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diff --git a/old/60169-0.txt b/old/60169-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 1f755b5..0000000 --- a/old/60169-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,6261 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The House of Helen, by Corra Harris - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll -have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using -this ebook. - - - -Title: The House of Helen - -Author: Corra Harris - -Release Date: August 25, 2019 [EBook #60169] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HOUSE OF HELEN *** - - - - -Produced by Tim Lindell, David E. Brown, and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - - - - - - - - - THE HOUSE - OF HELEN - - CORRA HARRIS - - - - - THE - HOUSE OF HELEN - - - BY - - CORRA HARRIS - - AUTHOR OF “A DAUGHTER OF ADAM,” “THE EYES OF LOVE,” - “MY SON,” “HAPPILY MARRIED,” “A CIRCUIT RIDER’S - WIFE,” “THE RECORDING ANGEL,” ETC. - AND IN COLLABORATION WITH FAITH HARRIS LEECH: - “FROM SUNUP TO SUNDOWN” - - [Illustration] - - NEW YORK - GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY - - - - - COPYRIGHT, 1923, - BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY - - [Illustration] - - - COPYRIGHT, 1922, 1923, - BY THE CURTIS PUBLISHING COMPANY - - - THE HOUSE OF HELEN. II - - PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA - - - - -PART ONE - - - - -THE - -HOUSE OF HELEN - - - - -PART ONE - - - - -CHAPTER I - - -The town of Shannon lay like a wreath flung wide upon the hills above -one of those long, green, fertile valleys to be seen everywhere below -the Blue Ridge Mountains in North Georgia. It was nothing like a city, -merely a neat, little town built by thrifty people since the Civil -War. Therefore, there were no colonial residences in it to remind you -of the strutting, magnificent past, but the houses in it were smaller, -painted any color that pleased the fancy, ruffled from end to end, with -spindle-legged porches and scalloped gables. White church spires stuck -up out of it like the forefingers of faith in God. There was a town -square, around which business was done comfortably and leisurely on a -credit basis. - -The red-brick courthouse stood in this square, with a long, wide -flight of white cement steps to it, showing like the teeth of the law; -not that any one minded these teeth. The dome of this courthouse was -covered with galvanized tin. It shone above the tufted trees on bright -days like an immense silver helmet. And beneath this helmet there was -the town clock, a good, old man with a plain, round face with only -the wrinkles that marked the hours on it. Half the men in Shannon who -carried watch chains carried no watches because this clock was so -infallibly faithful to the sun. - -At the time of which I write no one in Shannon called the narrow or -even the wide spaces, which separated their respective homes from the -street, a lawn. It was the “front yard,” and usually divided with a -picket fence from the back yard, where the hens attended to business. -Flowers, of the kind in service to “ladies” who wear aprons and do -their own work and have an artless affection for blooming things, -inhabited these front yards, regardless of law and order in the matter -of background or perspective. The forsythia, syringas, roses and -altheas had been planted with reference to their health in relation -to the sun, and, whatever happened, they bloomed. Only the smaller -plants, like annuals, were sternly disciplined. They stood up in beds -or along the graveled walks, like spelling classes in a properly graded -school, every one of them reciting a bloom after the manner of its kind. - -These ladies of Shannon also kept “potted plants” and exchanged -cuttings. It is only after you have ceased to be thrifty and have -become rich that you imprison your flowers in a conservatory or a -greenhouse. Shannon reached this scandalous pinnacle of prosperity -years later, but at this time there was what may be called miniature -“bleachers” on the front porches in Shannon where red and pink and -white geraniums doubled up gorgeous fists of bloom, and fuchsias hung -their waxened bells in the breeze, and begonias flaunted their rich, -dark leaves, and that unspeakably gross and hardy vine, the Wandering -Jew, wandered at will. - -These flower-laden bleachers were especially characteristic of Wiggs -Street, because this was the principal residence street of Shannon. And -it was all a family affair. The nieces of the geraniums on Mrs. Adams’ -porch bloomed on the porch of the Cutter home across the way. And Mrs. -Adams had obtained the root of her sword fern from Mrs. Cutter, and so -on and so forth. You might multiply it by the seeds or shoots or roots -of ten thousand flowers. - -This was why Shannon showed like a wreath on the hills above the -valley. The women there were diligent. They loved their homes. So their -front yards looked like flowered calico aprons, tied onto these homes -as their own aprons were tied about their plump waists. The women were -very good; the men were reasonably respectable. There was ambition -without culture. But give them time. Already Mr. George William Cutter -had sent his son, young George William, to college for two years. That -ought to amount to something, culturally speaking. And Mrs. Mary Anne -Adams was considering whether she could afford to send her daughter -Helen to a boarding school for a year, or whether she would leave Helen -to take her chances at George with only a high-school education and her -music and a little drawing for accomplishments! But if she did decide -to send Helen “off to school,” it ought to amount to a great deal more, -culturally speaking. Girls acquire the gloss of elegance and refinement -more rapidly than boys do, and it is apt to stay on them longer, no -matter what stays in them. - -The first definite upward trend in a tacky little town begins when -some insolently prosperous citizen sends his suburban-bred son to -college just long enough for him to claim that he is a “college man,” -and when some valorous mother, usually a widow, follows suit and sends -her daughter to a “seminary,” because she is not to be outdone by the -above-mentioned prosperous citizen, even if she is not prosperous. When -these two young beings return with their intellectual noses in the air, -you may look out. The scenes in that town must change. - -Business gets a hunch, or somebody’s business goes into bankruptcy. -The domestic sphere spins around, loses its ancient balance and the -girl gives a really fashionable tea party, after removing the precious -potted plants from the front porch and placing her tables there, if it -is a pleasant day. These things happen and you cannot help it. Give -them an inch of education abroad and they will take an ell of license -with your manners, convictions, and prejudices when they come home. - -Nothing like this had yet happened in Shannon. Only drummers and -salesmen really knew and saw what was going on in the world, and no -drummers or salesmen lived there. The town was passing tranquilly -through its religious and golden-oak periods. Most people went to -church, and everybody who was anybody had golden-oak furniture, -including an upright piano, as distinguished from the antiquated square -piano. If the latter was for the present beyond their means, they had -an elaborately carved and bracketed organ of the same durable wood, -through which the Sabbath-afternoon air passed in hymnal strains at -about the same hour it bore the aroma of boiling coffee on week days. - -This is a mere flash of what Shannon was in those days; such an -impression as you might have received from the window of your car if -you had been passing through on one of those fast trains that did not -stop at Shannon, but roared by as if this little town did not exist. -And if you knew all that was to happen there within the next twenty -years to only two people, not to mention the remaining six thousand -of her inhabitants, to whom a great deal more must have happened, -you would agree that I am justified in detaining you a moment before -beginning this tale. - -Otherwise, how could you understand that Helen belonged by tradition, -by environment, by the very petunias that bordered her mother’s flower -beds, to the Agnes tribe of meek and enduring women. I am not claiming -that this is a wiser, abler tribe than the numerous modern tribes of -insurgent women, many of whom have faced the same emergencies. I leave -each one of you to decide that question according to your lights, -leaving out the traditions and the petunias, because doubtless you have -long since made way with them. - -My task is simply to set down here exactly what happened, with no more -regard for the moral than the facts themselves carry. And so I give -you my word that this is a true story, and that the events I have -recorded did happen and that the “House of Helen” does stand to this -day in Shannon. You may see it from the window of your car, as you -pass through, halfway down Wiggs Street, on the right-hand side, and -facing you. It is not so large, so pretentious as the other residences -which have taken the place of the cottages that stood along this street -during the golden-oak period, but it looks different, that house, -serene, as a house should that has weathered the storm and has fair -weather forever within. - - - - -CHAPTER II - - -It was a day in June, in the year 1902. They are much the same -everywhere, only in Georgia there is more June in such a day. Farther -south the withering heat hints of July; farther north there may be an -edge of cold to the air; but in Georgia it is always perfectly June -in June, all softness, fragrance, filled with the fearless growth and -bloom of every living thing--the sort of day that seems to hum to -itself with the wings of a thousand bees; adolescent weather, fragrant, -soft, filled with the growth and yearning of every living thing from -the frailest flower that blooms to the oldest tree and the oldest man. - -On such a day this story begins, somewhere between half past three and -four o’clock in the afternoon. The exact moment makes no difference -because nothing that you could see with the naked eye happened when the -first scene was laid. (It is only the comedies and crimes of living -that catch the eye. The great dramas and the great tragedies begin -within, and they end there.) The town was somnambulent--very little -traffic; none at all on Wiggs Street. You could only have known by -the gentle bending of the frailer-stemmed flowers before the cottages -on either side that even a breeze was passing by. But over all this -stillness and piercing this droning silence came the notes of a piano, -sad, sweet and frequently too far apart, as if this piano waited -patiently while the performer found the next note, and then found it -again on the keyboard. These desiccated fragments of Narcissus, a -popular instrumental piece at that time, issued from the parlor windows -of the Adams cottage. Some one, who had no ear for music, but only a -conscience, was practicing inside. - -Presently this conscience was satisfied, for the lid of the piano went -down with a thud. There was a quick step, the whisk of white skirts in -the darkened hall, the opening and closing of a door, followed by what -we must infer was a sort of primping silence. - -Then a voice, firm and maternal, came through the front bedroom window -on that side of the house: “Helen, why are you wearing your organdie?” - -“I don’t know, mother,” a young voice answered. - -I doubt if she did know. Some of the shrewdest acts of a maiden are -unintelligible to her. - -“Well, it is silly, putting on your nice things to go to choir -practice.” - -It was silly, but one frequently makes the silliest preparations for -happiness. This is the wisdom of youth. Age cannot beat it. - -After a pause, the same elder voice, made smoother--“Have you seen -George?” - -“Not in two years. Why?” - -“He has been at home a week, hasn’t he?” - -“I don’t know when he came.” - -The tone implied that the comings and goings of this George were -matters of supreme indifference to her. - -“Mrs. Cutter told me his father means for him to work this summer.” - -No response. - -“He had three months in the University School of Finance last summer, -she told me. This summer his father plans to put him through, she said.” - -Still no response. - -“Don’t forget to call for my pass book at the bank, Helen,” this was -said in a slightly higher key, indicating that the girl had left the -room. “You had better go by the bank on your way to the church. It -closes at four o’clock.” - -“Yes, mother;” and at the same moment this young girl came out of the -house, down the steps, walking hurriedly. - -When she reached the street she began to move more sedately, giving -herself an air. Her ankles were slim; her black satin pumps had low -French heels. She wore a white organdie. The fineness, tucks and lace -of her petticoat showed through the full skirt. The bodice was plain, -finished at the neck with an edge of lace, and gathered puffily in at -the belt. The fineness, tucks and lace of an underbody clung daintily -to her shoulders and showed through. The sleeves were short. Her arms -round and very fair. A wide taffeta ribbon sash of pale blue, crushed -crinklingly about her waist, was tied in a butterfly bow behind, very -stiff and upstanding. - -She wore a broad-brimmed, white leghorn hat, trimmed with tiny bunches -of field flowers. This hat was tilted slightly to one side, as if she -lacked the courage to pull it down, lest she should reveal more than -she dared tell of what she was and meant. It rested, therefore, at the -merest, most innocent angle of coquetry. - -The girl herself was utterly and entrancingly fair. She had straight -hair, of the shade called ash blond; no deeper golden lights in it; -most of it hidden beneath the encompassing hat. If you found it, -you must do so by an act of the imagination. And the absurd primness -with which it lay so close and smoothly above her ears teased the -imagination. Her skin was white, with that underglow of pink so faint -it could scarcely be called color--cheeks round, not too full. The oval -chin had the softness of youth. She had a mouth made for silence; it -was serious. The under lip was a straight pink line, prettily turned, -which did not go very far; the upper lip was distinctly full in the -center, with a sort of flute there which ended in a dainty, pointed, -white scallop beneath the nose, and it closed purposefully over the -lower lip. This was due to the fact that if she was not mindful, it let -go, curled up and showed the only flaw she had--two lovely teeth, a -trifle prominent because they lapped at the lower edge after the manner -of some Anglo-Saxon ancestor from whom she must have inherited them. -Her nose might amount to something later in life as an indication of -character, but now it was merely a good little nose, rounded at the end -where it should have been pointed, and too brief for beauty. - -The eyes were this girl’s distinguishing feature. They remained so long -after all her loveliness and fairness had changed and failed. They -were large, blue, white-lidded, heavily fringed with lashes darker than -her hair. And they looked at you, at him, at all the world and the -weather, calmly, from beneath long, sweeping brows, as if these brows -were the slender wings of the thoughts she had when she looked at you. - -This is what a girl is, and nothing more--loveliness, innocence, and -the wordless sweet desire of herself. You cannot predict her. Anything -may change her; one thing only is certain--she is sure to change. -The woman will be profoundly different. This is why writers of mere -fiction have discarded the young girl heroine. Nothing can make her -interesting but a tragedy, until she develops her human perversities -and attributes, which may require more years than the tale can afford. - -Helen walked sedately through Wiggs Street, as if every window of every -house was an eye that observed her. But when she came to the end, -where this street entered the public square, her gait changed, much as -your voice changes inflection according to the tune you sing. This was -a livelier tune now to which she walked. She stepped along briskly, -prettily. Her skirts whisked, her body swayed a little as if this might -turn out to be a waltz. Every shop window she passed was a mirror, in -which she caught an encouraging glimpse of herself. Once she halted -long enough to draw the brim of her hat forward and sidewise. Then she -went on, the published truth of herself at last. And her own mother -would not have known her. - -Few mothers, even in that prunes-and-prism period, relatively speaking, -would have recognized their daughters abroad. But every man would. It -is Nature having her way, you understand, and no harm done; because in -the end these maidens must--and they will--take Nature, which after all -is the very nearest relative of maidenhood, into their confidence and -be guided by her. - -The First National Bank of Shannon was no great institution. Still -it was modestly conspicuous. What I mean is that you could tell at a -glance and from a distance that this was a bank, not a doctor’s office, -by the tall cement columns in front, the only example of four-legged -magnificence in the shakily diversified architecture surrounding this -square. - -But Mr. George William Cutter would never have thought of exalting -himself in a private office with a ground glass door, showing the title -“President,” published on this door. He sat at a rolled-top desk in -a space reserved for him to the left of the door, by a stout oaken -banister which divided it from the lobby. The only distinction he -permitted himself was to sit with his back to the window which looked -on the square. What was more to the point he faced the long cage of -the bank proper, and was always in a position to see, know or at least -shrewdly infer what was going on inside and outside in the lobby. - -But if you were a customer, seeking a loan or even planning to open -an account, you must come in and face about before you could face the -president. There was dignity, financial assurance, but no offensive -pride, in his sitting posture to the public. He was a man with a -recognized girth, not entirely bald. His hair was gray; so was his -short, clipped mustache. He wore light gray clothes in summer and -dark gray clothes in the winter. And he had a fine strong commercial -countenance. He might almost have cashed it, his face was so well -certified by a pair of shrewd gray eyes, as distinguished from the -cunning of similar eyes. - -On this June afternoon he sat reared back, his coat thrust clear of the -wide expanse of his white shirt front, like the wings of an old gray -rooster cocked up on a hot day. He was smoking a black cigar. From time -to time he shot a glance into the cage of the bank; and each time the -corners of his mouth went up, the fired end of the cigar also went up, -his eyes narrowed to a mere gray slit of light as sharp as a lance, and -his whole face crinkled into an expression of humor and satisfaction. -Sometimes an experienced turfman so regards a young and mettlesome -colt that is being broken to the gait, when the colt acts up to his -breeding, takes the bit and goes, even if he does waste wind and sweat -in the performance. - -Directly in line with his vision a tall, broad-shouldered young man was -standing before an adding machine in his shirt sleeves. This was George -William Cutter, Junior, inducted into the rear end of the banking -business a week since. He was working furiously with the halting -earnestness of a man not accustomed to grind up figures in a machine -and pedal them out on a long strip of paper with his foot. His hair was -red and stood up like a torch on his head. His mouth was warped, his -nose snarled, his face was flushed and there was an angry squint in his -red brown eyes as he struck the keys, jerked the lever and slammed the -pedal once in so often--forty little movements that kept the muscles of -his big body in a sort of frivolous activity. - -Mr. Cutter, Senior, was thinking: “He’s got it in him, the go. He will -make good if he can be made to stick. Ought to marry, ought’er marry -right now. That would stamp him down to it.” - -What young George was thinking as he paused to mop his steaming brow -was: “Gad! If three days in here takes it out of a fellow like this, -what will thirty years do to him?” - -He knew that he was being groomed to succeed his father. It might be a -bright future for a young man, but as a human being it held no brighter -prospect than escaping from this cage and sitting where his father -sat now, fat and sedentary in all his habits. He was restless. He was -red-headed. He was an athlete on the university team. There had been -some question about whether he should take his final year. He would let -the “old man” know that he was willing and anxious to go back to the -university in the fall. He was not ready to be imprisoned for life with -dollars, not yet! - -At this moment the street door, that had admitted everybody all day -from the leading merchants, workers, widows, all the way down to the -fat woman who kept the fruit stand, opened again. A young girl came in. -It was as if spring and snow and sweetness had entered. There was so -much whiteness and coolness in the presence she made. A mere hint of -far-off blue skies, and as if Nature had granted her the flowers she -wore on this hat. She passed the teller’s window, also the cashier’s -window. She looked neither to the right nor the left. The white scallop -in the pink upper lip was pressed primly, holding it, like a word she -would not say, upon the round pink under lip. She came directly to the -bookkeeper’s window, faced it, stared at him and waited. - -When she entered he had made three steps backward, which brought him to -the wall behind him. He was conscious of being without his coat. But if -you are a man in a bank you are not supposed to scamper out of sight -like a lady in negligee, if some one comes to call. You stood your -ground with dignity, no matter how you looked. He stood his; he did not -move a muscle. He may have breathed, but if so it was no more than a -secret breath merely to sustain life. Their eyes met; his filled with -the fire of an amazement, hers calm and speechless. She regarded him as -one regards a picture on the wall. - -This was all that happened, lasting no longer than the instant of time -required for the bookkeeper to look up, see her and slide himself with -one step like a little, thin-necked, bald-headed, stooped-shouldered -fact before the window, blotting out the vision of her. - -Young Cutter heard her murmur something, saw the bookkeeper draw a -pass book from a stack of these dingy records and slide it beneath the -wicket of the window. - -He heard her say “thank you” in a faint, soft, bell-like voice. Then -she turned and went out. - -He stared about him. How was this? He expected a wave of excitement -to mark her passing, as people exclaim at the sight of something -ineffable. Had no one seen her but himself? Apparently not. Every man -in there was working with his usual air of absorption. For another -instant he stood free, exalted, his eyes filled with the explosive -brightness of a great emotion. Then it faded into self-consciousness, a -downward look as he sneaked back to his machine, hoping that he had not -been observed. - -This is the only kind of modesty of which men are capable. If one of -them went out with this look of neighing valor on his face he would -be arrested, of course, because it is such a perfectly scandalous -expression. But if a maid walks abroad with love published in her eyes -and on her very lips, you are moved to reverence, because it is a sort -of piety which seems to sanctify her. - -He bent lower over his task, shot the lever down with a bang, struck -the pedal harshly and rhythmically--made a noise, implying that he was -and had been, without interruption, wholly engrossed with this business. - -“Remember her, George?” came his father’s voice like a shot out of a -clear sky. - -“Who?” asked George, instantly on his guard. - -“The girl that came in just now.” - -“I didn’t notice. Who was she?” - -“Helen Adams.” - -“Never should have recognized her.” This was the truth. He had -recognized only loveliness, not the maiden name of it. - -“Last time you saw her she was a long-legged, saucer-faced youngster, -wearing her hair plaited and tied with a blue ribbon, I reckon.” - -“That’s the way I remember little Helen,” George admitted, grinning. - -“Two years make a lot of difference in a girl of that age. Pretty, -ain’t she?” - -The young man did not answer. He was suddenly and unaccountably -annoyed. When your whole mind is concentrated on a girl, she becomes -your religion and you do not care to enter into a doctrinal discussion -of this religion with another man, not even your old, gray-haired -father, because she has become the sacred silence of your own soul, no -matter what or who she was yesterday, nor even if you never had so much -as a twinge of soul until this moment. You practically invent your soul -then and there out of the joy and daylight of your youth, because it is -the only place suitable for such a creature to occupy. Let Moses and -the prophets stand aside! This is your pagan period of vestal virgins; -not that you know it, but it is. - -Mr. Cutter stood up, produced a heavy gold watch, studied the face of -it, grinned, jerked his coat down and around, buttoned one button of -it by the hardest work and reached for his hat. “Well, George, I guess -you’ll finish before you quit,” he said. - -This was a hint. The son took it. “All right, sir. I’ll be along about -midnight,” he answered good-naturedly, at the same time making a wry -face. - -“Oh, you’ll probably get in before suppertime. The work will come -easier in a day or two,” the father retorted as he stalked out. - -He was scarcely out of sight before the cashier, teller and bookkeeper -followed in quick procession. - -George was now alone. He changed his scene instantly, as most people -do when they are left alone. He straightened up, started smoking, moved -directly into the current of the electric fan, folded his arms and -thought profoundly, his head lifted, eyes fixed in a noble gaze, as -if on no particular object; a heroic figure, blowing volumes of smoke -through his nose. - -What a young man thinks in this mood may be imagined, but it never can -be known. And the writer does not live with the wisdom or grace to -translate his deep, singing dumbness into words. - -Presently he went back to his task, working now with swiftness and -concentration, as if his whole future depended upon finishing what he -was doing in the shortest possible time. He finished in thirty minutes, -disappeared into the rear of the bank and reappeared five minutes -later through the side door. He was brushed, groomed and freshened -to the last degree of elegance. His homespun fitted him with an air. -He stepped with a long, prideful stride--and got no farther than the -corner of the next street. Here he halted, looking all possible ways at -once--nobody in sight; plenty of people, you understand, but not the -girl. He had seen her pass this corner. - -He waited. Wherever she had gone, she should be returning by this -time. This one and that one hailed him as they went by. A fellow he -knew stopped and engaged him in conversation. He was annoyed. Suppose -the girl appeared, how was he to escape from this ass? The ass finally -took in the situation and moved on, looking back as he turned the next -corner. - -George looked at his watch--after five! She certainly should be going -home by this time. Everybody in sight was on his way home. Suppose he -had missed her; suppose she had gone around the other way! Jumping -cats, what a fool he had been, wasting time here! He started off, -walking rapidly but still with that magnificent, stiff-legged strut. - -Some one came alongside, caught his arm and whirled him half around. -“Where you going in such a hurry, Cutter?” - -This was Charley Harman, a friend, but this was no time for friends to -be butting in. - -“Home,” said George briefly, by way of implying that he was not -inviting company home with him. - -“So am I, but I never walk fast when I’m going home. Let’s get a drink -in here”; halting as they came opposite a drug store. - -“Take one for me,” Cutter said with a short laugh and moved on so -hurriedly that Harman took the hint. - -Nothing else happened until he reached the place where Wiggs Street -opened on the square. He stared down the flower-blooming vista of this -street. He could see men watering their front yards and the women -watering their flowers. He could hear the boom of his father’s voice -half a block down, talking to some one in the next yard. He saw Mrs. -Adams sitting, large and amorphous, in a rocking-chair on her front -porch. He supposed that she also was waiting for Helen. - -Then he saw her approaching from the other end of the street, not -distant, but divided from him by the eyes of all these people sitting -and puttering around in their front yards. He thought she walked as if -she were sad or good or something. And he had this consolation, as she -finally turned in and went up the steps of the Adams’ cottage, he was -sure that she had seen him. He was sure that their eyes had met. He -also observed when he came down into the street to his own home that -she had not stopped on the porch with her mother, but had gone directly -inside. - - - - -CHAPTER III - - -When you are in love, everything is important and everything is secret. -You become a consummate actor and liar in vain, because the whole world -knows your secret almost as soon as you do. - -That evening at the dinner table, George was so gay, so full of -himself, so ready to laugh and make a joke that Mrs. Cutter was beside -herself with pride and happiness. - -“He is such a good boy, so unconscious of his good looks and his -intellect,” she told Mr. Cutter when they were alone together after -dinner. - -“Intellect!” said Mr. Cutter in that tone of voice. - -“Yes; you know how smart he is; but he is not the least conceited, just -light-hearted and happy as he should be at his age. I say it shows he -is a good boy.” - -“Where is he now?” Mr. Cutter wanted to know. - -The question appeared to Mrs. Cutter to be irrelevant. She said she did -not know; why? - -“Nothing,” answered her husband. - -She said he was around somewhere, probably in his room. She went to the -bottom of the stairs. “Georgie!” she called. - -No answer. Well, then he must be out front somewhere, and went to prove -that he was. But she could not find him. Then she came back and wanted -to know of Mr. Cutter what difference did it make, if they did not know -where he was? George was no longer a child. Couldn’t he trust his own -son? - -Oh, yes; in reason he could and did trust him. “But I’ll tell you -one thing, Maggie,” he added, laying aside his paper and looking her -squarely in the face, “George should get married.” - -“Married; just as he is ready to enjoy his youth and not even out -of the university yet--and only twenty-one. What do you mean?” she -demanded indignantly. - -“That a blaze-faced horse and a red-headed man are both vain things for -safety,” he retorted. - -“Do you know anything wrong about George?” she demanded, after a -gasping pause. - -“No.” - -“A single thing?” - -“Not a single thing. I was merely stating a natural fact.” - -She had risen, a little, slim, fiery-eyed woman. She drew herself up. -He watched her ascend. He refused to quail beneath the spark in her eye. - -“Mr. Cutter,” she began ominously, because she gave him this title only -when she was ominous, “when you married me I had red hair. My hair is -still red.” - -“Yes, my dear; but you were a girl. I said a man. I meant a young -man with red hair. There is all the latitudes and longitudes in life -between the one and the other. If you were a red-haired young man, I -should think twice before I’d give a daughter of mine in marriage to -you. But you will recall that I had black hair,” he concluded, laughing. - -A father who would traduce his own son for inheriting hair the color of -his mother’s and without cause--well, she could not understand such a -father. Whereupon she left the room in high dudgeon, but really to go -and look for this son. Her confidence in him had not been shaken, but -she was anxious without reason, which is the keenest anxiety from which -women suffer. - -She found him pacing back and forth in the vegetable garden, arms -folded, face lifted like a yowling puppy’s to the moon; not that this -simile occurred to her. He appeared to her a potentially great man, -breathing his thoughts in this quiet place. - -He was annoyed at this interruption. Was he never to have a moment -alone to think this thing out! He really thought he was thinking, you -understand, when he was only visualizing a girl in a white dress, with -a blue sash, blue eyes and blue cornflowers on her hat; blue was the -most entrancing color in the world, and so on and so forth. He was -trying to imagine what she would say if she said anything, when he -saw his mother approaching. He repressed his impatience. They walked -together between the bald-headed cabbage and the young, curled-up, -green lettuce. She thought she was sharing his thoughts. Something had -been said about his experiences in the bank. Many a mother and some -fathers would leap with amazement, if they really knew the thoughts -they do not share with their sons and daughters at such times. - -Still this was an innocent young man, as men go, a good son, as sons -are reckoned. He was well within his rights to be pursuing his love -fancies. And for a long period of this time he remained in a state of -legal innocence of which any man or husband might boast. Mrs. Cutter -was entirely justified in despising the opinion Mr. Cutter had given -that night of this excellent young man. Sometimes more than twenty -years are required to fulfill a paternal prophecy. - -Mrs. Adams remained seated on the porch. She supposed Helen had gone to -her room to take off her hat and would return presently. It was much -cooler out here, and the street was interesting at this hour of the -late afternoon, like watching a very good human play, where all the -characters are decent. - -She saw Mrs. Shaw bustling in and out, herding her numerous family. -This meant that they were having early supper, probably cold supper, -and that they would go to the band concert afterwards. The Shaws spent -a good deal on amusements. She hoped they could afford it. - -There was Mr. Flitch sitting alone on his front porch, with his heels -cocked up on the banister. This meant that he was in a state of -rebellion, because he never stuck his feet on to this immaculately -white banister if he was in a proper frame of mind. It also meant that -Mrs. Flitch had her feelings hurt again and was probably in her room -suffering from this ailment. She had heard that the Flitches did not -get on well together. In her opinion this was Ella Flitch’s fault. You -could not live diagonally across the street from a waspish woman and -belong to the same missionary society without knowing that she was -waspish. - -I am writing this into the record--it was no part of Mrs. Adams’ -reflections--that if you are a woman you always blame the wife for her -marital unhappiness; if you are a man you know, of course, that the -husband is at fault, even if you listen cordially to your own wife when -she is taking the contrary view. - -Mrs. Adams turned her neat, little, gray head slowly, surreptitiously -and took a swift glance up the street at the Cutter residence. Then -she turned it back again. But she had read all the news up there to be -seen with the naked eye, assisted by powerful spectacles. Mr. and Mrs. -Cutter were seated comfortably in their respective porch chairs. And -George was out in the swing, elegantly folded into a sitting posture -where he commanded a view of her front porch. If you are the mother -of a daughter, you notice such little circumstances whether they mean -anything or not, because they may be very significant. - -The sight of this young man sentinel reminded her of something. Where -was Helen? What was she doing so long inside? She arose at once and -went in to see about this. - -“Helen!” she called from the hall. - -No answer. - -She walked heavily to the closed bedroom door and knocked -authoritatively. - -No answer. Not a sound. - -“Helen, are you in there?” - -“Yes, mother,” came the faint reply. - -“What are you doing?” - -“Nothing,” in a wailing, muffled voice, as if this person who was doing -“nothing” was being smothered. - -Mrs. Cutter thrust the door open and went in. She was astounded. -Her daughter lay face downward across the bed, with her arms wound -above her head in two beautifully curved lines of mute despair. Two -pretty legs extended stiffly beyond the uttermost that skirts could -do to cover them. One slippered foot worked slowly as you move a -foot in pain, and at quick intervals the slender form rose and fell -convulsively to the passionate rhythm of sobs. - -“What on earth is the matter?” the mother exclaimed. - -“Nothing.” - -“Are you ill?” - -“No.” - -“Has anything happened?” - -“Not a thing.” - -“Why are you crying?” - -“I don’t know. Oh, mother, I just want to be left alone”--followed by -another paroxysm of weeping. - -Mrs. Adams waited grimly until the distressing convulsions of the -slender young body subsided. Then she began again: “Well, you can’t be -left in this fix. Turn over, Helen. You are mussing your dress.” - -The girl turned obediently, her face poignantly, sweetly pink, very -sad. Her eyes bright with tears like violets after a summer rain. The -flush was ominous. Mrs. Adams had never seen Helen this color before, -never in her life. She bent and laid a palm on the girl’s brow--warm, -but moist; certainly not feverish. - -She stood regarding her daughter thoughtfully. Then she sat down on the -side of the bed, took one of Helen’s hands in her own harsher, stronger -hand, where it lay like a plucked lily, wilted, icy cold. She stroked -it gently. Her face softened, her eyes brooded, as if through a mist -she beheld a memory of herself long ago, which suddenly freshened and -brightened into the figure of the girl she had been. - -Mothers are omniscient. They have little paths back and forth through -their years by which the ghosts of them can always find you, wherever -you are. Not another word was spoken for a long time between these two; -the younger, overcome by the future, holding the unsolved, longed-for -mystery of love; the other, overcome by the past, which held for -her the dreadful reality of love. Neither had or could escape. They -accomplished a wordless sympathy on this basis. - -Mrs. Adams’ reflections were strangely mixed, what with that sundown -feeling she had of her own youth and the anxieties of a mother growing -stronger every moment. She would like to know, for example, if Helen -had seen George Cutter. Had she gone by the bank for the pass book? But -even when she caught sight of this book lying on the dresser, with the -ends of many checks sticking out of it, she did not put the question. -Love is a wound too painful to be dressed with the tenderest words when -it is first made, much less scraped with a question. - -She was, over and above her emotions as a woman and a mother, fairly -well satisfied with the situation. She inferred that George and Helen -had had some sort of passage at arms. And she did not suppose that any -man in or out of his senses could actually resist for long a girl of -Helen’s soft charm. Mothers have their pride, you understand. This one -was shrewd, eminently practical. You must be, to deal with youth at -this stage. - -The room was flooded with the golden effulgence of a summer twilight -when at last she arose, moved gently toward the door, picking up the -bank book as she passed the dresser and thrusting it into her pocket. -“Helen,” she said from the doorway, “it is the heat. This has been a -very warm day. You will be better presently.” - -“Yes, mother, I think it was the heat; and I do feel better,” the girl -answered faintly. - -“There is ice tea and chicken salad for supper,” Mrs. Adams suggested. - -“I don’t think I care for anything.” - -“Well, later then. I’ll leave the tea and your salad on the ice,” the -mother said, going out and closing the door. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - - -This was the beginning of that affair. Helen remembered the day well. A -woman never forgets the sky and the weather of the day upon which love -called her forth to the vicissitudes of love. But as things turned out, -I doubt if she would mention that day now, as other women do when the -bloom of their years has past. But at the best a courtship is strangely -ephemeral, if you consider the consequences. It is like fugitive verses -published to-day, gone to-morrow, like the fragrance of flowers blown -upon a wind that passes and never returns. So much of it cannot be made -into words; a glance of the eye, quick as light, revealing all; but -who can translate the look or the long silences between lovers? Nature -knows her business. The whole world, the heavens and the earth and -the fullness thereof is an incantation made to ensnare lovers to her -purpose. And not a word grows anywhere to betray this charm. You may be -strong or weak, wise or simple, cynical, disillusioned, protected with -all the knowledge of men, but there is no escape. Nature gets you at -last; on honor or dishonor you must pay your debt to her in love. When -you are done, nothing remains but your dust, a handful of something -with which to fertilize love again--a little retail economy Nature -makes in her procreating plans. - -The next day after this first day was a Sabbath. I do not believe in -predestination, doctrinally speaking. The meaning of that term, I -should say, was strictly human, and is derived from our short-winded -conception of time, which does not exist either, except in the mortal -sense. But by some prearranged prudence of Providence, by which all -things come to pass whether we will or no, including the most intimate -and personal things, the Cutters attended the same church that the -remaining mother and daughter of the Adams family attended. It was -a very good little church, glistening white within, shining white -without, like an enameled bathtub with a roof and a steeple. I will not -be sure, but my impression is that the denomination was Baptist. In any -case, Helen Adams belonged to the choir. - -On this Sunday morning she sang a solo, Jerusalem the Golden. She had a -fresh young voice, roomy and soft at the bottom, triumphantly high and -keen at the top. She wore white as usual and little fluttering skylines -of blue tied in a bow as usual. When she stood up to sing she lifted -her eyes as if these eyes and this face were the words of a young -morning prayer; she let go her beautifully crimped upper lip, opened -her mouth as if this mouth were a rose bursting into bloom--and sang. -I do not know if she sang well, having no skill in these matters; but -it is certain that she looked like an angel. What I mean is that if you -had no visual acquaintance with angels, you would have known at once -that this was the very image of the way an angel should look. - -The congregation listened with the peaceful apathy peculiar to every -small town congregation, when it is being mulled in the music of a hymn -or the Word. This made the one exception the more noticeable. - -George William Cutter, Junior, looked and listened with a fervor which -far surpassed anything that mere piety could do for a young man’s -praying countenance. Fortunately he was seated far back in the publican -and sinner section of the church. Thus he escaped the sophisticated -attention of the elder saints toward the front. Never had he seen -anything so lovely as this girl, the high look she had with the notes -of this hymn, trembling as they came from her round, white throat or -flaring into a perfect ecstasy of joy. - -When she had finally caroled out and sat down, he whispered under his -breath, “Lord! Lord!” although he was not a religious man and meant -nothing of the sort by this exclamation. - -The moment the benediction was pronounced, he stepped briskly from his -place in that sparsely settled part of the church, met the slow-moving -tattling tide of the congregation coming out as he hurried down the -aisle like a good swimmer in sluggish waters until he reached Helen -standing in the rear ranks with her mother. - -He bowed to Mrs. Adams. He hoped she remembered him--George Cutter, -extending his hand. - -Oh, yes; she remembered him, she said mildly. No excitement in her -mind over the recollection either! Did he think he had improved that -much? She let him know that so far as she was concerned he was the same -little George Cutter who used to live across the street and sometimes -threw stones at her chickens. - -No matter if you are a very handsome young man, with athletic -laurels hanging to your college coat tails, you cannot make a deep -or flattering impression on a middle-aged woman who has a practical, -computing mind and knows the romantic value of her beautiful daughter. -If Helen had been homely, a little, starched mouse of a girl, who -could not sing Jerusalem the Golden or anything else, she would have -received George’s salutations more cordially. As it was, she did not -have to be more than invincibly polite. All this she let him know with -a flat look of her calm blue eye. - -It was a waste of excellent maternal diplomacy so far as he was -concerned. He had already turned to Helen. He was almost speechless -from having so much to say. She was entirely so for a moment. Then she -gave him her hand and managed to say, “Howdy do, George,” in a tone a -girl uses when the man owes her an apology. - -This accusative welcome dashed him. No smile! When he was himself -the very pedestal of a smile. Good heavens, what had he done? He was -conscious of being innocent; yet he felt guilty. - -Mrs. Adams paid no more attention to them. She had gone on, caught -up with the Flitches and passed out. This was the only permission he -received that he might, if he could, walk with Helen. - -The girl’s inclemency stirred him as frosty weather stimulates -energy. So they followed. I doubt if they were aware themselves -that the distance lengthened between them and other groups of this -congregation, which divided and dwindled at every street corner. -Lovers are recognized on sight, long before they know themselves to -be lovers. People make room for their privacy in public places. These -two had a whole block to themselves by the time they entered Wiggs -Street. Mrs. Adams had already disappeared in her house. The broad back -of Mr. Cutter and the slim back of little Mrs. Cutter were visible -for a moment before they also faded through the doorway of the Cutter -residence. - -Only the Flitches stood _en masse_ on their spider-legged veranda, -their eyes glued upon these two stragglers, coming slowly down the -sunlit street. The Flitches were good people, of the round-eyed breed. -They had a candid, perpetually interrogative curiosity which nothing -could satisfy. You know the kind. It is never you, but the family -that lives across the street from you, or in the next house with thin -eyelid curtains over their windows through which they are perpetually -regarding you, striving after omniscience about you and your affairs. - -Helen had admitted that it was a “nice day” when he said it was, as -they came out of the church and faced the fair brow of this June -sabbath. - -He had told her how much he enjoyed her solo. It was wonderful. - -She merely replied that she “liked to sing.” - -He was still conscious of being in the arctic region of her regard and -cast about, with a lover’s distracted compass, to discover the way out. -“Weren’t you in the bank yesterday afternoon?” he asked suddenly. - -“Yes,” she answered coldly after a slight pause; “I was about to speak -to you, but you did not recognize me,” she added. - -“It is the truth. I did not,” he admitted quickly and waited. He could -not be sure she got it, the compliment implied. He remembered her as -merely sensible, not smart. “You have changed, grown or something,” -he resumed. “I couldn’t be expected to know you. All the other girls -here look just as they did when I left here two years ago. But you -don’t; you are amazingly different. How did you do it?” he exclaimed, -regarding her with charmed amazement. - -He saw her take it, caught the glance she gave him one instant before -she dropped it. The faintest smile sweetened the comers of her mouth. -He got that too. - -If only he had known of the tears she had shed after the visit to -the bank, what a triumph! Fortunately, men do not know what maidens -confess with tears to their pillows. If they did it would change many a -courtship to one kind or another of ruthless tyranny. - -We who study love as if it were a medicine or a disease sometimes speak -of “love at first sight,” as if this were an unusual seizure. But love -is always love at first sight. You may know this man or he may know -you for years without getting that angle of vision; but if you ever -do, it is as if you had never really seen him before. In a moment you -have endowed him with attributes his Maker would never have squandered -on a man of that quality. This is what love is, the conferring of -virtues and qualities upon the object of your awakened emotion like so -many degrees. He may be a drug clerk, or a chicken-breasted, fat man, -or a swank young rascal, but from that moment when love gets sight of -him he is a fellow of the royal society of heroes, and you may be so -bemused you live a lifetime with him, always conferring more degrees to -keep him tenderly concealed from your clearer vision. Or it may happen -in a year or twenty years the scales fall from your eyes. Then love -becomes a servant, and life a tragedy. But there is nothing in the -Scriptures against such a servant or such a life. Rather, I should say -the Scriptures make wide and permanent provisions for this deflation in -the marital relation. - - - - -CHAPTER V - - -From this day George Cutter spent his spare time in and about the -Adams cottage. You might have inferred that he was a homeless man. He -accompanied Helen to such entertainments as society consisted of in -Shannon, chiefly picnics and fishing excursions at this season of the -year. He was by nature an importunate lover, and he was in love. He did -not ask himself whether Helen would make a suitable wife for such a man -as he was, and would become. He did not know what kind of man he was. -He only knew that he wanted this girl, and that no other man should -have her. - -The decision was natural, entirely creditable. But the approach must be -made. So far as he was concerned he was ready to propose to Helen at -once; girls, however, were squeamish in matters of love. His instinct -warned him that he might lose by an immediate declaration. He spent the -time agreeably displaying his wares. He was a university man. He had a -smattering of ideas, caught carelessly and selected from the mouthings -of this professor and that. He had no doubt that he could make an -impression. Helen was village born, village bred. It was well enough to -startle her into a profound admiration. Nothing subdued and impressed a -woman like brains. He not only had brains, he had views. - -Bear in mind this was twenty years ago. The muckrakers were still -mucking in the best magazines. The “social conscience,” a favorite -phrase at the time, had passed the period of gestation, and had become -a sentimental conviction claimed by the best people. Old patriarchal -Russian anarchists with pink whiskers, spewed out of Russia, were -pouring into this country, the shade of their whiskers due entirely -to the action of the salt air during the voyage over on the dye used -upon these whiskers by way of disguise until they were safe in a clean -land. They brought their doctrines with them. They created a market for -socialism, radicalism and communism. - -There was no provision then or even now at Ellis Island to exclude -these lepers of decaying civilization afflicted with the most insidious -social diseases of the mind. They had a fine time working up conditions -which were presently to result in mental, moral and social unrest, -strikes and the perversions of all sound doctrines. The universities -in particular received these doctrines gladly--mere theories, so far -as the deans and doctors were concerned, upon which they performed -intellectual stunts before their classes; trapeze work, nothing more. -At that time the most unscrupulous men in this nation were these -teachers of youth. Now they may name their converts by the millions; -but then the “young gentlemen” who listened had not got a working use -of this diablerie. They talked of liberty as if liberty was license by -way of appearing swank intellectually. - -George had come home that summer fresh cut from the classroom of a -certain professor who held advanced views on what men were really -entitled to in the pursuit of life, liberty and happiness. - -One evening he was seated beside Helen on a bench beneath an arbor -covered with vines of trailing clematis. They had been there a long -time. Nothing had happened, to put it exactly as Helen inwardly -interpreted the situation. Nothing could happen yet, to put it -according to George’s decision. He had been home barely two weeks. -Helen impressed him as being so ineffably innocent, so remote from his -passion that it would be almost an insult to make love to her. Love -enjoined silence like the benediction in a church. - -They sat beneath the star-white clematis blossoms, confounded with each -other. Helen waited. If only he would say something that would ease her -of this pain, this humiliation of feeling as she did toward a man who -might regard her merely as a friend! She thought he might be interested -in her; he had been there almost every evening since his return. But -she did not know. What suspense lovers bear when the whole tittering -world knows the truth they dare not believe. - -George started to smoke, tilted his chin up, expelled a twin bugle -of smoke from his nostrils, narrowed his eyes and stared into the -immensity of the night. He was very handsome posed like this, and knew -it. - -Men are much more presumptuously vain than women. They can be vain with -no preparation, in their shirt sleeves, with a three days’ stubble of -beard on their faces and no hair at all on their heads. Their vanity -seems to be a sort of rooster-tail instinct, with which they have been -endowed so that they may do the work of the world and waste no time -primping. It is an illusion, of course, this physical egotism, but the -queer thing is that it is an illusion of them shared by most women. So -they get away with it. And few of them ever know how purposefully and -sardonically they are afflicted by Nature with homeliness. - -On the other hand, when you get down to the psychological facts, I -doubt if women are vain at all. They may be beautiful, but even at -that they have so little confidence in their beauty that the last one -of them must finance her assurance with all the make-believe art of -loveliness. I suppose she has discovered that it is not beauty that -wins the lover, but it is the deliberate proclamation she thus makes -to him of her charms. And this is no illusion. For the history of that -grotesque sex is that the average man will pass a naturally beautiful -woman every time to pay his court to a painted, powdered and puffed -woman who is not nearly so good-looking, if you washed her face and -buttoned her up to the neck-line of modesty. - -Here was Helen, for example, seated beside this young man, all -whiteness and sweetness, eyes so blue that even in this moonlit -darkness they showed like sunlit skies, lips pink, parted like the -petals of a rose, teeth like pearls glistening between--the very emblem -of loveliness; and yet she was in an anguish of uncertainty, lest he -did not and never would care for her. I don’t know--this may be one of -the scurvy tricks Nature plays on women to keep them humble. If so, it -is not the only one. I admire the achievements and beauties of Nature -as much as any one, but I must say from first to last her methods -appear to me unscrupulous. - -The silence had grown oppressive. Helen made some slight movement. She -probably clasped her hands and squeezed her patience. It was hard to -be omitted so long from his thoughts. The rustle she made, faint as it -was, recalled him, as he let her know with a glance. - -“I was just thinking, Helen, what a sorry little runt of a town this -is,” he said, lifting his chin a trifle higher over the little runt of -a town. - -There was a slight pause. You must have a moment in which to adjust -yourself to the incredible, especially when you have not been thinking -about anything so far removed. - -“Shannon?” she asked in an exclamatory tone. - -“Yes; it is. You can’t imagine how it looks to me after two years away -from it, how it compares with the big places I have seen--dried up, -sun-baked, no atmosphere, no culture.” - -She said nothing. What can you say when you hear a man blaspheming the -very cradle where he was rocked in infancy. Besides, the contempt -seemed to include her. She was a part of it, and she loved it. - -“I saw a handsome plant of some sort blooming in a tin bucket on Mrs. -Flitch’s front porch the other day. That’s what I mean,” he went on. - -“But what do you mean?” she asked, regarding him vaguely. - -“Well, the bucket was tinware, as I said, and published on it, still in -red letters, was the red label of a superior shortening.” He laughed. - -“She is so fond of flowers,” Helen expounded gravely. - -His eyes snickered at her. “But the bucket,” he exclaimed, “the tin -bucket, the old tin bucket with the red label--with a gardenia blooming -in it. Naïve, I’ll admit, but about as appropriate as sticking an -ostrich plume over the kitchen sink.” - -Helen made a hasty mental inventory of the Adams flower pots and -thanked heaven they were correct. - -“The people here do not think; they merely gossip,” he went on. “They -have no ideas, no purely mental conceptions. They do not know what is -going on in the mind of the world, how men’s views of life are changing -and broadening.” - -She did not follow him, but she felt the wind of the world beneath her -wing. - -“Two years here made no difference. You don’t grow. You don’t develop. -But away in a university, where your business is to get what’s going -and learn to think, two years change a man. I am a stranger here now. -My own father and mother do not know me.” - -“Oh, George, yes, they do!” she exclaimed consolingly. - -Then she caught his eye and perceived that he was in no need of -consolation. He was boasting, prouder than otherwise of being this -stranger. “It’s a fact; they make me feel like a whited sepulcher,” he -complained. - -“But you don’t,” she exclaimed loyally, but really in great trepidation -lest he might be this awful thing. - -“Of course not,” he returned, pleased to have excited her anxiety. “But -what would my father think if he knew I am interested in socialism, -that my best friends in the university are radicals?” - -She was not competent to express an opinion. She was not skilled in -politics. - -“And what would my mother think if she knew that I no longer accept -the Scriptures literally as she does, as you all do in this town; that -I know the Bible to be fragments of history and tradition, much of it -mythical, the priestly literature of the Jews, gathered from dreams and -hearsay, and interpreted to control the lives and liberties of men.” - -“Oh, George! you must not say such things. You are a member of the -church. I remember the Sunday morning when you were baptized.” - -“A public bath! And there is no ‘the Church,’ Helen; did you know -that--unless it’s the world; that’s the big church,” said this grand -young man, delivered from the faith of his fathers. - -This was awful. She stared at him through tears, but not with any -shrinking; rather her heart yearned toward him. There is no doubt about -this--all women, however young, have wings and a sort of clucking mind, -spiritually speaking. - -He was moved by the sight of these tears to a loftier, transient mood -of himself. He turned so as to face her, seized her hand, bent his -brows upon her in a strained, long look. It was powerful, this gaze. -She trembled. Her hand became icy in his hot palm. He tightened his -clasp upon it. - -“Listen, Helen,” in the deep bass tones of a terrific emotion, “I -wish you to know me as I am. I would not take advantage of a girl like -you. I will keep nothing from you. It is necessary if--if my hopes are -realized.” He left her in this suspense while he bowed his head and -struggled to stem his tide. “I am not a good man,” he began. It was -the opening sentence of a proclamation, not a confession, as if he -had said: “I have a cloven foot and am proud of it.” “But I have my -convictions, and no man on God’s green earth is more faithful to his -convictions.” - -She was holding her breath, only letting it out when she could hold it -no longer in a soft sigh, and taking in another for the next sigh. If -you are doing it for exercise you call it “deep breathing.” - -“And I have my ideals,” he added impressively. - -She was relieved. If he was not an entirely good man, he could not be a -bad one; he had “convictions” and he had “ideals.” What more could she -ask? - -“For example, I believe in the freedom of love,” he announced, and -waited for this shocking piece of news to take effect. - -The effect was marvelous. Her cheeks bloomed scarlet. Nature flung a -wreath of palest pink upon her forehead--only for an instant; then -this aurora of love’s emotion faded. “I am afraid I don’t know much -about love,” she said faintly, lowering her eyes before his gaze. - -He leaned back, gratified. He had her secret; but she had not got his -meaning. The dear little innocent! He was tempted to kiss her. - -This was really the case. She had not recognized the phrase. There was -no use for it in Shannon. The worst thing she had ever heard was Sammy -Duncan swearing at the cat. Her reading had been sternly censored. Mrs. -Adams took no morning paper, “on account of Helen”; a magazine, yes; -and there were Scott’s novels. These had been the girl’s text books -of love. She had never even read the Song of Solomon. Mrs. Adams had -forbidden her this richer scriptural food. “You won’t understand it,” -the mother had said. And Helen obediently skipped it when she turned -the pages of her Bible. She had secretly wondered why Solomon was in -the Bible anyway. He was not a proper person, if one believed the -preacher, and one must do that. Neither was David all he should have -been by all accounts. But here she veered again and merely learned her -Psalms, making no inquiries into the author’s private life, which was -very ladylike of her. In short, brought up according to a standard -of innocence which amounted to a deformity, at this moment she was -stripped of every weapon by which she might have defended herself -against an iniquitous doctrine. - -George decided not to go too fast with his teaching on this subject, -for he was determined that she should learn it and accept it. He kissed -her hand instead and told her that she was all there was of love so far -as he was concerned. - - - - -CHAPTER VI - - -From this time their affair progressed with reeling swiftness. Helen -assumed an air of independence, as if she had suddenly come into -possession of a private fortune. This is ever the effect of riches -upon the meekest of us. She was now a lovely young insurrection in -her mother’s house. She had opinions and expressed them boldly in -opposition to those of her mother. - -This had never happened before. Mrs. Adams was astonished, but she -conformed to the natural order of parents. She abdicated, merely -trailing clouds of futile protests as she descended, also after -the manner of parents. You may manage a son in love by putting the -financial brakes on him; but you can do literally nothing with a -daughter in love, because her sense of responsibility is purely -devotional and sentimental. She will risk a husband because she will -not be obliged to support him. This is the difference, which she may -discover afterwards does not exist. But she thinks it does, which comes -to the same thing. - -If you are a girl you cannot stir up any great issue. Helen simply -made those within her reach. For one thing she decided to wear “pink.” - -“But blue is your color,” Mrs. Adams objected. - -“But it is not one of my principles, mother. I am tired of blue. I have -worn it all my life as a rabbit wears one kind of skin. I’m human. I -can wear any color.” - -And she did. She tried every shade of the rainbow that summer. She was -extravagant. - -“Helen, where are your economies?” Mrs. Adams exclaimed, as if she -referred to certain necessary fastenings on the feminine character. - -This was a day in August, when Helen wanted yet another hat and frock. - -“They were never mine; they were yours, mother,” was the unfeeling -reply. “I want the dress and the hat.” - -“You have had two hats this season.” - -“This one then will make three.” - -Clothes had become her obsession, a silent way she had of extorting -admiration from George. - -“Well, if this keeps up I cannot afford to send you away to school this -fall,” Mrs. Adams told her. - -“I don’t want to go away to school. I am tired of being just taught. I -want to do my own learning,” Helen informed her. - -And when you consider how simple she was, this was a rather profound -thing to say. The desire to chase our own knowledge is as old as Eve. -But from then until now it has led to a sort of independent, sweating -self-respect. We pay the highest price of all for it, as Helen was -destined to learn--among other things. But I reckon it is worth it, if -anything is worth what we pay for the experience by which life unfolds. - -Mrs. Adams was not crushed by this flare of ingratitude. She was simply -confirmed in her suspicions. - -Meanwhile Mr. Cutter, Senior, was also confirmed in his suspicions. -Young George informed him early in August that he just about had enough -of the university; he believed the wisest thing for him to do under -the circumstances was to settle down to business. He did not name -the circumstances, but by this time everybody knew what they were, -including Mr. Cutter. - -“You are of age--your own man; the decision rests with you,” he had -said to George on this occasion, by way of washing his hands of any -responsibility, after the cool-headed manner of fathers. - -As a matter of fact, he was very well satisfied. Helen Adams was a good -girl; pretty; she would eventually inherit some property. Besides, -he thought George had better settle early in life, else he might not -settle at all. - -“I’ve made the decision,” said George, like a man in a hurry. “With -the hope of getting a raise in salary soon,” he added, with a note of -financial stress in his voice. - -“Oh, I guess we could manage that in case of an emergency,” his father -replied in the same matter-of-fact tones. - -This is the way men deal with one another, even if somewhere behind -the dealing deathless love is at stake. And it is not the way women -deal with one another. For some reason, when they settle down in their -years, and recover the powers of sight according to reason, they are -ready to inflict death on love upon the slightest provocation. - -Mrs. Adams suddenly and for no apparent cause ceased to speak to Mrs. -Cutter. And Mrs. Cutter with no apparent reason began to refer to -Helen as “that Adams girl.” The mother of a son is always jealous. She -over-estimates him; no matter whom he chooses for a wife, she thinks -he might have done better. Mrs. Cutter was free to tell anybody, and -did tell quite a number, that she hoped George would marry sometime; -but when he did it was natural that she should wish him to choose a -girl who would be equal to the position he could give her in the world. -George had a future before him. He was no ordinary young man. By these -sentiments she left you to infer what she thought of the “Adams girl.” -If you ask me, I say she was correct in her opinion, but futilely so. - -Mrs. Adams knew that her daughter could not do better in a worldly way -than to marry this young man. But when it came to the pinch, she forgot -the world and thought anxiously of Helen. She was a good mother. Her -instinct, sharpened by years of living in a world where love plays -havoc with hopes and happiness, warned her that while George might -settle down in business and become eminently successful, she doubted -if he could be domesticated in the strictly marital virtues. He had -too much temperament. Perhaps this was the way she had of admitting -that Helen was a trifle short on temperament, even if she did have a -good singing voice. On the other hand, Helen had the awful sanity of -seeing things as they are. She had observed this walking mind of her -daughter--no wings upon which to carry illusions. How would such a -woman adjust herself to a husband who might have recurrent periods of -adolescence? She did not know. Therefore she regarded George with a -hostile beam in her eye and quit speaking to Mrs. Cutter. - -When you consider the seismic disturbances created about them by only -two lovers and multiply them by all the other lovers to the uttermost -parts of the earth, it is clear that there never can be any lasting -peace in this world, though disarmament might be complete, and all -nations might pass a law confirming peace and good will. For this -is a natural disturbance beyond the diplomacy of diplomats or of -confederated congresses to control. It is the perpetual insurrection of -life everlasting in the terms of love, which are never peaceful terms. - -Some time during this August, probably the latter part, Helen wore her -third degree hat and the new frock. This hat lies now in an old trunk -above the attic stairs in the house of Helen. I have seen it. A leghorn -with a wide floppy brim, stiff, a little askew and out of shape, as you -would be yourself if you had lain so long without so much as a breath -of wind to stir you. There is a good deal of lace and ribbon on it and -a wreath of wild roses. It looks funny, as a hat always does when it is -long out of style, or as a love letter reads when you have been married -twenty years to the man who wrote it. But with all there remained -something gay and confident about this hat, like the wistful smile and -sweetness of a girl’s face, as no doubt there remains in the latter -those former scriptures of a valorous love. - -Helen was standing beside me when I fished up this little ghost of -a hat and held it up in the warm light of the attic. “Put it on,” I -exclaimed, not meaning to be irreverent. - -“No; oh, no,” she said, drawing back. “It would not become me now.” - -And it would not, any more than the love letter would have become the -sentiments of the poor, tired, old, middle-aged husband who wrote it -long ago. - -But what I set out to tell when the former Helen’s hat intrigued me -was that she went for a walk with George the first time she wore it. -Shannon at that time was such a brief little town that you could step -out of it into the open country almost at once. - -They took the river road, which was not in very good repute with the -guardians and parents of Shannon, for no better reason than that it -was sanctified by the vows of so many lovers. But what would you have? -These lovers require privacy and some fairness of scenery for their -business. You may involuntarily publish love on a street corner, but -you cannot declare it there. Your very nature revolts at the idea. So -does society. You would be arrested for staging a love scene in public. -Old people are not reasonable about this. Parental parlor-supervision -has produced more unhappy old maids than the homely features of these -victims. - -When they had come some distance along the road, George drew her arm in -his, and they went on in this beatific silence. “Helen,” he said, “if -you should say anything, what would you say?” - -She looked, caught his red brown eyes smiling down at her and blushed. -“Why, I was not going to say anything. I was just thinking,” she -answered. - -“What?” he insisted. - -“How happy I am now, this moment, and--” she halted. - -“Well, go on.” - -“Well, just how easy it is to be happy. How little it really takes to -make happiness,” she answered truthfully. - -“Just you and me,” he agreed. - -They went on again walking slowly. - -“I never loved a girl before,” he informed her, as if they had been -discussing this miracle of love in open speech for hours. - -She believed him. We always do believe them when they tell us this, -because we need so much to keep this happiness which is founded upon -the shifting sands of lovers. - -“And you, my beautiful one, you do love me?” he asked, suddenly halting -and swinging her in front of him. - -She laid her hand upon her breast, looked at him through a mist of -tears. “Is this love?” she asked, as if her hand covered leaves and -blossoms and singing birds. - -“Of course it is,” cried her high priest, clasping her and kissing her. - -“Are you sure?” she gasped, with another wide look of joyful fear. - -“Absolutely!” - -“But, George, how can you know for certain, if you’ve never loved -before?” - -Sometimes I think for every woman love is an alarm bell which rings -perpetually to disturb her peace. It really was a staggering question -she had asked, and George staggered like a man. “You know what you feel -is love, don’t you?” he evaded. - -“What I feel is terror and happiness.” - -“Well, that’s love for you. This is love for me,” he exclaimed, kissing -her again. “And to know that you are mine entirely, aren’t you?” - -“Yes,” she whispered. - -The conversation of lovers in fiction rarely tallies with what they -actually say to each other in real life. I have read the dialogue of -many a brilliant courtship in a novel, but never as an eavesdropper or -observer have I known two people in love to utter a single sentence -which was sensible or that even escaped absurdity, if you repeated -it along with other gossip you have to tell. And yet it is very -important, this primer talk, these watching eyes of lovers who place -the profoundest significance upon the most trivial act, or even the -wavering of a glance between them. - -I merely say this in passing, as a challenge to the reader, who may -feel a trifle let down, disappointed at the above record of what took -place between George and Helen on that day. What I have written is -the artless truth of love, not the fabricated philosophy of love, -because there is no such philosophy. Love is a state of being beyond -our academic powers to expound. It exists, it functions amazingly -and that is all we know about it or ever will know about it, the -passion-mongers and biologists to the contrary, notwithstanding. -They shed no light on this phenomenon, only upon the obvious material -results. They do in truth obscure it by gratifying your desire, dear -reader, to indulge vicariously in something not suitable to the proper -furnishing of your elegant mind. - - - - -CHAPTER VII - - -The ruins of an old iron foundry stood on this river road. The roof had -fallen in long ago. The walls and gables, built of rough stone alone -remained. Creeping vines covered them. The sun dipping low upon the -horizon shone through the open places where windows had been. But the -shadows were already deepening in the great, open doorway beside the -road. - -Helen was for turning back now. She was all brisked up with the desire -to hurry home with this sweet burden of happiness. - -“No, let’s go up there,” he said, making a gesture toward this door. - -They climbed the slope from the road, hand in hand, and sat upon a -long stone step, the fields before them changing already beneath the -lavender mists of twilight, the river singing below, the bright squares -of sunlight fading from the black smoked walls within, the shadows in -there deepening to darkness behind them. But what soft effulgence in -this girl’s face! Already the candles upon her altar burned. For so -many years she kept that look of pale candle light in the dark. Her -features changed; the skin lost its rosy glow; her beauty passed away; -but this serene brightness never faded. When I knew her long afterwards -she was in the full bloom of her years, her eyes of that calmer blue -women get when all the storms of love and loving have passed and left -the heart motionless with the awful peace of victory over love. And she -was still thinking of love, as one recalls an epitaph! - -Besides the happiness of having her beside him, clasped like a banner -to his side, George had something to say. He must make Helen understand -one thing, and he thought he could do this now without risking his -happiness. He did not anticipate that any emergency would ever arise -between them that would force him to fall back on this conviction about -love; but he had it; he had studied the science of social ethics in the -university--an illuminating subject under a singularly broad-minded -doctor of philosophy named Herron. - -The ethics were binding, of course, but between the lines and the -laws Herron interpolated his own views on love. He had more than -once attacked what he called the barbarous “contract of marriage.” -Divorce was one of the articles of his creed. When Nature called for a -separation of the contracting parties, it was abominable not to yield -to this natural law, otherwise you profaned that most sacred of all -things--love, and so on and so forth. - -George entertained a profound respect for Herron. Most of the young -men in his classes did. Still, they referred to him as “that fellow -Herron,” and discussed his views more than they did those of any -other member of the faculty. In this way George had obtained one of -his strongest convictions, a sort of pet moral; and as he had already -taken occasion to inform Helen, “no man on God’s green earth was more -faithful to his convictions.” - -“You know what I believe about love,” he began, drawing her closer to -him according to this faith, it appeared. - -“Me!” she answered with charming confidence. - -“Oh, yes,” kissing her; “you are love, and my life.” - -She sighed. - -“That is why I believe in the freedom of love,” he began again. “There -can be no bondage--ever--in love.” - -“Only the vows we take,” she whispered. - -“Yes, of course, marriage,” he admitted. - -“It is like being confirmed--in love--isn’t it?” - -“Why, yes, for those who love.” - -“And we do,” she said. - -“Yes, indeed,” he returned heartily--and hurriedly, if she had noticed; -for she was getting off on the wrong tack, and he wanted to say what he -had to say before this wind filled her sails. “But it is by love, not -law, that you chose me; isn’t it?” - -“Oh, yes, my love,” she answered softly. - -“Otherwise you would not take me,” he went on. - -“But I do love you.” - -“But if the time ever came when--when you ceased to care for me--” he -stammered and did not finish, feeling her stiffen as if by a resolve in -his arms. - -“It could not come, such a time,” she interrupted, “because I could -never cease to love you.” - -“I know it, my sweetheart,” speaking with tender gratitude, “but I am -only supposing the case, that if either of us ceased to care--” - -She tore herself from him. She covered him with her wide, blue gaze. -“Could you--cease to care?” she demanded. - -“Absolutely no! You are my very life. I think, live and hope everything -in terms of you,” he assured her. - -But she was not assured. She remained apart, no longer yielding to his -arms about her. “Well, why think about what will not happen?” she asked. - -“I told you we were only supposing--” - -“Not I?” - -“--that if you or I,” he went on determined to make his point, “ceased -to love, it would be profanation to--pretend--to live as if we did, -wouldn’t it?” - -“But, George,” with a note of pain, with the brightening of tears in -her eyes, “we shall be one. It says so everywhere, in the Bible, in the -vows we take, that we are one flesh. Then how can either of us cease to -love?” - -“We won’t; we never shall,” he cried eloquently, and drawing her -fearful, only half-willing in a close embrace. “But I must be honest -with you. This is my conviction, the sanctity and freedom of love.” - -“It sounds well, but it feels dangerous,” she whispered. - -“Don’t you believe in me, Helen?” in an offended tone. - -“I do, oh, I do; but not in your conviction,” she moaned. - -“What difference does it make, my heart? We love. We have chosen each -other,” he laughed. - -“Forever?” she wanted to know. - -“Forever!” he repeated with emphasis. - -She leaned close to his side, her head upon his breast, her eyes -closed, lips parted, white teeth gleaming. He knew for certain that -nothing could separate him from this goodness, this sweetness, this -loveliness. He merely wished to be on the level, to conceal nothing -from her that concerned them so nearly. He kissed her rapturously. - -She opened her eyes, human violets, blue like these flowers, innocent -like a maid, but troubled as if far away cold winds were sweeping down. -“Do you feel the wind?” she said. - -“There is no wind.” - -“Yes; and cold; I feel the chill.” - -“The air from the river,” he said, releasing her. - -“And the sun is down. It is late. We must go,” she said. - -They went back down the slope to the road, hand in hand as they had -come up, but not the same. The pain which accompanies love had entered -her heart. - -She was never to be perfectly easy again. No woman ever is who loves. -Some months, some days, at last a few hours and a few moments of -happiness she was to have with which to balance the years of life with -love and this pain. But ask her! She will tell you that they were worth -more than the years. So many more women than we know are like that. - -Once when they were near the town, he looked at her happily and said: -“I have not told you the news. It concerns you, too, now. I got a raise -in salary yesterday.” - -“I am so glad,” she answered smiling. - -“Oh, I deserved it. I am making good. Father knows it,” he put in. - -“You do work hard,” she agreed. - -“But not near as hard as I mean to work now--for you,” he assured her. - -She tightened her fingers upon his in reply. - -“I mean to be a successful man, Helen, for you. You shall have -everything.” - -“I need only you,” she answered. - -“The world is a wolf, did you know that?” - -She did not, she said. - -“Yes, it is; and the man that makes good in it has got to be a wolf -too.” - -The lamb looked up at the wolf and smiled. She was merely noticing for -the hundredth time how handsome he was, and wishing he had compared -himself to a lion. She preferred to think of him as a lion. - - - - -PART TWO - - - - -PART TWO - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - - -Three days after the homing birds flitting about the old foundry on the -river road witnessed the betrothal of George and Helen, Mrs. George -William Cutter was seen to issue from her residence at five o’clock in -the afternoon. It was barely possible at any time to do this on Wiggs -Street without being observed by the secret eyes of your neighbors and -exciting a purely private interest in where you were going. But it was -absurdly impossible for Mrs. Cutter to have escaped on this occasion -without exciting the liveliest curiosity, owing to the way she looked -and her obvious destination, as compared with what she had been saying -quite freely for the last three months to any one who wanted to know -what her feelings and opinions were concerning a certain matter. - -Her hair was crimped, although this was Thursday and she never put -it up on hairpins except on Saturday nights “for Sunday.” She wore a -small, glistening, lavender straw hat wreathed in lilacs of that shade -of pink grown only by milliners. A helpless thing securely pinned on, -which somehow gave the impression of having involuntarily drawn back -from her face in a mild flowerlike terror of this face. Any one seeing -her might have understood the feelings of this hat. Her countenance -seemed to burn, probably from the summer heat, possibly from some fiery -emotion. Her red brown eyes spat sparks, her neck was bowed until she -accomplished what Nature had not designed she should have, a wrinkle -that made a thin double chin. - -Her frock was of gray silk, high at the neck, tight at the waist, full -in the skirt, “garnished” with three graduated bands of satin ribbon -above a flounce at the bottom. It rustled richly as she walked, and she -fairly crimped the ground as she walked, taking short, emphatic steps, -as if the high heels of her slippers were stings with which she stung -whatever was lawful for an indignant woman to sting with her heels. - -She was on her way to Helen Adams and her mother. She had tried to -reason with George about this hasty marriage. She had pointed out to -him that while the girl was a nice girl, and so on and so forth, only -to have George fling out of the room as if she had insulted him. She -had talked to Mr. Cutter about it, who had told her briefly, if not -rudely, that she had better mind her own business and leave these young -people to attend to theirs since they would do it, anyhow. As if George -was not, and had not been, her own and chief business from the day of -his birth. She had moped and suffered these three days. At last she -had resolved to do her duty, since it was the only thing left that she -could do. She would go and call on the Adamses, “recognize” them, and -thus by the sacrifice of her pride and convictions, reinstate herself -with George. - -The lot of a mother was a sad one! She had the pangs by which her -child, in this case a son, was born. She nursed him. She had the care -of him, never thinking of herself. Then when he was old enough to give -her some returns, he goes off against her advice and gives himself to -another woman who, she knows, and will live to see, is unsuited to -him, and on top of all this she must sacrifice her feelings, stultify -herself, boot-lick George by going over there! She was so moved to -pity of herself that the imminence of tears reminded her that she had -forgotten her handkerchief. She went back to get it, thus keeping the -neighbors in suspense, because she had to stop and powder her nose -after blowing it. - -This time she came out, moving swiftly and rustlingly across the street -to the Adams cottage. She did not doubt that she would be received -cordially there. She did not know that Mrs. Adams had ceased to “speak” -to her some time ago, because she had never been more than civil to -Mrs. Adams, and therefore would not have known if that lady had passed -a year without speaking to her. - -She was received, of course, but by no stretch of imagination could the -reception have been called cordial. Mrs. Adams did it. She asked her -in, and admitted coolly that yes, Helen was at home. She would “tell” -her. She went out to do this. Mrs. Cutter’s eyes took one flight about -the room. She made the best of what she saw. There certainly were some -good pieces of golden oak in it. She wondered if the girl would be -allowed to take her piano when she married. She hoped-- - -Mrs. Adams returned, large, serene, dignified, very cool. She hoped -Mrs. Cutter had been well? - -Oh, yes, quite well, thanks. - -Then she told Mrs. Cutter voluntarily that if she had not been worried -to death about Helen she supposed she might have been in her usual -health. - -Mrs. Cutter raised her brows and said she hoped there was nothing the -matter with Helen. - -Oh, no, the child was well and sillily happy, but this engagement! - -The two women stared at each other, ice and fire in these looks. Mrs. -Cutter was astounded. Did her ears deceive her? They did not. - -Mrs. Adams was speaking in her large, welkin-ringing voice, distinctly -audible in the street, across the street, for that matter. Helen was -too young to marry, she was saying. She had not finished school. She -had expected to give her the best advantages in music. Helen had -talent, a future before her. But what good would talent do a married -woman? - -She asked Mrs. Cutter this and paused for a reply if Mrs. Cutter could -make one. Evidently she could not. - -No good in the world! Mrs. Adams retorted by way of answering herself. -The less personal promise she had of a future, the better it was for a -married woman. To have a gift in you that you could not develop made -for unhappiness. And what time would Helen have for her music now? -None. What use would she have for it? Practically none. And Helen -had a very nice little talent for drawing. She had painted several -placques, waving her hand at the evidences of her daughter’s art on the -walls of the parlor. It was there--a placque the size of a dinner plate -full of pansies, another one with roses painted on it. - -Mrs. Cutter’s eyes flew up obedient to these artless efforts in art, -and immediately resumed their position on Mrs. Adams’ face, which was -as full of meaning as the portrait of a Dutch mother done by an old -master. - -“Of course you don’t know how I feel about it. You have never had a -daughter,” she told Mrs. Cutter. “But I can tell you what it means. -Your whole life is centered in her. You sacrifice and plan for her. You -think she is yours. Well, you are mistaken. She belongs to some man she -has never seen. About the time you are beginning to have some peace and -satisfaction in her, he comes and gets her, marries her, regardless of -you. Then you spend the rest of your life watching her do her duty by -him, go through what you have gone through in your own married life, if -not worse, when if you could only have had your way a little while it -would have been so different, and--” - -Fortunately she did not finish this sentence. Helen came in at this -moment and gave a sweeter, politer turn to the conversation. - -Mrs. Cutter had intended to discuss the situation--in a kind way of -course, but frankly. She wanted to give some advice, let Helen know -how important it was for her to exert every effort to fit herself for -the position she would have in the Cutter family. But she did nothing -of the kind. She said a few pleasant things, kissed the girl cordially -on both cheeks and hoped George would make her happy, to which Helen -replied that he had already made her happy. Then she took her leave. - -Helen accompanied her to the door, Mrs. Adams remained in the parlor. -She had seen Mrs. Cutter’s transit across the street when she came to -make this call. She had read truly the mood of George’s mother. And -she had attended to her. She had let her know a thing or two. Now she -stood behind the parlor curtains watching her again cross the street. -This time it was less in the nature of a transit, she perceived, -nodding her head grimly. Mrs. Cutter’s neck was limber, her proud look -had disappeared. Her hat, although she had not touched it, was tilted -absurdly to one side, as if an invisible blow had struck it. And she -was walking hurriedly, like a person in retreat. - -Mrs. Cutter barely made it across her own doorsill before she began to -wring her hands. Oh! her Father in heaven, what kind of mother-in-law -would that woman make to poor Georgie? She received no immediate -answer to this interrogative prayer. We never do. An answer to prayer -comes when you wait until it is worked out somewhere in life. Her own -suspicions answered it clearly enough, however; she must knuckle to -some sort of courtship of that old Adams woman, or there was no telling -what might happen. - -She had taken it for granted that George would bring his wife to his -own home. One look at Mrs. Adams convinced her that if the young couple -lived with anybody they would live with Helen’s mother. That would -never do! Since George was determined to marry the girl the only wise -course to follow would be to give him a home of his own. She would tell -Mr. Cutter so, and why. He could afford to do something for George. -He might make him a wedding present of the old Carrol place. It would -cost something to repair the house, but anything would be better than -sitting across the street and seeing George domesticated in the Adams -home. - -All this is important to set down in order that you may realize the -difficulty so many young people have in disentangling themselves from -the lives of their elders and starting out for themselves. We have -escaped the old tribal instinct in everything more than in this. The -son is persuaded to bring his wife into his father’s house, or he does -do it for the sake of economy. Nothing can be more disintegrating to -the welding and growth of such a marriage. - -But the chief reason I have recorded what happened on this day is -because it was by this accident of maternal jealousy that Helen came -into possession of her house. So far from believing in any sort of -orderly destiny, my belief is that the Fates which change and control -our lives are as uncertain as the flight of birds. The world about us -is filled with contending forces. - -Some one whom you never saw or heard of looks at the ticker in his -office and sells out that day. The next day that little package of -bonds or stock in your safety-deposit box is not worth the embossed -paper they are written on. Or, you turn a street corner, meet a -man, walk two blocks with him, learn from him something about this -same market which he does not know he has told in the course of his -conversation, and you get the opportunity to become a rich man in this -same market before night. Or, you who have always been a reasonably -decent young man meet the eyes of a woman in a crowded place, and you -pass on with her to a fate which leads to every dishonor. You had no -intention of doing such a thing; it is contrary to your principles and -your habits; but you do it. So many are subject to these whirlwinds of -fate that you cannot tell by looking at them or even by hearing them -pray which ones are steady and safe from disaster. It all depends upon -the compass within whether we swing at the right moment into the right -current. - -Just so, if Mrs. Adams had not resented the bow of Mrs. Cutter’s neck, -the offensive emphasis of her little wrinkle of a double chin, when -she came to make that call, she might have received her amiably. And -if Mrs. Cutter had been received amiably, her maternal jealousy might -not have been so aroused and she would not have persuaded Mr. Cutter -to give George the Carrol place. In that case the House of Helen might -have been some other house, or no house at all. And her life would have -been in all probability a different kind of existence. Because the -house in which a woman lives, moves and does her duties, determines her -character much more than the bank does in which her husband transacts -his affairs. - -If the reader is another woman, and has spent her spare time for -nearly forty years, as I have, in a sort of involuntary study of men, -she knows, as well as I do, that there is nothing you can see with -the naked eye or put even your gloved finger on that does determine -the character of a man. He never breaks his own personal confidence. -It is no use to keep either your eye or your finger on him. You will -never know him unless he goes to pieces like the one-horse shay, after -which it is very unfortunate to know him at all. I am putting this -down merely to give you a line on how effervescently Helen came into -possession of her house, though it seemed so natural that she should -have it, and to warn you that while you think you know what will happen -in this story, you do not know, because you do not know George. You do -not, even if your own husband is a similar George. - - - - -CHAPTER IX - - -There is an old copy of the Shannon _Sentinel_, dated October 17, 1902, -which contains an account of the Adams-Cutter marriage. It lies folded -in the trunk with Helen’s last girlhood hat, and a few other things of -that tearful nature. I do not know why women keep these little yellowed -and faded tokens of past hopes, unless it is for the same reason they -devote themselves cheerfully and industriously to the cultivation of -flower gardens on their cemetery lots where their dead lie so deeply -buried. - -The dim type still tells how the altar in this church was decorated -with flowers and ferns, who played the wedding march and who performed -the ceremony. The bride was the beautiful and accomplished daughter of -the late Sam Adams and Mrs. Mary Adams. - -“Late” is the adjective you get, instead of the plain civilian title -of “Mister” you had while you were in the flesh. It depends whether -this exchange implies demotion or immortal inflation. But there can be -no doubt about the significance of “Sam” in this connection. Mr. Adams -was a carpenter, and a good one, but he never received credit in this -present world for the concluding, dignifying syllables of his Christian -name. - -In this same paragraph it tells how the bride was dressed, who her -attendants were and what they wore. And simmers down in the last -sentence to a description of the gowns worn by the respective mothers -of the bride and groom. The word “exeunt” does not occur, of course; -but that lick-and-a-promise praise of their toilettes really implies -that this is the last prominent appearance of these worthy women. - -The concluding paragraph is devoted to the groom. And it is evident -that the writer saved his most obsequious words for this final flare of -flattery. The groom was the son of “our distinguished fellow townsman, -Mr. George William Cutter”--a “university man”; some reference was -made to his “sterling qualities” and bright future. He had recently -“accepted” a position in the First National Bank where he had already -“made an enviable record”--cordial finger pointing to “bright future.” -“The young couple left on the noon train for a wedding tour in the -East. Upon their return they will take up their residence in their new -home on Wiggs Street.” - -You and I may both believe that either one of us could have written a -better account of this wedding, imparted more dignity to the occasion, -as undoubtedly a real artist might paint a more pleasing portrait of -you or me. But for a naively truthful likeness, we both know that -a country-town photographer surpasses the artist when it comes to -portraying the warped noses of our countenances, the worried eye and -the mouths we really have. This is why we avoid his brutal veracity -when we can afford the expense. Neither one of us cares to leave the -very scriptures of our faces to appall posterity. - -In the same manner, I contend there is always an artless charm, a sweet -and scandalous candor in what appears in a country newspaper, which is -more refreshing and informing than the elegance of our best writers -in the use of words. For example, does not the _Sentinel’s_ account -furnish a clearer picture and even a more intimate interpretation of -this bride and groom and the whole scene, than you could possibly -receive of a fashionable wedding from the social columns of a big -city paper? Personally, I have frequently been offended by the cool, -bragging insolence of these announcements of city weddings, as if -all we were entitled to know is that they can afford the pomp and -circumstance; nothing about their “bright future,” or the bride’s -“accomplishments,” or the groom’s “sterling qualities” to bid for our -interest and good will. Why swagger in print about being married? It is -not a thing to boast about, but to be humble about, and to entreat the -prayers of all Christian people, that they may behave themselves, keep -their vows and do the square thing by each other and society. - -George and Helen returned to Shannon and their new home on Wiggs Street -the last of October. - -Helen was far more beautiful than she had ever been, with that sedate -air young wives acquire before they are becalmed by the stupefying -monotony of love, peace and duty. The lines in George’s handsome young -face were firmer. He had that look of resolution men of his type show, -before it is confirmed into the next look of arrogance and success. - -When Helen and George became engaged in August the Carrol house was -simply an old gray farmhouse, overtaken years ago by the spreading -skirts of Shannon, but never assimilated. This was due to the fact that -when Wiggs Street was lengthened, it must be made straight whatever -happened. The old house was left far to one side on a wide lawn. No one -lived in it. Altheas and roses bloomed among the weeds, like gentle -folk who have lost their station in life and make common lot with the -mean and the poor. Grass grew between the bricks of the walk which -led to the front door. There was a hedge of bulbous-bodied boxwood on -either side of this walk. The windows of the old house looked out on -this green and growing desolation with the vacant stare they always -have in an empty house. - -But since the end of August carpenters, plasterers and painters had -swarmed over it and through it. Laborers had cleaned and cleared and -pruned. At last came van loads of carpets, furniture and draperies. -These had been smoothed, placed and hung inside. Now it looked like -the same old house that had suddenly come into a modest fortune, gone -to town and bought itself a lot of nice things to wear. Not a gable -had been changed, but the new roof had been painted green. The walls -were so white that they glistened. The windows were so clean that they -looked like the bright eyes of a lady with her veil lifted. - -On the evening of her first day in this house, Helen stood on the -veranda waiting for George, watching the elm leaves sweeping past, a -golden shower in the November wind. She had been very busy all day, -not that there was anything to do, because everything had been done. -But she had been going over her possessions, feeling the fullness -and vastness of her estate. She had silver, yes, and fine linen. Her -furniture was good, golden oak, every piece. Her rugs were florescent, -very cheerful. - -She needed more furniture; the rooms looked sparsely settled, -especially the parlor. A bookcase would help, and a few pictures on the -walls, but all in good time. She would be contented, ask for nothing -else. She meant to be a thrifty, helpful wife, do her own work, take -care of George. She was simply speechlessly happy. So it was just as -well she had no one to talk to. She wished to be alone except for -George, to concentrate upon all this joy. It seemed too good to be -true. She had this house, to be sweetened into a home, and all these -things; above and transcending everything, she had George. She was -absolutely sure of him. Is there anything more certain than sunshine -when the sun shines? - -This day was a criterion of all her days. She was very busy. She -expected to find time for her music, and to read a little. She must -keep up with what was going on for George’s sake, so that she would -be an intelligent companion for him. But she never found time; -besides, George cared less than she had supposed for music, and he -was strangely indifferent to intelligent conversation, seeing what an -intelligent man he was. - -Sometimes she returned a few calls, merely from a sense of duty. She -was never lonely. Sometimes her mother came to lunch and spent the -afternoon. On Sundays they went to church and had dinner with George’s -father and mother. As the months passed, Mrs. Cutter frequently asked -her how she “felt.” She always felt well and told her so. She did not -notice that Mrs. Cutter took little pleasure in her abounding health. -The spring and summer passed. She was very busy in her garden among the -flowers. - -One day Mrs. Adams warned her against taking so much violent exercise. - -“But why?” Helen asked, standing up with a trowel in her hand, -radiantly flushed. - -Mrs. Adams said nothing. She merely measured her daughter this way and -that with a sort of tape-line gaze. - -“I like working out here, and I am perfectly well,” Helen insisted. - -“A married woman never knows when she is perfectly well. It is your -duty to be careful,” was the reply. - -Helen flushed and remained silent. She felt that her mother was -staring at her inquisitively through this silence as she had sometimes -seen her peep through the drawn curtains before a window to satisfy her -curiosity or her anxiety. - -When at last Mrs. Adams took her departure, Helen went in, closed the -door of her room and sat down on the side of her bed. - -I do not know how it is with men, but there are thoughts a woman -cannot think if the door is open, even if there is not another soul -in the house. Helen was now engaged in this sort of secret-prayer -contemplation of herself, a slim, pretty figure, sitting with her knees -crossed, hands folded, lips parted, eyes fixed in a long blue gaze upon -the clean white walls of this room. - -So that was it! She was the object of--anticipation which had not -been--rewarded. The color in her cheeks deepened. She recalled this -question, that remark, made by George’s mother. She understood the -curious look of suspense with which Mrs. Cutter frequently regarded -her. She wished to remind her of a duty she owed the Cutter family. -The meaning of it all was perfectly clear to her now. As if it was -anybody’s business! She was indignant by this time. She began to -shake one foot. Her eyes flew this way and that, like the wings of a -distracted bird. She was really arguing fiercely with George’s mother, -saying the things which we never dare to say in fact. She flounced, -bobbing up and down on the springs beneath her, set her impatient foot -down, closed her lips firmly and looked really fierce. Evidently she -was getting the better of this argument, chiefly, no doubt, because -Mrs. Cutter was not there. - -Suddenly she lifted her left hand, counted the fingers and in turn used -up all the fingers of her right hand in this triumphant enumeration. -Yes, she had been married exactly ten months. Not a year yet. Why was -everybody in such a hurry, even her mother? - -Then something happened. She became very still, as you do sometimes -when the future, which always keeps its bright back to you, suddenly -turns around and permits you to behold the face of the years to come. -The color faded from her cheeks; her eyes widened into a look of -terror. She gave a gasp and buried her face in the pillow. - -Oh, God, oh, her Father in heaven, suppose it should always be like -this! Suppose she lived to be an old woman and never had a child. Doing -just the same things over, alone in the house. Nothing to look forward -to all day except George’s return at the end of it. And nothing for -him to expect except herself coming from the kitchen to welcome him -and hurrying back again, lest something burned or boiled over if she -delayed a moment. What would she be in her husband’s house if she did -not become a mother to his children? - -She sprang to her feet and tore off the pink apron she was wearing over -her summer frock. “I shall be a servant, nothing else,” she cried, -tidying her hair before the mirror. “I shall grow old and gray; my skin -will be yellow and, if I don’t--if we do not have children, I shall -begin presently to look like a good servant, the kind that never gives -notice, but just stays on and dies in the family. Oh!” - -She flew back to the bed, cast herself upon it and wept aloud to the -ceiling. - -An audience makes hypocrites of us all. The very mirror in your room -will do it. The best acting is always done in secret. If you could see -that little mouse of a woman whom you never suspect of having more than -the timid sniff of an emotion, charging up and down the room in her -nightdress, tearing her hair and raving with her eyes, making no sound -lest you should hear her, you would be astonished. And she might be -no less amazed if she could see you carrying on like a proud female -Cicero, delivering the mere gestures of an eloquent oration. No acting -we ever see on the stage equals the histrionic ability of the least -talented woman when it comes to these bed-chamber theatricals of her -secret emotions. - -Helen was calmer when George returned from the bank an hour later. She -met him as usual. But the sight of him unnerved her. She flung herself -upon his breast and clung to him, as if a strong wind was blowing which -might sweep her away from him forever. - -“Helen! My heart, what is the matter?” he exclaimed. - -She sobbed. - -“Are you ill?” he said, turning her face so that it lay upon his -breast, chin quivering, eyes closed. - -No, she was not ill, she said. The white lids lifted. She regarded -him sorrowfully. “Only I want to ask you something. I must know,” she -whispered. - -“Ask anything; only don’t cry. I can’t stand it,” kissing her. - -“George,” she began after a pause. - -“Yes, my life,” in grave suspense. - -“Am I a good wife?” - -Good heaven! What a question. Of course she was, the best and -loveliest wife a man ever had. - -“But aren’t you--have you been disappointed in me?” - -“You surpass my happiest dreams of happiness,” he assured her hastily. -Now was everything all right? - -Apparently not. She had gone off into another paroxysm of sobs. He -stood with this storm of loveliness clasped to his breast amazed and -horrified. What was the matter with Helen? He had left her calm and -happy at noon. He found her now in torrential tears. She must be ill. - -He lifted her tenderly in his arms, strode down the hall to their room -and deposited her on the bed. - -“You will always love me, whatever happens?” she insisted, clinging to -his hand. - -He sat down beside her. He filled his lungs; he expanded himself. He -must meet this emergency. “Helen, I could not live without loving you,” -he exclaimed in a deep and powerful voice. - -“But if nothing happens, if nothing ever happens?” she wailed. - -He was speechless. When you are caught up without a moment’s notice and -made to swear to every article of undying love, what else can you do? -But she lay wilted, deadly pale, her eyes fixed upon him dolorously, as -if he might be going to slay her with the next word. Therefore-- - -He did not finish thinking what he was about to think. A sort of shock -passed through him, he caught his breath, looked off, the faintest -shade of embarrassment in this look addressed to the ceiling, but -not painful. On the contrary you might have inferred that this was a -pleasurable confusion. He was instantly calmed, no longer disturbed -about Helen. He stared at her politely as at an unknown but highly -satisfactory phenomenon. He had no experience in a case like this, -but he had instincts. Every young husband is a father, at least by -anticipation. His impression was that she must be soothed, kept quiet. - -He bent and kissed her gravely, as you kiss the Bible when you take an -oath. “Don’t worry, my sweet; you will come around all right,” he told -her. - -She turned her face away, closed her eyes in tearful despair. He had -not answered her question. He had evaded with soft words. This would -never do. She was beginning to weep again. He said he would go to the -phone and call her mother. - -“Don’t call mother. She has been here all afternoon,” she cried. - -So, then Mrs. Adams knew. Well, he didn’t care if the whole world knew. -“Helen, you must not let go like this. You will hurt yourself,” he said -with a note of authority. - -Her ears heard him; her eyes caught him. For one moment she lay still -and sobless. Then she sat up, hair streaming over her shoulders, cheeks -reddening. “You too!” she cried. “Oh, you have all had the same thought -in your minds. And it isn’t so,” she informed him. - -“Well, if nothing is the matter, what is the matter?” he demanded after -a pause in the voice of a man sliding from the top of a climax. - -“That is,” covering her face with her hands. “Your mother, my mother, -you, too, all of you have been expecting something that may never -happen. And I did not know, did not realize until this day the meaning -of these hints, these questions, this solicitude. It was not for me. I -do not deserve it, you understand. I am not that way.” Oh! her Heavenly -Father, she knew what was before her now if she never had a child. She -would not be the same to him! - -“Of course you will, you silly darling,” he laughed, gathering her in -his arms. “The fact is, I am immensely relieved.” - -In this wise they took a new lease on their happiness. Helen’s skies -cleared. It was good to be free and well and just a girl “a while -longer,” as George put it. Still this was a form of probation. That -phrase, “a while longer,” was the involuntary admission he made of his -ultimate expectations. For his own part, he declared it was much better -for him to make some headway in the bank before they could really -afford the expensive luxury of having children. Still he felt a bit let -down at the contemplation for the first time of the bare possibility of -his wife not bearing these children for him. - -Thus the first year of their married life ended and the next one began. -In the main you can see that every sign for the future was propitious. -These two young people had the right mind toward each other; no modern -decadence, no desire to sidestep Nature or fail in their duty. Their -instincts were normal, their hopes honorable. - -How is it then that, with all good intentions, they both missed their -cue? It is not for me to say. My task is to tell this story and leave -each reader to judge for himself where the blame lay. No doubt there -will be many decisions. I have often wondered if even three judges who -passed on the same case without knowing each other’s decision, would -not each of them render a different judgment. But in regard to this -matter, I may be permitted to remark in passing that most of us miss -our cue in the business of living, whether we are escorted by the best -intentions or a few valorous vices. And my theory is that if we live -long enough, we shall hear the Prompter in time to make a good ending. -If we do not, there is a considerable stretch of eternity before us -where no doubt adjustments may be made with a wider mind. - - - - -CHAPTER X - - -In 1913, Shannon had grown amazingly. The square was now a “plaza,” -surrounded by handsome brick business houses. There were two or three -factories on the outskirts of the town. The little old churches that -used to be filled on Sabbath mornings had given place to fine churches -with stained-glass windows, which were greatly reduced in membership. -What I mean is that the town was prosperous, and had a beam in its eye. -Wiggs Street was completely changed and there was some talk of changing -the name to “Cutter Avenue.” But this was not done. Every man has his -enemies. There were many pretentious residences now where cottages -formerly stood. Some of them had conservatories. Nobody kept potted -plants on the front porch, but some of them had got as far as keeping -potted cedars on their stone gate posts and a colored man in rubber -boots to scrub the front steps. - -George Cutter, no longer known as “young George” since the death of -his father, received much credit for the growth and development of the -town. It was Mr. Cutter who had induced certain Eastern capitalists -to locate these factories near Shannon. He was more than a prominent -citizen at home. He was somebody in New York. He had “influence” -in Washington. Otherwise Shannon would never have obtained her -hundred-thousand-dollar post office. He carried Shannon County in his -pocket, politically speaking, and he kept his congressman in the other -pocket, in the same figurative manner. - -Five years after he entered the bank, he was occupying the chair and -desk on the left side of the door where his father sat when George -began his career on the adding machine in the cage. Mr. Cutter, -Senior, was still the nominal president, but he had a finer desk and -more comfortable, less businesslike chair in the rear of his son. -He was now a fat old man, drooling down to a heavy old age. He was -merely president from force of habit. He did nothing but watch, with -slumberous pride, his son paw the markets, reach out, speculate, risk -and win, make a name for himself in the financial world. - -But in 1913 all this was ancient history. The young wolf had been -just beginning then to get a toothhold. Now he had arrived. He had -“interests” in the big corporations. When he became president, after -the death of his father, the first thing he did was to sell this small -building to a local trust company and build a finer, larger place for -his bank. Here he had an office, off the directors’ room in the rear, -as magnificent and grave as a sanctuary. And it was so proudly private -that there was no spangled glass door leading to it visible to the -vulgar public eye. Capitalists and promoters visited him here, but the -regular customers of the bank rarely saw him except by accident when -he issued from this office, hatted, spatted, coated, carrying a cane -hooked over his arm, and stepping briskly across the lobby through -the door to where his car stood and shone against the curb. In that -case their eyes followed him. And if these eyes belonged to women, of -whatever age, they were likely to exclaim, breathe or think, “What a -handsome man!” - -He was more than handsome, a “presence,” almost a perfect imitation of -elegance. He was the kind of man who kept his years under foot. He trod -them down with so much swiftness and power in this business of getting -on that they had not marked him. His face was smooth, his red hair -still opulent, his eyes brilliant, masterful. When he came in or went -out or passed by, they were always fixed on something straight ahead, -as if you were not there, anxious to catch his glance and have the -honor of speaking to him. Probably you wanted to remind him of how well -you remembered when he started to work in the old bank. And you were a -friend of his father, and had always kept your account in this bank and -would continue to do so. But you must be a wheedling, forward old man -to get the chance to say such things to him, because your account means -nothing to him now, and your good memory only annoys him. - -The reason so many men, after they become distinguished or successful, -get this habit of looking straight ahead when we are standing -ingratiatingly near, wishing to claim acquaintanceship with them in -their humbler past, is because they wish to forget this past, and -especially you who retain the speaking tongue of it. - -George Cutter had outgrown Shannon. Shannon might be proud of him, -but it could not be intimate with him. He did not belong there. He -was a big town man. You could almost smell Wall Street as he passed -you, Williams Street, anyhow, which is only one of the elbows of Wall -Street--a notable perfume, I can tell you, of pop-eyed dollars and busy -bonds that never rested, but were always being sold again. - -Seeing George thus, enhanced by ten additional years, you naturally -want to know what changes have taken place in Helen. - -Sometimes a slender, fair woman might be seen in Cutter’s limousine, -waiting at the curb before the bank. But if you saw her, you scarcely -noticed her, because there was nothing distinguishing in her -appearance. She always sat very still with her hands folded, her lips -closed so tightly that they appeared to be primped, and with her eyes -wide open, very blue like curtains drawn before windows, concealing -every thought and feeling within. When Cutter came through the door -of the bank, stepped quickly forward and swung himself into this car -with the air of a man who has not a moment to spare, she always drew -a trifle closer into her corner of the seat. Then they slid away -noiselessly across the square and out Wiggs Street. Even the chauffeur -knew that Mr. Cutter never had a moment to spare and invariably -exceeded the speed limit. - -No word of greeting was exchanged between this husband and wife--not -even a look. She did not so much as unpurse her lips to smile. His -arrogant silence implied that he was alone in this car. Yet we must -know that it was his wish she should come for him, since she so often -did come and wait for him with this look of dutiful patience. - -The married relation is not vocative. It tends toward silence and a -sort of dreary neutrality, arrived at by years of mutual defeats. It is -easier for a man to be agreeable to another woman who is not his wife -for the simple reason that he is innocent of this stranger. She knows -none of his faults and she has not failed him in anything. And every -woman knows that she is instinctively more entertaining to a man who -is not her husband, even if she despises this man and truly, patiently -loves her husband, because she is under no bond to agree with him nor -to avoid his prejudices. There is nothing accusative or immoral in this -fact, any more than there is in a momentary change of thought. It is -perfectly natural, when you consider how many years they must dwell -upon the same common sense of each other. - -If the weather was fine, Cutter only stopped long enough to drop Helen -at the house. He might tell her he would be late for dinner or he might -be late without telling her. Then he was driven at the same spanking, -glittering speed to the golf and country club for a foursome previously -arranged. - -Cutter had imported the idea of this club. As Cadmus introduced -letters into Greece, so had he brought golf to the business men of -Shannon. Until then middle-aged citizens accepted the sedentary habits -of their years and went down to their graves corpulent and muscleless, -developing only a little miserliness toward the last or a few crapulous -vices. But now these men, grown bald and gray, who had never spent a -surplus nickel nor taken more exercise than healthy invalids, hired -caddies for fifty cents an hour, and spent recklessly for golf sticks -and especially golf stockings and breeches. And they were to be seen -any afternoon stepping springily over these links, whacking balls--for -the ninth hole at least--with all the reared-back, straddle-legged, -arm-swinging genuflections of enthusiastic youth. Missionaries have -spent twenty years in the heart of Africa without accomplishing so much -healthful good for the savages there. But in that case the idea of -course is not to prolong the life of a savage, but to save his soul. -Still, Cutter was a successful missionary in this matter of golf, -because the souls of the men in Shannon had long been sufficiently -enured to the gospel to be saved, if they could be. - -As for the women, that was a different matter. Very few people ever -worry seriously about the salvation of these milder creatures. Until -quite recently they have been so securely preserved, sheltered and -possessed that it was actually difficult for a woman to lose her soul -by any obvious overt transgression. Even then you could not be sure she -had lost it, since she suffered such overwhelming martyrdom for her -offense. And we do not know what kind balances may be arranged in the -Book of Life for these poor victims of life in the flesh. - -There was also a different standard for women in the matter of outdoor -exercise, even at so recent a date as this of which I write. They might -caper adventuresomely in the open as girls, but the idea of a married -woman spreading her feet and swinging her club at a ball on the golf -links at Shannon was unthinkable. If they wanted the air, let them go -out-of-doors; if they wanted exercise, let them go back indoors and do -something. - -So Helen never accompanied her husband to the golf links. She always -went in the house and did things that would please him, or at least -satisfy him when he came home. - -They were still living in the house at the end of Wiggs Street. No -changes had been made in it, not a stitch had been added to it. It was -simply laundered, so to speak, once in so often with a fresh coat of -white paint. - -But it was not so sparsely settled within as it had been when she came -there as a bride. - -Two years after Helen’s marriage Mrs. Adams had passed away with -no to-do about going at all. She was ill three days, very quietly -and comfortably unconscious. Then she had gone to join that highly -respectable class of saints in paradise to which no doubt her carpenter -husband already belonged. Helen inherited her mother’s estate, which -consisted of a few thousand dollars’ worth of securities in her safety -box at the bank, the cottage on Wiggs Street and the contents of this -cottage. The cottage was promptly sold and, together with the sale -of the securities, furnished George with the money for his first -successful speculation. - -But Helen would not part with the furniture. She had it brought to her -own house. When she had distributed it in the rooms, the hall, all -available spaces were filled with it. Her father’s portrait, done in -crayon, hung above the parlor mantel. Her mother’s portrait, also a -crayon, hung on the opposite wall. For years to come these two Adams -parents were to stare at each other in a grim silence, as much as to -say, “There will be a reckoning in this house some day!” which was -due, of course, to the crudely veracious expression the amateur artist -always gets with a crayon pencil. For at that time there was nothing -but love and happiness and hope in this house. George was really -planning then to build a mansion where this house stood. For a while -they amused themselves drawing plans for this mansion. Then George -became more and more absorbed in his business. He had less time for -fanciful conversation with Helen. In any case the subject of the new -house was dropped. It had not been mentioned for years. - -I suppose if there had been children the new house would have been -built. But nothing had “happened.” Helen kept a cat, a canary bird -and two servants. The cat was a sort of serial cat, exchanged once in -so often for a kitten. The bird was the same one. She did not really -care for cats, nor much for canaries, but they served the purpose of -furnishing some sort of sound and motion in this silent house. She did -not want the servants, either. She preferred to do her own work. She -would have made an excellent wife for a poor man. She was a marvelously -good one to George, who was rapidly becoming a rich man. - -She might have been a wonderful caretaker of a great man; she had -exactly the right spirit of service and self-effacement. She developed -a serene silence which was restful, never irritating. But George was -not and never would be a great man. He needed a brilliant woman, and -Helen was only a beautiful woman. He needed a charming hostess for his -home, with social gifts. And Helen was only an excellent housekeeper. -He knew that this house was atrociously furnished, but he did not know -how it should be furnished. You may be highly appreciative of music -without being a musician. He felt the need of fine, quiet things and -neutral tones in his home, but he had neither the time nor the ability -to achieve these effects. - -Once, indeed, shortly after Helen had rearranged the parlor with the -old Adams whatnot and the Adams sofa with a golden-oak spindle back, -he had sent out two handsome mahogany armchairs, his idea being to -overcome the monotonous color and cheapness of this room. These chairs -looked like two bishops at a populist meeting. Helen was pleased, but -he had sense enough to know that he had blundered. - -I am merely giving you his side of this affair, frankly admitting that -she was by nature disqualified to fill the position of wife to such -a man. In the last analysis, of course, it would depend upon which of -these two people such a man as George Cutter or such a woman and wife -as Helen is the worthier type, or the more serviceable to his day and -generation. It is not the reaping of what we sow ourselves--sometimes -it is the reaping of what the other fellow sowed, the way we bear the -burden of that--which determines our quality and courage. - -As for Helen, the elder Mrs. Cutter said it all shortly before her -death. - -One summer evening she lay propped high in bed, her thin knees sticking -up, her thin face stingingly vivid, her eyes spiteful with pain and -discontent. Helen had just gone home after her daily visit, during -which she ministered with exasperating patience to this invalid. Mr. -Cutter sat beside his wife’s bed concerned for her, anxious to comfort -her, but secretly wondering where she would strike. For he perceived by -the spitting spark in her eye that she was about to strike. - -“Helen is hopeless,” she exclaimed. - -He was relieved not to be the target. Still he said something in reply -about Helen’s being a “good girl.” - -“Yes, and that is all she is. She is not the wife for George. I knew it -from the first,” she keyed off irritably. - -Mr. Cutter ventured timidly that she had made George a “good wife.” - -“Good, good, good,” she repeated. “I wish somebody could think of some -other word for her. But they can’t. Good’s the adjective she’s been -known by all her life.” - -“Well, it is a very good way to be known, my dear,” he returned mildly. - -“There you go again. Lower my pillow, Mr. Cutter. I can’t keep my head -up and think about her. She weighs on me like a load of commonest -virtues.” - -He let her gently down. She glared at him. He smoothed her pillow. -Would she like a sip of water? - -No! and she was not to be diverted, if that was what he was trying to -do. “Do you know what a merely good woman can be?” she demanded. - -The word good occurred to him again. He wanted to say that there -was nothing better than a good woman, but he refrained. He must not -irritate Maggie; if only she would not work herself up. - -“She can be the least intelligent creature alive, obsessed with the -practice of her duties. Her mind inside her, never in touch with what -is bigger and more important outside. She can be the stone around her -husband’s neck. That is what Helen is.” - -Mr. Cutter sighed. He was fond of Helen. - -“What has she ever done for George? I ask you that.” She waited for his -answer as if she defied him to name one thing Helen had done to help -her husband. - -“Well, she’s been a good wife to him,” he repeated futilely. - -“There you go again,” she exclaimed. “I’ve been a good wife to you, -too, haven’t I?” - -“Indeed you have, my dear,” he answered gratefully. - -“But was I contented with being just that? When we came to this town as -poor as church mice and you got the position in the bank, I made up my -mind that you should be president of that bank some day, and you are, -aren’t you?” - -“Yes, my dear, and I owe everything to you--” - -“Not everything, Mr. Cutter,” she interrupted with a sniff; “but I -helped you; I made friends for you; I showed off before people to let -them know you were prosperous and a coming man. I had some pride.” - -“You did, my dear. You were game and looked it,” he answered with a -watery smile of memory in his eye. - -“And I bore a son for you.” - -“You ought not to blame Helen; you can’t--” he began. - -“Yes, I can,” she interrupted; “if she isn’t to have children, if poor -George’s name is to die with him, she might at least help him enjoy his -own career. But she doesn’t; she is becalmed. She hasn’t got it in her, -I tell you, to do what I have done to show my pride and appreciation of -the position you have made for us.” - -“But, Maggie, you are one woman in ten thousand. You have not only been -the best of wives, you have been everything to me a man needs.” - -This reduced her to proud tears, and ended the scene, he holding one -hand, she pressing a scented handkerchief to her eyes with the other. -She was really quite happy in a sort of fiercely indignant fashion. - -I suppose every husband tells his wife some such yarn as this. And -he usually gets away with it. He may even believe it for all I know, -although there are some millions of other husbands controverting his -testimony by the same flattery to their respective wives. - -We have biographies of great women, even if they are bad ones. But -I doubt if there is a single biography to be found of a merely good -woman, because for some reason goodness does not distinguish women, -and for another reason, while it may make them useful, dependable and -absolutely essential to others, it does not make them sufficiently -interesting to hold the reader’s attention or the world’s attention. -You never heard of one being knighted for virtue. It is not done. You -never saw a monument raised to just one woman who was invincibly good -and faithful in the discharge of her intimate private duties as a wife -or a mother. She must do something publicly, like leading a reform or -creating a disturbance. - -And the only feminine autobiographies I have read were written by women -who should not have done so. They have been without exception written -by some ignobly good woman, with every mean and detestable use of her -virtues at the expense of other people, or they were indecent exposures -of moral degeneracy and neurasthenic disorders. Good women cannot write -their autobiographies. The poor things are inarticulate. They lack the -egocentricity essential for such a performance. This statement stands, -even if the author eventually publishes some such looking-glass of -herself. - -I would not discourage any woman who is preparing to make of herself -a sacrifice wholly acceptable to her husband and family, but it is my -honest conviction that it will not pay her in this present world. And -that she will wind up like the sundown saint of herself, respected, -held in affectionate regard, maybe, but unhonored and unsung. So go -ahead with your sacrifice, but do not complain about it. Men, as well -as gods, accept sacrifices, but they rarely ever return the compliment. - -Helen Cutter belonged to this class. The first years of her marriage -passed happily enough. She was not too good. She was often exacting in -her pretty, soft, white way. But she always produced this impression of -whiteness and simplicity. She was in the confidence of her husband to -this extent, she knew how rapidly he was forging ahead in business. She -marveled at the swiftness with which he turned over money and doubled -it. And she never questioned his methods. - -Then the time came when business engrossed him to the exclusion of -every other interest. He was obliged to make frequent trips to money -markets in the East and the West. He began to be hurried, preoccupied, -irritable. - -This is the history of many successful men in the married relation. It -usually results in the wife’s finding another life of her own, in her -children, in social diversions or some other activity. Cutter wished -for this solution for his wife. He provided her amply with funds. But -it seemed that she did not know how to spend money foolishly. She was -invincibly moral about everything. She performed her tea-party duties -at regular intervals without any distinction as a hostess, paid a few -calls and remained a “home body.” - -She perceived the change in her husband. He was not now the man she had -married. He was no longer even of her class. She could not keep up with -him. She knew that she was not even within speaking distance of him, -because she could not talk of the things he talked about. Finances, -big enterprises, the plays in New York, life in New York. The one bond -which might have held them did not exist. She had no children. - - - - -CHAPTER XI - - -A trivial circumstance finally enlightened her as to the length and -breadth of the distance between them. - -One morning at the breakfast table Cutter looked at his wife -appraisingly. They had been married eleven years. She was still pretty, -but it was a beauty maturing into a sort of serenity, no vivacity. She -had, in fact, a noble look. Stupid women do frequently get it. He had -long since made up his mind that Helen was, to say the least of it, -mentally prismatic. She had no elasticity of charm. Still he resolved -to risk her. - -“Helen, Shippen gets in from New York this afternoon. I want to bring -him out here for dinner. Do you think you can manage it?” he asked. - -“The dinner? Why, yes, of course, George,” she replied, having no -doubt about being able to manage a dinner. This Mr. Shippen could not -possibly be more exacting than George was himself. - -“He is coming down to look at that pyrites mine I want to sell. We -are going to get into this war, and the Government is bound to need -pyrites. Shippen is tremendously rich, something of a sport, I imagine. -He was rather nice to me when I was in New York last month, introduced -me to a lot of men I need to know,” he explained. “So you must help me -out by doing your best,” he added significantly. - -“I will, dear,” she assured him, still unperturbed. - -This serene confidence disturbed him. He doubted if she could put -across the simplest meal in a correct manner. During the lifetime of -his mother, his father had entertained such out-of-town guests; but -these excellent parents had been dead for years. He was obliged to fall -back on Helen. - -“You must do your best and look your best. You are lovely, you know.” - -“Am I?” she asked, not coquettishly, but as if this was an opportunity -to assure herself about something which was causing her anxiety. - -“Yes, of course, you are,” he returned in a matter-of-fact tone. -This was no time to get personal with his wife. He wanted her to do -something and do it well. - -“Wear that gown I bought you from Madame Lily’s,” he suggested. - -“Oh! must I?” she exclaimed as if she asked, Would it be as bad as that? - -“The very thing, and wear the necklace.” - -She said she would, but what she thought was that if she must dress -like this she could not stay in the kitchen and help Maria with the -dinner, and Maria was not to be trusted. She was “heavy handed” when it -came to salt, for example. Her chief concern was for the dinner, not -herself. She always missed her cue. - -Nevertheless, Shippen had the shock of his swift life when he was -presented to Mrs. Cutter that evening. - -The weather was very cold. A bright fire burned in the grate. A -chandelier of four lights overhead left scarcely a shadow in this -cheap little parlor. Everything in it glared. The white walls stared -you out of countenance. The golden-oak piano turned a broadside of -yellow brilliance across the flowered rug. The whatnot showed off. -The spindle-back sofa fairly twinkled varnish. Inanimate things can -sometimes produce the impression of tittering excitement. The furniture -in this pop-eyed room seemed to be expecting company. Only the two -mahogany armchairs on either side of the fireplace preserved their -gravity and indifference, as if they had been born and bred to be sat -in by the best people. - -Shippen saw all this at a glance; at least he felt it without knowing -what ailed him. Later he was to quail in a sort of artistic anguish -beneath the cold, calm, crayon gaze of that excellent carpenter, the -late Sam Adams, whose portrait still hung above the mantel. And he was -to feel the colder, grimmer crayon eyes of the late Mrs. Mary Adams -piercing him between the shoulder blades from the opposite wall. But -that which riveted his attention this first moment when he entered the -room with Cutter was Mrs. Cutter. - -She stood on the rug before the fire, a slim figure, but not tall. She -was wearing a cloth gown of the palest rose lavender, the bodice cut -low, fitting close to her white shoulders, lace on it somewhere like a -mist, a wildly disheveled bow of twisted black velvet that seemed to -strike at him, it was so vivid by contrast with all this gem paleness -of color. A necklace of opals, very small and bound together by the -thinnest thread of gold, with a pendant lay upon her breast. Her pale -blond hair was dressed simply, bound about her head like piety, not -a crown. No color in her skin, only the soft pink lips, sweetened -somehow by that pointed flute in the upper lip, long sweeping brows, -darker than her hair, spread like slender wings above the wide open -blue eyes, seeing all things gravely, neither asking nor giving -confidences. - -“This is Mr. Shippen, Helen. My wife, Shippen,” George finished -cheerfully. - -He had made a hasty survey of Helen. She would do, he decided, if only -she would go, move off, say the right thing. - -Helen offered her hand. She was glad to meet Mr. Shippen. - -He bowed over this hand, very glad, and so forth and so on. - -She said something about the weather; he did not notice what she said -nor what he answered; something about the same weather of course. But -whatever he said had not released him from her gaze. She kept him -covered. Cutter had joined in with his feelings and opinion on the -weather. What was said made no difference. Shippen had to keep his eyes -down or running along the floor, not on Mrs. Cutter. Men do that when -they are startled or ill at ease with a woman, if they are uncertain -about where to place her in the category of her sex. Shippen was very -uncertain on this point. He had seen many a woman better gowned, more -beautiful, but never had he seen one with this winged look. - -“Are we late?” Cutter asked, addressing his wife. - -“No,” she answered briefly, as if words were an item with her. - -“Well, anyhow we are hungry,” he laughed. “Took Shippen out for a -little winter golf. Links rotten after all this rain. No game. All we -got was an appetite.” - -Shippen glanced at Cutter. For the first time he recognized Cutter. -Smart fellow, pipping his village shell. But, good heaven, this room! -Might have got further than this in his scenery. - -He went on catching impressions. He felt very keen. It occurred to -him suddenly that Cutter’s wife was responsible for the room. This -fellow who could fly like a kite in the markets couldn’t fly here -or move or change anything. Odd situation. If this was her taste in -house furnishing, who chose her frock for her? She was dressed like a -fashionable woman, and she looked like a madonna; not virginal, but -awfully still like the image of something immortally removed. She gave -him a queer feeling. Still it was distinctly a sensation; he handed it -to her for that. - -All this time Cutter was talking like a man covering some kind of -breach, laughing at the end of every sentence. He heard himself making -replies, also laughing. Nothing from Mrs. Cutter. He looked across at -her seated in the other mahogany chair, and dropped his eyes. Her gaze -was still fixed on him, no shadow of a smile on her face. He understood -why instantly. This was not mirth, this was laughter he and Cutter -were executing as people do when they make conversation. He was amazed -at this woman’s independence. She had nothing to say and said it in -silence. She heard nothing amusing, therefore she was not smiling. She -was not even embarrassed. - -It all depends upon your experience and angle of vision what you see in -another person. This is why your husband may discover that some other -woman understands him better than you do. She knows him better than -you do because she knows more about men than you do. And if there is -anything that weakens the moral knees of a man quicker even than strong -drink, it is to feel the soothing flattery of being better understood -by another woman. - -Precisely in this way Shippen understood Helen, and knew perfectly -that Cutter was not the man who could do it. She was invincible, he -saw that; stupid, he saw that. And he was enough of a connoisseur -in this matter to realize that intelligence would sully this lovely -thing. Merriment would be a facial transgression. She was that rare -and most mysterious of all creatures, a simply good woman without the -self-consciousness they usually feel in their virtues. - -He kept on with these reflections during dinner, which was served -presently. He had no idea what kind of dinner it was. He was assembling -plans for a speculation. He had been successful in many lines besides -those involving money. - -“You come to New York occasionally, don’t you, Mrs. Cutter?” he asked, -endeavoring to engage her in conversation. - -“Not that often. I have been there only once,” she told him with a -faint smile. She had referred to her wedding journey without naming it. -At that time she and George had spent a week in New York. - -“You liked it, of course?” Shippen went on. - -“It is like a book with too many pages, too many illustrations, too -many quotations, isn’t it?” she evaded. - -Shippen threw back his handsome black head and laughed. - -Cutter shot a bright glance at his wife and joined in this applause. -He had no idea she could think anything as good as that to say. And she -could not have done so if he had asked the question. - -“What I mean is that one must live there a long time before he could -know whether he liked it or not,” she explained. - -“Well, I think you would,” he answered, meaning some flattery which she -did not get. - -Having said so much, she had nothing else to say. The two men went on -with this discussion of New York life. Cutter was determined to let -Shippen know that he was no stranger to it--old stuff, such as brokers -and buyers get, under the impression that they are bounding up the -social ladder of the great metropolis. Shippen heard him give quite -frankly his café experiences, not omitting soubrettes. No harm in what -he was telling, of course, but as a rule men didn’t do it at home. - -Once or twice he glanced at Mrs. Cutter, ready to come to heel, change -the subject if he saw the faintest shade of annoyance on her face. -There was no shade there at all, only a calm, clear look. And this look -was fixed on him as if he were a page she read out of the book of this -city. Apparently she was indifferent to what Cutter was saying. He -decided that she was not jealous of her husband. - -He wondered if Cutter had the least conception of the kind of woman his -wife was. He thought not. Some day she would stand immovable in the -way of his ambitions, he decided. In that case what would Cutter do? -This was--well, it might prove very interesting. He went on speculating -personally along this line. - -The reason why so many men try to climb Mount Everest is because they -cannot do it. Let even one reach the summit, and that exalted peak -has fallen into the hands of the tame geographers and scientists. It -becomes a business then, not an adventure, to chart those terrific -altitudes. For the same reason the most attractive woman to men is -the unattainable woman. Shippen found Mrs. Cutter attractive. He did -not analyze the reason why. It was not her beauty. He had had success -with far more beautiful women. He doubted his success here. Heavens! -To find a woman who could not be won! What an adventure. That steady, -unrevealing gaze in her blue eyes--what did it conceal? What did she -know? He doubted if she knew anything. That was it; she was something -real, not built up out of little knowledges, little virtues, spiced -with little vices, and finished like her furniture with the varnish of -feminine charms. What a noble change from the skittish kittens and the -secret viragoes and the mercenary starlings he had known. - -It is astonishing what terrible things a man can be thinking, while he -looks at you frankly and laughs honestly and takes your food like a -brother. Certainly Cutter would have been astonished if he had known -what was passing through the mind of his guest as they talked and -laughed together at this table. But it is a question if Helen would -have been moved. She did not know this man, but she felt him like a -darkness, in no way personal to her, but there, with George frisking -around like an ambitious spark in this blackness. She was thinking of -George chiefly, interpreting him according to Shippen. It was a fearful -experience, and no one suspected her pain, because a woman can dig her -own grave and step down into it behind the look and the smile and the -duty she gives you, and it may be years before you discover that she is -gone. - -All this is put in for the emotional reader who knows it is the truth, -and has probably felt the sod above herself, even while she is sadly -dressing beautifully for an evening’s pleasure with a husband who -has slain her or a lover whose perfidy has brought on these private -obsequies. But all such truth is unhealthy, like the failure of courage -in invalids. And in this particular I warn you that the fate of Helen -differs from your own. She died a few times, as the most valorous women -do; but she had a sublime instinct for surviving these incidental -passings. - -Shortly after dinner Cutter took Shippen back to his hotel. They had -some affairs to discuss further before he should leave on the early -morning train. Cutter explained to Helen, because this was unusual. It -was his invariable habit to spend his evenings at home. He was a good -husband, according to the strictest law of the scribes and Pharisees, -so to speak. What I mean is that he was literally faithful to his wife, -though you may have suspected to the contrary. This is not the author’s -fault, but due to the evil culturing of your own mind. A man may be -faithful to his wife, and at the same time frisk through the night life -of a place like New York. He may be doing nothing worse than taking a -whiff and an eyeful of the naughty world, getting something to talk -about to the other fellows when he comes home. It is silly, but not -wicked, as you are inclined to believe. I do not know why it is that so -many respectable women are disposed to suspect the worst where men are -concerned; but it is a fact which even their pastors will not deny. - -When Cutter came in that night Helen had retired. He turned on the -light. “Asleep, my dear?” he asked. - -“No,” she replied in that tone a woman has when her voice sounds like -the nice, small voice of your conscience. - -He came and sat down on the side of the bed, regarded her cheerfully, -like the messenger of good tidings. She lay very flat, hands folded -across her breast, face in repose, no expression, eyes wide open, a -state of self-consciousness bordering onto unconsciousness which women -sometimes sink into as a sort of last ditch. - -Cutter was so elated about something he did not observe that his wife -was dying momentarily. He wanted to talk. He had something to tell her. -“You were splendid to-night, Helen,” he began. - -She revived sufficiently to ask him if the dinner was “all right.” - -“Dinner!” he exclaimed. “I scarcely noticed what we had to eat. You -took the shine off the dinner. You were stunning. Means a lot to a man -for his wife to--make good; sets him up. Shippen was impressed, I can -tell you that.” - -Shippen! She did not speak the name, but her glance, slowly turned on -him, meant it. - -“How did you like him?” he wanted to know. - -“I did not like him,” she answered distinctly. - -He stared at her. Her respiration was the same; her eyes coldly -impersonal. He sprang to his feet, kicked off his shoes, flung off his -clothes, snapped off the light and retired to the bitter frost of that -bed. He lay flat, clinched his hands across his breast and worked his -toes as if these toes were the claws of a particularly savage beast. -His chest rose and fell like bellows. His red brown eyes snapped in the -dark. - -Helen was the antidote for success, he reflected furiously. She was the -medicine he had to take, a depressant that kept him down when he might -have been up. Just let him get the wind in his sails, and she reefed -him every time. He had been patient, leaving her to have her own way -when it was not his way. Hadn’t he lived in his own house with those -blamed Adams pictures glaring at him for nine years? Yet he had endured -them for Helen’s sake. And the druggets, and the very cast-off teacups -of Helen’s family. - -Right now he was lying in old Mrs. Adams’ bed and had done so for nine -years, when he much preferred his own bed. He had tried to bring Helen -out, and she would not be moved. He had tried to dress her according -to her station in life, and she would not be dressed. He had humored -her in everything. But now when he had an opportunity, a big chance -which he could not take without her, she planted her feet as usual. -She obstructed him at every turn. She didn’t like Shippen. That showed -which way the wind would blow when he told her. And he had to tell her. -He could not move hand or foot without her. But, by heaven! if she -didn’t come across this time-- - -“George,” came a voice from the adjacent pillow. - -“Umph!” he answered, startled out of finishing that threat he was about -to think. - -“You asked me, or I should not have told you what I think of Mr. -Shippen. But since you want to know--” - -“I don’t want to know. I am trying to get a little sleep. I’m tired,” -he interrupted. - -“But since you ask,” she went on, “I think he is horrible. He reminds -me of the powers and principalities of darkness. He made my flesh -creep--” - -“For the love of peace, Helen, stop. You know absolutely nothing about -him.” - -“Yes, I do.” - -“What?” - -“I know that he is wicked.” - -“How do you know?” - -“I feel it.” - -He snorted and turned over. He slept that night with his back to this -slanderer, who did not sleep at all. - - - - -CHAPTER XII - - -The next day George Cutter’s spirits had revived and with them a -certain hope. He resolved to have it out with Helen. She was not -reasonable. Few women were, but he knew that she loved him. He might -count on that. - -In the evening after dinner they sat before the fire in the parlor. -Helen wore a dark dress, plain, durable, unbecoming. He considered this -dress, the woman in it, with a coolly impartial eye. His heart failed -him. He doubted if she could pull it off if she would. If, for example, -she could be made to realize the importance of dressing handsomely and -extravagantly every day. If she could be induced to live the life she -would have to live. He admitted it was a sort of puppet existence. But -as necessary to his success as the dummies in a shop window are to -advertise the owner’s trade. Ten thousand women did it all the time, -liked it. Still Helen was not one of them. She was removed by nature, -every instinct, from that class. He was half a mind to give up the -whole thing. At this moment, Helen looked across at him. There was -a hint of tears in her eyes, a fugitive smile on her lips as if this -smile pleaded with him for a certain forgiveness. - -He laughed. He stood up and took her in his arms. - -“Am I all right now, George?” she asked, as if she had been shriven by -this embrace. - -“Absolutely,” he assured her. - -They sat down. Helen sighed, being now full of that sad peace which -makes sighs. - -“The trouble with you is, dear, that you are never wrong. That cuts you -out of life. We who are in the thick of it must be a little wrong,” he -explained. - -“I suppose so,” she agreed. - -“Not so rigid. We can’t be,” he said. - -She agreed to that also. - -“If you could be a little less perfect, it would help me a lot.” - -She smiled, implying that in that case she was in a position to help -him. But what could she do? She had often felt how little service she -was. - -Her meekness intrigued him. “How would you like to live in New York?” -he asked. - -“I would not like it,” she answered after a pause. - -He might have known what her answer would be, Cutter reflected -bitterly. His face reddened. His anger was rising. - -“Why? Do you want to live there?” she asked, feeling this silence -directed against her. - -“Oh, it makes no difference what I want, because if we lived on -separate planets you could not differ more widely than you do from my -way of life and my desires, my very needs,” he exclaimed. - -This was unjust, she knew. Still she felt guilty. - -“George, I can’t pretend that I should like to live in New York, but if -you want to go there, I will go. I must not stand ever in the way of -your success.” - -He sat in brooding, bitter silence, staring into the fire. - -“We might live very quietly; at least I could, couldn’t I?” she asked -timidly, ready to make every other concession. - -“No; you could not. You’d have to play the game as other women do. You -would not do that. You--your whole mind is against the idea--you would -not adjust yourself. You would not even try to adjust yourself to the -world as it is. You want to make one yourself, six hundred feet long -and seven hundred feet wide with this house in the middle of it. You -have done it. Look at it,” he exclaimed, with a glance that swept this -room like a conflagration. - -This was the first time she had suspected that the parlor was not -furnished according to his liking. She was that simple, and he had been -that patient. - -“You have created a place to live in where nobody can live except as -you do,” he went on. - -He took no notice of the fact that she sat with one hand on her breast, -staring at him with a look of mortal pain. - -“Well, I will be more considerate of you than you can be of me, Helen,” -he began again. “We will drop the idea of going to New York. You like -this place. I might be contented here myself, if I had nothing to do -except keep it. But I have my business, a man’s name and reputation to -make. I will stay here when my affairs don’t require me to be somewhere -else. You understand,” giving her an eye thrust. - -“Yes,” she answered, meeting this thrust steadily. She was dying to her -happiness, not without reproach, but without fear. - -He crossed his legs and swung his foot after this deed. He did not tell -her that Shippen had offered him a partnership in a big business the -night before. In view of her unreasonable prejudice against Shippen, -this information would only have furnished her with stronger objections -to his plans. - -The point was that she had failed him as a helpmate in the career he -had chosen. He purposed to alter his course accordingly. He would -do the square thing by her. She was his wife. He had that affection -for her; but she should not block his way. He meant to get on with -her or--without her. Other men did. He knew successful men in New -York, whose wives spent half their time in Europe or somewhere else. -He supposed he might do better than that. The bank in Shannon would -require a good deal of his time. He would come home occasionally. He -must spend a few days out of every month there. - -This was the end. Helen sensed it. She saw his side of the situation. -She had failed her husband. She had been obliged to do so. He had never -expressed the least regret because she had not borne children, but -she knew that if they had had children, this would have made all the -difference. She supposed she herself might have been a different sort -of woman if she could have been a mother. Her influence as a wife had -never reached beyond the door of their home. Now she had failed him at -this upward turn in his career. - -She had been a good wife to him according to the Scriptures, but he -needed another kind of wife, one who could fill a public position, a -wife according to the world. She grasped this fact clearly, held it -before her, regarded it with remarkable intelligence during a strictly -private interview she had with herself on this subject some time the -next day. She wondered how many wives combined the two offices which -George required of her. If you were the social official of his home, -if you “played the game,” as he called it, how could you be--well, the -kind of wife she had been to George? - -She thought of Shippen in connection with this reflection. She could -not have told why, but she did. She was not so stupid as not to suspect -that Shippen had something to do with this sudden desire that George -had to live in New York. “Playing the game” meant coming in constant -contact with men like Shippen, women like the women they had discussed -that night at dinner--Shippen and soubrettes; somebody’s wife they had -seen in a café with a man who was not her husband and whom they had -discussed with a curious sort of grinning admiration, as if this lady -was a lady to be reckoned with. - -Helen was wrong, of course, in the picture she drew of the game the -worldly wife must play. But there was this much sanity in her point of -view: Such a wife cannot always choose her partner nor the card she -must play. It is a skin game, matrimonially speaking, and sometimes the -one skinned is the husband, more frequently it is the wife, even if it -is only the gossips who do the skinning. - -Helen made her way through such reflections as these, not as I have -written them down in words, but as one walking through the dark in a -dangerous place, with cautious steps and outstretched hands, feeling -the edges of strange abysses with her feet, touching unknown things -that might be alive with reptilian life. - -The private mental life of all women, good or bad, is usually morbid, -consisting of thoughts or speculations which bring an emotional crisis -and leave them in fears and tears more frequently than we can believe, -judging by the faces they show. - -Helen passed at this time through some such crisis. She was not changed -by it, because women of that sort are the “amens” of their sex. But -she was confirmed. She remembered what George had said long ago about -this belief in the freedom of love. She had often recalled it, always -with a pang of terror. If she had ever been jealous of him, it was in -this indefinite way. Now the way that led to such love seemed to widen -before her eyes. - -She was alone in her room, sitting on the side of her bed during this -scene with herself. You know by your own experience, if you are a -married woman, that you always sit on the side of your bed when you -are dramatizing the sadder prospects of going on doing your duty by -this husband--or of not doing it. You chose the bed instead of a chair -because of a potential sense of prostration. You prepare yourself to -fall back in a storm of tears or to sink upon your knees in prayer for -strength to bear this “cross.” The more modern woman is said frequently -to rise unshriven, stride majestically across the room and stare at her -own proudly rebellious reflection in the mirror. - -Helen did none of these things. She simply sat there, dry-eyed, -unprayerful, not rebellious, reviewing the future. This can be done -with amazing vividness, because the future is always a repetition and -development of the past. Then she made a resolution. It was that later -secret marriage vow a wife sometimes takes after she is acquainted with -the deflation and vicissitudes of this relation. Whatever happened, -she would be a good and dutiful wife to George. She would be patient. -Nothing should move her to reproach him. Thus she abandoned her rights -and self-respect. I do not say that she ought to have done this; I -doubt it; but the fact remains that many women do it. And in the end -they frequently become sanctuaries for disgracefully defeated husbands. -But to say so is not to recommend the practice. My task is to show how -it worked out in this instance. And you are warned therefore that a -sanctuary may become a very fine edifice, even smacking a little of -worldly grandeur. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII - - -The little pale image of goodness so frequently seen sitting in -Cutter’s car before the bank waiting for him around five o’clock in the -afternoon was what remained of the original Helen two years after he -had relinquished his plan to live in New York. - -Keeping an entirely good resolution may be strengthening to character, -but it is fearfully damaging to feminine beauty. For one thing such -women lose the sense of clothes. Helen had known how to dress in the -happy, wild-rose period of her youth; but how can you keep up the -flaunting, flowing sweetness of your draperies when you are no longer -a girl to be won, but have become a wife who has been reduced to her -duties and her virtues? - -Still, things had not been as bad for her as she had expected they -would be. George was away from home now much of the time. He had -interests in New York and spent at least a part of every month there. -But she heard from him regularly, usually a wire, sometimes a brief -note. When he was at home, it was the same old routine, except that he -spent more time at the golf and country club. - -The truth was that Helen got on his nerves frightfully with her silence -and dutifulness and patience. The impeccable wife is a difficult -proposition, if you tackle it. Cutter instinctively avoided the issue. -He accepted Helen for this awfully “better” woman than he had bargained -for. There was none of that human “worse” in her, so amply provided for -in the marriage ceremony, with which to vary the monotony of their life -together. Often he wished for a stormy scene, such as by nature married -people are entitled to have. If he was irritable, she left him alone. -If he was calm, she would come and sit and sew a fine seam in a sweet -silence that was perfectly maddening. If he flung the paper he was -reading on the floor, slammed his feet down and groaned, she would look -up at him, then drop her eyes once more to this seam--or she would rise -and leave the room noiselessly. - -Good heavens! He could not stand it, meaning “her.” Why didn’t she -complain that he neglected her? Why didn’t she say something, show -some spirit? Why didn’t she appeal to his conscience? That was what a -wife was for--one thing, at least. If she would only show some fight, -he might regain control of himself; as it was, he was slipping. Why -couldn’t she see that and stop him? He really wanted to slow up; but -how was a man to do it with his wife letting him go like this? - -Cutter was the kind of man who would eventually account for his -transgression by saying if he had married another sort of woman he -might have been a better man. In that case, you may be sure, if his -wife had married a totally different kind of man, she would have been a -happier woman. - -Meanwhile Helen was prepared for the worst. This is a terrific -preparation, but sometimes the only one a woman can make; and it -leaves her in a singularly placid state of mind. If she had understood -the situation, she might have behaved differently. But she did not -understand Cutter. - -The woman who knows only one man never knows much about him. To -understand a husband, you must do a lot of collateral reading of -mankind. He is all of them, from the best to the worst. You are not so -apt then to be mystified by his various manifestations. And if you have -any sense of the proper courage of your sex, you will act according to -his symptoms, not your own sanity, even if it is to burst into tears -and cry: “Undone! Undone! Oh, my God!” - -He will fall for it and react every time; because God, upon whom you -have just called, no doubt having your emergencies in view, has created -men so that almost without exception they have no defense against a -weeping woman. - -At the same time it is the worst possible governing principle not -to vary your tears with laughter, tyranny and some sort of lovely -unreasonableness. Men cannot endure a perfectly logical and sane woman. -She is too much like a petticoated edition of themselves. They want -action. You must keep your ball rolling, you must convince your husband -of your mental inferiority and of your tender superiority. - -Helen, poor girl, was not that much smarter than her husband. She was -straight. She lacked the dearer deviousness of her sex, and, within her -limits, was utterly all to the good. Whether a state of unmitigated -morality is profitable is a thing I have always wanted to know. And -in the course of a long life, the only answer I have ever been able -to find is that any state bordering on immorality, or unmoralness, is -sure to prove unprofitable. The difference between these two equations -offered the only light at the time on Helen’s future. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV - - -In April of 1917 this country joined the Allies in the Great War. The -nation was transfigured with that spiritual and sacrificial emotion -which invariably follows the sending of vast armies of men to be -slain. The profits on patriotism were enormous for those who knew how -to do business at the expense of the people. Cutter was one of these -eminently sane profiteers. He had doubled his fortune during the first -few months. He remained in New York most of the time. He had been away -from home the whole of July. - -One morning early in August he arrived at the door of his own house in -Shannon. Helen had not expected him. She was flustered. Breakfast had -been served, but she would have another breakfast prepared at once. - -No, George explained briefly, he had had something on the train; she -was not to trouble herself on his account. - -This consideration was unusual. Well, he must go in and lie down; she -knew he must be worn out, Helen suggested. - -No, he was not tired; and no, he would not go in and lie down. - -He behaved like a visitor in the house. But he remained at home all -day, puttering about the house and garden with a curious gentle air. -After lunch he took a nap on the sofa in the parlor. To Helen’s -question as to whether he would go out for some golf as usual, he had -replied that he would not play golf and that she might have an early -dinner. Afterwards she remembered a faint embarrassment in his manner -during the whole of this day, as if it were an effort to talk or reveal -the simplest word of himself. But at the time Helen was pleased without -questioning why he was behaving in this vaguely domestic fashion. - -Late in the afternoon she had followed him into the garden, seated -herself on a bench there with her hands folded--merely present, you -understand. Cutter continued to pace slowly back and forth along the -walk. Helen observed him gently. She thought he looked spent. She was -glad he was taking the day off; this was all she thought about that. - -Now and again Cutter regarded his wife with a sort of remorseful -tenderness. He was experiencing one of those futile reactions a bad man -has toward ineffable goodness when he knows he is about to be rid of -the burden and reproach of it. Presently he came and sat down beside -her in the sweet, unaccusing silence she always made for him. - -Her skin was still very fair, her hair darker, with golden lights, her -brows much darker, the same blue eyes, white lidded. Strange he had -never noticed before that the clothes she wore were like her--this -grave little frock she was wearing now, white, sheer, like a veil, long -pretty sleeves, a kind little waist with darts in it to fit her figure. -Who but Helen would ever think of taking up darts in her bodice this -year when every other woman was fluffing herself? He smiled at this, -but the humor of his face was neither intimate nor affectionate. It was -a sort of grinning footnote to Helen’s character. - -He began presently to feel the old irritation at her silence. He -halted, dropped down on the bench beside her, but at the other end, -hung himself by one elbow over the back of it, crossed his legs and -addressed her with a question which he frequently used like a key to -turn in the lock of his wife’s silence. - -“Helen, if you were about to say anything, what would you say?” he -asked. - -“I was just thinking,” she answered, implying that she preferred not -to publish these thoughts in speech. - -But he wanted to know. His manner was that of a husband who wanted to -start something. - -“If we had children,” she began, looking at him, then away from him, “I -was wondering what they would be doing now.” - -His eyes widened over her, but she did not feel this amazement. Her own -gaze appeared to be trailing these children among the flowers in this -garden. - -“I often think of them,” she went on. “Our son--I always expected the -first one to be a son--he should be quite a lad now. What do boys of -fourteen do at this hour of the day?” regarding him with a sort of -dreaming seriousness. - -He made no reply. He had slumped; with lowered lids he was staring at -the graveled walk in front of this bench. - -“But the two little girls, much younger, would be here in the garden -with us. Isn’t it strange, I always know what they would be doing, -but not the boy. I have seen them in my heart like bright images in a -mirror; I have heard them laugh many a time.” - -He was appalled. Never before had he known Helen to talk like this. -Why was she doing it? Did she knew what was in his mind? Was she -deliberately torturing him? - -“Everything would have been so different if they had lived,” she went -on, as if she had actually lost these children, “your life and mine. -They would have changed us, our ways and our hopes. We should have -built the house we planned--for them,” turning to him with a dim smile. - -“I suppose so,” he said, obliged to answer this look; “but you know I -have never regretted that we have no children.” - -“At first you wanted them,” she reminded him. - -“But not now. It is better as it is,” he returned moodily. - -“No; not for me; not for either of us,” she sighed. - -For the first time in her life she saw tears in his eyes. - -“For them?” she asked putting out her hand to him. - -“No, for you,” he answered, drawing back from this hand. - -She noticed that. Her attitude toward him was one of submission. She -did not ask herself now why he shrank from her touch. She knew nothing -about the psychology of passion, its strange and merciless revulsions. - -“A son or a daughter would be company for you now,” he said after a -pause. - -“Yes; it’s been dull, not having them with me now. One grows so quiet -inside. It must be a little like dying, to be getting older and stiller -all the time.” - -He could not bear this. He had a vision of what had happened to her. -And now it was too late; she was predestined, even as he was doomed to -his fate.... What follies love imposed upon youth! He had loved her -and taken her, when she belonged to another kind of man, when he might -have been happy with another kind of woman. Now he no longer loved -her, and the other woman might give him pleasure, but never peace or -happiness.... He supposed, after all, there must be something moral -about happiness. Well, then, why had he missed happiness with Helen? -Heaven knew she was made of every virtue. And he had kept his vows to -her. He had not actually broken faith with her--yet. - -He rose and walked to the other end of the garden. He stood with his -back to Helen, still thinking fiercely, like a man trying with his -mind to break the bonds that held him.... What a horror that this -woman should be his wife. Nothing could change that. She was not of -his kind. She was different; that was the whole trouble. If she were -not his wife she would be the sort of woman he would never notice or -meet. In view of everything--the vision of life and society, and what -was coming to a man of his quality--he regarded it as remarkable that -he had been so long faithful to her. It was stupid, silly, bucolic--the -kind of husband he had been to this kind of wife! - -He turned. Helen was still seated on the bench. The sight of her filled -him with irritation, a sort of peevish remorse. He was going to have -the deuce of a time getting through his next encounter with her. He -meant to put it off to the last minute. Meanwhile he simply must get to -himself, away from her. If she hung about he felt that he might lose -control of himself. And he must be careful not to say anything which he -might regret afterwards. - -He came back, stepping briskly along the walk, passed her as he would -have passed a carpenter’s wife on the street and went on toward the -house. - -Helen’s eyes had met him far down the walk. They followed him until -he disappeared around the corner of the house. Then, as if she had -received some dreadful warning from within, she pressed her hand to -her breast, her lips unfolded, her cheeks blanched, her eyes widened as -if she beheld the very face of fear. - -What was this? George was not like himself. She was aware of some -frightful change in him. There was a flare about him, something -feverish, disheveled in his apparent neatness. She began to think over -this day, his unexpected return that morning. Now that she came to -think of it, there was no train upon which he could have arrived at -that hour. His reserve, it was a fortification. She realized that now. - -She sprang up, started for the house. Something had happened, something -horrible. What was it? She must see George. She must touch him, speak -to him. - -She found him seated on the veranda with the afternoon paper spread -before him, held up so that she could see only the top of his head, not -his face. She stood struggling with herself. She wished to run to him, -fling herself upon his breast and cry out: “George, what has happened? -Do you love me? I am your wife. Kiss me.” - -Never had she felt like this, the nameless terror, the beating of her -heart like hammers in her breast. And all in this maddening moment, -she realized that she dared not approach him. He did not feel like a -husband, but like a stranger who did not belong in this house. - -She stood leaning against the spindle-legged pillar of the veranda and -waited. She did not know for what, but as if she expected a blow. And -she wanted it to fall. She wished to be put out of this pain as soon as -possible. - -Cutter laid aside his paper, stood up, swept a glance this way and that -as if he could not decide which way to retreat, then he went inside, -and affected to be looking for a book on the shelves in the parlor. He -heard Helen pass down the hall, knew that she had halted a moment in -the doorway. He felt as if he was being trailed. What he wished was -that she would have dinner, so that he could get through with this -business. It must be done after dinner, because he could not sit down -to the table with her afterward. - -She came back presently to fetch him to this meal. She wanted to cling -on his arm, as she used to do years ago. But he evaded her, she could -not have told how, only that if he had shouted to her not to touch him, -she would not have been surer of what he meant. - -They accomplished this dinner together. Cutter keeping his eyes -withdrawn from her, taking his food with that sort of foreign -correctness which a man never practices at his own table. Many times -they had passed through a meal in silence, but not a silence like this, -potential, strained. Once Cutter caught sight of Helen’s hand, which -was trembling. But he spared himself the sight of her face. - -She scanned his, marked the new lines in it, the sullen droop to his -eyes, usually so frank. She recalled the fact that he had not gone into -their bedroom during this day; that he had kept to the public places in -this house, as if it were no longer his house; that he had answered all -her questions briefly; that in the garden he had drawn back from the -touch of her hand; that now he was hurrying secretly to finish dining. -She had premonitions of some unimaginable disaster which intimately -concerned herself, but she could not bear to think what it was. By a -forlorn faith many a woman receives strength to remain stupidly blind -to her fate. Helen had some sort of faith that, if she kept perfectly -quiet, this horror, whatever it was, would pass without being revealed -to her. Then suddenly her courage broke. - -Cutter thrust back his chair, rose from the table and made for the -door. - -She followed him. “George,” she cried, “what is it? I am frightened”; -the last word keyed to a wail. - -They were standing where she had overtaken him in the hall. He took out -his watch, stared at it. “Twenty minutes past seven. The express is due -at eight,” he muttered with the air of a man who times himself, leaving -not a minute to spare. - -“Yes, the express is due then, but--” she began. - -“I am leaving on that train for New York,” he said, addressing her -point-blank. - -“But, George, this is only one day for me; and you have been away five -weeks,” she exclaimed. - -“Helen, come in here. I have something to tell you, and very few -minutes to spare,” standing aside that she might precede him into the -parlor. - -She went in, sat in one of the mahogany chairs and regarded him with -that long, winged look. The suppressed harshness of his voice had -steadied her. She was calm. Women can withdraw to some quiet corner, -sit perfectly still and watch you condemn yourself without a tremor, -although the moment before they may have been distracted by every fear. -I have sometimes thought it might be a form of spiritual catalepsy. In -any case, it is a very fortunate seizure. - -“I am returning to New York to-night,” Cutter informed her, still -standing as if this departure was imminent. “I shall make my home there -in the future.” - -“Without me?” she asked, as if it was merely information she wanted. - -“Without you,” he repeated, nodding his head for emphasis. - -“For how long?” - -“I have resigned as president of the bank here, disposed of all my -interests. It is not my intention ever to come back to Shannon.” He -did not look around to see how she had received this blow. He waited; -silence, no movement, not a sound. “You can get a divorce. It will be -easy,” he suggested. - -“No,” she answered. - -“I inferred that you would not now. Later, you may decide differently.” - -She said “No,” and she did not repeat it. - -“Meanwhile, I have provided for you. The house, the car, everything -here is yours. The deeds are made to you. And I have placed securities -to the amount of exactly half my estate in the bank here. They are in -your name. You will have an income of something more than ten thousand -a year. It is not much; but more, I think, than you will care to -spend.” He thrust two fingers into his waistcoat pocket and drew forth -a slender key. “This is the key to your safety deposit box,” dropping -it on the table. “You will need only to clip the coupons and cash -them,” he explained. - -She had not moved, but as she listened her face changed to scarlet. Her -eyes sparkled and were dry. - -There was another moment’s silence. Cutter picked up his hat, fumbled -it. He had not expected much of a scene, since Helen was so little -given to emotional scenery. But neither had he been able to predict -this indictment in fearful silence. - -“You have been a good wife, Helen. I have not one reproach. But things -cannot go on as they have gone. My life and my opportunities lie in a -broader field. I have sacrificed them too long already. You have not -been happy here as my wife; but you would be miserable in New York as -my wife. I am doing the wisest--in the long run the kindest--thing for -both of us, giving you your liberty and taking mine.” - -Since she would not answer he went on nervously. - -“I have told no one of--our plans. I leave that to you also. The one -thing I must have is the right to achieve my own life in my own way. I -give you the same privilege and--” - -“You have only ten minutes before the train is due,” she interrupted. - - - - -PART THREE - - - - -PART THREE - - - - -CHAPTER XV - - -Sometimes when a man has been shot, he stands for the briefest moment -before he falls. So Cutter stood, still facing the window, while the -fatal shock passed through him. This was Helen who had spoken, who had -reminded him of the time when his train left, but not his wife. He -flirted his head around and snatched a glance at her. - -She was sitting very erect, not touching the back of her chair. The -little frills on her dress stuck up stiffly, like the petals of a very -fine white flower. Her cheeks were scarlet above this whiteness; but -there were no tears. Her chin was lifted; her lips closed; her eyes -covering him like a frost on a cold clear night, one of those still -nights when the whole of Nature’s business is to freeze. He turned, -took a step toward her, and did not dare take the next step. - -You may think you are making the best of a bad situation by ending it. -You may persuade yourself that you are doing the square thing, praise -yourself for behaving better than the average man does in a similar -predicament. Then suddenly something happens, a word falls upon your -ear, or you see yourself revealed in the eye of your victim as a rogue, -a common fellow who has lost his standing. - -Cutter had some such sensation as this, confused but devastating. He -was determined to be free, to be no longer bound to this woman who -ceased to appeal to him and who did not belong to the world he had won -by success. But how was this? She had turned the tables on him. She was -not only taking him at his word; she was dismissing him. - -I do not say that it is a queer thing about a man of this quality, -but it is one of the abortive characteristics of every man of this -quality, that he has a dog-in-the-manger instinct always toward the -wife he discards. He expects her to remain cravenly faithful to him, -to love and cherish him tearfully and patiently while he takes a whiff -around, because, heaven bless us, isn’t that the nature of good and -chaste women? It was. And yet here was Helen, instantly assuming the -autonomous attitude of a free state. She was making no effort to hold -him or save him. - -Hang it all, a man never could understand a woman! Here he was -standing before his discarded wife, having done the best he could for -her, divided his fortune with her, released her from her normal duties -to him, while he might have kept this property and lived as he pleased. -And in spite of all this, he was made to feel strangely humiliated, -worthless and unspeakable to her. This was what her look and manner -meant. Good heaven, he could not slink off defeated like this! He had -meant to go with his head up, not diminished. The sting of that would -interfere with his pleasure, and he had made expensive plans for a -gratifying existence in New York. - -“What I want, Helen,” he began after this tumultuous pause, speaking in -the husband tone of voice, “is a sensible understanding, not a breach. -I have provided for you as my wife should be provided for. If you -should ever need my help or protection--” - -“You have barely time to make your train,” she interrupted, glancing at -the clock and keeping her eye now on this clock. Her voice was not that -of a wife, but of a lady, speaking probably to some agent whom she was -determined to get out of the house before he sold her something she did -not want and could not use. - -“Oh, very well, if you won’t be reasonable!” he exclaimed as he strode -flashily past her. - -But when he reached the door he halted, looked back at her like an -actor being put out of the scene and required by his lines to pause, -show indecision, the fangs of his outraged emotions to the appreciative -audience. But there was no audience to witness Cutter’s histrionic -exit; only this neat, cool, little star of a lady with flaming cheeks, -whose eyes remained resolutely upon the face of the clock. - -This man, who a while ago could not bear the touch of his wife’s hand, -experienced a momentary revulsion toward his own future, to all it -offered. He wanted to go back, take Helen in his arms, kiss her, feel -the cleanness and sweetness of her goodness and nearness to him. But -this was only momentary. He remembered the dullness of the years. He -must buck up, he told himself hastily; just let him get through, escape -this last tug of the old life and he would be a free man. Beneath this -shrewd calculation of himself, there was a faint premonition that he -had better not go back in there to perform these last sacred rites of -parting with his wife. He was afraid of her, as criminals fear law. - -He went out, closing the front door softly behind him. He walked -hurriedly toward the station, disturbed and shamed by the thoughts his -very steps seemed to toss up in his mind. For months, while his affair -in New York was progressing lightly but surely toward this crisis, he -had dreaded this scene with Helen. He had felt for her, the distress -and anguish she must suffer at the idea of losing him. He had always -been as sure as that of her deep devotion. Now it appeared that he had -lost Helen. He realized suddenly that he had counted on her. Whatever -he became, back here in that quiet house Helen would always be his -wife. She was not the woman to think of a divorce. - -Well, he had been a fool not to have understood all along that Helen -would be true to herself as usual, to her own convictions, whatever -they were. And he was no longer one of these convictions. Life was -a mess, anyhow. If a man failed, he had poverty pawing at his door. -If he succeeded, made a fortune, his nature, his tastes and desires -all changed. If only Helen had gone out and made a name or a fortune, -achieved something in the world, he supposed she would be different -too. Maybe she would have understood-- - -The whistle of a locomotive in the distance ended these speculations. -He stepped from the pavement and swung with long strides down the -railroad track to where the sleeping cars would stop. A moment later -there was a rattle of the rails, a roar and a grinding of brakes. The -self-bereaved husband climbed aboard, walked magnificently up the aisle -of the car to his section, sat down, rumbled a command to the porter -and heaved a sigh. - -He was immensely relieved. The worst of it was over. He had suffered -some, but he was feeling very fit now, animated. He was done with the -past. He was headed for New York, the city that whetted a man’s senses -and ambitions. He had worked hard. The world owed him something for -that. No place like New York for collecting what the world owed a -fellow, and so on and so forth. - -The other passengers in the coach stared at him. People always did. -Impressive looking man, must be somebody, they decided. No one would -have dared drop his bag in that section and sit down opposite such an -oppressively prosperous looking person, not even if he had a ticket for -the “upper.” He would have glanced at his ticket, at Cutter; then he -would have gone on to the “smoker” and arranged with the porter to let -him know when he might climb into his berth, which, of course, would be -after the great man had gone to bed in the lower one. - -This is the professional pose of the recent-rich man. Every one who -rides in sleepers and parlor cars is familiar with the type. Sometimes -a shoe drummer can put it on to perfection; but as a rule it is a -fellow like Cutter, whose character and tastes and manners have been -developed by the shock of wealth, a diseased man morally who receives -more involuntary respect than any really distinguished man could bear. - -A man in mental, moral or financial distress will frequently pace the -floor all night. But women never do, because the forms of grief and -anxiety to which they are subject weaken them physically so that they -immediately take to their beds in anticipation of this prostration. -Therefore I hold that it is a circumstance worth mentioning that Helen -did not retire that night. She remained seated as he had left her until -she heard the express go by. Then she went through the house turning -out the lights. - -Maria, she observed by the seam of light under the kitchen door, was -still in there. If all her faculties had not been concentrated on -something else, she might have wondered why Maria was later than usual -in clearing up after dinner. She passed back up the hall without so -much as a look at her bed through the open door of her room, and sat -down again in the same chair in the parlor, as you go back to the place -where you left off in a book or to a train of thought when you have -been interrupted. - -There could never be real darkness in Shannon any more, because the -city had “water and electric lights” now. Still the room was nearly -dark, with only a faint reflection of the street light far below -through the window. Helen sat like the ghost of herself in this dimness -and silence. She was not thinking nor feeling. She had literally been -drugged by the horror of this last hour. She was numb--past all pain. -Presently she must return to consciousness; but she instinctively -prolonged this trance. Sometimes she changed her position in her chair, -but never once did she languish or cover her face with her hands or -address her Father in heaven. - -Here was a woman on her mettle at last, asking no odds of heaven. -So long as you have a husband, it is natural to remain in prayerful -communication with Providence for help and guidance, but when your -husband has abandoned you there is no such tearful feminine reason for -engaging the assistance of the Almighty. You may do it later; but for -the moment you feel quite alone in the universe. - - - - -CHAPTER XVI - - -Sometime after midnight Helen stirred herself, much as if she was -awaking early in the morning with a busy day before her. She stood up, -stared about her in the shadowy room, moved to the windows and pulled -down all the shades. Then she turned on the lights. She stood directly -beneath the chandelier, lifted her hand to her head, unpinned her hair, -skewed it up tightly and pinned it like a harsh duty on the back of -her head. It was perfectly evident that she had made up her mind to -do something, and to do it thoroughly. She had a sort of merciless -house-cleaning expression. - -She glanced around the room, reached for two Cutter photographs on the -mantel, removed a recent excellent likeness of her husband from a frame -on the piano and left the room, carrying these things in her hand and -the frames under her arm. She paused long enough in the back hall to -lay the frames on the bottom step of the attic stairs. Then she went -out on the back porch and dropped the photographs down the cellar steps. - -She walked briskly back to her own room. For the next hour she -went through the house--drawers, closets and trunks--like the -fine-toothed-comb of femininity, her cheeks scarlet, her lips primped -purposefully, her eyes wide and busy, like the condemning eyes of a -censor who is determined to leave nothing that should be cut out, -removed and destroyed. From time to time she issued forth, her arms -laden with somebody’s worldly goods, obviously a man’s things, to toss -them down the cellar stairs and return for more. Finally she came out -with a shaving brush, the cord of a bathrobe and an old four-in-hand -tie, evidently the last gleanings. - -She descended the stairs, clearing the steps as she went of shirts, -collars, trousers, dress suits, overcoats, hats, brushes, shoes, -slippers, pajamas, even buttons. She worked hurriedly, cramming this -mass of clothing into the hot air furnace. She struck a match to these -things, watched the flame creep greedily along the sleeve of a fine -white shirt and lick the broadcloth back of a Tuxedo coat. Then she -closed the door, went back upstairs, took a glance around, to make sure -that everything was in its usual order, withdrew at last to her own -room, undressed, let down her hair, braided it, turned out the light -and went to bed. - -She could hear the furnace roaring below. She hoped all that -inflammable stuff would not set the roof on fire. That is to say, -she did not want to attract attention by the burning of her house. -Otherwise she was indifferent about what might happen. If only she -might escape notice for a while, until she could adjust herself to this -horror! In spite of the closed registers, a strong odor of burning wool -filled the house. She got up and raised the windows. She hoped the -scent would be gone before Maria and Buck came in the morning. Then she -rested, as one does after accomplishing something that must be done, no -matter how unhappy one is. - -At seven o’clock she heard stirrings in the kitchen as usual, but no -voices. This was not as usual, because there was always the subdued -rumble of conversation between these two servants early in the morning. -But she did not notice it. She rang for Maria and informed her that she -would take her breakfast in bed. She had never done this before; still -Maria showed no signs of surprise. She rolled her eyes and sniffed the -air of this house, which did not smell pure and undefiled. She was in -such a state of suppressed excitement that she could barely wait to get -back to the kitchen to whisper the news to Buck, who was just coming -up the stairs from the basement where he had been to interview the -furnace. Servants are the scavengers of all domesticity, especially of -wrecked domesticity. - -For the next three days Helen remained in bed. She was not ill; but she -was not able to face life on her feet. When your whole existence has -been absorbed by the life of another person--his will, his desires and -his habits have determined your every act--it is not so easy to have -freedom and the pursuit of your own happiness suddenly thrust upon you. -It is necessary to acquire new motives and new interests. - -Besides, Helen was obliged to face the humiliation of her abandonment. -So, as I have said, she remained in bed, very quiet, very pale, very -submissive to Maria’s ministrations. When she was alone, she lay for -hours scarcely moving, strangely abstracted. No doubt we come somewhat -after this fashion always into the next existence. One thing was -certain: The burden of her thoughts was not her recreant husband, else -there would have been tears, anguish, fever and presently the doctor in -attendance. - -A great grief may be a great exaltation. Helen had this high look when -Maria brought her breakfast tray in on the fourth morning. She was -not merry; she had nothing to say; but she had arrived somewhere in -her mind. It was obvious even to Maria that her mistress was about to -do something. She wanted to know what day of the month this was, as a -person who has been deliriously ill always asks about the time of day -when he recovers consciousness. - -Maria told her that this was the fifth. - -“Of what month?” was the astonishing next question. - -“August, Miss Helen.” - -“Oh, yes, of course,” she returned, apparently gratified that this was -still August. “Tell Buck to bring the car around at ten o’clock,” she -said. - -“She’s come out of her swoon, Buck, and wants you to have the car ready -at ten,” was the news Maria carried back to the kitchen. - -“Whar is we gwine?” he asked. - -“I dunno. But ef I knows Miss Helen like I thinks I does, they ain’t -gwine to be no grass growin’ under your feet no time soon.” - -She was polishing Mrs. Cutter’s pumps during this conversation. Now she -started back with them. She was about to lay her hand upon the knob -of Helen’s door when she stiffened, turned her head to one side and -listened. The sound of a voice issued through this door, one voice, -Helen’s. She was alone in there with her God, but it was obvious to -Maria that this was not any woman’s praying voice. Neither were the -astounding words she heard suitable for prayer. - -The fat old negress bent, laid her ear against the keyhole, rolled her -eyes and listened. Then, as if she could not bear the amazement of what -she heard, she flew back to the kitchen, caught hold of the astonished -Buck and moaned: “Oh, my Lord; oh, my Lord! And her a white ’oman!” - -“What’s de matter wid you, gal?” he demanded, shaking himself from her -grasp and staring at her. - -She refused to tell him. She implied that such information as she had -might cost them both their innocent lives, if she should repeat it. - -“You don’t know nothin’, and you ain’t heard nothin’,” he retorted, -going out, pausing at the door long enough to point at the pumps which -she still held in her hand. “You better take dem shoes to Miss Helen, -er she’ll be tellin’ you somethin’,” he warned her. - -Shortly after ten o’clock Mrs. George William Cutter appeared at the -Shannon National Bank. She wanted to look at some papers in her safety -deposit box, she told the cashier. - -She remained a long time closeted with this box. When she came out -she carried a sheaf of coupons in her hand; and she was very pale, not -gratified as a woman should look under these circumstances. Beneath the -coupons there was a check, drawn on a New York bank for ten thousand -dollars and signed by her husband. This check lay on top when she -opened the box; attached to it was a note stating with studied brevity -that this sum, including interest, was the amount she inherited from -her mother’s estate, which he “herewith returned.” It began, “Dear -Helen,” and was signed, “George,” with no softening, affectionate -prefix. - -It was this note, not the clipping of her coupons, that had detained -Helen so long in the little dark anteroom of the vault. There was no -date, but from the date on the check, she perceived that it had been -made on the tenth of July, when George had been in Shannon for a week. -As early as that, then, he had contemplated this separation! He was -planning this spurious honesty, paying back the money she had advanced -him years ago for his first adventure in stocks while he cheated her -of his love and her dignity as a wife. When you think about this, it -is always some relatively insignificant thing that excites your most -lasting contempt. So, now Cutter fell to the nadir of his wife’s -regard. She was obliged to remain in this little closet of the vault -after she had finished everything, endeavoring to compose herself -before she dared meet the scrutiny of the eyes outside. We do this so -often when really no one takes particular notice of us. - -It was the merest accident that Arnold, the new president, was coming -in and caught sight of her as she was leaving the wicket after -depositing the check and the amount of the coupons to her account. - -He greeted her effusively. “You are looking well,” he informed her. - -She knew that she was not, but she told him, yes, she was very well. - -“And how’s Cutter?” smiling as a man does when he thinks he has -introduced an agreeable topic. - -She said that she had not heard from Mr. Cutter since he returned to -New York. - -“Busy man! Busy man! Goes at everything like a house afire. You will -have to take care of him, Mrs. Cutter, or he’ll break down, go smash -one of these days.” - -She made no reply, merely swept her glance over Arnold’s shoulder -toward the door. - -“We were sorry to lose him as president of this bank. His resignation -came as a complete surprise. And now I suppose we shall be losing you. -You will join him in New York, of course.” - -“No,” she answered steadily. She had resolved to tell no lies and to -make no explanations. - -“Keep your home here then! Well, that’s good news. Means Cutter’s -anchored in Shannon, after all. He’ll be dropping in on us here at the -bank when he comes down; be mighty glad to see him.” - -She said she did not know, bade him good morning and went out. - -Arnold stood watching her through the window until she stepped into -the car. Then he turned to the cashier. “Nice woman, Mrs. Cutter, -but--well, she’s not vivacious, is she?” he said, grinning. - -“I have often wondered how a man like Cutter came to choose such a -wife,” the cashier returned with a slower grin. - -“Wasn’t a man like Cutter is now when he courted her. Young fellow; -I remember him well; had a fine physical sense of himself. Nobody -suspected he would ever develop the money-making talents of a wolf in -the market then. Fell in love with a pretty girl. She was the prettiest -thing in Shannon. Married her. That’s how it happened,” Arnold -explained. - -“Seems to have turned out all right.” - -“Never heard anything to the contrary; but you can’t tell. Something is -in the wind. I thought Mrs. Cutter looked pretty shaky this morning. -Had a sort of dying gasp in her eye. Pale, noncommittal. Couldn’t get -a darn thing out of her about Cutter. But she may be trained that way. -Wives of great men often remind us that what’s husband’s business is -none of our business,” he laughed. “Cutter’s a sort of cheap great man. -How much did she deposit?” lowering his voice. - -“Fifteen thousand.” - -“Open account?” - -The cashier nodded. - -Arnold whistled. - -“Show’s Cutter trusts her, anyhow.” - -“Shows she’s not being guided by her husband’s advice, or she’d never -keep that much money idle,” Arnold retorted. - -As things turned out, however, this was the busiest money in Shannon -that autumn. It was spent with amazing swiftness at a time when the war -extravagance of our government had already set the pace for reckless -spending. - -A situation frequently develops under our very eyes, and we have -no suspicion of it. The fact is, most situations that develop into -sensations begin this way. Then we discover that what has happened had -been “going on” a long time. Otherwise, I ask you how should we obtain -those breathless sensations with which the press and society nourish -our groggy minds? It is the unexpected that stirs and animates our -greedy, pop-eyed interest in life, especially the other fellow’s life. - -I will not go so far as to say that Helen acted from design, for she -was the least devious or designing woman I ever knew; but she must have -counted on the probability that some time must elapse before the breach -between Cutter and herself could be suspected in Shannon. His absence -would not be significant, because his business interests in New York -had kept him away from home most of the time for a year. The war, the -violent emotions and the terrific demands it imposed had unsettled all -life. - -People who never left home arose and flew this way and that, like -flocks of distracted birds. Old maids with dutiful domestic records, -suddenly laid aside their darning gourds and church work and sailed -for France, went into canteens and became the honorable mothers -of whole regiments. Young girls did likewise, and earned for -themselves distinctions that will become a heritage to womankind, all -mordant-tongued gossips to the contrary notwithstanding. In Shannon the -women worked like bees. If you paid your Red Cross assessments, turned -in sweaters and wash rags for the soldiers in France, no further notice -was taken of you. Because all womanly interests and affections were -centered on these boys in France. - -Helen made her contributions to these enterprises, bought a few bonds -and disappeared before the middle of October. The inference was that -she had joined her husband in New York. The _Shannon Sentinel_ so -stated in a brief local on no better authority than that the editor had -seen her board the express one evening. Passengers bound for New York -always took this train. And where else could Mrs. Cutter be going when -every finger of your imagination pointed to New York and her husband as -her logical and legitimate destination? - -This long-legged logical faculty, directed by imagination, is -responsible for much that is fictitious in current gossip and even in -written records; witness, for example, that master work of fiction, -Mr. H. G. Wells’ “Outline of History.” It is logical, convincing, and -much of it is based upon the most entrancing interpretation of rocks, -fossils and bones--which does not prove anything except that the -sciences of geology, anthropology and the rest of them are bright-eyed -sciences, full of delightfully imaginary conclusions. While it may all -be the truth, we do not know that it is true, and Mr. Wells cannot -prove that it is. Meanwhile, if we could exercise as much faith and -imagination toward God and the future as he has shown in revealing the -Paleozoic and previous periods in the past, somebody would be born -presently fledged with wings and a skyward mind. - -But, all that aside, what I set out to tell was that Helen did not go -to New York and that she did not return to Shannon until the beginning -of the following year. - -Shortly after her departure, a tall, dark young man with high black -hair, who carried his head bare, apparently out of deference to or -pride in this hair, descended from the morning train at Shannon. He -was accompanied by an ordinary looking man, apparently of the higher -artisan class. The two of them entered a taxi and disappeared out Wiggs -Street. - -No notice would ever have been taken of them, if they had not been -seen at a distance, standing in front of the Cutter residence, staring -at it, gesticulating, evidently engaged in fervid conversation, moving -from one side of the lawn to the other to stare again, talk and swing -up high gestures at this little, low, white setting hen of a house, as -if it was of the uttermost importance to do something about it. - -Mrs. Flitch watched these two strangers until she reached a certain -conclusion. Then she went to the telephone and called Mrs. Shaw. She -asked her if she had heard that the Cutter home was to be sold. - -Mrs. Shaw replied that she had not; but that she knew Mrs. Cutter had -stored all her furniture and things in the barn before she left. - -Mrs. Flitch said, well, that settled it. They were evidently about -to sell the place. Some men were out there looking at it now. No, -strangers. She had seen them pass just after the morning train from -Atlanta came in. Real-estate men, probably. She said she knew all the -time that the place would be sold. The wonder to her was that Helen had -stayed out there so long, with her husband practically living in New -York. And so on and so forth until they reached the usual discussion of -Red Cross supplies. - -A few days later the ordinary man of the artisan type returned to -Shannon with a roll of blue print under his arm. The next thing Shannon -knew the roof was off the Cutter house and there was a corps of workmen -out there, spreading wings to it, putting on another story and setting -up magnificent columns in front to support the coronet-countenance of -this house. And from the awful rumpus going on within, it was evident -that partitions were being torn out and elegant changes being made. - -There was no Creel to censor news in Shannon. Rumors started and -turned back, or rumors died during a Liberty Loan drive. Finally, it -was settled that the Cutters had not sold their place, but that they -were spending a fortune rebuilding it. They were not obliged to count -the costs, even during these strenuous times when the price of labor -and materials were beyond the reach of most people. They had plenty of -money and no children. Still, a display of wealth at such a time was -certainly in bad taste. Had anybody heard a word from Helen since she -went to New York? This query went the rounds of the Red Cross room late -in November. No one had heard from Helen. Mrs. Arnold said that her -husband had received one or two letters from Mr. Cutter on matters of -business. She understood that Mr. Cutter had some kind of government -contract and was making a great deal of money. - -Mrs. Flitch tossed her little gray head, snapped her black eyes and -said she supposed the Cutters would come back now and then, with their -maids and butlers and valets and fancy dogs, and quarantine themselves -in this fine house and refer to the people of Shannon as the “natives.” -If they did, it would make no difference to her. She had known the -Cutters since George Cutter’s father and mother came to Shannon and -lived in a three-room house, and Maggie Cutter did her own work. And -she lived next door to the Adamses for twenty years. Helen was nobody -but the daughter of Sam Adams who was a carpenter, and she never would -be anything else to her. - -Mrs. Shaw said if it had been her house she would not have painted it -colonial yellow. But she admitted the tall white columns “set it off.” - -Mrs. Arnold said she and Mr. Arnold had strolled out there on the last -bank holiday. They had gone through the house, because they expected to -build and wanted “ideas.” The rooms were large now, lofty ceilinged; -and the walls were beautiful. She had been especially impressed with -the big room added on the west side. “It is different from the others -which are done in a misty gray with the woodwork finished in old ivory. -They are elegant and sober. But this one is not sober, very bright.” - -“Probably the ball room,” Mrs. Flitch suggested. - -Mrs. Arnold glanced up from the bandage, she was rolling. “No,” -she said, “I am sure it is not a ball room, because it opens into -the one Mrs. Cutter has reserved for herself, they told me. The -decorations--are unusual. I was surprised.” - -This was as far as she got. She had a neat little mind and only -gossiped like a perfect lady, which is a very fine art. Still, she -thought it interesting, if not sensational in a pleasant way, that -this room had a decoration of Mother Goose pictures around the top of -it--all the literature of infancy illustrated there, in fact, from this -wandering goose mounting a highly ornamental staircase to the lurid cow -with exalted tail in the act of jumping over the moon. And she was glad -Mrs. Cutter had “this” to look forward to after so many years. A woman -without children was to be pitied. - -Then Helen Cutter came home late in January, quite unobtrusively and -alone. No maid, no wig-tailed man servant, no fancy dog. Evidently Mr. -Cutter was still in New York. - -But rich people continually did queer things that other people could -not afford to do. From that point of view everything looked all right. -Their wives went about the world alone, and their husbands frequently -did business in some other part of the world. No one in Shannon -suspected that the relations between Helen and her husband were even -strained. They merely heard that she had “come down” to superintend the -furnishing of her new house, that she had engaged an interior decorator -for this purpose, that a great many fine things had been shipped in, -and that she was having some of the best pieces of her golden oak done -over for her own room. These pieces were painted gray and delicately -ornamented with tiny wreaths of flowers. As it turned out, however, -most of this old stuff was used to furnish that large, bright and -sprightly room with the Mother Goose wall paper. - -As usual, Helen saw little of her neighbors. The weather was bad; her -house was topsy-turvy; she was very busy; and she had an established -reputation for reserve. Still, they met her here and there on the -street, in the shops, in passing. And once shortly after her return she -had paid a brief visit to the Red Cross rooms to deliver her quota of -sweaters. She would have remained longer: she craved the comradeship of -these women whom she had known all her life, but the consciousness of -her humiliation, yet unknown to them, affected her courage. - -Sometimes the woman who has fallen secretly avoids her friends and -acquaintances, because she knows that to keep up relations is a form -of cheating, for which she will be the more severely punished when -her deflection is known. I suppose Helen, who had every virtue, felt -the impending mortification of her situation, when it became known in -Shannon that her husband had deserted her. - -She came in, wearing a plain, long coat with a fine fur collar and a -close-fitting fur hat. She was received cordially and a place was made -for her at the long table where the bandages were being rolled. She sat -on the edge of her chair, as if she must be going presently. She was -not smiling. She appeared years younger, and there was a lost look in -her blue eyes which no one noticed. - -She took off her coat, in response to Mrs. Shaw’s invitation; but she -had only a moment to stay, slipping off this garment and revealing her -figure slender as a pencil in a blue frock of some smooth stuff smartly -buttoned to her chin. - -“We are glad to see you back here, Helen,” Mrs. Shaw said. - -Helen said “Thank you” for the simple reason that she could not pretend -to be glad of anything. A mania for veracity makes you inelastic, -uncouth and ungraceful socially. - -Mrs. Flitch asked her when she was expecting “George.” It was a shot -in the dark, and she did not mean it. But she was a woman whose very -instinct could aim accurately at your vulnerable point. - -“I am not expecting Mr. Cutter at all,” Helen replied. - -Mrs. Flitch had to take this answer, which was too frank to excite -suspicion. But she did want to know if Helen expected to make her home -in New York. “I suppose you will only come here now and then,” she -suggested, looking over the top of her glasses at her victim. - -“I shall never live in New York. My home is here,” Helen answered, with -the air of a person who would do this, but would not discuss her plans. - -She was one of those human “short circuits” who drops the periods in -conversations and compels you to start another sentence on another -topic. These women went back to the perpetual discussions that raged -at that time in every Red Cross working room, about the specifications -for wounded soldiers’ dressing gowns. Mrs. So-and-So’s work had -been returned, because she had put too many pockets--or not enough -pockets--on the gowns she had made. - -Mrs. Flitch had suffered the outrage of having two sweaters returned -because she had finished them around the bottom with a fancy rib -stitch. “As if that made any difference. There is too much red tape in -these Red Cross regulations,” she exclaimed. “They obstruct us more in -the work than the wire entanglements in France obstruct the advance of -the German Army.” - -This was not true, but it was so aptly put that a murmur of sympathetic -comment followed while needles flew and threads snapped. - -Mrs. Flitch was so fluffed up by this involuntary vote of confidence in -her rib stitch and her point of view that she turned to Helen and asked -her if she did not “think so too.” - -Helen answered no, she did not think so, because then everybody would -follow their own fancies in the making of these supplies, and there -would be no system. - -Mrs. Flitch’s needle flickered like a tiny spear as she hoisted it with -a jerk, bent over and bit off her thread as if this thread was the head -of an enemy. - -Another “short circuit”! Another fuse of conversation burned out! -Tongues flew like babbling wings to cover the breach. Mrs. Flitch sat -drawn up and reared back, cheeks reddening as if a wasp had stung her -in the face. - -Helen was like a tactless person who contributes an adverse opinion -upon stepmothers in a company where several eminently respectable -ladies have married widowers with children. She felt the sparks about -her, but she was not dismayed. She did not care how Mrs. Flitch felt. -She had reached that invulnerable stage of indifference arrived at only -through great suffering or moral abandonment. In either case, it is -always a state of mental courage. - -Mrs. Arnold was chairman of the Red Cross Chapter in Shannon. She sat -at the head of the work table during these snapped-off conversations, -discreetly silent. She was pursuing her own train of thought. Helen -stood up presently to put on her coat. She regarded this supple, -wisp-waisted woman with secret amazement. For she was the only one -there who had seen the nursery decorations in that new west wing room -of the Cutter residence. Her mind worked like the nose of a rabbit at -Helen, as the latter took her departure. - -The consensus of opinion after she went out was that she had “changed,” -with Mrs. Flitch in the minority. She said she could not see any -difference. “She’s only changed her ugly gray coat and blue hat for a -good-looking coat and fur hat.” This was all that was said about her. -Gossip, if you remember, was much neglected during this period. We -indulged in it briefly and went back to the transfiguring sensations of -our martial emotions. - - - - -CHAPTER XVII - - -And Helen went home, let herself into her fine house, took off her -things and sat down before the library fire. - -She really had imported a maid, an ex-modiste of mature years, who -would be of service to her in the choosing of her clothes and dressing -herself properly. She could hear this woman now moving about in the -next room getting out her things. She was practicing dressing for the -evening, because now she had a purpose and a future in view which some -years hence might involve toilettes and magnificence. - -It certainly does change a woman to lose her husband. It buries her -or brings her out. I suppose if Helen’s husband had been properly -and providentially parted from her by death, she might have retired -sorrowfully into her widow’s state and effaced herself or devoted -herself quite differently to good works. But the passing of George -Cutter left no such sanctities to dignify her. On the contrary she had -been abandoned on account of her virtues and stupid devotion to home. -She was like Job. She held on to her integrity and was sustained, as he -was, by her conceit. - -But unlike Job, who suffered considerable financial losses during -this period, she had come into a considerable estate. She had been -paid off by this deflecting husband. Money will sustain your pride -and courage as an outraged woman when mere faith in God may leave you -exalted in the ditch of every worldly misfortune. Helen had remained -the proper resurrection period flat on her back in bed, not from -histrionic design; but she was actually able to rise on the third day. -My belief is that everything in the Scriptures is true, if you adjust -yourself to the way it is true. Thus, if you will not waste your vital -forces in emotional dissipations of grief when overtaken by sorrow or -humiliation, if you are really willing to live again normally, three -days down will usually put you on your feet with sufficient courage -and strength for the performance. It is no use to send for the doctor. -In cases of this kind a physician is a sort of psychic drug you take, -which requires a repetition of his soothing presence. Thrice fortunate -are they who dare to discover that the wings of adversity are the -strongest wings upward in human affairs. - -Helen, penguin bred, had acquired this serene flying power. She had -been absolved from a depressing devotion to an ignoble man. She came -out of her travail informed with pride, the cold fury which good women, -scorned, feel, and with a determination to have what she had always -wanted and could not have as a wife. - -She leaned back in her chair before the library fire, clasped her -hands over her head and looked anticipatingly at the ceiling, a queer -expression on this formerly merely dutiful woman’s face, like a song in -her eyes, like faith that smooths the brow, like a hope that lifted and -sweetened the corners of her mouth; there were no shadows of fear to -dim this gentle effulgence of eyes, lips and brow. - -To be loved does make a woman happy, but it never endows her with her -own peace, only protection. There is a difference, if you know how to -read it, between love and hope in her face. The former is conferred and -may be taken away: the latter is an act of faith and cannot be dimmed -or destroyed. Helen had this look of “anticipation,” as some physicians -call it, a mark which Nature confers upon women like a meek distinction. - -Helen finally went to her room to practice her evening toilette. At -five o’clock she was dressed and standing before the mirror studying -this cream-colored frock of crêpe, that clung to her figure like -long folded wings. It was not “trimmed.” She insisted upon a certain -primness, as good women do who have no sense of style. - -Some women live and die so virginal that they never know why other -women wear a rose, or display the sparkle of a jewel upon their breast. -If they put on these invitations to love it is merely copying the -universal feminine custom. They do not know how to mean the rose or -catch the sparkle of the jewel in their manner. - -Helen wore no invitations. She was simply anxious to look the mistress -of this establishment, never to be mistaken for a dutiful servant. The -horror she had felt of this impending fate since shortly after her -marriage, when she knew that she was not to have children, and the long -sentence she had actually served in this capacity rankled. - -A bell rang somewhere in the house. She paid no attention, since -she had no visitors and the front door bell never rang except when -something was delivered. - -A moment later there was a tap on her door and the maid entered. “Some -one to see you, Mrs. Cutter,” she announced. - -“Who is she?” - -“A man.” - -“Not Read?” referring to one of the workmen. - -“No, Mrs. Cutter; this is a gentleman. I left him in the parlor.” - -Helen frowned. - -“He is somebody. I am sure of that. And he said that you knew him,” the -woman explained. - -“That I knew him? Then he--why, it must be Mr. Arnold,” Helen said. -Arnold was the only man in Shannon who might have any reason for -calling on her. - -The woman hesitated, gave her mistress a fluttering glance as if some -sort of gibbering, peeping thought had suddenly popped up in her mind. -“This is not Mr. Arnold,” she said. “I think he is a stranger. Shall I -tell him you are not at home?” - -“I will see him; but hereafter, Charlotte, I am not at home to any one -who does not give his name.” - -“Yes, Mrs. Cutter,” Charlotte answered meekly, closing the door behind -her. Then she glanced again at the crumpled bill she held in her hand, -thrust it into her pocket, wrinkled her nose, sniffed and discreetly -disappeared. - -Helen stood for a moment with her back to the mirror, as we all do -sometimes when we cannot bear to read in our own faces the fear we have -in our hearts. Since that night six months ago, when Cutter had left -her, she had received no word from him. She had sternly repressed every -thought of him. But never for a day had she been free from the vague -fear that he might return. She no longer loved him; she despised him. -Yet the old habit of submission--if he should return, how could she -find the courage to send him away, if he asserted his claim upon her -as his wife? She must do it. Her plans were made for a different life -altogether. But suppose now, when she was on the point of realizing -her dearest hope, this man waiting for her in the parlor should be her -husband? - -She came slowly into the hall and advanced toward the open door of -the parlor. Reproaches, words inconceivable to her until this moment, -trembled upon her lips. This was her house; she had built it for her -own peace and happiness. She would not share it, not for the space of -a breath, with a man so depraved that he could betray his own wife, -abandon her--and so on and so forth as she advanced, halted, and -finally came steadily up the long hall, pale with fury, eyes blazing -blue flames, convinced by her own fears that this man was Cutter. She -was ready to deal with him according to the natural vocabulary of an -outraged woman. - -For the gentlest woman, wronged, may suddenly change into a virago -after you have made sure that she will endure anything. But if she ever -breaks, it is like any other form of hysteria, incurable. She will be -subject to verbal frenzies upon the slightest provocation so long as -she lives. - -For one instant Helen stood upon the threshold of her parlor, -speechless with amazement. Shaded lights cast a soft glow from above -over the room, where the faintest outline of castles showed between -shadowy trees in the wall paper. And tufted, spindle-legged chairs, -covered with blue-and-golden brocades, flashed like spots of sunlight -in the pale gray gloom. - -The visitor was undoubtedly enjoying these effects. He sat, the elegant -figure of a man, on the sofa beyond the circle of light cast from the -reading lamp behind him. His knees were crossed. He was working one -foot musingly after the manner of a man pleased with his reflections. -And he was smiling--not a smile you could possibly understand, unless -you are familiar with the outlaw mind of certain rich men. But, in -case you are scandalously psychic, you might have inferred that he was -smiling at these dim castles in Helen’s wall paper as a prospective -tourist in the romantic lands, where passing rivers sing to these -castles and where scenes, centuries old, are laid for lovers. - -He was so much absorbed in whatever he was trailing with his thoughts -that he had not seen Helen when she appeared in the doorway, but almost -at once some sense warned him of her presence. - -His startled glance caught her. He was on his feet at once. “Oh, Mrs. -Cutter! This is indeed good of you. I was afraid you would not see me,” -he exclaimed, hurrying to meet her. - -“Mr. Shippen!” she gasped, with no marks of pleasure in the look she -gave him. It was strictly interrogative, unfeelingly so. - -“Yes,” he returned hastily, interpreting her manner. “I came down to -look after the sale of that mining property. Couldn’t resist dropping -in on my way back to town this afternoon. Wanted to see you.” - -She moved past him, sat down some distance beyond and fixed her wide -blue gaze upon him. - -He followed, not quite sure about sitting, feeling somehow that she -might be going to keep him on his feet. Still he risked it and chose -a chair politely removed from her immediate neighborhood, which was -chilly, he could not tell whether or not from design. - -“You wish to see me?” she asked after a pause. - -The question disconcerted him. He flushed, recovered himself and showed -his teeth in a handsome smile. “Yes, do you mind?” he retorted. - -“But what do you want to see me about?” she insisted, as if this must -be a matter of business, a painful business, since she knew that he was -associated with her husband. - -He snickered nervously, recovered his gravity at once, warned by the -tightening of her lips. “When are you coming to New York?” he asked -suddenly. - -She drew back from this adder of a question. “Is this why you came--you -were sent?” she barely breathed the words, laying a hand like a -confession upon her breast. - -“I was not sent,” he returned quickly. “You understand?” - -She signified that she did with a nod of her head. She released him for -one moment from her steady gaze; then she fixed her eyes on him again -with the same interrogative suspense, as much as to say, “Well, then, -if you were not sent, why are you here?” She could not sense a meaning -that would have been plain to another woman. - -It was the stupidity of goodness, he decided, and was charmed by a -certain experimental fear of her. He must proceed cautiously. That -was the delightful part of it, to be obliged to watch his step in an -affair of this kind. He had no doubt of his ultimate success--a married -woman, abandoned by her husband. He knew all about that by inference -from Cutter. Cutter was too brazen in the conducting of his “bachelor” -apartments not to feel perfectly safe. - -He supposed there had been some sort of financial adjustment between -him and his wife. He knew very well that the situation in New York -would not last. Cutter was simply the profitable investment a certain -beautiful and brilliant woman had chosen, who had the record of a -sentimental rocket among the sporting financiers of the East. The first -time he came a cropper in the markets, she would abandon him with the -swiftness and insolence that would make the fellow’s head swim. Then -Cutter would return to his wife. They always did. - -Sometimes he had regretted not having a wife laid by himself as a sort -of permanent stake, domestically speaking. If only he did not feel -such revulsion toward the candor and monotonous details of actual -married life. His decadent delicacy would be offended by the squalor of -licensed intimacy with a woman. “Squalor” was the word he invariably -used in discussing the psychology of marriage. - -Still, he might marry Helen Cutter. She would never be in his way. She -was not in her husband’s way now. And she was singularly refreshing -to his jaded fancy. He had been so corrupt that, by revulsion rather -than repentance, invincible virtue in a woman attracted him. Besides, -it would be a good joke on Cutter to lose his wife--such a wife--while -he was philandering in New York. He had always entertained a secret -contempt for the fellow--a bounder who did not know how to bound; a -gambler with the nerve of a financial adventurer. New York teemed with -men of his type. - -They had exchanged some commonplace remarks while he hit this line of -reflection in the high places, having gone over it many times before. -That is to say, he offered the remarks--on the weather, on the growth -of Shannon, and more particularly upon the current aspects of the war. -Helen’s contributions to these topics had been brief. He comprehended -perfectly that she was still in suspense as to the meaning of his visit. - -He rose presently, took his chair, advanced with a friendly air and sat -down near her, potentially within reach. And was amused to see that she -still regarded him as from a great distance. “But you have not answered -my question,” he said, going back to that. “When are you coming to New -York to live? Thought you would have been settled there long before -this time.” - -“I shall live here.” - -“Never in New York?” - -“No.” - -“But you are not planning to neglect us entirely! Cutter would not -stand for that. You will be coming up occasionally, of course,” he -insisted, smiling. - -“No; this is my home.” - -Gad, couldn’t she even squirm a bit? Why didn’t she blaze forth at -Cutter or cover the situation with a few lies? He wondered how it would -feel to live with a woman who hit the truth on the head every time, as -if the truth was a nail to be driven in, even if it pierced your vitals. - -Shippen swept a complimentary glance around the room as if in reply -to her last remark. “Well, you have certainly made it a beautiful -home,” he said, feeling by the growing emergency of the question in -her eyes that if he did not get off on another tack, she might force -an explanation of his presence here which he was not ready to make -until he had won more of her confidence. “This room is marvelous,” he -went on, “sedate and feminine. It escapes the austerity of being a -noble room by a miracle. What is it? Piety with a flash of color, I -should say. However did you think of such an effect? And how did you -accomplish it?” - -“I did not do it. I have learned something,” she said, off her guard -for the first time, following his eyes about this room as if she -accompanied his thoughts. - -“What have you learned?” he asked, smiling. - -“To buy what I want--not mere things, but taste in the choice of these -things. It is for sale, like any other commodity.” - -He laughed, with an appreciative glint of the eye. - -“For so long I did not know that taste is the one thing most people -have not got. They only look as if they had it, when in fact they have -purchased it. You buy it from your tailor. The woman whose clothes -please you pays the modiste who makes them much more for her taste than -for her work. You can buy any kind of taste, good, bad or indifferent; -but nearly everybody buys it.” - -What she said was not interesting; but he was interested that she could -think it; it showed that she had a mind, which he had doubted. He hoped -she would not develop too much along this line. The perfect woman, in -his opinion, should have loveliness, health, and only a rudimentary -intelligence. He was very tired, indeed, of the rhinestone sparkle of -feminine wit. - -“It is the same with the building and furnishing of a house,” Helen -showed up again. “They hire an architect and a decorator. And then -they hire a landscape gardener. And when the whole scene inside and -out is laid, they live in it as if they had planned it and achieved -it. But they have bought every line, every shadow, and all the -perspective--things that you feel and see, but cannot touch. It is not -the house, but the idea it suggests for which you pay most. I had my -own ideas, but I employed professionals to produce them. This is what -I have learned,” she concluded, “not to cobble my own ideas. I simply -told those men what I wanted.” - -“I should have liked to hear your instructions,” he said. - -“They were short. I told the architect that I wanted an honorable -looking house, not a grand one.” - -He nodded, appreciatively, and waited. Some subtle change had taken -place in her mind toward him during this last moment. There was a -compelling power in her expression, as if now she wished to hold his -attention. She had a purpose. He became uneasy and curious. - -“And I told the man who was to choose the furniture and do the inside -decorations that I wanted a home, a mild kind of place with some -sadness in it, like the heart of a mother; and rifts of brightness in -it, like the face of a mother when she smiles; and everything very fine -to honor her, the mother, you understand, in the eyes of her children.” - -Shippen’s agreeable attention changed for one instant to a blank stare; -then he dropped his eyes as she went on with this intimate account of -what she wanted her home to be. Mother! And she had no children. The -term had for him a sort of embarrassing animal significance. It was not -discussed this way in polite circles, even by women who were mothers. -You were supposed not to know it or to forget that this sparkling being -with whom you were conversing, or maybe flirting, had passed through -the experiences of an accouchement. His feelings suffered a revulsion -toward her. But she held him as if she meant that he should carry away -with him the dimensions, the waist measure, the countenance and the -germinating biography of this house. - -“I told him,” she went on, still referring to the decorator, “that I -wanted a home inside, where children would look as if they belonged in -it, and not as if they had escaped from their own hidden quarters--soft -places in it, you know, where a baby could just fall asleep, like the -sofa over there,” indicating with a nod a wide, low, old-fashioned soda -shrouded in shadows. - -He cast an embarrassed glance at it. His feelings were that a babe -should be kept concealed until it was a child of an age to be decently -exposed and confessed. Some men are like that, and a few women. Their -parent instincts have decayed. - -“And when they become grown sons and daughters,” she continued, taking -no notice of his discomfiture, “there should be wide, happy spaces in -here for their joys--a house for lovers and weddings.” - -He waited. Apparently she had finished. He raised his eyes and saw her -flushed, animated. “But why should you want such a house?” he asked, -not that it made any difference now what she wanted. So far as he was -concerned the spell of her charm was broken. His one desire was to -escape this disenchantment and to find out what was in the wind for -Cutter. He clung to that joke. - -“Because all the time I was a wife I wanted this house, and I longed -for children. Now I can have them.” - -Shippen stood up. She remained seated, eyes lifted with that rapt look -fixed upon him. - -“Did you say--children, Mrs. Cutter?” he stammered. - -“Yes; now I shall have children,” she repeated. - -“Well, all right; but under the circumstances, it is a little unusual; -don’t you think so?” he said, the compass of his mind already pointed -toward the door. - -“Yes, it is,” she agreed, and was evidently about to launch into -this feature of the case when she saw that he was about to take his -departure. This reminded her of something. “But what was it you wished -to see me about, Mr. Shippen?” she asked, with a return of that vague -anxiety in the tones of her voice. - -“Why, merely to resume a pleasant acquaintance, I suppose,” he answered -politely. - -“Oh.” - -“Thank you for receiving me,” he said. “Can I do anything for you in -New York?” - -“No,” she answered quickly, but with no shade of embarrassment to -indicate that she knew he referred to her husband. - -He took his departure politely and formally, but he had all the -sensations of flight. “Good heavens!” he exclaimed the moment he was -out of the house. “To think I was on the point of letting myself in for -her! What is a woman, anyhow? Some confounded provision Nature makes -against her own defeat--a snare laid for us, nothing else. They have -their own mind and purposes, contrary to our mind and purposes, whether -they are good or bad. Something infernally tricky about the bad ones: -something infernally permanent about the good ones. They all want to -set, like hens,” he snorted. “No wonder Cutter kicked out. Don’t blame -him. She’s crazy, crazy as a loon, if she is not worse, and of course -she isn’t that. Well, the joke is on me, not Cutter. And mum’s the word -when I get back to New York. Children! Gad, she must be planning an -orphanage. Wonder if he knows what she’s doing with his money. Wonder -if this town is on to the racket.” - -He halted under the first street light and looked at his watch; barely -time to meet Arnold at the hotel. They were to dine together and -discuss the sale of the mining property which was to be handled through -the Shannon National Bank. He quickened his step. He must get off on -the eight o’clock express for New York. He had received a shock, a -revulsion of his romantic emotions. Something distasteful had happened -to him. He wanted to get away and recover from this nausea. - -We all excite a certain amount of interest among our fellow men, -not because we are interesting, perhaps, but because we live, and -to that extent are in a degree mysterious. But when suddenly a man -or woman becomes aware of a silent and persistent attention, it is -disconcerting, because in secret, at least, he knows he has done enough -to queer himself, if it should be known or even suspected. He has, -however, the usual human confidence in the deferred publication of -these deeds until the day of all revelations, when the Final Courts sit -to judge all men. At this end of time it will not matter, because of -the leveling effects of knowing all men even as they know him. - -In my opinion this will be a day of gasping astonishments among the -dusty saints and sinners hurriedly summoned so long after they shall -have forgotten even their virtues, much less their sins, which in -the flesh we manage to bury beyond painful recollection as soon as -possible. But now and then we get a whiff of what will happen, when -a great and good man in the community defaults and absconds with the -church funds. Meanwhile the news that still travels fastest is the news -of some one’s business which is nobody else’s business. - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII - - -The next day after Shippen’s visit Helen went into Shannon to make some -purchases and to make sure of the amount of her balance at the bank. - -When she stepped from the car in front of Brim’s general merchandise -store, it was as if she had stepped into a foreign land. The street, -all things about her, were so familiar that she only remembered -afterwards the strangeness of familiar faces. Two men whom she knew -passed her with their eyes down. A woman regarded her with furtive -curiosity and returned her salutation with the briefest bow, as if she -did not really know her. All this happened so quickly that she was not -yet aware that something very personal to her was happening. - -She was still off her guard when Mrs. Flitch sailed by her between -the lace and stocking counter, merely giving her an eye-for-an-eye -look, but with no further recognition, although Helen had wished her a -“Good afternoon, Mrs. Flitch.” She disposed of this hint by wondering -what she had done to Mrs. Flitch, because this lady was notoriously -sensitive. She had a turgid temper and reserved the right to show her -poverty and independence on the slightest provocation by ceasing to -speak to you. - -Half an hour later when she came out to her car, a cold rain was -beginning. She saw Mrs. Shaw approaching with no umbrella to protect -her new spring hat. She waited, meaning to pick her up and take her -wherever she should be going. But when she hailed her, this lady -affected not to understand. She bowed coldly with the rain in her face -and said, “Good afternoon, Mrs. Cutter,” although she had always called -her “Helen,” and passed on. - -It is depressing to find yourself suddenly outlawed by the people whom -you have always known. Helen was never popular in Shannon. Unhappy -people rarely ever are. They have so little to contribute to the common -fund of human animation. But she had a certain standing in the good -will of her neighbors. - -It was not until she reached the bank that the explanation of what was -going on really dawned upon her. She had known that it must come, this -news of her abandonment by her husband, but she had not expected it to -fall upon her like a curse. - -Arnold, who occupied the chair at the president’s desk inside the -doorway of the bank, having resumed this custom of the elder Cutter, -had always risen to meet her when she came in. He would conduct her to -the chair near his desk and attend personally to her affairs, if it was -no more than the cashing of a check. This morning he was at his desk as -usual. So was the extra chair, and nobody in it, but beyond a glance -and a bow he took no notice of her. She went on to the cashier’s window -and presented a check. She was startled to see him glance at it, then -step swiftly back to the bookkeeper and make eye sure of her balance -before he cashed it. - -She took the bills, thrust under the wicket and stared about her -confused. She had lost prestige here. Why? She wondered. She had -spent the money left from her mother’s estate on the house, and a few -thousands besides. But she was amply supplied with funds. She had never -overdrawn her account. - -Silly reflections! Childish defense against this financial coldness! -If Arnold had known that she still had securities to the amount of -considerably more than one hundred thousand dollars in her safety -deposit box, his manner would have continued balmy. But he did not know -this. He only knew that she was spending a great deal of money. And he -had dined with Shippen the previous evening. - -Shippen had told him that she was separated from her husband. When he -expressed surprise, Shippen expressed regret that he had “let the thing -out”; he supposed the facts were already known in Shannon, he said. - -Arnold assured him to the contrary. He said that he had had a “hunch,” -because he was subject to hunches as a financial man; but he had rather -expected Cutter himself to fail. He had never entertained the slightest -suspicion of Mrs. Cutter. How long had she been separated from her -husband? - -Shippen replied that he did not know; but he had thought probably some -time before Cutter resigned from the presidency of the Shannon bank and -took up his residence in New York. - -Arnold said he thought it must have occurred quite recently, because -Mrs. Cutter had been with her husband in New York for at least five -months. In fact, she had only returned to Shannon late in January. - -“I am associated with Cutter. I see him every day. I am constantly in -his home, a bachelor apartment, and I positively know that his wife has -never been in the place,” Shippen replied. - -“But I tell you she left here soon after Cutter did, and she did not -return until about two months ago,” Arnold insisted, round-eyed with -amazement. - -Shippen closed his lips grimly, implying that these were the lips of a -gentlemen. A woman scorned may be dangerous, but a man defeated can be -meanly revengeful. Shippen was reacting, after the manner of his kind, -from the disgust he now felt toward this innocent woman. - -No, he answered in reply to Arnold’s next question, there had been no -divorce yet, though he had reason to believe Cutter would be glad to -get one. - -“Cutter!” Arnold exclaimed. - -Shippen nodded; then after a pause he added: “My impression is that -Mrs. Cutter will not be the one to bring the suit, if it is ever -brought.” - -“But he--man, do you know what you are saying about that woman?” Arnold -exclaimed. - -“I am saying nothing about her. I have seen something of her. I paid -her a visit this afternoon, in fact; but--” - -“You know her?” - -“Since 1914,” he nodded. - -A silence followed this news. Men know one another. Arnold knew -Shippen. He sat now staring at the tablecloth. It was his duty, but -he would be sorry to tell his wife. She liked Mrs. Cutter. Also, it -was his duty to see that the bank was secure in its dealings with -her. Until this moment he would have advanced her any reasonable sum. -He would warn Lambkin in the morning to keep an eye on her balance. -A woman like that had very few financial scruples, and no sense of -the future. They usually lived by the day. Still, this fellow Shippen -might be mistaken. Arnold had been a resident of Shannon only a few -years, but he had inferred that Mrs. Cutter was devoted to her home and -husband, an ordinary woman, good looking but not attractive. He would -have sworn she was not attractive. She had never attracted him and in a -discreet way he had a man’s eye. - -He accompanied Shippen to his train; then he went home and told Mrs. -Arnold. - -She was indignant. She said she did not believe a word of it. Later, -Mrs. Shaw came in to borrow some yarn for a sweater she wished to -finish that evening. She got the yarn, and this story about Mrs. Cutter. - -She agreed with Mrs. Arnold that in her opinion there was not a word of -truth in it. Still they speculated about how and where Helen had spent -those five months when she was not in Shannon nor with her husband in -New York. - -We may live above reproach, but few of us live above suspicion of one -sort or another. It is the active character-sketching faculty we all -have for drawing real or imaginary likenesses of each other’s secret -faces. Women are especially felicitous in this art, once they get the -suggestion. They rarely originate the idea. The most damaging gossip we -ever hear descends to us almost invariably from men. They whisper it to -us; we tell it and get more credit for authorship than we deserve. - -Thus Mr. Arnold had repeated to his wife what Shippen had told and -intimated about the Cutters. It is not in the nature of any woman to -retain such stuff. She must expel it. Therefore Mrs. Arnold told Mrs. -Shaw. - -And so the news flew, until the town was posted with it by the time -Helen descended into it the next afternoon. - -It is one thing to suffer a great humiliation in secret, and quite -another thing to read it in the eyes of every familiar face. Helen -understood that her secret was out at last. Nothing else could account -for the manner of the various people whom she met. She had known, of -course, that it could not be kept; but she had hoped she might have -had a little more time to protect herself with the one defense she had -planned. - -Her lips were trembling when she came out of the bank and entered the -car. “Drive out the River road,” she said. - -Buck glanced back, startled by some emotional quality in her voice, -which was usually a smooth and literal-speaking voice. He was much -more surprised by the order she had given, for the rain was coming in -rattling gusts on the March winds and the River road would be “slick as -glass.” Still, he took it, the big limousine reeling and sliding. - -Helen sat as if she had been flung into the corner of the seat. She -stared through the streaming window at the turgid river. She remembered -every tree and slope of its banks, although years had passed since -she had been on this road. Sometimes, when all is ready, when we have -survived and are about to live, the power of hope fails and the vision -fades. Helen passed into this coma of defeat. How was she to face these -looks, this knowledge, this judgment in the eyes of the people of -Shannon for years and years? Could anything ease this pain? What could -she love enough to make her indifferent to this perpetual publicity? -After all, would it not be wiser to give up everything and go away? - -The old foundry loomed desolately in the distance, drenched in rain, -the bare boughs of the trees whipping against it. The great doorway -seemed to yawn darkness. Nothing green now, no brightness! How long -ago since in the shadow of this door she had said her prayers to love -and listened to George’s vows. She remembered everything--the yellow -primroses at their feet, the blue wings of a bird suddenly spread in -flight over their heads, the fresh, sweet smell of thyme and George’s -face bent above her in passionate tenderness. - -The world had passed away since then! How could she bear this? It was -loneliness. She had been dying of loneliness for months. She had never -been out of pain, not for a moment; she knew this now. She wanted her -husband--nothing else! Tears filled her eyes; she caught back a sob. -For an instant her mind held one image, that of the man whom she had -loved and married; one thought, the whole thought of him, a reeling -picture of the years filled with only her devotion to him. - -Then the wind and tide in her breast died away. The color faded from -her cheeks. All that had failed. She shivered, sat up, astounded that -she could suffer like this for a man who had abandoned her. - -We are not the only ones who fail, my masters. Sometimes the very -will of God fails too. A world slips, waggles in its orbit, and goes -rocketing, catching the light of a thousand suns as it falls and falls -forever through space. - -When they were directly below the foundry, Buck halted. - -“Why do you stop here? Go on,” she commanded sharply. - -“Miss Helen, we can’t,” he protested. “They ain’t no bottom to this -road out yonder. Folks don’t go no farther’n where we is now.” - -There was a moment’s suspense while the motor purred and he waited, by -no means enthusiastic about driving in this storm. - -“Very well; we will turn back,” she said in a queer voice. She was -thinking about this road with no bottom in it beyond the place where so -many lovers came to plight their troth. - -Half an hour later, the disgruntled Buck had taken his mud-spattered -car to the garage, and Helen was still standing on the veranda of her -house, looking out over her small world. - -The rain had passed like a silver veil over the hills. The clouds, -split by this March wind, were rolling back like huge wagon covers. The -grass was beginning to show a misty green on the lawn. Pink petals of -peach blossoms, blown from the orchard behind the house, lay in rifts -above it. The flowering shrubs, massed on either side of the driveway, -were budding. The elm trees were shaking their beards of bloom. The -last rays of the setting sun made all the windows of her house flame -with golden light. - -She could not leave this place; this was her house and her world. Every -bloom to be was so sweetly foretold to her in this warm air. She could -not give it up. There must be something to live for and love. She -suffered most from the breaking of this habit of loving. And the shock -she had of discovering that she still loved her husband disturbed her -more than the possible attitude Shannon might assume toward her. She -was that far from suspecting, you understand, the imaginary activities -of gossips who are never contented with the bare facts, but must invent -explanations of these facts according to their fancies. - -Well, she decided, she would not go away. She would hold to her -original plan for happiness. Surely there must be peace and joy in -love you nurtured yourself. - -Then she turned and paced slowly the length of the veranda. Her step -changed to increasing swiftness as she came back from the far end, her -face also. She looked as she might have looked if flames enveloped her, -and she was flying through the wind, a wildness and horror in her eyes. - -She dashed into the house, caught sight of the maid in coming up the -hall, who halted abruptly at this sudden vision of her mistress. - -“Charlotte, get my things ready. Pack my trunk. I am leaving on the -early morning train,” Helen exclaimed as she brushed past her and -disappeared into her room. - - - - -CHAPTER XIX - - -There is a place called an Inn above a city in the mountains--it -was built only a few years ago by a man with a Brobdingnagian -imagination--a huge pile of bowlders, tunneled and dragged down from -the mountain sides and put together as if the ages had soldered them -into a great castle. The walls within are rough and covered with -strange scripts, fragments of great lines from great poets, sentences -from philosophers and saints. It is not a place for tourists, but for -people weary with the strife of living, made obedient to peace and -silence by exhaustion. - -I have seen this place. It is marvelous, and strangely effective -morally. Bad people get a somnambulant look there, because they are -sleepwalking in their virtues. They get a look of naïve innocence; or, -if the system of moral compensation in them is broken, they take a -horrified look around and escape on the next train. - -One morning, so early that the day was still a gray cavern between -earth and sky with the wild March winds whirling in it, a slender -woman descended from a taxicab at the gateway to the drive which -led down the mountain slope to this Inn. She wore a blue coat with a -fur collar drawn close about her fair face, a small fur hat with an -exceeding vivid rose tucked into the band of thicker fur around the -crown and fitted so snugly that a mere line of her bright hair showed -beneath. She had eyes the color of blue flowers, paler than violets, -the kind that always look up at you meaningly from the cold ground in -March--but you do not know what they mean--exactly as this woman’s eyes -looked upward and abroad now beneath the narrow sweeping line of her -swallow-winged brows. - -She was not young; she was touched with the same sadness of those pale -blue flowers above the winter earth. But she appeared young in this -half light of the early dawn. Any man at the sight of her, swinging -gracefully down the winding road between the naked trees, beneath the -pearling skies of daybreak, might have conceived the idea of courting -her. But he would have dismissed it instantly after a nearer reading -look. He would have perceived that she was already “taken,” that -she belonged either to a man or to his children. She was not in the -possessive case. - -She loitered along the way, as one familiar with this place, looking -for remembered things, ferns between the rocks, puffs of green moss -above these rocks, flashes of wild azalea deeply bowered among the -laurel bushes, tall stalks of shooting star blossoms white against -the gray bluff, and a path leading from the roadway up the side of -the bluff. I suppose there is not even one little high place on this -earth which has not somewhere upon it a path that goes to the top. And -frequently the idlest people in the world make them. It is due to the -futile persistence of the altar instinct in them. - -She had come down into the paved plaza in front of the Inn before -the porter carrying her bags overtook her. She followed him through -the door and paused at the breath-taking majesty of this huge room. -Filled with guests, its dignity was diminished; but bare and solemn -and silent in this early morning hour, it was tremendous. She cast -a glance upward at the rough walls, scrolled over with those mighty -texts taken from the Scriptures that men have made for themselves, but -not one from Moses or the Prophets--the idea being, I suppose, not to -open the bleeding wounds of conscience in many guests by reminders too -authoritatively worded about their sins and trespasses. - -She caught sight of one at last from Marcus Aurelius as if she had been -looking for it. The wisdom of it did not apply to her case, but it -soothed her for that reason, because she remembered it as an exit she -used to take from her unhappy thoughts during those first months of her -unnatural widowhood. When you are bedridden within by a secret grief, -these old negative philosophers are very good drug doctors for your -complaints. This is why so many miserable women take to the narcotics -of theosophy and other forms of recumbent mysticisms. They are mental -opiates. - -“Good morning, Mrs. Cutter! Glad to see you back here,” the night clerk -said, smiling sleepy-eyed at her as she approached the desk. He swung -the register around and offered her a pen. - -“You received my wire?” she asked, when she had written her name. - -“Yes, and fortunately we were able to reserve the same room for you,” -he answered, evidently referring to a request which she had wired. - -“Shall you want a car, as usual, Mrs. Cutter?” he called after her as -she was about to enter the elevator. - -“Not until this afternoon. How are the roads?” - -“Very good, at least your favorite one is,” he assured her. - -She had come to this Inn immediately after Cutter left her the previous -year. She had recovered her health of mind and strength of body in this -quiet place; she had profited by the patterns of peace and imagination -it afforded; and she had spent much time visiting fine old houses, -studying the manners, ways and clothes of the people who came and went. -She acquired for the first time in her life some feeling and sense of -elegance, lines and colors. And it was here that she met the architect -who drew the plans for remodeling her house at Shannon. - -She resumed her old diversions now. She mingled little with the other -guests, but spent her time driving about the country. She was still -oppressed by the rude awakening she had, that last day in Shannon, to -the fact that she loved and longed for her husband. She was disturbed -and humiliated by this revelation, as one is by the awakening of some -weakness we believe we have outgrown. - -The issue constantly in her mind was whether, after all, it would not -be wiser to give up her house in Shannon and live this idle, pleasant -existence. There were no associations here to remind her of the -past. And in spite of her huge expense in the effort to destroy these -memories, it was after she came back to Shannon that the old pain and -unhappiness had returned to overwhelm her. Then this issue was settled -for her with a horrible, irrevocable decision, and she was flung -violently back upon the one refuge, her house in Shannon, and the one -plan she had for substituting love with affection, which she had been -on the point of abandoning. - -One evening she came down late for dinner, passed through the swinging -doors and sat down at the table reserved for her, which was near these -doors. The room was filled with week-end guests. She had an excellent -view of this brilliant company. There were handsomely gowned women, -rouged and sparkling with jewels; there were more men than were usually -to be seen at leisure during this man-grasping war period; and quite a -sprinkling of military officers, evidently on leave from Washington. - -Helen had given her order and sat idly scanning the scene before her, -listening to snatches of conversation from the nearer tables. - -She was barely enough like these other women in her ivory-white, -embroidered Canton crêpe not to attract attention. She was pale, as -they were painted. Her hair lay in a soft golden coil on her head, -where their hair ruffled in a thousand glistening convolutions. Her -lips were parted, showing the lapped edge of the two white teeth. The -dark lashes of her eyes were more apparent, because of the blueness of -these eyes and of the whiteness of her skin. - -Once she caught the steady, dark gaze of a woman seated directly -opposite her, but at a distant table. She lifted her own glance and -hurried by this overhead route back to the bunch of violets in the vase -on her own table. She could not have told why she did this, probably -for the same reason one flinches and draws back from the sudden flash -of a brilliant flame. She sat staring at the violets, wondering about -this woman, not intelligently, with a sort of amazement which was not -pleasant. Never before had she seen such a fury of commanding beauty. -She thought she must be tall. She was very dark--olive skin, flushed -like a velvet rose; black hair, daringly coiffured and heightened by a -Spanish comb; a straight, imperious nose; a fine-lipped mouth, red and -cruelly turned to mirth. But the fury of her beauty lay in the smoking -black eyes. And the maroon velvet gown she wore seemed somehow to -enhance the heat of terrible, searing beauty, as if the body of this -woman had been forged, slim and strong, in a furnace and still glowed -dangerously and dully. - -Helen wondered why she had not seen her when she entered the dining -room, for now she could almost hear her crackle. Yet she did not look -up again in that direction. There was a man at the table with this -woman, she knew; but she had been so startled by the native malice of -those dark eyes that she had only a blurred impression of his back. - -Suddenly there was a sound in this place where the confused murmur of -many voices made a thousand sounds. It was the rich, rollicking laugh -of a man, one high note quickly suppressed. - -Helen stiffened, her hand flew to her breast as if she had received a -mortal wound. This trumpeting note of mirth was as much a part of her -experience as her husband’s kisses had been. Her lips tightened, her -eyes wide with horror flew this way and that, scanning every face. Then -they fell again upon the dark woman whom she had forgotten in this -sudden anguish. Instantly she felt the red lash of this woman’s smile, -as if she had reached across the space between them to strike a blow. -There was contempt and recognition in the smoldering black eyes--no -defiance, but triumph. - -The man facing her at this table with his back to Helen caught it, -flirted his head around to find the object of it--and looked straight -into the eyes of his wife! - -For one instant they held this silent interview with each other in that -crowded room. Then the woman struck her hands together with a sharp, -little smack, and let out a gale of laughter, too keen, too high in -this decent place. Every head was turned toward her, every eye fell -upon her in polite amazement. Still she laughed. And still George -Cutter’s eyes followed his wife. For Helen had risen at the first note -of that stinging laugh and had made her way blindly from the room. - -“What happened?” asked a fat man, rolling a pop-eyed look across the -table at his wife. - -“I didn’t see anything,” she replied, taking her soup with the -absorption of an innocent person. - -“Who was the pale lady? Didn’t you see her going out?” - -“A lot of people are coming in and going out,” his wife returned, -skinning the bottom of her soup plate with her spoon. - -“And there’s the one that did the laugh,” he said, nodding at the woman. - -“She looks like a jade; probably is one,” his wife announced, with one -appraising look. - -“Fellow with her is all in then--head down, knees sprung, tail -drooping. He’s come a cropper and knows it. Look at him, Lily.” - -The old Lily looked at the man before the “jade” indifferently, then -passed the look on to the service door from whence cometh, or should -come, the next course of this very good dinner. “Henry, you are a born -scandalmonger,” she said reproachfully. - -“No, it’s an acquired taste, but I have it; and if ever I saw a fine -scene in a matrimonial melodrama, I’ve just witnessed one. Pale lady’s -the wife, t’other one’s the gallant gal bandit, and the man’s the -victim,” he snickered. - -Before these guests had finished dining, Helen Cutter had left the Inn. - -A week later Charlotte received a wire from her mistress, instructing -her to send Buck with the car to Atlanta in time to meet a certain -train at the Terminal Station on a certain day. This message was sent -from Baltimore, which had not been Mrs. Cutter’s destination when she -left home, Charlotte observed with a sniff. She did not like Mrs. -Cutter’s ways, referring to this tendency she had of flying about the -world alone when she had a perfectly good maid, who had expected to -accompany her. And she did not like the company she kept, referring to -Shippen who was the only visitor she had received. And what was more to -the point, she had no idea of being buried alive in this little speck -of a town. Therefore she meant to go back to Atlanta in the car, and -stay there--strong emphasis on the last two words. - -It was known in Shannon that “Helen Cutter had gone again.” But as late -as the third week in April, no one knew that she had returned. There -was a rumor current that probably she would not come back, since she -must have realized that everybody knew what had happened. - -Then Mrs. Flitch, who was out selling Liberty Bonds one afternoon, -passed the Cutter place and beheld a baby carriage on the lawn! Not -only that, but the carriage was obviously occupied, because Maria, -togged out in a nurse’s cap and apron, was rolling it back and forth -along the driveway. Mrs. Flitch said later that you could have “knocked -her down with a feather,” but she decided no matter what kind of woman -Helen Cutter was, it was no more than right that she should be called -upon to buy these bonds. Therefore she turned in and walked briskly up -the drive, meeting Maria directly front of the house. - -“Is Mrs. Cutter at home?” she asked, ignoring the old woman’s -occupation. - -“No’m, she ain’t here; she’s gone to git a goat,” Maria answered. - -“A goat!” - -“Yes’m, a milk goat for the baby,” rolling her eyes. - -Mrs. Flitch stood perfectly still, the incarnation of malignant -virtue, allowing her eyes to pass back and forth between Maria and the -carriage. The wicker hood concealed the contents from her avid gaze. -When she could endure her curiosity no longer, she moved slowly around -to the front, but maintaining a decent distance, and stared. - -The baby recognized her at once, grinned, showing several teeth, and -waved a highly ornamental teething ring. - -“Maria, whose child is this?” Mrs. Flitch demanded sternly, as if it -was her duty to know. - -“Miss Helen says it’s her’n,” was the noncommittal reply. - -Followed a series of questions as to the age and possible complexion of -this child. One confidence led to another question until Maria let go -and told all that she knew, which only increased the cloud hanging over -the origin of this baby. - -She said that she had gone in to clear the table that night in August -of last year when Mr. Cutter left his wife. She had heard him tell her -that he was going to leave her. - -“What did Mrs. Cutter say to that?” - -“Not a word. From first to last I did not hear her open her mouth, Mrs. -Flitch. But he talked a right smart. I disremember what he said, but -it wa’n’t praisin’. Then he goes out and banged the door after him. He -ain’t been here since.” - -“And she does not hear from him?” - -“Not as I knows of. Miss Helen left ’reckly after he did, and she was -gone five months. But she wa’n’t wid him. We used to git letters from -her from a place in Ca’lina.” - -“Which, North or South Carolina?” - -“I don’t know, ’m. Buck read the letters.” - -“This is a strange baby,” Mrs. Flitch announced grimly. - -Maria wiped her eyes. She was working herself up to an emotional pitch -by some act of memory. Mrs. Flitch waited for the revelation she knew -must be coming. - -“I’m goin’ to tell you all I know about how come dis baby. Not as it -kin explain somethings, like her having black hair and being dark -complected, but it’s all I know,” she began. - -“Go on.” - -“After Mr. Cutter was gone, Miss Helen laid in bed three days. She jest -laid there, white as a corpse, with her eyes open. She didn’t shed no -tears and she didn’t say anything, mor’n for me to hand her a glass of -water or somethin’ like that. Then one mornin’ she hops out of bed, -dresses herself an’ goes downtown to the bank. While she was dressin’ -I comes to the door to fetch her slippers, which I’d been polishin’ in -the kitchen.” Maria left off and rolled her eyes lugubriously, as if -such a tongue as she had could not reveal the rest. - -“Go on; what happened?” - -“Mrs. Flitch,” lowering her voice to a tragic whisper, “she was talkin’ -to herself! ‘Now,’ she says, ‘I kin have children.’ She said them words -over and over, ’s if she was glad of the chance.” - -“But what did she mean?” - -“I d’no, ’m. I been in this world a long time, an’ I ain’t never heerd -no ’oman, white or black, say sech things and her husband jest that -minute ’sertin’ her. But she’s done it--what she said she’d do. Here’s -the child,” she concluded, standing like a black exclamation point -beside the baby carriage. - -Mrs. Flitch counted her fingers surreptitiously and regarded the infant -once more with a sort of expert scientific stare. - -“Where is the maid? I understood Mrs. Cutter had a maid?” she asked -suddenly, as if she was on the point of subpoenaing a more competent -witness. - -“She’s gone. Said she didn’t like the looks of it.” - -“Of what?” - -“I d’no, ’m.” - -“Maria,” Mrs. Flitch said after a staccato silence, “you need not tell -Mrs. Cutter that I called.” - -“La! Mrs. Flitch, hit don’t make no difference. This baby ain’t no -secret, whatever else it is. Miss Helen don’t keer who knows she’s got -it,” Maria called after her. - -All these months this servant had known what Helen believed no one knew -in Shannon, the minutest details of that last scene with her husband. - -There are no secrets. We may give alms so privately that the twin right -hand of our left hand remains blissfully ignorant of what we spent -on these alms. Nothing is easier than to conceal a good deed, if you -really wish to do so, because it is not our nature to suspect each -other of secret goodness. It is hard enough to obtain credit when we -stand on the street corner and proclaim our charity in a loud voice, or -get the whole beautiful thing exploited in the public press. This is -what we usually do, being in some mortal doubt whether, after all, the -reward promised by our Heavenly Father will be conferred openly enough -or soon enough to pay for the unnatural expense of secrecy. This is a -mistake, of course, because, while we are duly credited, the smiling, -cynical interpretation placed upon our motive takes the shine off the -deed and the alms. - -But let one of the best of us become involved in a doubtful deed, -however innocently, and it is known. Witnesses spring from the very -ground to swear to your guilt, even if you have gone into your closet -to taste a pleasant fault. Even if, as in Helen’s case, the evidence -is flimsy and circumstantial, there is always an eye that sees, an -ear that hears, a tongue to tell what happened or what apparently -happened. The deeper truth--the innocence of the wicked, the guilt of -the saints--remains hidden save from the omniscience of the Almighty. -This is why it seems to me highly probable that there really may -be a super-record kept in a Book of Life far removed from the laws -and judgments of this present world. We shall be graded accordingly, -exalted or demoted, not so furiously condemned as our own heinous -imaginations demand. - - - - -CHAPTER XX - - -The flamboyant display Helen made of her baby shocked Shannon and -finally conquered the willful suspicions entertained by her neighbors. -Her diffidence and reserve vanished. She was exalted. She glowed. She -had passed into another state of being. This child had related her to -everybody. - -She would have Buck stop the car before the Shaw residence and summoned -Mrs. Shaw forth to look at it and advise her about whether to keep -stockings on it or not. Mrs. Shaw said she never did. - -On the other hand, Mrs. Arnold said that would depend upon whether -the baby was cutting her eye teeth. In that case she advised not only -stockings, but a flannel band about the body. Did Mrs. Cutter know -whether the little thing was approaching its second summer and stomach -and eye teeth or not? This question was put very casually, but with a -shrewd glance. - -Helen said she would “see.” Whereupon she thrust an exploring finger -into the squirming infant’s mouth, felt about in there, withdrew it, -and announced that she could detect no heralding signs of these -malignant teeth, but they might be coming. This was an unusually -precocious baby! Therefore she would get the bands and keep the -stockings on. - -Then she passed on, apparently with no compunctions about having -defrauded Mrs. Arnold of legitimate information about the baby. - -But that lady hurried across the street to tell Mrs. Flitch something. -“It is not her own child, my dear; I am sure of that,” she said, after -reporting what Helen had done. - -“Well, it could be,” Mrs. Flitch insisted. - -“But it isn’t. I don’t think she knows exactly how old the child is. -And a real mother, you know, can feel when her baby is teething.” - -Mrs. Flitch nodded emphatically, held her note of silence a moment, -then added: “If it isn’t her own, there is no telling what kind of baby -it is, nor how it will turn out.” - -“Well, it is turning out happily for that poor girl anyway. She looks -years younger, and happy,” Mrs. Arnold replied. - -“If Mr. Flitch deserted me, I couldn’t be happy. I’d never hold up my -head again.” - -“She has courage.” - -“And she seems to have money,” Mrs. Flitch put in. - -“Yes, Mr. Arnold thinks she has ample means.” - -“Then it must be alimony.” - -“We have heard nothing of a divorce.” - -“I think, when people are married, they should live together until -death parts them. And if they won’t, they should make a clean breast of -it, and let folks know exactly where they stand, inside the law or out -of it,” Mrs. Flitch announced virtuously. - -“Nothing like that is ever hidden. In time I suppose something -clarifying will happen.” - -“Well, I hope it won’t be disgraceful.” - -“It is not easy for scandal to touch a woman who devotes her life to -bringing up children. Did you ever think of that?” Mrs. Arnold shot -back. “I think we should stand by Mrs. Cutter and help her all we can -with this baby,” she added. - -“Oh, I’m willing to do my duty. But she never gives me the chance to do -anything. I’m the mother of five healthy children, yet she will pass by -my door and ask somebody about that baby’s diet who never had a child,” -Mrs. Flitch complained. - -Thus the wind of private opinion, which is more dangerous than public -opinion, veered and changed toward Helen Cutter. Her skies cleared, -without her ever having suspected the fury with which they were charged -against her. Of all the good women I have ever known, she was the least -concerned for her reputation. And this is one of the weaknesses of -that class, a craven, almost guilty fear of evil tongues, which more -vulnerable women do not share. - -There were broken hours, I suppose, when some fleeting vision of the -past absorbed her peace and joy. We never do escape those whispering -tongues of memory that make speech with us from the years behind us. -Sometimes in the late summer afternoon Helen, walking in her garden, -would halt, transfixed as if a blow had fallen upon her. For the -briefest moment she would see her young husband swinging along the -path that led through the old shrubbery to this garden, his eyes fixed -brightly upon her, the dear object of his love and hopes. And her heart -leaped as in those first happy years. Then she would close her eyes, -not always in time to hold back the tears. But if one is proud enough, -there are tears which leave no trace upon a woman’s face. - -More frequently however, it was that last sight she had of him in the -dining room of the Inn, held so firmly in the grasp of another woman -that he dared not to rise when she, his wife, passed so near her -skirts almost brushed him. She would never forget the livid shame and -horror when he looked back and caught her eye nor the woman’s crackling -laugh. Sometimes this scene flared before her, and she saw herself, -with her hand still pressed to her breast, making her blind, staggering -escape. It was a kind of insurance she carried against the awakening of -the old tenderness for her husband. - -A year had gone by, another spring was at hand; and little Helen was -learning to toddle on her sturdy legs, a pink rose of a baby with -short, dark curls. - -“She is so good. Are all little children good?” Helen asked, smiling at -Mrs. Arnold, who was paying one of her frequent visits. - -“At this age, yes,” the elder woman replied dryly. - -“And I have so little time to devote to her, now that the other baby -has come,” Helen sighed. - -“The other baby!” Mrs. Arnold gasped. - -“Why, don’t you know? Haven’t you heard? I have just got a lovely boy,” -Helen informed her. - -“Here? You have him now?” - -Helen nodded. “Come and see him. He is too young to bring out yet,” she -explained. - -She led the way to the small crib in the nursery, where a very young -infant lay asleep. - -“It is a fine child,” Mrs. Arnold announced gravely. “How many do you -expect to--have?” she asked. - -“I don’t know yet. It will depend on how I get on with these; but at -least three. This is little Samuel, named for father. The next one will -be a girl, named Mary Elizabeth, for mother. I had to call the first -one Helen. And I am afraid I shall always love her best. She was my -first happiness, you see, after--after,” she repeated, “unhappiness. -I doubt if the others will mean so much to me. Do they?” she asked -anxiously. “I mean do mothers grow to love all their children alike?” - -“I don’t know, my dear; but you will,” Mrs. Arnold answered, her eyes -filling with tears. - -“They are treasures I am laying up for my old age. They will be my life -and joy and hope, when I shall have grown too old to achieve these -things. Their laughter will lift me. Their love will be my perpetual -spring. And we shall have weddings in this house,” she concluded. - -“You believe in marriage?” the other could not refrain from asking. - -“Oh, yes. Even in my own.” - -“You would go back to your husband?” - -“Never.” - -There was a silence. - -“But if he comes back to you?” - -“He will not come,” she returned. - -When I came to know her later, she must have been confirmed in this -opinion. For I had lived a year in Shannon before I learned that George -Cutter was not a dead and buried man. He had passed with that flotsam -and jetsam tide created by the Great War. And the House of Helen had -become the center of social life in Shannon. She was a sedate hostess, -always garnished with her children. She had declared this kind of -natural peace, and kept it in a world rocking with the confusion which -followed the war. - -She belonged to the deep furrow of life, where the soil is rich and -strong. If she had been an herb of the fields, she would have been an -evergreen herb. If she had been a tree, her boughs would never have -shed their leaves. If she had been a rose, she would have bloomed -fairest above a hoarfrost. The lives of many of us, who were drawn to -her during this time by one sort of distress or another, took root -in her quiet heart, and it was her wish that not one of these should -suffer or perish. - -The ignobly wise believe that this opulence of kindness is no more -than the manifestation of the nature of women, not a virtue, but the -maternal instinct common to all mammals. - -If you ask me, I should point to the prevailing type of modern woman -as an example of what mere Nature does for a woman. She is a brilliant -creature, ready to show the iridescent wings of her charms to all -men, not one man; a childless wife, ready to sue for her liberty and -alimony on the slightest provocation; an ambitious person, futilely -active, who farms out her home to servants that she may become the -dupe and handmaiden of politicians. She belongs to the fashionable -scrubwoman class, who take the job of cleaning up the town and setting -the table for the next convention. She is subsidized by compliments and -favors. There is nothing permanent in her; and she will not increase -nor multiply after the manner of her kind. She is the lightest, most -transient phase of her sex we have yet seen. But she is astonishingly -natural. - -Few tales end with the death of the principal characters. They usually -end just as the heroes and heroines begin to live happy ever after. -And you are obliged to take the author’s word for that, because the -statement is contrary to all human experience. - -Still you must expect the approaching end of this chronicle, because -the House of Helen has been established. There remains one last scene. - - - - -CHAPTER XXI - - -Beginning with the year 1921 many men, who had too swiftly acquired -fortunes in the handling of government contracts, began to pass under -the rod of investigations concerning such wartime profits. George -Cutter was one of these. Somebody, with a talent for figuring up the -cost and sales price of lumber left over from a half-finished training -camp for soldiers, discovered that the said George William Cutter had -failed to turn in one million eight hundred and some odd thousands -of dollars due the government. This statement appeared in a New York -paper. Nothing followed. And nothing was heard of Mr. Cutter for -another year. - -Then one afternoon in May, of 1922, a corpulent, extremely bald-headed -man, with a seamy face and pouched eyes, stood up in the day coach of -a train which was pulling into Shannon. He reached for his hat in the -rack overhead, put it on jauntily, pulled down his vest, which had -wrinkled up so often when he sat down and had been pressed so rarely -that it remained faintly fluted diagonally across his broad expanse. -He squared his shoulders, you may say with a former air, and stepped -briskly down the aisle and waited meekly on the platform between the -coaches while several people descended at the station. Then he came -down, and moved off hurriedly. - -No one recognized him. Misfortune does something to you. It changes -your manner, and takes the swagger out of your step, especially if you -are the author of your misfortune. - -This man walked heavily out Wiggs Street, looking about him furtively -until he came to the Cutter residence. Then he lifted his eyes and -beheld it in utter amazement--a fine, wide-winged, colonial mansion -where a cottage had stood when he left Shannon five years before. - -“I have missed her. She is gone,” he mumbled. - -At this moment he caught sight of a small girl, who had already got -sight of him and was regarding him curiously from the shade of a lilac -bush. - -There was a time when he would have strode finely up to the door, rung -the bell and inquired for Mrs. Cutter; but now he was not equal to that -display. He had lost his presence. He would get the information he -needed from this child after the manner of the class to which he now -belonged, the surreptitious class. - -“How do you do, my dear,” he said from the pavement to the small lady -under the lilac bush. - -She stuck a finger in her mouth and continued to regard him. - -“Who lives here?” - -“My muvver,” she answered, not pridefully, but with assurance. - -“And what is your name?” - -“Helen.” - -He sat down on the terraced wall and stared so long at the ground that -she feared he had forgotten her, and she was not of the age or sex to -endure the idea of being forgotten. - -“My muvver’s name is Helen, too,” she informed him. “And my brover’s -name is Sammy. What’s yours?” - -“Mine’s George. Ever heard it?” he asked. - -She shook her head. - -“What is your father’s name?” - -“We don’t keep him wiv us,” she explained. - -“Oh, you don’t? Where is he?” - -She did not know where this parent was, but she could show him Sammy. -And off she ran, dark curls flying. - -The man watched her. Then he fell again to staring at the ground. -Fervent ejaculations occurred to him, but he uttered not a word. The -histrionic had died in him. - -He saw a car coming rapidly along the street. When it passed, he would -get up and move on. This house, these children made him a stranger and -an outcast here as he was everywhere. Why had he returned? Why had he -not accepted the sentence of shame and defeat, slid on down where men -rest from honor and hope, that last refuge of complete degradation? - -But the car turned into the driveway, covering him with dust as it -whirled past, and through the dust he beheld the face of his wife. He -came to his feet and followed with a hurried, shuffling step. He was -still some distance away when the driver halted before the house, then -drove on out of sight. - -At this moment Helen, who had been about to mount the steps, caught -sight of him. - -He came on, wondering if she recognized him. It was incredible that -she should know him. When you have been defeated, degraded, caught the -shadows of prison bars that never lift from before your vision, you do -not expect recognition; you only fear it. He feared now, with a sort of -truculent impotence, what might be going to happen. Still he came on -with that courage of mean despair which men still show when they have -fallen to the last degree of shameless shame. - -Their eyes met--hers calm and steady as the horizon of a perfect day, -his wavering between doubt and determination. - -“Helen!” - -Her lips moved as if speechless words died there. - -Thus they stood, he at bay, she with the light falling upon her, grave -and sweet, not condemning him, seeing in him the answer that love and -fate make to such women. - -“Helen,” he cried again, “are you my wife?” - -She lifted her hand in that old gesture to her breast, the same pale -look of ineffable goodness which he remembered. Then, still looking -back, she turned, mounted the steps and entered the door of her house -and stood before him as if she waited. She showed against the shadows -like the figure of a shrine upon a dark hillside above a dusty road -over which pilgrims come and go. They are never moved, these shrines, -from age to age. They are altars that do not fall. So are some women. -They are the sanctuaries of mankind. It is the fashion to despise them, -but they hold the world together. - -Cutter came slowly up the step, with a flash of life and hope in -his face--an ignoble and worthless man made safe in the shelter of a -woman’s heart, whose wish was that none should perish who looked to her -for comfort. It was not love, but honor that opened the door of her -house to him. - - -THE END - - - - -TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES: - - - Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_. - - Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The House of Helen, by Corra Harris - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HOUSE OF HELEN *** - -***** This file should be named 60169-0.txt or 60169-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/0/1/6/60169/ - -Produced by Tim Lindell, David E. 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