[From Helen's Diary.]

March, —. It has been days since I have written in this diary. There has been a good deal to record, but I have had neither the time nor desire to do it.

I see Everet every day. He lunches and dines here quite as though it were home to him. Edgar is seldom here, but when he is, he is discretion itself. There is always a severe dignity preserved between them.

Everet has the entire run of the house, and drops into my boudoir for tea in the afternoons, as a matter of course.

I manage matters in such a way that we are never seen together in public, except as we casually meet. It required some diplomacy to get out of making one of his theatre party last week, for it would never do for me to appear conscious of any wrong in our public association while I admit him so intimately in private; it would betray a depth of discernment and worldliness that he does not dream exists.

Our relations are those of intimate friends, good comrades, but there is always a dignity preserved. Nothing occurs that the most scrupulous could find fault with—if they knew all; it would never do for them to know a little. It is enough to keep him where he sees me constantly and listens to me.

The ease with which I charm and achieve, astonishes myself. There is never a word of business. He does not know that I know the House from the Senate—I don't when it comes to that, but I can accomplish when I am told what to work for.

Everet, himself, does not know how essential I am to him. I discover from time to time the progress I am making by being "out" two or three days in succession when he calls. I can judge much from the manner of his greeting when he next finds me at home.

To-day I did a master-stroke. He has some vague idea of his danger. He begins to understand in some degree what my presence means to him. He was inclined to break loose, and to-day he announced that he was going north for a time.

I started, and—I think I turned a little pale. I intended to, and for some reason, I felt so. I said quite carelessly: "Yes?" after he had noticed the start.

He turned white. He came up to me and took my hands in his, and said in a low tone:

"Would you mind?"

I looked up in surprise (apparently)—though the success was in making the appearance apparent—and said: "One always dislikes to lose old friends." I said it quite as a matter of course. I got up and staggered a little, as I went towards the door.

He was terribly frightened. I said it was "nothing;" that sometimes I had those slight "attacks" if I became a little excited. The last appeared to be a slip of the tongue. I did not say what the "attacks" were, nor what excitement had caused this particular one, but it was quite unnecessary. It frightened him, and made him suffer a little.

He remarked that his "business at the north might be postponed for some time yet." I thought so too!

There seemed something mean in all this, but a wife who has any affection for her husband, must feel that his interests are hers.

Gladys looks terrible. The last time I saw Ed—four days ago, at breakfast—he said things were narrowing to a focus; that he was afraid there was no loop-hole left her. Either Grayson must go over, or Gladys is lost. He'll go over, of course—and stay over, until he gets an advantage.

This constant separation from Edgar is telling on me. I don't realize it save at moments of relaxation, for I am generally as hurried and preoccupied these days as he. But there is a lack that I sometimes feel must be supplied. I have not even seen him since Thursday, and I—

Braine comes hurriedly into the library, and speaks quickly while tossing over the papers on the desk by Helen:

"Have you seen a bundle of papers bearing the stamp, Helen? I thought I left them here."

She shakes her head.

"What have you to do to-night, Edgar?"

"To-night?" absently. He pauses and continues his search for the papers.

"Well?" She speaks a little coldly this time. She dislikes to be ignored.

"Eh? Oh! Yes! What am I going to do to-night? I can't tell you, child, I have more on hand than ten men could do. I don't know. Oh!"—facing her suddenly—"about this matter with Everet! What are you accomplishing, Helen? Matters are moving too slowly. Something must be done at once."

She has not had more than ten minutes conversation with Braine in a week. This is the manner in which this opportunity is improved. She bites her lip. After a moment she replies carelessly:

"Really, Edgar, you expect a great deal. I could hardly be expected to gain you the Presidency in six weeks, with nothing to aid me but my own efforts."

"Hardly; but this is not exactly what is required of you. It seems to me that you might hasten matters a little more."

She does not reply.

As Braine is leaving the room, he asks:

"Can you bring matters to a focus in a week?"

"No—in two weeks," continuing her writing without looking up.

Braine goes out. As the curtain falls behind him she drops her pen, and rising, begins to pace the floor restlessly. She is suddenly wretched. She hates Everet. She has a mad desire to rush after Braine, and throw herself into his arms. With it all, she feels herself rebuffed, humiliated.

She seems to have entirely dropped out of Braine's life, save so far as she contributes to his success and advancement—for this is not the only matter she has been handling successfully in the last two months.

She leans her head wearily against the mantel, and sobs softly to herself. She is so wrapt up in her own wretchedness that she is oblivious of everything else, and does not hear Everet as he crosses the floor.

He stands a moment looking at her in surprise. Then the expression on his face becomes one of anxiety, pain, tenderness. He approaches her softly, and says in a low tone:

"Mrs. Braine!"

Helen starts and raises her head. She does not look up, but stands with her back to him as she dries the tears, and tries to control her voice. She says—for want of something better:

"I did not hear you come in."

Everet is silent a moment, then lays his hand on her arm. His touch is delicate. There is a subtle tenderness about it.

She suddenly starts, and turns ghastly. She looks up at him with something like fright and appeal in her face, and he does not comprehend the look. She flings his hand away with a fierce movement.

Everet steps back. He looks at her now flushed face in astonishment. She says hoarsely:

"Never do that again. Do you hear? Never touch me again!"

Everet feels that there is a little injustice in her tone. He has been a constant visitor at this house for weeks. He has done no more than any acquaintance, who knew her more than slightly, might have done under the circumstances. He steps back, and says coldly:

"I beg your pardon," and turns toward the door.

The necessity of the occasion comes to her quickly. He must not go in this way—what would Braine say.

She calls: "Chester." She has never used Everet's first name before.

He turns swiftly and stands regarding her. There is eagerness in his face.

She drops her eyes. She holds out her hand and says:

"I can't tell you why I have spoken in this way. I want you to come back. Believe me when I tell you that it was not because you offended me—I offended myself. I—I can explain nothing. I beg you to come back."

He is at her side. He grasps her hands. He says—his voice husky with emotion:

"I will not go if you would have me stay—Did you wish it, I would never—"

He breaks off suddenly. Her sweet, innocent face is raised inquiringly—its innocence is what forbids.

She motions him into the chair by the fire, and sits down near the window. She keeps that distance between them while he stays.

He wants her to go to the theatre with him and a party of friends. He pleads that she is too tired for anything that will require more of effort, that night.

She refuses in a semi-desperate tone. She is going to a cabinet affair! She wants to go! She would not miss it for anything! He leaves the house, and she goes upstairs slowly.

Braine's valet is just entering his master's dressing-room as Helen goes by. She pauses, and tells him to ask Mr. Braine to come to her boudoir before he goes out.

She hurries to her room, and throws on a loose negligÉe; stirs the fire: darkens the room; lights the candles. The scene is charming, seductive—perhaps irresistible. She throws herself negligently into a chair, and puts her pretty feet on the fender. She smiles a little grimly. The scene might have been prepared for Everet—so carefully has she arranged it.

After twenty minutes, Braine taps. She calls "Come in," and half turns in her chair with a smile. She holds out her hand:

"You will come to the fire?"

Braine nods, and steps just inside the door:

"You wanted me for something?" buttoning his glove—he speaks pleasantly, but hurriedly.

She says calmly; "I was not going out to-night."

There is the most imperceptible pause before her next words. Braine makes no remark. She continues;

"And I thought if you had any work to do in the way of writing, I might as well do it."

She finishes, and turns back to the fire.

He replies: "If you are not going out, you might draft a reply to Carson's letter. It must be carefully done. There must be enough in it to satisfy him, but not enough to commit me. You understand about what I want, I think."

"Yes. I think so," drily.

"So—I'm off, dear. Good-bye."

The door closes. The woman at the fire rises and looks slowly about the room. The expression in her face is an ugly one. She rings her bell, and mutters, "H'm!" as she unties her gown.

She is passive while Susanne dresses her. She does not leave the house for an hour and a half yet. She finishes her toilet, and goes back to the library to prepare the letter to Carson. It is a masterpiece when finished, and she studies it with satisfaction.

She put on her wraps and waits a moment for the carriage, then drives off to the "Cabinet affair."

She has her wits about her—she has a business affair here, too. She remains until she knows she has accomplished all she can, and then sends for her carriage.

She keeps up the farce until she finds herself in the night air, and then is so silent that a man who has been violently in love with her for two entire days, is heart-broken as he takes her to her carriage.

As she comes within range of the window, she sees the form of a man inside the carriage, and instinctively knows who it is. She steps ahead, and stands before the door as the groom opens it, filling it as completely as she can, and saying an abrupt good night. She leans in front of Everet as she pulls the rug over her, and they drive away.

She turns to him and looks at him inquisitively, and a little coldly. She says, "How is this?"

Everet seizes her hand.

"I do not know. I waited for you in the carriage. That is all. I could not help it. I had to see you again to-night."

Her hand is still in his. Perhaps her fingers cling as well as his. There is a deep frown between her eyes. She says with distress in her voice:

"You should not. You should not. How could you? I—I—I—"

She pauses helplessly. It seems to Everet the helplessness of innocence. He leans near her an instant; then, with an effort at self-control, drops her hand.

She leans her head against the side of the carriage. She says under her breath, "Oh, my God!"

He hears it, and thinks he has distressed her, shocked her, and begins an apology, his voice emotion-choked. He feels that he has been a brute to intrude on her in this way.

She does not answer. He can feel that her body is quivering as though with cold. He attempts to draw the rug more closely about her, but she winces and says with a wail:

"Don't, don't, don't!"

He desists, and sits watching her helplessly. She does not speak again until they have reached home. When he touches her hand for a moment as he helps her from the brougham, it is hot and feverish.

She says, as he turns to follow her up the steps:

"Don't come in to-night." She hesitates a moment, and then adds with a rush,

"I must be with my husband. To-morrow—I will see you to-morrow."

She hurries up the steps, and Woolet opens the door.

"Is Mr. Braine in yet?"

"In the library, madame."

She hurries through the hall, untying the cords of her wrap as she goes. She pushes open the door, enters, closes the door, and stands with her back against it, looking at Braine who is writing at the desk.

As she enters, he glances up hastily, nods, and returns to his writing, remarking absently:

"Home?"

She does not answer. She stands watching him, listening to the hurried scratch of the pen.

Presently she says:

"Edgar!"

"Yes?" without looking up.

She repeats in a loud, emphatic voice:

"Edgar!"

He raises his head in surprise. He looks at her.

"Well?—Are you ill, Helen?"

Her peculiar expression has arrested his attention, and he lays down his pen. Her face is flushed. Her eyes are strangely brilliant. Her long, nervous fingers twist in the cords of her wrap. She leaves her position at the door, and advancing into the room, throws herself into a chair. She replies in a hard voice:

"Ill? No, oh no!"

Braine looks at her inquiringly. She is looking straight into his face. He says presently, with eagerness:

"Oh, you have something to tell me about Everet?"

"I have nothing to tell you about Everet," in the same inscrutable tone.

Braine looks annoyed, and says a little quickly:

"You want something of me?"

There is silence for a moment while they look into each other's faces. Then she bursts out excitedly:

"Yes, I want something of you. I want you to take me in your arms. I want you to forget that you are a United States Senator for an hour. I want you to forget that any one lives but you and me. I want you to say, 'Helen, I love you.' I want convincing demonstration that I am your wife as well as your lobbyist."

There is a sting in every word. She is on her feet, flashing her emotion at him with her beautiful eyes.

Braine half rises from his chair, and then sinks back. His face grows tender. He says kindly:

"Come here, dear. I do love you. I know I have been cold and preoccupied lately, but you should understand that I love you, Helen, better than my life. This is not like you, dear. You are tired and nervous. All this business is new to you. I am proud of you, little one. I have unlimited confidence in you. There—there," as she sobs violently in his arms; "you are worn out, dear. You must not sit up. To-morrow we will talk it all over. Kiss me good night, dear—"

She suddenly tightens her arms around him. She sobs:

"Not good night, Ed. Not good night. I must not be put off so to-night, dearest. I—I love you so."

She is kissing his hands and face excitedly, and is speaking in little broken phrases. All her blood seems to have become a quivering flame.

Braine soothes her gently and says:

"You shall not be put off. I said good night, dear, out of consideration for you. You look so exhausted, dear child. I must do a little more work, and then I will stop. Go up and get off your tight, uncomfortable gown. I will not be long."

He touches her forehead with his lips. She moves toward the door. She says brokenly, through her smiles:

"It is good of you, Ed."

He smiles and replies:

"Good to myself."

She hurries through the hall and up the stairs. She is trembling with happiness. She has not had so intimate a conversation with Braine for three weeks. She pushes open her dressing-room door. Susanne has been asleep, but rises quickly to assist her. She undresses Helen deftly:

"Is Madame going at once to bed?"

Helen shakes her head. Susanne brings her a negligÉe. Helen pushes it away:

"No, the new one—the one sent home yesterday."

Susanne's eyes sparkle. She brings it at once. She remarks:

"Madame has enjoyed herself?"

Helen's face is wreathed in a constant, misty smile. She looks inquiringly at Susanne and answers:

"Yes—no—you may go now. Good night."

For a moment after Susanne is gone, Helen stands thoughtfully before the mirror. She looks at her reflection carefully. She says half aloud:

"How beautiful I am! I never was so glad to be beautiful, before. I feel like a young girl again."

She studies the tall, lissome figure before her. The folds of her gown cling to her limbs, emphasizing every sumptuous curve. She says in a little tone of elation:

"How glad Edgar must be that you belong to him," nodding at herself.

She hears the library door open below, and goes to the door. She opens it cautiously. There is in her manner, the delicious shyness of a young girl with her first lover. She listens a moment, and hearing no step, goes softly to the stairs. The hall door below is just closing.

Braine has gone out.