Braine rings his bell and sends the envelope he has been addressing.
Woolet answers the bell and takes the note. Braine says laconically:
"Send by messenger."
Woolet leaves the room--his master's manner is oppressive. The silence
of the house is oppressive. Ruin and catastrophe seem to pervade the
atmosphere. The sombre looking clock on the mantel strikes solemnly.
Helen's dog sits dejectedly by the fire, now and then going to Braine
and poking its nose into his hand. Braine watches it mechanically. He
has not left his seat since last night at ten o'clock. The room looks
neglected, as all rooms look if not lived in for twenty-four hours.
He has sat silently in his chair during all these hours, with his arms
on the desk before him, and his head on his arms. Now he looks calmly
about the room. On a chair is Helen's scarf. He rises and going over to
it picks it up. It breathes the perfume peculiar to the woman. He folds
it in his hands and carries it about the room as he moves aimlessly here
and there. Her handkerchief is under a chair. He takes that up and
carries it about with the scarf. Helen's dog follows at his heels.
Braine's face is ghastly. There are great rings under his eyes, and
furrows in his cheeks that were not there last night. He pauses in the
middle of the floor. A scene of long ago comes vividly to him. A little
dingy office, in a far off Western town; an "editorial sanctum;" a
little half rusty, half white-washed stove set in its box of sand; grimy
walls; a man at a rickety desk with improvised pigeon-holes of collar
boxes. Not a very inspiring picture? Well, no, but he would give his
house with its art treasures, his fame, his wealth, for that little
dingy office, with its obscurity--and Helen. Helen, with the sunny eyes.
Helen, with the hair where you sought for missing sunbeams; Helen's
heart, that sought for nothing--because it was satisfied with what it
had found. Helen,--the lost Helen!
He goes to the desk and looks among some old papers. He shades his eyes
with his hand--though the light is not strong. He pulls out a
long-folded newspaper clipping that reads:
"There died in this town to-day, a young man much esteemed by his
fellow-citizens," etc., and as he finishes and lays it by, something
near him mutters, "Juggernaut!"
He sits staring into the dead fire--no one has dared intrude upon him to
replenish it.