Despotism and Democracy: A Study in Washington Society and Politics

Straightway, Crane began a hypocritical mode of life, and deceived everybody in the world except the two most necessary to deceive—himself and his wife.

He did not deceive himself. There was enough of honesty in him to make him loathe himself, while doggedly carrying out the devil’s programme, into which he had entered with Governor Sanders. As he went to church on summer Sundays, with Annette by his side and the two children trotting soberly in front of them, Crane felt as if a bolt from heaven ought to descend upon him for his treachery to the man who had befriended him. Sitting in the cool, dim church, his head devoutly bowed as if in prayer, he doubted that there was a personal God; for if so, how could He tolerate such blasphemy us a man praying, to be seen of men; giving, to be published in the newspapers, and saying to his brother, “How is it with thee, my brother?” and then stabbing him in the back?

At one thing, the evil spirit within him shuddered and turned away. This was when he had a very friendly letter from Senator Bicknell, saying he should be in the neighbourhood of Circleville in the next fortnight, and if convenient he would accept Crane’s often-urged invitation to stop and spend a day at his house.

The idea of receiving under his roof the man he had betrayed was too much for Crane. Enough moral sense remained in him to make him shrink from that. He wrote Senator Bicknell a very friendly and even affectionate letter explaining that important business would take him away from home for that week, and expressing the deepest regret that he could not have the long-promised visit. And forthwith, on the promised day, Crane made an excuse of business, and went speeding toward the nearest city. He said no word to Annette about his letter from Senator Bicknell, but some suspicion of the actual state of things had crept into her mind. She knew that Crane was under obligations to Senator Bicknell, and a close reading of the newspapers had shown her that Crane and Governor Sanders were supposed to be mortal enemies. Yet, she knew that the Governor and Crane were in the most friendly communication, while Crane had ceased to mention Senator Bicknell’s name. And some anxiety was weighing upon him—that she saw plainly. She saw that Crane was prosperous, that he was rising in importance every day, and yet was miserable. He had grown thin and pale in those few weeks since he had entered into his evil compact. It could not be want of money, because Annette had never known him to be so well supplied. She begun to suspect some moral lapse on his part, and the thought nearly broke her heart—for Julian Crane was the love of her life; and she loved him in his degradation as profoundly as in the time when she had believed him to be the soul of honour.

A singular complication came of Senator Bicknell’s letter. He did not get Crane’s in reply, and on the day he had proposed to be in Circleville he found himself at the little station. There was no one to meet him, but it was easy enough to find the way to Crane’s house—he was the local great man of Circleville.

When he reached the house, with its many verandas, embowered in fine and vigorous elm-trees, the front door was wide open, and looking through the low, wide hall, he could see the garden beyond. There, under a tall lilac hedge, sat Annette in a rustic chair, sewing. On a rustic table before her the children had their books, and took turns reading aloud to her. As always, she was simply but freshly and becomingly dressed, and as the green light fell upon her fair hair and her pensive, pretty face, she made a charming picture for any man to contemplate. Senator Bicknell had an æsthetic soul as well as an honest heart, and the pretty scene appealed to him. He walked through the hall, into the trim garden, and, hat in hand, introduced himself to Annette.

She rose at once, smiling and blushing, and made him hospitably welcome. She knew nothing of his expected arrival, which convinced Senator Bicknell that there had been some misunderstanding concerning his letter. But the Senator was so pleased with his first impressions that he accepted Annette’s invitation to remain and share their one-o’clock dinner—an invitation given with palpitations, but so promptly and gracefully accepted that Annette was delighted at her own courage in proposing it. The Senator, seated on a rustic settee, and admiring the aspect of things in the house and garden, as well as the mistress and her children, thought himself in luck. He expressed great regret at not seeing Crane, but frankly declared himself very well satisfied with things as they were.

Emboldened by her success in entertaining the Senator, Annette proposed that she should notify the leading citizens, and invite them to call at five o’clock to pay their respects to him. Senator Bicknell good-humouredly assented—it would be of advantage to Crane, he thought, mistakenly enough—and it was worth while obliging a subordinate if that subordinate had a wife as pleasing as Mrs. Crane.

By the time this was settled it was one o’clock, and the Senator found himself seated at Annette’s dainty table, with the two children, and being waited on by Annette’s one servant, a neat, hard-featured creature, who knew how to cook.

The Senator was worth millions, had a French chef, and a chronic dyspepsia, but he spoke truly when he told Annette he had not enjoyed a dinner so much in years as the one she gave him. It was very simple, but good, and well served. The children never opened their mouths except when spoken to. Annette was surprised, as at Constance Maitland’s dinner, to find herself altogether at ease, and was conscious that she was making an agreeable impression every moment of the time. To be appreciated gives the most timid confidence; and it was perfectly evident that this trained man of the world appreciated this woman, as sweet and natural as the wild roses that grew in the roadside hedges. They found much to talk about, and Thorndyke was mentioned, at which Annette overflowed in praises of him, to which Senator Bicknell agreed.

He was much amused by Annette’s impromptu plan of having a reception for him that afternoon, and accused her of aspiring to be a second Madame Roland, but laughingly agreed with her when Annette assured him that it would be worth several votes to Crane in the coming senatorial contest.

After dinner he was shown to a cool and spotless chamber, where he had a very refreshing nap and a bath. At five o’clock he was summoned below. Annette awaited him in the modest drawing-room. She wore a pretty muslin gown, and looked as fresh as a dewdrop. With the assistance of the neighbours, the lower floor was dressed with flowers, and simple refreshments were served upon tables in the large and well-kept garden.

Annette, taking her stand at the door of the drawing-room with the Senator, received with dignity and grace the people who came pouring in—the Judge of the County Court, the professional men in the town, the principal of the Circleville High School—all accompanied by their ladies, wearing their best silk gowns and very tight kid gloves. Senator Bicknell was affability itself. He was an amiable man, and Annette Crane’s virtues and charms were such as appeal peculiarly to men, so that most of them wished to oblige her. He was secretly amused at the courage and capability she had shown in organising a political reception for him on such short notice, and determined to help her through with it. By way of showing his goodwill, he spoke with enthusiasm of Crane to many persons, and said that he should be pleased if Crane might be his colleague after the first of January.

At seven o’clock he was obliged to take his train. Before he stepped into the carriage of the Judge, who had asked the honour of driving him to the station, Senator Bicknell expressed to Annette the most sincere gratitude and pleasure at his visit.

“Tell Mr. Crane,” he whispered to her, “that with a wife who has such masterly capacity for political management as you, my dear Mrs. Crane, he may expect any sort of promotion. If our State is honoured by being awarded the Vice-presidential nomination, I am afraid no one else will be heard of except Mr. Crane, if you take the affair in charge.”

“You are laughing at me,” cried Annette, laughing herself, but colouring with pleasure at Senator Bicknell’s kind manner and flattering words. “Imagine me as a political manager!”

“My dear lady, the only political managers in the world, among women, are those like yourself, who don’t know that they are managing. Good-bye, and a thousand thanks. I have not spent so pleasant a day for a long time. Remember, when you come to Washington, you are to dine with me many times, but I can’t make you enjoy your dinner as much as I enjoyed mine. Regards to Crane”—then, stepping into the carriage, the Senator said to the Judge in a voice meant to be heard by those around:

“Charming woman—sweet, well-behaved children—comfortable home—our friend Crane is in luck.”

Crane did not return until the next evening, and was greeted by the sensational news of Senator Bicknell’s visit. Annette was, of course, full of her achievement in entertaining the Senator. Instead of receiving her account with the pleasure which might naturally have been expected, Crane listened with sombre eyes and a face which grew pale and paler as Annette proceeded with the story of the success of her impromptu reception. It was indeed a horribly awkward complication for Crane, and vastly increased his difficulties. His chagrin could not be concealed, and Annette was quickly convinced, to her distress and amazement, that Senator Bicknell’s visit was anything but pleasant to Crane.

When this was borne in upon her, she stopped speaking, and involuntarily fixed her clear, accusing eyes on her husband. All at once her suspicions of the changed relations between Crane and Senator Bicknell, and Crane and Governor Sanders, became a certainty. In a moment of inspiration—the inspiration of an intelligent honesty—the probable state of affairs flashed upon her. She remained silent for a time; they were seated alone at the tea-table, in the garden, and the August sunset was at hand. Crane’s countenance grew anxious as Annette watched him.

“Did the Senator say he had got my letter?” he asked.

“He expressly said he had not heard from you,” replied Annette. “Did you go away from home to avoid the Senator?”

It was but a chance shot, but it hit the bull’s eye. Crane did not answer the question, but got up and walked to the other end of the garden. They were sitting and talking in the very spot where Annette had so successfully entertained the Senator the afternoon before.

She could not, of course, know the details, but she knew then that Crane was a traitor, and was pretending a goodwill which he was far from feeling. Annette suffered as only a high-minded woman can suffer when the lower man in one she loves reveals itself. But she said nothing. She knew that Crane must work out his own salvation, and that she could be of no help to him there.

And Crane, having a guilty conscience, knew that Annette suspected the game he was playing; and this made him more unhappy but not less guilty than before.

Annette had told Crane of Constance Maitland’s invitation to them, which piqued as much as it gratified him. He knew quite well that but for Annette he would have had no invitation. Later on came a note from Constance repeating the invitation very cordially, but Annette felt obliged to decline it with all the thanks in the world.

So the summer passed for those two.

For Thorndyke the summer was, first, one long anticipation of that visit he was to pay Constance, and then, one long retrospection of it. He had enjoyed every moment of it, although the beginning was inauspicious. When he changed trains at Washington to go into Virginia, whom should he find in the Pullman with him but Mince Pie Mulligan, who greeted him effusively. Thorndyke carefully concealed his destination from Mr. Mulligan, but the junior Senator was by no means so secretive.

“I’ll tell you where I’m going,” he said, in the friendly juxtaposition of the smoker. “I’m going to a place up in Virginia to see that stunning woman I met in Washington, Miss Maitland. Never saw her but once, but, by Jove, that was enough to make me want to see her again. I’ve found out where she is spending the summer, and I’m going there just to do a little prospecting.”

Mr. Mulligan had abandoned the violent brogue which he had used on a former occasion, and spoke pretty fair English, but his mouth was as wide and his hair was as red as ever.

Thorndyke, consumed with inward rage, inquired blandly of Mr. Mulligan:

“May I ask if you were invited by Miss Maitland to visit her?”

“Lord, no,” responded Mr. Mulligan, cheerfully. “But I’m just prospecting. I don’t know whether I shall like her or not after I know her better; but I expect to like her. The way she sat down on those two young women snobs added a year to my life, and I’m thinking I gave ’em a good whack or two.”

“I suppose,” said Thorndyke, longing to throw Mulligan out of the car-window and under the locomotive wheels, “you have engaged accommodations in Miss Maitland’s neighbourhood?”

“Never a bit of it. I just found out that Miss Maitland’s station was Roseboro’ station on this road, and I presume there must be some sort of a hotel within reach, or I can stop at the next town.”

“There are no towns in that part of the county, and Miss Maitland has informed me that there isn’t a hotel or boarding-house within ten miles,” replied Thorndyke, stalking angrily back into the Pullman.

The train stopped at Roseboro’ on being flagged, and Thorndyke had one of the most delicious moments of his life when he stepped into a smart trap driven by Constance herself, and left Senator Mulligan, the man of millions and of pies, stranded at the station, which consisted of the passenger shed and the station-master’s house, which had four rooms, in which the station-master with his wife and eleven children lived in much dirt and comfort.

Constance, sitting in the trap, looking remarkably handsome in her summer costume and large black hat, felt a thrill of sympathy for the unfortunate Mulligan, standing in the little shed of a station with his luggage piled around him. Not so Thorndyke, who derived acute pleasure from Mulligan’s miserable situation.

“I hope,” said Constance to the forlorn Senator, “that you will come over to see me some afternoon while you are at Roseboro’. Malvern is only six miles away.”

“Thank you,” cried Mulligan, at once rising into a mood of enthusiastic optimism, “I’ll call early and often.”

“The fellow is a good-natured ruffian, but I hope I’ll be out when he calls,” was Thorndyke’s remark to Constance as they left the sandy road of Roseboro’ station and entered the cool and shaded highway which led to Malvern.

As Constance and Thorndyke drove along the sweet-scented country lanes, crossing streams by rickety bridges and bumping up and down hills, Thorndyke felt himself near Paradise. Constance was so kind to him, so unaffectedly glad to see him. Her country life had freshened up her complexion, and she looked positively girlish, and her high spirits were infectious. She described the house-party—Mrs. Willoughby, half a dozen Virginia cousins of different ages and sexes, a French friend and her husband travelling in America, and Cathcart, the navy man—at whose name Thorndyke felt a sensible diminution of his happiness. Constance was charmed with Malvern Court, and declared it had been the happiest summer of her life—almost.

“And when I think of those weary, dreary foreign watering-places of which I grew so tired, and of those tiresome Swiss hotels, I think I am in Heaven to be once more in my own country among my own kith and kin, and hearing no language but good, honest English.”

“I intended to go to Europe this summer,” said Thorndyke, meekly. “I had planned it for two or three years.”

“Why did you not go?” asked Constance, heedlessly.

“Because you asked me to visit you,” replied Thorndyke, something within him forcing the truth out of him against his will, and then he added, hastily:

“Forgive me, I’m a perfect brute. I wouldn’t blame you in the least if you sent me back north by the next train.”

“Get up, Frolic, you idiot!” cried Constance to her smart cob, and flicking him with the whip. Her face coloured, her eyes shone—it was plain she was not displeased. But a horrible suspicion occurred to Thorndyke—possibly she was, after all, a thorough-going flirt! Many of those Southern women are, and can’t imagine why a man should object to having a football made of his dearest affections as long as it amuses the lady in the case.

This gruesome and uncanny thought, together with Cathcart’s presence at Malvern, was a huge fly in Thorndyke’s ointment, but misery is as much a concomitant of love as joy is, and Thorndyke had his share of miseries.

The great live oaks were casting long shadows on the large, smooth lawn when Constance drove up to the doors of Malvern Court. It was a spacious brick house with wings, and at the back a four-roomed structure common to Virginia houses, and known as “the office,” where the bachelors were lodged. The house-guests were having tea under the trees, where the shadows were long, when Thorndyke and Constance joined them. Scipio Africanus served the tea, which was iced, and was like water in the desert to travellers. It was handed with much ceremony by Scipio, who had doffed his smart livery, and appeared in a snow-white linen jacket. He was assisted by one of the coloured maids, who now wore the smartest of smart caps and the neatest of neat print gowns instead of the short skirt, pink shirtwaist, and picture-hat which had electrified Thorndyke at the Washington station a few weeks before. Constance Maitland knew precisely when to relax and when to tighten discipline among her staff of negro servants.

Like all people in a country house, the guests were glad to see some one from the outside world. It was a pleasant and amiable party, and Thorndyke enjoyed himself in spite of Cathcart’s presence; but Cathcart, being a remarkably pleasant and personable man, everybody except Thorndyke relished his company.

While they were lingering over tea, a ramshackly buggy of the prehistoric age of buggies, with an unkempt horse, was seen driving up the winding, shady road which led to the lawn. In the buggy sat no less a person than Senator Mince Pie Mulligan. He had seen himself ignominiously left in the lurch by Thorndyke, but with the same spirit of enterprise which had made him the greatest pie-manufacturer on earth he had investigated his resources, and promptly pursued his object with the best means at hand—a sure mark of superiority.

When he alighted from his ancient buggy, Constance advanced to meet him, and greeted him with a cordiality which inspired Mr. Mulligan with admiration and hope. He did not know that Southerners in their own habitat meet every guest, however undesirable, with the same overflowing cordiality, which is reckoned as merely good manners. Senator Mulligan, however, thought this custom of generations a special tribute to himself, and gloated over that cool, supercilious Thorndyke, who had smiled in a superior manner at the Senator’s predicament at Roseboro’ station. So he replied genially to Constance’s greeting:

“As you were good enough to ask me to call, and as I don’t know how long I’ll be in these parts, I said to myself, ‘Faith, I’ll pay Miss Maitland a visit this very afternoon.’ And here I am with this ould cruelty cart, when I’ve got a stable full of horses at home, and a Panhard red devil that cost me six thousand dollars to buy and a thousand a year to keep—but, like the butterfly, I get there just the same.”

Constance, being a clever woman, looked into Michael Mulligan’s soul and saw that it was honest, according to his lights, and that his bragging was not bragging at all, but an innocent way of mentioning what the pie business had brought him.

“I am very glad to see you, Senator,” she replied, smiling, and then gravely introduced this member of the august Senate of the United States to the group sitting about the tea-table.

Nobody but Thorndyke and Cathcart took in the situation. The Virginia cousins, to whom political preferment means that the object of it belongs to one of the first families in his own home, supposed that Mr. Mulligan, although certainly very odd-looking, had a long line of distinguished ancestors, and it was with much cordiality that an ex-Confederate Colonel, grave and suave, with a snow-white moustache and imperial, shook Mike Mulligan’s hand, saying:

“I am pleased, sir, to make your acquaintance, and to bid you welcome upon the soil of old Virginia.”

The Frenchman, a retired army officer, and his wife, a thorough-bred French gentlewoman, were equally polite, but they arrived at a much more correct estimate of Senator Mulligan’s social status than the ex-Confederate Colonel. As for the Honourable Mike, he started in to enjoy himself in a whole-souled manner, which would commend him to all sincere persons. He drank three glasses of iced tea running, complimented the late President Davis and General Lee, declared that he meant to buy up a good part of the State of Virginia, and worked himself up into a whirlwind of enthusiasm over everything he saw. This completely captivated all the ex-Confederates present, amazed the French strangers, and amused Thorndyke and Cathcart beyond words. On leaving, Senator Mulligan told Constance nothing but the truth when he said that he had never enjoyed an afternoon more, or had found himself among more “conjaynial company.”

Then began for Thorndyke a week of rapture, mixed with agonising jealousy; for let no man suppose that his passions have no more power to trouble him after his hair grows scanty and his moustache grows grey. In all those years of separation from Constance, the edge of Thorndyke’s pain had been dulled, but the ache was still there; and from the April night he had first seen her, until then, he felt himself being steadily and securely mastered by that great love of his life—as steadily and securely as if he could have offered her his honest and devoted heart. And to be thrown with her daily—to spend the bright summer mornings in the cool, old drawing-room with Constance, listening to the pleasant, languid talk of people in a country house, the shady afternoons in driving over the rich, green, placid country, sometimes with Constance by his side—the deep, blue nights, sitting on the great stone porch, watching the silver moon rise over the distant pine-crowned mountain-peaks, and looking at Constance, in a thin white gown, seeming as young by night as in those sweet Italian nights long past—it would have been bliss but for two things. One was that she was as kind to Cathcart as to himself, and the other was that she was so very kind to him. For since she could not possibly think of marrying him, she could only be amusing herself at his expense.

Thorndyke was nearly forty-five years old, he was a member of Congress, and reckoned a peculiarly cool-headed and long-headed man, but he was thereby exempt from the agonies of love.

As for Senator Mulligan, Thorndyke did not need to recall the frank confession made on the train to know that Mince Pie had speedily made up his mind that Constance was worth the winning, and to go about it with promptness and energy. On the very last afternoon, Thorndyke, disgusted with the goodwill which Constance had shown Cathcart, retired to a rustic summer-house on the lawn, to writhe in secret with jealousy, and incidentally to read the New York newspapers. Presently he saw Constance and Senator Mulligan walking across the sward toward the house. Constance’s face was flushed, and she was walking rapidly. Senator Mulligan was talking earnestly to her, and his brogue was more evident than usual, under the stress of emotion. Immediately in front of the summer-house Constance stopped and faced the Senator.

“I must beg of you,” she said, in a clear voice, with a faint ring of indignation in it, “to say no more on this subject to me now, or at any other time.”

“Well, I’ve said about all I had to say,” replied Senator Mulligan, warmly. “I asked you to marry me, I did, and I tould you, I did, if you had to lose what money you had because I’m an American, thank God, that I’d make it up to you a dozen times over. I said that, I did, and I didn’t desaive you about the senatorship.” The brogue by this time was rampant. “The thing was going a-beggin’, and the Governor, he sends for me, and he says to me, ‘Mike,’ says he, ‘you’ll be nothin’ but a stop-gap, and don’t get any other notion into your red head but that—and ye’ll step down and out the first of January,’ says he; ‘and don’t monkey with the buzz saw,’ says he. And I says, says I, ‘I won’t, Governor, and I’ll have my fling at Washington, and I’ll take down my Panhard red devil, and go a-scorchin’ over the Washington streets, and have the time of my life,’ and bedad, I have. And I had no more thought of falling in love and getting married than I have of trying to get up a diligation to present my name to the next Prisidential convention. But then I met you, Miss Maitland, and I came up here after you, and you’ve bowled me over, senatorship and all, and I’ve tould the truth, and not a lie in the bunch, and I’ve offered to give up your money, and I don’t see that I’ve done anything for you to look at me like Lady Macbeth, and I beg your pardon if I’ve offinded you.”

During this speech Constance Maitland’s heart softened toward Mince Pie Mike. He had only claimed a man’s inalienable right, and he had behaved as honourably as in him lay. So she said, with a softening of the voice as well as the heart:

“I feel sure that all you say is true and I am sorry if I have wounded you—but what you ask is not to be thought of for a moment.”

“Well,” remarked the Senator, resignedly, “it’s a disappointment, it’s a great disappointment, but there are other things in life, Miss Maitland. There’s the pleasure of helping widows and orphans, and I swear to you I have done that as well as I could iver since I was a clerk in good ould Danny Hogan’s corner store, and there’s the pleasure of managing the primaries and handing over the biggest batch of votes for the money of any man in the State——”

“Mr. Mulligan!” cried Constance, in horror.

“Yes, there’s no denying of it in some States—and there’s automobiling and plenty of other clean, dacent pleasures to make up for love. But I tell you, Miss Maitland, there never can be the time, if I’m still single, that you can’t be Mrs. Michael Patrick Mulligan, and your money may go to the bow-wows for all I care, and I honour and admire you above all the women I iver knew, I do that. Good-bye. Don’t snub the life out of me in Washington if I meet you next winter.”

“I shall not, I promise you—good-bye,” said Constance, and walking briskly into the summer-house, while Senator Mulligan turned away, she almost walked into Geoffrey Thorndyke’s arms.

“I couldn’t help hearing,” said Thorndyke, with a burning face. “I couldn’t get out—it would have been beastly to the poor devil——”

And then both of them suddenly burst into a gale of laughter, nor could they, all that day and evening, meet each other’s eyes without laughing mysteriously.

Thorndyke’s visit lasted a week. It was a week of heaven and hell to him. When he went away, Constance Maitland realised that, to accomplish her heart’s desire, she would have to do the proposing herself, as Queen Victoria did on a similar occasion.