Thus poor Helen found herself passing many troubled hours. Things seemed to be going peculiarly awry, and, for the life of her, she could not follow their trend with any certainty of whither it was leading. Even Bill was worse than of no assistance to her. Whenever she poured out her long list of anxieties to him, he assumed a perfectly absurd air of caution and denial that left her laboring under the belief that he really was “one big fool,” or else he knew something, and had the audacity to keep it from her. In Bill’s case, however, the truth was he felt he had blundered so much already in his brother’s interests that he was not prepared to take any more chances, even with Helen.
Then came one memorable and painful day for Helen. It was a Saturday morning. She had just returned from a church committee meeting. Kate had deliberately absented herself from her post as honorary secretary ever since the decision to fell the old pine had been arrived at. It was her method of protest against the outrage. But Mrs. John Day, quite undisturbed, had appointed a fresh secretary, and Kate’s defection had been allowed to pass as a matter of no great importance.
The noon meal was on the table when Helen came in. Kate was at her little bureau writing. The moment her sister entered the room she closed the desk and locked it. Helen saw the action and almost listlessly remarked upon it.
“It’s all right, Kate,” she said. “Bluebeard’s chamber doesn’t interest me—to-day.”
Kate started up at the other’s depressed tone. She looked sharply into the gray eyes, in which there was no longer any sign of their usual laughter.
“What’s the matter, dear?” she asked, with affectionate concern. “Mrs. John?”
Helen nodded. Then at once she shook her head.
“Yes—no. Oh, I don’t know. No, I don’t think it’s Mrs. John. It’s—it’s everybody.”
Kate had moved to the head of the table, and stood with her hands gripping the back of her chair.
“Everybody?” she said, with a quiet look of understanding in her big eyes. “You mean—the tree?”