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HER INFINITE
VARIETY
_by_
BRAND WHITLOCK
Author of "The 13th District"
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
HOWARD CHANDLER CHRISTY
Decorations by
Ralph Fletcher Seymour
NEW YORK
A. L. BURT COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
_Copyright 1904_
_The Bobbs-Merrill Company_
_January_
_To_ My Mother
Her Infinite Variety
I
AMELIA came running eagerly down the wide stairs, and though she was
smiling with the joy of Vernon's coming, she stopped on the bottom step
long enough to shake out the skirt of the new spring gown she wore, with
a manner that told she had it on that evening for the first time. Vernon
hastened to meet her, and it was not until he had kissed her and
released her from his embrace that she saw the dressing-case he had set
down in the hall.
"What's that for?" she asked in alarm. Her smile faded suddenly, leaving
her face wholly serious.
"I have to go back to-night," he replied, almost guiltily.
"To-night!"
"Yes; I must be in Springfield in the morning."
"But what about the dinner?"
"Well," he began, helplessly, "I guess you'll have to get somebody in my
place."
Amelia stopped and looked at him in amazement.
"I thought the Senate never met Mondays until five o'clock in the
afternoon?" she said.
"It doesn't, usually; but I had a telegram from Porter an hour ago;
there's to be a conference in the morning."
They started toward the drawing-room. Amelia was pouting in her
disappointment.
"I knew something would spoil it," she said, fatalistically. And then
she added, presently: "I thought that Monday afternoon sessions never
lasted longer than a minute. You never went down before until Monday
night."
"I know, dear," said Vernon, apologetically, "but now that the session
is nearing its close, we're busier than we have been."
"Can't you wire Mr. Porter and get him to let you off?" she asked.
Vernon laughed.
"He isn't my master," he replied.
"Well, he acts like it," she retorted, and then as if she had suddenly
hit upon an unanswerable argument she went on: "If that's so why do you
pay any attention to his telegram?"
"It isn't he, dear," Vernon explained, "it's the party. We are to have a
very important conference to consider a situation that has just arisen.
I must not miss it."
"Well, it ruins my dinner, that's all," she said, helplessly. "I wanted
you here."
Vernon had come up from Springfield as usual for the week's end
adjournment, and Amelia had counted on his waiting over, as he always
did, for the Monday night train, before going back to his duties in the
Senate. More than all, she had counted on him for a dinner she had
arranged for Monday evening.
"What time does your train leave?" she asked, in the voice of one who
succumbs finally to a hopeless situation.
"Eleven twenty," he said. "But I brought my luggage over with me, so I
could start from here at the last minute. I'll go over to the
Twenty-third Street station and catch it there."
Amelia had had the deep chair Vernon liked so well wheeled into the
mellow circle of the light that fell from a tall lamp. The lamp gave the
only light in the room, and the room appeared vast in the dimness; an
effect somehow aided by the chill that was on it, as if the fires of the
Ansley house had been allowed to die down in an eager pretense of
spring. It was spring, but spring in Chicago. Sunday morning had been
bright and the lake had sparkled blue in the warm wind that came up
somewhere from the southwest, but by night the wind had wheeled around,
and the lake resumed its normal cold and menacing mood. As Vernon sank
into the chair he caught a narrow glimpse of the boulevard between the
curtains of the large window; in the brilliant light of a street lamp he
could see a cold rain slanting down on to the asphalt.
"How much longer is this legislature to last, anyway?" Amelia demanded,
as she arranged herself in the low chair before him.
"Three weeks," Vernon replied.
"Three--weeks--more!" The girl drew the words out.
"Yes, only three weeks," said Vernon. "And then we adjourn _sine die_.
The joint resolution fixes the date for June second."
Amelia said nothing. She was usually disturbed when Vernon began to
speak of his joint resolutions; which was, perhaps, the reason why he
spoke of them so often.
"Of course," Vernon went on, with a certain impression of relief in his
words, "I have another session after this."
"When will that be?" Amelia asked.
"Winter after next. The governor, though, may call a special session to
deal with the revenue question. That would take us all back there again
next winter."
"Next winter!" she cried, leaning over in alarm. "Do you mean you'll
have to be away all next winter, too!"
The significance of her tone was sweet to Vernon, and he raised himself
to take her hands in his.
"You could be with me then, dearest," he said softly.
"In Springfield!" she exclaimed.
"Why not?" asked Vernon. "Other members have their wives with them--some
of them," he qualified, thinking how few of the members cared to have
their wives with them during the session.
"What could one do in Springfield, pray?" Amelia demanded. "Go to the
legislative hops, I suppose? And dance reels with farmers and West Side
politicians!" She almost sniffed her disgust.
"Why, dearest," Vernon pleaded, "you do them a great injustice. Some of
them are really of the best people; the society in Springfield is
excellent. At the governor's reception at the mansion the other night--"
"Now, Morley," Amelia said, with a smile that was intended to reproach
him mildly for this attempt to impose upon her credulity.
"And besides," Vernon hurried on, suddenly taking a different course
with her, "you could be a great help to me. I never address the Senate
that I don't think of you, and wish you were there to hear me."
"I should like to hear you," said Amelia, softening a little. "But of
course I couldn't think of appearing in the Senate."
"Why not? Ladies often appear there."
"Yes, overdressed, no doubt."
"Well, you wouldn't have to be overdressed," Vernon retorted. He seemed
to have the advantage, but he decided to forego it. He sank back on the
cushions of his chair, folding his hands and plainly taking the rest a
senator needs after his legislative labors.
"Of course," he said, "we needn't discuss it now. The governor may not
call the special session. If the party--" but he paused, thinking how
little interested she was in the party.
"I wish you'd let politics alone," Amelia went on relentlessly. "It
seems so--so common. I don't see what there is in it to attract you. And
how am I ever going to explain your absence to those people to-morrow
night? Tell them that _politics_ detained you, I suppose?" She looked at
him severely, and yet triumphantly, as if she had reduced the problem to
an absurdity.
"Why," said Vernon, "you can tell them that I was called suddenly to
Springfield; that an important matter in the Senate--"
"The Senate!" Amelia sneered.
"But dearest," Vernon began, leaning over in an attitude for argument.
She cut him short.
"Why, Morley, do you think I'd ever let on to those Eltons that I _know_
any one in _politics_?"
"Don't they have politics in New York?" he asked.
"They won't even know where Springfield is!" she went on irrelevantly.
"What'll they say when they receive our cards next fall?" he asked with
a smile.
"Well, you needn't think your name will be engraved on them as
_Senator_, I can assure you!" Her dark eyes flashed.
Vernon laughed again, and Amelia went on:
"You can laugh, but I really believe you would if I'd let you!"
They were silent after that, and Amelia sat with her elbow on the arm of
her chair, her chin in her hand, meditating gloomily on her ruined
dinner.
"If you did any good by being in politics," she said, as if speaking to
herself. "But I fail to see what good you do. What good do you do?" She
lifted her head suddenly and challenged him with a high look.
"Well," he said, spreading his hands wide, "of course, if you don't care
enough to look in the newspapers!"
"But how could I, Morley?" said Amelia. "How was I to know where to
look?"
"Why, in the Springfield despatches."
"I began by reading the papers," Amelia said. "But, really now, Morley,
you know I couldn't find anything in them about you."
"The most important work in the legislature isn't done in the
newspapers," said Vernon, with a significance that was intended to hide
his inconsistency. "There are committee meetings, and conferences and
caucuses; it is there that policies are mapped out and legislation
framed."
He spoke darkly, as of secret sessions held at night on the upper floors
of hotels, attended only by those who had received whispered
invitations.
"But if you must be in politics," she said, "why don't you do something
big, something great, something to make a stir? Show your friends that
you are really accomplishing something!"
Amelia sat erect and gave a strenuous gesture with one of her little
fists clenched. Her dark eyes showed the excitement of ambition. But
Vernon drooped and placed his hand wearily to his brow. Instantly Amelia
started up from her chair.
"Does that light annoy you?" Her tone was altogether different from her
ambitious one. She was stretching out a hand toward the lamp, and the
white flesh glowed red between her fingers, held against the light.
"Never mind," said Vernon. "It doesn't bother me."
But Amelia rose and twisted the shade of the lamp about, and then, as
she was taking her seat again, she went on:
"I suppose it'll be worse than ever after--after we're--married." She
faltered, and blushed, and began making little pleats in her
handkerchief, studying the effect with a sidewise turn of her head.
Vernon bent over and took both her hands in his.
"If it were only Washington!" There was a new regret in her tone, as
there was in the inclination of her head.
"It shall be Washington, dear," he said.
Amelia's eyelids fell and she blushed again, even in the glow the lamp
shed upon her face. They were silent for a moment, and then suddenly she
looked up.
"Washington would be ever so much better, Morley," she said. "I should
feel as if that really amounted to something. We'd know all the
diplomats, and I'm sure in that atmosphere you would become a great
man."
"I will, dear; I will," he declared, "but it will be all for you."