CHAPTER II

In a certain set Helen Traynor was not popular. Some people thought

her old fashioned, strait-laced, prudish. They resented her having no

taste for their frivolous, decadent amusements. They called her proud

and condescending whereas, as a matter of fact, she merely asked to be

let alone. Of course, it was only people whose opinions were worthless

that criticized her. All who were admitted to her intimacy knew that

there was no friend more loyal, no woman more womanly and charming.

In one respect she might be called old fashioned. Her views on life

had certainly little in common with those held by most present-day

women. She had no taste for bridge, she refused to adopt freak

fashions in dress, she discouraged the looseness of tone in speech and

manner so much affected by other women of her acquaintance--in a word

she was in society but not of it. Naturally, she had more

acquaintances than friends, yet she was not unpopular among her

intimates. While secretly they laughed at what they termed her

puritanical notions, they were shrewd enough to realize that they could

hardly afford to snub a woman whose husband occupied so prominent a

position in the world of affairs. Besides, was it not to their

interest to cultivate her? Who gave more delightful dinners, who could

on occasion be a more charming hostess? An accomplished musician, a

clever talker, she easily dominated in whatever salon she happened to

be, and the men were always found crowding eagerly around her.

Like most women of her temperament, sure of themselves and in whose

mind never enters even a thought of disloyalty to her marriage vows,

she made no concealment of her preference for the masculine sex. With

those men who were attracted by her unusual mentality,--she was

gracious, and affable, discussing with politicians, jurists,

financiers, economic and sociological questions with a brilliancy and

insight that fairly astonished them. With literary men and musicians,

she chatted intelligently of the latest novels and pictures and operas

with the facility and expertness of a connoisseur. Other men, drawn by

her exceptional beauty, fascinated by the spell of her soulful eyes,

her tall graceful figure, and delicate classic face, framed in Grecian

head dress, made violent love to her, their heated imaginations and

jaded senses conceiving a conquest compared with which the criminal

passion of Paolo for Francesca should pale. These would-be Lotharios

might as well have tried to set an iceberg on fire. Quietly, but

firmly and in unmistakable terms, she let them understand that they

were wasting their time and their ardor thus quenched, one by one they

dropped away and left her in peace. Only Signor Keralio had persisted.

She had snubbed him, insulted him, time after time, yet wherever she

turned she found him at her elbow. Society soon resigned itself to

considering her as one apart--a beautiful, chaste Juno whose ideals all

must respect. Indeed, the only thing with which she could be

reproached was that she was in love with her husband--the unpardonable

sin in society's eyes--but seeing who it was and despairing of ever

changing her point of view, society forgave her.

It never occurred to Helen that she was different in any way from other

women. She did not see how it was possible for a woman to be untrue to

the man whose name she bore and still retain her self-respect. The day

she ceased to love her husband she would leave him forever. To her way

of thinking, it was shocking to go on living with a man merely because

it suited one's convenience and comfort. She knew married women who

did not care for their husbands, some actually detested the men they

had married, and had always held in horror the intimate relation which

marriage sanctioned. She felt sorry for such women, but secretly she

despised them. They alone were to blame. Had they not married knowing

well that there was no real affection in their hearts for the men to

whom they gave themselves? The cynicism and effrontery of young girls

regarding marriage particularly revolted her. Eager for wealth and

social position, they offered themselves with brazen effrontery in the

matrimonial market, immodestly displaying their charms to the

lecherous, covetous eyes of blasé, degenerate men. Any question of

attachment, love, affection was never for a moment considered. The

idea that a man could be even considered unless he were able to provide

a fine establishment was laughed to scorn. The girls were all men

hunters but they hunted only rich men. They called the feeling they

experienced for the man they caught in their toils "love." They meant

something quite different. To a girl of Helen's ideas, such manoeuvers

were shocking. To her the marriage tie was something sacred, a

relation not to be entered into lightly. Kenneth was rich, it was

true, but she would have loved him none the less had he been one of his

own fifteen dollar a week clerks. When they were married and the

romance was over, he stopped playing the lover to devote himself to the

more serious business of making money, but with her, time, instead of

dimming the flame, only caused it to burn the brighter. This man whom

she had married was her only thought. In him centered every interest

of her life.

A muffled outburst of profanity from Kenneth aroused her from her

reveries.

"That's always the way when one's in a hurry," he exclaimed petulantly.

"Ring for François. Why the devil isn't he here?"

Quickly, Helen sprang up from the trunk and touched an electric button.

"What's the matter, dear?" she asked.

She approached her husband who, at the far end of the room, was red in

the face from the unusual exertion of trying to coax the buckle of a

strap into a hole obviously out of reach. He pulled and strained till

the muscles stood out on his neck and brawny arms like whipcord, and

still the obstinate buckle declined to be coerced. The more it

resisted, the more determined he was to make it obey. Go in it must,

if sheer strength would do it. The vice-president of the

Americo-African Mining Company was no weakling. A six-foot athlete and

captain of the Varsity football team in his college days, his muscles

had been toughened in a thousand lively scrimmages and in later life

plenty of golf, rowing and other out-of-door sports had kept him in

condition. When he pulled hard something had to give way. It did in

this instance. There was a tearing, rending sound and the strap broke

off short. With a gesture of despair he turned to his wife as men are

wont to do when in trouble.

"Wouldn't that jar you?" he cried, as he threw the broken strap away.

"What the deuce am I going to do now?"

"Why don't you let François attend to such things?" answered his wife

calmly. "He understands packing so much better than you. You're so

strong, you break everything."

She looked fondly at her husband's tall, athletic figure. He turned to

her with a smile.

"I guess you're right," he said. "But where the devil is François?"

"I don't know. I sent him downstairs to tell the cook to have some

nice sandwiches ready when you come home after the director's meeting

tonight, but that's an hour ago----"

His ill humor gone, Kenneth looked up and smiled at her. Putting his

arm about her, fondly he said:

"Dear little wife. You're always thinking of the comfort of others.

You're the most unselfish, the most adorable, the most----"

"Stop, Kenneth, don't be foolish or I shall believe you----"

His face red from his recent exertions, he sat down on the arm of a

chair to rest a little. Full of the coming journey, he had already

forgotten his wife's anxiety. The great business schemes he had in

mind dwarfed for the time being every other consideration. He could

think and talk of nothing but diamonds. Huge crystals, worth untold

millions as big as a fist, flashed at him from every corner of the

room. Fabulous fortunes had been made in the diamond mines of South

Africa. Why should he not be as successful as others? The romance of

the Cullinan might be repeated, even surpassed. Well he recalled how

he had been thrilled by the sensational story of the discovery of that

colossal gem, more than three times the size of the Excelsior, the

wonder of the modern world. In imagination, he saw it now. An

old-fashioned Boer farm, transformed into a modern mining camp. A

moonlight night. A man strolling idly along the rugged, desolate

veldt, chances to look down. His eye suddenly catches a gleam in the

rough face of the jagged slope. He stoops and picks up what looks like

a piece of ice. Quickly he returns to his office and hands it to his

chief. The men look at each other in silence. To all parts of the

world goes the message that a diamond has been found four times bigger

than the largest gem in the world. A stone weighing over 3,000 carats

and worth four million dollars. He could already imagine himself far

from civilization among the barren mountains of South Africa,

prospecting in wide stretches of stone and gravel, picking up the

brilliant dazzling stones by the handful.

"Have you any idea," he said, "what the mines have produced?"

She shook her head indifferently.

"No, and I don't want to know. I don't want you to go--that's all."

"Their output in the last ten years is estimated at no less than

$400,000,000. Just think of it. Four hundred millions! Well, dear, I

and a few others want some of it, and we're going to get it."

"But aren't we rich enough already?" she demanded petulantly. "Why

this fever to get richer and richer? We are happy with what we have.

Why run the risks to gain what after all will only be a surplus? We

can't possibly spend it."

Her husband's eyes flashed. The lines about his mouth tightened as he

retorted:

"One never has enough! You women don't understand. As long as you

have all the amusement you crave, all the frocks you want, all the

jewelry you covet, you think that is all there is to life."

She looked up at him reproachfully and seemed about to protest when he

added hurriedly:

"Oh, I don't mean you. I know you are not that kind of woman. You are

more serious, more sensible. I mean the average society woman whose

only concern in life is dress and show. We men have different aims,

higher ambitions. I'm well to do, as the term goes. I have an income

of over $100,000 a year, a splendidly appointed town house, a show

place in the country. Above all I have the most adorable wife in all

the world. Most men would be satisfied. I am not. I want still more.

I have the money craze, an uncontrollable lust to pile up millions. My

ambition is to wield the power that only the possession of vast wealth

confers. The resources of this vast country are practically in the

hands of half a dozen men. Merely by holding up a finger, these men

could, to suit their own selfish ends, start a universal panic which

might bring about a financial cataclysm, involving the whole world in

disaster. I do not say they would use this power for evil, but they

are in position to do so if it served their purpose. I want to have

such power, only if I had it I would not use it for evil. I would use

it for good. Conditions in the industrial world are very critical. We

are rapidly approaching a crisis. In all countries the forces of labor

and the forces of capital are lined up in silent, grim battalions. The

poor are getting poorer; the rich are getting richer. The cost of

living is going up beyond all reason. Why? Because the men who

control the wealth of the world will it so. The system which is

responsible for this must one day, sooner or later, give way to another

and more humane system, still to be devised, which will enable the man

who produces the wealth of the world at least to enjoy some of the

fruits of his toil. Now it goes into the hands of the privileged few

who use the power their money gives them to keep their less fortunate

fellow men in servile subjection. I want to be rich, very rich, but I

will use my wealth for good. With it I will help my fellow man rise

from the mire. I will help him throw off the shackles with which

conscienceless capitalism has fettered him. I want to be such a power

for good. I want----"

The maid reëntered the room.

"François is not in his room, m'm."

Kenneth gave vent to an exclamation of impatience. Turning to his

wife, he asked:

"Where is he? Did you send him anywhere?"

Helen shook her head. Quickly she said:

"He's never around except when he's not wanted."

It was so seldom that his wife displayed irritation at any one that

Kenneth looked up in surprise.

"He's shopping, too, I suppose. You know there's little time left and

he has things to get ready the same as I have."

Helen made a gesture of disapproval. Quickly she said:

"I wish you were going with someone else, with anyone but that man. I

never liked him."

Her husband laughed. Carelessly he replied:

"I know you never did and it's the only instance since we're married

where I've found dear little wife to be absolutely unfair. Seriously,

sweetheart, your baseless prejudice against François is unworthy of

you. I can't go without a servant of some kind. He's an honest fellow

and a faithful servant."

Helen shrugged her shoulders.

"I'm not so sure about that," she retorted quickly. "What do you know

about him or his honesty? He's a perfect stranger that blew in three

months ago from nowhere. He had written recommendations which may be

forged. You never took the trouble to look them up."

"Yes, I did. I asked Keralio about him."

Helen looked up in surprise.

"Signor Keralio? I didn't know François was ever with him."

"He was with him nearly a year. Keralio warmly recommends him and says

he is a very faithful fellow. He only left him because he objected to

being compelled to practise sword-play with his master. One day

Keralio's foil slipped. François got a puncture and it made him

nervous."

"No wonder I don't like him. Like master, like valet--as the French

say."

Her husband smiled.

"You are down on Keralio, aren't you?"

"I detest him. How could any self-respecting woman like such a man?

His every glance is an insult. With his polished manners and sardonic

smile he reminds one of Mephistopheles."

"I don't fancy the fellow much myself, but I have to be polite to him.

As I told you, he's in with the people who own that silver mine. I've

found him useful."

"Don't trust him," replied Helen warningly. "If he makes himself

useful to you, depend upon it, he has some ulterior motive in view.

Now I know François was once with him I shall dislike him more than

ever."

"Come--come dear," protested Kenneth, "that is carrying things too far.

François is quite a decent chap if you understand him--I find him

faithful, discreet."

"Discreet!" echoed Helen mockingly. "I beg to differ."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that you are blinded in the man. Discreet indeed! Only the

other day I caught him at your desk reading a letter which you had left

there."

"A letter?" exclaimed Kenneth, looking up in surprise. "What letter?"

"The letter from your agent at Cape Town, telling of the astonishing

diamond find, and suggesting that an officer of the Company be sent out

to bring home the big stone--the letter you read at the director's

meeting and which decided them to send you out there."

Kenneth bit his lip. Quickly he said:

"I'm sorry he saw that. It was careless of me to leave it around. Are

you sure he was reading it?"

"He had a pencil and paper in hand and appeared to be copying from the

letter. When he saw me, he crushed the paper up in his hand and turned

away."

Kenneth gave an expressive whistle.

"The deuce you say! The fellow's smarter than I took him to be. All

the more reason why I should take him along with me. Then I'm sure he

can't tell tales out of school. I----. Hush, here he is!"

The door opened cautiously and there entered a man about thirty years

of age, of medium height and slightly, even delicately, built. That he

was a Frenchman was apparent even at a glance. The dark closely

cropped hair, worn in the so-called pompadour or military style, the

pale, saturnine features, the manner and general bearing all loudly

proclaimed his Gallic nationality. His smooth shaven face showed a

firm mouth with bloodless lips so thin as to be hardly perceptible.

His eyes, when they could be seen at all, were greenish in color, and

small and restless as those of a ferret. He advanced into the room

with the obsequious deferential manner which in all well-trained

servants becomes second nature, moving across the thickly carpeted

floor with the rapidity and noiselessness of a snake.

"Where have you been, François?" demanded Kenneth sharply.

The valet stopped short, as if struck by a blow, but he did not stand

still. His nervous thin hands and lean body were in constant motion,

although he did not stir from the one spot. In every involuntary

movement and gesture there was something that suggested the feline.

When spoken to or given an order he replied respectfully and obeyed

with alacrity, but when addressed he listened always with eyes averted.

This had always exasperated Helen. She could not recall him ever

looking her straight in the face. For that reason alone, if, for no

other, she disliked and distrusted him, thinking not unnaturally that a

man, who is afraid to let his eyes meet another's, must be plotting in

his mind some treachery which he fears his direct gaze may betray. His

furtive glances went quickly from master to mistress. Something in

their attitude, the suddenness with which they interrupted their

conversation told him that they had been talking about him.

"Did you hear me?" demanded Kenneth again. "Where have you been? You

knew there was this packing to be done."

The man's eyes flashed resentfully, but he replied civilly:

"Oui, monsieur, but monsieur forgets. Monsieur told me I must go to ze

tailor."

Kenneth's frown disappeared. Yes, it was true. He had sent him to the

tailor. Quick to make amends for an injustice, he said more amiably:

"That's right. I had forgotten. What did they say?"

"Ze suits will be delivered in half hour."

"Very well. When they come, you will know which trunk to put them in."

"Oui, monsieur."

"And then, when my trunks are ready you had better hustle with your own

packing. There's no time to be lost. The steamer sails at 11 o'clock

to-morrow morning."

"Oui, monsieur."

Quietly, stealthily, the valet retraced his cat-like steps and opening

the door retired as noiselessly as he had come.