But latterly he had begun to wonder—in
his peculiarly indefinite way he had begun to doubt
his own philosophy. Was the void in his soul a
product of thwarted ambition?—for, whilst
he slaved, scrupulously, upon “Martin Zeda,”
he loathed every deed and every word of that Old Man
of the Sea. Or could it be that his own being—his
nature of Adam—lacked something which wealth,
social position, and Mira, his wife, could not yield
to him?
Now, a new tone in the voice of Helen Cumberly—a
tone different from that compound of good-fellowship
and raillery, which he knew—a tone which
had entered into it when she had exclaimed upon the
state of the room—set his poor, anxious
heart thrumming like a lute. He felt a hot flush
creeping upon him; his forehead grew damp. He
feared to raise his eyes.
“Is that a bargain?” asked Helen, sweetly.
Henry Leroux found a lump in his throat; but he lifted
his untidy head and took the hand which the girl had
extended to him. She smiled a bit unnaturally;
then every tinge of color faded from her cheeks, and
Henry Leroux, unconsciously holding the white hand
in a vice-like grip, looked hungrily into the eyes
grown suddenly tragic whilst into his own came the
light of a great and sorrowful understanding.
“God bless you,” he said. “I
will do anything you wish.”
Helen released her hand, turned, and ran from the
study. Not until she was on the landing did she
dare to speak. Then:—
“Garnham shall come down immediately. Don’t
be late for dinner!” she called—and
there was a hint of laughter and of tears in her voice,
of the restraint of culture struggling with rebellious
womanhood.
PRESENTING M. GASTON MAX
Not venturing to turn on the light, not daring to
look upon her own face in the mirror, Helen Cumberly
sat before her dressing-table, trembling wildly.
She wanted to laugh, and wanted to cry; but the daughter
of Seton Cumberly knew what those symptoms meant and
knew how to deal with them. At the end of an
interval of some four or five minutes, she rang.
The maid opened the door.
“Don’t light up, Merton,” she said,
composedly. “I want you to tell Garnham
to go down to Mr. Leroux’s and put the place
in order. Mr. Leroux is dining with us.”
The girl withdrew; and Helen, as the door closed,
pressed the electric switch. She stared at her
reflection in the mirror as if it were the face of
an enemy, then, turning her head aside, sat deep in
reflection, biting her lip and toying with the edge
of the white doily.
“You little traitor!” she whispered, through
clenched teeth. “You little traitor—and
hypocrite”—sobs began to rise in her
throat—“and fool!”
Five more minutes passed in a silent conflict.
A knock announced the return of the maid; and the
girl reentered, placing upon the table a visiting-card:—
