The Mask: A Story of Love and Adventure
Philadelphia. She would be out in the air all the time."
"Yes--that's a good idea. Send her there by all means. Write your
aunt to-night."
Helen glanced at the clock. There wasn't any time to lose. Turning to
her husband she said quickly:
"You had better come upstairs and finish your packing, dear. Your
trunks aren't nearly ready and the expressman was ordered for three."
Recalled thus abruptly to the day's duties, he turned docily and
followed her upstairs.
Beautiful as was the Traynor home below, it was in the library in the
second floor that Helen always felt happiest and most at ease. Up the
broad, thickly carpeted stairs and turning to the right as the landing
was reached, they entered the library, a room of truly noble
proportions extending the entire width of the house and with deep
recessed windows and low seats, overlooking the park. The furnishings,
though simple, were rich and luxurious. The woodwork was of black
Flemish oak, the ceiling beamed with a dull red background. The
upholstery was a rich red plush throughout, with deep seated armchairs,
and sofas built close to the wall wherever space permitted. In the
corners, numerous electric reading lamps could be turned on or off at
pleasure, constituting ideal nooks for reading. The furniture, apart
from the red plush armchairs, was of black Flemish oak to match the
woodwork, with an immense richly carved black oak dark table in the
center of the room, lighted by an electrolier of similar size and
design to the one in the dining-room.
It was in this room with its atmosphere of books so conducive to peace
and introspection that Helen loved to spend her spare time. The walls
were literally lined with tomes, dealing with every branch of human
knowledge--religion, science, philosophy, literature. Here when alone
she enjoyed many an intellectual treat, browsing among the world's
treasures of the mind. Even when her sister had a few intimates to
tea, or when friends dropped in in the evening, they always preferred
being in the library to anywhere else.
Only second to the library in the affection of its young mistress was
her bed chamber with which it was connected by a small boudoir.
Furnished in Louis XVI. style, it was a beautiful room, decorated in
the most dainty and delicate of tones. The bed, copied after Marie
Antoinette's couch in the Little Trianon was in sculptured Circassian
walnut, upholstered in dull pink brocade, the broad canopy overhead
being upheld by two flying cupids. The handsome dressing table with
three mirrors and chairs were of the same wood and period. On the
floor was a thick carpet especially woven to match the other
furnishings.
To-day, littered as it was with trunks and clothes, the room lacked its
usual sedateness and dignity, but Helen did not mind. She would have
preferred it to look far worse if only her loved one were not going
away. His clothes lay scattered all over the floor. There was still
much to be done.
Kenneth himself realized it as he ruefully surveyed the scene. Hurry
he must. A director's meeting to-night, the steamer sailing to-morrow
and here he was not nearly ready. Helen could see no reason why
Francois should not do the packing, but he insisted on doing it
himself, and was soon deep in the work of filling the trunks that stood
around.
While he worked, almost unconscious of her presence, she sat
disconsolately on a trunk and watched him, and from time to time, as if
ashamed to let him see her weakness, she turned her head aside to
furtively wipe away a tear. No doubt her misgivings were foolish.
Husbands left their wives on business trips every day. Sensible women
were not so silly as to cry over it. It was to be only temporary, she
knew that, yet her heart misgave her. She had tried to be resigned to
this South African journey, to accept it without protest, but her
feelings were too much for her. When she married Kenneth Traynor, the
energetic, prosperous Wall Street promoter, everybody knew that it was
a love match. Standing six feet two in his stockings, muscular,
sinewy, without an ounce of superfluous fat, Kenneth Traynor looked as
though he could give a good account of himself no matter in what tight
place he found himself. His clean cut features and strong chin denoted
strength of character, his deep set blue eyes, a blue of a shade so
light rarely seen except in the peasants of Normandy, beamed with
frankness and honesty, a kindly smile hovered about his smooth, firm
mouth. What at once attracted attention was his hair which was dark
and unusually thick and bushy and a peculiar characteristic was a
solitary white lock in the center of his forehead. Such a phenomenon
of the capillary glands was not uncommon, but as a rule, the white hair
is on the side of or at the back of the head. In Kenneth's case, it
was the very center of the forehead and imparted to his face an
individuality quite its own.
When on leaving college, he had been forced, like other young men, to
choose a career, he was unable to decide what he wanted to do. Doctor,
lawyer, architect, author--none of these suited his nervous, restless
temperament. He craved a more exciting life, and at one time thought
seriously of entering the army with the hope of seeing active service
in the Philippines. But Aguinaldo's surrender put a quietus on this
project, and he entered a broker's office in Wall Street Here, in the
maelstrom of frenzied finance, his pent up energies found an outlet.
He went into the stock gambling game with the feverish energy of a born
gambler. Months of excitement followed, luck being usually with him.
He was successful. He doubled and tripled his capital, after which he
had good sense enough to stop, withdrawing from the fray before the
tide turned. But he could not give up the life entirely. The business
of stock promotion was the next best substitute. It was about that
time he met the woman he married.
It had been an ideal union in every way, but even Helen herself could
not have guessed that day now three years ago when she left the church
a bride, how completely, how entirely this man whose sterling
qualities, good nature and charm of manner had won her heart, would
take complete possession of her, body and soul. Instead of the romance
flickering out after the first sudden blaze of fierce passion, as it
usually does after the first few months of married life, on her side,
at least, the flame had gathered in strength until now it was the one
compelling, all absorbing interest in her life.
She recalled how they had first met. It was in the Winter time. She
was skating in Central Park. A thaw had set in and the ice was
dangerous. Suddenly there was an ominous crack, and the crowd scurried
out of harm's way, all but one child, a little nine year old girl who,
in her eagerness to escape, stumbled and fell. The next instant she
was in the water, disappearing under the ice. Just at that moment, a
tall athletic figure dashed swiftly to the hole and, stooping quickly,
caught the child by the dress. Then, by a feat of almost superhuman
strength which awed the crowd into silence, he drew the little victim
out to safety, not much the worse for her experience.
Spellbound, hardly able to breathe from sheer excitement, Helen had
watched the work of rescue. When the stranger, tall, muscular,
handsome, passed her, carrying tenderly his burden, a human life saved
from a watery grave, she could not help murmuring:
"Oh, how brave of you!"
"Nonsense," he retorted abruptly. "It's nothing to make a fuss about."
She did not see him again for six months, and had almost forgotten the
incident when one night at the opera during a performance of
"Tannhauser," a man, tall, square shouldered, entered the box where she
was and was presented to her.
"Helen--Mr. Traynor."
It was her hero.
He had remained her hero ever since.
She remembered the afternoon when he had asked her to be his wife.
They were alone in the library which overlooked the Park with its
beautiful vista of green foliage, its glimpse of rolling lawns, and
shimmering lakes. They were standing side by side, gazing idly out of
the window, conversing quietly on all kinds of topics interesting to
them both. She was enjoying his vigorous, masculine point of view and
feeling strangely happy in his company.
"When should a man marry?" he asked all at once.
Startled for a moment at the abruptness of the question which nothing
in their previous conversation had led up to, she answered gravely:
"When he's tired of being alone and when he feels he has met the woman
with whom he can be happy, the kind of woman who will be a real
helpmate and aid him to achieve his ambitions."
"How can he know that the woman to whom he is attracted will have this
influence in his life? How can he distinguish real gold from the
imitation which merely glitters?"
"Only by his instinct. That never errs."
"And when in your opinion, should a woman marry?"
"When she meets the man to whom she feels she can give herself without
forfeiting her self-respect."
He nodded approvingly, and looked at her for a few moments without
speaking. Outside it was growing dark, for which she was glad, for her
face burned under the earnestness of his gaze. Finally he said:
"You are right. But yours is a point of view the modern girl seldom
takes. First she discusses ways and means. Love, self respect--these
she considers quite negligible."
She protested.
"Not all girls--only some girls. They are foolish virgins who leave
their lamps untrimmed. They sow folly to-day only to reap unhappiness
to-morrow."
He said nothing and for a few moments they both stood there in the
increasing darkness. Suddenly, without a moment's warning, his voice
broken by emotion, he turned to her and said:
"I am tired of being alone. I have met the woman with whom I could be
happy, the woman who can help me to do big things. Helen, I want you
to be my wife."
She made no answer. She felt herself growing pale. A strange tremor
passed through her entire body.
He came closer and took her unresisting hand.
"Helen," he whispered, "I want you for my wife."
Still no reply, but her small delicate hand remained clasped in his
big, strong one, and gradually he drew her toward him until she was so
close in his embrace that he could feel her panting breath on his cheek.
A strange thrill passed through him as he came in contact with her
soft, yielding body. She never wore corsets, preferring the clinging
Grecian style of gowns that showed graceful lines and left the figure
free, and her form, slender yet firm and delicately chiseled like that
of some sculptured goddess, had none of that voluptuous grossness which
mars the symmetry of many women, otherwise beautiful.
As she nestled there, pale and trembling in his strong arms, he did not
dare move, for fear that he might unwittingly injure a being so frail
and delicate. All his life Kenneth had lived a clean life. He had not
led the riotous, licentious kind of existence which some men of his
means and opportunities think necessary to their comfort. He had never
been a libertine. He had respected women; indeed, had rather avoided
them.
But if a man, busily engaged in the battle of life, his mind always
engrossed in serious affairs, succeeds in keeping natural instincts
under control there comes a day when nature asserts herself, when his
manhood demands the satisfaction of legitimate cravings. This bachelor
who had lived a secluded, hermit-like kind of existence till he was
thirty was suddenly and violently awakened to the fact that he was made
of flesh and blood as are other men. This slim girl with her sweet