Part 11

"I have never loved you more than at this moment. I believe until to-night I have never fully realized how magnificent you are. You are not where you belong. You are not where you shall be. I want to see you there," nodding his head in the direction of the White House.

Helen does not understand, but she is glad.

He is excited. Every fibre of his being is responsive. He holds her hand in his, and kisses it repeatedly, passionately. She laughs in a nervous, hysterical way, and leans her head against him. She half sobs:

"I want to be here, Ed. This satisfies me."

He presses her to him and answers:

"I am not satisfied _for_ you. A little patience, and you shall have all. There is nothing that we cannot accomplish together. I am ambitious. There is no reason why I should not be. Ambition is a worthy sentiment. Yes, I am ambitious for myself, but it whets my appetite for the great things of earth, when I see you as you have been to-night, when I hold you as I do now. Sometimes it half angers me when I see you lacking appreciation of yourself. You do not know your own value, child; other people know it. You could be a power, if you would. You must. I--"

He leans back to look at her. He has imparted something of his enthusiasm and intensity to her, and her fingers play nervously with the cords of her cloak. Her eyes gleam in the dusk.

Braine notes every little detail about her--how the flash from an electric light makes the tiara in her hair sparkle; how white her hands look as they lie buried in the fur of the rug; how the little tendrils of hair cling to her neck. He thinks vehemently: "How I love this woman! How I love this woman!"

They stop in front of the house, and they go silently up the steps. Both are thinking. Woolet opens the door for them, making a vain endeavor to appear dignified and wide awake. But it is sufficiently evident that he has been asleep in the hall.

Helen goes directly up the stairs, and Braine passes on to the library, saying:

"I have a little work to do--I will be up in five minutes--wait for me."

Susanne is asleep with her head on the dressing-table. Helen says kindly, as the little, plump thing makes an effort to wake up:

"Go to bed, child. I will look after myself to-night."

Susanne goes, and Helen stands a moment, looking at her reflection in the glass. She smiles at it. She says half aloud:

"Yes, I am very beautiful. I love beautiful things"--with a nod at herself. She unfastens her gown, and it slips to the floor; she steps out of it. She takes the pins from her hair and it falls over her shoulders with a little swish. Braine taps at the door. She calls: "One moment, Ed."

She throws about her the negligée on the chair and calls, "Come in," adding, "You didn't have much to do," as Braine enters the room.

"If I _did_, I didn't do it," with a little laugh. He throws himself into a chair by her dressing-room fire. After a moment he says:

"Come here, dear."

Helen is brushing her hair at the mirror. She puts down the brush and goes over to him. He pulls her down beside him. For a moment they sit silently, cheek to cheek, looking into the fire together. Finally, Braine says in a low voice:

"I want to talk to you, dear, about--about a business matter." He pauses.

Helen smiles a little mistily. She does not know anything about business matters, but she will like to hear about anything if he tells it. She says:

"Well?"

Braine hesitates a moment, and then says, with a little effort to appear quite natural:

"I don't want to trouble you with details, dear, but I must, a little. I want you to help me in a difficult task--to help _us_, for this means everything to both. You believe in your husband, do you not, Helen?"

"I will not answer that question, Ed. You can answer it yourself." She caresses his head gently, and waits for him to go on.

"Well, I meant the question seriously enough. You know I can do much, but I wonder if you believe me capable of all I can do? You know how the newspapers talk of me as 'the wizard,' because I have achieved very quickly things that most men find it difficult to achieve at all. They believe in me, but they would think me insane if I were to tell them of the plans I am going to tell you of. I wonder if your belief in me is enough firmer than theirs, to let you share my ideas without distrusting my ability to make them facts?"

He receives sufficient answer in a caress which has tears of joy in it. He muses a while, and then takes up his discourse at a different point.

"It _is_ rather a dramatic story, I suppose, as ordinary people look at things. I was rolling barrels on the levee at Thebes not many years ago. I got my fingers in on the _Enterprise_ with my mind set on making myself felt, and I made the _Enterprise_ a power. I was not easily appalled, as I showed when I set out to make the noblest woman in the world my wife, to take, as all my own, the one perfect example of what God meant when he created woman"--Here a long pause occurs in the monologue.

"When Hildreth thought to make me a serviceable tool for him and his millionaire partners to work with, I whipped out the combination in six or eight weeks, and I taught them once for all who was master by virtue of superior intellect, when they and I had occasion to work together in any matter. I was poor and needed wealth for the sake of the opportunity it gives. I set to work to achieve wealth, and in three months my name was good enough to stand alone in any bank from New York to San Francisco. I planned the systematizing of the railroad lines centering at Thebes, and created almost a new West by the operation, enriching a whole people. I decided to be a Senator, with my party in an apparently hopeless minority, and I achieved the result with as much precision as if it had been merely the drawing of a straight line with a ruler. I have not been taking wine, dear, and I am not running over these things to boast of them. I care nothing whatever for what is behind me. I only say all this to show you what I mean when I say that from the earliest time I can remember, I have never in my life made up my mind to accomplish anything, without succeeding in the attempt. I want you to bear that in mind when I tell you that I have made up my mind to be--well, to place you in the highest position possible to any American woman. With your help I can accomplish that, as I have accomplished everything else."

"Oh, Ed, you frighten me. I am content as we are. Your ambition is eating you up. For myself, life has brought me--no, it is you that have brought me all, and more than all. I only want--this!" clasping her arms about him, and pressing him close. "I would give up everything for you, Ed, and it is for your sake that I want you to give up all further ambitions for me. You do not care for these things, dear, except for my sake, and I care for nothing except to have you love me. You are great and good. You do not need honors. Let us let them alone."

"I cannot, Helen. I might but for you. I do not know; it is my nature to go forward; I cannot stand still: but I might if it were not for you. How can I rest when I remember that there is one woman in Washington whose place is so exalted that she is held exempt from the duty of returning calls, and that woman is not my Helen! I tell you I must work out the plans I have formed, and I need your help. Now let me explain. I'll spare you every detail I can, and keep to the bare outline."

"Go on," she says, "I like you to tell me stories, Ed, and you haven't told me many of late. Your business has taken you away so much, till I have almost come to hate business."

Braine feels a little sting in this reminder, which Helen has not meant to put there, but he is too intent upon his purpose to pause for its removal.

"I have worked already at this thing, dear, night and day for months. I have made alliances in all directions, in every quarter of the country. I have set every force at work which can be in any way controlled. The next step is to produce a break here. This administration is the obstacle in my way, and I mean to break it down!"

"Oh, Edgar!" exclaims Helen, less in protest against a proposal which startles and shocks her a little, than in admiration of the superb audacity of the man who sits holding her hand while he announces a purpose seemingly so stupendous. Braine continues, scarcely noticing the interruption:

"Yes, and I have that practically arranged, too, except for one thing. I must produce the break by getting the coming presidential appointments--the most important of the whole term, in some respects--rejected by the Senate. There are three men in the Senate who must make the fight their own in order to make the break in the party irreparable, except by the retirement of the President from the contest for nomination at the end of the term. These men are privately interested in the whiskey tax bill, which is certainly lost in committee unless I force its passage. I've been working at that for two months, and have not yet succeeded. I _want your help in that_."

"But, Edgar, you know I don't understand politics, or--"

"It's not necessary that you should. Heaven forbid that you ever shall! The only obstacle is Everet. He is chairman of the committee that has the bill in charge. He can report it favorably, and if I could induce him to do it, I could manage the rest. But I cannot. I have exhausted my resources of argument and persuasion, and he will not yield. It has worried me more than I like you to know, dear. I have said nothing, because I didn't want to trouble you. But you can help me now, if you will."

Helen looks up, elated:

"I can help? I'm glad of that, Ed, but it seems funny to think of my helping in _business_, doesn't it?" with a little laugh.

Braine is so intent on the matter that he only replies by a pat of the hand. He continues:

"Yes, you can help. I will tell you what I want you to do. Everet is fascinated with you. He hardly left your side to-night, and when he did, his eyes followed you. Everet is the only one whose support I must have now. You must get this for me. You can do it--"

"Why, Ed?--" She stares at him inquiringly. "What could I do, dear?"

For a moment Edgar looks annoyed. This is becoming a little awkward--for a husband. He starts to speak, then hesitates for a moment, then begins:

"Your woman's cleverness should prompt you, Helen. You understand little politic devices to a considerable extent; it is only necessary that you enlarge upon it in a smaller field. Everet will call, of course. There is--no reason why he should--" she is looking at him--"not call as often as he chooses, nor why he should not choose to call often--nor why you--should not use your influence to our advantage--to the end of gaining his support for me. Do you understand?"

He ceases. There is absolute silence. Helen is still looking at him. It is not comfortable for one's wife to look at one under _all_ circumstances. She speaks hesitatingly:

"You--you mean for me to--to try and attract Everet--in order to cajole him into doing your will in this?"

There is bewilderment, disgust, astonishment expressed in her voice. She looks somewhat scandalized. Braine laughs a little uneasily:

"Yes, that--is _about_ it."

She remains on her knees, looking at him for a moment--then slowly rises. There is indignation expressed in every movement of her body. She looks hurt, humiliated, insulted. She says excitedly:

"You don't know what you are saying. This miserable business--whatever it is--has gone to your head. I--I--I--"

She stammers in excitement. Braine rises and speaks entreatingly:

"No, I know what I am asking of you. It is not pleasant, to be sure. It hurts me worse than it can you, but, Helen--" with a desperate impulse--"Helen, this has _got_ to be done. I _must_ have Everet's support. Things have come to a desperate pass. There is no other way. When I saw you controlling his every thought to-night, it seemed like a sudden interposition of Providence. All the care and worry, that have gripped me like a dragon those late weeks, seemed to slip from me. I knew if you would do this, I was secure. I appeal to you, child. If you love me, you _must_ consent to aid me in this. It is _your_ happiness, _your_ advancement as well as my own, that I ask you to achieve--"

"I am satisfied. I don't want to advance."

Her eyes flash ominously.

"Helen--Helen--" Braine holds out his hands to her, "you don't understand all you say. You _do_ want it. If you were deprived of all this luxury and position, it would ruin your happiness--and yet, a few years ago you said as you do now--'I don't want it.' Could you live without it?"

"No. Not now. But I could if I had never known it--I--"

"You _had_ to know it. You _should_. Of all women in the world you are the one best fitted for command, and for all that I am straining every nerve to gain for you. I do not sleep an hour, uninterruptedly. I wake, to plan and contrive after this end. I eat mechanically. I speak so, except under circumstances when my words will count. I make no acquaintance, no friend save that I may turn him to account. I deny myself honest affection in every association, that sentiment may never interfere at a critical hour--all this that I may see you where you deserve to be. I ask but one little thing of you. I implore it. This one effort on your part, and we have gained all. Helen--"

He is quivering with excitement. His eyes burn like coals of fire, and grow dark and scintillating.

The woman opposite him stands like a statue. There is not a vestige of color in her face. She turns slowly, and motions him from the room without a word.

XXVI.

[From Helen's Diary.]

_February, --._ Breakfasted this morning in my own room. Could not entertain the thought of ever seeing or speaking to Edgar again.

I looked haggard when I got up. I did not sleep an hour all night. While I was making a sorry attempt to eat some breakfast, and strengthening my determination never to speak to Edgar again, Woolet brought up a note, saying that Edgar told him to give it to me as soon as I was up.

I was like adamant and determined not to look at it. I should have sent it down to him immediately, but for the curiosity such a thing would have aroused among the servants.

As Woolet was going, he said:

"Mr. Braine said Madame would please forward all his mail that came to-day."

I was thunderstruck. _Forward_ his mail! I snatched up the note, all my determination gone.

It was but a few lines, saying that he took the 9:10 train for New York, on business, and would return on Friday--this is Tuesday.

I felt like a baby. I sent Susanne away, and burst out crying. It seemed to me that I _must_ see him, and soften the situation a little.

I could never have consented to this thing that he proposed, but it does not seem terrible enough to justify such severity--this morning.

It seems to me that I cannot endure the time until Friday--but when he returns I shall treat him with proper dignity, of course. It is my _duty_ to make him feel that I judge his conduct severely. And yet, I will be forgiving and affectionate--to an extent. Only to an extent. (This will be very hard for me.)

I felt so wretched that I thought a drive would do me good, so at two, I went out. I became so tired and disgusted with meeting people and bowing to them, that I turned around and came home. There is nothing that makes a miserable person feel more miserable than to see people happier than herself.

I felt as though I was ready to drop when I got up the steps, and who should be in the reception-room but this very bone of contention, awaiting my return. I felt like flying up the stairs and locking myself in my room, but instead of doing so childish a thing, I walked into the room with admirable dignity.

I intended to see that he made his call very short; but after a moment we got talking of the new minister and his funny little wife, and in the gossip I seemed quite to forget my wretchedness for a while, and we went into the library, where it is cosier, and sat down by the fire and had a delightful afternoon.

Mrs. Hetherington called--as she pays no attention to days, but runs in promiscuously--and I sent word, "Not at home." I felt a little shocked at myself, and hardly knew what Mr. Everet thought--for it is a little unusual, of course, to keep a man whom you have met so seldom, gossiping a whole afternoon in your library, and denying yourself to all other callers--devoting yourself exclusively to him. And I shouldn't have done it--though there was really no harm in it--if Ed had not said what he did, last night.

I didn't encourage Mr. Everet to call again, nor _try_ to be agreeable at all, but was just usual and everyday, just as I shall always be when he calls.

He seemed quite at home, and we had tea in the library, and he left just in time for me to dress for the English Minister's reception--where we met two hours later.

He--Mr. Everet--is more interesting than any of the men I have met. There is a dignity about him that I like, and that I have never found in anyone else but Edgar. I did not know what he would think of my letting him stay as I did, but he accepted it most naturally, as a matter of course--and it _was_ a temptation, for I was so miserable that anything seemed acceptable that enlivened me a little.

He noticed my mood, I think, for he was not flippant and tiresome, but sympathetic--though we only referred to the most commonplace subjects. He remarked that I looked weary and pale. It does a woman good to have these little things noticed. It seemed quite like Edgar--as he used to be.

Mr. Everet said it was refreshing to find a natural, unaffected, candid woman in Washington. I _do_ think it must seem a relief to men. If women did as Edgar wishes me to do, the men would be in a terrible plight. They would have to hate all the women in self-defence.

I couldn't help observing the interest Mr. Everet seems to feel in me--though I really should not have thought of it if Edgar had not suggested it. For a moment there _was_ a certain fascination in the idea of making a strong, dignified man do just what a helpless insignificant little woman like me wants him to do.

As a sort of experiment, I made him go to Gladys Grayson's after the affair at the minister's although he had said that he had an important appointment at eleven, and that a great deal depended on his keeping it--but he went to the Graysons'. Of course, I didn't care a fig whether he went or not; only, as I say, it was a kind of experiment.

I'm frightfully tired, and here it is three o'clock and I still up.

Edgar will be at home on Friday, and this is Wednesday morning. I shall be glad to tell him again, how I scorn his proposition--I shall tell him that Mr. Everet noticed my pallor, and I _think_ he will feel a little ashamed of himself. He ought to.

XXVII.

[From Helen's Diary.]

_February --._ Arose, breakfasted, and went for a drive; stopped at Gladys's on the way home; had tea with her in her boudoir.

Mr. Grayson wanted to come in too, but Gladys wouldn't let him. She says he is really a terrible bore; that she has to keep him down or he would run right over her. I wish Edgar would run right over me. She says that Mr. Grayson never seems to remember that after a woman has discharged all her duties, she is absolutely too worn out for the little et ceteras and asides of life. I think she is right. She is one of those women who carry conviction with all they say; but I always feel in some way that Edgar is a duty instead of an et cetera and an aside. I dare say I shall get over this in time. Gladys assures me I will.

She said to-day that I was "just cut out" for a successful diplomat; that I am so sincere and straightforward in my manner that I am the last person on earth to suspect. She says it will be my "trump card" when I know how to play it.

I presume I am lacking in fine appreciation, but in some way this seemed to cheapen sincerity. It does not, of course, for of all women in the world, Gladys would be the last to endure cheap sentiment or cheap lace. Of all the spotless, high-bred, delicate, forcible women I have ever seen, she is the most so.

I blushed to think of the cold contempt she would feel for me should she even know that I had heard such a proposition. I represented to her a case like mine, as though it were something I had heard of, and asked her what she could think of such a thing. Her haughty indignation was superb, inspiring. It did me good. I feel just so myself. I wanted to blush for even having made Mr. Everet go there the other night.

Well, nothing else of any account happened to-day.

I met Mrs. Stevens and looked the other way, at the pug of the wife of the Secretary of the Navy. It _is_ so strange that she has no better taste than to wear a blue gown with a brown dog.

I chatted a moment with Senator Stacy's wife, and told her that her second child was a picture--(it is--of ugliness). I felt it a duty to say this, however, as the only thing false about it was the impression it conveyed to her--and the Senator's good will is quite necessary to Edgar's plans.

Then I went to the Talbots', and wound up with the Farringtons' reception.

And now, thank heaven, I am going to bed, and Edgar will be at home in the morning. I shall go nowhere to-morrow night, for he will be glad to have me at home--unless he should treat me coldly. I won't even _think_ of _that_.

XXIII.

[From Helen's Diary.]

_February 16, 18--._ To-day Edgar came into the library after dinner--I dined alone, and was taking my coffee there, cosily, by the fire. He stood in the door a moment, looking at me, before he entered the room. The first thing he said was:

"Good Heavens! What should not a woman like you be able to accomplish--"

This, after having been out of town _three days_!

He said it as though wholly engrossed with that one thought--that my beauty and charm are valuable to him as a means by which to accomplish, instead of being things dear to him for their own sake, because they belong to him.

I daresay I am foolishly sensitive about this. I know he adores me. He proved the injustice of my thought a moment later--while the impression was yet in my mind. He hurried across the room and threw himself on his knees by my chair. I had not risen to meet him, as my heart and first impulse had prompted, because his greeting had repelled me, but I felt humiliated and reproached myself for my pettiness afterwards.

I was thankful that he was so engrossed with seeing me again as not to notice it. He threw himself on his knees by me and kissed my hands.

He looks tired and worn. It impressed me for the first time as he knelt there with his arms about my waist. He said, in a tone that brought the tears to my eyes:

"I have thought of you almost constantly, dear, since I have been away from you."

He said it wistfully. I knew his mind had been on the scene we had, here, in this room where I am writing, before he left.

There was a sort of dreary surrender in his tone; but every inflection of his voice, and every glance, conveyed passionate love for me. I should have felt no reproach or misgiving had it been otherwise, but his apparent giving up, and hopelessness, touched me.

I do not know that I have done right. I have not mentioned the subject, nor has he referred to it in any way since he got back this evening. I don't know that it is anything sufficiently out of the usual order of things to justify my decision. That Edgar is cruelly disappointed is certain. That he does not reproach me is certain. That he loves me better than he ever has done before, is certain.