XXI
IN the first reaction from her brief delusion about Stephen Wyant,Justine accepted with a good grace the necessity of staying on atLynbrook. Though she was now well enough to return to her regular work,her talk with Amherst had made her feel that, for the present, she couldbe of more use by remaining with Bessy; and she was not sorry to have afarther period of delay and reflection before taking the next step inher life. These at least were the reasons she gave herself for decidingnot to leave; and if any less ostensible lurked beneath, they were notas yet visible even to her searching self-scrutiny.
At first she was embarrassed by the obligation of meeting Dr. Wyant, onwhom her definite refusal had produced an effect for which she could nothold herself blameless. She had not kept her promise of seeing him onthe day after their encounter at the post-office, but had written,instead, in terms which obviously made such a meeting unnecessary. Butall her efforts to soften the abruptness of her answer could notconceal, from either herself or her suitor, that it was not the one shehad led him to expect; and she foresaw that if she remained at Lynbrookshe could not escape a scene of recrimination.
When the scene took place, Wyant's part in it went far toward justifyingher decision; yet his vehement reproaches contained a sufficient core oftruth to humble her pride. It was lucky for her somewhat exaggeratedsense of fairness that he overshot the mark by charging her with acoquetry of which she knew herself innocent, and laying on her theresponsibility for any follies to which her rejection might drive him.Such threats, as a rule, no longer move the feminine imagination; yetJustine's pity for all forms of weakness made her recognize, in the veryheat of her contempt for Wyant, that his reproaches were not the merecry of wounded vanity but the appeal of a nature conscious of its lackof recuperative power. It seemed to her as though she had done himirreparable harm, and the feeling might have betrayed her into toogreat a show of compassion had she not been restrained by a salutaryfear of the result.
The state of Bessy's nerves necessitated frequent visits from herphysician, but Justine, on these occasions, could usually shelterherself behind the professional reserve which kept even Wyant from anyopen expression of feeling. One day, however, they chanced to findthemselves alone before Bessy's return from her ride. The servant hadushered Wyant into the library where Justine was writing, and when shehad replied to his enquiries about his patient they found themselvesface to face with an awkward period of waiting. Justine was too proud tocut it short by leaving the room; but Wyant answered her commonplaces atrandom, stirring uneasily to and fro between window and fireside, and atlength halting behind the table at which she sat.
"May I ask how much longer you mean to stay here?" he said in a lowvoice, his eyes darkening under the sullen jut of the brows.
As she glanced up in surprise she noticed for the first time an oddcontraction of his pupils, and the discovery, familiar enough in herprofessional experience, made her disregard the abruptness of hisquestion and softened the tone in which she answered. "I hardly know--Isuppose as long as I am needed."
Wyant laughed. "Needed by whom? By John Amherst?"
A moment passed before Justine took in the full significance of theretort; then the blood rushed to her face. "Yes--I believe both Mr. andMrs. Amherst need me," she answered, keeping her eyes on his; and Wyantlaughed again.
"You didn't think so till Amherst came back from Hanaford. His returnseems to have changed your plans in several respects."
She looked away from him, for even now his eyes moved her to pity andself-reproach. "Dr. Wyant, you are not well; why do you wait to see Mrs.Amherst?" she said.
He stared at her and then his glance fell. "I'm much obliged--I'm aswell as usual," he muttered, pushing the hair from his forehead with ashaking hand; and at that moment the sound of Bessy's voice gave Justinea pretext for escape.
In her own room she sank for a moment under a rush of self-disgust; butit soon receded before the saner forces of her nature, leaving only aresidue of pity for the poor creature whose secret she had surprised.She had never before suspected Wyant of taking a drug, nor did she nowsuppose that he did so habitually; but to see him even momentarily undersuch an influence explained her instinctive sense of his weakness. Shefelt now that what would have been an insult on other lips was only acry of distress from his; and once more she blamed herself and forgavehim.
But if she had been inclined to any morbidness of self-reproach shewould have been saved from it by other cares. For the moment she wasmore concerned with Bessy's fate than with her own--her poor friendseemed to have so much more at stake, and so much less strength to bringto the defence of her happiness. Justine was always saved from anyexcess of self-compassion by the sense, within herself, of aboundingforces of growth and self-renewal, as though from every loppedaspiration a fresh shoot of energy must spring; but she felt that Bessyhad no such sources of renovation, and that every disappointment left anarid spot in her soul.
Even without her friend's confidences, Justine would have had nodifficulty in following the successive stages of the Amhersts' innerhistory. She knew that Amherst had virtually resigned his rule atWestmore, and that his wife, in return for the sacrifice, was trying toconform to the way of life she thought he preferred; and the futility ofboth attempts was more visible to Justine than to either of the twoconcerned. She saw that the failure of the Amhersts' marriage lay not inany accident of outward circumstances but in the lack of all naturalpoints of contact. As she put it to herself, they met neither underfootnor overhead: practical necessities united them no more than imaginativejoys.
There were moments when Justine thought Amherst hard to Bessy, as shesuspected that he had once been hard to his mother--as the leader of menmust perhaps always be hard to the hampering sex. Yet she did justice tohis efforts to accept the irretrievable, and to waken in his wife somecapacity for sharing in his minor interests, since she had none of herown with which to fill their days.
Amherst had always been a reader; not, like Justine herself, aflame-like devourer of the page, but a slow absorber of its essence; andin the early days of his marriage he had fancied it would be easy tomake Bessy share this taste. Though his mother was not a bookish woman,he had breathed at her side an air rich in allusion and filled with thebright presences of romance; and he had always regarded this commerce ofthe imagination as one of the normal conditions of life. The discoverythat there were no books at Lynbrook save a few morocco "sets"imprisoned behind the brass trellisings of the library had been one ofthe many surprises of his new state. But in his first months with Bessythere was no room for books, and if he thought of the matter it was onlyin a glancing vision of future evenings, when he and she, in the calmafterglow of happiness, should lean together over some cherished page.Her lack of response to any reference outside the small circle of dailyfacts had long since dispelled that vision; but now that his own mindfelt the need of inner sustenance he began to ask himself whether hemight not have done more to rouse her imagination. During the longevenings over the library fire he tried to lead the talk to books, witha parenthesis, now and again, from the page beneath his eye; and Bessymet the experiment with conciliatory eagerness. She showed, in especial,a hopeful but misleading preference for poetry, leaning back withdreaming lids and lovely parted lips while he rolled out the immortalmeasures; but her outward signs of attention never ripened into anyexpression of opinion, or any after-allusion to what she heard, andbefore long he discovered that Justine Brent was his only listener. Itwas to her that the words he read began to be unconsciously addressed;her comments directed him in his choice of subjects, and the ensuingdiscussions restored him to some semblance of mental activity.
Bessy, true to her new role of acquiescence, shone silently on thisinterchange of ideas; Amherst even detected in her a vague admirationfor his power of conversing on subjects which she regarded as abstruse;and this childlike approval, combined with her submission to his will,deluded him with a sense of recovered power over her. He could not butnote that t
he new phase in their relations had coincided with his firstassertion of mastery; and he rashly concluded that, with the removal ofthe influences tending to separate them, his wife might gradually be wonback to her earlier sympathy with his views.
To accept this theory was to apply it; for nothing could long divertAmherst from his main purpose, and all the thwarted strength of his willwas only gathering to itself fresh stores of energy. He had never been askilful lover, for no woman had as yet stirred in him those feelingswhich call the finer perceptions into play; and there was no instinct totell him that Bessy's sudden conformity to his wishes was as unreasoningas her surrender to his first kiss. He fancied that he and she were atlength reaching some semblance of that moral harmony which should growout of the physical accord, and that, poor and incomplete as theunderstanding was, it must lift and strengthen their relation.
He waited till early winter had brought solitude to Lynbrook, dispersingthe hunting colony to various points of the compass, and sending Mr.Langhope to Egypt and the Riviera, while Mrs. Ansell, as usual, took upher annual tour of a social circuit whose extreme points were marked byBoston and Baltimore--and then he made his final appeal to his wife.
His pretext for speaking was a letter from Duplain, definitelyannouncing his resolve not to remain at Westmore. A year earlierAmherst, deeply moved by the letter, would have given it to his wife inthe hope of its producing the same effect on her. He knew better now--hehad learned her instinct for detecting "business" under every seriouscall on her attention. His only hope, as always, was to reach herthrough the personal appeal; and he put before her the fact of Duplain'swithdrawal as the open victory of his antagonists. But he saw at oncethat even this could not infuse new life into the question.
"If I go back he'll stay--I can hold him, can gain time till things takea turn," he urged.
"Another? I thought they were definitely settled," she objectedlanguidly.
"No--they're not; they can't be, on such a basis," Amherst broke outwith sudden emphasis. He walked across the room, and came back to herside with a determined face. "It's a delusion, a deception," heexclaimed, "to think I can stand by any longer and see things going toruin at Westmore! If I've made you think so, I've unconsciously deceivedus both. As long as you're my wife we've only one honour between us, andthat honour is mine to take care of."
"Honour? What an odd expression!" she said with a forced laugh, and alittle tinge of pink in her cheek. "You speak as if I had--had mademyself talked about --when you know I've never even looked at anotherman!"
"Another man?" Amherst looked at her in wonder. "Good God! Can't youconceive of any vow to be kept between husband and wife but theprimitive one of bodily fidelity? Heaven knows I've never looked atanother woman--but, by my reading of our compact, I shouldn't be keepingfaith with you if I didn't help you to keep faith with better things.And you owe me the same help--the same chance to rise through you, andnot sink by you--else we've betrayed each other more deeply than anyadultery could make us!"
She had drawn back, turning pale again, and shrinking a little at thesound of words which, except when heard in church, she vaguelyassociated with oaths, slammed doors, and other evidences ofill-breeding; but Amherst had been swept too far on the flood of hisindignation to be checked by such small signs of disapproval.
"You'll say that what I'm asking you is to give me back the free use ofyour money. Well! Why not? Is it so much for a wife to give? I know youall think that a man who marries a rich woman forfeits his self-respectif he spends a penny without her approval. But that's because money isso sacred to you all! It seems to me the least important thing that awoman entrusts to her husband. What of her dreams and her hopes, herbelief in justice and goodness and decency? If he takes those anddestroys them, he'd better have had a mill-stone about his neck. Butnobody has a word to say till he touches her dividends--then he's acalculating brute who has married her for her fortune!"
He had come close again, facing her with outstretched hands,half-commanding, half in appeal. "Don't you see that I can't go on inthis way--that I've _no right_ to let you keep me from Westmore?"
Bessy was looking at him coldly, under the half-dropped lids ofindifference. "I hardly know what you mean--you use such peculiar words;but I don't see why you should expect me to give up all the ideas I wasbrought up in. Our standards _are_ different--but why should yoursalways be right?"
"You believed they were right when you married me--have they changedsince then?"
"No; but----" Her face seemed to harden and contract into a smallexpressionless mask, in which he could no longer read anything but blankopposition to his will.
"You trusted my judgment not long ago," he went on, "when I asked you togive up seeing Mrs. Carbury----"
She flushed, but with anger, not compunction. "It seems to me thatshould be a reason for your not asking me to make other sacrifices! WhenI gave up Blanche I thought you would see that I wanted to pleaseyou--and that you would do something for me in return...."
Amherst interrupted her with a laugh. "Thank you for telling me yourreal reasons. I was fool enough to think you acted from conviction--notthat you were simply striking a bargain----"
He broke off, and they looked at each other with a kind of fear, eachhearing between them the echo of irreparable words. Amherst's only clearfeeling was that he must not speak again till he had beaten down thehorrible sensation in his breast--the rage of hate which had him in itsgrip, and which made him almost afraid, while it lasted, to let his eyesrest on the fair weak creature before him. Bessy, too, was in the clutchof a mute anger which slowly poured its benumbing current around herheart. Strong waves of passion did not quicken her vitality: she grewinert and cold under their shock. Only one little pulse of self-pitycontinued to beat in her, trembling out at last on the cry: "Ah, I knowit's not because you care so much for Westmore--it's only because youwant to get away from me!"
Amherst stared as if her words had flashed a light into the darkestwindings of his misery. "Yes--I want to get away..." he said; and heturned and walked out of the room.
He went down to the smoking-room, and ringing for a servant, orderedhis horse to be saddled. The foot-man who answered his summons broughtthe afternoon's mail, and Amherst, throwing himself down on the sofa,began to tear open his letters while he waited.
He ran through the first few without knowing what he read; but presentlyhis attention was arrested by the hand-writing of a man he had known wellin college, and who had lately come into possession of a large cotton-millin the South. He wrote now to ask if Amherst could recommend a goodmanager--"not one of your old routine men, but a young fellow with the newideas. Things have been in pretty bad shape down here," the writer added,"and now that I'm in possession I want to see what can be done to civilizethe place"; and he went on to urge that Amherst should come down himselfto inspect the mills, and propose such improvements as his experiencesuggested. "We've all heard of the great things you're doing at Westmore,"the letter ended; and Amherst cast it from him with a groan....
It was Duplain's chance, of course...that was his first thought. He tookup the letter and read it over. He knew the man who wrote--nosentimentalist seeking emotional variety from vague philanthropicexperiments, but a serious student of social conditions, nowunexpectedly provided with the opportunity to apply his ideas. Yes, itwas Duplain's chance--if indeed it might not be his own!... Amherst satupright, dazzled by the thought. Why Duplain--why not himself? Bessy hadspoken the illuminating word--what he wanted was to get away--to getaway at any cost! Escape had become his one thought: escape from thebondage of Lynbrook, from the bitter memory of his failure at Westmore;and here was the chance to escape back into life--into independence,activity and usefulness! Every atrophied faculty in him suddenly startedfrom its torpor, and his brain throbbed with the pain of theawakening.... The servant came to tell him that his horse waited, and hesprang up, took his riding-whip from the rack, stared a moment,absently, after the man's retreating back, and then dropped dow
n againon the sofa....
What was there to keep him from accepting? His wife's affection wasdead--if her sentimental fancy for him had ever deserved the name! Andhis passing mastery over her was gone too--he smiled to remember that,hardly two hours earlier, he had been fatuous enough to think he couldstill regain it! Now he said to himself that she would sooner desert afriend to please him than sacrifice a fraction of her income; and thediscovery cast a stain of sordidness on their whole relation. He couldstill imagine struggling to win her back from another man, or even tosave her from some folly into which mistaken judgment or pervertedenthusiasm might have hurried her; but to go on battling against thedull unimaginative subservience to personal luxury--the slavery tohouses and servants and clothes--ah, no, while he had any fight left inhim it was worth spending in a better cause than that!
Through the open window he could hear, in the mild December stillness,his horse's feet coming and going on the gravel. _Her_ horse, led up anddown by _her_ servant, at the door of _her_ house!... The soundsymbolized his whole future...the situation his marriage had made forhim, and to which he must henceforth bend, unless he broke with it thenand there.... He tried to look ahead, to follow up, one by one, theconsequences of such a break. That it would be final he had no doubt.There are natures which seem to be drawn closer by dissension, todepend, for the renewal of understanding, on the spark of generosity andcompunction that anger strikes out of both; but Amherst knew thatbetween himself and his wife no such clearing of the moral atmospherewas possible. The indignation which left him with tingling nerves and aburning need of some immediate escape into action, crystallized in Bessyinto a hard kernel of obstinacy, into which, after each fresh collision,he felt that a little more of herself had been absorbed.... No, thebreak between them would be final--if he went now he would not comeback. And it flashed across him that this solution might have beenforeseen by his wife--might even have been deliberately planned and ledup to by those about her. His father-in-law had never liked him--thedisturbing waves of his activity had rippled even the sheltered surfaceof Mr. Langhope's existence. He must have been horribly in their way!Well--it was not too late to take himself out of it. In Bessy's circlethe severing of such ties was regarded as an expensive but unhazardouspiece of surgery--nobody bled to death of the wound.... The footman cameback to remind him that his horse was waiting, and Amherst rose to hisfeet.
"Send him back to the stable," he said with a glance at his watch, "andorder a trap to take me to the next train."