[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 negligee; 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.