Anne Clavering was engaged to dine out, as usual during the season, the evening of the afternoon when happiness had come to her in Mrs. Luttrell’s morning-room. She was so agitated, so overcome with the tempests of emotion through which she had passed in the last twenty-four hours, that she longed to excuse herself from the dinner and to have a few hours of calming solitude in her own room. But she was too innately polite and considerate to slight and inconvenience her hostess, and so resolutely prepared to fulfil her engagement. She could not resist spending in her mother’s room the half hour which intervened from the time she returned home until she should go to her room for a short rest and the making of her evening toilet.

Mrs. Clavering was not usually keen of apprehension, but Anne scarcely thought she could conceal from her mother’s affectionate and solicitous eyes all the feelings with which she palpitated. Mrs. Clavering loved the excuse of a trifling indisposition that she might keep her room and be free from the necessity of seeing visitors and of being seen by the army of insubordinate foreign servants in the Clavering household. She was full of questions about Anne’s afternoon at Mrs. Luttrell’s, and the first question she asked was whether that nice young man, Mr. Baskerville, was there. At that Anne blushed so suddenly and vividly that it could not escape Mrs. Clavering.

“Why, Anne,” she said, “I believe Mr. Baskerville must have been paying you some compliments! Anyhow, he’s the nicest and politest man I’ve seen in Washington, and I hope when you marry, you’ll marry a man just like him. And I do hope, my dear, you won’t be an old maid. Old maids don’t run in my family.”

This was Mrs. Clavering’s guileless method of suggestive matchmaking. Anne, with a burning face, kissed her and went to her room for a little while alone in the dark with her rapture—and afterward purgatory, in being dressed to go out. She had already begun to debate whether it would be well to tell her secret to her mother at once. The poor lady was really not well, and any thought of impending change for her best beloved might well distress her. But her simple words convinced Anne that Mrs. Clavering would not be made unhappy by the news that Richard Baskerville and Anne loved each other. Rather would it rejoice her, and as there had been no time to talk seriously about the date of the marriage she need not be disturbed at the thought of an immediate separation from Anne.

All this Anne thought out while her hair was being dressed and her dainty slippers put on her feet and her Paris gown adjusted by her maid. In that little interval of solitude before, when she lay in her bed in the soft darkness, she had thought of nothing but Richard Baskerville and the touch of his lips upon hers. But with her maid’s knock at the door the outer world had entered, with all its urgent claims and insistence. But through all her perplexities still sounded the sweet refrain, “He loves me.” She thought as she fastened the string of pearls around her white neck, “The last time I wore these pearls I was not happy, and now—“

And so, on her way to the dinner and through-out it and back home again, the thought of Richard Baskerville never left her; the sound of his voice in her ears, the touch of his lips upon hers, and above all the nobility of his loving her purely for herself—rare fortune for the daughter of a man so rich, even if not so wicked, as James Clavering. Anne tasted of joy for the first time, and drank deep of it. She was glad to be alone with her love and her happiness, to become acquainted with it, to fondle it, to hold it close to her heart. She was very quiet and subdued at the dinner, and by a sort of mistaken telepathy among the others present it was understood that Miss Clavering felt deeply the situation in which Senator Clavering was placed. But Anne Clavering was the happiest woman in Washington that night. Even the impending disgrace of her father, of which she was well assured, was softened and illumined by the lofty and self-sacrificing love bestowed upon her by Richard Baskerville.

When she came home, after eleven o’clock, she stopped as she always did at her mother’s door. Mrs. Clavering calling her softly, Anne went into the room. With her mother’s hand in hers she told the story of her love and happiness. If she had ever doubted whether it would be well to tell Mrs. Clavering, that doubt was dispelled. The poor lady wept, it is true, being tender-hearted and given to tears like the normal woman, but her tears were those of happiness.

“I’ve been a-wishin’ and a-hopin’ for it ever since I saw him that Sunday,” said the poor soul. “I want you to have a good husband, Anne, the sort of husband my father was to my mother; never a cross word between ’em before us children, Ma always havin’ the dinner on time and the old leather arm-chair ready for Pa—we didn’t have but one easy-chair in the house in them days. And Pa always sayin’ Ma was better lookin’ than any one of her daughters, and kissin’ her before us all on their weddin’ anniversary, and givin’ her a little present, if it wasn’t no more than a neck ribbon; for they was always poor; but they loved each other and lived as married folks ought to live together.”

“If Richard and I can live like that I shouldn’t mind being poor myself, dear mother, because I remember well enough when we were poor, and when you used to sew for us, and do all the rough work, and indulged us far too much; and I was happier then than I have been since—until now,” Anne replied softly.

Mrs. Clavering sighed. “All the others, except you, seem to have forgot all about it.” This was the nearest Mrs. Clavering ever came to a complaint or a reproach.

And then Anne, with loving pride, told her of Baskerville’s kind words about her, of his voluntary offers of respect and attention. Mrs. Clavering, sitting up in bed, put her large, toil-worn hands to her face and wept a little.

“Did he say that, my dear, about your poor, ignorant mother? I tell you, Anne, there are some gentlemen in this world, men who feel sorry for a woman like me and treat ’em kind and right, like Mr. Baskerville does. Now, you tell him for me—because I’d never have the courage to tell him myself—that I thank him a thousand times, and he’ll never be made to regret his kindness to me; and tell him anythin’ else that would be proper to say, and especially that I ain’t goin’ to bother him. But I tell you, Anne, I’m very happy this night. I wouldn’t have gone without knowin’ this for anythin’—not for anythin’.”

Then the mother and daughter, woman-like, wept in each other’s arms, and were happy and comforted.

The next morning brought Anne a letter from Baskerville. Clouded as Anne Clavering’s love-affair was, with many outside perplexities, restraints, shames, and griefs, she did not miss all of what the French call the little flowers of love—among others the being wakened from sleep in the morning by a letter from her lover. Her first waking thought in her luxurious bedroom was that a letter from Baskerville would soon be in her hands. And when the maid entered and laid it on her pillow and departed Anne held it to her heart before breaking the seal. Then, lighting her bedside candle in the dark of the winter morning, she read her precious letter. In it Baskerville told her that he was urgently called to New York that day, but would return the next; and his first appointment after his return would be to see Senator Clavering, for they must arrange, for obvious reasons, to be married at the earliest possible moment. There were not many endearing terms in the letter—for Baskerville, like most men of fine sense and deep dealing, did not find it easy to put his love on paper; but those few words were enough—so Anne Clavering thought. And Baskerville told her that she would receive a letter from him daily, in lieu of the visit which he could not pay her at her father’s house.

Baskerville returned to Washington on the following night, for a reason rare in the annals of lovers. The last meeting of the investigating committee was to be held the next day, and Baskerville, having succeeded in exposing Clavering, must be on hand to complete the work. But before doing this he had to tell to Clavering his intention to marry his daughter.

The committee met daily at eleven o’clock, but it was not yet ten o’clock on a dull, cold winter morning when Baskerville took his way to the Capitol, certain of finding Clavering at work by that hour; for the Senator had most of the best habits of the best men—among them, industry, order, and punctuality in a high degree.

Baskerville went straight to the committee-room set apart for Clavering, for, not being a chairman of a committee, he had no right to a room. His colleagues, however, on the same principle that a condemned man is given everything he wishes to eat, supplied Clavering generously with quarters in which to prepare his alleged defence. Two of the handsomest rooms in the Senate wing were therefore set apart for him, and to these Baskerville made his way. The messenger at the door took in his card, and he heard Clavering, who was walking up and down the floor dictating to a stenographer, say in his agreeable voice, “Show the gentleman into the room at once.”

Baskerville entered, and Clavering greeted him politely and even cordially. He did not, however, offer to shake hands with Baskerville, who had purposely encumbered himself with his hat and coat; so the avoidance on the part of each was cleverly disguised.

“Pray excuse me for calling so early, Senator,” said Baskerville, composedly, “but may I have a word in private with you?”

Clavering was infinitely surprised, but he at once answered coolly: “Certainly, if you will go with me into the next room. It is my colleague’s committee-room, but there is no meeting of the committee to-day, and he allows me the privilege of seeing people there when it is vacant. You see, I am snowed under here,” which was true. The masses of books and papers and type-writers’ and stenographers’ desks filled the room in an uncomfortable degree.

Clavering led the way into the next room. It was large and luxuriously furnished with all the elegances with which legislators love to surround themselves. He offered Baskerville one of the large leather chairs in front of the blazing fire, took another one himself, and fixed his bright, dark eyes on Baskerville, who took the advice of old Horace and plunged at once into his subject.

“I presume that what I have to tell you will surprise you, Senator, and no doubt displease you. I have asked your daughter, Miss Anne Clavering, to marry me, and she has been good enough to consent. And I feel it due to you, of course, to inform you at the earliest moment.”

Clavering was secretly astounded. No such complication had dawned upon him. He knew, of course, that Anne and Baskerville were acquainted and met often in society; he had by no means forgotten that solitary visit of Baskerville’s, but attached no particular meaning to it. His own pressing affairs had engrossed him so that he had given very little thought to anything else. But it was far from James Clavering to show himself astonished in any man’s presence, least of all in an enemy’s presence. His mind, which worked as rapidly as it worked powerfully, grasped in an instant that this was really a good stroke of fortune for Anne. He knew too much of human nature to suppose that it counted for anything with him. Men like Baskerville do not change their characters or their principles by falling in love. Baskerville might possibly have altered his methods in the investigation, but this happened to be the very last day of it, and things had gone too far to be transformed at this stage of the game. However, it gave Clavering a species of intense inward amusement to find himself in a position to assume a paternal air to Baskerville. After a moment, therefore, he said with a manner of the utmost geniality:—

“Displease me, did you say? Nothing would please me better. Anne is by long odds the best of my children. She deserves a good husband, and I need not say that your high reputation and admirable character are thoroughly well known to me, as to all the world.”

All interviews with prospective fathers-in-law are embarrassing, but perhaps no man was ever more embarrassingly placed than Baskerville at that moment. He could not but admire Clavering’s astuteness, which made it necessary for Baskerville to explain that while seeking to marry Clavering’s daughter he would by no means be understood as countenancing Clavering. Baskerville colored deeply, and paused. Clavering was entirely at ease, and was enjoying the humor of the situation to the full. It is a rare treat to be enabled to act the benevolent father-in-law, anxious only for the welfare of his child, to a man who has been trying for two years to railroad the prospective father-in-law into state’s prison.

“I think, Senator,” said Baskerville, after a moment, “that we needn’t beat about the bush. My course in this investigation has shown from the beginning my views on the case. They are not favorable to you. I have no right to expect your approval, but Miss Clavering is of age and can make her own choice. She has made it, and I have no intention of giving her time to back out of it. It is, however, due to you as her father that I should speak to you of certain matters—my means, for example. I can’t give your daughter the luxuries, I may say magnificence, with which you have surrounded her, but I can give her all that a gentlewoman requires. She does not ask for more.”

Clavering stroked his chin meditatively, and with a gleam of acute satisfaction in his eye looked at Baskerville, uncomfortable but resolute, before him. “My dear boy,” said he, “I’ve given my consent already; and I rather think, with such a pair as you and my daughter Anne, it wouldn’t do much good to withhold it.”

Baskerville could have brained him with pleasure for that “My dear boy,” but he only said: “Quite right, Senator. I also ask the privilege of speaking to Mrs. Clavering.”

“Mrs. Clavering is very ailing—hasn’t been out of her room for a week. But she’s the last person in the world likely to oppose Anne.”

“I shall try to persuade Miss Clavering to have our marriage take place very shortly,” said Baskerville, presently.

“Certainly, as soon as you like.” Clavering sat back in his chair, smiling. Never was there so obliging a father-in-law.

Baskerville rose. The interview had lasted barely five minutes, and both men were conscious of the fact that Clavering had had the best of it from beginning to end. He had gotten a great deal of amusement out of what Baskerville would not have gone through with again for a great pile of money.

“Thank you very much for your acquiescence. Good morning,” said the prospective bridegroom, bowing himself out. Not one word had been said about any fortune that Anne might have, nor had Baskerville touched Clavering’s hand.

The Senator went back to his stenographers. He was thoughtful and did not get into full swing of his work for at least fifteen minutes. He felt a kind of envy of Richard Baskerville, who had no investigations to face and never would have. He had no divorce problem in hand and never would have. His love was not of the sort which had to be forced upon a woman, and the woman coerced and overborne and almost menaced into accepting it. On the whole, Clavering concluded, looking back upon a long career of successful villany, that if he had his life to live over again, he would live more respectably.

That day the last meeting of the committee was held, and within an hour the two men, Baskerville and Clavering, faced each other in the committee-room, each a fighting man and fighting with all his strength. Baskerville took no part in the oral arguments, but, sitting at one end of the long table in the luxurious mahogany-furnished and crimson-curtained committee-room, he supplied data, facts, and memoranda which proved Clavering to have been a habitual thief and a perjurer.

The committee-room was only moderately full. The hearings had been open, but the crush had been so great that it was decided to exclude all except those who were directly interested in the hearing and those lucky enough to get cards of admission. It was an eager and even a sympathetic crowd. The same personal charm which had been a great factor in Clavering’s success was still his. As he sat back, his leonine face and head outlined against the crimson wall behind him, his eyes full of the light of combat, cool, resolute, and smiling, it was impossible not to admire him. He had no great virtues, but he had certain great qualities.

As the hearing proceeded, Clavering’s case grew blacker. Against some of the most damning facts he had some strong perjured evidence, but the perjurers were exposed with the evidence. Against all, he had his own strenuous denial of everything and the call for proof. But proof was forthcoming at every point. And it was all Richard Baskerville’s handiwork. Clavering knew this so well that although perfectly alert as to the statements made by the keen-eyed, sharp-witted lawyers from New York, he kept his eyes fixed on Baskerville, who was handing out paper after paper and making whispered explanations—who was, in short, the arsenal for the weapons so mercilessly used against Clavering.

The two men engaged in this deadly and tremendous strife, which involved not only millions of money and a seat in the United States Senate, but also the characters and souls of men, eyed each other with a certain respect. It was no man of ordinary mould whom Baskerville had sought to destroy, and that Clavering would be destroyed there was no reasonable doubt. The last day’s work meant expulsion from the Senate, a disgrace so huge, so far-reaching, that it was worse than sentencing a man to death. Apart from the degree of honesty in Clavering’s own party, it was perfectly well understood that no party would dare to go before the country assuming the burden of the gigantic frauds of which he was being convicted. And it was due to Baskerville that the evidence to convict had been found. All that the other lawyers had done was insignificant beside the two years of patient research, the disentangling of a thousand complicated legal threads, which was Baskerville’s work. Some of the evidence he presented had been collected in the wildest parts of the West and South at the imminent risk of his life; all of it had required vast labor and learning.

Being a natural lover of fighting, Baskerville in the beginning had taken a purely human interest in tracking this man down and had thought himself engaged in a righteous work in driving him out of public life. He still knew he was right in doing this, but it had long since become a painful and irksome task to him. He had come to love this man’s daughter, of all the women in the world,—to love her so well and to confide in her so truly that not even her parentage could keep him from marrying her. But he knew that he was stabbing her to the heart. She had forgiven him in advance; like him, love and sacrifice had asserted their rights and reigned in their kingdom, but that she must suffer a cruel abasement for her father’s iniquities Baskerville knew. And, with this knowledge, nothing but his sense of duty and honor kept him at his post.

The committee sat from eleven in the morning until two in the afternoon. Then, after a short adjournment, it met again. It sat again, with another short recess, until nearly nine o’clock, and a final adjournment was reached at midnight. Not a person of those entitled to be present had left the room, during that long and trying stretch of hours. All were acting a part in a great tragedy, a tragedy of which the last act was to take place in the United States Senate chamber, and was to be one of the most fearful ever enacted in that historic spot. Clavering had gone down fighting. The committee recognized as much, and when, in the midst of a deep silence, the chairman declared the meeting adjourned and Clavering rose to go, every man present, acting involuntarily and quite unconscious of what he was doing, rose as if to do honor to the man whose infamy had been proved before them. A line was made for Clavering, and he passed out of the room. It was as if his crimes were so great, his audacity so huge, his courage so vast and unquenchable, that they saluted him, as a firing squad salutes a guilty officer condemned to be shot.

When James Clavering walked out into the sharp January night, the Capitol behind him showing whitely in the gleaming of the multitude of stars, he knew himself a beaten and ruined man, beaten and ruined by two men—James Clavering and Richard Baskerville.

Baskerville determined to walk the long stretch between the Capitol and his own house; he wanted the fresh air and the solitude, in order to recover himself—for he, too, had been under a terrific strain. As he walked rapidly down the hill Clavering’s carriage passed him—the same brougham in which Baskerville had told Anne Clavering of his love. An electric lamp shone for a moment into the carriage and revealed Clavering sitting upright, his head raised, his fists clenched; he was a fighting man to the last.