THE YELLOW CLAW. Sax Rohmer
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was marching to its end.
Helen turned her head aside, inhaling deeply, and striving for
composure.
“Garnham shall come down and tidy up for you,” she said, quietly; “and
you must dine with us.”
The outer door was noisily closed by the departing servants.
“You are much too good,” whispered Leroux, again; and the weary eyes
glistened with a sudden moisture. “Thank you! Thank you! But--er--I
could not dream of disturbing”...
“Mr. Leroux,” said Helen, with all her old firmness--“Garnham is coming
down IMMEDIATELY to put the place in order! And, whilst he is doing so,
you are going to prepare yourself for a decent, Christian dinner!”
Henry Leroux rested one hand upon the table, looking down at the
carpet. He had known for a long time, in a vague fashion, that he lacked
something; that his success--a wholly inartistic one--had yielded him
little gratification; that the comfort of his home was a purely monetary
product and not in any sense atmospheric. He had schooled himself to
believe that he liked loneliness--loneliness physical and mental, and
that in marrying a pretty, but pleasure-loving girl, he had insured an
ideal menage. Furthermore, he honestly believed that he worshiped
his wife; and with his present grief at her unaccountable silence was
mingled no atom of reproach.
But latterly he had begun to wonder--in his peculiarly indefinite way
he had begun to doubt his own philosophy. Was the void in his soul a
product of thwarted ambition?--for, whilst he slaved, scrupulously, upon
“Martin Zeda,” he loathed every deed and every word of that Old Man of
the Sea. Or could it be that his own being--his nature of Adam--lacked
something which wealth, social position, and Mira, his wife, could not
yield to him?
Now, a new tone in the voice of Helen Cumberly--a tone different from
that compound of good-fellowship and raillery, which he knew--a tone
which had entered into it when she had exclaimed upon the state of the
room--set his poor, anxious heart thrumming like a lute. He felt a hot
flush creeping upon him; his forehead grew damp. He feared to raise his
eyes.
“Is that a bargain?” asked Helen, sweetly.
Henry Leroux found a lump in his throat; but he lifted his untidy head
and took the hand which the girl had extended to him. She smiled a bit
unnaturally; then every tinge of color faded from her cheeks, and Henry
Leroux, unconsciously holding the white hand in a vice-like grip, looked
hungrily into the eyes grown suddenly tragic whilst into his own came
the light of a great and sorrowful understanding.
“God bless you,” he said. “I will do anything you wish.”
Helen released her hand, turned, and ran from the study. Not until she
was on the landing did she dare to speak. Then:--
“Garnham shall come down immediately. Don't be late for dinner!” she
called--and there was a hint of laughter and of tears in her voice, of
the restraint of culture struggling with rebellious womanhood.
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