The congressman's wife, a story of American politics

by John D. Barry

One morning Briggs found himself face to face with a definite temptation. There was an easy way out of his difficulties; in fact, there were a dozen easy ways. There were a dozen men within reach who would be glad to take his notes, to extend them, and to hold them indefinitely. In other words, he could realize on them and meet his obligations, and not only clear himself of pressing debt, but reach a position where he need not think of his notes again. He would be obliged to give no pledge, to bind himself by no promises. The chances were that he should not in the future be called on to do anything that would definitely violate his conscience. It was this consideration that caused him to cover his face with his hands and to lean forward despairingly on his desk. It recalled to him the situation that had placed him in the power of Franklin West. He rose quickly, feeling the blood rush to his face, and he said aloud: “By God, I won’t do it!” Then he seized his hat and walked rapidly out into the street. In the open air he took deep breaths and he had a curious impulse to thrash someone. He was like a man trying to control a wild attack of anger.

Meanwhile, in Waverly, Helen Briggs was suffering as poignantly. The sight of the place where she had first met the young man who was to become her husband and where they had known their first great happiness, added to her misery. The old house, too, brought back the memories of her childhood, of her saintly old father, her gentle mother, whose long years of invalidism had only sweetened her character, her fine older brother, whom she had always regarded as a second father, and the two boys who were now leading happy and useful lives ministering to their churches, one in Rochester and one in Syracuse. Among them all, Douglas had been a sort of hero. To the two young clergymen he represented all that was best in a career of public service. On first coming to Waverly, he had brought a letter of introduction to her father and he had quickly been made a family friend. His success in the law and in politics made him a marked man and when Helen’s engagement was announced, it seemed as if everything pointed to a happy marriage. And now, after years of happiness, the shock of disappointment had come so suddenly that Helen could hardly realize it. Often at night it seemed to her that she would wake and find the trouble had been only a ghastly dream. In the morning she would go about the house so dispirited that Miss Munroe would ask her if she were not ill. She began to dread Miss Munroe’s solicitude; it was terrible to think that someone might discover the secret of her unhappiness. But she knew she could not hide it always. She had a feeling that if her brothers were to find it out, all chance of a reconciliation would be gone. With their stern ideas of rectitude, they could never forgive Douglas. But, after all, she reflected, her own ideas were as stern. Sometimes she wondered if she could be wrong, if her standards were not merely ideal, visionary, the result of her training at home, in the atmosphere of the church, which stood apart from real life. But this thought always terrified her and she turned from it, instinctively feeling that if she were to lose her standards she should lose her hold on life itself.

In the old days before their estrangement, Helen had never questioned her husband’s movements or had doubts in regard to them. She had trusted him always, as he had trusted her; indeed, the thought of the possibility of suspicion had not entered her mind. Now she wondered why he remained away so long from Waverly. Was it really because he had to be in Washington for business? He had been detained there one Summer before, by private business, but on Friday of each week he had made the long and fatiguing journey home. Could it be that he dreaded meeting her? It was true, she acknowledged, that she dreaded meeting him; but even more she dreaded his not coming. She suffered cruelly from the fear that he would become used to being away from her, that in time he would not miss her. It was only in her more desperate moods that she accused him of not missing her at all now.

It was with regard to the children that Helen Briggs felt most concern for the future, especially with regard to her boy. How could she bring them up so that they should not fall upon disaster as she and Douglas had done? If temptation could so overcome Douglas, whom she had always looked on as unconquerable, what could she expect when Jack grew up? Already she had often talked with Douglas of the way they should help Jack to face the trials that boys have to meet. Sometimes Douglas laughed at her solicitude and said that she’d better not try to cross her bridges till she came to them. And she reflected, with a sinking of the heart, even while he was saying that, he knew that his own character had broken down. But she seldom reached this point in her speculations; she received a warning of the violence that would result to her own emotions. Throughout her self-torments, she never let herself believe the situation seemed hopeless. Something would happen, she felt sure, that would finally make everything right. But in her assurances, the mocking spirit of reason ridiculed her hope.

The practical aspects of her trouble were a constant burden on Helen’s mind. How could they go on living so extravagantly? Was it not wrong that she should continue to have the luxuries she was used to having? For herself she could easily have gone without them; but she wished to give the children the best that could be bought. They were both delicate and they often had to be coaxed to eat, and they refused to eat many of the things that were inexpensive. Helen wondered if she had not pampered them too much. At times she became nearly distracted with the problem of living. She tried to console herself by reflecting that she had two thousand dollars a year of her own and that during the summer the expenses of the house in Waverly were far less than this sum. But such sophistry gave her little help; the truth which she must face was that they were living beyond their means. Someone must suffer from their dishonesty. Surely Douglas must realize that plain fact. Oh, how could he have gone on like that, from month to month, from year to year? And all the while seeming before her the man he had been. That was the worst thought in the whole matter, the thought of his hypocrisy!

After a time, Helen resolved to try to be at peace with herself in regard to the business-affairs of the family until she returned to town. Then she would discuss the whole matter with Douglas. Of course, they must give up their New York house. The thought of returning to it appalled her, but they would probably be obliged to return for a time, until the election had taken place, at any rate. Then there was the question of the house in Washington. How could she ever go back to that? It had already become hateful to her. But if she were to return to Washington it would be hard for Douglas to move into a more modest house. At any rate, he would think that the change would injure him. At this juncture she recognized in him a pride which she had never suspected before, a false pride that lowered him in her opinion. Indeed, in all her reasoning she was discovering hidden qualities in him. How could she ever adjust the old Douglas to the new?

When these thoughts came it was a comfort to her to accuse herself of faults and weaknesses. With a relief that seemed like joy she reflected that in his place she too might have yielded to temptation. But instantly she felt a stern denial in her consciousness. Still, if she could not fail just as he had done she might have failed in other ways, possibly worse ways. Once she thought of going to her older brother and telling the whole story, to bring to bear on the situation the light of his common sense. But she could not endure the thought of exposing Douglas like that even to him; it seemed a betrayal of her wifely trust. On the other hand, her brother might help Douglas! But she at once thought of the anger Douglas would feel. No, such a step could only aggravate the situation.

In a few days Helen had settled into the monotony of Waverly. The old friends came to see her; the old country gayeties, however, continued without her. She devoted herself chiefly to the children, giving Miss Munroe a holiday of several weeks. She scrupulously wrote to her husband every day, and he answered as regularly. He said that Congress would probably not adjourn till late in July, and as he was desperately driven with work it might be impossible for him to come to Waverly till the session had ended. It was, in fact, not till the first week in August that the session closed. Two days later Helen received a telegram from her husband saying that she might expect him early in the evening; this was soon followed by another message announcing that he had been detained in New York. He came late one afternoon; but he stayed only for the night, returning to New York in the morning. The work in preparation for the Fall campaign had begun unusually early, he said. An enormous amount of work had to be done, and he must stay in town, to be sure it was done right. Helen offered to leave the children with Miss Munroe and open the New York house for him, but he refused, insisting that she needed the rest. Besides, he could be perfectly comfortable at the club. For the next few weeks he would have to be in consultation with people day and night. He was so busy that he had been unable to give Guy Fullerton a holiday, or rather, Guy had refused to take one. He often spoke with praise of Guy’s devotion.

During the rest of the Summer he ran up to Waverly several times, rarely staying for more than a day. His visits were painful to them both, though they delighted the children. When September came Helen made preparations for her return to New York. She wished to live under the same roof with her husband, though she might seldom see him. At times her absence from him, and the strangeness with which they greeted each other on meeting, terrified her. She would not confess to herself the fear that he would discover she was not indispensable to him; but in spite of the late September heat, it was with great relief that, a week before the nominating convention, she found herself with the children at the house in New York again.

The opening of the New York house began the preparations for its closing. These Briggs observed without comment. At times, when, following his wife’s point of view, he realized the expense he was carrying, he felt appalled. He wondered how he had ever dared to undertake so much; he felt as if he were just emerging from a debauch of recklessness. What had he been thinking of? What had he expected to happen? He saw now that he had been relying on chance, like a gambler.