After Helen’s departure, Douglas Briggs felt a curious mingling
of relief and depression. It was a relief not to have to face the
constant rebuke that the sight of her gave him; and yet it depressed
him during the day to think that when he returned home he should not
find her there. He realized now many things about himself that he
had been unconscious of before. In the happy time that seemed so far
away now, during the stress of work, how he had loved to think of her
at home there with the children. What a comfort it was just to know
they were there and to feel that they were safe. And then, the walk
home, with the expectation of finding the children and Helen in the
nursery. The glad welcome! Then--but at this point he had to force
himself to think of other things. That happiness could never be the
same because in her eyes he could never be the same man. She must ever
look back on those days with a kind of shame; she must feel that he
had deceived her, that through it all he had been a hypocrite. With
her severe standards she must think that he had never been what she
believed him to be. She would judge him by that perfect father of hers,
by her sturdy older brother, and by the two brothers who had entered
the Church. At other times he would accuse himself of wronging her;
she could not judge him so harshly; she could not put aside altogether
the love she had once had for him. The love she had once had! He would
feel a shock of horror. Why, she must have it still; she had told him
a thousand times that nothing could change her love for him. After the
children came they used to say that much as they loved the children
they loved each other a thousand times more. And how they used to
wonder if other husbands and wives loved as they did. They used to
laugh and say that perhaps to other people they seemed as commonplace
as others did to them. After a time he resolved to discipline himself
when these thoughts came; if he were to indulge them, they would make
life unbearable. He wondered vaguely if she ever had such thoughts now.
Once they used to believe that they often had the same thoughts. In
this way, in spite of his efforts, he found himself going back to his
morbid fancies. Sometimes, on the other hand, he became rebellious and
he pitied himself as a man unjustly and inhumanely treated. No woman
had a right to treat a man like that, a man who had always tried to
be good to her, too. No woman had a right to expect her husband to be
perfect.
It seemed curious that at this time Douglas Briggs should have found
solace in the companionship of Guy Fullerton. The boy’s eager interest
in life and his simplicity of mind amused and interested the older man.
In spite of his four years of money-spending at Harvard, Guy had not
been spoiled; at moments his ingenuousness was almost childish. Douglas
Briggs found that with Guy he could discuss matters he would shrink
from mentioning in the presence of sophisticated and hardened men. In
Guy, too, he saw many of the qualities that he himself had had as a
boy, though he recognized that long before reaching his secretary’s
age he had outgrown most of them. In his dread of being alone he made
pretexts for keeping the boy with him in his few hours of leisure
during the day. In the late afternoon they would walk from the house to
the club where Briggs would let Guy order the dinner. They had a table
reserved for them in the bay-window of the dining-room, by George, the
fat and pompous head-waiter, whose display of teeth at the appearance
of Douglas Briggs suggested the memory of a long line of tips. After
finishing the meal they would often linger, sipping claret punch which
Briggs allowed himself to encourage Guy to drink. He had begun to feel
a paternal fondness for Guy; he enjoyed formulating before the young
fellow a philosophy of life and offering stray bits of advice. Guy’s
admiration for him stimulated him and, though he would have hated to
acknowledge the fact, it supported him in a good opinion of himself.
If in his talks there were matters that occurred to his mind only to
be immediately suppressed, the reason was not less because he wished
to conceal certain aspects of life from the boy than because he wished
to keep the boy’s admiration untarnished. Occasionally he wondered
if he ought not to do something for Guy, if he were not selfish in
his keeping him in a kind of life that might harm him. If the young
fellow stayed long enough in Washington he would probably become one
of those miserable creatures whose days were spent in hanging on to
the soiled skirts of the Government. It would be a pity to see Guy, for
example, in the army of clerks who, at nine o’clock each day, poured
into the Government offices and streamed out again at four in the
afternoon. Briggs said to himself that he ought to find a chance for
Guy to do work into some sort of independence where he could develop
those qualities of faithfulness and intelligence that were plainly his
inheritance even if they were somewhat obscured by his boyishness.
After dinner, when there was nothing to call him to the House, Briggs
would occasionally be joined by a politician, or by one of the Army
or Navy men who frequented the club. He dreaded meeting the officers
even more than the politicians. He had grown tired of hearing of the
exploits of the Spanish War, of the controversy between rival Admirals
and of the rare qualities, on the one hand, of this General or that,
and the injustice of the General’s advance over officers who had given
many years of faithful work to the service. The jealousies and the
rivalries among the heroes disgusted him, and the bragging among some
of the veterans gave him a contempt for war. At moments he had a horror
of meeting anyone except the young fellow who kept him from thinking
about himself. He wondered if he had grown suddenly old. The talk of
the club made him feel as if life had become sordid and mean, as if
nothing was ever done from an unselfish motive. In these moods he would
sometimes take Guy with him for a ride in the country on a trolley-car
to Chevy Chase, where they would sit on the porch of the club and watch
the fireflies gleaming over the green sward, or, as oftener happened,
to Cabin John’s, where they amused themselves by studying the crowd.
Cabin John’s used to remind Briggs of his early days in the country
when he attended the church-picnics. He found himself now going back to
those days very often. After all, he reflected, the plain democratic
life was the best. And it was this very kind of life that he had been
striving so desperately to get away from.
Occasionally during the afternoon Briggs would feel a disgust for
work and would go with Guy to the ball-game. Briggs enjoyed a game
of baseball for its own sake and because it renewed his old boyish
enthusiasm. At college he had been a catcher on his nine and he had
never lost his interest in the game. The crowd, too, entertained him
with its good nature, its amusing remarks to the players, and with its
fitful bursts of rage and scorn against the umpire. Briggs used to say
to Guy that he believed American men were never so happy as when they
were watching a ball-game. “Look at all those fellows,” he would remark
on the days of the big games. “See how contented they are. And what a
harmless pleasure it is, too!” Then, afraid of boring the boy with his
philosophy, Briggs would check himself and devote his attention to the
game. Meanwhile, however, he continued his reflections. Most of these
men were undoubtedly family men; many of them had sent their families
for the hot season away to the country or the seashore. He wondered how
many of them were really happy. Did they miss their wives and their
children as he missed his? Some of them were, of course, glad to be
free and Briggs realized the commonplace thought with astonishment.
There were some men who did not care for family-life, who were unfitted
for it. It had become impossible for him to think of any other kind of
life as endurable. Well, it was good that they could all, the happy and
unhappy, come to a game of baseball and forget there was such a thing
as care in the world.
While he was alone at night, Briggs suffered most. At times he would
work late in order to exhaust himself; then his brain would become so
excited that he could not sleep for hours. Sometimes he rose and tried
to read; and occasionally, he would fall asleep in the chair. In his
dreams he would wander about the new house, breaking his heart over the
sight of places and things associated with his wife. He often said to
himself that he felt as if he had lost part of himself; he recalled the
remarks he had made to Helen on the night of that wretched party, that
he felt as if he had always been married. He wondered what men had to
live for who did not have wife and children to think of, to give them
incentive for their work. He had always been an optimist and he had
felt a curious surprise when he heard people express a dissatisfaction
with life. Even his trials and his disappointments had brought with
them something stimulating. But now he often sank into despair.
Guy Fullerton was consoled in his confinement in Washington by the
sense of his importance to his employer and by the letters that he
received from Fanny Wallace. Though an irregular letter-writer, Fanny
was voluminous, and she kept Guy amused with her comments on the
people that she met and the things that she did. Occasionally one
of her letters would contain a reference that would throw Guy into
temporary depression. Douglas Briggs generally knew when this disaster
had occurred, and used to exert himself to rouse the boy, generally
with success. At these times Guy would give expression to a philosophy
regarding woman so pessimistic and cynical that Briggs with difficulty
kept from laughing. In spite of his own troubles, Briggs congratulated
himself that he retained his sense of humor. Once he said to Guy, as
they were drinking at the club: “My dear boy, you mustn’t take life so
seriously.”
“Well, sir,” Guy replied in a deep breath, “I’m just beginning to find
out how serious it is.”
“It’s all right to realize how serious it is,” Briggs went on, “but
that’s different from taking it seriously. Don’t let things bother
you too much, that’s what I mean--little things. Just be sure that
everything is coming out all right, and don’t mind the details.”
Guy shook his head doggedly. “But the details are mighty important,
sometimes, Mr. Briggs.”
In spite of himself, Briggs sighed. It was much easier to offer
philosophy to this boy than to practise it oneself. The silence that
followed was suddenly broken by Guy’s saying: “Do you believe in early
marriages, Mr. Briggs?”
The question was received without a smile. “That depends on a good many
considerations,” Briggs replied, slowly. “And it depends chiefly on the
woman. Most people would say that it depended on both the man and the
woman. But it’s the woman that counts first every time.”
“Well, the man counts for something, doesn’t he?” Guy urged with a
faint smile; but Briggs went on as if he had not been interrupted.
“The man counts only in relation to the woman. If the woman is all
right, why, there’s no excuse for the man’s not being right.” Briggs
tightly closed his lips. “If he isn’t, it shows there’s something
radically wrong in him. There is no happiness like the happiness of
a youthful marriage founded on love and character; but there is no
Hell so awful as the unhappiness that comes when a marriage like that
strikes disaster.”
“Well, it’s a lottery, anyway, don’t you think so?” Guy asked, made
somewhat uncomfortable by Douglas Briggs’s intensity, and trying to get
back where the water was not too deep for him.
“That’s just what it isn’t. The results of any marriage could
be calculated in advance if we only knew how to weigh all the
considerations. When a good woman marries an unprincipled man, misery
is sure to result for her, possibly for both. When a good woman marries
a weak man, well, there’s a chance that she’ll be able to bolster him
up and make a strong character of him.”
“That’s what I think,” Guy cried, so enthusiastically, that Briggs came
near smiling again. He was tempted to say, “Don’t be so modest, my
boy,” but he checked himself.
“On general principles,” Briggs resumed quietly, “I suppose the great
danger of an early marriage is that the wife may outgrow the husband,
or, what is far more likely to happen, that the husband will outgrow
the wife. I’ve seen that happen in several cases where the woman has
stayed at home and led a limited life, and the man has gone out into
the world and developed.”
“Still I believe it’s possible,” Guy went on eagerly, “for the young
people to go on together and share everything. Then I don’t see--”
“There’s where the trouble starts, my boy. The woman may be willing to
share everything; but the man is willing mighty seldom. If he’s like a
good many men, vain and conceited, he’ll only want to share the good
things, the pleasant things; he’ll keep the unpleasant to himself.”
“Well, that seems to me pretty fine,” cried Guy, shaking his head.
“Yes, it sounds so,” Briggs went on, “but it doesn’t work out right.”
Then he checked himself, fearing that the boy would read a personal
application in what he said. He changed the subject abruptly, as he
sometimes did to Guy’s bewilderment. At such moments Guy feared that he
had unconsciously offended his employer. In spite of the companionship
Guy gave the other, there were times when Briggs felt the boy’s
presence to be somewhat inconvenient. He wished to keep from the young
fellow a knowledge of certain business transactions which, as the days
passed, grew to be more and more complicated. He often had to keep
the door closed against Guy when his broker called. Guy, of course,
knew who Balcombe was, the small, keen-eyed, sandy man who frequented
the club; but he did not know that Douglas Briggs, whose speculations
had previously been conservative, had begun to plunge. Briggs tried
to excuse himself for his recklessness on the plea of desperate
remedies; he must get rid of Franklin West and, in order to maintain
his independence, and, to keep afloat, he must at times take risks.
Guy used occasionally to notice a curious elation in his employer’s
manner; it showed itself most conspicuously at the close of the day,
when they sat at dinner; it sometimes caused Briggs to tell Guy to
order something especially good to eat. But even on the days when he
felt depressed, Briggs managed to display an artificial gayety that
deceived the boy. Then he would indulge in extravagance for the purpose
of cheering himself.
There were moments of solitude, however, when Briggs could not
discipline himself into good humor or take comfort from any sophistry.
Then he used to wonder grimly what the end would be. Suppose everything
went wrong, suppose he should lose the few thousands he had managed to
get together to speculate with? Suppose he should find himself out of
politics, deep in debt and without resources? These thoughts usually
came to him in the middle of the night as he lay in bed, and a cold
perspiration would break out on his forehead. In the early morning,
too, long before it was time to get up, he would lie half-asleep,
suffering from a vague consciousness of profound misery, more terrible
than any suffering he knew in his waking hours. He began to dread
the mornings, and he resolved to try to rouse himself and to escape
the obsession. But, in spite of his resolutions, he would lie in bed,
a helpless prisoner, and as he finally became wide-awake, he would
feel exhausted. For himself he believed that he had no fear; his whole
solicitude was for Helen and the children. He marvelled that he had
never worried about the matter before. He had always felt confident
that he could keep his family in comfort. It was true that he had taken
out a heavy life-insurance policy; but that was a precaution every
sensible family man employed. Already that policy had become a burden;
he dreaded the next payment.
In his moments of greatest depression, Douglas Briggs used to
accuse himself of having accomplished nothing in his life. Here he
was--forty-two! By this time, he ought to have laid a solid foundation
for the future. And yet he had advanced no farther than the point
he had reached at thirty-six, when first elected to Congress. He
had actually gone back. At thirty-six, he had had at least a clear
record and good prospects. Now his name was smirched, his self-respect
was weakened, and he was committed to a course that involved more
hypocrisy, if not more dishonesty. In the morning he often woke feeling
prematurely old with the horrible sense of being a failure, and with
hardly energy enough to take up his cares. He wondered if many men
suffered as he did, and he decided that it was probably only the
exceptional men who did not; he was probably experiencing the common
lot. Here, indeed, was some comfort offered by his philosophy.
One morning Briggs found himself face to face with a definite
temptation. There was an easy way out of his difficulties; in fact,
there were a dozen easy ways. There were a dozen men within reach who
would be glad to take his notes, to extend them, and to hold them
indefinitely. In other words, he could realize on them and meet his
obligations, and not only clear himself of pressing debt, but reach
a position where he need not think of his notes again. He would be
obliged to give no pledge, to bind himself by no promises. The chances
were that he should not in the future be called on to do anything that
would definitely violate his conscience. It was this consideration
that caused him to cover his face with his hands and to lean forward
despairingly on his desk. It recalled to him the situation that had
placed him in the power of Franklin West. He rose quickly, feeling the
blood rush to his face, and he said aloud: “By God, I won’t do it!”
Then he seized his hat and walked rapidly out into the street. In the
open air he took deep breaths and he had a curious impulse to thrash
someone. He was like a man trying to control a wild attack of anger.
Meanwhile, in Waverly, Helen Briggs was suffering as poignantly.
The sight of the place where she had first met the young man who
was to become her husband and where they had known their first
great happiness, added to her misery. The old house, too, brought
back the memories of her childhood, of her saintly old father, her
gentle mother, whose long years of invalidism had only sweetened
her character, her fine older brother, whom she had always regarded
as a second father, and the two boys who were now leading happy and
useful lives ministering to their churches, one in Rochester and one
in Syracuse. Among them all, Douglas had been a sort of hero. To the
two young clergymen he represented all that was best in a career of
public service. On first coming to Waverly, he had brought a letter
of introduction to her father and he had quickly been made a family
friend. His success in the law and in politics made him a marked man
and when Helen’s engagement was announced, it seemed as if everything
pointed to a happy marriage. And now, after years of happiness, the
shock of disappointment had come so suddenly that Helen could hardly
realize it. Often at night it seemed to her that she would wake and
find the trouble had been only a ghastly dream. In the morning she
would go about the house so dispirited that Miss Munroe would ask her
if she were not ill. She began to dread Miss Munroe’s solicitude;
it was terrible to think that someone might discover the secret of
her unhappiness. But she knew she could not hide it always. She had
a feeling that if her brothers were to find it out, all chance of a
reconciliation would be gone. With their stern ideas of rectitude,
they could never forgive Douglas. But, after all, she reflected, her
own ideas were as stern. Sometimes she wondered if she could be wrong,
if her standards were not merely ideal, visionary, the result of her
training at home, in the atmosphere of the church, which stood apart
from real life. But this thought always terrified her and she turned
from it, instinctively feeling that if she were to lose her standards
she should lose her hold on life itself.
In the old days before their estrangement, Helen had never questioned
her husband’s movements or had doubts in regard to them. She had
trusted him always, as he had trusted her; indeed, the thought of the
possibility of suspicion had not entered her mind. Now she wondered why
he remained away so long from Waverly. Was it really because he had to
be in Washington for business? He had been detained there one Summer
before, by private business, but on Friday of each week he had made the
long and fatiguing journey home. Could it be that he dreaded meeting
her? It was true, she acknowledged, that she dreaded meeting him; but
even more she dreaded his not coming. She suffered cruelly from the
fear that he would become used to being away from her, that in time he
would not miss her. It was only in her more desperate moods that she
accused him of not missing her at all now.
It was with regard to the children that Helen Briggs felt most concern
for the future, especially with regard to her boy. How could she
bring them up so that they should not fall upon disaster as she and
Douglas had done? If temptation could so overcome Douglas, whom she
had always looked on as unconquerable, what could she expect when Jack
grew up? Already she had often talked with Douglas of the way they
should help Jack to face the trials that boys have to meet. Sometimes
Douglas laughed at her solicitude and said that she’d better not try
to cross her bridges till she came to them. And she reflected, with a
sinking of the heart, even while he was saying that, he knew that his
own character had broken down. But she seldom reached this point in
her speculations; she received a warning of the violence that would
result to her own emotions. Throughout her self-torments, she never let
herself believe the situation seemed hopeless. Something would happen,
she felt sure, that would finally make everything right. But in her
assurances, the mocking spirit of reason ridiculed her hope.
The practical aspects of her trouble were a constant burden on Helen’s
mind. How could they go on living so extravagantly? Was it not wrong
that she should continue to have the luxuries she was used to having?
For herself she could easily have gone without them; but she wished
to give the children the best that could be bought. They were both
delicate and they often had to be coaxed to eat, and they refused to
eat many of the things that were inexpensive. Helen wondered if she
had not pampered them too much. At times she became nearly distracted
with the problem of living. She tried to console herself by reflecting
that she had two thousand dollars a year of her own and that during the
summer the expenses of the house in Waverly were far less than this
sum. But such sophistry gave her little help; the truth which she must
face was that they were living beyond their means. Someone must suffer
from their dishonesty. Surely Douglas must realize that plain fact. Oh,
how could he have gone on like that, from month to month, from year to
year? And all the while seeming before her the man he had been. That
was the worst thought in the whole matter, the thought of his hypocrisy!
After a time, Helen resolved to try to be at peace with herself in
regard to the business-affairs of the family until she returned to
town. Then she would discuss the whole matter with Douglas. Of course,
they must give up their New York house. The thought of returning to
it appalled her, but they would probably be obliged to return for a
time, until the election had taken place, at any rate. Then there was
the question of the house in Washington. How could she ever go back to
that? It had already become hateful to her. But if she were to return
to Washington it would be hard for Douglas to move into a more modest
house. At any rate, he would think that the change would injure him.
At this juncture she recognized in him a pride which she had never
suspected before, a false pride that lowered him in her opinion.
Indeed, in all her reasoning she was discovering hidden qualities in
him. How could she ever adjust the old Douglas to the new?
When these thoughts came it was a comfort to her to accuse herself of
faults and weaknesses. With a relief that seemed like joy she reflected
that in his place she too might have yielded to temptation. But
instantly she felt a stern denial in her consciousness. Still, if she
could not fail just as he had done she might have failed in other ways,
possibly worse ways. Once she thought of going to her older brother and
telling the whole story, to bring to bear on the situation the light
of his common sense. But she could not endure the thought of exposing
Douglas like that even to him; it seemed a betrayal of her wifely
trust. On the other hand, her brother might help Douglas! But she at
once thought of the anger Douglas would feel. No, such a step could
only aggravate the situation.
In a few days Helen had settled into the monotony of Waverly. The old
friends came to see her; the old country gayeties, however, continued
without her. She devoted herself chiefly to the children, giving Miss
Munroe a holiday of several weeks. She scrupulously wrote to her
husband every day, and he answered as regularly. He said that Congress
would probably not adjourn till late in July, and as he was desperately
driven with work it might be impossible for him to come to Waverly
till the session had ended. It was, in fact, not till the first week
in August that the session closed. Two days later Helen received a
telegram from her husband saying that she might expect him early in
the evening; this was soon followed by another message announcing that
he had been detained in New York. He came late one afternoon; but he
stayed only for the night, returning to New York in the morning. The
work in preparation for the Fall campaign had begun unusually early,
he said. An enormous amount of work had to be done, and he must stay
in town, to be sure it was done right. Helen offered to leave the
children with Miss Munroe and open the New York house for him, but
he refused, insisting that she needed the rest. Besides, he could be
perfectly comfortable at the club. For the next few weeks he would have
to be in consultation with people day and night. He was so busy that
he had been unable to give Guy Fullerton a holiday, or rather, Guy had
refused to take one. He often spoke with praise of Guy’s devotion.
During the rest of the Summer he ran up to Waverly several times,
rarely staying for more than a day. His visits were painful to them
both, though they delighted the children. When September came Helen
made preparations for her return to New York. She wished to live under
the same roof with her husband, though she might seldom see him. At
times her absence from him, and the strangeness with which they greeted
each other on meeting, terrified her. She would not confess to herself
the fear that he would discover she was not indispensable to him; but
in spite of the late September heat, it was with great relief that,
a week before the nominating convention, she found herself with the
children at the house in New York again.
The opening of the New York house began the preparations for its
closing. These Briggs observed without comment. At times, when,
following his wife’s point of view, he realized the expense he was
carrying, he felt appalled. He wondered how he had ever dared to
undertake so much; he felt as if he were just emerging from a debauch
of recklessness. What had he been thinking of? What had he expected to
happen? He saw now that he had been relying on chance, like a gambler.
During the next few weeks Briggs was so busy with his political work
that he practically lived away from home, returning there chiefly
to sleep. Whenever he did pass a part of the day at home, he was
shut up in the library, working with Guy over his mail, or in seeing
callers. He perceived now for the first time how far he had drifted
away from the party-moorings. From all sides he received warnings,
sometimes covert, occasionally frank and threatening, that a determined
opposition was to be made to his renomination. But, the nomination once
secured, he felt sure that he could hold his former supporters and
gain increased strength from the Independents, whom William Farley was
trying to win over. Briggs kept in uninterrupted communication with
Farley; he had begun to find the journalist extremely companionable.
He recalled now with a secret shame that at first he had been
suspicious of Farley, attributing an insidious selfishness to his
motives; but in every emergency, Farley had shown himself to be open
and generous and clean-minded. But it was Farley’s perfect confidence
that most deeply touched Douglas Briggs. Sometimes Briggs wondered
what Helen thought when she saw them working together, with Farley in
a subordinate attitude. With her fine sense of character, a sense he
had never known to err except with regard to himself, she must long ago
have learned to appreciate the journalist’s character. Briggs wondered
if she suspected that he was trying to use Farley. Once the thought
made him boldly accuse himself. But he found a vindication in the
thought that he was fighting his way against odds toward an honorable
goal. Once elected to Congress, he would do everything in his power to
atone for the wrong he had done. His future life would be not merely
an expiation, but a vindication. He assured himself that if he were to
falter now, he would be a coward. He was committed to his course.
As for Helen, she tried to keep her mind distracted from herself by
the cares of the household, and she worked during most of the time
that she did not spend with the children. Every day she came upon
things with happy associations; once the sight of them would have
given her pleasure; but now it only hurt her. She was constantly
reminded, too, of what she now regarded as her extravagances. Why,
they had been living as if they were millionaires! She blamed herself,
not because she had spent so freely, but because she had not won
her husband’s complete confidence. If she had shown more character,
she argued, would he not have trusted her in everything? Would he
not have kept her informed with regard to his condition? Why had he
treated her, a woman and the mother of children, as if she were a
child to be petted and to be maintained at any sacrifice in luxury?
Sometimes this self-questioning caused her a kind of shame. In her
unhappiness she wondered if he had not despised her for accepting so
much unquestioningly. She understood now why some men regarded women as
monsters of selfishness. Oh, she had been selfish and inconsiderate!
Once she thought of going to Douglas and telling him just how she felt.
But she had not sufficient courage. Besides, she knew that he would
resent her pity for him. Then, too, he might think it was far too late
for her to take that superior attitude.
Having decided to let Miss Munroe go, Helen dreaded the parting, not
because she found the governess necessary, but because of the scene
that the children would make. She was tempted to ask the girl to leave
without telling the children she was going; but that would be too
cruel, as well as underhanded. She feared, too, that the governess
would tell the children that she intended to leave them. Miss Munroe
had an exalted idea of her own importance, and would wish to make her
going as difficult and as dramatic as possible. So when she gave the
girl the usual notice, she had to be very careful. To her astonishment,
Miss Munroe received it with what seemed like sublime heroism.
“I knew that things weren’t going right with you, Mrs. Briggs,” she
said, “and that I should have to leave soon. I will look for another
place. Of course,” she went on, her eyes filling with tears, “it will
be hard to give up the children.”
“I know,” Helen said with a sigh, and at the moment she felt pity for
the girl, and she wondered if she had not been unjust and foolish. But
in future, she reflected, the children would be wholly hers.
“It’s too bad, isn’t it?” Miss Munroe went on with a brave smile, “to
be with children long enough to feel almost as if they were your own,
and then have to go away from them!”
Helen Briggs felt as if the muscles in her frame had become rigid.
In spite of herself, her face hardened. “Please don’t tell them you
are going,” she said, trying not to seem severe, and she thought she
detected a look of triumph in the girl’s face.
“Very well,” said Miss Munroe, tightening her lips.
“I’ll write to some people that I know in Washington,” Helen resumed,
speaking gently, “and see if they may not have a position for you.
Their children----”
“Oh, I’d rather not live in Washington again,” Miss Munroe interrupted
with dignity.
“I thought you liked it,” Helen said with surprise.
“Not after what I know about it,” Miss Munroe explained, and Helen
flushed deeply. Could it be that this girl was covertly trying to wound
her? She decided to ignore the suspicion; but it made her rise from
her seat to indicate that the interview had ended.
Two days later the children ran downstairs to their mother, crying
bitterly. It happened that they met the father on the stairs.
“What’s the matter?” he asked, and Helen, from her room, noticed the
pain in his voice.
“Miss Munroe is going away,” they both exclaimed together, and Dorothy
added: “She says she’s never coming back again.”
“An’ she says we can’t come to see her,” Jack cried.
At sight of Helen in the lower hall, they ran past their father down
the stairs.
“What does this mean?” Briggs asked angrily over the balusters,
and Helen, unable to control the indignation she felt against the
governess, replied, “I don’t know,” and, putting her arms across the
shoulders of the children, she led them into the room and closed the
door behind her.
Briggs hesitated for a moment, his face white with anger. He was
tempted to go down the stairs, force open the door of Helen’s room and
give vent to his feelings. But he checked himself. Then he had a second
impulse, and he dashed up the stairs to the nursery. He found Miss
Munroe standing in the middle of the room, in tears. She had evidently
been listening at the half-open door.
“What have you been saying to those children?” he asked sternly.
Miss Munroe began to sob. “They asked me this morning if it was true
that I was going away.” Her head began to move convulsively backward
and forward.
“Who told them you were going away?”
“I don’t know, sir. I only know that I didn’t. I promised Mrs. Briggs
that I wouldn’t.”
“But you’ve told some of the servants, haven’t you?”
“Well, I--I did mention it to----”
“That’s enough!” Briggs exclaimed. “You ought to have known better.”
He hesitated, with a look of despair in his face. “Well, now that they
know it, we’ll have no peace with the children till you go.”
Miss Munroe stopped crying. She seemed to grow an inch taller. “I am
ready to leave at once, sir,” she said.
“Well!” Briggs knotted his forehead in perplexity. After all, the poor
girl had been good to the children. It would be cruel to send her away
like that. But he quailed at the thought of Dorothy’s wailings and
questionings and complaints.
“We’re going to have a hard time here during the next few weeks,” he
said in a tone that showed the girl his anger had subsided, “and I
simply can’t let things be worse than they’ve got to be. So perhaps the
best thing you can do is to take a vacation before you go for good. You
can tell the children you are coming back, you know. Oh!” he exclaimed,
despairingly, “that won’t do at all.”
Miss Munroe, with the air of keeping an advantage, stood in silence.
“I knew that Mrs. Briggs would have worried about that--about your
telling the children,” Briggs went on helplessly.
“She worries about a great many things,” Miss Munroe remarked with
quiet significance.
“But, for my sake, Miss Munroe,” Briggs resumed, plainly without having
heard her comment, “if you could take a little vacation soon! That’ll
be the best for all of us. I know how hard it must be for you, and
it will be hard for the children. But, now that the break is to take
place, the sooner the better. I’ll pay you a month ahead, as I know
Mrs. Briggs will do anything she can for you.”
“Oh, I won’t have any bother about getting another place,” Miss Munroe
said cheerfully. “And I’ll be glad to do everything that will make
things easier for you, sir. I know what a hard time you’ve been having
and, of course, I’ve been with Mrs. Briggs so much, I understand
_her_ pretty well.”
Briggs stood in silence. He felt as if he had been wounded in some very
sensitive place. What did this girl mean? Was she trying to express
sympathy for him and at the same time stabbing at Helen? While living
with them in the intimacy of the family life, had she been spying on
them and gossiping about them with the servants?
“I’ll speak to Mrs. Briggs to-day, and she’ll let you know when she
wants you to leave,” he said mechanically, and he walked out of the
room.
During the rest of the day Briggs suffered from a dull anger, directed
not against the governess, however, but against his wife. If Helen had
only not interfered with his affairs, he assured himself, he would have
worked out of his troubles. Her interference had upset everything, even
the details of the domestic economy. He quickly forgot his resentment
against Miss Munroe; after all, it was natural that the poor girl
should resent being turned away from the family that she had served so
faithfully. She had her little pride, too, in not being a mere servant;
and that pride had probably been wounded. She was so necessary that he
hoped Helen would change her mind about letting her go. He liked the
idea of giving the girl a vacation; after missing her services for a
few weeks, Helen might be glad to take her back. He meant to speak of
the idea to his wife; but in the distraction of his work he forgot it.
After a few days, on observing that Miss Munroe still remained in the
house, he assumed that she was to stay on indefinitely.