[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.
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.