CHAPTER XVIII

The caucus of the delegates of the Women’s Convention was booked to meet at six o’clock. The House would hold a night session and the vote on the Defense Bill would be called between ten and eleven.

To prevent the possibility of any influence from Vassar’s speech reaching the caucus, Waldron succeeded in changing the hour to three o’clock. He would prolong the discussion until six and deliver their orders to the members of Congress in ample time.

Vassar saw him whispering in earnest conference with Barker and Virginia, guessed instinctively a change of program and in ten minutes his secretary had confirmed his suspicions.

There was no time to be lost. He made up his mind instantly to throw pride to the winds and make a personal appeal to the one woman whose influence in the crisis could dominate the councils of the opposition.

He called a cab and reached the Willard at the moment Barker was handing Virginia from Waldron’s car.

An instant of hesitating doubt swept him as he thought of the possibility of a public refusal to meet or confer. He couldn’t believe she would be so ungracious. He must risk it. The situation was too critical to stand on ceremony.

He raised his hat and bowed with awkward excitement.

“May I have a few minutes of your time, Miss Holland?” he asked.

She blushed, hesitated and answered nervously.

“Certainly, Mr. Congressman. Your speech was eloquent but unconvincing. I congratulate you on your style if I can’t agree with your conclusions.”

Barker laughed heartily and Waldron’s face remained a stolid mask.

“You will excuse me, gentlemen,” she said to her associates. “I’ll see you in ten minutes--”

She paused and smiled politely to Vassar:

“The ladies’ parlor?”

“Yes,” he answered, leading the way to the elevator, and in two minutes faced her with his hands tightly gripped behind his back, his eyes lighted by the fires of tense emotion.

Her control was perfect, if she felt any unusual stir of feeling. He marvelled at her composure. He had vaguely hoped this first meeting after their break might lead to a reconciliation. But her bearing was as coldly impersonal as if he were a book agent trying to sell her a set of ancient histories.

He throttled a mad impulse to tell her again that he had loved her with every beat of his heart every moment since they had parted.

“You know, of course,” he began, “that in this crisis you hold the balance of power in a struggle that may decide the destiny of America?”

“I have been told so--”

“It is so,” he rushed on, “and I’ve come to you for a last appeal to save the nation from the appalling danger her defenseless condition will present at the close of this war. My bill will place us beyond the danger line. If we are reasonably ready for defense no great power will dare to attack us--”

“Preparation did not prevent the war of the twelve nations--“ she interrupted sharply.

“Certainly not. Fire engines do not prevent fires, but our organized fire department can and does prevent the burning of the whole city. Preparation in Europe did not prevent war. But it did save France from annihilation. It did save Germany from invasion. It did save England from death. The lack of it snuffed out the life of Belgium. I only ask that a million of our boys shall be taught to hold a rule on a mark and shoot straight--”

“And that mark a human body over whose cradle a mother bent in love. I do not believe in murder--”

“Neither do I! I’m trying to prevent it. Can’t you see this? Our fathers shot straight or this Republic had never been born. Your father shot straight or the Union could never have been preserved. Conflict is the law of progress, I didn’t make this so, but it’s true, and we must face the truth. You are the daughter of a soldier. I beg of you for the love of God and country to save our boys from butchery, our daughters from outrage and our cities from devastation!”

“I’m going to do exactly that by doing my level best to prevent all war--”

Vassar lifted his hand and she saw that it was trembling violently.

“Your decision is final?” he asked.

“Absolutely--”

“Then all I can say is,” he responded, “may God save you from ever seeing the vision my soul has dreamed today!”

She smiled graciously in response to his evident suffering.

“I shall not see it,” was the firm answer. “Your fears are groundless. I will be a delegate to the first Parliament of Man, the Federation of the World which this war will create.”

He turned to go, paused, and slowly asked:

“And I may not hope to see you occasionally? You know that I love you always, right or wrong--”

She shook her head and gazed out of the window for a moment on the majestic shaft of the Washington Monument white and luminous against the azure skies of Virginia. Her voice was tender, dreamlike, impersonal.

“Our lives were never quite so far apart as now--”

He turned abruptly and left her, the sense of tragic failure crushing his heart.