dinner was announced did not expect either the Senator or Mrs. March to
come down. Senator March, however, did so, with the same extraordinary
coolness and courage with which he would have dined the night before his
execution. The door-bell had been ringing constantly, and cards,
letters and telegrams had begun to arrive in shoals. No one had been
admitted, but half-a-dozen reporters were camped out on the pavement.
When Senator March's solitary dinner was over he returned to his study
and called up by telephone his man of business, James Watson, arranging
with him to come at ten o'clock with his stenographer, prepared to work
all night if necessary. As the evening wore on, the ringing of the
telephone and door-bells, the delivery of despatches and letters
increased, but only one person was admitted other than Watson, who
arrived punctually at ten. About eleven o'clock an elderly gentleman,
whom the footman recognised as the Secretary of State, called, and when
the footman gave the stereotyped message, that Senator March asked to be
excused, the Secretary paid no attention to it, walked across the hall
and upstairs into the study. Watson and the stenographer rose at once,
and left the floor clear for the great man and the Senator.
"What about this yarn in the afternoon newspapers?" asked the Secretary
abruptly as soon as the door closed.
"I have just telegraphed to the Governor of the State that a vacancy
will exist in the Senate after twelve o'clock to-morrow," answered
Senator March; "I am prepared to confess everything before the Senate
to-morrow and resign my seat."
"What have you to confess?" asked the Secretary, "it was your----"
He had meant to say "your wife," but something in Senator March's eyes
stopped him.
"I am the guilty person," he said, looking the Secretary steadily in the
eye, "it is better for me and better for the party that I should get out
now."
"What do you mean?" cried the Secretary of State.
"Just what I say. Not a vote will be lost to the party in the Senate as
the state legislature is ours, but I must go, and go quickly."
The Secretary began an impetuous argument but presently stopped, saying:
"I fear it is useless for me to reason with you. A Berserker madness
possesses you."
"It is a question of honour," replied Senator March.
The Secretary of State, who had been walking about the room eyeing
Senator March, went up to him and offered his hand.
"It is useless for me to remain," he said. "I think I know the truth of
the business, and perhaps I should act just as you are acting.
Good-bye."
He grasped Senator March's hand, and the two men, looking into each
other's eyes, understood perfectly. If Senator March had been guilty,
as he proclaimed, the Secretary of State was not the man to offer him a
hand.
Meanwhile, in these eventful hours, at the White House, and at every
other political centre in Washington, the agitation was profound, nor
was it confined to those who had a direct interest in Senator March's
downfall. That night there was a large dinner at the British Embassy,
and although the subject of Senator March was uppermost in every mind
little was said about it, and that with bated breath. It was too
astounding and not to be intelligently discussed until Senator March had
been heard. The general belief was not far from the real truth.
When the last guest was gone, Sir Percy and his wife went to Lady
Carlyon's own sitting-room. It was the first moment they had been alone
together since they had seen the startling news in the evening journal.
As they entered the room, Lady Carlyon gave her husband his favourite
chair, and drew the lamp shade so that the light should not vex him--all
those graceful little attentions which are so soothing to a wearied and
perplexed man. She knew by intuition what his first words would be.
"It seems to me," he said, "as if I had brought about this whole
frightful catastrophe, as I introduced Senator March to Alicia Vernon.
But for me, and for my folly and bad conduct sixteen years ago, Alicia
Vernon and Senator March would probably never have met. All the
consequences ought to have fallen upon me, but you see they don't, they
fall upon the man who is the soul of truth and honour, and wreck him
while I sit in peace by my own fireside with you."
Lady Carlyon, being a true woman, would rather the consequences of her
husband's early misdoing should fall anywhere than on him, and with a
woman's conception or misconception of abstract justice said so to Sir
Percy. He felt, however, as if the Fates and Furies had fallen upon the
wrong man. Lady Carlyon combated this with tender sophistry, which did
not convince her husband.
"At all events," she said, "Senator March is an innocent man, and can no
doubt disprove all these things. I should like to hear his disclaimer.
Would there be any objection to my going to the Senate chamber, for of
course the matter will be taken up at once?"
Lady Carlyon had not been brought up in a representative's family
without knowing something of the way things went on in Congress.
"I think you may go," replied Sir Percy. "Of course, Senator March is
innocent, but it would be just like him to sacrifice himself for his
wife."
"As you or any other man, who is a man, would do," responded Lady
Carlyon.
"Yes; but men are not called upon to sacrifice themselves for the right
kind of women like yourself, my dainty Lady Lucy," and then they kissed
each other, and forgot for a time all the troubles and perplexities and
remorses of life.
The next morning dawned clear and bright and soft, an ideal spring
morning in Washington. Alicia March, who had not once lost herself in
sleep through all the miserable hours of the night, rose early and
dressed herself without her maid. Throughout the splendid house was the
sombre and intangible atmosphere of calamity; the servants had read the
newspapers, and knew that disgrace and disaster were at hand for the
master and mistress of that house. They were full of curiosity, and
whispered among themselves, speculating upon their chances of getting
new places.
Alicia watched the whole of the early morning for some communication
from her husband in his locked room, only two doors away from her, but
there was no message or letter. Senator March's own brougham always
came for him at half-past ten, and it was the same on this fateful
morning. Alicia, looking out of the window, saw some light luggage
brought down and placed upon the box. She turned to her desk, and
writing a few appealing words, took them herself to the door of the
study and knocked loudly. She could hear voices within--Senator March
giving his directions to his secretary and to Watson, his man of
business. No attention was paid to her, not even when she thrust the
note under the door. There was, however, a pause, and she thought
perhaps her husband was reading what she had to say. She did not hear
another door of the study open and the three men pass quickly down the
softly carpeted stair, but hearing the bang of the carriage door, she
ran toward the window and saw her husband drive off alone. A wild
desire took possession of her to see the tragedy brought about by
herself played to the end. She rang the bell violently for her maid, and
with great agitation was dressed in the same simple black gown and hat
and thick veil she had worn when going to Colegrove's hotel in the
winter. As on that day, she went out as if to walk, not caring for her
carriage to be seen at the Capitol, and, calling a cab, directed the man
to drive her to the dome-capped building on the hill.
She had feared being recognised, but when seeing the surging mass of
people, those crowds of the unknown who year in and year out swarm
through the Capitol, pack the galleries and block the corridors, who
seem strangers to the town and to each other, she realised that there
was little danger of her identity being known. She joined the surging
mass, and was swept onward to the public gallery, where the crowd was
clamouring at the doors and the doorkeepers were holding them back.
Alicia, making her way toward one of the doorkeepers, whispered:
"I am Mrs. March, and desire to go inside."
The man recognised her instantly; he had often seen her passing through
the corridors on the way to and from the private gallery--Senator
March's wife was too important a person to be unknown to the Capitol
officials. He opened the door a foot or two, and, still keeping the
crowd back, passed Alicia into the gallery. There was scarcely standing
room, and Alicia was almost suffocated with the pressure; nevertheless,
standing at the very back of the crowd, she was safe from observation.
She glanced around the great hall with its grained-glass ceiling through
which the yellow sunlight filtered, casting a mellow glow upon the
scene. Nearly every senator was in his seat, and every gallery, even
the one sacred to the diplomats, was filled. There on the front bench
sat Lady Carlyon. Never had she appeared more handsome; she wore a
white gown and a hat decked with roses, and seemed the epitome of the
spring. She was smiling and talking to the French Ambassador, who was
leaning over toward her. To Alicia's miserable eyes it seemed as if
Lady Carlyon were there to flaunt her happiness, her splendid position,
her youth and beauty, in the face of the storm and shipwreck which would
that day befall Alicia March and her husband.
It was still half-an-hour before the Vice-President's gavel would fall,
and it was one of the most painful half-hours in Alicia March's life.
She cowered behind her neighbours and dreaded to be seen, while Lady
Carlyon seemed to court the attention of which she was the object.
Precisely at twelve o'clock the Senate was called to order and the
Chaplain offered a short prayer. Just as the prayer was concluded,
Senator March entered the chamber; except for his deathly pallor, he
gave no indication of what he had undergone, nor of the ordeal before
him. He walked to his desk and sat down; every eye was fixed upon him,
but there was some pretence of beginning routine business. When he rose
and, catching the Vice-President's eye, asked to be heard upon a point
of the highest privilege, the Vice-President bowed, and instantly
silence like that of death fell upon the Senate Chamber. Senator March
spoke in a perfectly composed manner and his voice, though low and
agreeable, had a carrying power which made it distinctly audible in
every part of the vast hall and galleries. He alluded to the
publication of the charges affecting him, and then declared, without a
quaver, that there was enough of truth in them to make it advisable that
he should resign his seat in the Senate, adding that he had already
telegraphed his resignation to the Governor of the State. He had
nothing to say in extenuation, and only one thing to say in explanation;
this last was that he alone was concerned in the A.F.&O. transactions.
"There have been certain innuendos," he said, raising his voice
slightly, "against an innocent person, a perfectly innocent and helpless
person, whom I now appear to defend. To bring, even by implication, the
name of this person into this matter was most cruel and unjustifiable,
and I hereby protest against it with all my might. I ask no
consideration for myself, but I demand it for that misjudged and
blameless person who has been attacked under the cover of the public
press. I leave this chamber never to return to it; if a lifetime of
regret can atone for what, I now feel, was not the proper use of my
position as senator, these acts of mine will be atoned. I can say no
more, and I can say no less."
The whole incident did not occupy five minutes. The breathless silence
was maintained as Senator March came out into the aisle and bowed low to
the Vice-President, by whom the bow was scrupulously returned, and at
the same moment, acting by a common impulse, every senator rose to his
feet; this was followed by a sound like the waves upon the seashore, for
every spectator in the galleries also rose, moved by that spectacle of
the most high-minded of men taking upon himself the burden of another's
guilt.
Senator March stopped for a moment and glanced around the chamber in
which he had had a place for nearly fifteen years. The great wave of
sympathy and respect made itself obvious to him. The colour rushed to
his pale face, and then as suddenly departed, leaving him whiter than
before. He walked with a steady step towards the door and the
door-keepers, in throwing the leaves wide for him, bowed low, a salute
which Senator March returned with formal courtesy.
Then the silence was broken by a faint cry and a commotion in the public
gallery; it was thought that some one, overcome by the crowd and
excitement, had fainted. Not so; it was Alicia March who had uttered
that faint cry, but the next moment she had slipped through the door and
was making her way swiftly out of the place. No one stopped her or even
recognised her, and she made her way to the ground-floor entrance, where
Senator March's carriage was drawn up. She saw her husband pass out
directly in front of her. His step was still steady and his iron
composure had not deserted him. He entered the waiting carriage, which
was driven rapidly off, and when it was out of sight down the hill
Alicia crept forth and stepped into the shabby cab, in which the most
luxurious of women had gone, as it were, to the place of execution.
*XII*
It took half-an-hour for the decrepit cab horse to drag the vehicle to
the door of the splendid home which was now Alicia March's alone. As
she entered she met Watson.
"Is my husband here?" she asked.
Watson raised his eyebrows in cool contempt.
"He is on his way to his ranch in the West, never to return. May I see
you now for a few minutes to transact some necessary business?"
Alicia without a word led the way to her own boudoir, passing the door
of her husband's study. The desk was clear and already men were at work
packing the books which were all that Roger March took from the noble
fittings of what had once been his home. It was so like removing the
paraphernalia of a dead man that Alicia shuddered as she passed the
door. Seated at a table in her own rooms, Watson passed over to her
certain deeds, papers, and a bank-book showing a large sum of money
deposited to her credit at the bank.
For all of these he required Alicia's signed receipt, which she
mechanically gave, understanding little of the details of business.
When it was over, Watson rose and took his hat.
"But," said Alicia, dazed and distraught by all that had passed so
quickly, and helpless in the management of affairs, "what shall I do
with these things? Will you take charge of them? I really don't--don't
understand."
"Excuse me," answered Watson coldly, "it is impossible for me to act
further in your affairs. If you wish any more information, and will
notify me who is your man of business, I will consult with him at any
time." And without saying good-morning, and putting his hat on in her
presence, Watson left the room.
Alicia sat stunned, but dimly conscious of the indignity and affront put
upon her. She was of a caste accustomed to all the niceties of respect,
and she had managed to retain them until now. She began to ask herself,
if she received such treatment from Watson, what might she expect from
the whole world? And then there was an awful sense of loss in the mere
absence of her husband. Often during the four years of her last
marriage it had seemed to her as if her husband was the person who put
everything out of joint. She had her establishment, her money, her
liberty, and could do as she pleased, which was freely granted her, and
life would have been delightful, but close to her always was this man
before whom she must ever act the part of a perfectly upright woman. It
was that which had produced the curious sense of dislocation and
bewilderment which had always haunted her. Now that he was gone,
however, the dislocation and bewilderment seemed greater than ever. She
came of good fighting stock, and presently she found a little of her
courage, and began to think what was best to do in order to save
herself. The first thing, of course, was to have her father come to
her. She wrote out a long and urgent cablegram, certain to bring General
Talbott at once, and then ringing for a servant, sent it off. There
would be time enough before General Talbott's arrival to consider what
she should tell and what should remain unknown. Then the thought that
Sir Percy and Lady Carlyon must surmise the truth came to her, and it
was poignant enough to make itself felt even in those first hours of
shock. She was no more able to rid herself of the involuntary hold
which Sir Percy Carlyon had upon her than she had been a dozen years
before. With the Carlyons, however, she had a strong card to play in
General Talbott, who would soon be at hand. She sent for the servants
and calmly informed them that her husband, whom she called Mr. March for
the first time, would be absent indefinitely, and that the establishment
would be kept up, and they could retain their positions if their conduct
remained good.
In the afternoon Colegrove's card was brought up to her. She went down
into one of the vast, silent drawing-rooms to see him. Colegrove was not
pleased at this, and would rather have seen her in her boudoir, but
nevertheless met her with a smile and debonair manner. Alicia looked
pale, but her manner was quite composed.
"I hope you will pardon me for saying that I am afraid your husband has
acted hastily," said Colegrove, when they were seated, "but of course
the career of a man like that can't be closed so suddenly. All this
will blow over in time, and five years from to-day we may see him in the
Senate again. As far as I am concerned, I have lost a good friend, and
I shall now be hounded into retirement, if not into prison."
He smiled as he spoke, showing his white even teeth, and Alicia could
not but admire his cool courage in the face of what must have been to
him a catastrophe scarcely less than her own. They were sitting in the
embrasure of a window, and their low voices were lost in the expanse of
the great room. Nevertheless Colegrove did not consider it an ideal
place to say what he had come to say. He said it, however, glancing
through the wide-open doors to see that no person was in hearing.
"March has accused himself of what no one believes, but has left you to
bear the real burden. That is really what his alleged confession
amounts to. I don't think that you owe him anything. If he stays away,
as you tell me he means to, you may claim your freedom at any time, and
then perhaps you will consider me, who would never leave you as March
has done. For my own part, I, of course, can get a divorce any day I
choose."
The same strange feeling of indignation came over Alicia which she felt
when Colegrove had once before made implication against Roger March.
Still she did not repulse him, who was the only human being that had
voluntarily come to her that day, and she felt intuitively that he was
the only one who would continue to come.
"You must not speak of such things," she said coldly, and rising.
Colegrove rose too. He had implanted the notion in her mind that March,
after all, had sacrificed her, and that she was nothing to him. A new
expression came into Alicia's speaking eyes. She looked fixedly at
Colegrove and then bent her head in reflection.
"I go now," said Colegrove, "to fight my battle. I don't know how, or
when, or where it will end, but if they drag me down I will, like
Samson, drag down all I can with me, and the crash will be heard from
one end of this continent to the other. Here is an address that will
always find me."
He lifted her passive hand to his lips, put a card within it, and went
away without another word.
Alicia spent the intervening hours between then and a solitary dinner
walking up and down the great drawing-rooms. She did not give Colegrove
a thought; her mind, agonised and tormented, was working upon the
problem whether or not March, in the intensity of his anger, had
deliberately sacrificed her.
The sense of fitness and good taste, which had never left Alicia Vernon,
remained with Alicia March. She did not run away from Washington, but,
having determined to take up the attitude of an injured woman, remained
in her house, but in strict seclusion. Every day she took the air in a
closed carriage, or, heavily veiled, walked for hours. She continually
met her acquaintances, who spoke to her coolly and passed on, and Alicia
did the same. A few persons, chiefly silly women and foolish young men,
left cards for her, but Mrs. March, knowing that such backing was a
detriment instead of a help, was excused at the door. She had received
an immediate response from her father, who had taken the first steamer
for America. Within a fortnight from the day Roger March left his home
General Talbott arrived. He knew of March's resignation from the
Senate, and Alicia, in the first hour of her father's arrival, put in
his hand the newspaper which contained the charges and _The
Congressional Record_, with March's speech, and left him to draw his own
conclusion. General Talbott read them through carefully, and then,
taking Alicia's hand, said to her with tears in his brave old eyes:
"My child, you have been singled out for ill-treatment, and to bear the
sins of others. March's conduct was inherently wrong, but it showed a
cruel disregard of you not to make some show of fight for his name.
Your father, however, will remain your steadfast friend."
The presence of General Talbott sensibly improved Alicia March's
position in Washington. His old friends, of whom he had many, called to
see him, and perforce left cards for Mrs. March. Among them was the
card of Sir Percy Carlyon, but no card was left for Alicia, nor did Lady
Carlyon's card accompany her husband's. Alicia observed this, but she
did not choose to notice it openly at present. She meant that
considerable time should pass before she began an active struggle to
regain her lost position.
Early in May the great house was shut up and Alicia March and her father
sailed for England. It was two years and a half before she reappeared
in Washington. During that interval no one in Washington heard of
March, except Watson, who received occasional communications from him on
business. He seemed to have dropped out of the world; the depths of the
Sierras is a very good hiding-place for a broken-hearted man.