Helena Brett's Career Part 29

CHAPTER XXV

THE BROKEN TRIANGLE

Geoffrey Alison, bursting with anxiety for Helena's decision, found her next morning in exultant readiness.

"I accept," she cried excitedly, almost before he had got inside the door. "I accept Blatchley's offer. The book is growing splendidly.

I've done two chapters and I see it all."

He thought he had never seen her in such good form, and he wondered.

She had been so cold about it yesterday. He did not, of course, know about the meals between....

She could not, however, help telling him a little of it.

"Oh," she cried, "you don't know how glorious it'll be, having some work to do again; I've missed Virginia, I mean Zoe, horribly! It seems so endless, the day, now that Hubert's cross."

"Is he still sick?" the other asked. He only knew till now what people said. He was dying to hear, but she was so funny.

"Sick," she laughed mirthlessly. "That is a lovely word for it! He seems to be entirely different. I knew directly it came out, I had done something awful, but I thought he would understand and see I hadn't meant him really and forgive. But he gets worse and worse. I think his friends keep teasing him, and then he can't get on with his book in the least. It's sickening."

The artist was encouraged to a blow at his old enemy. "I expect really he's jealous of your success. He's always sensitive. He hates anybody his own age succeeding better." It was the first time she had ever said, or listened to, anything against her husband.

Helena was silent for a moment, dazed. Did this explain his harshness?

Was he really jealous?

"Oh, I don't think so," she said, not letting herself think, for all the puzzling little bits began to fit, now, with a deadly ease. "I don't think it's that. He's naturally--'sick'!" and she forced out a laugh.

"I'm so sorry," he said. It was his first attempt at sympathy. Their talk had been on flippant lines.

She did not dare to look at him, remembering how funny he was when quite serious. "Thank you, Ally," she said gently. He was a good sort.

"_I_'m sorry," he repeated. "You know that, Zoe, don't you? I'm your pal, whatever Hubert is."

"Hubert's splendid," she said, childishly inadequate; and with these words, she who had been a hard woman for long days--melted perhaps by fatal sympathy or her own n.o.ble lie--suddenly found hot tears streaming down her cheeks. She turned away, ashamed, and hoped he would not see.

But he had seen.

What they had said just now had been enough--and this was far too much.

Dear little Zoe--pretty little girl, too--married to that great swine Brett--in trouble--crying--wanting to be cheered.

The worst, of course, of keeping harmless vices as tame pets is that for years they only come out when needed and are very pleasant. Then, however, as time makes them stronger, comes the fatal moment when they gain the mastery, turn on their former owner and drag him where they will.

This was such a moment for Geoffrey Alison.

All those nice exciting stories, laudably abstract, bulked suddenly into the real. Here was a girl, crying--pretty too; dam pretty--and everybody knew that when dam pretty girls cried--why, they expected it....

"Zoe," he cried, surging forward, "why do you stand it? Why do you let him treat you like that? You're too good for him; I wish that I had half the trust, the love you give to him. I've done so much for you--the book and everything--and you're so hard to me."

An automatic thrill came in his voice, he leant a little forward; he stretched out timid arms towards her, ready to protect. There was no need to think; it came so easily. He had read the whole scene so often. The blood throbbed in his veins.

"My G.o.d!" he said, unthinking what it meant. They always did.

But Helena quite failed to play her part.

She got up hurriedly as his protective arms swayed over her; she backed and stared at him. He wasn't serious? She never knew....

Her tears had ceased. She felt a stupid terror. It was all so vulgar.

He dropped his arms slowly, chilled by her stare, and stood with his mouth ludicrously open.

"Oh!" she said at length, as though realising what the whole past had meant. "I thought you liked me--and it was only this."

They never had said that at all. He had no answer ready.

"Oh, come," he replied presently, "don't be so serious about it."

She spoke very seriously. "It was _my_ fault," she said. "I ought to have seen. People told me. I thought you just liked me, and I suppose I was flattered. If only I had guessed! But I was always such a fool.

You see, I never really had a chance. _You_ taught me all I knew of art or anything. And that's why it's so terrible." The crisis over, she sank limply on a chair. She had never thought that anything like this could happen, ever. She knew it did in those books that she couldn't finish; but Mr. Alison----! He had been so amusing always; she had thought him a funny and kind little man. She had not even thought of any one but Hubert....

"Oh, come, you know," he was saying again. "Don't go on as though there had been a tragedy! That's the worst of you awfully innocent women; you always think any one means so much worse than he does. Why you'd imagine I 'd suggested--well, almost anything; and all I wanted, just as my reward, was nothing but a kiss!"

Somehow, as he drew to an end of his halting apology, he realised how great the fall had been. Was this the man who had been almost throttled by a jealous husband? He felt, with a surge of self-contempt, that he had reached the level of a river-side tea-garden.

And to Helena, although far less consciously, the same feeling. It would have been better almost, less sordid, if he had meant something worse. A kiss--as his reward!... She understood why Hubert said "Grrrr!" and then washed his hands when he spoke about Mr. Alison. He was "funny" no longer; merely vulgar--vulgar and horrible.

"Please go," she said, more voicing her thoughts than meaning to speak.

Then having started, she explained. "I don't want to be nasty; you've always been so kind; but it will be much better if we don't meet again.

Hubert had asked me, anyhow ... and then, you see, I couldn't ever feel the same, quite, with you. Oh, I'm so sorry," she said, noticing his look--"but you do understand, don't you?"

"Oh yes, I understand," he answered, very deep down, and serious for once without seeming comic; "I've been a fool, a swine. He'd kick me if he knew--and he'd be right. But look here" (he could not keep away from his excuses), "do try to see it wasn't very much. Lots of women----" Then he caught her eye and said; "But you're so different and that's why I feel such a cad. Good-bye."

"Good-bye," she said and as he turned miserably away, she held her hand out to him, "and thank you all the same for what you've done. You've been a real good friend to me."

He had not looked for this and it was the worst part to bear. "I wish to G.o.d," he said pa.s.sionately, "I'd been more worthy of your friendship. It's been the best thing in my life so far," and he turned hurriedly away, cursing himself for the d.a.m.ned fool he was. He had thrown everything away just for a moment that could never have meant anything. He had seen his real Self in her contemptuous eyes.

Helena stood, now, as the front door slammed, with eyes full of an emotion very different from contempt. She felt sorry--till her mind ranged swiftly back over all she had ever said to him, over the meanings he, a man like that, might read in it; and then she felt ashamed.

But all the while, unaccountably, she felt more alone than ever. She seemed so utterly thrown back on Hubert, now....

Presently, unable to bear the room's stillness, she went upstairs, mechanical as any housemaid, and busied herself needlessly about Ruth's room.

CHAPTER XXVI