XXXIV
ONCE or twice, in the days that followed, Justine found herself thinkingthat she had never known happiness before. The old state of securewell-being seemed now like a dreamless sleep; but this new bliss, on itssharp pinnacle ringed with fire--this thrilling conscious joy, dailyand hourly snatched from fear--this was living, not sleeping!
Wyant acknowledged her gift with profuse, almost servile thanks. She hadsent it without a word--saying to herself that pity for his situationmade it possible to ignore his baseness. And the days went on as before.She was not conscious of any change, save in the heightened, almostartificial quality of her happiness, till one day in March, when Mr.Langhope announced that he was going for two or three weeks to afriend's shooting-box in the south. The anniversary of Bessy's death wasapproaching, and Justine knew that at that time he always absentedhimself.
"Supposing you and Amherst were to carry off Cicely till I come back?Perhaps you could persuade him to break away from work for once--or, ifthat's impossible, you could take her with you to Hanaford. She looks alittle pale, and the change would be good for her."
This was a great concession on Mr. Langhope's part, and Justine saw thepleasure in her husband's face. It was the first time that hisfather-in-law had suggested Cicely's going to Hanaford.
"I'm afraid I can't break away just now, sir," Amherst said, "but itwill be delightful for Justine if you'll give us Cicely while you'reaway."
"Take her by all means, my dear fellow: I always sleep on both ears whenshe's with your wife."
It was nearly three months since Justine had left Hanaford--and now shewas to return there alone with her husband! There would be hours, ofcourse, when the child's presence was between them--or when, again, hiswork would keep him at the mills. But in the evenings, when Cicely wasin bed--when he and she sat alone, together in the Westmoredrawing-room--in Bessy's drawing-room!... No--she must find some excusefor remaining away till she had again grown used to the idea of beingalone with Amherst. Every day she was growing a little more used to it;but it would take time--time, and the full assurance that Wyant wassilenced. Till then she could not go back to Hanaford.
She found a pretext in her own health. She pleaded that she was a littletired, below par...and to return to Hanaford meant returning to hardwork; with the best will in the world she could not be idle there. Mightshe not, she suggested, take Cicely to Tuxedo or Lakewood, and thus getquite away from household cares and good works? The pretext ranghollow--it was so unlike her! She saw Amherst's eyes rest anxiously onher as Mr. Langhope uttered his prompt assent. Certainly she did looktired--Mr. Langhope himself had noticed it. Had he perhaps over-taxedher energies, left the household too entirely on her shoulders? Oh,no--it was only the New York air...like Cicely, she pined for a breathof the woods.... And so, the day Mr. Langhope left, she and Cicely werepacked off to Lakewood.
They stayed there a week: then a fit of restlessness drove Justine backto town. She found an excuse in the constant rain--it was reallyuseless, as she wrote Mr. Langhope, to keep the child imprisoned in anover-heated hotel while they could get no benefit from the outdoor life.In reality, she found the long lonely hours unendurable. She pined for asight of her husband, and thought of committing Cicely to Mrs. Ansell'scare, and making a sudden dash for Hanaford. But the vision of the longevenings in the Westmore drawing-room again restrained her. No--shewould simply go back to New York, dine out occasionally, go to a concertor two, trust to the usual demands of town life to crowd her hours withsmall activities.... And in another week Mr. Langhope would be back andthe days would resume their normal course.
On arriving, she looked feverishly through the letters in the hall. Nonefrom Wyant--that fear was allayed! Every day added to her reassurance. Bythis time, no doubt, he was on his feet again, and ashamed--unutterablyashamed--of the threat that despair had wrung from him. She felt almostsure that his shame would keep him from ever attempting to see her, oreven from writing again.
"A gentleman called to see you yesterday, madam--he would give no name,"the parlour-maid said. And there was the sick fear back on her again!She could hardly control the trembling of her lips as she asked: "Did heleave no message?"
"No, madam: he only wanted to know when you'd be back."
She longed to return: "And did you tell him?" but restrained herself,and passed into the drawing-room. After all, the parlour-maid had notdescribed the caller--why jump to the conclusion that it was Wyant?
Three days passed, and no letter came--no sign. She struggled with thetemptation to describe Wyant to the servants, and to forbid hisadmission. But it would not do. They were nearly all old servants, inwhose eyes she was still the intruder, the upstart sick-nurse--she couldnot wholly trust them. And each day she felt a little easier, a littlemore convinced that the unknown visitor had not been Wyant.
On the fourth day she received a letter from Amherst. He hoped to beback on the morrow, but as his plans were still uncertain he wouldtelegraph in the morning--and meanwhile she must keep well, and rest,and amuse herself....
Amuse herself! That evening, as it happened, she was going to thetheatre with Mrs. Ansell. She and Mrs. Ansell, though outwardly onperfect terms, had not greatly advanced in intimacy. The agitated,decentralized life of the older woman seemed futile and trivial toJustine; but on Mr. Langhope's account she wished to keep up anappearance of friendship with his friend, and the same motive doubtlessinspired Mrs. Ansell. Just now, at any rate, Justine was grateful forher attentions, and glad to go about with her. Anything--anything to getaway from her own thoughts! That was the pass she had come to.
At the theatre, in a proscenium box, the publicity, the light andmovement, the action of the play, all helped to distract and quiet her.At such moments she grew ashamed of her fears. Why was she tormentingherself? If anything happened she had only to ask her husband for moremoney. She never spoke to him of her good works, and there would benothing to excite suspicion in her asking help again for the friendwhose secret she was pledged to keep.... But nothing was going tohappen. As the play progressed, and the stimulus of talk and laughterflowed through her veins, she felt a complete return of confidence. Andthen suddenly she glanced across the house, and saw Wyant looking ather.
He sat rather far back, in one of the side rows just beneath thebalcony, so that his face was partly shaded. But even in the shadow itfrightened her. She had been prepared for a change, but not for thisghastly deterioration. And he continued to look at her.
She began to be afraid that he would do something conspicuous--point ather, or stand up in his seat. She thought he looked half-mad--or was ither own hallucination that made him appear so? She and Mrs. Ansell werealone in the box for the moment, and she started up, pushing back herchair....
Mrs. Ansell leaned forward. "What is it?"
"Nothing--the heat--I'll sit back for a moment." But as she withdrewinto the back of the box, she was seized by a new fear. If he was stillwatching, might he not come to the door and try to speak to her? Heronly safety lay in remaining in full view of the audience; and shereturned to Mrs. Ansell's side.
The other members of the party came back--the bell rang, the foot-lightsblazed, the curtain rose. She lost herself in the mazes of the play. Shesat so motionless, her face so intently turned toward the stage, thatthe muscles at the back of her neck began to stiffen. And then, quitesuddenly, toward the middle of the act, she felt an undefinable sense ofrelief. She could not tell what caused it--but slowly, cautiously, whilethe eyes of the others were intent upon the stage, she turned her headand looked toward Wyant's seat. It was empty.
Her first thought was that he had gone to wait for her outside. Butno--there were two more acts: why should he stand at the door for halfthe evening?
At last the act ended; the entr'acte elapsed; the play went onagain--and still the seat was empty. Gradually she persuaded herselfthat she had been mistaken in thinking that the man who had occupied itwas Wyant. Her self-command returned, she began to think and talknatural
ly, to follow the dialogue on the stage--and when the evening wasover, and Mrs. Ansell set her down at her door, she had almost forgottenher fears.
The next morning she felt calmer than for many days. She was sure nowthat if Wyant had wished to speak to her he would have waited at thedoor of the theatre; and the recollection of his miserable face madeapprehension yield to pity. She began to feel that she had treated himcoldly, uncharitably. They had been friends once, as well asfellow-workers; but she had been false even to the comradeship of thehospital. She should have sought him out and given him sympathy as wellas money; had she shown some sign of human kindness his last lettermight never have been written.
In the course of the morning Amherst telegraphed that he hoped to settlehis business in time to catch the two o'clock express, but that hisplans were still uncertain. Justine and Cicely lunched alone, and afterluncheon the little girl was despatched to her dancing-class. Justineherself meant to go out when the brougham returned. She went up to herroom to dress, planning to drive in the park, and to drop in on Mrs.Ansell before she called for Cicely; but on the way downstairs she sawthe servant opening the door to a visitor. It was too late to draw back;and descending the last steps she found herself face to face with Wyant.
They looked at each other a moment in silence; then Justine murmured aword of greeting and led the way to the drawing-room.
It was a snowy afternoon, and in the raw ash-coloured light she thoughthe looked more changed than at the theatre. She remarked, too, that hisclothes were worn and untidy, his gloveless hands soiled and tremulous.None of the degrading signs of his infirmity were lacking; and she sawat once that, while in the early days of the habit he had probably mixedhis drugs, so that the conflicting symptoms neutralized each other, hehad now sunk into open morphia-taking. She felt profoundly sorry forhim; yet as he followed her into the room physical repulsion againmastered the sense of pity.
But where action was possible she was always self-controlled, and sheturned to him quietly as they seated themselves.
"I have been wishing to see you," she said, looking at him. "I have feltthat I ought to have done so sooner--to have told you how sorry I am foryour bad luck."
He returned her glance with surprise: they were evidently the last wordshe had expected.
"You're very kind," he said in a low embarrassed voice. He had kept onhis shabby over-coat, and he twirled his hat in his hands as he spoke.
"I have felt," Justine continued, "that perhaps a talk with you might beof more use----"
He raised his head, fixing her with bright narrowed eyes. "I have feltso too: that's my reason for coming. You sent me a generous present someweeks ago--but I don't want to go on living on charity."
"I understand that," she answered. "But why have you had to do so? Won'tyou tell me just what has happened?"
She felt the words to be almost a mockery; yet she could not say "I readyour history at a glance"; and she hoped that her question might drawout his wretched secret, and thus give her the chance to speak frankly.
He gave a nervous laugh. "Just what has happened? It's a long story--andsome of the details are not particularly pretty." He broke off, movinghis hat more rapidly through his trembling hands.
"Never mind: tell me."
"Well--after you all left Lynbrook I had rather a bad break-down--thestrain of Mrs. Amherst's case, I suppose. You remember Bramble, theClifton grocer? Miss Bramble nursed me--I daresay you remember her too.When I recovered I married her--and after that things didn't go well."
He paused, breathing quickly, and looking about the room with odd,furtive glances. "I was only half-well, anyhow--I couldn't attend to mypatients properly--and after a few months we decided to leave Clifton,and I bought a practice in New Jersey. But my wife was ill there, andthings went wrong again--damnably. I suppose you've guessed that mymarriage was a mistake. She had an idea that we should do better in NewYork--so we came here a few months ago, and we've done decidedly worse."
Justine listened with a sense of discouragement. She saw now that he didnot mean to acknowledge his failing, and knowing the secretiveness ofthe drug-taker she decided that he was deluded enough to think he couldstill deceive her.
"Well," he began again, with an attempt at jauntiness, "I've found outthat in my profession it's a hard struggle to get on your feet again,after illness or--or any bad set-back. That's the reason I asked you tosay a word for me. It's not only the money, though I need that badly--Iwant to get back my self-respect. With my record I oughtn't to be whereI am--and you can speak for me better than any one."
"Why better than the doctors you've worked with?" Justine put thequestion abruptly, looking him straight in the eyes.
His glance dropped, and an unpleasant flush rose to his thin cheeks.
"Well--as it happens, you're better situated than any one to help me tothe particular thing I want."
"The particular thing----?"
"Yes. I understand that Mr. Langhope and Mrs. Ansell are both interestedin the new wing for paying patients at Saint Christopher's. I want theposition of house-physician there, and I know you can get it for me."
His tone changed as he spoke, till with the last words it became roughand almost menacing.
Justine felt her colour rise, and her heart began to beat confusedly.Here was the truth, then: she could no longer be the dupe of her owncompassion. The man knew his power and meant to use it. But at thethought her courage was in arms.
"I'm sorry--but it's impossible," she said.
"Impossible--why?"
She continued to look at him steadily. "You said just now that youwished to regain your self-respect. Well, you must regain it before youcan ask me--or any one else--to recommend you to a position of trust."
Wyant half-rose, with an angry murmur. "My self-respect? What do youmean? _I_ meant that I'd lost courage--through ill-luck----"
"Yes; and your ill-luck has come through your own fault. Till you cureyourself you're not fit to cure others."
He sank back into his seat, glowering at her under sullen brows; thenhis expression gradually changed to half-sneering admiration. "You're aplucky one!" he said.
Justine repressed a movement of disgust. "I am very sorry for you," shesaid gravely. "I saw this trouble coming on you long ago--and if thereis any other way in which I can help you----"
"Thanks," he returned, still sneering. "Your sympathy is veryprecious--there was a time when I would have given my soul for it. Butthat's over, and I'm here to talk business. You say you saw my troublecoming on--did it ever occur to you that you were the cause of it?"
Justine glanced at him with frank contempt. "No--for I was not," shereplied.
"That's an easy way out of it. But you took everything from me--first myhope of marrying you; then my chance of a big success in my career; andI was desperate--weak, if you like--and tried to deaden my feelings inorder to keep up my pluck."
Justine rose to her feet with a movement of impatience. "Every word yousay proves how unfit you are to assume any responsibility--to doanything but try to recover your health. If I can help you to that, I amstill willing to do so."
Wyant rose also, moving a step nearer. "Well, get me that place,then--I'll see to the rest: I'll keep straight."
"No--it's impossible."
"You won't?"
"I can't," she repeated firmly.
"And you expect to put me off with that answer?"
She hesitated. "Yes--if there's no other help you'll accept."
He laughed again--his feeble sneering laugh was disgusting. "Oh, I don'tsay that. I'd like to earn my living honestly--funny preference--but ifyou cut me off from that, I suppose it's only fair to let you make upfor it. My wife and child have got to live."
"You choose a strange way of helping them; but I will do what I can ifyou will go for a while to some institution----"
He broke in furiously. "Institution be damned! You can't shuffle me outof the way like that. I'm all right--good food is what I need. Youthink I'
ve got morphia in me--why, it's hunger!"
Justine heard him with a renewal of pity. "Oh, I'm sorry for you--verysorry! Why do you try to deceive me?"
"Why do you deceive _me_? You know what I want and you know you've gotto let me have it. If you won't give me a line to one of your friends atSaint Christopher's you'll have to give me another cheque--that's thesize of it."
As they faced each other in silence Justine's pity gave way to a suddenhatred for the poor creature who stood shivering and sneering beforeher.
"You choose the wrong tone--and I think our talk has lasted longenough," she said, stretching her hand to the bell.
Wyant did not move. "Don't ring--unless you want me to write to yourhusband," he rejoined.
A sick feeling of helplessness overcame her; but she turned on himfirmly. "I pardoned you once for that threat!"
"Yes--and you sent me some money the next day."
"I was mistaken enough to think that, in your distress, you had notrealized what you wrote. But if you're a systematic blackmailer----"
"Gently--gently. Bad names don't frighten me--it's hunger and debt I'mafraid of."
Justine felt a last tremor of compassion. He was abominable--but he waspitiable too.
"I will really help you--I will see your wife and do what I can--but Ican give you no money today."
"Why not?"
"Because I have none. I am not as rich as you think."
He smiled incredulously. "Give me a line to Mr. Langhope, then."
"No."
He sat down once more, leaning back with a weak assumption of ease."Perhaps Mr. Amherst will think differently."
She whitened, but said steadily: "Mr. Amherst is away."
"Very well--I can write."
For the last five minutes Justine had foreseen this threat, and hadtried to force her mind to face dispassionately the chances it involved.After all, why not let him write to Amherst? The very vileness of thedeed must rouse an indignation which would be all in her favour, wouldinevitably dispose her husband to readier sympathy with the motive ofher act, as contrasted with the base insinuations of her slanderer. Itseemed impossible that Amherst should condemn her when his condemnationinvolved the fulfilling of Wyant's calculations: a reaction of scornwould throw him into unhesitating championship of her conduct. All thiswas so clear that, had she been advising any one else, her confidence inthe course to be taken might have strengthened the feeblest will; butwith the question lying between herself and Amherst--with the vision ofthose soiled hands literally laid on the spotless fabric of herhappiness, judgment wavered, foresight was obscured--she felttremulously unable to face the steps between exposure and vindication.Her final conclusion was that she must, at any rate, gain time: buy offWyant till she had been able to tell her story in her own way, and ather own hour, and then defy him when he returned to the assault. Theidea that whatever concession she made would be only provisional, helpedto excuse the weakness of making it, and enabled her at last, withouttoo painful a sense of falling below her own standards, to reply in alow voice: "If you'll go now, I will send you something next week."
But Wyant did not respond as readily as she had expected. He merelyasked, without altering his insolently easy attitude: "How much? Unlessit's a good deal, I prefer the letter."
Oh, why could she not cry out: "Leave the house at once--your vulgarthreats are nothing to me"--Why could she not even say in her own heart:_I will tell my husband tonight?_
"You're afraid," said Wyant, as if answering her thought. "What's theuse of being afraid when you can make yourself comfortable so easily?You called me a systematic blackmailer--well, I'm not that yet. Give mea thousand and you'll see the last of me--on what used to be my honour."
Justine's heart sank. She had reached the point of being ready to appealagain to Amherst--but on what pretext could she ask for such a sum?
In a lifeless voice she said: "I could not possibly get more than one ortwo hundred."
Wyant scrutinized her a moment: her despair must have rung true to him."Well, you must have something of your own--I saw your jewelry lastnight at the theatre," he said.
So it had been he--and he had sat there appraising her value like amurderer!
"Jewelry--?" she faltered.
"You had a thumping big sapphire--wasn't it?--with diamonds round it."
It was her only jewel--Amherst's marriage gift. She would have preferreda less valuable present, but his mother had persuaded her to accept it,saying that it was the bride's duty to adorn herself for the bridegroom.
"I will give you nothing--" she was about to exclaim; when suddenly hereyes fell on the clock. If Amherst had caught the two o'clock express hewould be at the house within the hour; and the only thing that seemedof consequence now, was that he should not meet Wyant. Supposing shestill found courage to refuse--there was no knowing how long thehumiliating scene might be prolonged: and she must be rid of thecreature at any cost. After all, she seldom wore the sapphire--monthsmight pass without its absence being noted by Amherst's careless eye;and if Wyant should pawn it, she might somehow save money to buy it backbefore it was missed. She went through these calculations with feverishrapidity; then she turned again to Wyant.
"You won't come back--ever?"
"I swear I won't," he said.
He moved away toward the window, as if to spare her; and she turned andslowly left the room.
She never forgot the moments that followed. Once outside the door shewas in such haste that she stumbled on the stairs, and had to pause onthe landing to regain her breath. In her room she found one of thehousemaids busy, and at first could think of no pretext for dismissingher. Then she bade the woman go down and send the brougham away, tellingthe coachman to call for Miss Cicely at six.
Left alone, she bolted the door, and as if with a thief's hand, openedher wardrobe, unlocked her jewel-box, and drew out the sapphire in itsflat morocco case. She restored the box to its place, the key to itsring--then she opened the case and looked at the sapphire. As she didso, a little tremor ran over her neck and throat, and closing her eyesshe felt her husband's kiss, and the touch of his hands as he fastenedon the jewel.
She unbolted the door, listened intently on the landing, and then wentslowly down the stairs. None of the servants were in sight, yet as shereached the lower hall she was conscious that the air had grown suddenlycolder, as though the outer door had just been opened. She paused, andlistened again. There was a sound of talking in the drawing-room. Couldit be that in her absence a visitor had been admitted? The possibilityfrightened her at first--then she welcomed it as an unexpected means ofridding herself of her tormentor.
She opened the drawing-room door, and saw her husband talking withWyant.