"Be quick! Don't move so slowly."
Helen pulls the little curls about her temples, with an impatient
twitch. Susanne does not reply, but seems to be a little more deft in
her movements.
Helen is pale, and her face looks a little haggard; there is a peculiar
brilliancy in her eyes; there is something vaguely pathetic in the droop
of the corners of her mouth.
She sits quietly in her chair for a moment, evidently exerting herself
to be calm. Susanne works intently at the heavy coils of her hair, and
the gold pins she is skewering through it.
Presently, Helen leans forward to look at herself more closely in the
mirror, and upsets a bottle of toilet water that deluges powders,
brushes, toilet creams and the rest of the array on the low, French
table.
She rises with an angry exclamation. She is quivering in every fibre.
She says in a low voice, hoarse with irritation, nervousness,
excitement:
"You may go. Get me a negligee first. I shall not dress to-night."
Susanne stares at her.
"Monsieur Everet, Madame!"
Helen turns slowly and looks at her. She says, in the same peculiarly
low voice of a moment ago:
"Never speak of him again. Remember!--or you leave my service."
The girl steps back and murmurs something apologetic. Some one knocks on
the door. Helen motions to Susanne, with her finger on her lips, and
starts towards the bedroom.
Susanne moves slowly to give Helen time to leave the room; but the door
opens and Braine steps in before Helen has reached the curtains.
He says hurriedly:
"Pardon, Helen! You are dressing? May I see you alone for a moment? I
won't detain you long."
She nods slightly, and makes a gesture of dismissal to Susanne, as she
comes slowly back to the dressing-table.
Her shoulders are bare: she had just thrown off her dressing-gown; she
pulls about her the scarf that lies over the chair back, Braine leans
against the chiffonniere watching her absently.
"How beautiful you are, Helen!"
"You wanted to speak to me of something particular?"
"Oh, yes," arousing himself. "Yes. Now, about this affair with Everet!
Things _must_ come to a focus to-night. You understand all it means to
me. Success in the scheme means advancement in every way--politically
and socially--you understand as well as I. Failure,--well, we will not
consider failure. Make him--"
She makes a sudden gesture of the hand:
"I cannot!--not to-night. I am not well--I--"
Braine straightens himself. He says coldly, with a flavor of reproof in
his tone:
"You will not see him! This is hardly the time to indulge caprice. Of
course you will see him, and do what you can. If you fail then, it will
be nothing for which you are to blame; but I insist that in this crisis
you make what effort you can for our mutual benefit. My advancement is
yours. I shall count on you. You cannot fail if you exert yourself ever
so little," with a touch of tenderness and some pride, and a great deal
of confidence in the tone.
"Ed!"
Helen rises suddenly and comes towards him. She holds out her hands with
a little appeal. Her face is very white, and her lips are quivering.
He takes her hands kindly, and laughs lightly:
"There! You need not be anxious or become excited. I know; you realized
how much depends on this, and became a little discouraged and fearful. I
don't want you to feel so; just do your best. If you fail, surely I
could not blame you. But you will not fail. You are gloriously equipped
for the wife of an ambitious man," in a tone of elation.
He is, nevertheless, preoccupied, and though he still clasps her hands,
the pressure has grown very slight, and indeed her hands remain in his
only because she holds them there. He seems to forget her, and is
studying the carpet. She stands looking at him. Presently she says:
"Kiss me--will you?"
He stoops and brushes her forehead lightly, with his lips. She lets her
hands fall inertly at her side. She, too, stands studying the carpet. He
says, brusquely:
"I will leave you now and let you finish dressing. I am to meet Austin
at the Arlington at nine. It is after eight now," looking at his watch
and turning hastily to the door.
"I shall count on you, Helen. Things must come to a focus to-night."
She stands a moment looking at the closed door where he has gone out,
and then walks back to the dressing-table. She stands fingering some of
the manicure apparatus lying on it, disorderly, with the rest of the
table's contents. Once, she puts her hand to her throat as though she
were choking. She gets a sight of her face in the mirror, and holds her
breath for an instant. She is ghastly. There are deep rings under her
eyes. She nervously rubs a hare's foot over her cheeks, and they blush a
little--for the evening.
She slowly crosses the room and rings her bell; then returns to her
chair and sits down.
Susanne appears, uncertain in manner, in the doorway.
"You may finish dressing me, Susanne."
Susanne looks a little anxious, and sets about her business.
Helen attentively watches all she does. She holds out one of her small
feet to be slippered. One of the pair brought is put on. She is
dissatisfied and demands another pair.
Susanne takes Everet's violets from the water, and fastens them on her
corsage.
"Madame is finished."
No, oh no, she is not--not for two hours yet.
Helen goes slowly down the stairs; in the hall below she stops a moment
to give an instruction to a servant passing through. She speaks in her
natural tone, perhaps a little more coldly because she is more excited
than usual. She is quivering. She passes on to the library. She looks
about the room reflectively. She rings the bell. The servant to whom she
spoke in the hall, appears.
"When Mr. Everet comes, ask him to come in here, to the library. Say
that I will be down in a moment. You understand? He is to come in _here_
and wait for me. You are not to _show_ him here--he knows the way."
The man bows and goes from the room.
She looks at the clock. It is nearly half-past eight. Everet is to come
at half-past.
She walks to the cosy chair by the fire, and stops thoughtfully.
She turns to the divan, and says aloud:
"The light is better there. It is more effective."
She crosses to the divan, and drawing the cushions together in a fashion
that pleases her, sinks into them--half sitting, half reclining. The
light from the rose lamp-shade casts a faint glow over the apartment.
She looks across the room to her reflection in the long mirror opposite.
She scans herself critically, draws another cushion under her arm, and
leans her head on her hand. She adjusts her gown to her fancy, and her
attitude is perfect. She is apparently satisfied with herself, for she
remains as she is. Her face indicates nothing.
The minutes tick by.
Some one is standing in the doorway--she can see from under her
half-closed lids in the glass across the room.
Everet stands, silently, watching her. She is evidently asleep. He
crosses the floor softly and stands over her.
His glance takes in every detail of the entrancing picture; the
whiteness of her arm on the pale blue of the pillow; the lace petticoat;
the half-exposed foot; the curve of her neck.
He forgets that she may wake, and stands looking at her. His usually
pale face flushes slightly, and his nervous fingers seem a little more
nervous than usual.
The woman on the divan wakes at the right moment,--the moment could not
have been more propitious had it been carefully selected.
She opens her eyes dreamily and looks at him. Then, with a little start
of confusion sits erect, and murmurs something about "the heat of the
room and the drowsiness of the dim light."
Everet is still flushed, and there is some emotion in his voice.
"The servant told me to await you here--that you were not down yet."
"I have a very stupid servant--I always have to give him the most
explicit instructions; and then he does not always comprehend. Will you
sit here by the fire?"
They draw near the fire together. She seats herself on a low ottoman; he
sits in the cozy chair.
"It must be very cold to-night. I have shivered all the afternoon,
notwithstanding the hot fire we have kept."
She leans toward him, and makes an attempt to reach the scarf she threw
with careful carelessness on the chair when she entered the room a while
ago. She is compelled to lean very near him--and yet cannot quite reach
it.
He places it about her shoulders--the lace catches on a pin in her hair,
and Everet carefully disentangles it. When he has succeeded, he makes
the remark that she is not well--that she is feverish. She laughs a
little nervously:
"I--I am very well."
Her tone belies her words. Everet looks at her anxiously:
"You are not well. Tell me what it is."
He lays his hand over hers. Suddenly there are tears in her eyes--at the
same time she is watching him furtively.
"What is it?--nothing--nothing!"
"There is something. Something is annoying you--troubling you. You must
tell me what it is."
There is sudden command in his voice. She clasps her hands. Her
excitement is intense, but she does not forget the business in hand for
an instant. Even when she clasps her hands in an excess of agitation,
she remembers to make the action effective. It is effective.
"Helen,"--he speaks under his breath,--"I want to know what troubles
you. Has it anything to do with business?"
She starts a little.
"Has it anything to do with business affairs?"
He repeats it.
She does not answer.
"Is it about this measure Braine is working for?"
She holds her breath for an instant, and then slowly nods.
Everet looks at the fire thoughtfully:
"How can that worry you?"
"Ed is anxious. It means--Ah!" throwing out her hands with a helpless,
childish gesture, "it means everything. I cannot tell you why I am
personally anxious."
"I understand that it can mean much to you in one way--but in a way that
I did not suppose was of any moment to you. I understand all it means to
Braine, but I am not in sympathy with it. I could not uphold it--it is a
dishonest affair."
He looks at her. Her lips are pressed tightly together. Suddenly she
says in a despairing little wail:
"Oh! it don't matter."
"What?"
"Whether it seems dishonest to you or not. It will fall through."
"Why?" looking at her sharply.
She ignores the glance.
"Why?" impatiently. "Why? Because the one man whose approval and
assistance is needful will not approve nor assist."
A pause. "Who is it?" watching her.
"Who is it? I don't know. How do you suppose I know? I know nothing of
politics. I hear Ed fret and look anxious. Now and then he condescends
to drop a word--but I can't understand if he does. I don't know who it
is. I only know it is some one."
Everet looks back at the fire. She has not flinched once. She speaks
with the ring of truth in her voice. He has been in this woman's society
almost constantly for weeks, and she has never mentioned anything
pertaining to politics or "business." He believes that those subjects
are beyond her comprehension.
He looks back at her. He wonders if it is possible that Braine has not
told her that _he_ is the needful man. As he looks at her sweet,
troubled face, he decides that it is possible; that she is innocent.
"Would you like to know the man? Would it be of any interest to you?"
She turns to him with a sudden excited movement. She impulsively lays
her hand on his knee, and leans lightly against him.
"Would it? Ah! I would go to him; I would say: You do not know all that
this means to me--how madly I want this thing to succeed. I would
implore him to listen to me. I--"
Her intensity of emotion is contagious, and Everet listens to her,
scarcely comprehending her words, but realizing two facts, both new to
him, that he loves this woman, and has loved her all these weeks
without knowing it, and that the one present, overmastering desire of
her soul is to accomplish this end of winning him to second Braine's
scheme. His conscience would forbid if it were awake, but his passion
for this woman--the wife of his friend--has drugged it to sleep.
"Helen," he cries, "I will do what you ask. I would do anything,
everything for you. I would commit a crime, if you did but ask it. I
will support the measure."
"You will do this for _me_?"
"_For you._ I would not do it for any other in the world."
"Write it then--whatever it is. Say in writing that you will do it,"
pushing him to her open desk.
He scribbles a few lines and throws down the pen.
"You have done this for _me_?" she asks again.
"For _you_, Helen."
"Then I am yours."
She falls, half stifling, into his arms, and he clumsily tries to soothe
her as he places her on the divan, and kneels beside her.
She presently says, still almost frantically:
"You do not know! I came to this room to-night with one deliberate
purpose--to accomplish what I have done; to compel you to support this
measure. I have loved you more and more every day of these last weeks.
God forgive me! I could not help it. I realized my helplessness, and
tried to keep away from you. I made excuses. I was ill, incapable,
anything. I tried to tell him the truth. If he is not a madman he must
have known my condition and my attitude toward you. He did not care. He
wanted _success_. He only cared for me so far as I was of use to him in
satisfying his ambition. He gave no thought to me. I have not seen him
more than once in twenty-four hours for the last three months, and that
was when he had some instruction to give me. He has pushed me over a
precipice. Ah! I am mad, starving for that which he denies
me--affection. He thinks of me as a machine to do his work; with no
feeling, no emotion, nothing human about me. I have tried to do my duty.
I did not forget myself until I had accomplished his work. Now--now--no
matter!"
She buries her face in the pillows of the divan, while Everet looks on
appalled.
* * * * *
Some one stands between the portieres. Helen staggers to her feet.
Everet involuntarily puts his hand on her shoulder.
Braine comes slowly to the middle of the room. His face is livid. He
stops. He articulates hoarsely:
"Take away your hand!"
Everet does not move, but looks Braine in the face. Helen leans heavily
against him. She is fainting, perhaps.
Braine stands motionless a moment, with his hands clenched. He makes a
sudden move toward the pair. He is trembling with fury. He raises his
clenched fist. Helen rises and steps toward him. She seems suddenly to
have recovered herself. She says in a strange, tense voice:
"Stop!"
Braine takes a step backward--it is something in her face that prompts
the action.
She stands looking at him a moment. The room is very still:
"I love this man. I am disloyal."
She crosses the room with a swift movement, and catches from the desk
the paper Everet has written on. She holds it out:
"He has taken me from you. In return--we give you this."
She holds out the paper. Braine is staring at her stupidly, and does not
take it. She drops it at his feet. She is very quiet in her manner and
tone, but she is intense.
Everet is suffocating. Both men watch her in a kind of dream. She goes
on swiftly:
"I have done what I could for you. A reasonable man would be quite
satisfied; I presume you will be; but my usefulness, so far as you are
concerned, is at an end. I have lived for you these last years--now I am
going to live for myself. I am going away with this man. Have you
anything to say?"
A pause, during which they hear every little sound in the house and in
the streets.
Finally, Braine comes toward her. He stretches out his hands
appealingly:
"Helen--"
His voice sounds strange and hollow. She does not move. She says:
"Go on."
He repeats again:
"Helen--"
He stops again; then suddenly staggers against the wall. He moans:
"Oh, my God!"
She does not speak. Everet is under a spell. Even the shadows cast by
the chairs seem to grin grotesquely.
Braine tries to recover himself:
"Helen! on my knees I implore you to forgive me. I see it all--the fault
is mine. You are justified; but you are mad. You don't know what you
say. I love you! Oh God! I have never loved you as I do this moment.
Come back to me. I will forgive--"
"Forgive!"
The pose of her head is regal.
Braine staggers toward her, and drops on his knees. For an instant,
there is a faint glow of tenderness in her face, but it flits across and
does not stay. There is an added coldness in the iciness of her tone:
"I understand that I am not without value--as a wifely politician. I
understand that you will suffer some inconvenience in my loss. I trust
you can fill the vacant situation in time. I must resign--or perhaps
'give warning,' is the proper phrase. I go, at once."
She turns to Everet. He mechanically takes the hand she is stretching to
him. She now ignores Braine. She loses her calm. She hurries toward the
door, drawing Everet with her.
Braine follows. He is trying desperately to speak. His tongue refuses to
obey his will. He can only utter some incoherent, inarticulate sounds.
But the situation is perfectly clear to him. With a force that is
rendering him powerless and dumb, every incident in the last five years
is crowding upon his memory: his preoccupation; his mad struggle for
power and political supremacy; his persistent requirements of this
woman, who, he did not know, needed love instead of position; this
woman, who starved on ambition, and cried for tenderness and affection;
this woman he has loved better than honor--for has not she been
uppermost in his mind when planning for advancement? She is leaving him!
She is already unfaithful! She is gathering about her the wrap she has
snatched from the hall-stand.
Everet is mechanically helping her. She opens the door. Everet's
carriage is waiting for him at the foot of the steps. She has forgotten
Braine. She grasps Everet's arm convulsively, and hurries down to the
street. The door of Everet's brougham closes behind them and the
carriage moves rapidly away.
Braine is staring into the dark. The stupefied servant touches him on
the arm:
"Your breath is freezing on your mustache, sir."
"Is it?"
* * * * *
Matters have 'come to a focus,' at the time he appointed.