Kitabı oku: «Juggernaut: A Veiled Record», sayfa 13
XXXIII
Helen sits erect in the carriage, her lips pressed tightly together, her hands clasped in her lap.
Everet is very pale, and still seems to be acting half-irresponsibly. He watches her face. There is no change in its expression. He can draw no conclusion from it. Presently he touches her hand:
"Helen."
She turns her face and looks at him. There is no inquiry in the expression. It is merely an action indicating that she has heard him.
He pauses. After a moment, he asks in a low tone:
"Where do you want to go?"
An expression of surprise flits across her face for a moment.
Everet looks out of the window. After a moment:
"Where? To your rooms."
"You are acting under a great strain and excitement now, Helen. Would it not be better to wait a little, until you can think more calmly? Suppose I take you to the Arlington, and you remain there to-night. In the morning, whatever decision you have reached shall be carried out. Would not that be better, dear?"
"You do not want me to go with you?"
She speaks monotonously. He does not reply. She repeats it:
"You do not want me to go with you?"
Everet slips his arm about her. There is something pitiful about this woman sitting by him so white, and speaking in so hard a tone.
"Yes, yes, I want you. I was only thinking of you. I would have you do nothing you will repent, that is all. I – "
"I am going to your rooms. I have decided."
Still the same expressionless voice.
Everet lowers the window, and calls to the coachman:
"Go home."
He then puts the window up again, and resumes his erect attitude and the study of the face of the woman beside him. He feels as though he were acting in his sleep. All has occurred so quickly.
Helen's face seems to have changed in the last hour. The expression that has seemed to him one of innocence and helplessness, is impressing him now as one of determination and perhaps calculation. He is suddenly recalling many details of their acquaintance which coincide with this new impression she is producing – but she is a beautiful woman. Nothing can change that fact.
They do not speak again until they have reached Everet's rooms.
Everet opens the door with his latch-key, and Helen passes in as he holds the door open for her. She stands quite still in the centre of the room, abstractedly.
Everet turns the gas higher and stirs the fire in the grate. He goes about the rooms apparently taking no direct notice of her, for a moment, feeling a certain humiliation for her and himself in the situation.
She still stands with her wraps on, and finally Everet comes to her. He takes her hands in his. He says gently:
"Helen, you do not regret?"
She lifts her eyes and looks at him inquiringly:
"Regret? Why should I regret? I have your love?"
Everet catches his lip between his teeth. He replies hoarsely:
"Yes."
"Then why should I regret?"
She unfastens her cloak, and it slips to the floor, leaving her in evening dress, with white bare neck and arms. There is a difference in the atmosphere. Her own house is a degree warmer than Everet's rooms.
He notices the tremor that seizes her, and throws her fur cape about her shoulders. He takes her hand and leads her to a chair by the fire. He places her gently in it, and stands by the side of her. After a moment he says:
"I want to think for you, dear, if you will let me. Whatever I say, remember it is for your own good, because I – I love you. You have become so unhappy that you are not responsible just now for your actions. I want to put things before you plainly. You are here, in my rooms to-night – but you can return home and no one will be the wiser. You are a woman prominent in society. Your husband's name is famous throughout the country. No breath of calumny has ever touched you. If you remain with me, it will be known from here to San Francisco within forty-eight hours. Then, regrets will be useless. You will have lost everything forever but – my love; home, position, fortune, everything that is essential to the happiness of such a woman as you. You can return to-night, no one – "
"Every one knows," in a hard tone – "my servant witnessed all —every one knows."
Everet is silent a moment. Then he speaks slowly:
"Well, if that be true, at least you have nothing to reproach yourself for, yet. Though they know, you will have the knowledge that you are an – honorable woman if you return at once – "
She stops him with a gesture:
"What is that to me? The world will not know it. What I have done is irrevocable, I tell you. I have been in your rooms for fifteen minutes, and three people beside ourselves know it, – your servant, and mine, and my husband. It is possible that I might have done differently if I had been a little more deliberate, – I think not, but it is possible. However, I was not more deliberate – and there is nothing to be done. When a woman scorns conventionalities as I do, all is over."
She speaks proudly. She is in earnest.
Everet feels a sudden tenderness and compassion for this strange woman who speaks with such conviction of her scorn for conventionalities when her respect and reverence for them is what is about to ruin her and deprive her of all peace.
The mere thought that she has stepped aside never so little from the beaten path has paralyzed her capacity of reasoning, and she will wander about in the wood forever, having lost the power to find her way back.
He has done what he could. Now he stands staring at the fire. After a moment he feels a soft hand on his. Helen is looking at him with appealing eyes. She murmurs like a grieved little child:
"I have nothing but you now. If you do not fail me, I shall not miss the rest."
He stoops and clasps her in his arms.
XXXIV
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.
After a time there is a knock on the door. Braine calls: "Come in."
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.
Braine says under his breath: "This is more than I deserve."
He writes:
"Helen: " – then sits staring at the word. "I dare not come to you until you send for me. I throw myself at your feet, and implore you to forgive me. So miserable a man as I does not live. Helen, child, wife of my heart, who has known the good of my life as well as the bad, come back to me. My life from this hour shall attest my love for you, my sorrow and repentance. Helen, by the memories of those first years, when we lived but one for the other, I implore you. We will go away together. I forswear this life forever. I have wealth. My last penny shall be used for your happiness. The world is all before us. Command, and your least wish shall be fulfilled. My sin is great, my punishment is more than I can bear. Come back, sweet wife, and help me by your presence, your word of approval, to right my terrible wrong if I can. Oh, Helen, the memory of those days filled with your love and goodness crowd upon me, making my despair more hopeless; making my loneliness grimmer. That which you have longed for shall be yours. No more of this hurry and striving! No more of this frenzied living! Come back, Helen, wife, come back – "
The pen slips from his fingers. The paper is all blotted with his tears. He rings the bell, and hands the message through the door. It is gone. And now he waits.
He goes to the seat by the dead fire. He waits with Helen's neglected things in his hands – with Helen's dog at his feet.
An hour goes by, and still he waits – a little longer, and a note is handed through the door.
His note – unopened.
XXXV
"Then you refuse to accept it?" Everet is speaking.
"Yes. I refuse." Helen speaks decisively and walks away to the window.
"Helen."
Everet comes close to her. He speaks hesitatingly.
"You know that I am your true friend, that when I urge this upon you it is through no lack of desire on my part to supply you with all your heart could wish. You know that when I urged you to return to Braine, I thought of your happiness. You know this. As long as you are satisfied, this house and everything in it is yours, and all your wishes shall be fulfilled so far as I am able to do it; but I feel that there is a day coming when you will not be satisfied, living in this way; and then – in money will be your only hope. I must speak plainly, dear. It is for this reason that I entreat you to accept this provision which Braine offers. All that I have is at your disposal, but I have little in comparison with the wealth Braine wishes to place in your hands."
She turns and looks at him. She says slowly:
"I do not want your wealth, or his. I want what you will not give me – love. Wealth will not take its place. If you cannot give me that, there is but one thing that can in any degree make it up to me – power. One or the other I must have. One or the other must help me to forget my ruined life – the life that he has ruined, and now thinks to pay for with money."
"You are wrong. He has sinned, but if ever a human being suffered and has tried to rectify his mistakes, he is the one. He has implored you to return. You have refused all overtures. You have returned his letters unopened. You have been unwilling to listen – "
"Listen? You talk like a child. This man has done me the greatest wrong that a woman ever suffered. These last two months with him have been one great insult, one monstrous indignity and affront. Listen? It is too late. Once I begged him to listen to me. I humiliated myself before him, begging for one little expression of love – the next morning he mocked me. It is too late."
And Everet knows that she speaks the truth.
He says sorrowfully:
"Very well. You cannot return to him? Then be merciful, let him make the little reparation in his power. Accept this money from him."
She shakes her head:
"Never!"
Then, with a burst of emotion, "Why do you torment me in this way? Once you would have given half your life for my favor; now you are as unresponsive as a block of wood."
Everet's face grows troubled:
"Not so," he says; "don't accuse me of this, Helen. Don't call me unresponsive. You are very dear to me – but I may not have you for my wife, and I cannot accept you in another relation. I cannot do that. My position has been a terrible one. I don't think you can understand – "
"His crime was directed toward you – "
"And do you not see that this compels me to be generous? I cannot do that thing. This man has discovered his wrong and is repentant. I should be a dog if I refused to recognize the fact. He has converted everything he possesses in the world into money, and begs you to accept it. He leaves his home, and takes himself away from his fellows to live – this man who has swayed thousands with his eloquence, who has commanded the homage of all the country, who has held the affairs of the nation in his hands. This man has humbled himself, has forsworn it all, has buried his strength and his greatness and his talents in a little forsaken wilderness. God! I am an honor-loving man; I despise his crime, and my own; and yet, I doubt if I should be great enough for this. After all, he was guilty of nothing but what his associates are guilty of every day of their lives, and will continue in uninterruptedly and with less excuse; the difference – that one has met with retribution and the others have not. To-day I have more respect and reverence for this man who has been overtaken and repents, than for Grayson who has braved it through and is about to step into his place – "
"He would not be repenting in sackcloth and ashes if he had not been overtaken."
There is a touch of wormwood in her voice.
"Perhaps not; but he is repenting, with an humbler repentance than I believe even the Lord cares to accept."
Helen's eyes gleam a little, and her lips are firmly pressed together. Everet's defence of the man who has tried to wrong him, and whom she has loved, cannot convince her.
After a time Everet rises to go. He holds her hands in his for a moment:
"You are decided?"
"Decided."
Everet says good night. Helen turns wearily back into the pretty rooms. She looks about, almost contemptuously. Her face is not the face of the Helen of six months ago. To-night it expresses weariness, hopelessness, bitterness, longing. She clasps her hands a little wildly. She has not found what she sought. Since the night in Everet's house, he has been the friend, not the lover. The old life sometimes comes over her as it has to-night. The old sweet life, the old sweet love – and yet, the old love would not satisfy her now, if it must be linked with the old life. That is an unacknowledged reason for her obduracy. Love without money? Yes. Love without power, excitement, intrigue? No. If this has poisoned all her days, yet it is a delicious poison.
At times she is consumed with a sense of the mortification and indignity of those last months with Braine. She feels a bitter desire for some sort of revenge. What would she have known of longing and ambition, and falsehood and madness, but for him?
She has fallen into a morbid state. She now sees no one. She is without the social pale of her old acquaintance among whom she ruled. The thing for which she has been in training for years is denied her. That which nature intended her for – the life of a loving woman – has been made tasteless to her. Her natural appetite is ruined; her acquired taste is ungratified. She thinks:
"Could I be occupied! Could I forget, a little while!"
She throws herself upon the divan with a little moan. She lies so for an hour, perhaps. A card is brought her – she reads "Dalzel."
She rises with a curious expression on her face. She stands expectant.
An hour later as he is leaving, he says:
"Of all the women able to accomplish the thing, you are the best fitted." And watching him go, she thinks:
"This is the clever man who was cleverer than my friend. What better incentive could a woman want?"
