“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.