The congressman's wife, a story of American politics

by John D. Barry

“No,” said Briggs, decisively. “I want the place to be aired and put in shape before you get there. You’re too tired to look after those things, anyway, and Miss Munroe has all she can do to take care of the children.”

Helen rose from the table, and her husband followed her out of the room. “I must go right back to the House,” he said. “We shall probably have a long session to-night; so I sha’n’t be home till late. You needn’t have anyone wait up for me.”

Their partings after dinner had lately become very difficult, involving unnecessary and uncomfortable explanations. Helen had either to attend to some trifling domestic detail or to hurry upstairs to the nursery, and Briggs was absorbed in work that called him to his study or out of the house. They talked a good deal now about matters that did not relate to themselves. Sometimes it was hard to find a topic. They were in that most miserable of human situations where, loving each other, they were able only to cause each other pain. Briggs found relief in his work; Helen devoted more time to the children. She began to wonder if she had not neglected them, if she had not left them too much to their governess. It seemed to her, at times, that they cared as much for Miss Munroe as for herself. Of course, Miss Munroe was in many ways valuable, but she was provincial and narrow-minded and she petted the children too much and gave them sentimental and foolish notions. Helen dreaded seeming ungrateful, but she suspected that the children had outgrown their governess.

With his buoyant nature it was impossible for Douglas Briggs to remain steadily depressed. There were moments when he felt sure that the trouble between his wife and himself would suddenly disappear. Some day, when he returned home, she would meet him in the hall or on the stairs, and by a look, a gesture, would let him know that she had forgiven him. Then he would take her in his arms, and all the anguish of the past few weeks would be over. They would be dearer to each other on account of it, closer, tenderer companions. She was in the right, of course, but she would see that he had been forced to do what he had done; that his sin had not been nearly so great as it seemed to her, and that he was going to pay for it; that he had paid for it already, and he would make ample amends in the future.

Helen Briggs, however, cherished no such illusion. She could see no way out of the difficulty. It was not merely that her respect for her husband had gone; she was bitterly disappointed and hurt. She had decided never to speak to him about Franklin West’s insult, but it was her husband’s unconscious participation in it that caused her the deepest humiliation and resentment. On the other hand, the very cruelty of her sufferings deepened both her pity for her husband and her love. The thought of leaving him now made her feel faint. She wished to stay with him and to be more to him than she had ever been. But in his presence she felt powerless; she could not even seem like herself. She accused herself of being a depressing influence, of adding to his burden.

During the next few days, in spite of the heat that continued to be severe, Helen worked hard helping to close the house and to prepare the children’s Summer clothes. Dorothy began to be irritable, and Jack had developed an affection of the throat that frightened her. The doctors told her, however, that the boy would be well again after he had been for a few days in the pure air of Waverly. It was a relief to her to worry about Jack and to care for him, just as it was a satisfaction to go to bed exhausted at the end of each day.

On Friday afternoon Douglas Briggs returned home early. “I sha’n’t be here for dinner,” he said. “I’m going to a committee meeting at Aspinwall’s house, and it’ll last till evening, probably. Anyway, he’s asked me to stay for a stag dinner. His wife’s away, you know.”

“Aren’t you too busy to go with us to-morrow, Douglas?” Helen asked. “You’ve not had a minute to yourself this week. Miss Munroe and I can manage very well. If you like you can send Guy down.”

Briggs hesitated. “It is a very hard time for me to leave,” he said, nervously stroking his hair. “I ought to be at the House to-morrow morning. But I didn’t want you and the children to stay till Monday. It’s so hot here——”

“We’ll go on, as we planned, and you can stay here,” Helen interrupted. She turned away quickly and left him with the feeling that the matter had been taken out of his hands. This turn of affairs displeased him. He decided he would go to Waverly anyway. But when he had returned to the cab waiting at the door he recovered from his resentment. Helen’s plan was best, after all. In a week or two there would be a lull, and he could run over to New York and then up the river to Waverly. Perhaps by that time Helen would feel rested and take a different view of things. She had been tired and nervous lately. He liked himself for his leniency toward his wife, and when he reached Aspinwall’s house he was in the frame of mind that always enabled him to appear at his best, friendly and frank, but aggressive.