“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.