Kitabı oku: «Juggernaut: A Veiled Record», sayfa 11
XXVI
[From Helen's Diary.]
February, – . Breakfasted this morning in my own room. Could not entertain the thought of ever seeing or speaking to Edgar again.
I looked haggard when I got up. I did not sleep an hour all night. While I was making a sorry attempt to eat some breakfast, and strengthening my determination never to speak to Edgar again, Woolet brought up a note, saying that Edgar told him to give it to me as soon as I was up.
I was like adamant and determined not to look at it. I should have sent it down to him immediately, but for the curiosity such a thing would have aroused among the servants.
As Woolet was going, he said:
"Mr. Braine said Madame would please forward all his mail that came to-day."
I was thunderstruck. Forward his mail! I snatched up the note, all my determination gone.
It was but a few lines, saying that he took the 9:10 train for New York, on business, and would return on Friday – this is Tuesday.
I felt like a baby. I sent Susanne away, and burst out crying. It seemed to me that I must see him, and soften the situation a little.
I could never have consented to this thing that he proposed, but it does not seem terrible enough to justify such severity – this morning.
It seems to me that I cannot endure the time until Friday – but when he returns I shall treat him with proper dignity, of course. It is my duty to make him feel that I judge his conduct severely. And yet, I will be forgiving and affectionate – to an extent. Only to an extent. (This will be very hard for me.)
I felt so wretched that I thought a drive would do me good, so at two, I went out. I became so tired and disgusted with meeting people and bowing to them, that I turned around and came home. There is nothing that makes a miserable person feel more miserable than to see people happier than herself.
I felt as though I was ready to drop when I got up the steps, and who should be in the reception-room but this very bone of contention, awaiting my return. I felt like flying up the stairs and locking myself in my room, but instead of doing so childish a thing, I walked into the room with admirable dignity.
I intended to see that he made his call very short; but after a moment we got talking of the new minister and his funny little wife, and in the gossip I seemed quite to forget my wretchedness for a while, and we went into the library, where it is cosier, and sat down by the fire and had a delightful afternoon.
Mrs. Hetherington called – as she pays no attention to days, but runs in promiscuously – and I sent word, "Not at home." I felt a little shocked at myself, and hardly knew what Mr. Everet thought – for it is a little unusual, of course, to keep a man whom you have met so seldom, gossiping a whole afternoon in your library, and denying yourself to all other callers – devoting yourself exclusively to him. And I shouldn't have done it – though there was really no harm in it – if Ed had not said what he did, last night.
I didn't encourage Mr. Everet to call again, nor try to be agreeable at all, but was just usual and everyday, just as I shall always be when he calls.
He seemed quite at home, and we had tea in the library, and he left just in time for me to dress for the English Minister's reception – where we met two hours later.
He – Mr. Everet – is more interesting than any of the men I have met. There is a dignity about him that I like, and that I have never found in anyone else but Edgar. I did not know what he would think of my letting him stay as I did, but he accepted it most naturally, as a matter of course – and it was a temptation, for I was so miserable that anything seemed acceptable that enlivened me a little.
He noticed my mood, I think, for he was not flippant and tiresome, but sympathetic – though we only referred to the most commonplace subjects. He remarked that I looked weary and pale. It does a woman good to have these little things noticed. It seemed quite like Edgar – as he used to be.
Mr. Everet said it was refreshing to find a natural, unaffected, candid woman in Washington. I do think it must seem a relief to men. If women did as Edgar wishes me to do, the men would be in a terrible plight. They would have to hate all the women in self-defence.
I couldn't help observing the interest Mr. Everet seems to feel in me – though I really should not have thought of it if Edgar had not suggested it. For a moment there was a certain fascination in the idea of making a strong, dignified man do just what a helpless insignificant little woman like me wants him to do.
As a sort of experiment, I made him go to Gladys Grayson's after the affair at the minister's although he had said that he had an important appointment at eleven, and that a great deal depended on his keeping it – but he went to the Graysons'. Of course, I didn't care a fig whether he went or not; only, as I say, it was a kind of experiment.
I'm frightfully tired, and here it is three o'clock and I still up.
Edgar will be at home on Friday, and this is Wednesday morning. I shall be glad to tell him again, how I scorn his proposition – I shall tell him that Mr. Everet noticed my pallor, and I think he will feel a little ashamed of himself. He ought to.
XXVII
[From Helen's Diary.]
February – . Arose, breakfasted, and went for a drive; stopped at Gladys's on the way home; had tea with her in her boudoir.
Mr. Grayson wanted to come in too, but Gladys wouldn't let him. She says he is really a terrible bore; that she has to keep him down or he would run right over her. I wish Edgar would run right over me. She says that Mr. Grayson never seems to remember that after a woman has discharged all her duties, she is absolutely too worn out for the little et ceteras and asides of life. I think she is right. She is one of those women who carry conviction with all they say; but I always feel in some way that Edgar is a duty instead of an et cetera and an aside. I dare say I shall get over this in time. Gladys assures me I will.
She said to-day that I was "just cut out" for a successful diplomat; that I am so sincere and straightforward in my manner that I am the last person on earth to suspect. She says it will be my "trump card" when I know how to play it.
I presume I am lacking in fine appreciation, but in some way this seemed to cheapen sincerity. It does not, of course, for of all women in the world, Gladys would be the last to endure cheap sentiment or cheap lace. Of all the spotless, high-bred, delicate, forcible women I have ever seen, she is the most so.
I blushed to think of the cold contempt she would feel for me should she even know that I had heard such a proposition. I represented to her a case like mine, as though it were something I had heard of, and asked her what she could think of such a thing. Her haughty indignation was superb, inspiring. It did me good. I feel just so myself. I wanted to blush for even having made Mr. Everet go there the other night.
Well, nothing else of any account happened to-day.
I met Mrs. Stevens and looked the other way, at the pug of the wife of the Secretary of the Navy. It is so strange that she has no better taste than to wear a blue gown with a brown dog.
I chatted a moment with Senator Stacy's wife, and told her that her second child was a picture – (it is – of ugliness). I felt it a duty to say this, however, as the only thing false about it was the impression it conveyed to her – and the Senator's good will is quite necessary to Edgar's plans.
Then I went to the Talbots', and wound up with the Farringtons' reception.
And now, thank heaven, I am going to bed, and Edgar will be at home in the morning. I shall go nowhere to-morrow night, for he will be glad to have me at home – unless he should treat me coldly. I won't even think of that.
XXIII
[From Helen's Diary.]
February 16, 18 – . To-day Edgar came into the library after dinner – I dined alone, and was taking my coffee there, cosily, by the fire. He stood in the door a moment, looking at me, before he entered the room. The first thing he said was:
"Good Heavens! What should not a woman like you be able to accomplish – "
This, after having been out of town three days!
He said it as though wholly engrossed with that one thought – that my beauty and charm are valuable to him as a means by which to accomplish, instead of being things dear to him for their own sake, because they belong to him.
I daresay I am foolishly sensitive about this. I know he adores me. He proved the injustice of my thought a moment later – while the impression was yet in my mind. He hurried across the room and threw himself on his knees by my chair. I had not risen to meet him, as my heart and first impulse had prompted, because his greeting had repelled me, but I felt humiliated and reproached myself for my pettiness afterwards.
I was thankful that he was so engrossed with seeing me again as not to notice it. He threw himself on his knees by me and kissed my hands.
He looks tired and worn. It impressed me for the first time as he knelt there with his arms about my waist. He said, in a tone that brought the tears to my eyes:
"I have thought of you almost constantly, dear, since I have been away from you."
He said it wistfully. I knew his mind had been on the scene we had, here, in this room where I am writing, before he left.
There was a sort of dreary surrender in his tone; but every inflection of his voice, and every glance, conveyed passionate love for me. I should have felt no reproach or misgiving had it been otherwise, but his apparent giving up, and hopelessness, touched me.
I do not know that I have done right. I have not mentioned the subject, nor has he referred to it in any way since he got back this evening. I don't know that it is anything sufficiently out of the usual order of things to justify my decision. That Edgar is cruelly disappointed is certain. That he does not reproach me is certain. That he loves me better than he ever has done before, is certain.
Two months ago, had I greeted him after a twenty-four hours' absence as indifferently as I fear I did to-night, he would not have forgotten it in a month, but he was so thoroughly engrossed in his own happiness in getting home to me to-night, that he did not even notice my manner.
I feel my purpose suddenly shaken. The memory of his face, its resignation, its weary expression, haunts me. One moment I am impelled to say "I will do anything you ask," and the next, I am seized with repulsion at the thought of accomplishing anything by such a means.
The idea of a woman's receiving adulation from another man than her husband, seems a scandalous thing; but the idea of her courting it – setting out with a deliberate purpose to win it – seems monstrous.
And yet, if Edgar doesn't rebel, I don't really see much excuse for obstinacy on my part. It does seem a little "far fetched" in me when I come to consider the circumstances. If it were a usual thing, a thing that would be considered as a matter of course, I should feel less strongly about it, but it is so extraordinary – at least it seems so to me.
I can imagine Mrs. Hetherington exclaiming: "Disgraceful!" and see Gladys's look of cold surprise, tinged with her ironical expression that she preserves for the little, unconventional escapades of A, B and C. This kind of thing is intolerable to me. When I think of this, every fibre of my body resents the possibility of such a thing. And when I remember his face to-night, I can no longer think on the other side of the question.
He is over at the Arlington at this moment, engaged in heaven knows what, that will send him home to me looking more depressed and miserable than ever.
Some one taps lightly on the door, and opens it without ceremony, and Helen throws down her pen as Braine enters.
It is as she has expected. His face and manner indicate fatigue. He brightens up and says with a show of gayety so evidently forced that Helen's lips tremble a little:
"Well, dearest!"
She goes slowly to him, and takes his hands which he is holding out to her. She looks at him wistfully, with a half sad little smile on her face. She says softly:
"Well?"
"You are all alone to-night? No receptions, nor 'affairs'?"
The glimmer-smile deepens a little, and she draws him towards the fire. She says – pushing him into the chair:
"Oh yes – plenty of them – Gladys gave a dinner to the Stones to-night."
"And you are not there?" with a little surprise in his voice, but an expression half-eager, half-pleased on his face.
She brightens as she notes the look, and says softly:
"No, I like this better."
She leans against him, and rubs her cheek carelessly against his shoulder.
The gratified expression deepens an instant; then Braine says a little hurriedly, with a touch of anxiety in the tone:
"You must not neglect anything for me, dearest. Social duties are everything here. Don't mind me. I sha'n't feel neglected."
Helen slowly raises her head. She stares at him for a moment. He is looking abstractedly into the fire, and patting her hand in a mechanical way. He does not see her face. The expression of pleasure and gratification has died out of it. Expressions of astonishment, humiliation, resentment and hauteur replace each other there successively. Now she says in a cold tone:
"I did not remain on that account, of course. I had a slight headache – a mere nothing – " as Braine looks up anxiously – "But I felt that the crush there to-night would not help it."
She finishes a little less coldly. Braine has not noticed the tone. When she has said that the headache is a "mere nothing," he at once goes back to his meditations – but the sudden look of anxious sympathy has at once touched her, and caused another revulsion of feeling in his favor.
She crosses the room and picks up a book from the table.
Suddenly Braine says, as though thinking aloud:
"If this should go any farther it would be a bad thing for Grayson."
Helen looks up from her book:
"Why? What is it?"
Braine arouses himself, and speaks interestedly:
"This land grant bill! Gladys has been trying to run things, it seems, and has made a botch of it. She has gone too headlong, and compromised herself to such an extent with the committee chief, that when she was prepared for a coup de grace, the congressman turned the tables. It is a bad thing for Grayson. The man has her in his power, and swears that unless Grayson will actively uphold the counter-policy, he will make it uncomfortable for his wife. Grayson has just been telling me all about it, and is almost helpless in the matter. Something must be done."
Helen is on her feet. Her eyes are wide with astonishment, and something like horror. She stammers:
"What – what – what?"
Her tone startles Braine. He looks around:
"Why Helen! What is the matter, child, I didn't imagine it would startle you so. Of course you feel anxiety for Gladys – friends as you are – but she is a clever woman, and I have no doubt she will get out of it in some way."
He speaks reassuringly. She comes to his side. She says hoarsely, with excitement expressed in every movement;
"Has – has – has Gladys been working through Mr. Dalzel for this scheme?"
Her fingers twist nervously. Braine cannot understand her. He looks at her in bewilderment:
"Working for it? Why certainly, dear. Why shouldn't she – her husband's interests are hers. Yes. She has been doing what she could, of course – she has done her best, and isn't to blame for such a faux pas as this; but it seems a little stupid in her. There would be no danger of such a thing on your part!"
He makes the remark more to himself than to her, and leans back, watching her through his half-closed lids. How proud he is of this woman! How he loves her!
Helen stands quietly by his side, looking intently at the coals in the grate. Presently she says in a low, calm tone of conviction, elation, irrevocable decision:
"No, I should make no mistakes."
A silence. After a moment:
"I have been thinking over the little conversation we had before you left, Edgar. I have changed my mind. I think I will see – Everet."
Braine rises from his chair. He stands looking at her for a moment. He takes her in his arms.
XXIX
[From Helen's Diary.]
February, 18 – . Well, I really cannot express my feelings. It seems to me that in twenty-four hours I have been metamorphosed and am some one else living in another world.
Now that I have undertaken this, I have no idea of failing. I will succeed, if it costs every thing. I suddenly feel that I am made for this.
Gladys called to-day. Everet had just made a short call and gone. – He did not know whether he left by the front steps to the street, or was making a descent from heaven into the other place – and yet, I made only the least exertion to please, imaginable. It made me feel superb, magnificent, inspired, when I thought of what I can do if I really try.
I felt a mad exultation over Gladys. She was as pale as a ghost, and hardly seemed to know what she was talking about. I should never betray my defeat or difficulty if I should meet with it. I felt such a superiority that I almost felt like shrieking it at her, when remembering how she has deceived me all this time. I was secretly delighted, though, at my astonishing self-control, for she never noticed a thing. She said:
"How I envy your freedom from care and anxiety, and your innocence of all the wire-pulling that some have to do."
She looked fagged out when she said this, I should not have known her. She never spoke in this manner before.
I smiled and said, "I presumed it must be wearing – especially if one was not clever enough to succeed."
She looked at me sharply, and with some surprise. Yesterday I would have shrivelled all up under the look. To-day I just smiled calmly.
If nothing else urged me on – if I were not doing this for Edgar's sake – I should be wild to attempt it just to prove my power and ability superior to Gladys's. To think how completely she has deceived me all this time!
Edgar almost wearied me with affection to-night. One can't be always troubled with sentiment, when one has matters of so much importance on hand.
Of course, I did nothing to wound his feelings but he understood by my manner that I was preoccupied.
He tried to coach me. Coach me! How stupid men are sometimes! He was determined that I should grasp Everet by the collar and hold him while he consented to do as I wished. I gave him to understand that I must be absolutely let alone in this matter; that in an affair like this there was nothing for him to teach me. Such a proceeding would ruin all. Everet would jump out of the window, and never be seen any more. It is my innocence and unworldliness that have attracted him, and it is that that must fascinate him. I must appear to gain nothing by strategy, even in the end, but by pure uncalculating innocence. He must be absolutely under my control before one other step is taken.
If argument would have accomplished his yielding there would be no need of effort on my part. It would have been accomplished long ago. If I am to be mistress of the situation I must work entirely with personal allurement.
To-night, at dinner I made him drink "to my success." It was delicious. He had no more idea of the import of it than of the way my back hair was done. This one little incident so delighted me that I had to laugh and talk incessantly to keep myself within bounds.
Ed dined at home, with us, and when I looked across at him as I made the suggestion, my eyes were fairly dancing at the supreme irony of it, but Edgar did not seem to see its deliciousness, and looked as grave as an owl.
Afterward he said: "Women are incomprehensible. Now – there was no necessity whatever for that little scene at dinner. Absolutely none."
Of course there was none. If there had been, the point would have been lacking.
To-morrow night I give a theatre party – Everet goes —and comes home with me. Heigho!
XXX
[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 negligée; 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.
She says calmly; "I was not going out to-night."
There is the most imperceptible pause before her next words. Braine makes no remark. She continues;
"And I thought if you had any work to do in the way of writing, I might as well do it."
She finishes, and turns back to the fire.
He replies: "If you are not going out, you might draft a reply to Carson's letter. It must be carefully done. There must be enough in it to satisfy him, but not enough to commit me. You understand about what I want, I think."
"Yes. I think so," drily.
"So – I'm off, dear. Good-bye."
The door closes. The woman at the fire rises and looks slowly about the room. The expression in her face is an ugly one. She rings her bell, and mutters, "H'm!" as she unties her gown.
She is passive while Susanne dresses her. She does not leave the house for an hour and a half yet. She finishes her toilet, and goes back to the library to prepare the letter to Carson. It is a masterpiece when finished, and she studies it with satisfaction.
She put on her wraps and waits a moment for the carriage, then drives off to the "Cabinet affair."
She has her wits about her – she has a business affair here, too. She remains until she knows she has accomplished all she can, and then sends for her carriage.
