Chapter V: Part 5

Colegrove alone of all the men she had ever known seemed to penetrate at once into everything which she wished to keep secret. He had got out of her the fact that she was pressed for money within a year of her marriage. This he proposed to remedy in a manner at once easy, simple and honourable: to get hold of stocks which would cost next to nothing to buy, and would sell for a fortune, and this he would do for Alicia March in his own name. He made the condition, however, that she should not mention it to her husband, and to this Alicia March agreed readily enough, knowing the transaction could not take place unless it were kept a secret from Senator March. Then money flowed into her hands, not enough to make her independent of Colegrove, but enough to ease the perpetual strain. At this point Colegrove had asked her to get copies of certain letters which he knew were in Senator March's desk in his study. At this Alicia recoiled and then refused, but when payment was demanded for a couple of black pearls which she had bought, and her dividends from her stocks were not forthcoming, Colegrove told her plainly that he must have copies of those letters before any more money was paid. Alicia had realised some time before that she was playing a dangerous game, but who fears the danger of a game as long as one is winning? It was ridiculously easy to get what Colegrove wanted, and love for the black pearls was stronger in Alicia March than honour or fear. Colegrove got his copies and Alicia's stock suddenly, according to Colegrove, declared a tremendous dividend.

Colegrove congratulated himself on what he had accomplished with Mrs. March and incidentally was scorched. All men are dreamers of dreams, and at last the dream took shape with Colegrove that he should force a wedge between Roger March and his wife. As for Colegrove's own wife, the fretful lady in a far-away western city, that was easily managed--he could drive her into a divorce any day he liked. He was the last man on earth who would betray himself, and what seemed an unguarded outbreak of passion for Alicia March was really a carefully calculated procedure. Alicia received it with a calmness and capacity to deal with the situation which showed him that she was no apprentice in such matters. She held him off, but she did not break with him. Each was too useful to the other to come to an open rupture, and so matters had gone on for more than three years.

In that time no human being, not even Roger March, suspected that Alicia March and Colegrove ever met except in the presence of others, and generally at dinners. Nevertheless, they had brief interviews, chiefly relating to bills and their payment, and papers were handed over to Colegrove, and crisp new bills for considerable amounts were received by Alicia. These meetings generally took place in unfrequented streets and parks at twilight, and might easily be explained as accidental. Those were not occasions of sentiment, but when Alicia and Colegrove met in drawing-rooms Colegrove then said things which conveyed to Alicia that her husband was puritanical in his ideas, which Colegrove was not, and when she should find Roger March intolerable there was a refuge waiting her. It seemed quite natural to Alicia March to hear these veiled declarations from Colegrove. She admired the ingenuity with which he made them and listened to them with a smiling composure, the meaning of which not all Colegrove's acuteness could discover. Alicia herself did not know her own feeling towards her husband, nor had the brilliant life upon which she had entered acquired any true sense of reality and proportion. She felt as if she were living in a dream, silent, changeful, exciting, but still a dream.

As the cab jogged along over the streets Alicia turned all these things over in her mind. It was the first time she had ever had a meeting with Colegrove which was open to the slightest suspicion, but Colegrove had written to her that he did not desire it to be known that he was in Washington while the great railroad legislation was pending until he should be called as a witness, and for that reason he would come to Washington for a few hours, stopping at a plain hotel where he was not known, when he was supposed to be on a hunting trip in Pennsylvania.

It was almost dark when she stepped out of the cab in front of the hotel where Colegrove was staying. He was watching for her and came down the steps to meet her. Time had dealt lightly with him, and he was the same strong, supple, keen-eyed man of four years before, with the same captivating frankness of manner, which did not reveal himself, but revealed others to him.

"Now," he said, when Alicia and he were in the lobby of the little hotel, "you won't mind coming to my sitting-room, where we can talk privately?"

"I mind very much," replied Alicia coolly. "There must be a public drawing-room somewhere about, and we can talk there."

"Here it is," replied Colegrove, opening a door near by and entering a large, showily furnished room glaring with gas. "But this is a very public drawing-room," said Colegrove, smiling, "and it is not to be supposed that Mrs. March is not known by sight to a great many people who are not on her visiting list. You had better come to my sitting-room."

Without a word Alicia followed him to the lift and they ascended one flight. Colegrove's sitting-room was a small replica of the drawing-room below.

"It is a good many years since I entertained a lady in a place like this, but I hope you will excuse it. I don't want your husband's committee to know that I am within a hundred miles of this town. Before we begin talking business, tell me how you have been. You are looking blooming, as well as I can see under that veil."

"I remembered that you told me," was Alicia's reply, "that you must have copies of the correspondence. I never have any trouble in getting copies, but it always makes me ashamed."

Colegrove paid no attention to the latter sentence, but stored up the first, and thought it a lucky admission on Alicia's part. She opened the costly little bag which she carried in her hand, and took out half-a-dozen letters, which Colegrove read rapidly, and with an air of satisfaction. Then, putting them in his breast pocket, he said pleasantly:

"By the way, that A.F.&O. stock has gone sky-high, and will soon go down in a hole in the ground. I sold a thousand shares of that investment of yours which stands in my name, and here is the money for it. You understand why I am obliged to give it to you in money instead of a cheque?"

He handed out a roll of bills, naming a considerable sum, and Alicia, without counting it, put it into her bag. Colegrove, having transacted the business part of the interview, would have liked to have had half-an-hour's conversation with Mrs. March, whose charming voice and speaking eyes had a steady and increasing fascination for him, but Alicia would not stay.

"We can talk," she said, "when you come to Washington openly. My husband, I think, likes you very much, and he says he is warring on the corporation, not on individuals."

"Will you ask me to dinner, Mrs. March?"

"With pleasure," replied Alicia, smiling faintly.

"I am glad it gives you a little pleasure; it gives me a great deal," replied Colegrove. "When a man has led the life that I have led, and has to do with large affairs, most women appear to him like children whose range of ideas is soon exhausted. Not so with you, however."

"I never was reckoned a clever woman," responded Alicia.

"Oh, Lord! I hate cleverness in both men and women. It assumes to be everything and takes the place of nothing. But you have lived from the very hour you made that unlucky first marriage. No one admires Senator March more than I do, but he ought to have married a purely conventional person, like Miss Chantrey, for example, whom I have met at your house. There must be a good many things you can't talk about to your husband."

Colegrove's words were guarded, but something in his tone expressed a subtle contempt for Senator March. Suddenly, and without the slightest premonition, Alicia March felt herself colouring with anger at Colegrove's words. He dared to say one word against her husband in her presence! It was the first strong feeling she had ever experienced where Roger March was concerned, and it lighted up her eyes, and brought the blood to her face, and she answered him sharply:

"I am not worthy of my husband, you and I both know it," and walked out of the room.

Colegrove followed her, hat in hand, and full of apologies, professing ignorance as to how he had offended her. She allowed him to assist her into the cab, but merely bade him a chilly good-bye. Colegrove watched the cab as it fumbled off in the dusk and then said to himself:

"I shall let her get into a tighter place than ever for money before I give her another lift. But, by Jove! if I were in March's place I would have had that woman's confidence long ago."

Then it occurred to him that there was in reality a great gulf between Senator March and the woman who was his wife, and a man like himself. This did not disconcert Colegrove in the least, as it was his invariable practice to see things as they were and never to blink the truth.

It was half-past six o'clock before Alicia March entered the door of her home. Instead of going to her boudoir, she went into Senator March's study. He was at his desk hard at work--he was known as the hardest worked man in the Senate--but he had not failed to notice his wife's absence.

"Really," he said, turning in his chair and taking her hand as she came forward into the circle of light cast by the old-fashioned student lamp which burned upon his desk, "you must not stay out so late. If I had known in what direction you had walked, I should have gone to meet you at six o'clock."

"You are fanciful," replied Alicia, and, for almost the first time in their married life, gave him an unasked caress, passing her arm around his neck and stooping to kiss him. It was not lost on Senator March.

"You know how to win pardon," he said, "but--but don't do it again. Since you have been gone I have been studying up some of the performances of your friend Colegrove, and I can't make out whether he is a virtuous sufferer or a very able and accomplished scamp."

"I met Mr. Colegrove while I was out," said Alicia, remembering the sum in her little bag, which would by no means pay all her bills, "and I promised to ask him to dinner," and then suddenly remembered that Colegrove had told her not to mention his presence in Washington. She had in truth been thinking more of her husband than of Colegrove for the last half-hour.

Senator March, however, did not observe any significance in his wife's casual words, and answered:

"Oh, very well! I am not down on Colegrove personally; he is a very good dinner guest, and there isn't any reason why you shouldn't ask him if you wish to. Will you invite him to meet the Carlyons?"

Alicia March turned a little pale at the suggestion. She had begun to be somewhat afraid of Colegrove's singular acuteness and power to make her tell things she did not mean to tell him. He might divine something of that past which had existed between Sir Percy Carlyon and herself. And Sir Percy, having known her long before either Colegrove or her husband, might suspect something between Colegrove and herself. She had, however, been used to these complications for many years, and could readily bring herself to meet them. Her sense of humour was small, but she had a glimmer when she said to her husband:

"Yes; we can have Mr. Colegrove and the Carlyons together."

*X*

Within a week Senator and Mrs. March one afternoon paid their first visit to the British Embassy. At the moment of greeting, Mrs. March saw that Lady Carlyon knew all of the story of what had occurred sixteen years before. Not that Lady Carlyon showed the slightest haughtiness or restraint on meeting Mrs. March; on the contrary, her bearing was perfect and her dignity and grace could not have been surpassed. Lady Carlyon was by no means the Lucy Armytage whom Mrs. March, as Alicia Vernon, had cross-examined so easily four years before. But there is a psychic understanding between women, a glance of the eye, a note of the voice, which tells the story to which the words may give a flat contradiction.

It cannot be said, however, that Sir Percy Carlyon's demeanour was perfect in spite of his sixteen years' training in diplomacy. The deep resentment which burned within him against Mrs. March was kindled into new life when he saw her shaking hands with his wife, and his greeting showed a certain restraint; nor was he over-cordial to Senator March, but this passed unobserved. There were other visitors present, and nothing in the least awkward occurred. Alicia had one moment of that revenge which is the sweetest draught a woman can quaff when, as the visit drew to a close, she said smilingly to Lady Carlyon and Sir Percy:

"Senator March tells me that you have promised to give us the pleasure of dining with us before long. Can you fix the date now?"

Sir Percy remained silent, but Lady Carlyon replied readily:

"I shall have to look at our book of engagements and I will write. You are most kind to ask us."

"Thank you," answered Alicia, with a peculiar inflection of pleasure in her voice.

It would be one of the most triumphant moments of her life when she forced Sir Percy Carlyon to bring his wife to dine with her. Senator March, standing by, expressed a frank and cordial pleasure at the prospect of seeing the Carlyons under his own roof. Man-like, he had observed nothing in the attitude of Sir Percy and Lady Carlyon, either towards himself or his wife, and Alicia was the last person on earth to enlighten him.

Within a day or two a pretty note came from Lady Carlyon saying that she and Sir Percy would have the pleasure of dining with Senator and Mrs. March on the thirtieth of January, if that date would be convenient to their hostess. Alicia passed the note over to her husband across the tea-table in her boudoir, and smiled as she tried to realise the effort it had caused the wife of the British Ambassador to write it.

Every incident connected with the dinner was an added triumph to Mrs. March. She collected a brilliant company, even in that place of brilliant dinners--Washington--and Colegrove was among the invited guests. She had engaged a great singer to lend the magic of his voice to the evening afterwards. In every detail she had the kindest interest of her husband. She was an Englishwoman entertaining, for the first time, the Ambassador from her own country, and Senator March determined that she should do it well. He even gave his attention to his wife's gown and jewels, which were consequently superb.

On the evening of the dinner, Alicia March was dressed and in her splendid drawing-room half-an-hour before the guests were due. She was conscious of looking her best; splendour became her mature beauty. Like most Englishwomen of her class she knew how to wear jewels, her hair glittered with diamonds which fell in a glorious _riviere_ upon her bosom, and sparkled on her arms. Senator March, coming down later, paid her a sincere compliment in saying that he had never seen her look so handsome. They went into the dining-room, a superb apartment in Pompeian red, and glanced into the ball-room, where the music was to take place after dinner. All was satisfactory to Senator March and more than satisfactory to his wife. With the nicety of courtesy, the first guests to arrive were the Carlyons. Lady Carlyon seemed, as Senator March had said, to have grown taller, certainly her air and figure had gained great beauty in the four years of her married life. She wore an exquisitely fitting, but perfectly simple, white gown, with a bouquet of violets on her breast; not a jewel of any description shone upon her. She had jewels, of course, as every woman of position would have, and Mrs. March happened to know that there were some very nice family jewels which Sir Percy's wife must have, but not one of them did Lady Carlyon wear on this occasion. She was a good diplomatist, as Lord Baudesert predicted she would become, but, like all women, there was a point with her where diplomacy gave way to feeling. Lady Carlyon had schooled herself to meet Alicia March, had fought and outwardly conquered the deep repugnance and disdain she felt for the woman who had made a blot upon her husband's life; but when she had the chance Lady Carlyon, like Achilles, could not forbear dragging her dead enemy at her chariot wheels. She knew that Alicia March would blaze with splendour, and therefore elected to dress with marked simplicity. She was as simply gowned as on that memorable night in her girlhood when she attended her first Embassy ball, and met her fate.

When the two women stood contrasted, Alicia March knew at once what Lady Carlyon's studied simplicity meant, and felt herself overdressed and bedizened, but she gave no hint of her chagrin. As each guest arrived Alicia March felt as if she were paying off the score between the Carlyons and herself. Her position and prestige as Senator March's wife must be obvious to the Carlyons. The last person to arrive was Colegrove. He was certainly the handsomest man present, but by no means the most distinguished, and could not have the place of honour on Alicia's left hand. When Mrs. March took Sir Percy Carlyon's arm to go in to dinner it was the first time she had so touched him since those days on the frontier of Afghanistan. She gave him a look, half mirthful, half menacing, but wholly triumphant, which Sir Percy understood. His manner to her was rather an indifferent piece of acting, but this was not observed by any one except Mrs. March and Lady Carlyon.

The dinner was splendid--rather too splendid Alicia realised; her tendency was somewhat to excess. The conversation was agreeable and sparkling. Alicia was an accomplished hostess; without great brilliance and _esprit_ herself, she knew how to bring out these qualities in others, and Senator March shone in his own house. Colegrove, sitting on the opposite side of the vast round table, saw nothing at first, except the natural desire of an Englishwoman to do honour to her own Ambassador and Ambassadress, but he noted the extreme simplicity of Lady Carlyon's gown, and thought her the handsomer for it. Nevertheless it puzzled him, but as soon as his eyes fell on his hostess a light dawned upon him. There was some rivalry between these two women. With that first thread to go on, he observed his hostess and her guests more closely.

When the ladies rose Mrs. March led the way into the picture gallery. Lady Carlyon did not, as Mrs. March supposed she would, subtly avoid her hostess. On the contrary, she remained close to Alicia, whom she asked to tell her the names of the artists whose pictures were on the wall, Lady Carlyon listening with smiling attention. Presently it dawned upon Alicia March's mind that Lady Carlyon was making her exhibit her possessions and give a list of them--it was Lady Carlyon now who had the upper hand and not Alicia. Mrs. March, however, went around the gallery with Lady Carlyon, and by that time the men appeared, and a few other guests invited for the after-dinner music. Colegrove was now watching with all his eyes. Senator March in his hearty, outspoken way, had mentioned the friendship of General Talbott and Sir Percy Carlyon in those early days on the Afghan frontier, and Colegrove knew that Alicia had been with her father at that time. Sir Percy shied off from the subject very obviously, and this was not lost on Colegrove. All of this made Colegrove suspect that there had been an affair between Sir Percy Carlyon and Mrs. March. He recollected that she had never mentioned Sir Percy to him, although she had spoken freely of persons and events in her life. He sat turning these things over in his mind with the interest with which everything concerning Alicia awakened in him, at the time he was listening to the great tenor whose every note was worth a bank-note.

When the evening was over, and most of the guests had taken their departure, Colegrove, going up to Mrs. March, said to her smilingly:

"You look quite superb to-night. Lady Carlyon evidently didn't wish to be in the competition. When a woman wears a simple white gown and a bunch of violets she means something by it."

Alicia smiled faintly.

"Perhaps Lady Carlyon thought the occasion not important enough for jewels," she said.

"She won't find a more important occasion," replied Colegrove, laughing, "not even at the White House, as that is purely perfunctory, you know, when she goes in on the same footing as the Chinese Ambassador and the Korean Minister. I am afraid Lady Carlyon is slightly unappreciative. Good-night, and thank you for a charming evening."

After accepting the Marches' dinner invitation it was inevitable that they should be placed upon the dinner list of the British Embassy, so Lady Carlyon told Sir Percy, as they drove back through the January night to the Embassy, and it must be done at once; for Senator March was a man who could not be ignored either socially or politically, Lady Carlyon reminded Sir Percy, urging him at the same time to be more cordial to Senator March.

"I never saw a man I liked better than March," replied Sir Percy; "he was the first friend I made in Washington, but I admit that it staggers me to look at him in the light of Alicia Vernon's husband."

"I am afraid," answered Lady Carlyon, "that it will be observed in spite of all that I can do to smooth things over."

"I don't think I could have managed it at all without you," replied Sir Percy; "you are the better diplomatist of the two."

"Oh, you may always expect something great from Bardstown, Kentucky!" replied Lady Carlyon, and was Lucy Armytage again, looking with sweet, laughing eyes into her husband's sombre face.

Within a fortnight an invitation to dine at the British Embassy came for Senator March and his wife, and it was accepted. It was not to be supposed, however, that the Marches and the Carlyons had not met many times during that fortnight. They moved in the same orbit and were continually within sight of each other. Sir Percy, bearing in mind Lady Carlyon's caution, was more cordial in his manner to Senator March. He found no difficulty in being so, for the two men met, as they often did in the society of men alone, at men's dinners, at the club, and like places. Sir Percy, following the example of Lord Baudesert, was an indefatigable student of American affairs, and Senator March was a mine of information.

It was a source of some surprise to Senator March that there was nothing like intimacy between the Carlyons and his wife and himself. He could see that his wife and Sir Percy Carlyon did not stand to each other in the relation of old friends, although they were old acquaintances. And there was something guarded in the attitude of Lady Carlyon and Alicia March towards each other. He would have liked very much to have renewed his old friendship and even fondness for Lady Carlyon, but although she met him with unvarying sweetness, she did not take up the thread of intimacy which had existed between them from the days when she was a school-girl and he was a senator. Senator March had lived long enough to know that there are strange convolutions in personal relations, especially between women. It soon became plain that Alicia March and Lady Carlyon were not drawn together. Senator March's confidence in his wife was such that he felt sure that her course was regulated by good taste and good sense, and that was enough for him.

The dinner at the Embassy was brilliant, and Lady Carlyon did the honours with extraordinary grace. This time she wore very handsome jewels, although nothing to compare with those of Alicia March.

Senator March had intended to suggest to Alicia that she should invite the Carlyons to spend the week-end at the country place where their romance had culminated, but, seeing the futility of his plan, did not mention it even to his wife. Meanwhile great affairs pressed upon him. The big railways had been finally brought to bay and Senator March, as chairman of the committee of investigation, had his hands full. Colegrove was in town continuously and spent many days explaining the inexplicable before the committee.

Senator March, listening, tabulating and making notes, began to have a very high admiration for Colegrove's abilities and even a belief in the man. Great corporations, Senator March knew, are not associations of archangels for the benefit of the human race, but commercial organisations, with an eye to profit. All of this was taken into account by Senator March in judging Colegrove and his _confreres_. One thing, however, was certain: Colegrove was the real man who was making the fight. His colleagues showed great confidence in him, and it was plain that he had organised, and was directing, the campaign. He had contrived, however, to arouse the antagonism of certain members of the committee; the investigation threatened to become a prosecution, and Senator March found himself often in the position of defending, and bespeaking a fair show for, Colegrove. The interest of the public in the railway question was widespread and intense. The Presidential election was less than a year off, and the party in power was relying upon its treatment of two or three great questions, of which this was one, to secure the next administration. In fact, politics entered so largely into the railway question that many public men lost sight of justice. Not so Senator March. He had no higher ambition than the senatorship, and laughed when it was suggested that he should enter the presidential race, but swore when he was asked to consider the vice-presidency. He was entirely satisfied with his place as senator, of which he was now serving his third term, and believed that he could hold it as long as he desired it. He had, in short, reached that lofty height--always a dangerous point in human affairs--when his life, his surroundings, his career, everything satisfied him exactly. He had no children, and that alone was a disappointment.

The thought that all his wishes and ambitions were satisfied came over him one afternoon in March when he reached his own door. Alicia was waiting for him in her splendid victoria, perfectly turned out in every particular. She looked uncommonly handsome, and greeted him, as always, with the greatest amiability. Senator March getting into the carriage, they drove off toward the park. Alicia wore a particularly charming white hat, and her husband told her so.

"I was afraid the hat was too young for me," she replied, smiling.

"Not at all," protested Senator March; "a charming woman is always young. It is one of my greatest sources of happiness that you are not a girl-wife who would drag me around to tea parties and balls, and not have any respect for my years."

"Have you had a hard day's work?" asked Alicia.

"Very. So much so that I have not been able to glance at the afternoon papers. If you will excuse me, I will look at the headlines."

By that time they had reached the beautiful wooded park, where, fifteen minutes from the fashionable quarter of Washington, one can be in the heart of the woods. The afternoon was balmy and the scent of the spring was in the air; all the earth was brown and green, and on the southern slopes of the hillsides little leaves were coming out shyly; already the blue birds and robins were riotous with song, and between the interlacing tree-tops, full of brown buds, the sky shone blue with the blueness of spring. The stream, swollen by the melting snows, rushed and swirled, and the little waterfalls laughed and danced madly in the golden sunlight. The park was full of smart carriages, automobiles and men and girls on horseback.

Senator March, taking the newspaper out of his pocket, adjusted his glasses and began to read. Alicia March lay back in her corner of the carriage, seeing neither her husband nor the beauty and glory of earth and sky around her. It was the old story, she knew not where to turn for money, and the sum she had spent and what she had to show for it bewildered her. Colegrove, for the third or fourth time, had demanded copies of certain letters and documents, and Alicia knew that no money would be forthcoming until she had secured them. Colegrove had not become in the least insolent in his manner; on the contrary, Alicia saw, with the eye of experience, that he was becoming more ingratiating. She even suspected that Colegrove was after another kind of stake, and more delicate plunder than legislation favourable to railways. She felt a singular and growing dislike to deceiving her husband. It was new to her, and was a part of that strange dislocation and unreality of life that she should have scruples. Formerly she had not known what scruples meant and had no fears whatever, but now she was troubled with both scruples and fears, which bewildered and tormented her. If she ceased to hold any communication with Colegrove it meant a revelation of her debts, her duns, and complications to her husband, and if she continued upon the path in which she had entered a precipice lay before her.

Alicia March and her husband sat silent for half-an-hour as the thoroughbred horses, champing their bits, trotted slowly along the wooded road. All at once Alicia glanced at her husband; his face had turned an ashen grey, and his eyes, with a strange expression in them, were fixed upon the newspaper before him and he was as motionless as a dead man. Then as Alicia watched him with amazed and terrified eyes, he glanced at her and silently laid the newspaper in her lap.

On the front page, with great headlines, was a double-leaded article of several columns devoted to Colegrove. In it was laid bare Colegrove's whole career, especially his management of the great railway interests confided to him. As Senator March had seen long before, Colegrove had gained a complete ascendancy over his associates, who followed his leadership like so many schoolboys. Then came the most singular part of all--the assertion that Colegrove had got advance information, which was invaluable to him, through the wife of a certain public man, and although Senator March's name was not mentioned, it was so plainly indicated that it was impossible to mistake who was meant. Then came a history of Colegrove's alleged transactions in stocks for the benefit of the senator's wife, and many other particulars, which Alicia had supposed were known only to herself and Colegrove. She read the article through rapidly, to the accompaniment of the steady beat of the horse's hoofs on the park road and the soft carolling of the woodland birds. She felt herself growing benumbed like a person being paralysed by inches; when she finished reading the article she made an effort to speak, which seemed to cost her all her strength.

"Stop," she said to the footman, and then turning to her husband said: "Let us walk a little way in the woods down by the water."

The carriage stopped and the footman jumped down and assisted Senator March to alight, and Mrs. March followed him. The two walked together into a path which led down to the water where there was a bench concealed by some shrubbery. They both looked so pale, and Senator March moved so heavily, that the footman exchanged looks with the coachman and remarked, putting his finger on his nose:

"Something is up between 'em."

Down by the water Senator March dropped upon the bench and Alicia seated herself beside him.

"It is a great blow," he said after a minute, "a very great blow. It is the first aspersion cast upon me or any of my family during the thirty years of my public life. It is easy enough to disprove it, but it is humiliating and terrible that such things should be said of you and me, my poor, innocent Alicia."

It was the very phrase which General Talbott had so often used in Alicia's presence, and it always moved and touched her, but not as it did now. With her father, Alicia had ever felt a sense of triumph that she had saved him the knowledge of much that would have maddened him, but with her husband she felt a strange impulse to confess all. She was, however, not a woman to act on such impulses and she remained silent, turning her head away. She could feel at first the pity in Senator March's glance, and then by intuition she felt, rather than saw, her husband's look change from pity to startled inquiry and then to dreadful certainty. Presently he said, in a voice so stern that she scarcely recognised it as his own:

"Tell me, is it true? If you will deny it, I will take your word against that of the whole world."

It would have been so easy to say "No," and Alicia could have said it readily enough to any person on earth except her husband, but something seemed to rise within her to forbid the lie, and she remained silent: she either could not or would not speak. All around them was the silence of the woods, and they were themselves so still that a robin, more daring than his fellows, hopped close by their feet and chirruped a sweet little song. After a long pause Senator March repeated, in the same voice:

"Will you not speak? Am I to believe--" He stopped, and Alicia longed to speak, but as before no words came to her.

She rose as if to walk towards the carriage, but she swayed so that her husband took her arm to support her. Then they went up the hill and, entering the waiting carriage, were driven towards the city. Not a word was spoken during the homeward drive. When they reached the asphalted streets Senator March directed the coachman to drive to the smart hotel where Colegrove had a splendid suite of rooms. Alicia's trembling heart sank lower; she thought it a fearful blunder that Senator March's carriage should be seen at Colegrove's hotel, but Senator March had never in his life concealed anything, and he was too stunned to adopt any of the small precautions of fear. When they reached the hotel he alighted and said with somewhat of his usual composure to the footman:

"Mrs. March will drive home," and then, lifting his hat to Alicia, he walked into the hotel.

Entering the lift, the Senator went straight to Colegrove's apartments. He opened the door without knocking and turned into the study of the suite, and there found Colegrove sitting at a large table, covered with books and papers, with a couple of the greatest railways' lawyers in America sitting with him. March bowed to them politely, and then, without sitting down, said coldly to Colegrove:

"I must be allowed to interrupt these gentlemen for a few minutes while I speak with you alone."

All three men had risen as Senator March entered; he was too important a man to be received with other than the highest respect, nor did Colegrove make the slightest objection to leading the way into the next room. The light of battle was in his eye, and it was plain that he was prepared to fight. After closing the door he said at once:

"You have, of course, seen the story in the afternoon newspapers? Much of it, I need hardly say, is a batch of lies, a part of it we have no reason to conceal, and the rest can be explained. There is no occasion for anybody to fall into a panic."

"I didn't come here to discuss that with you," replied Senator March, looking fixedly at Colegrove.

"You wish to know about your wife's transactions with me?" calmly asked Colegrove, carrying the war into Africa according to his invariable custom.

Senator March remained silent; he could not bring himself to put into words what he had come to ask. Colegrove went back into the next room and, returning in a minute, brought a tin box, which he opened. Out of it he took every copy, every paper and letter which he had received from Alicia March, and every note in which she acknowledged receiving money from him. Then from a little book he read the statement of every dollar he had ever paid Alicia March. The Senator, sitting at the table with Colegrove, read every piece of writing in the tin box, then, gathering them up in his hands, he put them carefully in his breast pocket. Colegrove, watching him meanwhile, prepared to throw himself, with a vigour acquired in his college days from a good boxing master, upon Senator March if he attempted to leave the room without returning the papers.

"To-morrow," said March without a tremor, "when the Senate is convened, I shall acknowledge every charge against me. I shall also claim that every penny which went out of your pocket to my wife was paid to me, and I shall resign my seat in the Senate, telegraphing the Governor of the State to-night."

"You are a madman!" cried Colegrove.

"It is the sanest act of my life," answered Senator March.

"There is but one thing to do," persisted Colegrove, "and that is to deny everything and call for proof."

Senator March smiled slightly.

"I think, Mr. Colegrove, we have different standards. I see in your eye that you mean to attack me in order to get these letters and documents. Well, it would be of no use, because my confession and resignation will not call for proof."

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 Eugenie, 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."

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."