The Whirl by Fox C Davis - HTML preview

Colegrove, for once staggered and at a loss, allowed Senator March to open the door into the next room, where the two lawyers stood talking in low voices. The moment for using force was lost and, besides, the Senator's promise of confession and resignation put so new a phase on the case that Colegrove was bewildered.

XI

Senator March went downstairs and passed through the hotel lobby, where everybody stared at him open-mouthed, and went out into the streets. The sun lay low in the west, and the streets were full of people, walking and driving. Many persons turned and looked at him, some with pity, some with contempt, some with incredulity. In ten minutes he reached his own door; as he entered it he said to the footman:

"Don't admit any one to-night," and passed upstairs.

He knocked at the door of his wife's boudoir, but receiving no answer, entered the luxurious little room and found it empty, but through the door leading into her bedroom he caught sight of Alicia walking up and down the floor. She had not removed her hat or even her gloves, and was nervously twisting the handle of her lace parasol as she walked restlessly about the room. The bedroom, if possible, was more luxurious than the boudoir. The red silk hangings, which had once belonged to the Empress Eug�nie, had been paid for, not by Senator March's money, as he had imagined, but with money made by the alleged sale of stocks by Colegrove. The mantel clock and candelabra, real Louis Quinze gems, had come from the same source, as had the great silver-framed mirror on the dressing-table which reflected Alicia's pale face.

Senator March entered the room without ceremony and took from his breast pocket the packet of letters and documents in Alicia's handwriting, and handed them to her silently. She took them in her trembling hands, glanced at them and then gave them back to him. His face, although perfectly composed, had the same strange greyness about it which she had noticed as they sat together on the bank of the stream in the park. For the first time in her life Alicia March felt a desire to throw wide the doors of her soul and make a confession. She was frightened at the impulse, and would have restrained it, but her will power, usually so strong, was as feeble over this impulse as the hand of a child over a maddened horse. So far she had not spoken a word since the moment, less than an hour before, when the discovery had been made, but now she burst forth:

"I don't know what to say--he invested some money for me," she began breathlessly, and then went on, blundering, stammering and sobbing, to tell him her transactions with Colegrove.

Her husband heard her incoherent story through, and when she stopped, panting and wringing her hands, he remained silent for a few minutes. Alicia turned her agonised face away from him, covering it with her hands. Presently the Senator spoke in a quiet voice:

"Say not one word of this to any one. To-morrow I will acknowledge everything, only saying that the money was paid to me instead of to you, and that you are innocent. I shall resign my seat in the Senate--I am telegraphing to-night to the Governor of the State to that effect. It is much better for us not to meet again. I shall go to my ranch in the Sierras. I gave you a deed to this house when we were married, you remember, so it is yours, with everything in it, except my books, and I will give you an income to support it and to supply every reasonable wish you may have, but on one condition only."

Alicia was looking at him with wide, wild eyes.

"What is that condition?" she gasped.

"That you make no effort whatever to see or communicate with me again. I shall leave this house to-morrow morning, never to re-enter it."

"'I shall leave this house to-morrow morning, never to re-enter it'"

He turned and went into his own study, closed and locked the door.

Alicia's mood of terror changed suddenly to one of fury. She had heard of these people who had no understanding of the temptations that beset the weaker ones. Her husband had decided everything as if she were a child, or rather as if she had not existed; he had hardly listened to her stumbling regrets, her sobbed-out confession. In one short hour it seemed as if his love had turned to the bitterest hate. If he would but have been reasonable something might have been done, but without one moment's hesitation he was sacrificing himself and her, too. She threw herself upon the bed, torn with fury and remorse and a multitude of emotions, which she could neither control nor understand.

The servants in the house knew that something had happened, and when 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.

Those two years and a half seemed to be unclouded for the Carlyons. Sir Percy found his mission exactly to his liking, and his prestige was steadily increased by his management of affairs. It even met with the approval of Lord Baudesert, who found himself unable to keep away from his beloved Washington. Mrs. Chantrey, whose hopes of being an Ambassadress had been dashed by Lord Baudesert's retirement, still cherished dreams of being Lady Baudesert, and was warmly encouraged in her aspirations by that wicked old gentleman during his whole visit to Washington. Eleanor Chantrey had remained unmarried. Her beauty and her fortune would have enabled her to make a choice of many brilliant marriages, but deep in her heart rankled something like di