Читать книгу The Congressman's Wife - John D. Barry - Страница 6

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The departure of the two women with West gave Mrs. McShane and Farley a chance to work rapidly for several moments. Mrs. McShane, whose years of experience had not developed speed in writing, kept glancing every now and then at Farley in admiration of his skill. He was evidently preparing a general description of the evening, which promised to be remembered, according to Mrs. McShane’s report, “as one of the most brilliant events in a Washington Winter remarkable for the brilliancy of its entertainments.” The old woman had read that phrase somewhere, and she had already used it several times, each time with a growing fear of detection by her editors. But for such sonorous phrases she would have had some difficulty in continuing her newspaper work. During one of her pauses Farley remarked, pleasantly:

“Inspiration given out, Mrs. McShane?”

“Oh, if I could only compose like you, Mr. Farley!” she replied, enviously.

Farley laughed. “I guess you’ll be all right,” he said.

“Sometimes I think I oughtn’t ever to have gone into newspaper work,” the old woman went on, pathetically. “I don’t know enough.”

“Oh, you don’t have to know anything to do this kind of work,” said Farley. Then he felt sorry. He looked up quickly, but Mrs. McShane had apparently noticed nothing in the remark to wound her feelings.

“Perhaps I can help you,” Farley went on, in a kindly tone. “I’ve been trying to do my article in a different way from the usual society article. I should think people would get sick of reading the same old things about the entertainments here. Besides, this party is given more to show off Briggs’s house than anything else; so I’ve been giving up a lot of space to a description of the place itself. It’s one of Hanscomb’s houses, you know—that big Boston architect, who’s been getting such a lot of advertising lately. He’s one of the best men in his line we’ve ever had. He’s modeled it on the Colonial style, which is fashionable again. I know a little something about architecture. I studied it once for six months in New York, before I began newspaper work. So I’m sort of spreading myself. Now, you might do something like that.”

“But that wouldn’t be fair to you, Mr. Farley,” said the old woman.

“No, I don’t mean that,” Farley went on. “You might make a lot out of the floral decorations and the color scheme in the rooms. People like to hear about those things. Didn’t you notice how the library was in Empire——?”

The old woman shook her head. “Oh, I don’t understand about these things,” she interrupted. “I don’t know enough.”

Farley laughed again. “Well, I’ll tell you. You see, in the first place, Briggs didn’t have a professional decorator, as so many people do nowadays. This place doesn’t look like a professional decorator’s house, does it? Do you know why? Simply because Briggs has a wife whose taste is the very best in the world.” Farley’s face brightened; his eyes shone. “You know Mrs. Briggs, don’t you?”

“Yes; I was sent to interview her once. She wouldn’t let me interview her, but she was so nice about it I couldn’t help liking her.”

“Ah, she’s fine to everyone!” Farley exclaimed, enthusiastically. “I never knew anyone to meet her without—” He checked himself suddenly, and his face flushed. “But we must get down to work. Look here. You’ve been over the house, haven’t you? Well, I’ll describe the principal features as quickly as I can, and you can work ’em up.”

“But how about your own article?” Mrs. McShane inquired, anxiously.

“Oh, that’ll be all right. I’ve got it half-done already.”

For several moments Farley talked rapidly and Mrs. McShane took notes. She kept looking up at him in awe of his skill in observation. What a mind he must have, to be able to see so much at a glance! When, at last, she took a moment to offer a compliment, he replied, with a smile:

“Oh, this isn’t the result of my looking the place over to-night,” he said. “I know Mrs. Briggs a little, and I’ve talked the house over with her many times. In fact, I’ve had a hand in it myself.”

As he spoke Farley turned at the sound of a footstep on the stairs. His face brightened, and he started to rise from his seat.

“Good-evening, Congressman,” he said.

Douglas Briggs walked quickly down the steps. The exhilaration of the evening made him appear at his best. His gray eye was clear, and his brown hair, and lighter mustache, closely trimmed to his lip, gave him a look of youth.

“Oh, hello, Farley!” he said; “what are you doing here?” Then he observed the little woman at the table. “Why, bless my soul! Mrs. McShane, I’m delighted to see you.” He grasped Mrs. McShane’s hand cordially; then he turned, smiling at Farley.

“Great night for you, Congressman,” said the journalist.

Briggs shook his head deprecatingly. “For Mrs. Briggs, you mean. This is her blow-out.”

Mrs. McShane gathered courage to speak. “And she’s looking beautiful to-night, sir,” she said in a half-whisper.

Briggs let his hand rest affectionately on the old woman’s arm. “My dear lady,” he said, in the confidential manner that had won friends for him all through life, “between you and me, she’s the prettiest woman in Washington. But you mustn’t put that in the paper.”

Mrs. McShane glowed. “I won’t, sir; but it’s true, just the same.”

Briggs glanced from Mrs. McShane to Farley and again at Mrs. McShane. “What are you two people doing in here, all alone?” he asked, in the tone of the host who catches his guests moping.

“We’re trying to get some notes together,” Farley explained. “But we’re all at sea about the dresses,” he added, with a smile.

The music had just ceased, and they heard a rustle of skirts in the next room. Suddenly Fanny Wallace stood among the palms. As she was looking back over her shoulder she did not observe the group in the conservatory.

“Isn’t it good to get out of the crowd?” she said, when Guy Fullerton had come up to her. Suddenly she turned and glanced through the palm leaves. “Oh, I didn’t know anyone was here!”

“You’re just the person we’re looking for, my dear,” Douglas Briggs exclaimed. “This is Fanny Wallace, my wife’s niece, Mrs. McShane. She’ll take you through the rooms. She knows all about the pretty frocks. It’s all she thinks about.”

Fanny looked reproachfully at Briggs. Then she darted toward the old woman. “Oh, Mrs. McShane, I want you to see Mrs. Senator Aspinwall’s dress before she leaves. It’s gorgeous.” She turned to the youth, who had dropped into conversation with Farley, and seized him by the coat-sleeve. “Mrs. McShane, this is Mr. Fullerton,” she said, impressively, “Mr. Guy Fullerton. He’s a very important young man,” she went on. “He’s my uncle’s secretary. Think of that! You can come, too, infant, if you like,” she concluded, with a change of tone. “You need to learn something about frocks.”

The young man laughed good-humoredly and followed Fanny, who had unceremoniously taken Mrs. McShane by the arm. As they were disappearing, Farley called out: “I’ll rely on you, Mrs. McShane.”

Fanny replied for the old woman. “We’ll be in the conservatory in half an hour with yards of description. Oh, this is lovely!” she exclaimed, with a little jump. “I always wanted to be a newspaper woman.”

As soon as they were alone Farley walked toward Douglas Briggs. “This is a good chance for me to ask you something, sir,” he said.

Briggs smiled. “Have a cigar first, won’t you? Oh, I forgot. I promised Mrs. Briggs there should be no smoking here. We might go out on the balcony or up to the smoking-room.”

Farley shook his head. “Thanks; no. I won’t smoke just now. And I won’t detain you more than a minute.” He hesitated. “What I’m going to ask seems a little like a violation of hospitality,” he remarked, with a look of embarrassment.

“My dear fellow, there’s no such thing as a violation of hospitality in the case of a man in public life,” said Briggs, pleasantly.

“Well, it’s simply this: We want to deny the story about you that’s going all over Washington. It hasn’t got into the papers yet, but I happen to know that the New York Chronicle has it, and is thinking of publishing it.”

Briggs looked grave. In repose his face took on years; the lines around the mouth deepened, and the eyes grew tired and dull. “What story?”

“Why, the story that you are in that Transcontinental Railway deal.”

“Oh, that!” Briggs threw back his head and laughed, but with a suggestion of bitterness. “Why, to my certain knowledge, they’ve been saying that about me for the past five years—ever since I entered Congress. In fact, there’s hardly been a big political steal that I haven’t been in.”

“But the Chronicle people are pretty strong, you know,” Farley insisted.

“I don’t give a snap of my finger for them.”

“Then you won’t let me deny the story for you?” There was a ring of disappointment in Farley’s voice.

For a moment Briggs did not speak. Then he said, slowly: “Farley, I know you mean all right, and I know you’d like to do me a good turn. You Gazette people have been mighty good friends to me. You’ve stood by me when I had almost no other friends on the independent press; in fact, no friends.”

Farley’s brow knotted. “But if you’ll only let us show there’s nothing in the story!”

Briggs shook his head. “No, not one word! I discovered before I’d been in public life three months it was simply a waste of time to deny campaign stories. When a man goes into politics,” he concluded, bitterly, “he makes himself the target of all the blackguards in the country.”

“But, Congressman,” Farley pleaded, “just a word would be enough.”

“No. I’m older than you are, and I know what I’m talking about. I care so little about this particular story that I made a point of getting Franklin West to come here to-night. He’s the man, you know, who’s supposed to be at the bottom of that railroad scandal.”

“There’s not another man in your position who’d dare to take the bull by the horns like that,” said Farley, his brow clearing.

“I assure you,” Briggs replied, reassuming his confidential manner, “it’s the only way of treating the bull.”

Farley held out his hand. “I’m glad to have had this little talk with you, Congressman.”

Briggs took the hand firmly. “Look in on me at the House to-morrow; I may have something for you.”

“Thank you,” said Farley, as he ascended the steps.