XVI
AMHERST, on leaving the train at Lynbrook, had paused in doubt on theempty platform. His return was unexpected, and no carriage awaited him;but he caught the signal of the village cab-driver's ready whip.Amherst, however, felt a sudden desire to postpone the moment ofarrival, and consigning his luggage to the cab he walked away toward theturnstile through which Justine had passed. In thus taking the longestway home he was yielding another point to his reluctance. He knew thatat that hour his wife's visitors might still be assembled in thedrawing-room, and he wished to avoid making his unannounced entranceamong them.
It was not till now that he felt the embarrassment of such an arrival.For some time past he had known that he ought to go back to Lynbrook,but he had not known how to tell Bessy that he was coming. Lack of habitmade him inexpert in the art of easy transitions, and his inability tobridge over awkward gaps had often put him at a disadvantage with hiswife and her friends. He had not yet learned the importance of observingthe forms which made up the daily ceremonial of their lives, and atpresent there was just enough soreness between himself and Bessy to makesuch observances more difficult than usual.
There had been no open estrangement, but peace had been preserved at thecost of a slowly accumulated tale of grievances on both sides. SinceAmherst had won his point about the mills, the danger he had foreseenhad been realized: his victory at Westmore had been a defeat atLynbrook. It would be too crude to say that his wife had made him payfor her public concession by the private disregard of his wishes; and ifsomething of this sort had actually resulted, his sense of fairness toldhim that it was merely the natural reaction of a soft nature against themomentary strain of self-denial. At first he had been hardly aware ofthis consequence of his triumph. The joy of being able to work his willat Westmore obscured all lesser emotions; and his sentiment for Bessyhad long since shrunk into one of those shallow pools of feeling which asudden tide might fill, but which could never again be the deepperennial spring from which his life was fed.
The need of remaining continuously at Hanaford while the first changeswere making had increased the strain of the situation. He had neverexpected that Bessy would stay there with him--had perhaps, at heart,hardly wished it--and her plan of going to the Adirondacks with MissBrent seemed to him a satisfactory alternative to the European trip shehad renounced. He felt as relieved as though some one had taken off hishands the task of amusing a restless child, and he let his wife gowithout suspecting that the moment might be a decisive one between them.But it had not occurred to Bessy that any one could regard six weeks inthe Adirondacks as an adequate substitute for a summer abroad. She feltthat her sacrifice deserved recognition, and personal devotion was theonly form of recognition which could satisfy her. She had expectedAmherst to join her at the camp, but he did not come; and when she wentback to Long Island she did not stop to see him, though Hanaford lay inher way. At the moment of her return the work at the mills made itimpossible for him to go to Lynbrook; and thus the weeks drifted onwithout their meeting.
At last, urged by his mother, he had gone down to Long Island for anight; but though, on that occasion, he had announced his coming, hefound the house full, and the whole party except Mr. Langhope in the actof starting off to a dinner in the neighbourhood. He was of courseexpected to go too, and Bessy appeared hurt when he declared that he wastoo tired and preferred to remain with Mr. Langhope; but she did notsuggest staying at home herself, and drove off in a mood of exuberantgaiety. Amherst had been too busy all his life to know what intricaciesof perversion a sentimental grievance may develop in an unoccupied mind,and he saw in Bessy's act only a sign of indifference. The next day shecomplained to him of money difficulties, as though surprised that herincome had been suddenly cut down; and when he reminded her that she hadconsented of her own will to this temporary reduction, she burst intotears and accused him of caring only for Westmore.
He went away exasperated by her inconsequence, and bills from Lynbrookcontinued to pour in on him. In the first days of their marriage, Bessyhad put him in charge of her exchequer, and she was too indolent--and atheart perhaps too sensitive--to ask him to renounce the charge. It wasclear to him, therefore, how little she was observing the spirit oftheir compact, and his mind was tormented by the anticipation offinancial embarrassments. He wrote her a letter of gentle expostulation,but in her answer she ignored his remonstrance; and after that silencefell between them.
The only way to break this silence was to return to Lynbrook; but nowthat he had come back, he did not know what step to take next. Somethingin the atmosphere of his wife's existence seemed to paralyze hiswill-power. When all about her spoke a language so different from hisown, how could he hope to make himself heard? He knew that her familyand her immediate friends--Mr. Langhope, the Gaineses, Mrs. Ansell andMr. Tredegar--far from being means of communication, were so manysentinels ready to raise the drawbridge and drop the portcullis at hisapproach. They were all in league to stifle the incipient feelings hehad roused in Bessy, to push her back into the deadening routine of herformer life, and the only voice that might conceivably speak for him wasMiss Brent's.
The "case" which, unexpectedly presented to her by one of the HopeHospital physicians, had detained Justine at Hanaford during the monthof June, was the means of establishing a friendship between herself andAmherst. They did not meet often, or get to know each other very well;but he saw her occasionally at his mother's and at Mrs. Dressel's, andonce he took her out to Westmore, to consult her about the emergencyhospital which was to be included among the first improvements there.The expedition had been memorable to both; and when, some two weekslater, Bessy wrote suggesting that she should take Miss Brent to theAdirondacks, it seemed to Amherst that there was no one whom he wouldrather have his wife choose as her companion.
He was much too busy at the time to cultivate or analyze his feeling forMiss Brent; he rested vaguely in the thought of her, as of the "nicest"girl he had ever met, and was frankly pleased when accident brought themtogether; but the seeds left in both their minds by these chanceencounters had not yet begun to germinate.
So unperceived had been their gradual growth in intimacy that it was asurprise to Amherst to find himself suddenly thinking of her as a meansof communication with his wife; but the thought gave him suchencouragement that, when he saw Justine in the path before him he wenttoward her with unusual eagerness.
Justine, on her part, felt an equal pleasure. She knew that Bessy didnot expect her husband, and that his prolonged absence had already beenthe cause of malicious comment at Lynbrook; and she caught at the hopethat this sudden return might betoken a more favourable turn of affairs.
"Oh, I am so glad to see you!" she exclaimed; and her tone had theeffect of completing his reassurance, his happy sense that she wouldunderstand and help him.
"I wanted to see you too," he began confusedly; then, conscious of theintimacy of the phrase, he added with a slight laugh: "The fact is, I'ma culprit looking for a peace-maker."
"A culprit?"
"I've been so tied down at the mills that I didn't know, till yesterday,just when I could break away; and in the hurry of leaving--" He pausedagain, checked by the impossibility of uttering, to the girl before him,the little conventional falsehoods which formed the small currency ofBessy's circle. Not that any scruple of probity restrained him: intrifling matters he recognized the usefulness of such counters in thesocial game; but when he was with Justine he always felt the obscureneed of letting his real self be seen.
"I was stupid enough not to telegraph," he said, "and I am afraid mywife will think me negligent: she often has to reproach me for my sinsof omission, and this time I know they are many."
The girl received this in silence, less from embarrassment than fromsurprise; for she had already guessed that it was as difficult forAmherst to touch, even lightly, on his private affairs, as it wasinstinctive with his wife to pour her grievances into any willing ear.Justine's first thought was one of gratification that he shoul
d havespoken, and of eagerness to facilitate the saying of whatever he wishedto say; but before she could answer he went on hastily: "The fact is,Bessy does not know how complicated the work at Westmore is; and when Icaught sight of you just now I was thinking that you are the only one ofher friends who has any technical understanding of what I am trying todo, and who might consequently help her to see how hard it is for me totake my hand from the plough."
Justine listened gravely, longing to cry out her comprehension andsympathy, but restrained by the sense that the moment was a criticalone, where impulse must not be trusted too far. It was quite possiblethat a reaction of pride might cause Amherst to repent even so guardedan avowal; and if that happened, he might never forgive her for havingencouraged him to speak. She looked up at him with a smile.
"Why not tell Bessy yourself? Your understanding of the case is a gooddeal clearer than mine or any one else's."
"Oh, Bessy is tired of hearing about it from me; and besides--" Shedetected a shade of disappointment in his tone, and was sorry she hadsaid anything which might seem meant to discourage his confidence. Itoccurred to her also that she had been insincere in not telling him atonce that she had already been let into the secret of his domesticdifferences: she felt the same craving as Amherst for absolute opennessbetween them.
"I know," she said, almost timidly, "that Bessy has not been quitecontent of late to have you give so much time to Westmore, and perhapsshe herself thinks it is because the work there does not interest her;but I believe it is for a different reason."
"What reason?" he asked with a look of surprise.
"Because Westmore takes you from her; because she thinks you are happierthere than at Lynbrook."
The day had faded so rapidly that it was no longer possible for thespeakers to see each other's faces, and it was easier for both tocommunicate through the veil of deepening obscurity.
"But, good heavens, she might be there with me--she's as much neededthere as I am!" Amherst exclaimed.
"Yes; but you must remember that it's against all her habits--andagainst the point of view of every one about her--that she should leadthat kind of life; and meanwhile----"
"Well?"
"Meanwhile, isn't it expedient that you should, a little more, leadhers?"
Always the same answer to his restless questioning! His mother's answer,the answer of Bessy and her friends. He had somehow hoped that the girlat his side would find a different solution to the problem, and hisdisappointment escaped in a bitter exclamation.
"But Westmore is my life--hers too, if she knew it! I can't desert itnow without being as false to her as to myself!"
As he spoke, he was overcome once more by the hopelessness of trying toput his case clearly. How could Justine, for all her quickness andsympathy, understand a situation of which the deeper elements werenecessarily unknown to her? The advice she gave him was natural enough,and on her lips it seemed not the counsel of a shallow expediency, butthe plea of compassion and understanding. But she knew nothing of thelong struggle for mutual adjustment which had culminated in this crisisbetween himself and his wife, and she could therefore not see that, ifhe yielded his point, and gave up his work at Westmore, the concessionwould mean not renewal but destruction. He felt that he should hateBessy if he won her back at that price; and the violence of his feelingfrightened him. It was, in truth, as he had said, his own life that hewas fighting for. If he gave up Westmore he could not fall back on thefutile activities of Lynbrook, and fate might yet have some loweralternative to offer. He could trust to his own strength andself-command while his energies had a normal outlet; but idleness andself-indulgence might work in him like a dangerous drug.
Justine kept steadily to her point. "Westmore must be foremost to bothof you in time; I don't see how either of you can escape that. But therealization of it must come to Bessy through _you_, and for that reasonI think that you ought to be more patient--that you ought even to putthe question aside for a time and enter a little more into her lifewhile she is learning to understand yours." As she ended, it seemed toher that what she had said was trite and ineffectual, and yet that itmight have passed the measure of discretion; and, torn between twodoubts, she added hastily: "But you have done just that in coming backnow--that is the real solution of the problem."
While she spoke they passed out of the wood-path they had beenfollowing, and rounding a mass of shrubbery emerged on the lawn belowthe terraces. The long bulk of the house lay above them, dark againstthe lingering gleam of the west, with brightly-lit windows marking itsirregular outline; and the sight produced in Amherst and Justine a vaguesense of helplessness and constraint. It was impossible to speak withthe same freedom, confronted by that substantial symbol of the acceptedorder, which seemed to glare down on them in massive disdain of theirpuny efforts to deflect the course of events: and Amherst, withoutreverting to her last words, asked after a moment if his wife had manyguests.
He listened in silence while Justine ran over the list of names--theTelfer girls and their brother, Mason Winch and Westy Gaines, a clusterof young bridge-playing couples, and, among the last arrivals, theFenton Carburys and Ned Bowfort. The names were all familiar toAmherst--he knew they represented the flower of week-end fashion; but hedid not remember having seen the Carburys among his wife's guests, andhis mind paused on the name, seeking to regain some lost impressionconnected with it. But it evoked, like the others, merely the confusedsense of stridency and unrest which he had brought away from his lastLynbrook visit; and this reminiscence made him ask Miss Brent, when herlist was ended, if she did not think that so continuous a succession ofvisitors was too tiring for Bessy.
"I sometimes think it tires her more than she knows; but I hope she canbe persuaded to take better care of herself now that Mrs. Ansell hascome back."
Amherst halted abruptly. "Is Mrs. Ansell here?"
"She arrived from Europe today."
"And Mr. Langhope too, I suppose?"
"Yes. He came from Newport about ten days ago."
Amherst checked himself, conscious that his questions betrayed the factthat he and his wife no longer wrote to each other. The same thoughtappeared to strike Justine, and they walked across the lawn in silence,hastening their steps involuntarily, as though to escape the oppressiveweight of the words which had passed between them. But Justine wasunwilling that this fruitless sense of oppression should be the finaloutcome of their talk; and when they reached the upper terrace shepaused and turned impulsively to Amherst. As she did so, the light froman uncurtained window fell on her face, which glowed with the innerbrightness kindled in it by moments of strong feeling.
"I am sure of one thing--Bessy will be very, very glad that you havecome," she exclaimed.
"Thank you," he answered.
Their hands met mechanically, and she turned away and entered the house.
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