The Mask | Page 5

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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