On the morning after the convention Douglas Briggs sat in his study,
looking over his letters. He heard a tap at the door, and Michael
entered with two telegrams.
“If any callers come,” said Briggs, “take them into the reception room.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And give these telegrams to Sam.”
Michael nodded gravely; but he did not stir.
“That’s all,” said Briggs, without looking up.
“It’s glad I am, sir, yer got ahead o’ them div’ls last night,” said
Michael.
“Thank you, Michael. We had a hard fight.”
“Sure, that was a fine speech yer made, sir.”
Briggs raised his head. “I’m glad you heard it.” He glanced sharply at
Michael. “Were you there?”
“No, sir, but me cousin Ned was, that works for Mr. Barstow over the
way. He told me about it this mornin’, an’ I’ve read it in the mornin’
papers.”
“I haven’t had time to look at the papers yet,” Briggs remarked,
absently.
“Here they are, sir.”
“All right.”
Michael kept his position. “Ned said it was fine the way yer drove the
lies down their throats, sir.”
“Oh, well, I had to get back at ’em somehow,” Briggs replied,
carelessly.
Michael assumed a more familiar attitude. “Sure, it’s a shame the
things they say about a man when he’s in politics. There was Miles
O’Connor, over in the Ninth Ward, one of the foinest men----”
“I guess that’ll do, Michael,” Briggs interrupted. “Have those
telegrams sent as soon as you can.”
Michael hurriedly left the room. “Yes, sir,” he said at the door.
Briggs passed one hand over his forehead. “God!” he muttered. “I have
to keep up this bluff even before my servants.” Just as he resumed work
he heard Michael’s tap again. “Come in,” he cried, impatiently.
“Here’s something that just come by messenger, sir,” said Michael.
“Put it on the table, and don’t interrupt me again till I ring. Keep
any other letters and telegrams till Mr. Fullerton comes down.”
“Oh, I forgot to tell you, sir,” said Michael. “Mr. West called you up
on the telephone a little while ago.”
Briggs looked surprised. “Mr. Franklin West?” he asked, with a frown.
“Yes, sir.”
“From Washington, do you mean? Why didn’t you let me know?”
“No, sir, not from Washington. He’s here in town, sir. He told me not
to wake you up.”
“Where is he?” Briggs asked.
“He’s stoppin’ at a hotel, sir.”
Briggs hesitated. “At a hotel?” he repeated. “What did he go to a hotel
for? He always stays here when he comes to town.”
“He come over last night on the midnight train, sir. Here’s the
telephone number. He said perhaps ye’d be kind enough to call him up
this mornin’ and let him know when it would be most convenient for yer
to see him.”
“Strange,” Briggs remarked, thoughtfully. Then he turned to Michael.
“Did he say that anyone was with him?”
Michael shook his head. “He only said he’d wait at the hotel till he
heard from yer, sir.”
Briggs stood for a moment thinking. Then he said, with two fingers on
his lips: “You tell Sam to drive down right off and bring Mr. West up
here. Tell him to bring Mr. West’s luggage, too, and ask him to say to
Mr. West that there’s a room all ready for him, as usual. This is a
funny time for him to stand on ceremony with me.”
Michael started to go out; then turned back. “I suppose yer didn’t know
Miss Fanny came last night, sir.”
“I thought she wasn’t coming till next week.”
“She arrived last night, sir, at nine o’clock. She sat up for yer, sir,
till she fell asleep in the chair, and Mrs. Briggs made her go to bed.”
“Good girl,” said Briggs. “I suppose she hasn’t come down yet.”
“No, sir.”
A half-hour later Briggs heard the rustle of skirts outside the study
door. Then the door opened softly. He went on busily writing. Light
steps crossed to the chair behind him.
“Ahem!”
“Oh, hello, Fanny!” he said, without looking up.
“How did you know it was me?” cried Fanny, in a tone of disappointment.
Briggs leaned back in his chair and received an impulsive kiss on the
cheek. “Well, I don’t know anyone else who’d steal in just like that.”
“Michael told you, didn’t he?”
“Perhaps.”
“He didn’t want to let me come in.” Fanny sat on the edge of the desk.
“He said you were busy. You--_busy_!”
Douglas Briggs smiled. “Well, I don’t seem to be busy whenever you’re
around, do I? Still, I have to do a little work now and then.”
“I think there’s too much work in the world,” Fanny pouted. “Now
there’s poor Guy. Think how he works!”
“Guy! Why, at this minute he’s sound asleep, and it’s nearly ten
o’clock.”
“But think how he worked at that old nomination meeting of yours! He
didn’t get home till nearly morning.”
“Well, I didn’t, either.”
“But you’re tough, Uncle Doug; Guy is delicate.”
“They generally are, at his age,” Briggs acknowledged, dryly,
“especially when they have just come out of college.”
“I think you’re horrid to say such things about Guy, when he helps you
so, too. I’ve just been up to see him.”
Briggs sat back in his chair. “W-h-hat!” he exclaimed.
“Oh, you needn’t be shocked! I just _peeked_ in. He was sound
asleep, with his head resting on one hand, just like this, and the
sweetest little blush on his face, and his hair in the cunningest
little bang on his forehead. I was so relieved about one thing.”
“What’s that?”
Fanny looked stealthily around the room. “He doesn’t snore!” she said,
with her hand over her mouth.
“Oh! But suppose he had snored?”
Fanny slid from the desk and drew herself up. “Then, of course, I
should have been obliged to--well, to break the----”
“Do you mean to say there’s an engagement between you two?”
Fanny held her hand over her uncle’s lips. “’Sh! No, not that. What
would dad say if he heard you? Only he’s been writing me the loveliest
letters this Summer. M’m!”
“I shall have to congratulate Guy on not snoring. But suppose,” Briggs
continued, confidentially, “suppose I should tell you that sometimes he
did snore?”
Fanny tossed back her head. “Well, that wouldn’t make any difference,
either. Come to think of it, if Guy had snored this morning, his
snoring would have been nice. Funny about love, isn’t it, Uncle Doug?”
Fanny added, pensively.
“What is?”
“It makes everything nice.”
“In the one you love, you mean?”
Fanny nodded. “M’m--h’m!”
“Then you’re really in love with Guy?”
Fanny danced away. “Oh, I didn’t say that.”
“Fanny,” said Briggs, gently.
Fanny edged toward the table. “Well?” She still kept out of reach.
“Come over here,” Briggs urged.
Fanny stood at her uncle’s side, with one hand on the desk; Briggs let
his hand rest on hers. “If you and Guy are really in love with each
other, I have a bit of advice to give you.”
“Oh, you’re going to tell me how foolish it is to get married, aren’t
you? That’s the way married people always talk.”
Briggs smiled and shook his head. “No, I don’t mean that.”
“Well? Wait till Guy gets rich, I suppose.” Fanny sighed. “Then I know
I shall die an old maid!”
“No, I don’t mean that, either.”
“What do you mean, then?” Fanny said, severely.
“Make him give up the foolish notion he has of going into politics.”
“Oh, Uncle Doug!” Fanny exclaimed, reproachfully.
“Guy is a good, clean-hearted young fellow. You don’t want him to
become cynical and hypocritical and deceitful, do you? You don’t want
him to believe there’s no such thing as unselfishness in the world,
that whenever a man turns his hand he expects to be paid for it ten
times over?”
Fanny looked with astonishment at her uncle. “Well, what in the world
is the matter with you?” she said, after a moment.
Briggs patted her hand. “There, there! I won’t preach any more. But I
mean what I say.”
When Fanny spoke again there were tears in her voice. “Isn’t he a good
secretary?”
“Oh, yes, good enough.”
“You’re mad because he’s staying in bed so late.”
“Nonsense! I told Michael myself not to call him. He’s worked himself
to death during the past few weeks. I had to fight for my renomination,
you know.”
“You did?” said Fanny, with a change of tone. “Why, I thought you were
the most popular man in New York.”
“Well, the most popular men have enemies,” Briggs replied, grimly.
Fanny suddenly became affectionate, almost pathetic. “And I never
congratulated you! I was so sure you’d be nominated--why, I took it as
a matter of course.”
Briggs looked away. “Yes, you women folks always do,” he said,
bitterly. “It is only the disappointments in life that you don’t take
as matters of course.”
Fanny clapped her hands. “Uncle Doug, now I know what the trouble is.
You haven’t had any breakfast. Dad’s always as cross as two sticks till
he’s had his.”
“Yes, I have. I’m tired, that’s all. Now, run along, like a good girl.
I’ve got a lot of work to do.”
“Oh!” Fanny tossed her head, rose lightly on tiptoe and, swaying back
and forth, started for the door. There she turned. “You forget I’ve had
a birthday since I saw you last,” she said, haughtily.
Douglas Briggs had begun to write again. “Did you? What was
it--fourteen, fifteen--?”
Fanny stiffened her fingers and held them before her eyes. “Ugh!” she
exclaimed.
As she started to open the door she was thrust rudely back. Someone had
pushed the door from the other side. She turned quickly and met the
astonished face of Guy Fullerton.
“Fanny!” Guy cried, joyously. “When in the world did you get here?”
Fanny held out both hands. Guy seized them and tried to draw her toward
him. She stopped him with a warning gesture, and glanced at her uncle.
“Go ahead,” said Douglas Briggs. “I’m not looking.”
Guy and Fanny embraced silently.
Fanny glanced at the shoulders bent over the table. “Thank you, sir,”
she said, meekly.
“Why didn’t you let me know you were coming?” Guy cried, reproachfully.
“Because I thought I’d give you a surprise, sleepy-head.”
Briggs turned on his swivel-chair. “I guess you two’d better go into
the other room.”
“Can’t I do anything for you, sir?” Guy asked. “The correspondence?”
“No hurry about that. I’ll ring when I need you. Oh, Fanny, you might
ask your aunt to look in here a moment. I want to speak to her.”
“All right.” Fanny danced radiantly out of the room, followed by Guy.
A moment later Briggs heard her call up the stairs: “Oh, auntie, Uncle
Doug wants you.”
He listened and heard his wife descending. The sound of her footsteps
gave him a strange feeling of mingled pleasure and discomfort. He
had begun to resent her treatment of him. “Good-morning,” he said,
cheerfully, as she entered. He rose quickly and offered her a chair.
“Did you wish to see me?” Helen asked, still standing.
“Yes. There were one or two things I wanted to talk over. Won’t you sit
down?”
Helen took the seat. “Thank you,” she said. They had become very
ceremonious.
“How are the children this morning?”
“I’ve just left them in the nursery. They are perfectly well.”
“Hasn’t Miss Munroe taken them out yet?”
Helen met his look. “Miss Munroe is leaving to-day,” she replied.
“What?” he cried, astonished.
“I told you several weeks ago that she was going to leave.”
“But I didn’t think you’d--” Briggs turned away and rested his head on
his hand, with his elbow on the table. “Will you be kind enough to tell
me why you have sent Miss Munroe away?” he asked, in a tone that showed
he was trying to control himself. “She’s been with the children ever
since they were born. You can’t get anyone to fill her place.”
“I sent her away because we couldn’t afford to keep her,” Helen replied.
“What do you mean by _we_?”
“Because _I_ couldn’t afford to keep her, then.”
“And you think that I don’t count at all!” He laughed bitterly. “Those
children are as much my children as yours, and I propose to have
something to say about the way they are taken care of.” He glanced
angrily at Helen, who remained silent. “You can be pretty exasperating
at times, Helen. What do you propose to do with the children when we go
back to Washington?”
“I am not going back to Washington,” she replied, in a low voice.
“What?” he exclaimed in astonishment.
“I am not going back to Washington.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“We can’t afford----”
“Can’t afford! I’m sick of hearing that expression. You’ve used it a
thousand times in the past six months. You make me feel as if I were a
pauper or a thief.”
“I was going to say that we couldn’t afford to live in Washington as
we’ve been living,” she continued, as if she had not heard him. “When
you leave here I shall take the children to my place in Waverly and
pass the Winter there.”
“_My_ place!” he repeated, coldly. He turned away. “Yes, it is
your place.”
“Did you send for me to speak about the children?”
“No, I wanted to consult you about the house in Washington. I have a
chance to lease it for two years. Senator Wadsworth is looking for a
place, and he said the other day he’d take the house whenever I wanted
to rent it. I had told him I didn’t feel sure of going back, and, of
course, I knew how you hated the place,” he concluded, harshly. “If you
prefer to live somewhere else, I’m willing.”
“I have made up my mind not to go back,” said Helen.
“And may I ask how long you propose to keep away from Washington? Do
you intend to cut yourself off from my political life altogether?”
“You know why I want to cut myself off from it,” Helen replied, her
voice trembling.
“I should think I did! You’ve rubbed that in enough. I suppose you
realize what people will say?”
“There are plenty of Congressmen’s wives who don’t go to Washington
with their husbands.”
“But you’ve taken part in the life. You’ve been conspicuous.”
“You can say that I didn’t feel equal to entertaining this Winter, and
I stayed at home to take care of my children. It will be true, too.”
He looked at her with solicitude in his face. “Do you mean that you are
ill, Helen?”
“I’m sick. I’m sick of living,” she broke out. “But for the children, I
could wish that I----”
“Then _I_ don’t count in your feelings or in your life?” He
hesitated, and when he spoke again it was in a tone of patience that
betrayed the restraint he was putting on himself. “Helen, I think I
have been pretty lenient with you so far, and if I let go now and
then you can’t blame me. Since that night in Washington, the night of
your ball, you’ve been a changed woman. You keep the children away
from me as if you were afraid I’d contaminate them. You have cut down
our expenses and forced us all to live as if we were on the verge of
poverty. You’ve made our house as gloomy as a tomb. Now, I warn you,
look out! Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“And you propose to go on in this way?”
“That is one reason why I have decided not to go to Washington.”
“I don’t understand you.”
“Because I saw how unhappy I made you. I thought you would be happier
without me. And I can’t be different--I can’t!” she broke out,
passionately. “I can’t live as we used to live, knowing that the money
I spend----”
She checked herself. Douglas Briggs waited. “Well?” he said.
“Knowing where it comes from, Douglas,” she went on, lowering her
voice. He made no comment, and she added, with a change of tone: “I had
hoped things might be different this morning.”
He looked mystified. “Different?” he repeated.
“I hoped that you wouldn’t have to go back to Washington--except for
the rest of your present term.”
“That I shouldn’t get the nomination, do you mean?” Then he laughed.
“You’re a nice wife. I wonder how you’d feel if you knew what the loss
of that nomination would mean to me?”
“If it meant poverty or humiliation I should have been glad to share it
with you, Douglas.”
He turned away from her with the impatient movement of his head
that she had so often seen Jack make. “Now, please don’t waste any
heroics on me. But let me tell you one thing, Helen. If I hadn’t been
re-nominated last night I should be a ruined man. Just at present I
haven’t five thousand dollars in the world. I told you last Spring how
much it cost us to live. True, last year I made twice as much as I’d
made the year before; but during the past few months I’ve lost every
cent of it.”
Helen looked incredulous. Of late she often assumed an expression of
mistrust at his statements that secretly enraged him. “How have you
lost it?” she asked, fixing her eyes on him.
Briggs shrugged his shoulders. “By trying to make a fortune quick, just
as many another man has done. I took greater risks--that’s all. Perhaps
you’d like to know why I did that? I did it in order to make myself
independent of those men in Washington--the men you’re so down on. I
hoped that I could throw them off and go to you and say that I was
straight.”
“And you thought that would please me?” Helen asked, in a tone of deep
reproach.
He drew a long breath. “Well, I don’t know that anything will please
you nowadays, Helen, but I thought it might.”
“That the money gained by such means----”
“You don’t mean to say that speculating is dishonest, do you?” he
asked, with a harsh laugh.
“If the money that you speculated with had been honestly earned it
would be bad enough, but money--Oh, why do you force me to say these
things? You know perfectly well what I think.”
He turned away, with disappointment and resentment in his face. “I see
that it’s useless to try to please you. Perhaps it’s just as well that
you’re not going to Washington with me.”
She rose from her seat and started to leave the room; but, on an
impulse, she stopped. “I suppose a woman’s way of looking at these
things is different from a man’s, Douglas. A woman can’t understand how
hard it is for a man--how many temptations he has. Oh, I don’t blame
you, Douglas; your doing all that for me--taking all those risks, and
losing everything--I do appreciate it. But if I could only make you
see that it is all wrong, that I’d love you poor and disappointed, a
thousand times more than successful and----”
“And dishonest!” he interrupted. “That’s what you were going to
say, isn’t it? Well, I guess it’s impossible for us to agree about
these matters. Anyway, I’ve got the nomination, and that means my
re-election. We’ve got to take things as they come in this world.”
Helen walked slowly toward the door.
“Then you’ve made up your mind?” he said, thinking she might weaken.
“I have made up my mind not to return to Washington,” she replied,
without meeting his look.
Briggs turned away impatiently. “Very well, then. I’ll take rooms again
at the club.”
When Helen had closed the door behind her Douglas Briggs sank into his
chair and covered his face with his hands. After his work and worry of
the past few weeks it seemed hard to him that he should be obliged to
go through such a scene with his wife. For a few minutes he tortured
himself with self-pity. He heard a rap at the door; but he paid no
attention. He was in the mood where he wished to speak to no one, to
see no one.