Part 12

Two months ago, had I greeted him after a twenty-four hours' absence as indifferently as I fear I did to-night, he would not have forgotten it in a month, but he was so thoroughly engrossed in his own happiness in getting home to me to-night, that he did not even notice my manner.

I feel my purpose suddenly shaken. The memory of his face, its resignation, its weary expression, haunts me. One moment I am impelled to say "I will do anything you ask," and the next, I am seized with repulsion at the thought of accomplishing anything by such a means.

The idea of a woman's receiving adulation from another man than her husband, seems a scandalous thing; but the idea of her courting it--setting out with a deliberate purpose to win it--seems monstrous.

And yet, if Edgar doesn't rebel, I don't really see much excuse for obstinacy on my part. It does seem a little "far fetched" in me when I come to consider the circumstances. If it were a _usual_ thing, a thing that would be considered as a matter of course, I should feel less strongly about it, but it is so extraordinary--at least it seems so to me.

I can imagine Mrs. Hetherington exclaiming: "Disgraceful!" and see Gladys's look of cold surprise, tinged with her ironical expression that she preserves for the little, unconventional escapades of A, B and C. This kind of thing is intolerable to me. When I think of this, every fibre of my body resents the possibility of such a thing. And when I remember his face to-night, I can no longer think on the other side of the question.

He is over at the Arlington at this moment, engaged in heaven knows what, that will send him home to me looking more depressed and miserable than ever.

* * * * *

Some one taps lightly on the door, and opens it without ceremony, and Helen throws down her pen as Braine enters.

It is as she has expected. His face and manner indicate fatigue. He brightens up and says with a show of gayety so evidently forced that Helen's lips tremble a little:

"Well, dearest!"

She goes slowly to him, and takes his hands which he is holding out to her. She looks at him wistfully, with a half sad little smile on her face. She says softly:

"Well?"

"You are all alone to-night? No receptions, nor 'affairs'?"

The glimmer-smile deepens a little, and she draws him towards the fire. She says--pushing him into the chair:

"Oh yes--plenty of them--Gladys gave a dinner to the Stones to-night."

"And you are not there?" with a little surprise in his voice, but an expression half-eager, half-pleased on his face.

She brightens as she notes the look, and says softly:

"No, I like this better."

She leans against him, and rubs her cheek carelessly against his shoulder.

The gratified expression deepens an instant; then Braine says a little hurriedly, with a touch of anxiety in the tone:

"You must not neglect anything for me, dearest. Social duties are everything here. Don't mind me. I sha'n't feel neglected."

Helen slowly raises her head. She stares at him for a moment. He is looking abstractedly into the fire, and patting her hand in a mechanical way. He does not see her face. The expression of pleasure and gratification has died out of it. Expressions of astonishment, humiliation, resentment and _hauteur_ replace each other there successively. Now she says in a cold tone:

"I did not remain on that account, of course. I had a slight headache--a mere nothing--" as Braine looks up anxiously--"But I felt that the crush there to-night would not help it."

She finishes a little less coldly. Braine has not noticed the tone. When she has said that the headache is a "mere nothing," he at once goes back to his meditations--but the sudden look of anxious sympathy has at once touched her, and caused another revulsion of feeling in his favor.

She crosses the room and picks up a book from the table.

Suddenly Braine says, as though thinking aloud:

"If this should go any farther it would be a bad thing for Grayson."

Helen looks up from her book:

"Why? What is it?"

Braine arouses himself, and speaks interestedly:

"This land grant bill! Gladys has been trying to run things, it seems, and has made a botch of it. She has gone too headlong, and compromised herself to such an extent with the committee chief, that when she was prepared for a _coup de grace_, the congressman turned the tables. It is a bad thing for Grayson. The man has her in his power, and swears that unless Grayson will actively uphold the counter-policy, he will make it uncomfortable for his wife. Grayson has just been telling me all about it, and is almost helpless in the matter. Something must be done."

Helen is on her feet. Her eyes are wide with astonishment, and something like horror. She stammers:

"What--what--what?"

Her tone startles Braine. He looks around:

"Why Helen! What is the matter, child, I didn't imagine it would startle you so. Of course you feel anxiety for Gladys--friends as you are--but she is a clever woman, and I have no doubt she will get out of it in some way."

He speaks reassuringly. She comes to his side. She says hoarsely, with excitement expressed in every movement;

"Has--has--has Gladys been working through Mr. Dalzel for this scheme?"

Her fingers twist nervously. Braine cannot understand her. He looks at her in bewilderment:

"Working for it? Why certainly, dear. Why shouldn't she--her husband's interests are hers. Yes. She has been doing what she could, of course--she has done her best, and isn't to blame for such a _faux pas_ as this; but it seems a little stupid in her. There would be no danger of such a thing on your part!"

He makes the remark more to himself than to her, and leans back, watching her through his half-closed lids. How proud he is of this woman! How he loves her!

Helen stands quietly by his side, looking intently at the coals in the grate. Presently she says in a low, calm tone of conviction, elation, irrevocable decision:

"No, _I_ should make no mistakes."

A silence. After a moment:

"I have been thinking over the little conversation we had before you left, Edgar. I have changed my mind. I think I will see--Everet."

Braine rises from his chair. He stands looking at her for a moment. He takes her in his arms.

XXIX.

[From Helen's Diary.]

_February, 18--._ Well, I really cannot express my feelings. It seems to me that in twenty-four hours I have been metamorphosed and am some one else living in another world.

Now that I have undertaken this, I have no idea of failing. I will succeed, if it costs every thing. I suddenly feel that I am made for this.

Gladys called to-day. Everet had just made a short call and gone.--He did not know whether he left by the front steps to the street, or was making a descent from heaven into the other place--and yet, I made only the least exertion to please, imaginable. It made me feel superb, magnificent, inspired, when I thought of what I can do if I really try.

I felt a mad exultation over Gladys. She was as pale as a ghost, and hardly seemed to know what she was talking about. I should never betray _my_ defeat or difficulty if I should meet with it. I felt such a superiority that I almost felt like shrieking it at her, when remembering how she has deceived me all this time. I was secretly delighted, though, at my astonishing self-control, for she never noticed a thing. She said:

"How I envy your freedom from care and anxiety, and your innocence of all the wire-pulling that some have to do."

She looked fagged out when she said this, I should not have known her. She never spoke in this manner before.

I smiled and said, "I presumed it must be wearing--especially if one was not clever enough to succeed."

She looked at me sharply, and with some surprise. Yesterday I would have shrivelled all up under the look. To-day I just smiled calmly.

If nothing else urged me on--if I were not doing this for Edgar's sake--I should be wild to attempt it just to prove my power and ability superior to Gladys's. To think how completely she has deceived me all this time!

Edgar almost wearied me with affection to-night. One can't be always troubled with sentiment, when one has matters of so much importance on hand.

Of course, I did nothing to wound his feelings but he understood by my manner that I was preoccupied.

He tried to coach me. Coach _me_! How stupid men are sometimes! He was determined that I should grasp Everet by the collar and hold him while he consented to do as I wished. I gave him to understand that I must be absolutely let alone in this matter; that in an affair like this there was nothing for him to teach me. Such a proceeding would ruin all. Everet would jump out of the window, and never be seen any more. It is my innocence and unworldliness that have attracted him, and it is that that must fascinate him. I must appear to gain nothing by strategy, even in the end, but by pure uncalculating innocence. He must be absolutely under my control before one other step is taken.

If argument would have accomplished his yielding there would be no need of effort on my part. It would have been accomplished long ago. If I am to be mistress of the situation I must work entirely with personal allurement.

To-night, at dinner I made him drink "to my success." It was delicious. He had no more idea of the import of it than of the way my back hair was done. This one little incident so delighted me that I had to laugh and talk incessantly to keep myself within bounds.

Ed dined at home, with us, and when I looked across at him as I made the suggestion, my eyes were fairly dancing at the supreme irony of it, but Edgar did not seem to see its deliciousness, and looked as grave as an owl.

Afterward he said: "Women _are_ incomprehensible. Now--there was no necessity whatever for that little scene at dinner. Absolutely none."

Of course there was none. If there had been, the point would have been lacking.

To-morrow night I give a theatre party--Everet goes--_and comes home with me_. Heigho!

XXX.

[From Helen's Diary.]

_March, --._ It has been days since I have written in this diary. There has been a good deal to record, but I have had neither the time nor desire to do it.

I see Everet every day. He lunches and dines here quite as though it were home to him. Edgar is seldom here, but when he is, he is discretion itself. There is always a severe dignity preserved between them.

Everet has the entire run of the house, and drops into my boudoir for tea in the afternoons, as a matter of course.

I manage matters in such a way that we are never seen together in public, except as we casually meet. It required some diplomacy to get out of making one of his theatre party last week, for it would never do for me to appear conscious of any wrong in our public association while I admit him so intimately in private; it would betray a depth of discernment and worldliness that he does not dream exists.

Our relations are those of intimate friends, good comrades, but there is always a dignity preserved. Nothing occurs that the most scrupulous could find fault with--if they knew all; it would never do for them to know a little. It is enough to keep him where he sees me constantly and listens to me.

The ease with which I charm and achieve, astonishes myself. There is never a word of business. He does not know that I know the House from the Senate--I _don't_ when it comes to that, but I can accomplish when I am told what to work for.

Everet, himself, does not know how essential I am to him. I discover from time to time the progress I am making by being "out" two or three days in succession when he calls. I can judge much from the manner of his greeting when he next finds me at home.

To-day I did a master-stroke. He has some vague idea of his danger. He begins to understand in some degree what my presence means to him. He was inclined to break loose, and to-day he announced that he was going north for a time.

I started, and--I think I turned a little pale. I intended to, and for some reason, I felt so. I said quite carelessly: "Yes?" after he had noticed the start.

He turned white. He came up to me and took my hands in his, and said in a low tone:

"Would you mind?"

I looked up in surprise (apparently)--though the success was in making the appearance apparent--and said: "One always dislikes to lose old friends." I said it quite as a matter of course. I got up and staggered a little, as I went towards the door.

He was terribly frightened. I said it was "nothing;" that sometimes I had those slight "attacks" if I became a little excited. The last appeared to be a slip of the tongue. I did not say what the "attacks" were, nor what excitement had caused this particular one, but it was quite unnecessary. It frightened him, and made him suffer a little.

He remarked that his "business at the north might be postponed for some time yet." I thought so too!

There seemed something mean in all this, but a wife who has any affection for her husband, _must_ feel that his interests are hers.

Gladys looks terrible. The last time I saw Ed--four days ago, at breakfast--he said things were narrowing to a focus; that he was afraid there was no loop-hole left her. Either Grayson must go over, or Gladys is lost. He'll go over, of course--and stay over, until he gets an advantage.

This constant separation from Edgar is telling on me. I don't realize it save at moments of relaxation, for I am generally as hurried and preoccupied these days as he. But there is a lack that I sometimes feel must be supplied. I have not even seen him since Thursday, and I--

* * * * *

Braine comes hurriedly into the library, and speaks quickly while tossing over the papers on the desk by Helen:

"Have you seen a bundle of papers bearing the stamp, Helen? I thought I left them here."

She shakes her head.

"What have you to do to-night, Edgar?"

"To-night?" absently. He pauses and continues his search for the papers.

"Well?" She speaks a little coldly this time. She dislikes to be ignored.

"Eh? Oh! Yes! What am I going to do to-night? I can't tell you, child, I have more on hand than ten men could do. I don't know. Oh!"--facing her suddenly--"about this matter with Everet! What are you accomplishing, Helen? Matters are moving too slowly. Something must be done at once."

She has not had more than ten minutes conversation with Braine in a week. This is the manner in which this opportunity is improved. She bites her lip. After a moment she replies carelessly:

"Really, Edgar, you expect a great deal. I could hardly be expected to gain you the Presidency in six weeks, with nothing to aid me but my own efforts."

"Hardly; but this is not exactly what is required of you. It seems to me that you might hasten matters a little more."

She does not reply.

As Braine is leaving the room, he asks:

"Can you bring matters to a focus in a week?"

"No--in two weeks," continuing her writing without looking up.

Braine goes out. As the curtain falls behind him she drops her pen, and rising, begins to pace the floor restlessly. She is suddenly wretched. She hates Everet. She has a mad desire to rush after Braine, and throw herself into his arms. With it all, she feels herself rebuffed, humiliated.

She seems to have entirely dropped out of Braine's life, save so far as she contributes to his success and advancement--for this is not the only matter she has been handling successfully in the last two months.

She leans her head wearily against the mantel, and sobs softly to herself. She is so wrapt up in her own wretchedness that she is oblivious of everything else, and does not hear Everet as he crosses the floor.

He stands a moment looking at her in surprise. Then the expression on his face becomes one of anxiety, pain, tenderness. He approaches her softly, and says in a low tone:

"Mrs. Braine!"

Helen starts and raises her head. She does not look up, but stands with her back to him as she dries the tears, and tries to control her voice. She says--for want of something better:

"I did not hear you come in."

Everet is silent a moment, then lays his hand on her arm. His touch is delicate. There is a subtle tenderness about it.

She suddenly starts, and turns ghastly. She looks up at him with something like fright and appeal in her face, and he does not comprehend the look. She flings his hand away with a fierce movement.

Everet steps back. He looks at her now flushed face in astonishment. She says hoarsely:

"Never do that again. Do you hear? Never touch me again!"

Everet feels that there is a little injustice in her tone. He has been a constant visitor at this house for weeks. He has done no more than any acquaintance, who knew her more than slightly, might have done under the circumstances. He steps back, and says coldly:

"I beg your pardon," and turns toward the door.

The necessity of the occasion comes to her quickly. He must not go in this way--what would Braine say.

She calls: "Chester." She has never used Everet's first name before.

He turns swiftly and stands regarding her. There is eagerness in his face.

She drops her eyes. She holds out her hand and says:

"I can't tell you why I have spoken in this way. I want you to come back. Believe me when I tell you that it was not because you offended me--I offended myself. I--I can explain nothing. I beg you to come back."

He is at her side. He grasps her hands. He says--his voice husky with emotion:

"I will not go if you would have me stay--Did you wish it, I would never--"

He breaks off suddenly. Her sweet, innocent face is raised inquiringly--its innocence is what forbids.

She motions him into the chair by the fire, and sits down near the window. She keeps that distance between them while he stays.

He wants her to go to the theatre with him and a party of friends. He pleads that she is too tired for anything that will require more of effort, that night.

She refuses in a semi-desperate tone. She is going to a cabinet affair! She _wants_ to go! She would not miss it for anything! He leaves the house, and she goes upstairs slowly.

Braine's valet is just entering his master's dressing-room as Helen goes by. She pauses, and tells him to ask Mr. Braine to come to her boudoir before he goes out.

She hurries to her room, and throws on a loose negligée; stirs the fire: darkens the room; lights the candles. The scene is charming, seductive--perhaps irresistible. She throws herself negligently into a chair, and puts her pretty feet on the fender. She smiles a little grimly. The scene might have been prepared for Everet--so carefully has she arranged it.

After twenty minutes, Braine taps. She calls "Come in," and half turns in her chair with a smile. She holds out her hand:

"You will come to the fire?"

Braine nods, and steps just inside the door:

"You wanted me for something?" buttoning his glove--he speaks pleasantly, but hurriedly.

She says calmly; "I was not going out to-night."

There is the most imperceptible pause before her next words. Braine makes no remark. She continues;

"And I thought if you had any work to do in the way of writing, I might as well do it."

She finishes, and turns back to the fire.

He replies: "If you are not going out, you might draft a reply to Carson's letter. It must be carefully done. There must be enough in it to satisfy him, but not enough to commit me. You understand about what I want, I think."

"Yes. I think so," drily.

"So--I'm off, dear. Good-bye."

The door closes. The woman at the fire rises and looks slowly about the room. The expression in her face is an ugly one. She rings her bell, and mutters, "H'm!" as she unties her gown.

She is passive while Susanne dresses her. She does not leave the house for an hour and a half yet. She finishes her toilet, and goes back to the library to prepare the letter to Carson. It is a masterpiece when finished, and she studies it with satisfaction.

She put on her wraps and waits a moment for the carriage, then drives off to the "Cabinet affair."

She has her wits about her--she has a business affair here, too. She remains until she knows she has accomplished all she can, and then sends for her carriage.

She keeps up the farce until she finds herself in the night air, and then is so silent that a man who has been violently in love with her for two entire days, is heart-broken as he takes her to her carriage.

As she comes within range of the window, she sees the form of a man inside the carriage, and instinctively knows who it is. She steps ahead, and stands before the door as the groom opens it, filling it as completely as she can, and saying an abrupt good night. She leans in front of Everet as she pulls the rug over her, and they drive away.

She turns to him and looks at him inquisitively, and a little coldly. She says, "How is this?"

Everet seizes her hand.

"I do not know. I waited for you in the carriage. That is all. I could not help it. I _had_ to see you again to-night."

Her hand is still in his. Perhaps her fingers cling as well as his. There is a deep frown between her eyes. She says with distress in her voice:

"You should not. You should not. How could you? I--I--I--"

She pauses helplessly. It seems to Everet the helplessness of innocence. He leans near her an instant; then, with an effort at self-control, drops her hand.

She leans her head against the side of the carriage. She says under her breath, "Oh, my God!"

He hears it, and thinks he has distressed her, shocked her, and begins an apology, his voice emotion-choked. He feels that he has been a brute to intrude on her in this way.

She does not answer. He can feel that her body is quivering as though with cold. He attempts to draw the rug more closely about her, but she winces and says with a wail:

"Don't, don't, don't!"

He desists, and sits watching her helplessly. She does not speak again until they have reached home. When he touches her hand for a moment as he helps her from the brougham, it is hot and feverish.

She says, as he turns to follow her up the steps:

"Don't come in to-night." She hesitates a moment, and then adds with a rush,

"I _must_ be with my husband. To-morrow--I will see you to-morrow."

She hurries up the steps, and Woolet opens the door.

"Is Mr. Braine in yet?"

"In the library, madame."

She hurries through the hall, untying the cords of her wrap as she goes. She pushes open the door, enters, closes the door, and stands with her back against it, looking at Braine who is writing at the desk.

As she enters, he glances up hastily, nods, and returns to his writing, remarking absently:

"Home?"

She does not answer. She stands watching him, listening to the hurried scratch of the pen.

Presently she says:

"Edgar!"

"Yes?" without looking up.

She repeats in a loud, emphatic voice:

"_Edgar!_"

He raises his head in surprise. He looks at her.

"Well?--Are you ill, Helen?"

Her peculiar expression has arrested his attention, and he lays down his pen. Her face is flushed. Her eyes are strangely brilliant. Her long, nervous fingers twist in the cords of her wrap. She leaves her position at the door, and advancing into the room, throws herself into a chair. She replies in a hard voice:

"Ill? No, oh no!"

Braine looks at her inquiringly. She is looking straight into his face. He says presently, with eagerness:

"Oh, you have something to tell me about Everet?"

"I have nothing to tell you about Everet," in the same inscrutable tone.

Braine looks annoyed, and says a little quickly:

"You want something of me?"

There is silence for a moment while they look into each other's faces. Then she bursts out excitedly: