"Who did, who did?" the Governor violently repeated.
The two men faced each other in the closely curtained silence of the
dim luxurious room. Shackwell's eyes again wandered, as if summoning
the walls to reply. Then he said, "I have positive information that the
'Spy' will say nothing if you don't appoint Fleetwood."
"And what will it say if I do appoint him?"
"That he bought his first appointment from your wife."
The Governor stood silent, immovable, while the blood crept slowly from
his strong neck to his lowering brows. Once he laughed, then he set his
lips and continued to gaze into the fire. After a while he looked at
his cigar and shook the freshly formed cone of ashes carefully upon the
hearth. He had just turned again to Shackwell when the door opened and
the butler announced: "Mr. Fleetwood."
The room swam about Shackwell, and when he recovered himself, Mornway,
with outstretched hand, was advancing quietly to meet his guest.
Fleetwood was a smaller man than the Governor. He was erect and
compact, with a face full of dry energy, which seemed to press forward
with the spring of his prominent features, as though it were the weapon
with which he cleared his way through the world. He was in evening
dress, scrupulously appointed, but pale and nervous. Of the two men, it
was Mornway who was the more composed.
"I thought I should have seen you before this," he said.
Fleetwood returned his grasp and shook hands with Shackwell.
"I knew you needed to be let alone. I didn't mean to come to-night, but
I wanted to say a word to you."
At this, Shackwell, who had fallen into the background, made a motion
of leave-taking, but the Governor arrested it.
"We haven't any secrets from Hadley, have we, Fleetwood?"
"Certainly not. I am glad to have him stay. I have simply come to say
that I have been thinking over my future arrangements, and that I find
it will not be possible for me to continue in office."
There was a long pause, during which Shackwell kept his eyes on
Mornway. The Governor had turned pale, but when he spoke his voice was
full and firm.
"This is sudden," he said.
Fleetwood stood leaning against a high chair-back, fretting its carved
ornaments with restless fingers. "It is sudden--yes. I--there are a
variety of reasons."
"Is one of them the fact that you are afraid of what the 'Spy' is going
to say?"
The Attorney-General flushed deeply and moved away a few steps. "I'm
sick of mud-throwing," he muttered.
"George Fleetwood!" Mornway exclaimed. He had advanced toward his
friend, and the two stood confronting each other, already oblivious of
Shackwell's presence.
"It's not only that, of course. I've been frightfully hard-worked. My
health has given way--"
"Since yesterday?"
Fleetwood forced a smile. "My dear fellow, what a slave-driver you are!
Hasn't a man the right to take a rest?"
"Not a soldier on the eve of battle. You have never failed me before."
"I don't want to fail you now. But it isn't the eve of battle--you're
in, and that's the main thing."
"The main thing at present is that you promised to stay in with me, and
that I must have your real reason for breaking your word."
Fleetwood made a deprecatory movement. "My dear Governor, if you only
knew it, I'm doing you a service in backing out."
"A service--why?"
"Because I'm hated--because the Lead Trust wants my blood, and will
have yours too if you appoint me."
"Ah, that's the real reason, then--you're afraid of the 'Spy'?"
"Afraid--?"
The Governor continued to speak with dry deliberation. "Evidently,
then, you know what they mean to say."
Fleetwood laughed. "One needn't do that to be sure it will be
abominable!"
"Who cares how abominable it is if it isn't true?"
Fleetwood shrugged his shoulders and was silent. Shackwell, from a
distant seat, uttered a faint protesting sound, but no one heeded him.
The Governor stood squarely before Fleetwood, his hands in his pockets.
"It _is_ true, then?" he demanded.
"What is true?"
"What the 'Spy' means to say--that you bought my wife's influence to
get your first appointment."
In the silence Shackwell started suddenly to his feet. A sound of
carriage-wheels had disturbed the quiet street. They paused and then
rolled up the semicircle to the door of the Executive Mansion.
"John!" Shackwell warned him.
The Governor turned impatiently; there was the sound of a servant's
steps in the hall, followed by the opening and closing of the outer
door.
"Your wife--Mrs. Mornway!" Shackwell cried.
Another step, accompanied by a soft rustle of skirts, was advancing
toward the library.
"My wife? Let her come!" said the Governor.
V
She stood before them in her bright evening dress, with an arrested
brilliancy of aspect like the sparkle of a fountain suddenly caught in
ice. Her look moved rapidly from one to the other; then she came
forward, while Shackwell slipped behind her to close the door.
"What has happened?" she said.
Shackwell began to speak, but the Governor interposed calmly:
"Fleetwood has come to tell me that he does not wish to remain in
office."
"Ah!" she murmured.
There was another silence. Fleetwood broke it by saying: "It is getting
late. If you want to see me to-morrow--"
The Governor looked from his face to Ella's. "Yes; go now," he said.
Shackwell moved in Fleetwood's wake to the door. Mrs. Mornway stood
with her head high, smiling slightly. She shook hands with each of the
men in turn; then she moved toward the sofa and laid aside her shining
cloak. All her gestures were calm and noble, but as she raised her hand
to unclasp the cloak her husband uttered a sudden exclamation.
"Where did you get that bracelet? I don't remember it."
"This?" She looked at him with astonishment. "It belonged to my mother.
I don't often wear it."
"Ah--I shall suspect everything now," he groaned.
He turned away and flung himself with bowed head in the chair behind
his writing-table. He wanted to collect himself, to question her, to
get to the bottom of the hideous abyss over which his imagination hung.
But what was the use? What did the facts matter? He had only to put his
memories together--they led him straight to the truth. Every incident
of the day seemed to point a leering finger in the same direction, from
Mrs. Nimick's allusion to the imported damask curtains to Gregg's
confident appeal for rehabilitation.
"If you imagine that my wife distributes patronage--" he heard himself
repeating inanely, and the walls seemed to reverberate with the
laughter which his sister and Gregg had suppressed. He heard Ella rise
from the sofa and lifted his head sharply.
"Sit still!" he commanded. She sank back without speaking, and he hid
his face again. The past months, the past years, were dancing a
witches' dance about him. He remembered a hundred significant
things.... _Oh, God_, he cried to himself, _if only she does not lie
about it!_ Suddenly he recalled having pitied Mrs. Nimick because she
could not penetrate to the essence of his happiness. Those were the
very words he had used! He heard himself laugh aloud. The clock
struck--it went on striking interminably. At length he heard his wife
rise again and say with sudden authority: "John, you must speak."
Authority--she spoke to him with authority! He laughed again, and
through his laugh he heard the senseless rattle of the words, "If you
imagine that my wife distributes patronage ..."
He looked up haggardly and saw her standing before him. If only she
would not lie about it! He said: "You see what has happened."
"I suppose some one has told you about the 'Spy.'"
"Who told you? Gregg?" he interposed.
"Yes," she said quietly.
"That was why you wanted--?"
"Why I wanted you to help him? Yes."
"Oh, God! ... He wouldn't take money?"
"No, he wouldn't take money."
He sat silent, looking at her, noting with a morbid minuteness the
exquisite finish of her dress, that finish which seemed so much a part
of herself that it had never before struck him as a merely purchasable
accessory. He knew so little what a woman's dresses cost! For a moment
he lost himself in vague calculations; finally, he said: "What did you
do it for?"
"Do what?"
"Take money from Fleetwood."