"By the way, Edith, how long has Arthur been painting Ninitta?"
"Painting Ninitta?" echoed Edith.
She remembered the wrap she had seen in the studio, with the wavering
evasion of her husband's eyes when her glance had sought his in
question, and painful forebodings against which she had striven, lest
they should become suspicions, were awakened by Helen's words.
"Yes," the other went on. "Fred Rangely told me at dinner to-night that
he couldn't get into the studio this morning because Arthur was
painting Mrs. Herman."
"What did you say to him?" asked Edith.
"I said," her companion returned, looking up in surprise at her tone,
"that I fancied the picture must be intended as a surprise for Mr.
Herman and he'd better not speak of it."
"But," Edith objected, "if Arthur told him she was there"--
"He didn't," interrupted Helen; "a man outside the door said he had
seen her go in."
Edith grew pale as ashes. She evidently made a strong effort at
self-control; and then, burying her face in her hands, she burst into
violent weeping. Helen bent forward and put her arms about her. She
drew the quivering form close, resting Edith's beautiful head upon her
bosom. She did not speak, but with soft, caressing touch she smoothed
the other's hair. She remembered vividly the time, six years before,
when Edith, who had left her at night in indignation and disapproval,
had come to her on the morning after her husband's death. She could
almost have said to this weeping woman, the words with which she
remembered the other had then greeted her,--"You must feel so lonely."
She dared not speak now. She feared to ask the cause of this outburst,
both lest Edith might be led to say what she would afterward wish
unspoken, and because she dreaded to hear unpleasant truths in regard
to Arthur.
"Oh, Helen," Edith sobbed. "Life is too hard! Life is too hard!"
Still Helen did not answer, save by the caress of her fingers. The
tears were in her own eyes. One woman instinctively appreciates the
tragedy of another's life, and her unspoken sympathy was balm to
Edith's soul.
"Come," she said, patting Edith's shoulder as one might soothe a
weeping child, "you're all tired out. I can't take the responsibility
of letting you have hysterics; Arthur would never leave you alone with
me again."
She spoke with as much lightness of tone as she could command, while
her embrace and her caresses conveyed the sympathy she would not put
into words.
Presently Mrs. Fenton disengaged herself from her companion's arms and
sat up, wiping away her tears.
"I must be tired," she said, "or I shouldn't be so foolish."
"You do too much," Helen returned. Then, with the design of giving her
friend a chance to retreat from their dangerous nearness to
confidences, she added,--
"Now tell me what you've done to-day."
"I have done a good deal," the other replied, smiling faintly and
showing the recovery of her self-possession by sundry little touches to
the crushed roses in her gown. "At nine o'clock I went to the Saturday
Morning Club, to hear Mr. Jefferson's paper on 'The Over-Soul in
Buddhism'; then, at eleven, I went to Mrs. Gore's to see an example of
the way they teach deaf and dumb children to read lip language; then
Arthur and I went to luncheon at Christopher Plant's, and at half past
three was the meeting of the committee on the Knitting School; then
there was the reception at Uncle Peter's, and the tea at Mrs. West's,
before I came home to dress for dinner."
Helen leaned back in her chair and laughed musically. She felt, with
mingled relief and a faint sense of disappointment, that her effort to
avoid a confidence had been successful.
"I should think," she said, "that you Boston women would be worn to
shreds, and I don't wonder that you have a leaning toward hysterics.
Did you carry a clear idea of the Buddhistic over-soul through all the
things that came after it in the day?"
She rose as she spoke, with the desire to hasten away. She had little
mind to know more than she must of the causes of Edith's unhappiness.
She was glad to help her friend, but she felt that she could do so no
better from knowing anything Edith could tell her; and she was,
moreover, sure that Mrs. Fenton's loyal soul would bitterly regret it
if she were by the emotion of the minute betrayed into revelations that
involved her husband.
"No," Edith answered, rising in her turn; "I am not even sure whether
the Buddhists believe themselves to have an over-soul. But why must you
go? Wait, and let Arthur walk home with you."
"Oh, I shall take a car," Helen said. "I don't in the least mind going
alone; and it's time both of us were in bed. Good-night, dear; do try
and get rested."