Sax Rohmer - THE YELLOW CLAW

a syphon stood half buried in papers on the table.

“Why, Mr. Leroux!” said Helen, with a deep note of sympathy in her

voice--“you don't mean to say”...

Leroux rose, forcing a smile to his haggard face.

“You see--much too good,” he said. “Altogether--too good.”...

“I thought I should find you here,” continued the girl, firmly; “but

I did not anticipate”--she indicated the chaos about--“this! The

insolence, the disgraceful, ungrateful insolence, of those women!”

“Dear, dear, dear!” murmured Leroux, waving his hand vaguely; “never

mind--never mind! They--er--they... I don't want them to stop... and,

believe me, I am--er--perfectly comfortable!”

“You should not be in--THIS room, at all. In fact, you should go right

away.”...

“I cannot... my wife may--return--at any moment.” His voice shook.

“I--am expecting her return--hourly.”...

His gaze sought the table-clock; and he drew his lips very tightly

together when the pitiless hands forced upon his mind the fact that the

day 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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