XIII
After Helen’s departure, Douglas Briggs felt a curious mingling of relief and depression. It was a relief not to have to face the constant rebuke that the sight of her gave him; and yet it depressed him during the day to think that when he returned home he should not find her there. He realized now many things about himself that he had been unconscious of before. In the happy time that seemed so far away now, during the stress of work, how he had loved to think of her at home there with the children. What a comfort it was just to know they were there and to feel that they were safe. And then, the walk home, with the expectation of finding the children and Helen in the nursery. The glad welcome! Then—but at this point he had to force himself to think of other things. That happiness could never be the same because in her eyes he could never be the same man. She must ever look back on thosedays with a kind of shame; she must feel that he had deceived her, that through it all he had been a hypocrite. With her severe standards she must think that he had never been what she believed him to be. She would judge him by that perfect father of hers, by her sturdy older brother, and by the two brothers who had entered the Church. At other times he would accuse himself of wronging her; she could not judge him so harshly; she could not put aside altogether the love she had once had for him. The love she had once had! He would feel a shock of horror. Why, she must have it still; she had told him a thousand times that nothing could change her love for him. After the children came they used to say that much as they loved the children they loved each other a thousand times more. And how they used to wonder if other husbands and wives loved as they did. They used to laugh and say that perhaps to other people they seemed as commonplace as others did to them. After a time he resolved to discipline himself when these thoughts came; if he were to indulge them, they would make life unbearable. He wondered vaguely if she ever had such thoughts now. Once they used to believe that they often had the same thoughts. In this way, inspite of his efforts, he found himself going back to his morbid fancies. Sometimes, on the other hand, he became rebellious and he pitied himself as a man unjustly and inhumanely treated. No woman had a right to treat a man like that, a man who had always tried to be good to her, too. No woman had a right to expect her husband to be perfect.
It seemed curious that at this time Douglas Briggs should have found solace in the companionship of Guy Fullerton. The boy’s eager interest in life and his simplicity of mind amused and interested the older man. In spite of his four years of money-spending at Harvard, Guy had not been spoiled; at moments his ingenuousness was almost childish. Douglas Briggs found that with Guy he could discuss matters he would shrink from mentioning in the presence of sophisticated and hardened men. In Guy, too, he saw many of the qualities that he himself had had as a boy, though he recognized that long before reaching his secretary’s age he had outgrown most of them. In his dread of being alone he made pretexts for keeping the boy with him in his few hours of leisure during the day. In the late afternoon they would walk from the house to the clubwhere Briggs would let Guy order the dinner. They had a table reserved for them in the bay-window of the dining-room, by George, the fat and pompous head-waiter, whose display of teeth at the appearance of Douglas Briggs suggested the memory of a long line of tips. After finishing the meal they would often linger, sipping claret punch which Briggs allowed himself to encourage Guy to drink. He had begun to feel a paternal fondness for Guy; he enjoyed formulating before the young fellow a philosophy of life and offering stray bits of advice. Guy’s admiration for him stimulated him and, though he would have hated to acknowledge the fact, it supported him in a good opinion of himself. If in his talks there were matters that occurred to his mind only to be immediately suppressed, the reason was not less because he wished to conceal certain aspects of life from the boy than because he wished to keep the boy’s admiration untarnished. Occasionally he wondered if he ought not to do something for Guy, if he were not selfish in his keeping him in a kind of life that might harm him. If the young fellow stayed long enough in Washington he would probably become one of those miserable creatures whose days were spent in hanging on tothe soiled skirts of the Government. It would be a pity to see Guy, for example, in the army of clerks who, at nine o’clock each day, poured into the Government offices and streamed out again at four in the afternoon. Briggs said to himself that he ought to find a chance for Guy to do work into some sort of independence where he could develop those qualities of faithfulness and intelligence that were plainly his inheritance even if they were somewhat obscured by his boyishness.
After dinner, when there was nothing to call him to the House, Briggs would occasionally be joined by a politician, or by one of the Army or Navy men who frequented the club. He dreaded meeting the officers even more than the politicians. He had grown tired of hearing of the exploits of the Spanish War, of the controversy between rival Admirals and of the rare qualities, on the one hand, of this General or that, and the injustice of the General’s advance over officers who had given many years of faithful work to the service. The jealousies and the rivalries among the heroes disgusted him, and the bragging among some of the veterans gave him a contempt for war. At moments he had a horror of meeting anyone except the young fellow who kept him from thinkingabout himself. He wondered if he had grown suddenly old. The talk of the club made him feel as if life had become sordid and mean, as if nothing was ever done from an unselfish motive. In these moods he would sometimes take Guy with him for a ride in the country on a trolley-car to Chevy Chase, where they would sit on the porch of the club and watch the fireflies gleaming over the green sward, or, as oftener happened, to Cabin John’s, where they amused themselves by studying the crowd. Cabin John’s used to remind Briggs of his early days in the country when he attended the church-picnics. He found himself now going back to those days very often. After all, he reflected, the plain democratic life was the best. And it was this very kind of life that he had been striving so desperately to get away from.
Occasionally during the afternoon Briggs would feel a disgust for work and would go with Guy to the ball-game. Briggs enjoyed a game of baseball for its own sake and because it renewed his old boyish enthusiasm. At college he had been a catcher on his nine and he had never lost his interest in the game. The crowd, too, entertained him with its good nature, its amusing remarks to the players, and with its fitful bursts of rage andscorn against the umpire. Briggs used to say to Guy that he believed American men were never so happy as when they were watching a ball-game. “Look at all those fellows,” he would remark on the days of the big games. “See how contented they are. And what a harmless pleasure it is, too!” Then, afraid of boring the boy with his philosophy, Briggs would check himself and devote his attention to the game. Meanwhile, however, he continued his reflections. Most of these men were undoubtedly family men; many of them had sent their families for the hot season away to the country or the seashore. He wondered how many of them were really happy. Did they miss their wives and their children as he missed his? Some of them were, of course, glad to be free and Briggs realized the commonplace thought with astonishment. There were some men who did not care for family-life, who were unfitted for it. It had become impossible for him to think of any other kind of life as endurable. Well, it was good that they could all, the happy and unhappy, come to a game of baseball and forget there was such a thing as care in the world.
While he was alone at night, Briggs suffered most. At times he would work late in order toexhaust himself; then his brain would become so excited that he could not sleep for hours. Sometimes he rose and tried to read; and occasionally, he would fall asleep in the chair. In his dreams he would wander about the new house, breaking his heart over the sight of places and things associated with his wife. He often said to himself that he felt as if he had lost part of himself; he recalled the remarks he had made to Helen on the night of that wretched party, that he felt as if he had always been married. He wondered what men had to live for who did not have wife and children to think of, to give them incentive for their work. He had always been an optimist and he had felt a curious surprise when he heard people express a dissatisfaction with life. Even his trials and his disappointments had brought with them something stimulating. But now he often sank into despair.
Guy Fullerton was consoled in his confinement in Washington by the sense of his importance to his employer and by the letters that he received from Fanny Wallace. Though an irregular letter-writer, Fanny was voluminous, and she kept Guy amused with her comments on the people that she met and the things that she did. Occasionallyone of her letters would contain a reference that would throw Guy into temporary depression. Douglas Briggs generally knew when this disaster had occurred, and used to exert himself to rouse the boy, generally with success. At these times Guy would give expression to a philosophy regarding woman so pessimistic and cynical that Briggs with difficulty kept from laughing. In spite of his own troubles, Briggs congratulated himself that he retained his sense of humor. Once he said to Guy, as they were drinking at the club: “My dear boy, you mustn’t take life so seriously.”
“Well, sir,” Guy replied in a deep breath, “I’m just beginning to find out how serious it is.”
“It’s all right to realize how serious it is,” Briggs went on, “but that’s different from taking it seriously. Don’t let things bother you too much, that’s what I mean—little things. Just be sure that everything is coming out all right, and don’t mind the details.”
Guy shook his head doggedly. “But the details are mighty important, sometimes,Mr.Briggs.”
In spite of himself, Briggs sighed. It was much easier to offer philosophy to this boy than to practise it oneself. The silence that followedwas suddenly broken by Guy’s saying: “Do you believe in early marriages,Mr.Briggs?”
The question was received without a smile. “That depends on a good many considerations,” Briggs replied, slowly. “And it depends chiefly on the woman. Most people would say that it depended on both the man and the woman. But it’s the woman that counts first every time.”
“Well, the man counts for something, doesn’t he?” Guy urged with a faint smile; but Briggs went on as if he had not been interrupted.
“The man counts only in relation to the woman. If the woman is all right, why, there’s no excuse for the man’s not being right.” Briggs tightly closed his lips. “If he isn’t, it shows there’s something radically wrong in him. There is no happiness like the happiness of a youthful marriage founded on love and character; but there is no Hell so awful as the unhappiness that comes when a marriage like that strikes disaster.”
“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 onlyknew 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 onlywant 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 tomaintain 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 sufferinghe 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 acourse 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.
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 introductionto 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 thatif 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 temptationcould 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. Theywere 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 takenplace, 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 leavethe 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 thepreparations 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.
During the next few weeks Briggs was so busy with his political work that he practically lived away from home, returning there chiefly to sleep. Whenever he did pass a part of the day at home, he was shut up in the library, working with Guy over his mail, or in seeing callers. He perceived now for the first time how far he had drifted away from the party-moorings. From all sides he received warnings, sometimes covert, occasionally frank and threatening, that a determined opposition was to be made to his renomination. But, the nomination once secured, he felt sure that he could hold his former supporters and gain increased strength from the Independents, whom William Farley was trying to win over. Briggs kept in uninterrupted communication with Farley; he hadbegun to find the journalist extremely companionable. He recalled now with a secret shame that at first he had been suspicious of Farley, attributing an insidious selfishness to his motives; but in every emergency, Farley had shown himself to be open and generous and clean-minded. But it was Farley’s perfect confidence that most deeply touched Douglas Briggs. Sometimes Briggs wondered what Helen thought when she saw them working together, with Farley in a subordinate attitude. With her fine sense of character, a sense he had never known to err except with regard to himself, she must long ago have learned to appreciate the journalist’s character. Briggs wondered if she suspected that he was trying to use Farley. Once the thought made him boldly accuse himself. But he found a vindication in the thought that he was fighting his way against odds toward an honorable goal. Once elected to Congress, he would do everything in his power to atone for the wrong he had done. His future life would be not merely an expiation, but a vindication. He assured himself that if he were to falter now, he would be a coward. He was committed to his course.
As for Helen, she tried to keep her mind distracted from herself by the cares of the household,and she worked during most of the time that she did not spend with the children. Every day she came upon things with happy associations; once the sight of them would have given her pleasure; but now it only hurt her. She was constantly reminded, too, of what she now regarded as her extravagances. Why, they had been living as if they were millionaires! She blamed herself, not because she had spent so freely, but because she had not won her husband’s complete confidence. If she had shown more character, she argued, would he not have trusted her in everything? Would he not have kept her informed with regard to his condition? Why had he treated her, a woman and the mother of children, as if she were a child to be petted and to be maintained at any sacrifice in luxury? Sometimes this self-questioning caused her a kind of shame. In her unhappiness she wondered if he had not despised her for accepting so much unquestioningly. She understood now why some men regarded women as monsters of selfishness. Oh, she had been selfish and inconsiderate! Once she thought of going to Douglas and telling him just how she felt. But she had not sufficient courage. Besides, she knew that he would resent her pity for him.Then, too, he might think it was far too late for her to take that superior attitude.
Having decided to let Miss Munroe go, Helen dreaded the parting, not because she found the governess necessary, but because of the scene that the children would make. She was tempted to ask the girl to leave without telling the children she was going; but that would be too cruel, as well as underhanded. She feared, too, that the governess would tell the children that she intended to leave them. Miss Munroe had an exalted idea of her own importance, and would wish to make her going as difficult and as dramatic as possible. So when she gave the girl the usual notice, she had to be very careful. To her astonishment, Miss Munroe received it with what seemed like sublime heroism.
“I knew that things weren’t going right with you, Mrs. Briggs,” she said, “and that I should have to leave soon. I will look for another place. Of course,” she went on, her eyes filling with tears, “it will be hard to give up the children.”
“I know,” Helen said with a sigh, and at the moment she felt pity for the girl, and she wondered if she had not been unjust and foolish. Butin future, she reflected, the children would be wholly hers.
“It’s too bad, isn’t it?” Miss Munroe went on with a brave smile, “to be with children long enough to feel almost as if they were your own, and then have to go away from them!”
Helen Briggs felt as if the muscles in her frame had become rigid. In spite of herself, her face hardened. “Please don’t tell them you are going,” she said, trying not to seem severe, and she thought she detected a look of triumph in the girl’s face.
“Very well,” said Miss Munroe, tightening her lips.
“I’ll write to some people that I know in Washington,” Helen resumed, speaking gently, “and see if they may not have a position for you. Their children——”
“Oh, I’d rather not live in Washington again,” Miss Munroe interrupted with dignity.
“I thought you liked it,” Helen said with surprise.
“Not after what I know about it,” Miss Munroe explained, and Helen flushed deeply. Could it be that this girl was covertly trying to wound her? She decided to ignore the suspicion; but itmade her rise from her seat to indicate that the interview had ended.
Two days later the children ran downstairs to their mother, crying bitterly. It happened that they met the father on the stairs.
“What’s the matter?” he asked, and Helen, from her room, noticed the pain in his voice.
“Miss Munroe is going away,” they both exclaimed together, and Dorothy added: “She says she’s never coming back again.”
“An’ she says we can’t come to see her,” Jack cried.
At sight of Helen in the lower hall, they ran past their father down the stairs.
“What does this mean?” Briggs asked angrily over the balusters, and Helen, unable to control the indignation she felt against the governess, replied, “I don’t know,” and, putting her arms across the shoulders of the children, she led them into the room and closed the door behind her.
Briggs hesitated for a moment, his face white with anger. He was tempted to go down the stairs, force open the door of Helen’s room and give vent to his feelings. But he checked himself. Then he had a second impulse, and he dashed up the stairs to the nursery. He foundMiss Munroe standing in the middle of the room, in tears. She had evidently been listening at the half-open door.
“What have you been saying to those children?” he asked sternly.
Miss Munroe began to sob. “They asked me this morning if it was true that I was going away.” Her head began to move convulsively backward and forward.
“Who told them you were going away?”
“I don’t know, sir. I only know that I didn’t. I promised Mrs. Briggs that I wouldn’t.”
“But you’ve told some of the servants, haven’t you?”
“Well, I—I did mention it to——”
“That’s enough!” Briggs exclaimed. “You ought to have known better.” He hesitated, with a look of despair in his face. “Well, now that they know it, we’ll have no peace with the children till you go.”
Miss Munroe stopped crying. She seemed to grow an inch taller. “I am ready to leave at once, sir,” she said.
“Well!” Briggs knotted his forehead in perplexity. After all, the poor girl had been good to the children. It would be cruel to send her awaylike that. But he quailed at the thought of Dorothy’s wailings and questionings and complaints.
“We’re going to have a hard time here during the next few weeks,” he said in a tone that showed the girl his anger had subsided, “and I simply can’t let things be worse than they’ve got to be. So perhaps the best thing you can do is to take a vacation before you go for good. You can tell the children you are coming back, you know. Oh!” he exclaimed, despairingly, “that won’t do at all.”
Miss Munroe, with the air of keeping an advantage, stood in silence.
“I knew that Mrs. Briggs would have worried about that—about your telling the children,” Briggs went on helplessly.
“She worries about a great many things,” Miss Munroe remarked with quiet significance.
“But, for my sake, Miss Munroe,” Briggs resumed, plainly without having heard her comment, “if you could take a little vacation soon! That’ll be the best for all of us. I know how hard it must be for you, and it will be hard for the children. But, now that the break is to take place, the sooner the better. I’ll pay you a month ahead, as I know Mrs. Briggs will do anything she can for you.”
“Oh, I won’t have any bother about getting another place,” Miss Munroe said cheerfully. “And I’ll be glad to do everything that will make things easier for you, sir. I know what a hard time you’ve been having and, of course, I’ve been with Mrs. Briggs so much, I understandherpretty well.”
Briggs stood in silence. He felt as if he had been wounded in some very sensitive place. What did this girl mean? Was she trying to express sympathy for him and at the same time stabbing at Helen? While living with them in the intimacy of the family life, had she been spying on them and gossiping about them with the servants?
“I’ll speak to Mrs. Briggs to-day, and she’ll let you know when she wants you to leave,” he said mechanically, and he walked out of the room.
During the rest of the day Briggs suffered from a dull anger, directed not against the governess, however, but against his wife. If Helen had only not interfered with his affairs, he assured himself, he would have worked out of his troubles. Her interference had upset everything, even the details of the domestic economy. He quickly forgot his resentment against Miss Munroe; after all, it was natural that the poor girl should resentbeing turned away from the family that she had served so faithfully. She had her little pride, too, in not being a mere servant; and that pride had probably been wounded. She was so necessary that he hoped Helen would change her mind about letting her go. He liked the idea of giving the girl a vacation; after missing her services for a few weeks, Helen might be glad to take her back. He meant to speak of the idea to his wife; but in the distraction of his work he forgot it. After a few days, on observing that Miss Munroe still remained in the house, he assumed that she was to stay on indefinitely.