and gratitude—it gave them the more time and the better
opportunity of seeing him. He passed close enough to Elizabeth to have
touched her, as she stood quaking with shame and fear; but, looking
neither to the right nor to the left, he walked on, calm, courageous,
and apparently at ease with himself and all the world.
Elizabeth, still moved by an impulse stronger than her will, pressed
forward through the rotunda into the corridors. They were packed, and
the doors to the public galleries had long been closed. Elizabeth found
herself in the midst of a surging crowd, in the corridor leading to the
reserved gallery, the place to which Clavering had told her he could no
longer admit her. While she was standing there, crushed on either side,
a pathway was opened, and a party of senators’ wives approached the
door. At the same moment it was opened and some people came out. In the
slight confusion several tried to get in; the doorkeepers, trying to
separate the sheep from the goats, pushed the intruders back and pushed
Elizabeth in with the senatorial party.
“But I have no right in here,” she said hurriedly to the doorkeeper who
shoved her into the gallery.
“Just go in, madam, and let me shut these people out,” replied the
doorkeeper, seeing the necessity for closing the door at once. So
Elizabeth found herself in the last place either she or Clavering
expected her to be, the gallery set apart for the senatorial families.
It was then almost two o’clock, when the morning hour expired, and the
first business to be taken up was the resolution of expulsion against
Senator Clavering. There was a subdued tremor over the whole scene; the
senators who were to do a great act of public justice upon one of their
own number were deeply moved over it. Not one of them had ever before
taken part in such proceedings, and the species of civil death they
were about to inflict on a man once counted worthy to sit among them
was in some respects worse than the death of the body. The seriousness
of the occasion affected every one present; a psychic wave of shame,
regret, and solemnity swept over the whole assemblage, and a strange
stillness reigned among the people who filled the galleries. Nearly
every senator was in his seat, and the space back of them was crowded
with members of the other house and persons who had the privileges of
the floor.
Clavering sat in his accustomed place, a cool and apparently
disinterested observer of the proceedings. His presence was highly
disconcerting to the committee which had prepared the report, and
indeed to every senator present. It had been hoped that Clavering would
absent himself; there were no precedents in the present generation for
such proceedings, and it would have been altogether easier if Clavering
had chosen to remain away. But as he was a senator up to the moment the
vote was taken, no one could say him nay.
Elizabeth found no trouble in concealing herself behind the large hats
and feathers of the ladies in the reserved gallery, and she could
observe Clavering closely. She thought she had never seen him look so
handsome and even distinguished in appearance. Had he only been honest!
Some thoughts like these raced through Clavering’s brain. He recalled
Baskerville’s remark, “There is no real substitute for honesty,” and he
remembered several occasions when he could have afforded to be honest
and had not been, and he regretted it. Most of all he regretted not
having taken greater precautions when he was dishonest.
At last, the morning hour having expired, the next business on
the calendar was the reading of the report of the committee of
investigation on the affairs of the K. F. R. land grants and the
corporations connected therewith. The Vice–President, looking pale
and worried, recognized the chairman of the committee, who looked
paler and more worried. The stillness resolved itself into a deathlike
silence, broken only by the resonant tones of the reading clerk. It
was not a long report—the reading of it lasted scarcely three–quarters
of an hour; but it was a terrible one. As the charges were named, and
declared proved, a kind of horror appeared to settle down upon the
Senate chamber. The senators who had been lukewarm in the matter were
shamed for themselves; those who had been charged with the execution of
justice were shamed for the cause of popular government. If such things
were possible in a government by the people and for the people and of
the people, it was an indictment against the whole people.
During it all Clavering sat with unshaken calmness. Not by a glance out
of his handsome, stern eyes nor the least variation of color in his
clear and ruddy complexion did he indicate the smallest agitation. Not
even the last clause, which recommended his expulsion from the Senate
of the United States, and which every member of the committee signed,
without a dissenting voice, had the power to move him from his cool
composure.
When the reading was concluded, the chairman of the committee rose
and made a few explanations of the report. He spoke in an agitated
and broken voice. Before introducing the resolution of expulsion, he
hesitated and looked toward Clavering. Clavering rose, and on being
recognized by the chair, asked to be heard in a brief defence.
Although he had always been a hard worker in his committee–room,
Clavering had not often got upon his feet to speak in the Senate
chamber. As he had told Elizabeth months before, he always knew his
limitations as a debater. Having been used to lording over men for many
years, the courteous assumption that every senator is a wise man had
never sat well on him. When he spoke he had always been listened to,
because he always had something to say; but he had shown his usual good
sense and judgment by not measuring himself with the giants of debate.
To–day, however, he had nothing more to hope or fear from those grave
men, whose scorn of him was swallowed up in the execution of justice
upon him.