[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.