But Helen would not part with the furniture. She had it brought to her own house. When she had distributed it in the rooms, the hall, all available spaces were filled with it. Her father’s portrait, done in crayon, hung above the parlor mantel. Her mother’s portrait, also a crayon, hung on the opposite wall. For years to come these two Adams parents were to stare at each other in a grim silence, as much as to say, “There will be a reckoning in this house some day!” which was due, of course, to the crudely veracious expression the amateur artist always gets with a crayon pencil. For at that time there was nothing but love and happiness and hope in this house. George was really planning then to build a mansion where this house stood. For a while they amused themselves drawing plans for this mansion. Then George became more and more absorbed in his business. He had less time for fanciful conversation with Helen. In any case the subject of the new house was dropped. It had not been mentioned for years.
I suppose if there had been children the new house would have been built. But nothing had “happened.” Helen kept a cat, a canary bird and two servants. The cat was a sort of serial cat, exchanged once in so often for a kitten. The bird was the same one. She did not really care for cats, nor much for canaries, but they served the purpose of furnishing some sort of sound and motion in this silent house. She did not want the servants, either. She preferred to do her own work. She would have made an excellent wife for a poor man. She was a marvelously good one to George, who was rapidly becoming a rich man.
She might have been a wonderful caretaker of a great man; she had exactly the right spirit of service and self-effacement. She developed a serene silence which was restful, never irritating. But George was not and never would be a great man. He needed a brilliant woman, and Helen was only a beautiful woman. He needed a charming hostess for his home, with social gifts. And Helen was only an excellent housekeeper. He knew that this house was atrociously furnished, but he did not know how it should be furnished. You may be highly appreciative of music without being a musician. He felt the need of fine, quiet things and neutral tones in his home, but he had neither the time nor the ability to achieve these effects.
Once, indeed, shortly after Helen had rearranged the parlor with the old Adams whatnot and the Adams sofa with a golden-oak spindle back, he had sent out two handsome mahogany armchairs, his idea being to overcome the monotonous color and cheapness of this room. These chairs looked like two bishops at a populist meeting. Helen was pleased, but he had sense enough to know that he had blundered.
I am merely giving you his side of this affair, frankly admitting that she was by nature disqualified to fill the position of wife to such a man. In the last analysis, of course, it would depend upon which of these two people such a man as George Cutter or such a woman and wife as Helen is the worthier type, or the more serviceable to his day and generation. It is not the reaping of what we sow ourselves—sometimes it is the reaping of what the other fellow sowed, the way we bear the burden of that—which determines our quality and courage.
As for Helen, the elder Mrs. Cutter said it all shortly before her death.
One summer evening she lay propped high in bed, her thin knees sticking up, her thin face stingingly vivid, her eyes spiteful with pain and discontent. Helen had just gone home after her daily visit, during which she ministered with exasperating patience to this invalid. Mr. Cutter sat beside his wife’s bed concerned for her, anxious to comfort her, but secretly wondering where she would strike. For he perceived by the spitting spark in her eye that she was about to strike.
“Helen is hopeless,” she exclaimed.
He was relieved not to be the target. Still he said something in reply about Helen’s being a “good girl.”
“Yes, and that is all she is. She is not the wife for George. I knew it from the first,” she keyed off irritably.