the children,” replied Crane, “and because my salary as a
congressman doesn’t admit of my having my family there as I would
wish--particularly as I had some debts to pay, and my house in
Circleville has a mortgage on it.”
“Oh, I understand perfectly, Mr. Crane. All of us who know you do. I
was not speaking of the views of your friends, but of your enemies, on
the subject. However, if money is the consideration, I think I could
guarantee your senatorial term in good style; nothing extravagant,
you know, but enough to put your mind at ease. Your notes, with my
indorsement, would be accepted at any bank in the State, and the matter
could be kept quiet.”
It was the old story--making chains out of his necessities. And they
were very great. Crane spoke of paying his debts. He had scarcely made
any reduction in the principal, and had only succeeded in paying the
interest--which, with his living expenses, of which his own were twice
as much as Annette’s and the children’s, and his small life-insurance,
had galloped away with his five thousand a year. And if he should lose
the nomination--there was not much danger of that now, but everything
was possible with a machine and a man like Governor Sanders.
Crane’s better nature, however, rebelled against the deceit to be
practised on Senator Bicknell. That he declared he could never bring
himself to--and believed it at the moment.
“Then,” said Governor Sanders, rising, “we may conclude our conference.
The entire success of the campaign I have mapped out depends upon
Senator Bicknell not being taken into our confidence. We are not
proposing anything against the party; we are simply proposing to do for
ourselves what Senator Bicknell has done for himself; and if things go
on as they have been going under his direction, I think we stand an
excellent chance of losing the State at the Presidential election.”
Before Crane’s ardent mind loomed a vision. Six years in Washington
as a Senator--and he was not yet forty-three years old; living in
good style, and then, the chance, not a bad one by any means, of the
Vice-presidential nomination in a little over four years. It was a
glorious vista. Like the Arabian glass-seller, his imagination far
outstripped itself. He saw himself, at forty-eight, Vice-president,
at fifty-two, another term, at fifty-six, still in the Senate, with
a great reputation--even the Presidency did not seem beyond him.
He had the enormous advantage of youth over most of his rivals. A
Vice-president stands one chance in three and a half of succeeding to
the Presidency--altogether, it was a dazzling dream--so dazzling that
Crane began to feel the old regret and longing that Fate had not given
him a wife like Constance Maitland; he was afraid even, in thought, to
wish that it might be Constance Maitland. How that woman would shine
in an official position! And then, the other side--but there was no
other side. Without Sanders’s help, he would have a desperate fight
before the Legislature; and that outlook which had seemed so rosy when
he described it to Constance Maitland in her drawing-room a few months
before, grew dismal and gruesome when examined in parlour number 20 of
the Grand Hotel. If defeated for the senatorship, and under the ban of
Governor Sanders, his seat, a year hence, would be certainly doubtful,
and if the machine ran over him it meant annihilation. So, tempted of
the devil, Crane yielded, and promised everything the Governor required.
As the Governor had found him an uncertain quantity before, there were
due precautions taken to keep him in the traces this time, by veiled
threats of what would befall him if he kicked them over a second time.
Crane understood perfectly well. He also realised that there were two
men under his skin--one, honest and loving the truth, and the other,
craving money and power and consideration, tormented with vanity,
enslaved by self-love, a fierce and hideous object to contemplate.
But he need not contemplate it; and with this determination he took
a friendly cocktail with the Governor, and departed for Circleville.
That hint about his wife opened Crane’s eyes to the necessity of the
outward practice of virtue, and he then determined to compass, as far
as in him lay, the whole comprehensive sin of hypocrisy. He would be
very attentive to his wife and devoted to his children. He would go to
church regularly. He would adopt a Cincinnatus-like mode of life, that
out of his small means he might contribute to charity and have it known
by the special correspondents. In short, he proposed to become that
object of man’s hate and God’s wrath, a hypocrite.
_Chapter Eleven_
IN THE SWEET-DO-NOTHING OF THE SUMMER-TIME
Straightway, Crane began a hypocritical mode of life, and
deceived everybody in the world except the two most necessary to
deceive--himself and his wife.
He did not deceive himself. There was enough of honesty in him to
make him loathe himself, while doggedly carrying out the devil’s
programme, into which he had entered with Governor Sanders. As he went
to church on summer Sundays, with Annette by his side and the two
children trotting soberly in front of them, Crane felt as if a bolt
from heaven ought to descend upon him for his treachery to the man who
had befriended him. Sitting in the cool, dim church, his head devoutly
bowed as if in prayer, he doubted that there was a personal God; for
if so, how could He tolerate such blasphemy us a man praying, to be
seen of men; giving, to be published in the newspapers, and saying to
his brother, “How is it with thee, my brother?” and then stabbing him
in the back?
At one thing, the evil spirit within him shuddered and turned away.
This was when he had a very friendly letter from Senator Bicknell,
saying he should be in the neighbourhood of Circleville in the next
fortnight, and if convenient he would accept Crane’s often-urged
invitation to stop and spend a day at his house.
The idea of receiving under his roof the man he had betrayed was
too much for Crane. Enough moral sense remained in him to make him
shrink from that. He wrote Senator Bicknell a very friendly and even
affectionate letter explaining that important business would take
him away from home for that week, and expressing the deepest regret
that he could not have the long-promised visit. And forthwith, on the
promised day, Crane made an excuse of business, and went speeding
toward the nearest city. He said no word to Annette about his letter
from Senator Bicknell, but some suspicion of the actual state of things
had crept into her mind. She knew that Crane was under obligations to
Senator Bicknell, and a close reading of the newspapers had shown her
that Crane and Governor Sanders were supposed to be mortal enemies.
Yet, she knew that the Governor and Crane were in the most friendly
communication, while Crane had ceased to mention Senator Bicknell’s
name. And some anxiety was weighing upon him--that she saw plainly. She
saw that Crane was prosperous, that he was rising in importance every
day, and yet was miserable. He had grown thin and pale in those few
weeks since he had entered into his evil compact. It could not be want
of money, because Annette had never known him to be so well supplied.
She begun to suspect some moral lapse on his part, and the thought
nearly broke her heart--for Julian Crane was the love of her life; and
she loved him in his degradation as profoundly as in the time when she
had believed him to be the soul of honour.
A singular complication came of Senator Bicknell’s letter. He did
not get Crane’s in reply, and on the day he had proposed to be in
Circleville he found himself at the little station. There was no one to
meet him, but it was easy enough to find the way to Crane’s house--he
was the local great man of Circleville.
When he reached the house, with its many verandas, embowered in fine
and vigorous elm-trees, the front door was wide open, and looking
through the low, wide hall, he could see the garden beyond. There,
under a tall lilac hedge, sat Annette in a rustic chair, sewing. On
a rustic table before her the children had their books, and took
turns reading aloud to her. As always, she was simply but freshly and
becomingly dressed, and as the green light fell upon her fair hair
and her pensive, pretty face, she made a charming picture for any man
to contemplate. Senator Bicknell had an æsthetic soul as well as an
honest heart, and the pretty scene appealed to him. He walked through
the hall, into the trim garden, and, hat in hand, introduced himself to
Annette.
She rose at once, smiling and blushing, and made him hospitably
welcome. She knew nothing of his expected arrival, which convinced
Senator Bicknell that there had been some misunderstanding concerning
his letter. But the Senator was so pleased with his first impressions
that he accepted Annette’s invitation to remain and share their
one-o’clock dinner--an invitation given with palpitations, but so
promptly and gracefully accepted that Annette was delighted at her own
courage in proposing it. The Senator, seated on a rustic settee, and
admiring the aspect of things in the house and garden, as well as the
mistress and her children, thought himself in luck. He expressed great
regret at not seeing Crane, but frankly declared himself very well
satisfied with things as they were.
Emboldened by her success in entertaining the Senator, Annette
proposed that she should notify the leading citizens, and invite
them to call at five o’clock to pay their respects to him. Senator
Bicknell good-humouredly assented--it would be of advantage to Crane,
he thought, mistakenly enough--and it was worth while obliging a
subordinate if that subordinate had a wife as pleasing as Mrs. Crane.
By the time this was settled it was one o’clock, and the Senator found
himself seated at Annette’s dainty table, with the two children,
and being waited on by Annette’s one servant, a neat, hard-featured
creature, who knew how to cook.
The Senator was worth millions, had a French chef, and a chronic
dyspepsia, but he spoke truly when he told Annette he had not enjoyed
a dinner so much in years as the one she gave him. It was very
simple, but good, and well served. The children never opened their
mouths except when spoken to. Annette was surprised, as at Constance
Maitland’s dinner, to find herself altogether at ease, and was
conscious that she was making an agreeable impression every moment of
the time. To be appreciated gives the most timid confidence; and it was
perfectly evident that this trained man of the world appreciated this
woman, as sweet and natural as the wild roses that grew in the roadside
hedges. They found much to talk about, and Thorndyke was mentioned, at
which Annette overflowed in praises of him, to which Senator Bicknell
agreed.
He was much amused by Annette’s impromptu plan of having a reception
for him that afternoon, and accused her of aspiring to be a second
Madame Roland, but laughingly agreed with her when Annette assured him
that it would be worth several votes to Crane in the coming senatorial
contest.
After dinner he was shown to a cool and spotless chamber, where he
had a very refreshing nap and a bath. At five o’clock he was summoned
below. Annette awaited him in the modest drawing-room. She wore
a pretty muslin gown, and looked as fresh as a dewdrop. With the
assistance of the neighbours, the lower floor was dressed with flowers,
and simple refreshments were served upon tables in the large and
well-kept garden.
Annette, taking her stand at the door of the drawing-room with the
Senator, received with dignity and grace the people who came pouring
in--the Judge of the County Court, the professional men in the town,
the principal of the Circleville High School--all accompanied by their
ladies, wearing their best silk gowns and very tight kid gloves.
Senator Bicknell was affability itself. He was an amiable man, and
Annette Crane’s virtues and charms were such as appeal peculiarly
to men, so that most of them wished to oblige her. He was secretly
amused at the courage and capability she had shown in organising a
political reception for him on such short notice, and determined to
help her through with it. By way of showing his goodwill, he spoke with
enthusiasm of Crane to many persons, and said that he should be pleased
if Crane might be his colleague after the first of January.
At seven o’clock he was obliged to take his train. Before he stepped
into the carriage of the Judge, who had asked the honour of driving him
to the station, Senator Bicknell expressed to Annette the most sincere
gratitude and pleasure at his visit.
“Tell Mr. Crane,” he whispered to her, “that with a wife who has such
masterly capacity for political management as you, my dear Mrs. Crane,
he may expect any sort of promotion. If our State is honoured by being
awarded the Vice-presidential nomination, I am afraid no one else will
be heard of except Mr. Crane, if you take the affair in charge.”
“You are laughing at me,” cried Annette, laughing herself, but
colouring with pleasure at Senator Bicknell’s kind manner and
flattering words. “Imagine me as a political manager!”
“My dear lady, the only political managers in the world, among women,
are those like yourself, who don’t know that they are managing.
Good-bye, and a thousand thanks. I have not spent so pleasant a day for
a long time. Remember, when you come to Washington, you are to dine
with me many times, but I can’t make you enjoy your dinner as much as I
enjoyed mine. Regards to Crane”--then, stepping into the carriage, the
Senator said to the Judge in a voice meant to be heard by those around:
“Charming woman--sweet, well-behaved children--comfortable home--our
friend Crane is in luck.”
Crane did not return until the next evening, and was greeted by the
sensational news of Senator Bicknell’s visit. Annette was, of course,
full of her achievement in entertaining the Senator. Instead of
receiving her account with the pleasure which might naturally have been
expected, Crane listened with sombre eyes and a face which grew pale
and paler as Annette proceeded with the story of the success of her
impromptu reception. It was indeed a horribly awkward complication for
Crane, and vastly increased his difficulties. His chagrin could not
be concealed, and Annette was quickly convinced, to her distress and
amazement, that Senator Bicknell’s visit was anything but pleasant to
Crane.
When this was borne in upon her, she stopped speaking, and
involuntarily fixed her clear, accusing eyes on her husband. All at
once her suspicions of the changed relations between Crane and Senator
Bicknell, and Crane and Governor Sanders, became a certainty. In a
moment of inspiration--the inspiration of an intelligent honesty--the
probable state of affairs flashed upon her. She remained silent for a
time; they were seated alone at the tea-table, in the garden, and the
August sunset was at hand. Crane’s countenance grew anxious as Annette
watched him.
“Did the Senator say he had got my letter?” he asked.
“He expressly said he had not heard from you,” replied Annette. “Did
you go away from home to avoid the Senator?”
It was but a chance shot, but it hit the bull’s eye. Crane did not
answer the question, but got up and walked to the other end of the
garden. They were sitting and talking in the very spot where Annette
had so successfully entertained the Senator the afternoon before.
She could not, of course, know the details, but she knew then that
Crane was a traitor, and was pretending a goodwill which he was far
from feeling. Annette suffered as only a high-minded woman can suffer
when the lower man in one she loves reveals itself. But she said
nothing. She knew that Crane must work out his own salvation, and that
she could be of no help to him there.
And Crane, having a guilty conscience, knew that Annette suspected the
game he was playing; and this made him more unhappy but not less guilty
than before.
Annette had told Crane of Constance Maitland’s invitation to them,
which piqued as much as it gratified him. He knew quite well that but
for Annette he would have had no invitation. Later on came a note from
Constance repeating the invitation very cordially, but Annette felt
obliged to decline it with all the thanks in the world.
So the summer passed for those two.
For Thorndyke the summer was, first, one long anticipation of that
visit he was to pay Constance, and then, one long retrospection of
it. He had enjoyed every moment of it, although the beginning was
inauspicious. When he changed trains at Washington to go into Virginia,
whom should he find in the Pullman with him but Mince Pie Mulligan, who
greeted him effusively. Thorndyke carefully concealed his destination
from Mr. Mulligan, but the junior Senator was by no means so secretive.
“I’ll tell you where I’m going,” he said, in the friendly juxtaposition
of the smoker. “I’m going to a place up in Virginia to see that
stunning woman I met in Washington, Miss Maitland. Never saw her but
once, but, by Jove, that was enough to make me want to see her again.
I’ve found out where she is spending the summer, and I’m going there
just to do a little prospecting.”
Mr. Mulligan had abandoned the violent brogue which he had used on a
former occasion, and spoke pretty fair English, but his mouth was as
wide and his hair was as red as ever.
Thorndyke, consumed with inward rage, inquired blandly of Mr. Mulligan:
“May I ask if you were invited by Miss Maitland to visit her?”
“Lord, no,” responded Mr. Mulligan, cheerfully. “But I’m just
prospecting. I don’t know whether I shall like her or not after I know
her better; but I expect to like her. The way she sat down on those two
young women snobs added a year to my life, and I’m thinking I gave ’em
a good whack or two.”
“I suppose,” said Thorndyke, longing to throw Mulligan out of the
car-window and under the locomotive wheels, “you have engaged
accommodations in Miss Maitland’s neighbourhood?”
“Never a bit of it. I just found out that Miss Maitland’s station was
Roseboro’ station on this road, and I presume there must be some sort
of a hotel within reach, or I can stop at the next town.”
“There are no towns in that part of the county, and Miss Maitland has
informed me that there isn’t a hotel or boarding-house within ten
miles,” replied Thorndyke, stalking angrily back into the Pullman.
The train stopped at Roseboro’ on being flagged, and Thorndyke had one
of the most delicious moments of his life when he stepped into a smart
trap driven by Constance herself, and left Senator Mulligan, the man of
millions and of pies, stranded at the station, which consisted of the
passenger shed and the station-master’s house, which had four rooms,
in which the station-master with his wife and eleven children lived in
much dirt and comfort.
Constance, sitting in the trap, looking remarkably handsome in her
summer costume and large black hat, felt a thrill of sympathy for the
unfortunate Mulligan, standing in the little shed of a station with his
luggage piled around him. Not so Thorndyke, who derived acute pleasure
from Mulligan’s miserable situation.
“I hope,” said Constance to the forlorn Senator, “that you will come
over to see me some afternoon while you are at Roseboro’. Malvern is
only six miles away.”
“Thank you,” cried Mulligan, at once rising into a mood of enthusiastic
optimism, “I’ll call early and often.”
“The fellow is a good-natured ruffian, but I hope I’ll be out when he
calls,” was Thorndyke’s remark to Constance as they left the sandy road
of Roseboro’ station and entered the cool and shaded highway which led
to Malvern.
As Constance and Thorndyke drove along the sweet-scented country lanes,
crossing streams by rickety bridges and bumping up and down hills,
Thorndyke felt himself near Paradise. Constance was so kind to him, so
unaffectedly glad to see him. Her country life had freshened up her
complexion, and she looked positively girlish, and her high spirits
were infectious. She described the house-party--Mrs. Willoughby, half a
dozen Virginia cousins of different ages and sexes, a French friend and
her husband travelling in America, and Cathcart, the navy man--at whose
name Thorndyke felt a sensible diminution of his happiness. Constance
was charmed with Malvern Court, and declared it had been the happiest
summer of her life--almost.
“And when I think of those weary, dreary foreign watering-places of
which I grew so tired, and of those tiresome Swiss hotels, I think I am
in Heaven to be once more in my own country among my own kith and kin,
and hearing no language but good, honest English.”
“I intended to go to Europe this summer,” said Thorndyke, meekly. “I
had planned it for two or three years.”
“Why did you not go?” asked Constance, heedlessly.
“Because you asked me to visit you,” replied Thorndyke, something
within him forcing the truth out of him against his will, and then he
added, hastily:
“Forgive me, I’m a perfect brute. I wouldn’t blame you in the least if
you sent me back north by the next train.”
“Get up, Frolic, you idiot!” cried Constance to her smart cob, and
flicking him with the whip. Her face coloured, her eyes shone--it was
plain she was not displeased. But a horrible suspicion occurred to
Thorndyke--possibly she was, after all, a thorough-going flirt! Many of
those Southern women are, and can’t imagine why a man should object to
having a football made of his dearest affections as long as it amuses
the lady in the case.
This gruesome and uncanny thought, together with Cathcart’s presence
at Malvern, was a huge fly in Thorndyke’s ointment, but misery is as
much a concomitant of love as joy is, and Thorndyke had his share of
miseries.
The great live oaks were casting long shadows on the large, smooth
lawn when Constance drove up to the doors of Malvern Court. It was
a spacious brick house with wings, and at the back a four-roomed
structure common to Virginia houses, and known as “the office,” where
the bachelors were lodged. The house-guests were having tea under the
trees, where the shadows were long, when Thorndyke and Constance joined
them. Scipio Africanus served the tea, which was iced, and was like
water in the desert to travellers. It was handed with much ceremony by
Scipio, who had doffed his smart livery, and appeared in a snow-white
linen jacket. He was assisted by one of the coloured maids, who now
wore the smartest of smart caps and the neatest of neat print gowns
instead of the short skirt, pink shirtwaist, and picture-hat which had
electrified Thorndyke at the Washington station a few weeks before.
Constance Maitland knew precisely when to relax and when to tighten
discipline among her staff of negro servants.
Like all people in a country house, the guests were glad to see some
one from the outside world. It was a pleasant and amiable party,
and Thorndyke enjoyed himself in spite of Cathcart’s presence; but
Cathcart, being a remarkably pleasant and personable man, everybody
except Thorndyke relished his company.
While they were lingering over tea, a ramshackly buggy of the
prehistoric age of buggies, with an unkempt horse, was seen driving
up the winding, shady road which led to the lawn. In the buggy sat no
less a person than Senator Mince Pie Mulligan. He had seen himself
ignominiously left in the lurch by Thorndyke, but with the same spirit
of enterprise which had made him the greatest pie-manufacturer on earth
he had investigated his resources, and promptly pursued his object
with the best means at hand--a sure mark of superiority.
When he alighted from his ancient buggy, Constance advanced to meet
him, and greeted him with a cordiality which inspired Mr. Mulligan
with admiration and hope. He did not know that Southerners in their
own habitat meet every guest, however undesirable, with the same
overflowing cordiality, which is reckoned as merely good manners.
Senator Mulligan, however, thought this custom of generations a special
tribute to himself, and gloated over that cool, supercilious Thorndyke,
who had smiled in a superior manner at the Senator’s predicament at
Roseboro’ station. So he replied genially to Constance’s greeting: