The Fruit of the Tree

by Edith Wharton

  XVII

  BESSY had not seen her little girl that day, and filled with compunctionby Justine's reminder, she hastened directly to the school-room.

  Of late, in certain moods, her maternal tenderness had been clouded by asense of uneasiness in the child's presence, for Cicely was the argumentmost effectually used by Mr. Langhope and Mr. Tredegar in their effortsto check the triumph of Amherst's ideas. Bessy, still unable to form anindependent opinion on the harassing question of the mills, continued tooscillate between the views of the contending parties, now regardingCicely as an innocent victim and herself as an unnatural mother,sacrificing her child's prospects to further Amherst's enterprise, andnow conscious of a vague animosity against the little girl, as the chiefcause of the dissensions which had so soon clouded the skies of hersecond marriage. Then again, there were moments when Cicely's rosy bloomreminded her bitterly of the child she had lost--the son on whom herambitions had been fixed. It seemed to her now that if their boy hadlived she might have kept Amherst's love and have played a moreimportant part in his life; and brooding on the tragedy of the child'ssickly existence she resented the contrast of Cicely's brightness andvigour. The result was that in her treatment of her daughter shealternated between moments of exaggerated devotion and days of neglect,never long happy away from the little girl, yet restless andself-tormenting in her presence.

  After her talk with Justine she felt more than usually disturbed, as shealways did when her unprofitable impulses of self-exposure had subsided.Bessy's mind was not made for introspection, and chance had burdened itwith unintelligible problems. She felt herself the victim ofcircumstances to which her imagination attributed the deliberate malicethat children ascribe to the furniture they run against in playing. Thishelped her to cultivate a sense of helpless injury and to disdain inadvance the advice she was perpetually seeking. How absurd it was, forinstance, to suppose that a girl could understand the feelings of amarried woman! Justine's suggestion that she should humble herself stillfarther to Amherst merely left in Bessy's mind a rankling sense of beingmisunderstood and undervalued by those to whom she turned in herextremity, and she said to herself, in a phrase that sounded well in herown ears, that sooner or later every woman must learn to fight herbattles alone.

  In this mood she entered the room where Cicely was at supper with hergoverness, and enveloped the child in a whirl of passionate caresses.But Cicely had inherited the soberer Westmore temper, and her mother'sspasmodic endearments always had a repressive effect on her. Shedutifully returned a small fraction of Bessy's kisses, and then, with anair of relief, addressed herself once more to her bread and marmalade.

  "You don't seem a bit glad to see me!" Bessy exclaimed, while the littlegoverness made a nervous pretence of being greatly amused at thisprodigious paradox, and Cicely, setting down her silver mug, askedjudicially: "Why should I be gladder than other days? It isn't abirthday."

  This Cordelia-like answer cut Bessy to the quick. "You horrid child tosay such a cruel thing when you know I love you better and better everyminute! But you don't care for me any longer because Justine has takenyou away from me!"

  This last charge had sprung into her mind in the act of uttering it, butnow that it was spoken it instantly assumed the proportions of a fact,and seemed to furnish another justification for her wretchedness. Bessywas not naturally jealous, but her imagination was thrall to the spokenword, and it gave her a sudden incomprehensible relief to associateJustine with the obscure causes of her suffering.

  "I know she's cleverer than I am, and more amusing, and can tell youabout plants and animals and things...and I daresay she tells you howtiresome and stupid I am...."

  She sprang up suddenly, abashed by Cicely's astonished gaze, and by thegoverness's tremulous attempt to continue to treat the scene as one of"Mamma's" most successful pleasantries.

  "Don't mind me--my head aches horribly. I think I'll rush off for agallop on Impulse before dinner. Miss Dill, Cicely's nails are asight--I suppose that comes of grubbing up wild-flowers."

  And with this parting shot at Justine's pursuits she swept out of theschool-room, leaving pupil and teacher plunged in a stricken silencefrom which Cicely at length emerged to say, with the candour that MissDill dreaded more than any punishable offense: "Mother's prettiest--butI do like Justine the best."

  * * * * *

  It was nearly dark when Bessy mounted the horse which had been hastilysaddled in response to her order; but it was her habit to ride out aloneat all hours, and of late nothing but a hard gallop had availed to quiether nerves. Her craving for occupation had increased as her life becamemore dispersed and agitated, and the need to fill every hour drove herto excesses of bodily exertion, since other forms of activity wereunknown to her.

  As she cantered along under the twilight sky, with a strong sea-breezein her face, the rush of air and the effort of steadying her nervousthoroughbred filled her with a glow of bodily energy from which herthoughts emerged somewhat cleansed of their bitterness.

  She had been odious to poor little Cicely, for whom she now felt asudden remorseful yearning which almost made her turn her horse's headhomeward, that she might dash upstairs and do penance beside the child'sbed. And that she should have accused Justine of taking Cicely from her!It frightened her to find herself thinking evil of Justine. Bessy, whoseperceptions were keen enough in certain directions, knew that her secondmarriage had changed her relation to all her former circle of friends.Though they still rallied about her, keeping up the convenient habit offamiliar intercourse, she had begun to be aware that their view of herhad in it an element of criticism and compassion. She had once fanciedthat Amherst's good looks, and the other qualities she had seen in him,would immediately make him free of the charmed circle in which shemoved; but she was discouraged by his disregard of his opportunities,and above all by the fundamental differences in his view of life. He wasnever common or ridiculous, but she saw that he would never acquire thesmall social facilities. He was fond of exercise, but it bored him totalk of it. The men's smoking-room anecdotes did not amuse him, he wasunmoved by the fluctuations of the stock-market, he could not tell onecard from another, and his perfunctory attempts at billiards had oncecaused Mr. Langhope to murmur, in his daughter's hearing: "Ah, that'sthe test--I always said so!"

  Thus debarred from what seemed to Bessy the chief points of contact withlife, how could Amherst hope to impose himself on minds versed in theselarger relations? As the sense of his social insufficiency grew on her,Bessy became more sensitive to that latent criticism of her marriagewhich--intolerable thought!--involved a judgment on herself. She wasincreasingly eager for the approval and applause of her little audience,yet increasingly distrustful of their sincerity, and more miserablypersuaded that she and her husband were the butt of some of their mosteffective stories. She knew also that rumours of the disagreement aboutWestmore were abroad, and the suspicion that Amherst's conduct was thesubject of unfriendly comment provoked in her a reaction of loyalty tohis ideas....

  From this turmoil of conflicting influences only her friendship withJustine Brent remained secure. Though Justine's adaptability made iteasy for her to fit into the Lynbrook life, Bessy knew that she stood asmuch outside of it as Amherst. She could never, for instance, beinfluenced by what Maria Ansell and the Gaineses and the Telfersthought. She had her own criteria of conduct, unintelligible to Bessy,but giving her an independence of mind on which her friend leaned in akind of blind security. And that even her faith in Justine shouldsuddenly be poisoned by a jealous thought seemed to prove that theconsequences of her marriage were gradually infecting her whole life.Bessy could conceive of masculine devotion only as subservient to itsdivinity's least wish, and she argued that if Amherst had really lovedher he could not so lightly have disturbed the foundations of her world.And so her tormented thoughts, perpetually circling on themselves,reverted once more to their central grievance--the failure of hermarriage. If her own love had died out it would have be
en muchsimpler--she was surrounded by examples of the mutual evasion of atroublesome tie. There was Blanche Carbury, for instance, with whom shehad lately struck up an absorbing friendship...it was perfectly clearthat Blanche Carbury wondered how much more she was going to stand! Butit was the torment of Bessy's situation that it involved a radicalcontradiction, that she still loved Amherst though she could not forgivehim for having married her.

  Perhaps what she most suffered from was his too-prompt acceptance of thesemi-estrangement between them. After nearly three years of marriage shehad still to learn that it was Amherst's way to wrestle with the angeltill dawn, and then to go about his other business. Her own mind couldrevolve in the same grievance as interminably as a squirrel in itswheel, and her husband's habit of casting off the accepted fact seemedto betoken poverty of feeling. If only he had striven a little harder tokeep her--if, even now, he would come back to her, and make her feelthat she was more to him than those wretched mills!

  When she turned her mare toward Lynbrook, the longing to see Amherst wasagain uppermost. He had not written for weeks--she had been obliged totell Maria Ansell that she knew nothing of his plans, and it mortifiedher to think that every one was aware of his neglect. Yet, even now, ifon reaching the house she should find a telegram to say that he wascoming, the weight of loneliness would be lifted, and everything in lifewould seem different....

  Her high-strung mare, scenting the homeward road, and excited by thefantastic play of wayside lights and shadows, swept her along at a wildgallop with which the fevered rush of her thoughts kept pace, and whenshe reached the house she dropped from the saddle with aching wrists andbrain benumbed.

  She entered by a side door, to avoid meeting any one, and ran upstairsat once, knowing that she had barely time to dress for dinner. As sheopened the door of her sitting-room some one rose from the chair by thefire, and she stood still, facing her husband....

  It was the moment both had desired, yet when it came it found themtongue-tied and helpless.

  Bessy was the first to speak. "When did you get here? You never wrote meyou were coming!"

  Amherst advanced toward her, holding out his hand. "No; you must forgiveme. I have been very busy," he said.

  Always the same excuse! The same thrusting at her of the hateful factthat Westmore came first, and that she must put up with whatever wasleft of his time and thoughts!

  "You are always too busy to let me hear from you," she said coldly, andthe hand which had sprung toward his fell back to her side.

  Even then, if he had only said frankly: "It was too difficult--I didn'tknow how," the note of truth would have reached and moved her; but hehad striven for the tone of ease and self-restraint that was habitualamong her friends, and as usual his attempt had been a failure.

  "I am sorry--I'm a bad hand at writing," he rejoined; and his evilgenius prompted him to add: "I hope my coming is not inconvenient?"

  The colour rose to Bessy's face. "Of course not. But it must seem ratherodd to our visitors that I should know so little of your plans."

  At this he humbled himself still farther. "I know I don't think enoughabout appearances--I'll try to do better the next time."

  Appearances! He spoke as if she had been reproaching him for a breach ofetiquette...it never occurred to him that the cry came from herhumiliated heart! The tide of warmth that always enveloped her in hispresence was receding, and in its place a chill fluid seemed to creep upslowly to her throat and lips.

  In Amherst, meanwhile, the opposite process was taking place. His wifewas still to him the most beautiful woman in the world, or rather,perhaps, the only woman to whose beauty his eyes had been opened. Thatbeauty could never again penetrate to his heart, but it still touchedhis senses, not with passion but with a caressing kindliness, such asone might feel for the bright movements of a bird or a kitten. It seemedto plead with him not to ask of her more than she could give--to becontent with the outward grace and not seek in it an inner meaning. Hemoved toward her again, and took her passive hands in his.

  "You look tired. Why do you ride so late?"

  "Oh, I just wanted to give Impulse a gallop. I hadn't time to take herout earlier, and if I let the grooms exercise her they'll spoil hermouth."

  Amherst frowned. "You ought not to ride that mare alone at night. Sheshies at everything after dark."

  "She's the only horse I care for--the others are all cows," shemurmured, releasing her hands impatiently.

  "Well, you must take me with you the next time you ride her."

  She softened a little, in spite of herself. Riding was the onlyamusement he cared to share with her, and the thought of a long gallopacross the plains at his side brought back the warmth to her veins.

  "Yes, we'll go tomorrow. How long do you mean to stay?" she asked,looking up at him eagerly.

  He was pleased that she should wish to know, yet the questionembarrassed him, for it was necessary that he should be back at Westmorewithin three days, and he could not put her off with an evasion.

  Bessy saw his hesitation, and her colour rose again. "I only asked," sheexplained, "because there is to be a fancy ball at the Hunt Club on thetwentieth, and I thought of giving a big dinner here first."

  Amherst did not understand that she too had her inarticulate moments,and that the allusion to the fancy ball was improvised to hide aneagerness to which he had been too slow in responding. He thought shehad enquired about his plans only that he might not again interfere withthe arrangements of her dinner-table. If that was all she cared about,it became suddenly easy to tell her that he could not stay, and heanswered lightly: "Fancy balls are a little out of my line; but at anyrate I shall have to be back at the mills the day after tomorrow."

  The disappointment brought a rush of bitterness to her lips. "The dayafter tomorrow? It seems hardly worth while to have come so far for twodays!"

  "Oh, I don't mind the journey--and there are one or two matters I mustconsult you about."

  There could hardly have been a more ill-advised answer, but Amherst wasreckless now. If she cared for his coming only that he might fill aplace at a fancy-dress dinner, he would let her see that he had comeonly because he had to go through the form of submitting to her certainmeasures to be taken at Westmore.

  Bessy was beginning to feel the physical reaction of her struggle withthe mare. The fatigue which at first had deadened her nerves now wokethem to acuter sensibility, and an appealing word from her husband wouldhave drawn her to his arms. But his answer seemed to drive all the bloodback to her heart.

  "I don't see why you still go through the form of consulting me aboutWestmore, when you have always done just as you pleased there, withoutregard to me or Cicely."

  Amherst made no answer, silenced by the discouragement of hearing thesame old grievance on her lips; and she too seemed struck, after she hadspoken, by the unprofitableness of such retorts.

  "It doesn't matter--of course I'll do whatever you wish," she went onlistlessly. "But I could have sent my signature, if that is all you camefor----"

  "Thanks," said Amherst coldly. "I shall remember that the next time."

  They stood silent for a moment, he with his eyes fixed on her, she withaverted head, twisting her riding-whip between her fingers; then shesaid suddenly: "We shall be late for dinner," and passing into herdressing-room she closed the door.

  Amherst roused himself as she disappeared.

  "Bessy!" he exclaimed, moving toward her; but as he approached the doorhe heard her maid's voice within, and turning away he went to his ownroom.

  * * * * *

  Bessy came down late to dinner, with vivid cheeks and an air ofimprovised ease; and the manner of her entrance, combined with herhusband's unannounced arrival, produced in their observant guests thesense of latent complications. Mr. Langhope, though evidently unaware ofhis son-in-law's return till they greeted each other in thedrawing-room, was too good a card-player to betray surprise, and Mrs.Ansell outdid herself in the delicate
art of taking everything forgranted; but these very dissimulations sharpened the perception of theother guests, whom long practice had rendered expert in interpretingsuch signs.

  Of all this Justine Brent was aware; and conscious also that, by everyone but herself, the suspected estrangement between the Amhersts wasregarded as turning merely on the question of money. To the greaternumber of persons present there was, in fact, no other conceivablesource of conjugal discord, since every known complication could beadjusted by means of the universal lubricant. It was this unanimity ofview which bound together in the compactness of a new feudalism themembers of Bessy Amherst's world; which supplied them with theirpass-words and social tests, and defended them securely against theinsidious attack of ideas.

  * * * * *

  The Genius of History, capriciously directing the antics of itsmarionettes, sometimes lets the drama languish through a series ofunrelated episodes, and then, suddenly quickening the pace, packs intoone scene the stuff of a dozen. The chance meeting of Amherst andJustine, seemingly of no significance to either, contained the germ ofdevelopments of which both had begun to be aware before the evening wasover. Their short talk--the first really intimate exchange of wordsbetween them--had the effect of creating a sense of solidarity that grewapace in the atmosphere of the Lynbrook dinner-table.

  Justine was always reluctant to take part in Bessy's week-end dinners,but as she descended the stairs that evening she did not regret havingpromised to be present. She frankly wanted to see Amherst again--histone, his view of life, reinforced her own convictions, restored herfaith in the reality and importance of all that Lynbrook ignored andexcluded. Her extreme sensitiveness to surrounding vibrations of thoughtand feeling told her, as she glanced at him between the flowers andcandles of the long dinner-table, that he too was obscurely aware of thesame effect; and it flashed across her that they were unconsciouslydrawn together by the fact that they were the only two strangers in theroom. Every one else had the same standpoint, spoke the same language,drew on the same stock of allusions, used the same weights and measuresin estimating persons and actions. Between Mr. Langhope's indolentacuteness of mind and the rudimentary processes of the rosy Telfersthere was a difference of degree but not of kind. If Mr. Langhope viewedthe spectacle more objectively, it was not because he had outlived thesense of its importance, but because years of experience hadfamiliarized him with its minutest details; and this familiarity withthe world he lived in had bred a profound contempt for any other.

  In no way could the points of contact between Amherst and Justine Brenthave been more vividly brought out than by their tacit exclusion fromthe currents of opinion about them. Amherst, seated in unsmilingendurance at the foot of the table, between Mrs. Ansell, with hercarefully-distributed affabilities, and Blanche Carbury, with herreckless hurling of conversational pebbles, seemed to Justine as much ofa stranger as herself among the people to whom his marriage hadintroduced him. So strongly did she feel the sense of their commonisolation that it was no surprise to her, when the men reappeared in thedrawing-room after dinner, to have her host thread his way, between theunfolding bridge-tables, straight to the corner where she sat. Amherst'smethods in the drawing-room were still as direct as in the cotton-mill.He always went up at once to the person he sought, without preliminarywaste of tactics; and on this occasion Justine, without knowing what hadpassed between himself and Bessy, suspected from the appearance of boththat their talk had resulted in increasing Amherst's desire to be withsome one to whom he could speak freely and naturally on the subjectnearest his heart.

  She began at once to question him about Westmore, and the change in hisface showed that his work was still a refuge from all that made lifedisheartening and unintelligible. Whatever convictions had been thwartedor impaired in him, his faith in the importance of his task remainedunshaken; and the firmness with which he held to it filled Justine witha sense of his strength. The feeling kindled her own desire to escapeagain into the world of deeds, yet by a sudden reaction it checked thegrowing inclination for Stephen Wyant that had resulted from her revoltagainst Lynbrook. Here was a man as careless as Wyant of the minorforms, yet her appreciation of him was not affected by the lack ofadaptability that she accused herself of criticizing in her suitor. Shebegan to see that it was not the sense of Wyant's social deficienciesthat had held her back; and the discovery at once set free her judgmentof him, enabling her to penetrate to the real causes of her reluctance.She understood now that the flaw she felt was far deeper than any defectof manner. It was the sense in him of something unstable andincalculable, something at once weak and violent, that was brought tolight by the contrast of Amherst's quiet resolution. Here was a man whomno gusts of chance could deflect from his purpose; while she felt thatthe career to which Wyant had so ardently given himself would always beat the mercy of his passing emotions.

  As the distinction grew clearer, Justine trembled to think that she hadso nearly pledged herself, without the excuse of love, to a man whosefailings she could judge so lucidly.... But had she ever really thoughtof marrying Wyant? While she continued to talk with Amherst such apossibility became more and more remote, till she began to feel it wasno more than a haunting dream. But her promise to see Wyant the nextday reminded her of the nearness of her peril. How could she have playedwith her fate so lightly--she, who held her life so dear because shefelt in it such untried powers of action and emotion? She continued tolisten to Amherst's account of his work, with enough outwardself-possession to place the right comment and put the right question,yet conscious only of the quiet strength she was absorbing from hispresence, of the way in which his words, his voice, his mere nearnesswere slowly steadying and clarifying her will.

  In the smoking-room, after the ladies had gone upstairs, Amherstcontinued to acquit himself mechanically of his duties, against theincongruous back-ground of his predecessor's remarkablesporting-prints--for it was characteristic of his relation to Lynbrookthat his life there was carried on in the setting of foils andboxing-gloves, firearms and racing-trophies, which had expressed DickWestmore's ideals. Never very keenly alive to his material surroundings,and quite unconscious of the irony of this proximity, Amherst had cometo accept his wife's guests as unquestioningly as their background, andwith the same sense of their being an inevitable part of his new life.Their talk was no more intelligible to him than the red and yellowhieroglyphics of the racing-prints, and he smoked in silence while Mr.Langhope discoursed to Westy Gaines on the recent sale of Chineseporcelains at which he had been lucky enough to pick up the set of Mingfor his daughter, and Mason Winch expounded to a group of languidlisteners the essential dependence of the labouring-man on theprosperity of Wall Street. In a retired corner, Ned Bowfort wasimparting facts of a more personal nature to a chosen following whohailed with suppressed enjoyment the murmured mention of proper names;and now and then Amherst found himself obliged to say to Fenton Carbury,who with one accord had been left on his hands, "Yes, I understand theflat-tread tire is best," or, "There's a good deal to be said for thelow tension magneto----"

  But all the while his conscious thoughts were absorbed in theremembrance of his talk with Justine Brent. He had left his wife'spresence in that state of moral lassitude when the strongest hopes droopunder the infection of indifference and hostility, and the effort ofattainment seems out of all proportion to the end in view; but as helistened to Justine all his energies sprang to life again. Here at lastwas some one who felt the urgency of his task: her every word and lookconfirmed her comment of the afternoon: "Westmore must be foremost toyou both in time--I don't see how either of you can escape it."

  She saw it, as he did, to be the special outlet offered for theexpression of what he was worth to the world; and with the knowledgethat one other person recognized his call, it sounded again loudly inhis heart. Yes, he would go on, patiently and persistently, conqueringobstacles, suffering delay, enduring criticism--hardest of all, bearingwith his wife's deepening indifference and dist
rust. Justine had said"Westmore must be foremost to you both," and he would prove that she wasright--spite of the powers leagued against him he would win over Bessyin the end!

  Those observers who had been struck by the length and animation of MissBrent's talk with her host--and among whom Mrs. Ansell and Westy Gaineswere foremost--would hardly have believed how small a part her personalcharms had played in attracting him. Amherst was still under the powerof the other kind of beauty--the soft graces personifying the firsttriumph of sex in his heart--and Justine's dark slenderness could not atonce dispel the milder image. He watched her with pleasure while shetalked, but her face interested him only as the vehicle of herideas--she looked as a girl must look who felt and thought as she did.He was aware that everything about her was quick and fine and supple,and that the muscles of character lay close to the surface of feeling;but the interpenetration of spirit and flesh that made her body seemlike the bright projection of her mind left him unconscious of anythingbut the oneness of their thoughts.

  So these two, in their hour of doubt, poured strength into each other'shearts, each unconscious of what they gave, and of its hidden power ofrenewing their own purposes.