his arm.
When she had gained her room she went to the glass and saw a pallid and
haggard face.
“My God,” she cried, “this will never do. I should have killed him, if I
could. The scoundrel still lives, and dares to come here. I ought to
kill him. He has no right to live. How I hate him. And yet I loved
him. Oh heavens, how I did love that man. And why didn’t he kill me?
He might better. He did kill all that was good in me. Oh, but he shall
not escape. He shall not escape this time. He may have forgotten. He
will find that a woman’s hate doesn’t forget. The law? What would the
law do but protect him and make me an outcast? How all Washington would
gather up its virtuous skirts and avoid me, if it knew. I wonder if he
hates me as I do him?”
So Laura raved, in tears and in rage by turns, tossed in a tumult of
passion, which she gave way to with little effort to control.
A servant came to summon her to dinner. She had a headache. The hour
came for the President’s reception. She had a raving headache, and the
Senator must go without her.
That night of agony was like another night she recalled. How vividly it
all came back to her. And at that time she remembered she thought she
might be mistaken. He might come back to her. Perhaps he loved her,
a little, after all. Now, she knew he did not. Now, she knew he was a
cold-blooded scoundrel, without pity. Never a word in all these years.
She had hoped he was dead. Did his wife live, she wondered. She caught
at that–and it gave a new current to her thoughts. Perhaps, after all–
she must see him. She could not live without seeing him. Would he smile
as in the old days when she loved him so; or would he sneer as when she
last saw him? If be looked so, she hated him. If he should call her
“Laura, darling,” and look SO! She must find him. She must end her
doubts.
Laura kept her room for two days, on one excuse and another–a nervous
headache, a cold–to the great anxiety of the Senator’s household.
Callers, who went away, said she had been too gay–they did not say
“fast,” though some of them may have thought it. One so conspicuous and
successful in society as Laura could not be out of the way two days,
without remarks being made, and not all of them complimentary.
When she came down she appeared as usual, a little pale may be, but
unchanged in manner. If there were any deepened lines about the eyes
they had been concealed. Her course of action was quite determined.
At breakfast she asked if any one had heard any unusual noise during the
night? Nobody had. Washington never heard any noise of any kind after
his eyes were shut. Some people thought he never did when they were open
either.
Senator Dilworthy said he had come in late. He was detained in a little
consultation after the Congressional prayer meeting. Perhaps it was his
entrance.
No, Laura said. She heard that. It was later. She might have been
nervous, but she fancied somebody was trying to get into the house.
Mr. Brierly humorously suggested that it might be, as none of the members
were occupied in night session.
The Senator frowned, and said he did not like to hear that kind of
newspaper slang. There might be burglars about.
Laura said that very likely it was only her nervousness. But she thought
she world feel safer if Washington would let her take one of his pistols.
Washington brought her one of his revolvers, and instructed her in the
art of loading and firing it.
During the morning Laura drove down to Mrs. Schoonmaker’s to pay a
friendly call.
“Your receptions are always delightful,” she said to that lady, “the
pleasant people all seem to come here.”
“It’s pleasant to hear you say so, Miss Hawkins. I believe my friends
like to come here. Though society in Washington is mixed; we have a