I
“Yes, Washington is never finer than now.” The white-haired Senator
stood at the top of the steps of the Capitol and looked benignly across
the city. The air was heavy with the rich odor of Spring. The trees
were putting out their tender green leaves.
Douglas Briggs nodded. “It will be fine for a few weeks. Then we shall
have to send our families away,” he said, adding quickly, with a glance
at the Capitol, “that is, if they keep us here.”
“It soon becomes unbearable, the heat,” the old gentleman agreed. “We
always try to get away before June. I suppose you have to be careful
about your little ones.”
“Yes; and then Mrs. Briggs is rather run down, I think. It has been a
hard Winter for her--so much entertaining.”
“It’s wonderful how they stand it,” the Senator said, musingly. A
delicate moisture had broken out on his smooth, fine face. “But I
sometimes think the women bear it better than the men. When I first
came here I went about a good deal. But that was more than a quarter
of a century ago. The life was simpler then; though, coming from the
country as I did, it seemed gay enough. There’s poor Braddon from
Kentucky. You knew him, of course. I went down to his funeral the
other day. It was this infernal entertaining that killed him--too
many dinners. The last time I talked with him he told me he had eaten
twenty-three public dinners in something less than three weeks. The
wonder is that it doesn’t kill more of them. I suppose it does--only we
say they died of something else.” He looked curiously at Briggs through
his big gold-framed spectacles. “How do you stand it?” he asked.
Without waiting for a reply, he went on: “But you youngsters don’t mind
those things as we old fellows do.”
Douglas Briggs laughed. “Oh, I’m not so young, Senator. I turned forty
more than two years ago.”
“But you look very young,” the Senator insisted, amiably. “And I’m
always hearing of you at the great dinners. I see your speeches in the
newspapers.”
“Oh, I _speak_ at the dinners,” Briggs replied, smiling, “but I
don’t eat at them.”
“No?” the old gentleman asked, softly.
“That is, I never think of eating all they put before me. If I did, I
should have shared Braddon’s fate long ago. My first Winter of public
dinners gave me a fierce attack of gout. Now when I dine out I taste
the soup and I eat the roast and the salad. The rest of the dinner I
pass by.”
The Senator’s eyes twinkled. “Very sensible, very sensible,” he said.
He patted Briggs on the shoulder with the kindly patronage of the older
man. “That’s why you keep your color and your clear eye. That’s right.
That’s right.” He shook his head and his face wrinkled with pleasure.
“I only wish we had a few more sensible young fellows like you in
Congress.”
They clasped hands at the foot of the steep flight of steps. “I hope we
shall see you to-night,” said Briggs.
The Senator shook his head. “Oh, no; those dissipations aren’t for us.
We keep away from crowds. But we’d like to see your new house,” he
added, pleasantly. “My wife and I will look in some afternoon.”
Douglas Briggs walked down the street with a glow of amusement and
pleasure. He felt proud of his friendship with one of the oldest and
most distinguished Senators in Washington. He had reached the age,
too, when he enjoyed being treated like a young man; it gave him
reassurance. As he passed Congressman Burton’s house he noticed a line
of carriages extending far up the street. Then he remembered that the
Burtons were having a reception. “I ought to have asked Helen to go,”
he thought. Then he was glad he had not asked her. She would need all
her strength for the night; he had been putting too many burdens on
her, of late.
This afternoon he was in one of his moods of fine physical
exhilaration. He had had an exciting day in the House; but now he
turned from all thought of care and looked forward with a boy’s
delight to the evening. His wife had asked a few people to dinner to
celebrate their establishment in their new house, and for the reception
that would follow she had invited nearly everyone in Washington that
they knew. As he approached the house he viewed it with a glow of
satisfaction. He had secured one of the most desirable corner lots in
Washington, and Hanscomb, whom he considered the best architect in the
country, had built on it a structure that Briggs proudly considered an
ornament to the city. It would be associated with him as other houses
were associated with men conspicuous in Washington life.
On the sidewalk Michael, the servant whom Douglas Briggs had employed
ever since becoming a house-holder in Washington, was supervising the
arranging of the carpet on the steps and the hanging of the awning.
“Well, Michael, how goes it?” Briggs asked, pleasantly.
“All right, sir. The back of the work is broken,” Michael replied, with
a grin. He brushed down his thick red hair and rubbed his hand over the
perspiration on his forehead.
“Have those men come from the caterer’s?”
“The naygurs, sir? They arrived an hour ago, an’ ye’d think they owned
the place.”
“Well, let them own it while they’re here,” said Briggs, severely,
apprehensive of Michael’s great fault, a fondness for interfering with
other servants and making trouble.
“Div’l the word I’ve had with ’em, sir!” Michael exclaimed with a look
of scorn.
“Very well!” Briggs commented, severely. He was fond of Michael, whom
he knew he could trust; but he had to be severe with the fellow.
When Briggs entered, a young girl met him in the hall. “Oh, here you
are! I’ve been watching for you all the afternoon. Why didn’t you come
home before, you naughty man?”
She put her arms on his shoulders, and he bent forward to be kissed. “I
couldn’t,” Briggs explained; “I’ve been too busy.”
“Oh, Guy,” the girl cried, running to the broad staircase at the back
of the hall, “Uncle Doug has come.” She turned swiftly to her uncle.
“Oh, you should have seen us work this afternoon, Guy and me! We’ve
been helping Mrs. Farnsworth with the flowers. I’ve decorated the
dining-room all myself.” She seized Douglas Briggs by the arm and tried
to drag him with her. “Come along and see.”
He drew his arm away gently. “I mustn’t now, Fanny. I’ll see it
by-and-by. I ought to get ready for dinner. Where’s your aunt?”
“Aunt Helen’s in the drawing-room. She has a caller, I think.”
Briggs frowned. “Hasn’t she taken a rest?”
Fanny shook her head and looked serious. “I tried to make her, but she
wouldn’t. She said there were too many things to do. But Guy and I were
attending to everything,” she concluded, with importance.
Briggs turned away and smiled. “Children awake?” he asked, as he
removed his coat.
“M’m--h’m. Been playing all the afternoon. Miss Munroe’s been a brick.
As soon as she got Jack quiet she came down and helped Guy and me
decorate the ballroom. Oh, we had the loveliest----”
Briggs had turned away absent-mindedly and started up the stairs. As he
passed the door of the drawing-room he heard a rustle of skirts, and a
sharp voice exclaimed:
“Why, there’s your husband now!”
He stopped and turned back. “Oh, Mrs. Burrell, how do you do?” he
said, abruptly. He extended his hand, and the old lady grasped it with
enthusiasm.
“I’ve been all over your house,” she said.
“It’s simply the loveliest place I’ve ever seen. I’ve just been telling
your wife,” she went on, “that I don’t see how Paradise can be any
better than this.”
Briggs smiled. Then he turned to his wife and kissed her on the cheek.
“Well, it does me good to see you do that!” Mrs. Burrell declared.
“It’s the only real home-like thing I’ve seen since I come to
Washington.” She took a long breath. “I was saying to Mr. Burrell
yesterday that if we didn’t know you and Mrs. Briggs we’d think there
was no such thing as home life in Washington.”
“Oh, there’s a lot of it,” Briggs asserted, jocularly. “Only they keep
it dark.”
“It seems to me there’s nothing but wire-pulling, wire-pulling,
everybody trying to get ahead of everybody else. It makes me sick.
Still, I suppose I’m doing a little of that myself just now,” she went
on, with a nervous laugh. “What do you suppose I come here for to-day,
Mr. Briggs? I ought to be ashamed bothering your wife just when she’s
going to have a big party. But I knew it would just break my girls’
hearts if they didn’t come to-night. So I’ve asked if I couldn’t bring
’em.”
“Quite right, quite right,” said Briggs, cheerfully, but with the
absent look still in his eyes.
Mrs. Burrell was a large woman with hair that had turned to a color
approximating drab and giving a suggestion of thinness belied by the
mass at the back. She had a sharp nose and gray eyes, none the less
keen because they were faded with years and from wearing glasses. Her
skin, which seemed to have been tightly drawn across her face, bagged
heavily under the eyes and dropped at the corners of the disappointed
and complaining mouth. Douglas Briggs suspected that at the time of
her marriage she had been a typical New England old maid. If she had
been more correct in her speech he would have marked her for a former
school-teacher. As she talked it amused him to note the flashes of
brightness in her eyes behind the black-rimmed glasses from which was
suspended a gold chain, a touch of elegance which harmonized perfectly
with the whole eccentric figure. Briggs felt sorry for her and he felt
glad for her: she was enjoying Washington without realizing how much
passing enjoyment she gave to the people she met.
“It was a mistake, their not receiving cards,” Helen Briggs explained.
“I know their names were on the list.”
“Oh, those mistakes are always happening,” Mrs. Burrell replied,
greatly relieved now that she had got what she wanted. “Why, when we
had our coming-out party for our oldest girl there was at least three
families in Auburn that wouldn’t look at me. How I happened to forget
to invite ’em I couldn’t understand, to save my life. But I didn’t try
to explain. It was no use. I just let it go.”
Douglas Briggs sighed. Mrs. Burrell represented the type of woman
before whom he had most difficulty in maintaining his air of
confidential friendliness. For her husband, the shrewd old business
man from Maine, who was serving his first term in Congress, he felt a
genuine liking. His weariness at this moment prompted him to make one
of his pleasant speeches. When most bored he always tried hardest to
be agreeable. “There was no need of your asking for invitations for
to-night,” he said. “We hope you know us well enough to bring your
daughters without invitations.”
Mrs. Burrell softened. Her sharp little gray eyes grew moist. “Well, I
think you’re just as good as you can be,” she said. She looked vaguely
about, as if not knowing what to say. “Well, it _is_ lovely!” she
went on. “It’s splendid having these big entries. They’re just as good
as rooms. And those lovely tapestries on the wall downstairs--where in
the world did you get ’em?”
“They were bought for us by a dealer in New York,” Briggs explained,
patiently. He wondered how long Mrs. Burrell could stand without
moving. At that moment the old lady turned and offered her hand to
Helen.
“Well, good-bye again. The girls will be waiting for me at the hotel. I
guess they’ll be glad.”
As soon as Mrs. Burrell started down the stairs Douglas Briggs turned
to his wife. “You must be tired, dear,” he said. “You ought to have
been resting this afternoon.”
“Oh, no. I’m not tired, really.” She let him take her hand and she
smiled back into his face.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Nothing.” He pressed her hand more tightly. “Only I’m glad to see you
again, that’s all.”
He placed his left hand on her forehead and drew her head back. Then he
kissed her on the lips.
She drew away from him with a smile. “We haven’t much time. We have a
great many things to do yet.”
“I must take a peep at the children,” he said. “I wonder if they’re
asleep yet.”
“I think Miss Munroe is giving them their supper.”
The children, who had recognized the footsteps, were at the door to
meet them. Dorothy, a fat, laughing girl of seven, ran forward and
threw herself into her father’s arms, and Jack, two years younger,
trotted after her.
“Oh, you big girl!” Briggs exclaimed, “you’ll take all my breath away.”
She kissed him again and again, laughing as his mustache tickled her
face. Jack was tugging at her skirts, trying to pull her down.
“Let me! Let me!” he insisted.
Briggs placed Dorothy on the floor and took up the boy. “How are you
to-day, sonny?” he asked, as he let the thick, yellow curls fall over
his eyes.
“All right,” Jack replied, contentedly.
“Been a good boy?”
Jack looked wistfully at the governess, a young woman with black hair,
a bad complexion and a disappointed face, that always suggested to
Briggs a baffled motherliness. He pitied all people over twenty-five
who were not married. He valued Miss Munroe, but he often told her
that she had no business taking care of other people’s children; she
ought to be taking care of her own.
“No, he hasn’t!” shouted Dorothy. “He broke his whip, and when Miss
Munroe took it away from him he cried and kicked.”
“Oh--h--h!” said Jack’s father, reproachfully.
“Well, it was my whip,” Jack insisted.
“It’s all right,” Miss Munroe interrupted. “He said he was sorry.”
Briggs walked into the nursery with Jack on his shoulder. Jack, who at
once forgot his momentary disgrace, clung to his father’s thick hair.
“Ow, you rascal, let go!” said Briggs. He sank slowly into a chair, and
lifting the boy high in his arms, deposited him on his knee. Dorothy
followed and climbed up on the other knee. She placed a forefinger
between her teeth and looked admiringly at her father.
“Papa, is the President coming to-night?” she asked.
Douglas Briggs took her hand and drew the finger out of her mouth.
“I’ve told you not to do that, dear,” he said.
She jumped and pressed her head against her father’s coat. “Well, is
he?”
“I think not,” Briggs replied, with a smile. “I’m not sure that we’ve
invited him.”
“Oh, how mean!”
“He doesn’t go to parties,” Jack scornfully explained, with superior
intelligence.
“Well, he has parties himself,” Dorothy insisted, indignantly.
Briggs extended his hand between them. “There, there; that’ll do. Never
mind about the President.”
“You’re going to be President some day, aren’t you, papa?” Jack
ventured, with confidence. “Only I’d rather live here than in the White
House.”
“They say the White House isn’t healthy,” said Dorothy, repeating a
remark she had heard over the stairs.
“Well, papa, when you live in the White House can’t we come and stay in
this house when we want to?” asked Jack.
Helen Briggs, who had been discussing with Miss Munroe a detail of
the decoration for the evening, joined the group. “Jack thinks we’ll
have to move from this place to the White House,” said Briggs. “He’s
worried.”
Helen smiled. “It’s time for Jack to go to bed.”
“Oh, no. Just another minute longer,” Jack pleaded.
“I must go and dress,” said Briggs. “Now, chicks, climb down.” They
obeyed promptly, but turned and made a simultaneous attack upon him.
He endured their caresses for a moment; then he cried: “Now, that’s
enough, I think.” He rose quietly and kissed them. “Go to sleep like
good children,” he said.
On the way to their room Helen remarked: “Jack is getting so lively
Miss Munroe hardly knows what to do with him.”
“Oh, he’ll be all right,” said Douglas. “I like to see a boy with some
spirit in him.”
An hour later Douglas Briggs entered the dining-room, followed by his
wife. Fanny Wallace was already there, talking with Guy Fullerton.
“How do I look?” Fanny cried to her aunt, catching up her long gown.
“Isn’t it perfectly beautiful? Don’t you just love those fleecy things?
Won’t dad be proud of his daughter?”
“You look very well, dear,” said Helen, conservatively.
“Well, you’re kind of nice yourself,” Fanny remarked. “And doesn’t the
gentleman look grand?” she added, to her uncle. “Only,” she went on,
giving him a little push, “you mustn’t let yourself get so fat.” Then
she glanced at Guy. “Do you suppose he’ll be like that when he’s forty?”
“I’ve had a list of guests prepared for the newspaper people,” said
Guy to Douglas Briggs. He liked to ignore Fanny’s jokes when they
reflected on his personal appearance. “It’ll save a lot of time. And
I’ve arranged to have them take supper in a room by themselves. They’ll
like that better.”
Briggs, however, had turned to the servant, who had just come into the
room. “Take the men up to the big room over the front door, Michael.
That’ll be the best place,” he went on, to his wife. “And have you
arranged about their hats and coats?”
“I’ve attended to all that, sir,” Guy said, eagerly.
Briggs looked relieved. “Well, I guess we needn’t worry.”
Helen glanced up into his face. “I’m not going to worry,” she said,
with a smile.
“Is the Secretary of State really coming?” Fanny asked.
“I believe so,” her aunt replied.
“If he speaks to me I shall faint away. Ugh!” The girl walked over to
Guy Fullerton. “You’ll have to do all the talking if you sit near me. I
shall be too scared to say a word. This is my first dinner, you know.”
“You poor thing!” Guy began; but Fanny cut him short.
“Don’t make stupid jokes, sir!”
Helen Briggs turned to the girl. “I’m only afraid you’ll talk too much,
Fanny.”
“If she does, we’ll send her from the table,” said Briggs.
Fanny wrinkled her nose at her uncle. “That funny little Frenchman’s to
sit on my left,” she said, turning to Guy. “Oh, I won’t do a thing to
him!”
“I want you to be particularly nice to young Clinton, of the British
Embassy,” Briggs replied. “He’s a first-rate fellow, but very shy. I
think perhaps you’ll amuse him.”
Guy at once looked uncomfortable. Fanny observed him, and laughed. “I
expect to have a lovely time,” she said, casting down her eyes demurely.
“Who’s going to take you out?” Briggs asked, glancing first at Fanny
and then at Guy.
“Mr. West,” Guy promptly replied.
Briggs looked puzzled. “What did you put her with him for?”
Fanny smiled knowingly. “Perhaps because he thought I’d be out of
danger,” she said demurely.
Briggs turned away impatiently. “Well, don’t you dare to flirt with
him, Fanny. He’s really dangerous.”
Guy’s face looked anxious. “It isn’t too late to change the
arrangement,” he said, wistfully, and they all laughed.
“Is it true that Mr. West is so wicked, Uncle Doug?” Fanny asked. “The
newspapers say awful things about him.”
“Well, the newspapers say awful things about everybody. They say awful
things about me.”
“Then they tell great big lies,” Fanny cried, rushing forward and
throwing her arms around her uncle’s neck.
“Fanny,” Mrs. Briggs remonstrated, “you’ll get your dress all ruffled.”
“Well, never mind,” said Fanny, philosophically, and she smiled at her
uncle. “I’d just like to meet someone that had been talking about you.”
“Gee, it’s a good thing you aren’t a man,” Guy remarked with a shake of
his head.
“Won’t she be a terrible little boss when she gets married?” Briggs
exclaimed, with a knowing look at the young fellow.
“I’m going to be just like Auntie,” said Fanny, and Briggs laughed
aloud.
“Then you’ll have to begin to change mighty quick.”
The door-bell rang and a few moments later the first guest appeared
in the drawing-room. During the next few moments several other guests
arrived and Fanny was kept busy helping her aunt to keep them amused
until dinner was announced. The announcement was delayed by the
tardiness of the Secretary of State, who was known for his punctuality
in business and for his indifference and unpunctuality in social
matters. When, finally, the great man entered, walking quickly but
maintaining, nevertheless, an air of deliberateness and suavity, Fanny
breathed a sigh of relief. She turned to Franklin West, who had taken
his place beside her.
“I’m starving,” she said.
“You poor child.” He looked down at her with his fine dark eyes.
“And yet I’m terribly frightened.”
“At what?” he said with a smile.
“Oh, all these wonderful men with their queer wives. Why do great men
marry such funny women, do you suppose?”
“Be careful, little girl,” West whispered.
Fanny shrugged her shoulders. “I’m not very diplomatic, am I?”
“Perhaps you’ll learn to be as you grow older,” he said, smiling again.
“Diplomacy usually comes with age. It’s only the very young who can
afford to be frank. It’s one of the graces of youth.”
Fanny flushed. “I believe you are making fun of me, Mr. West.”
“Oh, no,” West replied, gallantly. “I’m merely telling you the truth.”
The butler had entered and announced dinner and the procession was
about to start for the dining-room. “Don’t you think this is positively
_languishing_, Mr. West?” said Fanny, as she took the arm offered
her, and when he laughed aloud, she went on: “It’s been the dream of
my life to go to a dinner-party.” She sighed deeply. “And yet there’s
something sad when your dream is realized, isn’t there?”
“Well, I must say you’re complimentary, Miss Fanny,” West exclaimed.
“Oh, I didn’t mean that. I didn’t mean anything personal to _you_.”
“What did you mean then?”
“Well, I guess I mean that there won’t ever be any first dinner-party
for me again. I’m just foolish, that’s all.”
After helping Fanny in her seat, West took his place beside her. He had
been bored on learning that this child was to be his table companion;
now he felt somewhat amused.
“I can’t say that any of my dreams have been realized,” he remarked,
unfolding his napkin.
“You poor thing!” Fanny cried. Then she looked searchingly at his face.
“You don’t show any very great disappointment.”
Fanny glanced quickly around the table: many of the faces were partly
concealed from her by the masses of roses and ferns in the centre.
There was Guy, talking with that queer little woman from the Argentine
Republic, the wife of an under-secretary or something. Fanny wondered
vaguely how she had happened to be invited. Oh, she was supposed to be
intellectual or literary or something like that. Then Fanny smiled at
the thought of the way poor Guy would be bored. Suddenly she turned to
Franklin West.
“Who do you think is the prettiest woman here?”
“The prettiest woman?” West repeated, gallantly, emphasizing the noun.
“Well, I don’t think I should have to hesitate long about that.”
“Well, who?”
“Mrs. Douglas Briggs, of course.”
Fanny’s eyes rested affectionately on her aunt. “Of course,” she
agreed. “But somehow,” she went on, “I never think about Auntie as
pretty. I just think of her as good. I don’t believe she ever had a
mean thought or did a mean thing in her life. Don’t you think she’s
perfectly lovely?” she asked, inconsistently. Fanny looked up into
West’s face and noticed that it had flushed deeply.
“Yes, she is perfectly lovely,” he repeated in a low voice.
“Now, if I were a man I’d fall head over heels in love with her.”
“And then what would happen?” West asked, without taking his eyes off
Mrs. Briggs’s face.
“Why, I’d marry her, of course.”
“And what would become of Mr. Briggs?”
“Uncle Doug?” Fanny asked in surprise. “Oh, I’d have fallen in love
long before he came along.”
“But suppose you’d fallen in love after he came along?”
Fanny wrinkled her nose. “I don’t like to suppose unpleasant things,”
she replied. “Anyway, there’s only one man in the world good enough for
her.”
“Who’s that?”
“The man that she married, of course,” Fanny exclaimed.
The dinner proved to be a perfect success. When the great men at the
table learned that it was Fanny Wallace’s first dinner-party they
paid her such attention that she let herself go completely and kept
them laughing by her naïve impertinences. The sight of young Clinton
gave Guy Fullerton deep relief; he knew that the blotched-faced, thin
and anæmic Englishman, with the ponderous manner of the embryonic
statesman, would appeal only to Fanny’s sense of humor. Fanny, indeed,
was the centre of interest throughout the dinner; even the great men’s
wives petted her. When the ladies left the table to go into the
drawing-room Helen had a chance to whisper to her: “My dear, you’ve
been splendid. I sha’n’t dare give any more dinner-parties without you.”
“Oh, aren’t they lovely?” Fanny cried, rolling her eyes. “Only I talked
so much I forgot all about eating anything. I’m actually hungry.”
The guests for the reception began to arrive shortly after nine
o’clock. Long before this hour, however, the sidewalk near the house
was crowded with curiosity-seekers, in which the colored population of
Washington was numerously represented. Guy hurried from point to point,
giving directions to the servants, offering greetings, and showing his
fine, white teeth in frank, boyish enjoyment of his importance. As the
newspaper people came, he exaggerated his cordiality; some of the men
he addressed by their first names. “You’ll find the list of guests all
ready for you, old man,” he remarked, placing his hand on the shoulder
of one of them, “in the little room just leading off the dining-room.
Down there. And there’s everything else you can want, there at the
sideboard,” he added, significantly, with the consciousness of being
very much a man of the world. “I knew you newspaper people would like
to have a place to yourselves.”