premises. As Thorndyke realised more and more that Constance Maitland
still had power to disturb him powerfully he resented her ease and
tranquillity--and aware of the lines in his face, conscious that he was
growing bald, he felt injured at her continuing youth. Evidently, the
recollections which had made him forswear love, forego wealth, and had
turned him into a Congressional drudge, had left no mark on her. He
took, at once, her hint to leave her, and said stiffly:
“If you will give me your key----”
Constance handed it to him; he went up the steps and opened the door.
The gaslight fell full upon her, and it was as if with every glance
they became more infatuated with each other and found it harder to part.
“To-morrow,” said Thorndyke.
“Yes; to-morrow,” Constance echoed, dreamily.
Thorndyke banged the door to and literally ran down the street.
When he came to himself, as it were, he was in his own room, smoking.
He kept on saying to himself, “To-morrow--to-morrow,” and then called
himself a fool--a purely academic proceeding, however, which never
really influences any issue between a man and his will. When at last he
went to bed the sky was opalescent with the coming dawn.
_Chapter Three_
DOWN AMONG THE CAPTAINS AND THE SHOUTING
After four hours of sleep Thorndyke waked with the uncomfortable
feeling which waits on excess in everything, especially excess in the
emotions after one is forty years of age. The tumults of youth are
killing after forty.
He got through with his breakfast and his mail under the disadvantages
of seeing visions of Constance Maitland floating all about him--visions
of Constance offering to give up her fortune and live with him on
what he could save of his Congressional salary after supplying the
wants of his crippled sister, Elizabeth. And in case he should lose
the nomination at the hands of his boss, as he had once done, there
would be nothing at all for Constance or Elizabeth, either, nor for
himself that he could then foresee. What a strange infatuation was
Congressional life! It was almost as strange as the infatuation for a
woman forever barred from him--and by the worst luck in the world, he,
Geoffrey Thorndyke, was the victim of both!
These unpleasant thoughts walked every step of the way with him to
the Capitol on that bright April morning. When he reached the great
white building, sitting majestically on the hill, he was one of a vast
multitude of people surging toward the south wing. It still lacked
half an hour of twelve, and the flag was not yet hoisted. Crowds were
disembarking from the street-cars, the plaza was black with carriages,
and over all was that tension of feeling which communicates itself to
thousands and tens of thousands of persons at once. Something was about
to happen that day in the House of Representatives. As Crane said, the
smart set cared nothing for it, but their majesties, the people, were
deeply interested in it, and had every reason to be, and assembled
in great crowds to see the first act. Thorndyke made his way to his
committee-room. No one was there except Crane. The gentleman from
Circleville was dressed for his first appearance as a star. Thorndyke,
being in rather a savage humour, thought he had never seen Crane so
over-dressed, so full of elation and vain simplicity, and, in short,
so nearly a fool. In this he did Crane great injustice, for Crane never
was, at any time, in the category of fools, although he often did
foolish things.
He spoke to Thorndyke affably, although with a slight air of
superiority, holding in his hand the report of which Thorndyke had
supplied the most effective part--the close reasoning, the conclusive
logic, the historical precedents, and the invincible moderation.
Thorndyke might indeed have said of that report, as Cæsar said of
the Gallic wars, “All of this I saw--most of this I was.” And in the
debate that would follow, Thorndyke would be obliged to take care of
Crane--for Crane, although a powerful and attractive speaker, was
easily disconcerted when on his feet, and had a tendency to panic under
the enfilading fire of debate. Thorndyke was not an orator in the
popular sense, but when it came to having all his wits about him, to
defending his position, to bold incursions into the enemy’s territory,
he was not surpassed by any man in the House. As his colleagues said
of him, he always went documented, and carried concealed parliamentary
weapons about his person.
By way of revenge, Thorndyke began to chaff his colleague on the
subject of his dress. Crane’s shirt-bosom snapped like giant crackers,
his cuffs rattled, his collar creaked. He was conscious of this,
and glowered darkly at Thorndyke’s jokes. Thorndyke’s clothes, in
contradistinction to Crane’s, were the clothes of a clothes-wearing
man. They were neither old nor new, neither out of the fashion nor
conspicuously in the fashion--they were, in short, the clothes of a man
whose father before him had worn clothes.
Both men were in their seats, which were near together, when the
Speaker’s gavel fell. The galleries were packed, the corridors jammed.
In the diplomatic gallery every seat was occupied. The bright costumes
of the Orientals and the flower-decked spring hats of the ladies made
it gay. The gallery reserved for the President’s family and the Cabinet
families was also full. So great was the pressure that the motion was
at once made to admit ladies to the floor of the House. They came
fluttering in like a flock of pigeons, and soon filled all the space
back of the desks. They were not, in general, of the smart set, who,
as Crane complained, were like Gallio, and cared for none of these
things--but were chiefly of official families.
As soon as the prayer and some routine business was over, the report
of the Committee on Foreign Affairs was called for. The calling of the
roll had been waived--it was easy enough to see that every member was
present who could get there, as well as many Senators. When the report
was handed to the reading-clerk there was a deep pause. Thorndyke
looked at Crane. He was very pale, but the veins in his neck were
pulsating strongly. He glanced up at the reserved gallery at the side,
and his face flushed deeply. Thorndyke followed his eye. It fell upon
Constance Maitland sitting in the front row. She was dressed in a rich
black toilette which contrasted strongly with the brilliant colours
around her. A delicate black tulle hat sat upon her graceful head, and
she fanned herself slowly with a large black fan.
Her distinction of appearance was extreme, and she showed her perfect
knowledge of it by the simple but effective trick of wearing black
when there was a riot of colour around her. By means of a good figure
and perfect dressing this seduced the world into thinking her far
handsomer than she really was. Thorndyke recognised that when he saw
how much more attention she attracted than much younger and more
beautiful women.
But then the silence was broken by the great, bell-like voice of the
reading-clerk reading the report. As the clerk proceeded, Thorndyke
perceived that the tone and manner of the report were making a strong
impression. The matter of it could not be wholly digested, but the
manner of presentation commanded attention. Nearly every one of the
three hundred and fifty members present saw Thorndyke’s fine Italian
hand in the business--but the crowd gazed in admiration at the tall
and handsome member from Circleville, who was reaping the glory of the
present occasion. The reading over, Crane arose, with a few notes in
his hand, prepared to defend the report. He was a born speaker, and
as soon as he began to talk he forgot his clothes and also made his
audience forget them, too. Thorndyke listened with enforced admiration.
Crane spoke lucidly, strongly, yet temperately--Thorndyke had taught
him the enormous power of moderation. Thorndyke, quite unobserved,
watched the faces of the European diplomats in the diplomatic gallery,
who were listening intently. One man, whom Thorndyke reckoned the
ablest diplomat among those representing Western Europe, stealthily
took out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead. An Ambassadress
dropped her card-case at his feet and he did not see it. Another, a
round, red-faced, sensible, guileless man, looked about him with a
frankly puzzled air, which said as plainly as words, “God bless my
soul--what are we to do about this?” The younger men unconsciously
assumed expressions of contempt, indifference, and displeasure. They
had every reason to be displeased at the turn international affairs
were taking--and there was no alternative but war.
Thorndyke, being experienced in legislation, could very readily
estimate the effect on his colleagues of what Crane was saying. It was
tremendous. The vast hall was stilled, and the stillness grew intense.
By some communicable psychic force all knew that here was a great issue
met and disposed of for a hundred years to come. To the Americans
present it was a source of pride and of relief. The mellow, unchanging
sunlight that glowed softly through the iridescent glass roof of the
hall fell upon their faces, serious indeed, but steady and cheerful.
The Congress was back of that report, and the people were behind the
Congress. There was no hysteria among the Congress or the people, but a
fixed and resolute determination which was, in effect, the registering
of a decree of fate.
Crane spoke for half an hour, his rich, full voice growing richer and
fuller, without becoming louder, as he proceeded. At the very end he
had allowed himself a little leeway, rightly judging that by that
time the audience would be wrought up to the pitch which would permit
what is called eloquence. When the last sentences, ringing with terse
Americanism, rolled out, the effect was magical. A great storm of
feeling had been evoked and had responded. The applause was long and
loud and deep and steady, like the breaking of ocean waves upon granite
rocks. Crane’s words had pierced the heart of every American present,
and a common impulse brought all of them to their feet. Even the
Speaker, not knowing what he was doing, rose from his chair, then sat
down again shamefacedly. None escaped the tumult outwardly except the
European occupants of the diplomatic gallery. They were ostentatiously
cool, and talked and laughed during the tempest of applause, while
secretly they were more agitated than any of the cheering multitude.
They had heard that which meant surrender to each and all of them.
The Speaker’s gavel descended presently, and quiet was partially
restored. Crane was surrounded by members of both parties
congratulating him, and he received their praise with a modesty more
sincere than was generally believed. But to him had it been brought
home that the crisis was bigger than the man, and the people were
bigger than the crisis. Thorndyke, sitting near him, had shared in
the tempest of feeling, but a sickening disappointment possessed him
when he saw Crane’s personal triumph. In all of Thorndyke’s years
of labour Fate had never given him any such a chance as this. But
it was his years of labour which made Crane’s success possible. He
could imagine the turgid, strained spread-eagleism, the powerful but
ill-reasoned speech, which Crane, but for him, would have made. His
eyes, in his cold fit of chagrin, wandered toward the place where
Constance Maitland sat. A slender black figure, gracefully holding up
the train of the black gown, was just disappearing through the door.
Thorndyke’s impulse to follow Constance was accentuated by a strong
desire, if there should be any debate, to leave Crane to his fate,
but he soon found out that the whole matter would go over until the
next day, and by that time his better self would assert itself, and
he would do his part--not for Crane’s sake, but for the sake of that
overmastering sense of public duty which he cherished religiously and
never alluded to. So, finding himself free and superfluous, he left
the chamber, partly to avoid the sight of Crane’s triumph and partly
drawn by Constance Maitland. Before leaving, however, he went up like a
gentleman and congratulated Crane, who, moved by an honest and generous
impulse, expressed the utmost gratitude to him.
Out in the spring sunshine that flooded the plaza and the parklike
gardens and blazed upon the golden dome of the fair white National
Library, visible beyond the fringe of great green trees, Thorndyke
looked about him for Constance Maitland. She was just stepping into a
smart little brougham with a good-looking pair of brown cobs, and drove
away toward the quiet, shady, beautiful but unfashionable part of the
town on the east.
The carriage went slowly, and Thorndyke, pursuing it, saw it stop a few
blocks from the Capitol, by one of those parks large enough for one to
wander in and feel alone as if in the woods. Constance descended from
the carriage holding her skirts daintily, and walked into the park.
Thorndyke boldly followed her--she had said to-morrow--and this was
to-morrow.
He came upon her in a few minutes in a little open space, shut in,
except for the pathway, by shrubbery on every side. The grass was full
of daisies which had just put on their little white shirts and yellow
caps, and a pair of robins hopped about with as much gayety and freedom
as if they were country robins instead of town robins.
Constance was sitting on a rusty iron bench, a little in the shade. She
had taken off her gloves, and her hands, small and innocent of rings,
lay in her lap. She seemed to be day-dreaming, as if she were eighteen
instead of thirty-eight years of age. Thorndyke was pleased to see
that by the searching light of day she did not look nearly so young
as in the mysterious night. But she was not the less charming on that
account--she had simply reached the fulness of her development in mind,
in feeling, and even in beauty, such as hers was.
As Thorndyke took off his hat and bowed to her he received a distinct
invitation, by means of her eyes and smile, to remain, so he seated
himself on the bench by her side. She began the conversation by saying:
“I have just come from the House. It was very exciting. I do not see
how any one can call life in America dull. It is Europe which is
dull--it is stagnation compared with this, our country.”
Thorndyke again noted, with delight, in her speech that slight trace
of her Creole blood which years had not changed. She said “do not” and
“can not” in place of “don’t” and “can’t;” she took extraordinary pains
to pronounce the _th_, and had a way of accenting last syllables in a
manner not recommended by the dictionaries. The result was piquant and
charming. Constance herself was quite unconscious of it, and Thorndyke
remembered that in the old days he could bring her to pique and pouts
at any time by asking her to pronounce certain words and phrases which
were a perpetual stumbling-block to her. He did not venture now to
laugh at her about this pretty idiosyncrasy, but gravely took up the
thread of conversation where she dropped it.
“What did you think of Crane’s speech?”
“It was quite extraordinary. But it was not like him. It seemed to me
us if he were making somebody else’s speech. Was it yours?”
If Constance had searched the realms of thought to find out the words
that would most soothe and satisfy Thorndyke at that moment she could
not have found any better than those she uttered. Smarting under the
sense of having sown for another to reap, Thorndyke needed consolation.
He had the defects of his qualities, and along with his passionate
devotion to parliamentary life was the natural desire for popular
applause. But he had never had it. He fondly believed that had this
superb opportunity been awarded him he should have proved equal to it.
Had it but occurred two months earlier! He and not Crane would have
been enveloped in trailing clouds of glory. But Constance--Constance,
with her woman’s wit, had seen that some one else besides Crane
deserved the credit for that effort. He made no reply to her questions
beyond a slight smile, but he let it be seen that she had hit the
bull’s eye.
“Mr. Crane tells me he knows you,” he said, presently.
“Yes,” answered Constance. “He has been a few times to see me. Last
night I met him at the ball at the French Embassy. I danced with him.”
“He owned up to me some time ago that he was taking dancing-lessons--at
forty-two, with a wife and children in Circleville. I fancy his
performance answers the description that Herodotus gives of the dancing
of Hippocleides--it is diverting to himself, but disgusting to others.”
“On the contrary, he dances very well--when he is not trying to do his
best. Perhaps you are surprised that I should still care to dance--but
remember, pray, my mother was Creole French.”
And to this Thorndyke made a speech which brought the blood into
Constance Maitland’s cheeks, knocking ten years off her age at once.
“I remember everything,” he said.
After a moment’s pause Constance, still with a heightened colour,
continued:
“I have seen Mr. Crane several times this winter--not only in my own
house, but in others. Whenever I am with him I am consumed with pity
for him.”
“He does not need your pity now,” said Thorndyke, grimly. “It is more
needed by his senior Senator, who is the fly-wheel of the political
machine in his State. The old gentleman, I know, is at this minute
walking the floor in his committee-room and gnashing his teeth over
Crane’s success. The senior Senator took Crane up, sent him to
Congress, and thought he had secured a really efficient understrapper.
I don’t think Crane will fill that place after to-day’s triumph,
and the senior Senator knows it, and has got to discover means, if
possible, to garrote Crane politically before the next Congressional
campaign.”
“I see,” replied Constance, who was only interested in the subject
because she saw Thorndyke was. “Mr. Crane, by virtue of making your
speech, has got beyond the control of his master. By the way--I am
so ignorant of Congressional matters--how can I get the Congressional
Record sent me every day?”
“You have already got it--by mentioning to me that you wished it. It is
one of my few privileges. I am glad to do at least that much for you.”
Thorndyke heard himself saying these things without his own volition in
the least. If Constance Maitland were willing at this moment to give up
a fortune for poverty with him, would he accept the sacrifice? Never.
How could a woman of her mature age, nurtured in luxury, descend to
poverty--for poverty is the lot of every member of Congress who wishes
to live in something more than mere decency on his salary. And yet
Thorndyke, at every opportunity, had assured Constance Maitland of his
unforgetting, of his tender, recollections--in short, of his love. Nor
had she showed any unwillingness to listen. It is not a woman’s first
love for which she wrecks her life; it is her last love--that final
struggle for supremacy. There can be no more after that. Sappho, on the
great white rock of Mitylene, knew this and perished.
Some thoughts like this came into Constance Maitland’s mind, and,
driving away her colour, restored to her the lately vanished years.
Silence fell between them for a while, until Constance roused herself,
and, affecting cheerfulness, said:
“I shall study the Congressional Record with interest. Everything in
one’s own country is of interest after a long and painful exile.”
“You should read Lord Bolingbroke’s defence of exile,” replied
Thomdyke, moving a little nearer to her, and resting his elbow on the
back of the bench so that he could look into her pensive, changing face.
“And yet, I daresay, Lord Bolingbroke pined in his exile. Nobody
believed him when he said he did not mind. Mine, however, was complete.
My uncle, von Hesselt, who was an honourable man in his way, thought he
was carrying out my aunt’s wishes by keeping me wholly away from all
Americans and wholly with foreigners.”
“But you could have left him after you were of age.”
“Ah, you do not know! He was the most terrible sufferer you can
imagine, for fifteen years. And what was worse, he was surrounded by
people, his own relatives, who, I truly believe, would have shortened
his life if they could. He knew this, and feared it even more than was
reasonable. Once, my longing for my country grew such that it overcame
me, and I told my uncle I must, I must come to America. He pleaded with
me--imagine an old man, whose life was one long stretch of pain and
fear, pleading with you until he fell prone in a paroxysm of despair!
I, too, was in despair, and I promised him I would remain with him
during his life.--I hardly knew what I was saying--I was not twenty-one
at the time--but I knew well enough after it was said. I kept my word,
and I nursed him through his last illness and closed his eyes in death.
Then, as soon as all was over, I sailed for America. I feel now as if I
never wished to see Europe again.”
“And did Baron von Hesselt realise the enormous sacrifice you made for
him?”
“Yes--that is, partly.”
“Your aunt certainly was most unjust to you,” said Thorndyke, coolly.
“I mean, that provision robbing you of all your fortune in case you
marry an American.”
“Yes, very unjust,” replied Constance, with equal coolness, although
the flush returned to her cheeks.
“And I--I was to blame for that,” cried Thorndyke, venturing farther
upon ticklish ground.
“Not altogether,” replied Constance, maintaining the steadiness of her
voice. “My aunt hated our country; she could not forget the Civil War;
and she meant--poor soul, I forgive her now--that I should never return
to America permanently. It was a strange thing to do, but I must admit
my aunt to have been in some respects both a strange and a foolish
woman. Let us not speak of her again. I am back, and if I feel as I do
now I shall never live in Europe again. It is time for me to prepare to
grow old.”
She said this with a wan little smile, and all at once thought with
terror of her age; there was but four or five years’ difference between
Thorndyke and herself, and that difference, at a certain point, becomes
transferred to the gentleman’s side of the ledger. Suddenly the spring
afternoon seemed to become melancholy and overcast. A sharp wind sprang
up from the near-by river; the world turned from gold to gray. At the
same moment Thorndyke and Constance rose and walked away from the spot
that had been only a little while ago so sweet and sunny.
“Why is it,” asked Constance, as they followed the pathway leading out
of the park, “a spring morning is the merriest thing in life, and a
spring evening the saddest?”
“Why should anything be sad to you, spring evenings or any other
times?” asked Thorndyke, quietly and with perfect sincerity.
“Why should any one be sad at all? Because we are human, I suppose,”
was Constance’s answer to this.
As they came out upon the streets, which were less deserted than usual,
Thorndyke looked toward the south wing of the Capitol. The flag was
fluttering down from its flag-staff.
“The House has adjourned,” he said, “and some history has been made
to-day--likewise a great reputation for our friend Crane.”
The brougham was driving up and down, and the coachman, perceiving the
graceful black figure on the sidewalk, drove toward them. Thorndyke
noted, with disgust, the elegance of the turnout--the two perfectly
matched cobs, the silver-mounted harness of Spanish leather, the
miniature brougham with “C. M.” in cipher on the panels--the whole
must have cost about half his yearly income. This, together with
Crane’s remarkable triumph, made him surly, and he said, stiffly, as he
assisted Constance into the brougham:
“You gave me permission to call to-day.”
“Yes, but I withdraw it. It is now nearly three o’clock. I have not had
my luncheon, I am tired, and I must rest this afternoon, and I go out
to dinner. To-morrow at five.”
Her tone and manner discounted her words. It was as if she were saying:
“I must save something for to-morrow--I will not be a spendthrift of
my joys.” Thorndyke, finding nothing to discompose him in her words,
replied, in a very good humour: