Читать книгу The Congressman's Wife - John D. Barry - Страница 8

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“What’s the matter, dear?”

Douglas Briggs looked up quickly. “Oh, is that you, Helen?” He smiled into his wife’s face and took her hand. In spite of her matronly figure Helen Briggs did not look her thirty-five years. She had the bright eyes and the fresh coloring of a girl.

“I stole away just for a minute,” she said. “I got so tired of smiling.”

“So did I. Come over here and let me kiss the tired place.” She took a seat beside her husband and turned her cheek toward him, with the amused patience of the married woman who has ceased to be demonstrative. “I know the feeling,” said her husband, with his fingers at the corners of his mouth. “Muscles in here.”

Helen sighed. “Horrid, isn’t it?”

“Well, it’s all part of the game, I suppose. Whew!”

“What was that for?” she asked, quickly.

Briggs patted her hand. “Nothing, dear, nothing. They say it’s a great success.”

“I was frightened about the supper; but everything has gone off well.”

Briggs looked into his wife’s face. “Helen, sometimes I wonder what would become of me if it weren’t for you.”

“What a foolish thing to say, Douglas!”

“Someone told me to-night that I’d been successful here in Washington because I had such a popular wife. I guess there was a good deal of truth in that.”

She drew her hand away and let it rest on her lap. “Nonsense! You’ve succeeded because you’ve worked hard, and because you’ve had the courage of your convictions.”

“Oh!” In the dim light she could not see the change of expression in his face.

“And I suppose you’ve had a little ability, too,” she conceded, with a smile.

For a moment they sat in silence.

“Helen!” he said.

“Well?”

“Sometimes I feel as if I hadn’t a shred of character left, as if I couldn’t stand this political life any longer, with its insincerities, its intrigues, its indecencies. Now, these people here to-night—what do they care about us? Nothing. They come here, and they eat and drink and dance, and then they go away and blacken my character.”

She turned quickly, with astonishment in her face. “Why, Douglas!”

“I shouldn’t talk like this, dear, especially at this time, when you have so much on your mind.” He took her hand again and held it tightly. “Helen, do you ever wonder if it’s worth while—all this?”

“This display, do you mean?”

“Yes; this society business. I’m sick of it. Sometimes it makes me—well, it makes me long for those old days in Waverly, when we were so happy together. Even if we were poor we had each other, didn’t we?”

“Yes.”

“And we had our ambitions and our foolish aspirations. They helped to make us happy.”

She drew closer to him. “But they weren’t foolish, Douglas. That is, yours weren’t. And think how you’ve realized all you hoped for already!”

Douglas Briggs drew a long breath. “Yes, I’ve got what I wanted. But the reality is considerably different from what I thought it was going to be. I suppose that’s true of nearly every kind of success. We have to pay for it some way. Why, Helen, there are whole days when you and I don’t have five minutes together!”

“That’s because you have so much to do, dear. I used to mind it at first. But then I saw it couldn’t be helped.”

“And you’ve been too good to complain. I’ve understood that all along.”

“I didn’t want to stand in the way of your work, Douglas. I could afford to make a few sacrifices, after all you’d done for me.”

“Never mind. Just as soon as I can break away from Washington we’ll have a good long holiday. If Congress doesn’t hang on till Summer, perhaps we can take a little trip abroad. We’ll go to Scotland and hunt up those people of yours that your father was always talking about. Then we’ll run over to Paris and perhaps see a bit of Switzerland. We’ll send the children with Miss Munroe to Waverly and then we’ll pretend we’re on our honeymoon again. You need the rest and the change as much as I do, dear—more. We’ll forget about everything that has bothered us since we began to be prosperous. We’ll be boy and girl again, Helen. Why, we haven’t grown a day older since we were married—in our feelings, I mean—and to me you’re just as young and as pretty as you were that afternoon in your father’s study when I told you I couldn’t get along without you.”

She had allowed her head to rest on his shoulder. “Douglas!” she whispered. “Don’t be so silly.”

He bent forward and kissed her on the forehead. “And do you remember what you said when I told you that?”

“What did I say?” she asked, with a smile.

“You said you’d rather be poor with me than the richest woman in the world without me. You were a very romantic little girl in those days, weren’t you? And then I made up my mind to make a great place for you. That’s the only real happiness that has come out of my luck here, Helen—seeing you respected and admired by these great people in Washington, the famous men we used to talk about and wonder if we’d ever know.” He stopped; then he went on, in a lower voice: “Some of them I know a little too well now. Oh, ho!” he sighed, “I’m afraid I’m growing pessimistic. It can’t be I’m getting old without realizing it. See these two lines that are coming on my forehead. They grow deeper and deeper with every session of Congress.”

“They’ll go away when you take your vacation, Douglas,” she said, reassuringly.

“And you haven’t a line in your face, dear,” he said, looking at her with a husband’s proprietary pride.

She shook her head. “Oh, yes, around the eyes. They’re plain enough when I’m tired.”

“No matter, you always look the same to me. I sha’n’t ever see ’em,” he went on, exultingly. Then he sighed again. “What a fine thing it would be if we could give our poor brains a vacation, if we could only stop thinking for a few weeks! But for some of us the waking up would be—well, it wouldn’t be cheerful. Helen, the other night I dreamed that we were back in the little cottage in Waverly, where we lived during the first year of our marriage. I could see the old-fashioned kitchen stove and the queer little furniture, and your father’s portrait over the mantel in the parlor. It all seemed so cheerful and restful and happy and innocent. There you were, in that pretty little house dress you used to wear—the one I liked, you know, with the little flowers worked in it. We were just two youngsters again, and it seemed good to be there with you all alone. Then I woke up, and a thousand worries began to buzz around my head like an army of mosquitoes, and I had that awful sinking of the heart that you feel after you come back from a pleasant dream and have to face reality again.”

“You mustn’t think of those things, Douglas.”

“Mustn’t think of them? Why, they’re the things that keep me happy. If I didn’t think about those days and expect to live them over again some time, I believe I’d lose courage.”

“No, you wouldn’t, Douglas. You just imagine that.”

He laughed, patting her arm. “My dear practical little wife, what a help you are! Do you know, I feel as if I had always been married. I was thinking of that the other day. I can’t think of myself any more as not married. I can’t think of myself as apart from you. Have you ever felt that way?”

She looked into his face and smiled.

“Ever since the very first day we became engaged,” she said, and he leaned forward and started to clasp her in his arms, when they heard a rustle of leaves behind them. Instinctively they drew away from each other. Then they heard Fanny Wallace exclaim:

“Oh, here they are!”

Fanny was out of breath, and young Fullerton was waving his handkerchief before his face. They had evidently been dancing desperately.

“Oh, Auntie,” the girl panted, after a moment, “the great Mrs. Senator Aspinwall is going, and she’s looking around for you, to say good-night. What in the world are you doing here?”

“Mr. Stone is moping in the drawing-room, sir,” said Guy, respectfully. “He looks as if he wanted to eat somebody’s head off.”

Briggs smiled and passed his hand over his face. “I don’t believe Stone enjoys parties. He feels more at home at his club. I suppose we ought to go, Helen.” He rose wearily and stretched out his arms. “What a bore it is!” he said. “I suppose we’ll have to stop and speak to some of those people in the ballroom,” he whispered, noticing a group that had just come downstairs.

As soon as they had left the conservatory Fanny turned to her companion. “Uncle and Auntie are just like lovers, aren’t they? Do you suppose you’ll be like that when you’ve been married ten years?”

Guy lost no time in seizing the advantage. “That’ll depend a good deal on you,” he said, insinuatingly.

Fanny drew back from him and tried to look taller. “What a horrid thing to say! You make me very uncomfortable when you talk like that.” But she could not maintain a severe demeanor for more than a moment. “Isn’t it beautiful to be allowed to stay up just as late as you please!” she exclaimed, rapturously. “It makes me feel really grown. It’s almost as good as wearing long dresses. Just listen to that music, will you?” She struck an attitude, her arms extended. “Want to try?” she asked, holding her hands toward the young fellow.

He fairly dived into her arms, and they swung about together, brushing against the palm leaves and breathing hard. Suddenly she thrust him back from her and continued alone.

“You haven’t improved a bit. Oh-h-h!”

From the waltz Fanny broke into a Spanish dance she had learned at school, using her fan with a skill that caused Guy to applaud enthusiastically. “Oh, isn’t it great!” she cried. “I could dance like this all night. Look out! Don’t get in my way and spoil it!” While in the midst of one of her most elaborate effects, she suddenly stopped. A voice had just exclaimed:

“What in the world are you two people doing?”

Fanny turned and confronted a large, smooth-faced, white-haired old gentleman, who was looking down in astonishment from the head of the steps.

“Oh, is that you, dad?” she said, tossing back her hair. “I’m just practising being in society. How d’you like it?” Then she went on, glancing at Guy: “Oh, you haven’t met dad, have you? Well, this is It, dad—Mr. Fullerton, Mr. Guy Fullerton.”

Jonathan Wallace walked deliberately down the steps and offered Guy his hand. “How do you do, sir?” he said, with ponderous gravity.

Before Guy had a chance to speak Fanny broke in: “Mr. Fullerton’s the young man I’ve been writing to you about—the one that’s been so attentive this Winter. Here, come and let me fix that tie of yours.” She gave her father’s tie a deft twist and patted the broad shoulders. “There! That’s better. Now they’d never know you come from the country.”

Wallace turned to Guy. The expression in his flushed face began to soften. “You mustn’t mind her,” he said, quietly. “She’s always letting her tongue run away with her. We let her talk to keep her out of worse mischief.”

Fanny walked over to Guy, who looked as if he were trying hard to think of something worth saying. “Well, you have been paying me attentions, haven’t you, Guy?” she said, her voice growing tender as she finished the question. Then she triumphantly exclaimed to her father: “Now!”

Guy was plainly embarrassed. He tried to assume a careless air. “Oh, yes, I’ve been giving Miss Fanny all my spare time,” he replied, entering into the joke.

The face of Jonathan Wallace grew severe again. “You could find better use for your time, I haven’t a doubt,” he said, without looking at the young fellow. “Well, sis, I’m going home. I’ve had enough of this rabble. I’ve rubbed up against politicians enough in the past half-hour to make me hate my country. To hear ’em talk you’d think the country’d been invented to support their families. This is the most selfish town I’ve ever been in. It’s every man for himself and nobody for his neighbor.”

“There is a lot of wire-pulling going on here, that’s true, sir,” said Guy.

“Wire-pulling!” Wallace’s face expressed a profound scorn. “There was a fellow in the other room mistook me for the Secretary of State, and he buttonholed me for half an hour, talking about the benefit he could confer on the country by being made Minister to Austria. Minister to Austria! I wouldn’t give him a job as an errand boy in my factory.”

Fanny threw her arms around her father’s neck. “Poor old dad! he does have such a hard time whenever he comes to Washington. Don’t you, dad?”

She drew her hands away and danced behind Wallace’s broad back, jumping on her toes and smiling satirically over his shoulder at young Fullerton, who had assumed his gravest expression.

“Then there’s another fellow,” Wallace went on, addressing the boy, “who’s been trying to work me because I am related to Briggs’s wife. I forget what he wanted, now. Some job in New York. If I had to stay in this town ten days at a stretch I’d lose my reason. Talk about serving the country! Rifling the country is what those fellows are doing. If I had the power I’d clap the whole gang of ’em in jail.”

“Dad, you are very cross to-night,” said Fanny, decidedly. “You’d better go home. Think how I feel, having you talk like that before this rising young politician.”

“Well, sir, if you intend to make a politician of yourself I’m sorry for you. I’m going, sis.”

Fanny seized him by the lapel of his coat and kissed him twice. “All right. Get your beauty sleep,” she said, protectingly. “Good-night. And be sure to put on your scarf and turn up the collar of your coat. I’ll go down to the hotel and take breakfast with you to-morrow if I wake up in time.”

“Better be sensible and stay in bed,” Wallace grumbled.

“Good-night,” Fanny repeated.

Wallace bowed to Guy. “Good-night, sir,” he said, as he turned to go out.

“Isn’t he a lovely father?” said Fanny. “Oh, you needn’t be afraid of him. I just do this to him,” she exclaimed, twirling her little finger—“except—oh, I know when to let him alone. Sometimes he’s dangerous. Oh, here comes Aunt Helen and that horrid Mr. West. What do you suppose would happen if Mr. West took his smile off? D’you suppose there’d be anything left?”

Helen Briggs looked surprised at seeing the girl. “Your uncle told me you had gone away with Mrs. McShane, Fanny,” she said.

“Oh, she found Madame Alphonsine, the dressmaker,” Fanny replied. “So I wasn’t any use.”

West glanced significantly at the young people. “I hope we aren’t interrupting a tête-à-tête,” he said, with exaggerated politeness.

Guy tried to assume a careless air. “Oh, not at all, not at all,” he said, grandly. He objected to West’s amiable air of patronage.

“Let’s go into the ballroom, Guy,” Fanny whispered.

Guy hesitated. He looked wistfully at Helen. “Can I do anything for you, Mrs. Briggs?”

Helen shook her head. “Just amuse yourself, that’s all.”

Fanny seized the boy by the arm and drew him toward the steps.

“Guy’s always trying to earn his salary. I never knew anyone that worried so much about it.”

West took a seat on the wicker divan beside Helen. “He’s an exception here in Washington, then, isn’t he?” he remarked.

“He’s a good, conscientious boy. I sometimes wonder if this Washington life isn’t hurting him.”

“There’s so much wickedness here, do you mean?”

“So much wasting time,” Helen replied, seriously.

West drew one of the palm leaves between his fingers. “Don’t you think you are—well, just a little too scrupulous about these matters?” he asked, keeping his eyes turned from Helen’s face.

Helen laughed. “That’s what Douglas is always saying. You aren’t going to blame me, too, are you?”

West let the palm spring back from his hand. He tried to look serious. “I should be the last man in the world to blame you for anything, Mrs. Briggs,” he said, softly. “I admire you too much as you are.”

Helen took her fan from her lap. He could see that her face had flushed. “Aren’t we complimentary to-night!” she said, with a smile. “Do you often say things like that?”

“No. I’m not much of a hand at paying compliments.” West leaned back and took a long breath. “Besides, it would be very hard to pay compliments to a woman like you.” He leaned forward and allowed both his hands to fall to his knees. “Do you know why?” he went on. “Because you are one of the few women I’ve met whom I really respect. I pay you the compliment,” he laughed, “of telling you nothing but the truth.”

“That’s the best compliment any woman could be paid, isn’t it?” said Helen, fanning herself nervously.

West leaned toward her. “But there are some things I have never quite dared to tell you,” he remarked, in a low voice and with a smiling lift of the eyebrows. “I’ve never dared, because—well, perhaps they would be too interesting. There are some things, you know, that it’s very hard for a man to say to a woman, especially to a woman like you.”

“They are usually the things that are better left unsaid, aren’t they?” Helen remarked, quietly.

“Perhaps.” He spoke slowly, as if trying to keep his voice steady. “But sometimes it is almost as hard not to say them. It isn’t always necessary to put them into words, you know. They say themselves in a thousand ways—in a look, a tone of the voice, in the lightest touch of the hand.”

Helen sat suddenly upright. “You are in a very sentimental mood to-night, aren’t you, Mr. West? I’m prepared to receive all kinds of confidences.” Her assumption of gayety was betrayed by the expression of her eyes.

“I was going to tell you something,” West acknowledged. “I think I will tell you. I’m in love. I’m in love with the most fascinating woman in Washington.”

“We all know who that is,” said Helen, smiling. “But aren’t you afraid of the Senator? They say he’s a wonderful shot.”

West looked injured. “You’re laughing at me now, aren’t you?”

“It’s very hard to take you seriously sometimes, Mr. West.”

West apparently did not notice the suggestion of satire in Helen’s voice. He did show impatience, however, at the interruption that took place as soon as Helen had spoken.

“Here she is! Everybody is looking for you, Auntie! Uncle Douglas is out on the terrace with Mr. Stone, and there’s a whole raft of people waiting to say good-night in the drawing-room and in the hall.”

Fanny Wallace made a pretty picture as she stood half-hidden by the foliage. Her faithful attendant waited in the background.

Helen rose and turned to West, who offered his arm. “Shall we go? I’m afraid I’m behaving very badly to-night,” she said.