He does not move. Everet comes to the . fireplace and stands silently
waiting till he shall speak.
Braine looks at him and rising, says slowly:
"Good evening--Everet. You will be seated?"
The poor voice trembles in its effort at courtesy and usualness. Everet
sits. He says, after a moment:
"You wanted me, Braine?"
His tone is kind, and trembles a little too. This handsome, dignified
statesman is a sorrowful sight to see.
"Yes. It was kind of you to come," with his eyes fixed on the black
grate.
Everet glances at the little crumpled bunch held so tightly in the man's
hands.
Braine seems to recover himself with an effort, and tries to speak
formally; this is more pitiful than before. He says evenly, as though
repeating a lesson:
"I thought perhaps you would come. I felt that it was better to see you
first--I thought--I thought--"
He pauses and looks helplessly at Everet. Evidently he cannot keep the
thread of his ideas.
Everet says quietly:
"You thought I could tell you about--Helen--your wife? Perhaps--advise
you?"
Braine nods.
"That is a strange thing to expect of me, under the circumstances."
"Yes, I know," in an apathetic tone; "I know--but these are not ordinary
circumstances. You--you were not to blame--"
Everet suddenly stretches out his hand. There is an eagerness in his
tone. He says:
"Thank you for that, Braine. I--I--" He pauses.
Braine continues:
"No, you were not to blame--nor she--Oh, Everet!" rising and speaking
excitedly, "she was not to blame. You do not know. She is as good as the
angels. The crime is mine. Though she sank to the gutter, mine would be
the responsibility, not her's. Six months ago she was as true in
thought and deed as a child. I forced her to this. I--I--I--"
He lays his head on the mantel, and sobs shake him from head to foot. No
one cares to see a strong man weep. Everet walks to the window and
stands, doing something with his handkerchief.
Braine becomes quiet. Everet crosses to him, and lays his hand on his
shoulder.
"Braine,"--he speaks in a deep, earnest voice,--"God only knows how I
have suffered in twenty-four hours. My suffering has been small compared
with yours, but it has been enough. There is nothing to explain. All is
as clear to me as the day. You think I should feel contempt for you? I
cannot feel that, though your crime has been against me too,--and you
will never know how great it was until you know how I believed in and
revered the woman who wrought for you. I feel nothing but the deepest
pity for you. Since the first time I heard your name in connection with
the great schemes of the West, I have reverenced your ability, though
not always the account you turned it to--as in this dicker with the
whiskey ring. But that you are a great man and a great statesman--not
politician, statesman--your bitterest enemies must admit. I am an
ambitious man. I cannot say, nor prove even to myself that I would not
have done as you have done, had I had the power, the ability. I think
now that I would not--but perhaps that is because I know that I cannot.
If you have done dishonorable things, you have also done great things.
If you have toiled for yourself, you have also toiled for others. You
have been a power for good. Last night I pleaded with your wife, Helen,
to return here. She refused. I implored her to go to a hotel until the
day came, and she could think more collectedly. She said: 'Do you mean
that you do not want me?' I took this woman to my home. She was weak,
sorrowful, undone. I am a man--I have loved her--nay, I _do_ love
her--you could not expect me to do differently. To-day, at the risk of
wounding her, I proposed that she let me make some other arrangement for
her. She would not listen. Her will must be mine. I am ready to give you
any satisfaction you demand."
Braine makes a gesture of his hand. He says hoarsely:
"I have committed crimes enough. There could be no satisfaction for
me--except to kill you--and--" He looks in Everet's face and
finishes--"I should be taking the life of one of the few men I can
respect."
Everet takes his hand, and these two men, strangely enough, make a
silent compact of brotherhood, never to be broken--and one of them has
taken the other's wife. But strange things happen in this complex world
of ours.
Everet says in a gratified voice:
"I am forever in your debt for the weight you take from my heart. All
night, all day the expression of your face last night has followed me. I
have had no happiness for thinking of your grief."
Braine is now and then shaken by a nervous thrill. He says:
"May I go to her?"
Everet looks at him for a moment, then says slowly:
"It would do no good, Braine. She is obdurate. She will never return to
you, and I could not receive you unless she wished it. You understand
me, do you not? She is now under my roof and my protection. I must
respect her wishes. I must protect her even against her husband, if she
commands--until her husband take measures to punish me. You understand,
do you not?"
Braine looks a little dazed.
"Yes, I understand."
He speaks so hopelessly that Everet's face contracts with sympathy and
pain. He proposes:
"You might write to her, Braine. I could not take it, you know. But I
will be there when she receives it. I will prevail upon her to read it,
should she refuse."
Every word that is spoken only in kindness and from the heart, cuts
Braine like a knife. He feels no jealousy, that this grave friend has an
influence over his wife which he no longer possesses, but the thought
hurts terribly.
He grasps eagerly at the suggestion.
Everet says as Braine begins to write:
"I will go now, Braine. Send the note at once by the messenger--and--"
He hesitates. Braine looks wistfully at him.
Everet comes close to him. He says, in a solemn, impressive tone:
"From this hour, your wife's honor shall be as sacred to me as it is to
you. I will protect her, even against myself, though she remain in my
house. And I do this--not for her, but for you."
He leaves the room before Braine can speak.