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[183] 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.
[184]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[185] 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[186] 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,[187] 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[188] 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[189] 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[190] 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[191] 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.
[192]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[193] 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 was............