WASHINGTON society did not see much of Pembroke that winter. He worked very hard, and in the afternoons he took long, solitary rides. Sometimes in his rides he would meet Olivia Berkeley, generally with her father, and often Miles was with them. Then he would join the cavalcade, and exert himself to be gay—for it cannot be denied that he was not in very good spirits at that time. It is one thing to perform an act of rigid justice and another to take pleasure in it. Madame Volkonsky’s last words rang in his ears.
He could not but smile at Olivia. She pierced his outward pretense of gayety, and saw that at heart he was sad. She fancied she knew why. By a mighty effort she brought herself to regard his infatuation for Madame Volkonsky with pity.
“It is written that Olivia shall always misunderstand me,” he said to himself.
The Volkonsky matter did not end there. The treatment of the Russian representative suddenly presented a party phase. The party in power saw that capital could be made out of it. Pembroke had carried the whole thing through. Pembroke was a Southern man. Russia had offered her fleet during the civil war, in the event that France and England should depart from the strictest neutrality. It was easy enough to make the Russian Minister, who had departed, a martyr. In those unhappy days of sectional strife, these things were seized upon eagerly by both sides.
Pembroke heard that an attack was to be made upon him on the floor of the House. This gave him great satisfaction. He knew that his course was not only justifiable but patriotic in the highest degree. The question of Volkonsky’s iniquities in the first instance had been thrust upon him by his political adversaries in the committee, who thought it at best but a diplomatic squabble. The sub-committee to which it was referred, had a chairman who was taken ill early in the session, and was not able to attend any of the committee meetings. His other colleague was incurably lazy—so this supposed trifling matter was wholly in his hands, and it had turned out a first-class sensation.
The visit of the Grand Duke, and the complications from Russia’s extreme friendliness toward the Government at a critical time, had suddenly made the question assume a phase of international importance. Without scandal, and without giving offense, the State Department, acting on Pembroke’s information, had managed to rout Volkonsky, and incidentally to give a warning to continental governments regarding the men they should send as diplomatic representatives to the United States. The Secretary of State, a cold, formal, timid, but dignified man, was infinitely gratified and relieved at the manner in which Pembroke had managed Volkonsky.
The President had laughed with grim humor at the account of Volkonsky’s utter rout. Altogether it was a chain of successes for Pembroke, and it gave him his opportunity to show the debater’s stuff there was in him. Therefore, when he was informed that on a certain day he would have to answer for himself on the floor of the House, he felt in high spirits, for the first time in weeks.
Miles was full of excitement. Colonel Berkeley, whose sectionalism was of the robust and aggressive kind indigenous in Virginia, was in high feather. He charged Pembroke repeatedly to wallop those infernal Yankees so that they would never forget it, and recalled all the forensic glories of all the Pembrokes to him. Olivia brightened into wonderful interest. She said it was the subject that interested her.
The evening before the resolution was to be called up, Pembroke walked over to the Berkeleys, Olivia and her father sat in the cosy library. The Colonel began immediately.
“My dear fellow, you ought not to be here this minute. Remember you have got to speak for the State of Virginia to-morrow. You ought to be sharpening your blade and seeing to the joints in your armor.”
“You should, indeed,” struck in Olivia, with great animation. “You can’t imagine how nervous I feel. You see, you are to be the mouth-piece of all of us. If you don’t do your best, and show that we have some patriotism, as well as the North, I believe there will be a general collapse among all the Southern people here.”
Pembroke could not help laughing.
“Your anxiety, Colonel, and Miss Berkeley’s doesn’t bespeak great confidence in me.”
Olivia blushed and protested more earnestly.
“Not so, not so, sir,” cried the Colonel. “We have every confidence in you, but my boy, you had better take a look at Cicero’s orations against Catiline—and read over to-night Sheridan’s speeches—and Hayne against Webster.”
Pembroke threw himself back in his chair, and his laugh was so boyish and hearty, that Olivia was startled into joining in it.
“This is fearful,” said Olivia, bringing her pretty brows together sternly. “This is unpardonable levity. At a time like this, it is dreadful for us to stand so in awe of your self-love. Really now, we know that you are eloquence and cleverness itself, but it isn’t safe,” she continued, with an air of infinite experience, “to trust anything to chance.”
“Come down to the House to-morrow and encourage me,” replied Pembroke good humoredly, “and keep up Miles’ spirits when I begin to flounder.”
The evening was very jolly, like those old ones in Paris and in Virginia. Pembroke at last rose to go, and in parting, the Colonel clapped him on the back, while Olivia held his hand and pressed it so warmly that Pembroke’s dark face colored with pleasure, as she said:
“Now, I know I am offending you—but you can’t imagine how frightened I am. You may come out all right—but the suspense will be dreadful—” She was laughing, too, but Pembroke saw under her badinage a powerful interest in his success. He went away elated. “At least she will see that I was worthy of more consideration than she gave me,” he thought—a common reflection to men who have been refused.
Next day the floor of the House was crowded and the galleries packed. Administration and anti-administration people were interested. Society turned out in force to hear the revelations about the late Russian Minister—the private and diplomatic galleries were filled. The Senate was not in session, and many Senators were on the floor.
After the morning hour, and the droning through of some unimportant business, the leader of the majority rose, and demanded the consideration of the resolution of inquiry relating to the recall of the Russian Minister from this country. At that a hush fell upon the crowd. The leader of the opposition rose to reply. He stated briefly that it was a matter concerning the Foreign Affairs Committee, and a member of one of the sub-committees had sole charge of it owing to the illness of the chairman. Another member then rose, and sarcastically referring to the fact that the gentleman referred to could scarcely be supposed to entertain friendly feelings toward the representative of the only foreign government which showed the slightest sympathy toward the Union in the Civil War, demanded to know by what right had the Russian Minister’s position in Washington been made untenable—and that too, at the time of the visit of a member of the Czar’s family—and was this the return the United States Government made for the Czar’s extreme friendliness? Then Pembroke stood up in his place, at a considerable distance from the Speaker. This gave him a great advantage, for it showed the fine resonant quality of his voice, clear and quite free from rant and harshness. Olivia Berkeley, who watched him from the front row in the gallery, saw that he was pale, but perfectly self-possessed. As he caught her eye, in rising, he smiled at her.
“Mr. Speaker.”
The Speaker fixed his piercing eyes upon him, and with a light tap of the gavel, said “The gentleman from Virginia has the floor.”
Pembroke used no notes. He began in a clear and dignified manner to recite the part taken by him in Volkonsky’s case—his suspicions, his demand for documents from the State Department, Volkonsky’s compromising letters, of which he read copies—the dilemma of the Department, anxious not to offend Russia but indignant at the baseness of Volkonsky—the further complication of the Grand Duke’s visit, and all which followed. He then read his statement of what had occurred at his interviews with Volkonsky, and which he had filed at the State Department.
“And here let me say,” he remarked, pausing from the reading of his minutes of his last conversation with Volkonsky, “that in some of my language and stipulations I had no authority from either the President or Secretary of State—but with the impetuosity of all honest men, I felt a profound indignation at a man of the late Minister’s character, daring to present himself as an accredited agent to this Government. In many of these instances, as for example, when I stipulated that the late Minister should not presume to shake hands with the President at his parting interview, or address him in any way, no doubt the late Minister supposed that I was instructed to make that stipulation. Sir, I was not. It was an outburst of feeling. I felt so clearly that no man of Volkonsky’s character should be permitted to touch the hand of the President of the United States, that I said so—and said so in such a way that the late Minister supposed I had the President’s authority for it.”
At this, there was an outburst of applause. The Speaker made no move to check it. Pembroke bowed slightly, and resumed in his calm and piercing voice.
Members of the House and Senate had settled themselves to hear a speech. In five minutes the old stagers had found out that there was the making of a great parliamentary speaker in this stalwart dark young man. Members leaned back and touched each other. Pens refrained from scratching. The pages, finding nothing to do, crept toward the Speaker’s desk and sat down on the carpeted steps. One little black-eyed fellow fixed his gaze on Pembroke’s face, and at the next point he made, the page, without waiting for his elders, suddenly clapped furiously. A roar of laughter and applause followed. Pembroke smiled, and did not break silence again until the Speaker gave him a slight inclination of the head. In that pause he had glanced at Olivia in the gallery. Her face was crimson with pride and pleasure.
Outside in the corridors, the word had gone round that there was something worth listening to going on inside. The aisles became packed. A slight disturbance behind him showed Pembroke that a contingent of women was being admitted to the floor—and before him, in the reporters’ gallery, where men were usually moving to and fro, every man was at his post, and there was no passing in and out.
Pembroke began to feel a sense of triumph. His easy, but forcible delivery was not far from eloquence. He felt the pulse of his audience, as it were. At first, when he began, it was entirely cold and critical, while his blood leaped like fire through his veins, and it took all his will-power to maintain his appearance of coolness. But as his listeners warmed up, he cooled off. The more subtly he wrought them up, the more was he master of himself. His nerve did not once desert him.
Gradually he began to lead up to where he hoped to make his point—that, although of the party in opposition, he felt as deeply, and resented as instantly, any infringement of the dignity of the Government as any citizen of the republic—and that such was the feeling in his party. His own people saw his lead and applauded tremendously. Just then the Speaker’s gavel fell. Loud cries of “Go on! Go on! Give him half an hour more! Give him an hour!” rang out. Pembroke had ceased in the middle of a sentence, and had sat down.
“Is there objection to the gentleman from Virginia continuing?” asked the Speaker, in an animated voice. “The Chair hears none. The gentleman will proceed.”
The applause now turned into cheers and shouts. One very deaf old gentleman moved forward to Pembroke and, deliberately motioning a younger man out of his seat, quietly took possession of it, to the amusement of the House. The little page, who was evidently a pet of the old gentleman, stole up to him and managed to crowd in the same chair. Shouts of laughter followed this, followed by renewed applause for Pembroke, in which his opponents good-naturedly joined. Then Pembroke felt that the time had come. He had the House with him.
He spoke for an hour. He merely took the Volkonsky incident for a text. He spoke of the regard for the common weal exhibited by his party, and he vigorously denounced his opponents for their attempt to make party capital out of that which was near and dear to all Americans. He spoke with temper and judgment, but his party realized that they had gained a powerful aid in their fight with the majority. At the last he artfully indulged in one burst of eloquence—in which he seemed carried away by his theme, but in which, like a genuine orator, he played upon his audience, and while they imagined that he had forgotten himself he was watching them. Truly they had forgotten everything but the ringing words of the speaker. He had touched the chord of true Americanism which sweeps away all parties, all prejudices. Then, amidst prolonged and vociferous cheering, he sat down. Senators and Representatives closed around him, congratulating him and shaking hands. The House was in no mood for anything after that, and a motion to adjourn was carried, nobody knew how. When at last, to escape being made to appear as if he remained to be congratulated, Pembroke was going toward the cloak room the Speaker passed near him and advanced and offered his hand. “Ah,” he cried, in his pleasant, jovial way, “right well have you acquitted yourself this day. You’ll find much better company on our side of the House, however, my young friend.”
“Thank you,” said Pembroke, smiling and bowing to the great man. “It’s not bad on my own side.”
The Speaker laughed and passed on.
Pembroke slipped out. It was a pleasant spring afternoon. The world took on for him a glorious hue just then, as it does to every man who finds his place in life, and that place an honorable one. But one thing was wanting—a tender heart to sympathize with him at that moment. Instead of turning toward his lodgings, he walked away into the country—away where he could see the blue line of the Virginia hills. It gave him a kind of malicious satisfaction, and was yet pain to him, that Olivia would be expecting him, and that she should be disappointed. As the hero of the hour she would naturally want to greet him.
“Well,” he thought, as he struck out more vigorously still, “let us see if my lady will not peak and pine a little at being forgotten.” And yet her hurt gave him hurt, too. Love and perversity are natural allies.
It was quite dark when he returned to his lodgings. Miles was not there—gone to dinner with the Berkeleys.
About ten o’clock Miles turned up, the proudest younger brother in all America. He had all that he had heard to tell his brother. But presently he asked:
“Why didn’t you come to the Berkeleys’? The Colonel kept the carriage waiting at the Capitol for you. Olivia listened at dinner for your step, and jumped up once, thinking you had come.”
“I needed a walk in the country,” answered Pembroke, sententiously.
Miles sighed. A look came into his poor face that Pembroke had seen there before—a look that made the elder brother’s strong heart ache. Any disappointment to Olivia was a stab to this unfortunate young soul. Men, as nature made them, are not magnanimous in love. Only some frightful misfortune like this poor boy’s can make them so.
Presently Miles continued, hesitatingly:
“You must go to see her very early to-morrow. You know they return to Virginia early in the week.”
“I can’t go,” answered Pembroke, wounding himself, and the brother that he loved better than himself, in order to wound Olivia. “I must go to New York early to-morrow morning, on business. I was notified ten days ago.”
Miles said no more.
Early the next morning Pembroke was off, leaving a note for Olivia, which that young lady showed her father, and then, running up to her own room, tore into bits—and then she burst into tears. And yet it was a most kind, cordial, friendly note. When Pembroke returned, the Berkeleys had left town for the season.