Mrs. Amory did not receive on New Year's day. The season had well set in
before she arrived in Washington. One morning in January Mrs. Sylvestre,
sitting alone, reading, caught sight of the little _coupé_ as it drew up
before the carriage-step, and, laying aside her book, reached the parlor
door in time to meet Bertha as she entered it. She took both her hands
and drew her toward the fire, still holding them.
"Why did I not know you had returned?" she said. "When did you arrive?"
"Last night," Bertha answered. "You see I come to you early."
It was a cold day and she was muffled in velvet and furs. She sat down,
loosened her wrap and let it slip backward, and as its sumptuous fulness
left her figure it revealed it slender to fragility, and showed that the
outline of her cheek had lost all its roundness. She smiled faintly,
meeting Agnes' anxious eyes.
"Don't look at me," she said. "I am not pretty. I have been ill. You
heard I was not well in Newport? It was a sort of low fever, and I am
not entirely well yet. Malaria, you know, is always troublesome. But you
are very well?"
"Yes, I am well," Agnes replied.
"And you begin to like Washington again?"
"I began last winter."
"How did you enjoy the spring? You were here until the end of June."
"It was lovely."
"And now you are here once more, and how pretty everything about you
is!" Bertha said, glancing around the room. "And you are ready to be
happy all winter until June again. Do you know, you look happy. Not
excitably happy, but gently, calmly happy, as if the present were enough
for you."
"It is," said Agnes, "I don't think I want any future."
"It would be as well to abolish it if one could," Bertha answered; "but
it comes--_it comes_!"
She sat and looked at the fire a few seconds under the soft shadow of
her lashes, and then spoke again.
"As for me," she said, "I am going to give dinner-parties to Senator
Planefield's friends."
"Bertha!" exclaimed Agnes.
"Yes," said Bertha, nodding gently. "It appears somehow that Richard
belongs to Senator Planefield, and, as I belong to Richard, why, you
see"--
She ended with a dramatic little gesture, and looked at Agnes once more.
"It took me some time to understand it," she said. "I am not quite sure
that I understand it quite thoroughly even now. It is a little puzzling,
or, perhaps, I am dull of comprehension. At all events, Richard has
talked to me a great deal. It is plainly my duty to be agreeable and
hospitable to the people he wishes to please and bring in contact with
each other."
"And those people?" asked Agnes.
"They are political men: they are members of committees, members of the
House, members of the Senate; and their only claim to existence in our
eyes is that they are either in favor of or opposed to a certain bill
not indirectly connected with the welfare of the owners of Westoria
lands."
"Bertha," said Agnes, quickly, "you are not yourself."
"Thank you," was the response, "that is always satisfactory, but the
compliment would be more definite if you told me who I happened to be.
But I can tell you that I am that glittering being, the female lobbyist.
I used to wonder last winter if I was not on the verge of it; but now I
know. I wonder if they all begin as innocently as I did, and find the
descent--isn't it a descent?--as easy and natural. I feel queer, but
not exactly disreputable. It is merely a matter of being a dutiful wife
and smiling upon one set of men instead of another. Still, I am slightly
uncertain as to just how disreputable I am. I was beginning to be quite
reconciled to my atmosphere until I saw Colonel Tredennis, and I confess
he unsettled my mind and embarrassed me a little in my decision."
"You have seen him already?"
"Accidentally, yes. He did not know I had returned, and came to see
Richard. He is quite intimate with Richard now. He entered the parlor
and found me there. I do not think he was glad to see me. I left him
very soon."
She drew off her glove, and smoothed it out upon her knee, with a thin
and fragile little hand upon which the rings hung loosely. Agnes bent
forward and involuntarily laid her own hand upon it.
"Dear," she said.
Bertha hurriedly lifted her eyes.
"What I wish to say," she said, "was that the week after next we give a
little dinner to Senator Blundel, and I wanted to be sure I might count
on you. If you are there--and Colonel Tredennis--you will give it an
unprofessional aspect, which is what we want. But perhaps you will
refuse to come?"
"Bertha," said Mrs. Sylvestre, "I will be with you at any time--at all
times--you wish for or need me."
"Yes," said Bertha, reflecting upon her a moment, "I think you would."
She got up and kissed her lightly and without effusion, and then Agnes
rose, too, and they stood together.
"You were always good," Bertha said. "I think life has made you better
instead of worse. It is not so always. Things are so
different--everything seems to depend upon circumstances. What is good
in me would be far enough from your standards to be called wickedness."
She paused abruptly, and Agnes felt that she did so to place a check
upon herself; she had seen her do it before. When she spoke again it was
in an entirely different tone, and the remaining half-hour of her visit
was spent in the discussion of every-day subjects. Agnes listened, and
replied to her with a sense of actual anguish. She could have borne
better to have seen her less self-controlled; or she fancied so, at
least. The summer had made an alteration in her, which it was almost
impossible to describe. Every moment revealed some new, sad change in
her, and yet she sat and talked commonplaces, and was bright, and witty,
and epigrammatic until the last.
"When we get our bill through," she said, with a little smile, just
before her departure, "I am to go abroad for a year,--for two, for
three, if I wish. I think that is the bribe which has been offered me.
One must always be bribed, you know."
As she stood at the window watching the carriage drive away, Agnes was
conscious of a depression which was very hard to bear. The brightness of
her own atmosphere seemed to have become heavy,--the sun hid itself
behind the drifting, wintry clouds,--she glanced around her room with a
sense of dreariness. Something carried her back to the memories which
were the one burden of her present life.
"Such grief cannot enter a room and not leave its shadow behind it," she
said. And she put her hand against the window-side, and leaned her brow
upon it sadly. It was curious, she thought, the moment after, that the
mere sight of a familiar figure should bring such a sense of comfort
with it as did the sight of the one she saw approaching. It was that of
Laurence Arbuthnot, who came with a business communication for Mrs.
Merriam, having been enabled, by chance, to leave his work for an hour.
He held a roll of music in one hand and a bunch of violets in the other,
and when he entered the room was accompanied by the fresh fragrance of
the latter offering.
Agnes made a swift involuntary movement toward him.
"Ah!" she said, "I could scarcely believe that it was you."
He detected the emotion in her manner and tone at once.
"Something has disturbed you," he said. "What is it?"
"I have seen Bertha," she answered, and the words had a sound of appeal
in them, which she herself no more realized or understood than she
comprehended the impulse which impelled her to speak.
"She has been here! She looks so ill--so worn. Everything is so sad!
I"--
She stopped and stood looking at him.
"Must I go away?" he said, quietly. "Perhaps you would prefer to be
alone. I understand what you mean, I think."
"Oh, no!" she said, impulsively, putting out her hand. "Don't go. I am
unhappy. It was--it was a relief to see you."
And when she sank on the sofa, he took a seat near her and laid the
violets on her lap, and there was a faint flush on his face.
The little dinner, which was the first occasion of Senator Blundel's
introduction to the Amory establishment, was a decided success.
"We will make it a success," Bertha had said. "It _must_ be one." And
there was a ring in her voice which was a great relief to her husband.
"It will be one," he said. "There is no fear of _your_ failing when you
begin in this way." And his spirits rose to such an extent that he
became genial and fascinating once more, and almost forgot his late
trials and uncertainties. He had always felt great confidence in Bertha.
On the afternoon of the eventful day Bertha did not go out. She spent
the hours between luncheon and the time for dressing with her children.
Once, as he passed the open door of the nursery, Richard saw her sitting
upon the carpet, building a house of cards, while Jack, and Janey, and
Meg sat about her enchanted. A braid of her hair had become loosened and
hung over her shoulder; her cheeks were flushed by the fire; she looked
almost like a child herself, with her air of serious absorbed interest
in the frail structure growing beneath her hands.
"Won't that tire you?" Richard asked.
She glanced up with a smile.
"No," she said, "it will rest me."
He heard her singing to them afterward, and later, when she went to her
dressing-room, he heard the pretty lullaby die away gradually as she
moved through the corridor.
When she appeared again she was dressed for dinner, and came in
buttoning her glove, and at the sight of her he uttered an exclamation
of pleasure.
"What a perfect dress!" he said. "What is the idea? There must be one."
She paused and turned slowly round so that he might obtain the full
effect.
"You should detect it," she replied. "It is meant to convey one."
"It has a kind of dove-like look," he said.
She faced him again.
"That is it," she said, serenely. "In the true artist spirit, I have
attired myself with a view to expressing the perfect candor and
simplicity of my nature. Should you find it possible to fear or suspect
me of ulterior motives--if you were a senator, for instance?"
"Ah, come now!" said Richard, not quite so easily, "that is nonsense!
You have no ulterior motives."
She opened her plumy, dove-colored fan and came nearer him.
"There is nothing meretricious about me," she said.
"I am softly clad in dove color; a few clusters of pansies adorn me; I
am covered from throat to wrists; I have not a jewel about me. Could the
effect be better?"
"No, it could not," he replied, but suddenly he felt a trifle
uncomfortable again, and wondered what was hidden behind the inscrutable
little gaze she afterwards fixed upon the fire.
But when Blundel appeared, which he did rather early, he felt relieved
again. Nothing could have been prettier than her greeting of him, or
more perfect in its attainment of the object of setting him at his ease.
It must be confessed that he was not entirely at his ease when he
entered, his experience not having been of a nature to develop in him
any latent love for general society. He had fought too hard a fight to
leave him much time to know women well, and his superficial knowledge of
them made him a trifle awkward, as it occasionally renders other men
astonishingly bold. In a party of men all his gifts displayed
themselves; in the presence of women he was afraid that less substantial
fellows had the advantage of him,--men who could not tell half so good a
story or make half so exhilarating a joke. As to this special dinner he
had not been particularly anxious to count himself among the guests, and
was not very certain as to how Planefield had beguiled him into
accepting the invitation.
But ten minutes after he had entered the room he began to feel
mollified. Outside the night was wet and unpleasant, and not calculated
to improve a man's temper; the parlors glowing with fire-light and
twinkling wax candles were a vivid and agreeable contrast to the sloppy
rawness. The slender, dove-colored figure, with its soft, trailing
draperies, assumed more definitely pleasant proportions, and in his
vague, inexperienced, middle-aged fashion he felt the effect of it. She
had a nice way, this little woman, he decided; no nonsense or airs and
graces about her: an easy manner, a gay little laugh. He did not
remember exactly afterward what it was she said which first wakened him
up, but he found himself laughing and greatly amused, and when he made a
witticism he felt he had reason to be proud of, the gay little peal of
laughter which broke forth in response had the most amazingly
exhilarating effect upon him, and set him upon his feet for the evening.
Women seldom got all the flavor of his jokes. He had an idea that some
of them were a little afraid of them and of him, too. The genuine mirth
in Bertha's unstudied laughter was like wine to him, and was better than
the guffaws of a dozen men, because it had a finer and a novel flavor.
After the joke and the laugh the ice was melted, and he knew that he was
in the humor to distinguish himself.
Planefield discovered this the moment he saw him, and glanced at
Richard, who was brilliant with good spirits.
"She's begun well," he said, when he had an opportunity to speak to him.
"I never saw him in a better humor. She's pleased him somehow. Women
don't touch him usually."
"She will end better," said Richard. "He pleases her."
He did not displease her, at all events. She saw the force and humor of
his stalwart jokes, and was impressed by the shrewd, business-like
good-nature which betrayed nothing. When he began to enjoy himself she
liked the genuineness of his enjoyment all the more because it was a
personal matter with him, and he seemed to revel in it.
"He enjoys _himself_," was her mental comment, "really _himself_, not
exactly the rest of us, except as we stimulate him, and make him say
good things."
Among the chief of her gifts had always been counted the power of
stimulating people, and making them say their best things, and she made
the most of this power now. She listened with her brightest look, she
uttered her little exclamations of pleasure and interest at exactly the
right moment, and the gay ring of her spontaneous sounding laugh was
perfection. Miss Varien, who was one of her guests, sat and regarded her
with untempered admiration.
"Your wife," she said to Amory, in an undertone, "is simply
incomparable. It is not necessary to tell you that, of course; but it
strikes me with fresh force this evening. She really seems to enjoy
things. That air of gay, candid delight is irresistible. It makes her
seem to that man like a charming little girl--a harmless, bright,
sympathetic little girl. How he likes her!"
When she went in to dinner with him, and he sat by her side, he liked
her still more. He had never been in better spirits in his life; he had
never said so many things worth remembering; he had never heard such
sparkling and vivacious talk as went on round this particular table. It
never paused or lagged. There was Amory, all alight and stirred by every
conversational ripple which passed him; there was Miss Varien,
scintillating and casting off showers of sparks in the prettiest and
most careless fashion; there was Laurence Arbuthnot, doing his share
without any apparent effort, and appreciating his neighbors to the full;
there was Mrs. Sylvestre, her beautiful eyes making speech almost
superfluous, and Mrs. Merriam, occasionally casting into the pool some
neatly weighted pebble, which sent its circles to the shore; and in the
midst of the coruscations Blundel found himself, somehow, doing quite
his portion of the illumination. Really these people and their
dinner-party pleased him wonderfully well, and he was far from sorry
that he had come, and far from sure that he should not come again if he
were asked. He was shrewd enough, too, to see how much the success of
everything depended upon his own little companion at the head of the
table, and, respecting success beyond all things, after the manner of
his kind, he liked her all the better for it. There was something about
her which, as Miss Varien had said, made him feel that she was like a
bright, sympathetic little girl, and engendered a feeling of fatherly
patronage which was entirely comfortable. But, though she rather led
others to talk than talked herself, he noticed that she said a sharp
thing now and then; and he liked that, too, and was greatly amused by
it. He liked women to be sharp, if they were not keen enough to
interfere with masculine prerogatives. There was only one person in the
company he did not find exhilarating, and that was a large, brown-faced
fellow, who sat next to Mrs. Merriam, and said less than might have been
expected of him, though, when he spoke, his remarks were well enough in
their way. Blundel mentioned him afterward to Bertha when they returned
to the parlor.
"That colonel, who is he?" he asked her. "I didn't catch his name
exactly. Handsome fellow; but he'd be handsomer if"--
"It is the part of wisdom to stop you," said Bertha, "and tell you that
he is a sort of cousin of mine, and his perfections are such as I regard
with awe. His name is Colonel Tredennis, and you have read of him in the
newspapers."
"What!" he exclaimed, turning his sharp little eyes upon
Tredennis,--"the Indian man? I'm glad you told me that. I want to talk
to him." And, an opportunity being given him, he proceeded to do so with
much animation, ruffling his stiff hair up at intervals in his interest,
his little eyes twinkling like those of some alert animal.
He left the house late and in the best of humors. He had forgotten for
the time being all questions of bills and subsidies. Nothing had
occurred to remind him of such subjects. Their very existence seemed a
trifle problematical, or, rather, perhaps it seemed desirable that it
should be so.
"I feel," he said to Planefield, as he was shrugging himself into his
overcoat, "as if I had rather missed it by not coming here before."
"You were asked," answered Planefield.
"So I was," he replied, attacking the top button of the overcoat. "Well,
the next time I am asked I suppose I shall come."
Then he gave his attention to the rest of the buttons.
"A man in public life ought to see all sides of his public," he said,
having disposed of the last one. "Said some good things, didn't they?
The little woman isn't without a mind of her own, either. When is it she
receives?"
"Thursdays," said Planefield.
"Ah, Thursdays."
And they went out in company.
Her guests having all departed, Bertha remained for a few minutes in the
parlor. Arbuthnot and Tredennis went out last, and as the door closed
upon them she looked at Richard.
"Well?" she said.
"Well!" exclaimed Richard. "It could not have been better!"
"Couldn't it?" she said, looking down a little meditatively.
"No," he responded, with excellent good cheer, "and you see how simple
it was, and--and how unnecessary it is to exaggerate it and call it by
unpleasant names. What we want is merely to come in contact with these
people, and show them how perfectly harmless we are, and that when the
time comes they may favor us without injury to themselves or any one
else. That's it in a nutshell."
"We always say 'us,' don't we?" said Bertha,--"as if we were
part-proprietors of the Westoria lands ourselves. It is a little
confusing, don't you think so?"
She paused and looked up with one of her sudden smiles.
"Still I don't feel exactly sure that I have been--but no, I am not to
call it lobbying, am I? What must I call it? It really ought to have a
name."
"Don't call it anything," said Richard, faintly conscious of his
dubiousness again.
"Why, what a good idea!" she answered. "What a good way of getting round
a difficulty--not to give it a name! It almost obliterates it, doesn't
it? It is an actual inspiration. We won't call it anything. There is so
much in a name--too much, on the whole, really. But--without giving it a
name--I have behaved pretty well and advanced our--your--whose
interests?"
"Everybody's," he replied, with an effort at lightness. "Mine
particularly. I own that my view of the matter is a purely selfish one.
There is a career before me, you know, if all goes well."
He detected at once the expression of gentleness which softened her eyes
as she watched him.
"You always wanted a career, didn't you?" she said.
"It isn't pleasant," he said, "for a man to know that he is not a
success."
"If I can give you your career," she said, "you shall have it, Richard.
It is a simpler thing than I thought, after all." And she went upstairs
to her room, stopping on the way to spend a few minutes in the nursery.