Book IV. CHAPTER XXX. On a September day, somewhat more than a year-and-a-half after Bessie Amherst's death, her husband and his mother sat at luncheon in the dining-room of the Westmore House at Hannaford. The house was John Amherst's now, and shortly after the loss of his wife, he had established himself there with his mother. By a will made some six months before her death, Bessie had divided her estate between her husband and daughter, placing Sicily's share in trust and appointing Mr. Langhope and Amherst as her guardians. As the latter was also her trustee, the whole management of the estate devolved on him, while his control of the Westmore Mills was insured by his receiving a slightly larger proportion of the stock than his stepdaughter. The will had come as a surprise not only to Amherst himself but to his wife's family, and more especially to her legal adviser. Mr. Tredegar had in fact had nothing to do with the drawing of the instrument, but as it had been drawn in due form and by a firm of excellent standing, he was obliged, in spite of his private views, and Mr. Langhope's open adjurations that he should do something, to declare that there was no pretext for questioning the validity of the document. To Amherst the will was something more than a proof of his wife's confidence. It came as a reconciling word from her grave. For the date showed that it had been made at a moment when he supposed himself to have lost all influence over her, on the moral of the day when she had stipulated that he should give up the management of the Westmore Mills and yield the care of her property to Mr. Tredegar. While she smote him with one hand she sued for pardon with the other, and the contradiction was so characteristic it explained and excused in so touching away the inconsistencies of her impulsive heart and hesitating mind that he was filled with that tender compunction that searching sense of his own shortcomings which generous natures feel when they find they have underrated the generosity of others. But Amherst's was not an introspective mind, and his sound moral sense told him when the first pang of self-reproach had subsided that he had done his best by his wife and was in no way to blame if her recognition of a fact had come too late. The self-reproach subsided, and instead of the bitterness of the past it left a softened memory which made him take up his task with the sense that he was now working with Bessie and not against her. Yet perhaps after all it was chiefly the work itself which had healed old wounds and quelled the tendency to vain regrets. Amherst was only thirty-four, and in the prime of his energies the task he was made for had been given back to him. To a sound nature which finds its outlet in fruitful action nothing so simplifies the complexities of life, so tends to a large acceptance of its vicissitudes and mysteries as the sense of doing something each day toward clearing one's own bit of the wilderness. And this was the joy at last conceded to Amherst. The mills were virtually his, and the fact that he ruled them not only in his own right but as Sisley's representative made him doubly eager to justify his wife's trust in him. Mrs. Amherst, looking up from a telegram which the parlor maid had handed her, smiled across the table at her son. From Maria Ansel they are all coming to-morrow. Oh, that's good, Amherst rejoined. I should have been sorry if Sisley had not been here. Mr. Langhope is coming too, his mother continued. I'm glad of that, John. Yes, Amherst again ascended. The morrow was to be a great day at Westmore. The emergency hospital planned in the first months of his marriage and abandoned in the general reduction of expenditure at the mills had now been completed on a larger and more elaborate scale as a memorial to Bessie. The strict retrenchment of all personal expenses and the leasing of Lindbrook in the townhouse had enabled Amherst in eighteen months to lay by enough income to carry out this plan, which he was impatient to see executed as a visible commemoration of his wife's generosity to Westmore. For Amherst persisted in regarding the gift of her fortune as a gift not to himself but to the mills. He looked on himself merely as the agent of her beneficent intentions. He was anxious that Westmore and Hannaford should take the same view, and the opening of the Westmore Memorial Hospital was therefore to be performed with an unwanted degree of ceremony. I am glad Mr. Langhope is coming, Mrs. Amherst repeated as they rose from the table. It shows dear, doesn't it, that he's really gratified, that he appreciates your motive. She raised a proud glance to her tall son, whose head seemed to tower higher than ever above her small proportions. Renewed self-confidence and the habit of command had in fact restored the erectness to Amherst's shoulders and the clearness to his eyes. The cleft between the brows was gone, and his veiled inward gaze had given place to a glance almost as outward looking and unspeculative as his mother's. It shows, well, yes, what you say, he rejoined with a slight laugh and a tap on her shoulder as she passed. He was under no illusions as to his father-in-law's attitude. He knew that Mr. Langhope would willingly have broken the will which deprived his granddaughter of half her inheritance, and that his subsequent show of friendliness was merely a concession to expediency. But in his present mood Amherst almost believed that time and closer relations might turn such sentiments into honest liking. He was very fond of his little stepdaughter and deeply sensible of his obligations toward her, and he hoped that, as Mr. Langhope came to recognize this, it might bring about a better understanding between them. His mother detained him. You're going back to the mills at once? I wanted to consult you about the rooms. Miss Brent had better be next to Sicily. I suppose so. Yes. I'll see you before I go. He nodded affectionately and passed on, his hands full of papers into the Oriental smoking-room, now dedicated to the unexpected uses of an office and study. Mrs. Amherst, as she turned away, found the parlor made in the act of opening the front door to the highly tinted and well-dressed figure of Mrs. Harry Dressel. I'm so delighted to hear that you're expecting Justine, began Mrs. Dressel as the two ladies passed into the drawing-room. Ah, you've heard too? Mrs. Amherst rejoined, and throwning her visitor in one of the monumental plush armchairs beneath the threatening weight of the Bay of Naples. I hadn't till this moment. In fact, I flew in to ask for news, and on the doorstep there was such a striking-looking young man inquiring for her, and I heard the parlor maid say she was arriving tomorrow. A young man? Someone you didn't know? Striking apparitions of the male sex were of infrequent occurrence at Hannaford, and Mrs. Amherst's unabated interest in the movement of life caused her to dwell on this statement. Oh, no! I'm sure he was a stranger, extremely slight and pale with remarkable eyes. He was so disappointed he seemed sure of finding her. Well, no doubt he'll come back tomorrow. You know we're expecting the whole party, added Mrs. Amherst, to whom the imparting of good news was always an irresistible temptation. Mrs. Dressel's interest deepened at once. Really, Mr. Langhope too? Yes, it's a great pleasure to my son. It must be. I'm so glad. I suppose in a way it will be rather sad for Mr. Langhope seeing everything here so unchanged. Mrs. Amherst straightened herself a little. I think he will prefer to find it so, she said, with a barely perceptible change of tone. Oh, I don't know. They were never very fond of this house. There was an added note of authority in Mrs. Dressel's accent. In the last few months she had been to Europe and had had nervous prostration, and these incontestable evidences of growing prosperity could not always be kept out of her voice and bearing. At any rate, they justified her in thinking that her opinion on almost any subject within the range of human experience was a valuable addition to the sum total of wisdom, and unabashed by the silence with which her comment was received, she continued her critical survey of the drawing-room. Dear Mrs. Amherst, you know I can't help saying what I think, and I've so often wondered why you don't do this room over. With these high ceilings you could do something lovely, in Louis says. A faint pink rose to Mrs. Amherst's cheeks. I don't think my son would ever care to make any changes here, she said. Oh, I understand his feeling, but when he begins to entertain, and you know poor Bessie always hated this furniture. Mrs. Amherst smiled slightly. Perhaps if he marries again, she said, seizing at random on a pretext for changing the subject. Mrs. Dressel dropped the hands with which she was absentmindedly assuring herself of the continuance of unbroken relations between her hat and her hair. Marries again? Why, you don't mean. He doesn't think of it. Not in the least, I spoke figuratively her hostess rejoined with a laugh. Oh, of course I see. He really couldn't marry, could he? I mean it would be so wrong to Sicily under the circumstances. Mrs. Amherst's black eyebrows gathered in a slight frown. She had already noticed, on the part of the Hannaford clan, a disposition to regard Amherst as imprisoned in the conditions of his trust, and committed to the obligation of handing on unimpaired to Sicily the fortune his wife's caprice had bestowed on him, and this open expression of the family view was singularly displeasing to her. I had not thought of it in that light. But it's really of no consequence how one looks at a thing that is not going to happen, she said carelessly. No, naturally. I see you were only joking. He's so devoted to Sicily, isn't he, Mrs. Dressel rejoined, with her bright obtuseness. A step on the threshold announced Amherst's approach. I'm afraid I must be off-mother, he began, halting in the doorway, with the instinctive masculine recoil from the afternoon caller. Oh, Mr. Amherst, how do you do? I suppose you're very busy about to-morrow? I just flew in to find out if Justine was really coming, Mrs. Dressel explained, a little fluttered by the effort of recalling what she had been saying when he entered. I believe my mother expects the whole party, Amherst replied, shaking hands with the false bonomy of the man entrapped. How delightful! And it's so nice to think that Mr. Langhope's arrangement with Justine still works so well, Mrs. Dressel hastened on, nervously hoping that her volubility would smother any recollection of what he had chanced to overhear. Mr. Langhope is lucky in having persuaded Miss Brent to take charge of Sicily, Mrs. Amherst quietly interposed. Yes, and it was lucky for Justine, too. When she came back from Europe with us last autumn, I could see she simply hated the idea of taking up her nursing again. Amherst's face starkened at the illusion, and his mother said hurriedly, ah, she was tired, poor child, but I'm only afraid that after the summer's rest she may want some more active occupation than looking after a little girl. Oh, I think not. She's so fond of Sicily, and of course it's everything to her to have a comfortable home. Mrs. Amherst smiled. At her age it's not always everything. Mrs. Dressel stared slightly. Oh, Justine's twenty-seven, you know. She's not likely to marry now, she said, with the mild finality of the early wedded. She rose as she spoke, extending cordial hands of farewell. You must be so busy preparing for the great day. If only it doesn't rain. No, please, Mr. Amherst, it's a mere step. I'm walking. That afternoon, as Amherst walked out toward Westmore for a survey of the final preparations, he found that, among the pleasant thoughts accompanying him, one of the pleasantest was the anticipation of seeing Justine Brent. Among the little group who were to surround him on the morrow, she was the only one discerning enough to understand what the day meant to him, or with sufficient knowledge to judge the use he had made of his great opportunity. Even now that the opportunity had come and all obstacles were leveled, sympathy with his work was as much lacking as ever, and only duplain at length reinstated his manager, really understood and shared in his aims. But Justine Brent's sympathy was of a different kind from the manager's. If less logical, it was warmer, more penetrating, like some fine, imponderable fluid, so subtle that it could always find a way through the clumsy processes of human intercourse. Amherst had thought very often of this quality in her during the weeks which followed his abrupt departure for Georgia, and in trying to define it he had said to himself that she felt with her brain. And now, aside from the instinct of understanding between them, she was set apart in his thoughts by her association with his wife's last days. On his arrival from the South, he had gathered on all sides evidences of her tender devotion to Bessie. In Mr. Tredegar's cherry praise swelled the general commendation. From the surgeons he heard how her unwearyed skill had helped them in their fruitless efforts. Poor Sicily awed by her loss, clung to her mother's friend with childish tenacity, and the young rector of St. Anne's, Shailia quitting himself of his visit of condolence, dwelt chiefly on the consolatory thought of Miss Brent's presence at the deathbed. The knowledge that Justine had been with his wife till the end had, in fact, done more than anything else to soften Amherst's regrets, and he had tried to express something of this in the course of his first talk with her. Justine had given him a clear and self-possessed report of the dreadful weeks at Lindbrook, but at his first allusion to her own part in them she shrank into a state of distress which seemed to plead with him to refrain from even the tenderest touch on her feelings. It was a peculiarity of their friendship that silence and absence had always mysteriously fostered its growth, and he now felt that her reticence deepened the understanding between them as the freest confidences might not have done. Soon afterward an opportune attack of nervous prostration had sent Mrs. Harry Dressel abroad, and Justine was selected as her companion. They remained in Europe for six months, and on their return Amherst learned with pleasure that Mr. Langhope had asked Miss Brent to take charge of Sicily. Mr. Langhope's sorrow for his daughter had been aggravated by futile wrath at her unaccountable will, and the mixed sentiment, thus engendered, had found expression in a jealous outpouring of affection toward Sicily. He took immediate possession of the child, and in the first stages of his affliction her companionship had been really consoling. But as time passed and the pleasant habits of years reasserted themselves, her presence became, in small, unacknowledged ways, a source of domestic irritation. Nursery hours disturbed the easy routine of his household. The elderly parlor maid who had long ruled it resented the intervention of Sicily's nurse. The little governess involved in the dispute broke down and had to be shipped home to Germany. A successor was hard to find, and in the interval Mr. Langhope's privacy was invaded by a stream of visiting teachers, who were always wanting to consult him about Sicily's lessons and lay before him their tiresome complaints and perplexities. Poor Mr. Langhope found himself in the position of the mourner who, in the first fervor of bereavement, has undertaken the construction of an imposing monument without having counted the cost. He had meant that his devotion to Sicily should be a monument to his paternal grief, but the foundations were scarcely laid when he found that the funds of time and patience were almost exhausted. Pride forbade his consigning Sicily to her stepfather, though Mrs. Amherst would gladly have undertaken her care. Mrs. Ansel's migratory habits made it impossible for her to do more than intermittently hover and advise, and a new hope rose before Mr. Langhope when it occurred to him to appeal to Miss Brent. The experiment had proved a success, and when Amherst met Justine again, she had been for some months in charge of the little girl, and change and congenial occupation had restored her to a normal view of life.  She was again the vivid creature who seemed more charged with life than any one he had ever known. The crisis through which she had passed showed itself only in a smoothing of the brow and deepening of the eyes, as though a bloom of experience had veiled without deadening the first brilliancy of youth. As he lingered on the image thus evoked, he recalled Mrs. Dressel's words. Justine is twenty-seven. She's not likely to marry now. Oddly enough he had never thought of her marrying, but now that he heard the possibility questioned, he felt a disagreeable conviction of its inevitableness. Mrs. Dressel's view was of course absurd. In spite of Justine's feminine graces, he had formerly felt in her a kind of elfin immaturity, as of a flitting aerial with untouched heart and senses. It was only of late that she had developed the subtle quality which calls up thoughts of love, not marry why the vagrant fire had just lighted on her and the fact that she was poor and unattached, with her own way to make and no setting of pleasure and elegance to embellish her, these disadvantages seemed as nothing to amherst against the warmth of personality in which she moved. And besides, she would never be drawn to the kind of man who needed fine clothes and luxury to point him to the charm of sex. She was always finished and graceful in appearance, with the pretty woman's art of wearing her few plain dresses as if they were many and varied, yet no one could think of her as attaching much importance to the upholstery of life. No, the man who won her would be of a different type, have other inducements to offer, and Amherst found himself wondering just what those inducements would be. Suddenly he remembered something his mother had said as he left the house, thinking about a distinguished-looking young man who had called to ask for Miss Brent. Mrs. Amherst, innocently inquisitive in small matters, had followed her son into the hall to ask the parlor maid if the gentleman had left his name, and the parlor maid had answered in the negative. The young man was evidently not indigenous. All the social units of Hannaford were intimately known to each other. He was a stranger, therefore, presumably drawn there by the hope of seeing Miss Brent. But if he knew that she was coming, he must be intimately acquainted with her movements. The thought came to Amherst as an unpleasant surprise. It showed him for the first time how little he knew of Justine's personal life, of the ties she might have formed outside the Lindbrook Circle. After all, he had seen her chiefly not among her own friends, but among his wives. Was it reasonable to suppose that a creature of her keen individuality would be content to subsist on the fringe of other existences? Somewhere, of course, she must have a center of her own, must be subject to influences of which he was wholly ignorant, and since her departure from Lindbrook he had known even less of her life. She had spent the previous winter with Mr. Langhope in New York, where Amherst had seen her only on his rare visits to Sicily, and Mr. Langhope on going abroad for the summer had established his granddaughter in a Bar Harbor cottage where, save for two flying visits from Mrs. Ansel, Miss Brent had reigned alone till his return in September. Very likely Amherst reflected the mysterious visitor was a Bar Harbor acquaintance—no, more than an acquaintance, a friend—and as Mr. Langhope's party had left Mount Desert but three days previously the arrival of the unknown at Hannaford showed a singular impatience to rejoin Miss Brent. As he reached this point in his meditations Amherst found himself at the street corner where it was his habit to pick up the Westmore trolley. Just as it bore down on him and he sprang to the platform another car coming in from the mills stopped to discharge its passengers. Among them Amherst noticed a slender undersized man in shabby clothes about whose retreating back as he crossed the street to signal a station avenue car there was something dimly familiar and suggestive of troubled memories. Amherst leaned out and looked again. Yes, the back was certainly like Dr. Wyance, but what could Wyance be doing at Hannaford and in a Westmore car? Amherst's first impulse was to spring out and overtake him. He knew how Admiral believed the young physician had borne himself at Lindbrook. He even recalled Dr. Garford's saying with his kindly skeptical smile. Poor Wyance believed to the end that we could save her and felt again his own inward movement of thankfulness that the cruel miracle had not been worked. He owed a great deal to Wyance and had tried to express his sense of the fact by warm words and a liberal fee, but since Bessie's death he had never returned to Lindbrook and had consequently lost sight of the young doctor. Now he felt that he ought to try to rejoin him to find out why he was at Hannaford and make some proffer of hospitality, but if the stranger were really Wyance his choice of the station avenue car made it appear that he was on his way to catch the New York Express and, in any case, Amherst's engagements at Westmore made immediate pursuit impossible. He consoled himself with the thought that if the physician was not leaving Hannaford he would be certain to call at the house and then his mind flew back to Justine Brent, but the pleasure of looking forward to her arrival was disturbed by new feelings. A sense of reserve and embarrassment had sprung up in his mind, checking that free mental communion which, as he now perceived, had been one of the unconscious promoters of their friendship. It was as though his thoughts faced a stranger instead of the familiar presence which had so long dwelt in them, and he began to see that the feeling of intelligence existing between Justine and himself was not the result of actual intimacy, but merely the charm she knew how to throw over casual intercourse. When he had left his house his mind was like a summer sky, all open blue and sunlit rolling clouds, but gradually the clouds had darkened and masked themselves till they drew an impenetrable veil over the upper light and stretched threateningly across his whole horizon. The Celebrations at Westmore were over. Hannaford Society, must-dream for the event, had streamed through the hospital, inspected the clinic, complimented Amherst, recalled itself to Mr. Langhope and Mrs. Ansel, and streamed out again to regain its carriages and motors. The chief actors in the ceremony were also taking leave. Mr. Langhope, some one of the most pale and nervous after the ordeal, had been helped into the Gaines' land-out with Mrs. Ansel and Sicily. Mrs. Amherst had accepted a seat in the Dressel Victoria, and Westie Gaines, with an empressement slightly tinged by condescension, was in the act of placing his electric faten at Miss Brent's disposal. She stood in the pretty white porch of the hospital, looking out of the window, looking out of the window, looking out of the window, looking out of the white porch of the hospital, looking out across its squares of flower-edged turf at the Long Street of Westmore. In the warm, gold-powdered light of September, the factory town still seemed a blot on the face of nature, yet here and there on all sides, Justine's eye saw signs of humanizing change. The rough banks along the street had been levelled and sodded, young maples set in rows already made a long festoon of gold against the dingy house fronts, and the houses themselves, once so irreclaimably outlawed and degraded, showed in their white-curtained windows their flowery white rail yards a growing approach to civilized human dwellings. Glancing the other way, one still met the grim pile of factories cutting the sky with their harsh reflines and blackened chimneys, but here also were signs of improvement. One of the mills had already been enlarged, another was scaffolded for the same purpose, and young trees and neatly fenced turf replaced the surrounding desert of trampled earth. As Amherst came out of the hospital, he heard Miss Brent declining a seat in Westy's Faten. Thank you so much, but there's someone here I want to see first, one of the operatives. I can easily take a Hannaford car. She held out her hand with a smile that ran like color over her whole face, and Westy, netled by this unaccountable disregard of her privileges, mounted his chariot alone. As he glided mournfully away, Amherst turned to Justine. You wanted to see the Dylan's? he asked. Their eyes met and she smiled again. He had never seen her so sunned over, so luminous, since the distant November day, when they had picnicked with Sicily beside the swamp. He wondered vaguely if she were more elaborately dressed than usual, or if the festal impression she produced were simply a reflection of her mood. I do want to see the Dylan's. How did you guess, she rejoined, and Amherst felt a sudden impulse to reply, for the same reason that made you think of them? The fact of her remembering the Dylan's made him absurdly happy. It re-established between them the mental communion that had been checked by his thoughts of the previous day. I suppose I'm rather self-conscious about the Dylan's, because they're one of my object lessons. They illustrate the text, he said, laughing, as they went down the steps. Westmore had been given a half-holiday for the opening of the hospital, and as Amherst and Justine turned into the street, parties of workers were dispersing toward their houses. They were still a dull-eyed, stunted throng, to whom air and movement seemed to have been too long denied. But there was more animation in the groups, more light in individual faces. Many of the younger men returned Amherst's good day with a look of friendliness, and the women to whom he spoke met him with a volubility that showed the habit of frequent intercourse. How much you have done, Justine exclaimed, as he rejoined her after one of these asides. But the next moment he saw a shade of embarrassment across her face, as though she feared to have suggested comparisons she had meant to avoid. He answered quite naturally, Yes, I'm beginning to see my way now, and it's wonderful how they respond. And they walked on without a shadow of constraint between them, while he described to her what was already done and what direction his projected experiments were taking. The Dylan's had been placed in charge of one of the old factory tenements, now transformed into a lodging-house for unmarried operatives. Even its harsh brick exterior, hung with creepers and brightened by flower borders, had taken on a friendly air, and indoors it had a clean, sunny kitchen, a big dining-room with cheerful colored walls, and a room where the men could lounge and smoke about a table covered with papers. The creation of these model lodging-houses had always been a favorite scheme of Amherst's, and the Dylan's, incapacitated for factory work, had shown themselves admirably adapted to their new duties. In Mrs. Dylan's small, hot sitting-room, among the starched sofatitis and pink shells that testified to the family prosperity, Justine shone with enjoyment and sympathy. She had always taken an interest in the lives and thoughts of working people, not so much the constructive interest of the sociological mind as the vivid imaginative concern of a heart open to every human appeal. She liked to hear about their hard struggles and small pathetic successes, the children's sicknesses, the father's lucky job, the little sum they had been able to put by, the plans they formed for Tommy's advancement, and how Sue's good marks at school were still ahead of Mrs. Hagan's marries. What I really like is to gossip with him and give them advice about the baby's cough and the cheapest way to do their marketing, she said, laughing, as she and Amherst emerged once more into the street. It's the same kind of interest I used to feel in my dolls and guinea-pigs, a managing, interfering old maid's interest. I don't believe I should care a straw for them if I couldn't dose them and order them about." Amherst laughed, too. He recalled the time when he had dreamed that just such warm personal sympathy was her sex's destined contribution to the broad work of human beneficence. Well, it had not been a dream. Here was a woman whose deeds spoke for her, and suddenly the thought came to him. What might they not do at Westmore together? The brightness of it was blinding, like the dazzle of sunlight which faced them as they walked toward the mills. But it left him speechless, confused, glad to have a pretext for routing to plane out of the office, introducing him to Miss Brent and asking him for the keys of the building. It was wonderful, again, how she grasped what he was doing at the mills and saw how his whole scheme hung together, harmonizing the work and leisure of the operatives instead of treating them as half machine, half man, and neglecting the man for the machine. Nor was she content with utopian generalities. She wanted to know the how and why of each case, to hear what conclusions he drew from his results, to what solutions his experiments pointed. In explaining the millwork, he forgot his constraint and returned to the free camaraderie of mind that had always marked their relation. He turned the key reluctantly in the last door and paused a moment on the threshold. Anything more, he said, with a laugh meant to hide his desire to prolong their tour. She glanced up at the sun, which still swung free of the tall factory roofs. As much as you've time for, Cicely doesn't need me this afternoon, and I can't tell when I shall see Westmore again. Her words fell on him with a chill. His smile faded, and he looked away for a moment. But I hope Cicely will be here often, he said. Oh, I hope so too, she rejoined, with seeming unconsciousness of any connection between the wish and her previous words. Amherst hesitated. He had meant to propose a visit to the old El Dorado building, which now at last housed the long-desired night-schools in nursery. But since she had spoken, he felt a sudden indifference to showing her anything more. What was the use if she meant to leave Cicely and drift out of his reach? He could get on well enough without sympathy and comprehension, but his momentary indulgence in them made the ordinary taste of life a little flat. There must be more to see, she continued, as they turned back toward the village, and he answered absently. Oh, yes, if you like. He heard the change in his own voice, and knew by her quick side-glance that she had heard it too. Please let me see everything that is compatible with my getting a car to Hannaford by six. Well, then, the night-school next, he said, with an effort at lightness, and to shake off the importunity of his own thoughts, he added carelessly as they walked on. By the way, it seems improbable, but I think I saw Dr. Wyant yesterday in a Westmore car. She echoed the name in surprise. Dr. Wyant, really, are you sure? Not quite, but if it wasn't he it was his ghost. You haven't noticed being at Hannaford? No, I've heard nothing of him for ages. Something in her tone made him return her side-glance, but her voice on closer analysis denoted only indifference, and her profile seemed to express the same negative sentiment. He remembered a vague Lindbrook rumor to the effect that the young doctor had been attracted to Miss Brent. Such floating seeds of gossip seldom rooted themselves in his mind, but now the fact acquired a new significance, and he wondered how he could have thought so little of it at the time. Probably her somewhat exaggerated air of indifference simply meant that she had been bored by Wyant's attentions, and that the reminder of them still roused a slight self-consciousness. Amherst was relieved by this conclusion, and murmuring, oh, I suppose it can't have been he, led her rapidly on to the Lado. But the old sense of free communion was again obstructed, and her interest in the details of the schools and nursery now seemed to him only a part of her wonderful art of absorbing herself in other people's affairs. He was a fool to have been duped by it, to have fancied it was anything more personal than a grace of manner. As she turned away from inspecting the blackboards in one of the empty school rooms, he paused before her and said suddenly, you spoke of not seeing Westmore again. Are you thinking of leaving Sicily? The words were almost the opposite of those he had intended to speak. It was as if some irrepressible inner conviction flung defiance at his surface distrust of her. She stood still also, and he saw a thought move across her face. Not immediately, but perhaps when Mr. Langhope can make some other arrangement. Owing to the half-holiday they had the school building to themselves, and the fact of being alone with her, without fear of interruption, woken Amherst an uncontrollable longing to taste for once the joy of unguarded utterance. Why do you go, he asked, moving close to the platform on which she stood. She hesitated, resting her hand on the teacher's desk. Her eyes were kind, but he thought her tone was rather cold. This easy life is rather out of my line, she said at length, with a smile that draped her words in vagueness. Amherst looked at her again. She seemed to be growing remote and inaccessible. You mean that you don't want to stay. His tone was so abrupt that it called forth one of her rare blushes. No, not that. I have been very happily with Sicily, but soon I shall have to be doing something else. Why was she blushing? And what did her last phrase mean? Something else. The blood hummed in his ears. He began to hope she would not answer too quickly. She had sunk into the seat behind the desk, propping her elbows on its lid and letting her interlaced hands support her chin. A little bunch of violets which had been thrust into the folds of her dress detached itself and fell to the floor. What I mean is, she said in a low voice raising her eyes to Amherst's, that I've had a great desire lately to get back to real work, my special work. I've been too idle for the last year. I want to do some hard nursing. I want to help people who are miserable. She spoke earnestly, almost passionately, and as he listened his undefined fear was lifted.  All her glow had faded. She was a done, thrush-like creature, clothed in semi-tints, yet she seemed much nearer than when her smile shot light on him.  Suddenly he raised his head and broke out with a boyish blush. Could it have been Wyant who was trying to see you? Dr. Wyant, trying to see me? She lowered her hands to the desk and sat looking at him with open wonder. He saw the irrelevance of his question and burst, in spite of himself, into youthful laughter. I mean, it's only that an unknown visitor called at the house yesterday and insisted that you must have arrived. He seemed so annoyed at not finding you that I thought, I imagined, it would be someone who knew you very well and who had followed you here for some special reason.  Some special reason? And just now, he blurted out, when you said you might not stay much longer with Sicily, I thought of the visit and wondered if there was someone you meant to marry. A silence fell between her eyes. Justine rose slowly, her eyes screened under the veil she had lowered. No, I don't mean to marry, she said, half-smiling as she came down from the platform.  She took a few steps toward the window, looked out into the deserted street. It's growing dark, I must go home, she said. Yes, he assented absently as he followed her. He had no idea what she was saying. The inner voices in which they habitually spoke were growing louder than outward words. Or was it only the voice of his own desires that he heard? The cry of new hopes and unguessed capacities of living? All within him was flood-tied. This was the top of life, surely, to feel her alike in his brain and his pulses, to steep sight and hearing in the joy of her nearness, while all the while thought spoke clear. This is the mate of my mind. He began abruptly. Wouldn't you marry if it gave you the chance to do what you say, if it offered you hard work and the opportunity to make things better for a great many people, as no one but yourself could do it? It was a strange way of putting his case. He was aware of it before it ended. But it had not occurred to him to tell her that she was lovely and desirable. In his humility he thought that what he had to give would plead better for him than what he was. The effect produced on her by his question, though undecipherable, was extraordinary. She stiffened a little, remaining quite motionless, her eyes on the street. You, she just breathed, and he saw that she was beginning to tremble. His wooing had been harsh and clumsy. He was afraid it had offended her, and his hand trembled too as it sought hers. I only thought it would be a dull business to most women, and I'm tied to it for life, but I thought, I've seen so often how you pity suffering, how you long to relieve it. She turned away from him with a shuddering sigh.  Amherst was frightened. How senseless of him to go on reiterating the old plea he ought to have pleaded for himself to have let the man in him seek her and take his defeat instead of beating about the flimsy bush of philanthropy. I only meant I was trying to make my work recommend me, he said with a half laugh as she remained silent, her eyes still turned away. The silence continued for a long time. It stretched between them like a narrowing interminable road, down which, with a leaden heart, he seemed to watch her gradually disappearing. And then unexpectedly as she shrank to a tiny speck at the dip of the road, the perspective was mysteriously reversed, and he felt her growing nearer again, felt her close to him, felt her hand in his. I'm really just like other women, you know. I shall like it, because it's your work, she said. CHAPTER XXXII Why on earth don't you say so?  Why on earth don't you say so? Don't you call me a triple-dyed fool for bringing them together, he challenged. challenged Mrs. Ansel, as they had the matter out together in the small, intimate drawing-room of her New York apartment. Mrs. Ansel, stirring her tea with a pensive hand, met the challenge composedly. At present you're doing it for me, she reminded him, and after all I'm not so disposed to agree with you. Not agree with me? But she told me not to engage Miss Brent. Didn't you tell me not to engage her? She made a hesitating motion of assent. Good Lord, how was I to help myself? No man was ever in such a quandary he broke off, leaping back to the other side of the argument. No, she said, looking up at him suddenly. I believe that for the first time in your life you were sorry then that you hadn't married me. She held his eyes for a moment with a look of gentle malice, then he laughed and drew forth his cigarette case. Oh, come! You've inverted the formula, he said, reaching out for the enameled matchbox at his elbow. She let the pleasantry pass with a slight smile, and he went on reverting to his grievance. Why didn't you want me to engage Miss Brent? Oh, I don't know, some instinct. You won't tell me. I couldn't if I tried, and now after all. After all what? She reflected. You'll have sissily off your mind, I mean. Sissily off my mind? Mr. Langhope was beginning to find his charming friend less consolatory than usual. After all, the most magnanimous woman has her circuitous way of saying I told you so. As if any good governess couldn't have done that for me, he grumbled. Ah, the present care for her. But I was looking ahead, she rejoined. To what, if I may ask? The next few years, when Mrs. Amherst may have children of her own. Children of her own? He bounded up furious at the suggestion. Had it never occurred to you? Hardly as a source of consolation. I think a philosophic mind might find it so. I should really be interested to know how. Mrs. Ansel put down her cup, and again turned her gentle tolerant eyes upon him. Mr. Amherst, as a father, will take a more conservative view of his duties. Everyone agrees that, in spite of his theories, he has a good head for business, and whatever he does at Westmore for the advantage of his children will naturally be for Sissily's advantage too. Mr. Langhope returned her gaze thoughtfully. There's something in what you say, he admitted after a pause, but it doesn't alter the fact that, with Amherst unmarried, the whole of the Westmore fortune would have gone back to Sissily, where it belongs. Possibly, but it was so unlikely that he would remain unmarried. I don't see why a man of honour would have felt bound to keep the money for Sissily. But you must remember that from Mr. Amherst's standpoint the money belongs rather to Westmore than to Sissily. He's no better than a socialist then. Well, supposing he isn't, the birth of a son and heir will cure that. Mr. Langhope winced, but she persisted gently. It's really safer for Sissily as it is, and before the end of the conference he found himself confessing half against his will. Well, since he hadn't the decency to remain single, I'm thankful he hasn't inflicted a stranger on us, and I never shall forget what Miss Brent did for my poor Bessie. It was the view she had wished to bring him to, and the view which, in due course, with all his accustomed grace and adaptability he presented to the searching gaze of a society profoundly moved by the incident of Amherst's marriage. Of course, if Mr. Langhope approves, society reluctantly murmured, and that Mr. Langhope did approve was presently made manifest by every outward show of consideration toward the newly wedded couple. Amherst and Justine had been married in September, and after a holiday in Canada and the Adirondacks they returned to Haniford for the winter. Amherst had proposed a short flight to Europe, but his wife preferred to settle down at once to her new duties. The announcement of her marriage had been met by Mrs. Dressel with a comment which often afterward returned to her memory. It's splendid for you, of course, dear, in one way, her friendhood murmured, between disparagement and envy—that is, if you can stand talking about the Westmore mill-hands all the rest of your life. Oh, but I couldn't! I should hate it, Justine had energetically rejoined, meeting Mrs. Dressel's admonitory well then, with the laughing assurance that she meant to lead the conversation. She knew well enough what the admonition meant. To Amherst, so long thwarted in his chosen work, the subject of Westmore was becoming anide-fix, and it was natural that Haniford should class him as a man of one topic. But Justine had guessed at his other side—a side as long thwarted, and far less articulate, which she intended to waken to life. She had felt it in him from the first, though their talks had so uniformly turned on the subject, which pawled on Haniford, and it had been revealed to her during the silent hours among his books when she had grown into such close intimacy with his mind. She did not assuredly mean to spend the rest of her days talking about the Westmore mill-hands, but in the arrogance of her joy she wished to begin her married life in the setting of its habitual duties, and to achieve the victory of evoking the secret unsuspected Amherst out of the preoccupied businessman chained to his task. Dull lovers might have to call on romantic scenes to wake romantic feelings, but Justine's glancing imagination leapt to the challenge of extracting poetry from the prose of routine. And this was precisely the triumph that the first months brought her. To mortal eye Amherst and Justine seemed to be living at Haniford. In reality they were voyaging on unmapped seas of adventure. The seas were limitless and studded with happy islands. Every fresh discovery they made about each other, every new agreement of ideas and feelings offered itself to these intrepid explorers as a friendly coast where they might beach their keel and take their bearings. Thus in the thronging hum of metaphor Justine sometimes pictured their relation, seeing it again as a journey through crowded, populous cities where every face she met was Amherst's, or contrary, as a multiplication of points of perception, so that one became for the world's contact a surface so multitudinously alive that the old myth of hearing the grass grow and walking the rainbow explained itself as the heightening of personality to the utmost pitch of sympathy. In reality the work at Westmore became an almost necessary sedative after these flights into the blue. She felt sometimes that they would have been bankrupted of sensations if daily hours of drudgery had not provided a reservoir in which fresh powers of enjoyment could slowly gather. And their duties had the rare quality of constituting, precisely, the deepest, finest bond between them, the clarifying element which saved their happiness from stagnation and kept it in the strong midcurrent of human feeling. It was this element in their affection which, in the last days of November, was unexpectedly put on trial. Mr. Langhope, since his return from his annual visit to Europe, showed signs of diminishing strength and elasticity. He had had to give up his nightly dinner parties, to desert his stall at the opera, to take in short, as he plaintively put it, his social pleasures homeopathically. Certain of his friends explained the change by saying that he had never been quite the same since his daughter's death, while others found its determining cause in the shock of Amherst's second marriage. But this insinuation Mr. Langhope in due time discredited by writing to ask the Amhersts if they would not pity his loneliness and spend the winter in town with him. The proposal came in a letter to Justine, which she handed to her husband one afternoon on his return from the Mills. She sat behind the tea-table in the Westmore drawing-room, now at last transformed, not into Mrs. Dressel's vision of something lovely in Louis's, but into a warm yet sober setting for books, for scattered flowers, for deep chairs and shaded lamps in pleasant nearness to each other. Amherst raised his eyes from the letter, thinking, as he did so, how well her bright head, with its flame-like play of meanings, fitted into the background she had made for it. Still unobservant of external details, he was beginning to feel a vague well-being of the eye wherever her touch had passed. Well, we must do it, he said simply. Oh, must we? she murmured, holding out his cup. He smiled at her note of dejection. Unnatural woman! New York versus Hannaford? Do you really dislike it so much? She tried to bring a tone of consent into her voice. I shall be very glad to be with Cicely again, and that, of course, she reflected, is the reason why Mr. Langhope wants us. Well, if it is, it's a good reason. Yes, but how much shall you be with us? If you say so, I'll arrange to get away for a month or two. Oh, no, I don't want that, she said, with a smile that triumphed a little. But why should not Cicely come here? If Mr. Langhope is cut off from his usual amusements, I'm afraid that would only make him more lonely. Yes, I suppose so.  Amherst rose and seated himself on the sofa beside her. Dear, what is it, he said, drawing her hands down, so that she had to turn her face to his? Nothing. I don't know. A superstition. I've been so happy here. Is our happiness too perishable to be transplanted? She smiled and answered by another question. You don't mind doing it, then? Amherst hesitated. Shall I tell you? I feel that it's a sort of ring of policities. It may buy off the jealous gods. A faint shrinking from some importunate suggestion seemed to press her closer to him. Then you feel they are jealous, she breathed in a half laugh. I pity them if they're not. Yes, she agreed, rallying to his tone.  Amherst drew her to him. Isn't it, on the contrary, in the ash heaps that the rag pickers prowl? There was no disguising it. She was growing afraid of her happiness. Her husband's analogy of the ring expressed her fear. She seemed to herself to carry a blazing jewel on her breast, something that singled her out for human envy and divine pursuit. She had a preposterous longing to dress plainly and shabbily, to subdue her voice and gestures, to try to slip through life unnoticed, yet all the while she knew that her jewel would shoot its rays through every disguise. And from the depths of ancient atavistic instincts came the hope that Amherst was right. That by sacrificing their precious solitude to Mr. Langhope's convenience they might still deceive the gods. Once pledged to her new task, Justine as usual espoused it with ardor. It was pleasant, even among greater joys, to see her husband again frankly welcomed by Mr. Langhope, to see Cicely bloom into happiness at their coming, and to overhear Mr. Langhope exclaim in a confidential aside to his son-in-law. It's wonderful, the Bienet that wife of yours diffuses about her. The element of Bienet was the only one in which Mr. Langhope could draw breath, and to those who kept him immersed in it he was prodigal of delicate attentions. The experiment, in short, was a complete success, and even Amherst's necessary weeks at Hannaford had the merit of giving a finer flavor to his brief appearances. Of all this Justine was thinking as she drove down Fifth Avenue one January afternoon to meet her husband at the Grand Central Station. She had tamed her happiness at last. The quality of fear had left it, and it nestled in her heart like some wild creature subdued to human ways. And as her inward bliss became more and more a quiet habit of the mind, the longing to help and minister returned, absorbing her more deeply in her husband's work. She dismissed the carriage at the station, and when his train had arrived they emerged together into the cold winter twilight and turned up Madison Avenue. These walks home from the station gave them a little more time to themselves than if they had driven, and there was always so much to tell on both sides. This time the news was all good. The work at Westmore was prospering, and on Justine's side there was a more cheerful report of Mr. Langhope's health, and best of all, his promise to give them Sicily for the summer. Amherst and Justine were both anxious that the child should spend more time at Hannaford, that her young associations should begin to gather about Westmore, and Justine exalted in the fact that the suggestion had come from Mr. Langhope himself, while she and Amherst were still planning how to lead him up to it. They reached the house while this triumph was still engaging them, and in the doorway Amherst turned to her with a smile. And of course, dear man, he believes the idea is all his.  I don't think there is, she boasted, falling gaily into his tone, and then as the door opened and she entered the hall, her eyes fell on a blotted envelope which lay among the letters on the table. The parlor made proffered it with a word of explanation. A gentleman left it for you, madam. He asked to see you, and said he'd call for the answer in a day or two. Another begging letter, I suppose, said Amherst, turning into the drawing-room, where Mr. Langhope and Sicily awaited them. And Justine, carelessly pushing the envelope into her muff, murmured, I suppose so, as she followed him. End of Book Four, Chapter 32 Book Four, Chapter 33 of the Fruit of the Tree Over the tea-table, Justine forgot the note in her muff, but when she went upstairs to dress, it fell to the floor, and she picked it up and laid it on her dressing-table. She had already recognized the hand as Wyance, for it was not the first letter she had received from him. Three times since her marriage, he had appealed to her for help, excusing himself on the plea of difficulties and ill health. The first time he wrote, he alluded vaguely to having married and to being compelled, through illness, to give up his practice at Clifton. On receiving this letter she made enquiries and learned that, a month or two after her departure from Lindbrook, Wyant had married a Clifton girl, a pretty piece of flaunting innocence, whom she remembered about the lanes, generally with a young man and a buggy. There had evidently been something obscure and precipitated about the marriage, which was a strange one for the ambitious young doctor. Justine conjectured that it might have been the cause of his leaving Clifton, or perhaps he had already succumbed to the fatal habit she had suspected in him. At any rate he seemed, in some mysterious way, to have dropped in two years from promise to failure. Yet she could not believe that with his talents and the name he had begun to make such a lapse could be more than temporary. She had often heard Dr. Garford prophecy great things for him, but Dr. Garford had died suddenly during the previous summer, and the loss of this powerful friend was mentioned by Wyant among his misfortunes. Wyant was anxious to help him, but her marriage to a rich man had not given her the command of much money. She and Amherst, choosing to regard themselves as pensioners on the Westmore fortune, were scrupulous in restricting their personal expenditure, and her work among the millhands brought many demands on the modest allowance which her husband had insisted on her accepting. In reply to Wyant's first appeal, which reached her soon after her marriage, she had sent him a hundred dollars, but when the second came two months later, with a fresh tale of ill luck and ill health, she had not been able to muster more than half the amount. Finally a third letter had arrived, a short time before they were leaving for New York. It told the same story of persistent misfortune, but on this occasion Wyant, instead of making a direct appeal for money, suggested that through her hospital connections she should help him to establish a New York practice. His tone was half whining, half peremptory, his once precise writing smeared and illegible, and these indications, combined with her former suspicions, convinced her that, for the moment, he was unfit for medical work. At any rate, she could not assume the responsibility of recommending him, and, in answering, she advised him to apply to some of the physicians he had worked with at Lindbrook, softening her refusal by the enclosure of a small sum of money. To this letter she received no answer. Wyant doubtless found the money insufficient, and resented her unwillingness to help him by the use of her influence, and she felt sure that the note before her contained a renewal of his former request. An obscure reluctance made her begin to undress before opening it. She felt slightly tired and indolently happy, and she did not wish any jarring impression to break in on the sense of completeness which her husband's coming always put into her life. Her happiness was making her timid and luxurious. She was beginning to shrink from even trivial annoyances.  Wyant's note once more confronted her. It was absurd to put off reading it. If he asked for money again, she would simply confide the whole business to Amherst. She had never spoken to her husband of her correspondence with Wyant. The mere fact that the latter had appealed to her, instead of addressing himself to Amherst, made her suspect that he had a weakness to hide and counted on her professional discretion. But his continued importunities would certainly release her from any such supposed obligation, and she thought with relief of casting the weight of her difficulty on her husband's shoulders. She opened the note and read, I did not acknowledge your last letter, because I was ashamed to tell you that the money was not enough to be of any use. But I am past shame now. My wife was confined three weeks ago and has been desperately ill ever since. She is in no state to move, but we shall be put out of these rooms unless I can get money or work at once. A word from you would have given me a start in New York, and I'd be willing to begin again as an intern or a doctor's assistant. I have never reminded you of what you owe me, and I should not do so now if I hadn't been to hell and back since I saw you. But I suppose you would rather have me remind you than apply to Mr. Amherst. You can tell me when to call for my answer. Jane laid down the letter and looked up. Her eyes rested on her own reflection in the glass, and it frightened her. She sat motionless with a thickly beating heart, one hand clenched on the letter. I suppose you would rather have me remind you than apply to Mr. Amherst. That was what his importunity meant then. She had been paying blackmail all this time, somewhere from the first in an obscure fold of consciousness she had felt the stir of an unnamed unacknowledged fear, and now the fear raised its head and looked at her. Well, she would look back at it then, look it straight in the malignant eye. What was it, after all, but a bugbear to scare children, the ghost of the opinion of the many? She had suspected from the first that Wyant knew of her having shortened the term of Bessie Amherst's sufferings. Returning to the room when he did, it was almost impossible that he should not have guessed what had happened, and his silence made her believe that he understood her motive and approved it. But supposing she had been mistaken. Still she had nothing to fear, since she had done nothing that her own conscience condemned. If the act were to do again she would do it. She had never known a moment's regret. Only she heard Amherst's step in the passage. She heard him laughing and talking as he chased Cicely up the stairs to the nursery. If she was not afraid, why had she never told Amherst? Why, the answer to that was simple enough, she had not told him because she was not afraid. From the first she had retained sufficient detachment to view her act impartially, to find it completely justified by circumstances, and to decide that, since those circumstances could be but partly and indirectly known to her husband, she not only had the right to keep her own counsel, but was actually under a kind of obligation not to force on him the knowledge of a fact that he could not alter and could not completely judge. Was there any flaw in this line of reasoning? Did it not show a deliberate wane of conditions, a perfect rectitude of intention? And after all, she had had Amherst's virtual consent to her act. She knew his feelings on such matters, his independence of traditional judgments, his horror of inflicting needless pain. She was as sure of his intellectual ascent as of her own. She was even sure that when she told him he would appreciate her reasons for not telling him before. For now, of course, he must know everything. This horrible letter made it inevitable. She regretted that she had decided, though for the best reasons not to speak to him of her own accord, for it was intolerable that he should think of any external pressure as having brought her to a vowel. But no, he would not think that. The understanding between them was so complete that no deceptive array of circumstances could ever make her motives obscure to him. She let herself rest a moment in the thought. Presently she heard him moving in the next room. He had come back to dress for dinner. She would go to him now, at once, she could not bear this weight on her mind the whole evening.  She could not go to her husband with such a face. If she was not afraid, why did she look like that? Well, she was afraid. It would be easier and simpler to admit it. She was afraid, afraid for the first time, afraid for her own happiness. She had had just eight months of happiness. It was horrible to think of losing it so soon. Losing it? But why should she lose it? The letter must have affected her brain. All her thoughts were in a blur of fear. Fear of what? Of the man who understood her as no one else understood her? The man to whose wisdom and mercy she trusted as the believer trusts in God? This was a kind of abominable nightmare. Even Amherst's image had been distorted in her mind. The only way to clear her brain, to recover the normal sense of things, was to go to him now, at once, to feel his arms about her, to let his kiss dispel her fears. She rose with a long breath of relief. She had to cross the length of the room to reach his door, and when she had gone halfway she heard him knock. May I come in? She was close to the fireplace, and a bright fire burned on the hearth. Come in, she answered, and as she did so she turned and dropped Wyance's letter into the fire. Her hand had crushed it into a little ball, and she saw the flames spring up and swallow it before her husband entered. It was not that she had changed her mind. She still meant to tell him everything, but to hold the letter was like holding a venomous snake. She wanted to exterminate it, to forget that she had ever seen the blotted repulsive characters, and she could not bear to have Amherst's eyes rest on it, to have him know that any man had dared to write to her in that tone. What vile meanings might not be read between Wyance's phrases? She had a right to tell the story in her own way, the true way. As Amherst approached in his evening clothes, the heavy locks smoothed from his forehead, a flower of Sicily's giving in his buttonhole, she thought she had never seen him look so kind and handsome. Not dressed? Do you know that it's ten minutes to eight, he said, coming up to her with a smile. She roused herself, putting her hands to her hair. Yes, I know, I forgot, she murmured, longing to feel his arms about her, but standing rooted to the ground, unable to move an inch nearer. It was he who came close, drawing her lifted hands into his. You look worried. I hope it was nothing troublesome that made you forget. The divine kindness in his voice, his eyes. Yes, it would be easy, quite easy to tell him. No, yes, I was a little troubled, she said, feeling the warmth of his touch flow through her hands reassuringly. Dear, about what? She drew a deep breath. The letter, he looked puzzled. What letter? Downstairs, when we came in. It was not an ordinary begging letter. No, what then, he asked, his face clouding. She noticed the change, and it frightened her. Was he angry? Was he going to be angry? But how absurd! He was only distressed at her distress. What then, he repeated, more gently. She looked up into his eyes for an instant. It was a horrible letter, she whispered, as she pressed her clasp hands against him.  Horrible? What do you mean? She had never seen him angry. But she felt suddenly that, to the guilty creature, his anger would be terrible. He would crushwiant. She must be careful how she spoke. I didn't mean that. Only painful. Where is the letter? Let me see it. Oh no, she exclaimed shrinking away. Justine, what has happened? What ails you? On a blind impulse she had backed toward the hearth, propping her arms against the mantelpiece while she stole a secret glance at the embers. Nothing remained of it. No, nothing. But suppose it was against herself that his anger turned? The idea was preposterous, yet she trembled at it. It was clear that she must say something at once, must somehow account for her agitation. But the sense that she was unnerved no longer in control of her face, her voice, had made her feel that she would tell her story badly if she told it now. Had she not the right to gain a respite to choose her own hour? Weakness. Weakness again. Every delay would only increase the phantom terror. Now, now with her head on his breast. She turned toward him and began to speak impulsively. I can't show you the letter because it's not, not my secret. Ah, he murmured, perceptibly relieved. It's from someone unlucky whom I've known about, and whose troubles have been troubling you. But can't we help? She shown on him through gleaming lashes. Someone poor and ill, who needs money, I mean. She tried to laugh away her tears. And I haven't any. That's my trouble. Foolish child. And to beg you are ashamed. And so you're letting your tears cool Mr. Lang Hope's soup?  Will a hundred dollars do, he asked with a smile as he released her. A hundred dollars. No, she was almost sure they would not. But she tried to shape a murmur of gratitude. Thank you. Thank you. I hated to ask. I'll write the check at once. No, no, she protested. There's no hurry. But he went back to his room, and she turned again to the toilet table. Her face was painful to look at still. But a light was breaking through its fear. She felt the touch of a narcotic in her veins. How calm and peaceful the room was, and how delicious to think that her life would go on in it, safely and peacefully in the old familiar way. As she swept up her hair, passing the comb through it, and flinging it dexterously over her lifted wrist, she heard Amherst cross the floor behind her and paused to lay something on her writing-table. Thank you, she murmured again, lowering her head as he passed. When the door had closed on him, she thrust the last pin into her hair, dashed some drops of cologne on her face, and went over to the writing-table. As she picked up the check, she saw it was for three hundred dollars. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. THE FRUIT OF THE TREE by Edith Wharton. Book 4, Chapter 34. Once or twice in the days that followed, Justine found herself thinking that she had never known happiness before. The old state of secure well-being seemed now like a dreamless sleep, but this new bliss, on its sharp pinnacle, ringed with fire, this thrilling conscious joy, daily and hourly snatched from fear. This was living, not sleeping. Wyatt acknowledged her gift with profuse, almost servile thanks. She had sent it without a word, saying to herself that pity for his situation made it possible to ignore his baseness. And the days went on as before. She was not conscious of any change, save in the heightened, almost artificial quality of her happiness, till one day in March, when Mr. Langhope announced that he was going for two or three weeks to a friend's shooting-box in the south. The anniversary of Bessie's death was approaching, and Justine knew that at that time he always absented himself. Supposing you and Amherst were to carry Sicily off till I come back. Perhaps you could persuade him to break away from work for once. Or, if that's impossible, you could take her with you to Hannaford. She looks a little pale, and the change would be good for her. This was a great concession on Mr. Langhope's part, and Justine saw the pleasure in her husband's face. It was the first time that his father-in-law had suggested Sicily's going to Hannaford. I'm afraid I can't break away just now, sir, Amherst said, but it will be delightful for Justine if you'll give us Sicily while you're away. Take her by all means, my dear fellow. I always sleep on both ears when she's with your wife. It was nearly three months since Justine had left Hannaford, and now she was to return there alone with her husband. There would be hours, of course, when the child's presence was between them, or when, again, his work would keep him at the mills. But in the evenings, when Sicily was in bed, when he and she sat alone, together in the Westmore drawing-room, in Bessie's drawing-room—no, she must find some excuse for remaining away till she had again grown used to the idea of being alone 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 was silenced. Till then she could not go back to Hannaford. She found a pretext in her own health. She pleaded that she was a little tired below par, and to return to Hannaford meant returning to hard work with the best will in the world she could not be idle there. Might she not, she suggested take Sicily to Tuxedo or Lakewood, and thus get quite away from household cares and good works. The pretext rang hollow. It was so unlike her. She saw Amherst's eyes rest anxiously on her as Mr. Langhope uttered his prompt dissent. Certainly she did look tired. Mr. Langhope himself had noticed it. Had he perhaps overtaxed her energies, left the household too entirely on her shoulders? Oh no, it was only the New York air. Like Sicily she pined for a breath of the woods. And so, the day Mr. Langhope left, she and Sicily were packed off to Lakewood. They stayed there a week. Then a fit of restlessness drove Justine back into town. She found an excuse in the constant rain. It was really useless, as she wrote Mr. Langhope, to keep the child imprisoned in an overheated hotel while they could get no benefit from the outdoor life. In reality she found the long, lonely hours unendurable. She pined for a sight of her husband and thought of committing Sicily to Mrs. Ansel's care and making a sudden dash for Hannaford. But the vision of the long evenings in the Westmore drawing-room again restrained her. No, she would simply go back to New York, dine out occasionally, go to a concert or two, trust to the usual demands of town life to crowd her hours with small activities. And in another week Mr. Langhope would be back, and the days would resume their normal course. On arriving she looked feverishly through the letters in the hall. One from Wyant, that fear was elade. Every day added to her reassurance. By this time no doubt he was on his feet again and ashamed, unutterably ashamed, of the threat that despair had rung from him. She felt almost sure that his shame would keep him from ever attempting to see her, or even from writing again. A gentleman called to see you yesterday, Madam, he would give no name, the parlor 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 he leave 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 parlor maid had not described the collar. Why jump to the conclusion that it was Wyant? Three days passed, and no letter came, no sign.  But it would not do.  She could not wholly trust them. And each day she felt a little easier, a little more convinced that the unknown visitor had not been Wyant. On the fourth day she received a letter from Amherst. He hoped to be back on the morrow, but as his plans were still uncertain he would telegraph 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 the theatre with Mrs. Ansel. She and Mrs. Ansel, though outwardly on perfect terms, had not greatly advanced in intimacy. The agitated, decentralized life of the older woman seemed futile and trivial to Justine. But on Mr. Langhope's account she wished to keep up an appearance of friendship with his friend, and the same motive doubtless inspired Mrs. Ansel. Just now at any rate Justine was grateful for her attentions, and glad to go about with her. Anything. Anything to get away from her own thoughts. That was the past she had come to. At the theatre in a proscenium box the publicity, the light and movement, the action of the play all helped to distract and quiet her. At such moments she grew ashamed of her fears. Why was she tormenting herself? If anything happened she had only to ask her husband for more money. She never spoke to him of her good works, and there would be nothing to excite suspicion in her asking help again for the friend whose secret she was pledged to keep. But nothing was going to happen. As the play progressed and the stimulus of talk and laughter flowed through her veins she felt a complete return of confidence. And then suddenly she glanced across the house and saw Wyant looking at her. He sat rather far back in one of the side-rows just beneath the balcony so that his face was partly shaded. But even in the shadow it frightened her. She had been prepared for a change but not for this ghastly deterioration. And he continued to look at her. She began to be afraid that he would do something conspicuous, point at her or stand up in his seat. She thought he looked half mad, or was it her own hallucination that made him appear so. She and Mrs. Ansel were alone in the box for the moment and she started up pushing back her chair. Mrs. Ansel leaned forward. What is it? Nothing, the heat. I'll sit back for a moment. But as she withdrew into the back of the box she was seized by a new fear. If he was still watching might Naughty come to the door and try to speak to her. Her only safety lay in remaining in full view of the audience and she returned to Mrs. Ansel's side. The other members of the party came back. The bell rang, the footlights blazed, the curtain rose. She lost herself in the mazes of the play. She sat so motionless, her face so intently turned toward the stage that the muscles at the back of her neck began to stiffen. And then quite suddenly toward the middle of the act she felt an undefinable sense of relief. She could not tell what caused it, but slowly, cautiously, while the eyes of the others were intent upon the stage, she turned her head and looked toward Wyant's seat. It was empty. Her first thought was that he had gone to wait for her outside. But no, there were two more acts. Why would he stand at the door for half the evening? At last the act ended. The entree act collapsed, the play went on again, and still the seat was empty. Gradually she persuaded herself that she had been mistaken in thinking that the man who had occupied it was Wyant. Her self-command returned. She began to think and talk naturally, to follow the dialogue on the stage, and when the evening was over and Mrs. Ansel sat her down at her door she had almost forgotten her fears. The next morning she felt calmer than for many days. She was sure now that if Wyant had wished to speak to her he would have waited at the door of the theatre, and the recollection of his miserable face made apprehension yield to pity. She began to feel that she had treated him coldly, uncharitably. They had been friends once, as well as fellow-workers, but she had been false even to the comradeship of the hospital. She should have sought him out and given him sympathy as well as money. Had she shown some sign of human kindness his last letter might never have been written. In the course of the morning Am Hurst telegraphed that he hoped to settle his business in time to catch the two o'clock express, but that his plans were still uncertain. Justine and Sicily lunched alone, and after luncheon the little girl was dispatched to her dancing class. Justine herself meant to go out when the braum returned. She went up to her room to dress, planning to drive in the park and to drop in on Mrs. Ansel before she called for Sicily, but on the way downstairs she saw the 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 a word of greeting and led the way to the drawing-room. It was a snowy afternoon, and in the raw, ash-coloured light she thought he looked more changed than at the theatre. She remarked, too, that his clothes were worn and untidy, his gloveless hands soiled and tremulous. None of the degrading signs of his infirmity were lacking, and she saw it once that, while in the early days of the habit he had probably mixed his drugs so that the conflicting symptoms neutralised each other, he had now sunk into open morphia-taking. She felt profoundly sorry for him, yet as he followed her into the room physical repulsion again mastered the sense of pity. But where action was possible she was always self-controlled, and she turned to him quietly as they seated themselves. I have been wishing to see you, she said, looking at him. I have felt that I ought to have done so sooner, to have told you how sorry I am for your bad luck. He returned her glance with surprise. They were evidently the last words he had expected. You're very kind, he said, in a low, embarrassed voice. He had kept on his shabby overcoat, and he twirled his hat in his hands as he spoke. I have felt, Justine continued, that perhaps a talk with you might be of more use. He raised his head, fixing her with bright, narrowed eyes. I have felt so too. That's my reason for coming. You sent me a generous present some weeks 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't you tell me just what has happened? She felt the words to be almost a mockery, yet she could not say, I read your history at a glance, and she hoped that her question might draw out his wretched secret, and thus give her a chance to speak frankly. He gave a nervous laugh. Just what has happened? It's a long story, and some of the details are not particularly pretty. He broke off moving his hat more rapidly through his trembling hands. Never mind, tell me. Well, after you all left Lindbrook I had rather a bad breakdown, the strain of Mrs. Amherst's case, I suppose. You remember Bramble, the Cliftongrocer? 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 my patients 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, and things went wrong again, damnably. I suppose you've guessed that my marriage was a mistake. She had an idea that we should do better in New York, 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 did not mean to acknowledge his failing, and knowing the secretiveness of the drug-taker, she decided he was deluded enough to think he could still deceive her. Well, he began again with an attempt at jauntiness. I've found out that in my profession it's a hard struggle to get on your feet again after illness or any bad setback. That's the reason I asked you to say a word for me. It's not only the money, though I need that badly. I want to get back my self-respect. With my record I oughtn't to be where I am, and you can speak for me better than any one. Why better than the doctors you've worked with? Justine put the question 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 to the particular thing I want. The particular thing? Yes. I understand that Mr. Langhope and Mrs. Ansel are both interested in the new wing for paying patients at St. Christopher's. I want the position 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 rough and almost menacing. Justine felt her color rise, and her heart began to beat confusedly. Here was the truth, then. She could no longer be the dupe of her own compassion. The man knew his power and meant to use it, but at the thought her courage was in arms. I'm sorry, but it's impossible, she said. Impossible? Why? She continued to look at him steadily.  Well, you must regain it before you can ask me, or anyone else, to recommend you to a position of trust. Why ain't half-rose with an angry murmur? My self-respect, what do you mean? I meant that I'd lost courage through ill luck.  He sank back into his seat, glowering at her under sullen brows. Then his expression gradually changed to half-sneering admiration.  Justine repressed a movement of disgust. I am very sorry for you, she said gravely. I saw this trouble coming on you long ago, and if there is any other way in which I can help you. Thanks, he returned, still sneering. Your sympathy is very precious. There was a time when I would have given my soul for it. But that's over, and I'm here to talk business. You say you saw my trouble coming 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, she replied. That's an easy way out of it. But you took everything from me, my first hope of marrying you, then my chance of a big success in my career, and I was desperate, weak if you like, and tried to deaden my feelings in order to keep up my pluck. Justine rose to her feet with a movement of impatience. Every word you say proves how unfit you are to assume any responsibility, to do anything but try to recover your health. If I can help you to that, I am still willing to do so. Why aren't Rose also moving a step nearer? Well, get me that place then. I'll seat at 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.  Oh, I don't say that. I'd like to earn my living honestly. Funny preference. But if you cut me off from that, I suppose it's only fair to let you make up for it. My wife and child have got to live. You choose a strange way of helping them, but I will do what I can, if you will go for a while to some institution. He broke in furiously. Institution be damned. You can't shuffle me out of the way like that. I'm all right. Good food is what I need. You think I've got morphia in me. Why, it's hunger. Justine heard him with a renewal of pity. Oh, I'm sorry for you. Very sorry. Why do you try to deceive me? Why do you deceive me? You know what I want and you know you've got to let me have it. If you won't give me a line to one of your friends at St. Christopher's, you'll have to give me another check. That's the size of it. As they faced each other in silence, Justine's pity gave way to a sudden hatred for the poor creature who stood shivering and sneering before her. You choose the wrong tone, and I think our talk has lasted long enough, she said, stretching her hand to the bell. Wyatt did not move. Don't ring, unless you want me to write to your husband, he rejoined. A sick feeling of helplessness overcame her, but she turned on him firmly. I pardoned you once for that threat. Yes, and you sent me some money the next day.  Gently, gently, bad names don't frighten me. It's hunger and debt I'm afraid of. Justine felt the last tremor of compassion. He was abominable, but he was pitiable too. I will really help you. I will see your wife and do what I can, but I can give you no money to-day. 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 had tried to force her mind to face dispassionately the chances it involved. After all, why not let him write to Amherst? The very vileness of the deed must rouse an indignation which would be all in her favor, would inevitably dispose her husband to ready her sympathy with the motive of her act, as contrasted with the base insinuations of her slanderer. It seemed impossible that Amherst should condemn her when his condemnation involved the fulfilling of Wyant's calculations.  All this was so clear that, had she been advising anyone else, her confidence in the course to be taken might have strengthened the feeblest will. But with a question lying between herself and Amherst, with the vision of those soiled hands literally laid on the spotless fabric of her happiness, judgment wavered, foresight was obscured, she felt tremulously unable to face the steps between exposure and vindication.  The idea that whatever concession she made would be only provisional helped to excuse the weakness of making it, and enabled her at last, without too painful a sense of falling below her own standards, to reply in a low 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 merely asked, without altering his insolently easy attitude, how much? Unless it's a good deal, I prefer the letter. Oh, why could she not cry out, leave the house at once, your vulgar threats are nothing to me? Why could she not even say in her own heart, I will tell my husband to-night? You're afraid, said Wyant, as if answering her thought. What's the use of being afraid when you can make yourself comfortable so easily? You called me a systematic black-mailer. Well, I'm not that yet. Give me a 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 appeal again 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 or two hundred. Wyant scrutinised her a moment. Her despair must have wrung true to him. Well, you must have something of your own. I saw your jewelry last night at the theatre, he said. So it had been he, and he had sat there appraising her value like a murderer. 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 preferred a 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 her eyes fell on the clock. If Amherst had caught the two o'clock express, he would be at the house within the hour, and the only thing that seemed of consequence now was that he should not meet Wyant. Supposing she still found courage to refuse, there was no knowing how long the humiliating scene might be prolonged, and she must be rid of the creature at any cost. After all, she seldom wore the sapphire, months might 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 back before it was missed. She went through these calculations with feverish rapidity, 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 and slowly left the room. She never forgot the moments that followed. Once outside the door she was in such haste that she stumbled on the stairs and had to pause on the landing to regain her breath. In her room she found one of the housemaids busy, and at first could think of no pretext for dismissing her. Then she bade the woman go down and send the braum away, telling the coachman to call for Miss Sicily at six. Left alone she bolted the door, and, as if with a thief's hand, opened her wardrobe, unlocked her jewel box, and drew out the sapphire in its flat Morocco case. She restored the box to its place, the key to its ring, then she opened the case and looked at the sapphire.  She unbolted the door, listened intently on the landing, and then went slowly down the stairs. None of the servants were in sight, yet, as she reached the lower hall, she was conscious that the air had grown suddenly colder, as though the outer door had just been opened. She paused and listened again. There was sound of talking in the drawing-room. Could it be that in her absence a visitor had been admitted? The possibility frightened her at first. Then she welcomed it as an unexpected means of ridding herself of her tormentor. She opened the drawing-room door and saw her husband talking with Wyant. End of Book 4. CHAPTER XXXIV. Amherst, his back to the threshold, sat at a table writing. Wyant stood a few feet away staring down at the fire. Neither had heard the door open, and before they were aware of her entrance, Justine had calculated that she must have been away for at least five minutes, and in that space of time almost anything might have passed between them. For a moment the power of connected thought left her. Then her heart gave a bound of relief. She said to herself that Wyant had doubtless made some allusion to his situation, and that her husband, conscious only of a great debt of gratitude, had at once sat down to draw a check for him. The idea was so reassuring that it restored all her clearness of thought. Wyant was the first to see her. He made an abrupt movement, and Amherst, rising, turned and put an envelope in his hand. There, my dear fellow, as he turned he caught sight of his wife. I caught the twelve o'clock train after all. You got my second wire, he asked. No, she faltered, pressing her left hand, with the little case in it, close to the folds of her dress. I was afraid not. There was a bad storm at Hannaford, and they said there might be a delay. At the same moment she found Wyant advancing with extended hand, and understood that he had concealed the fact of having already seen her. She accepted the cue and shook his hand, murmuring, How do you do? Amherst looked at her perhaps struck by her manner. You have not seen Dr. Wyant since Lindbrook? No, she answered, thankful to have this pretext for her emotion. I have been telling him that he should not have left us so long without news, especially as he has been ill, and things have gone rather badly with him. But I hope we can help now. He has heard that St. Christopher's is looking for a house physician for the pain-patience wing, and as Mr. Langhope is away I have given him a line to Mrs. Ansel. Extremely kind of you, Wyant murmured, passing his hand over his forehead. Justine stood silent. She wondered that her husband had not noticed that tremulous degraded hand. But he was always so blind to externals, and he had no medical experience to sharpen his perceptions. Suddenly she felt impelled to speak. I am sorry, Dr. Wyant has been...unfortunate. Of course you will want to do everything to help him, but would it not be better to wait till Mr. Langhope comes back? Wyant thinks the delay might make him lose the place. It seems the board meets tomorrow, and Mrs. Ansel really knows much more about it. Isn't she the secretary of the ladies' committee? I'm not sure. I believe so. But surely Mr. Langhope should be consulted. She felt Wyant's face change. His eyes settled on her in a threatening stare. Amherst looked at her also, and there was surprise in his glance. I think I can answer for my father-in-law. He feels as strongly as I do how much we all owe to Dr. Wyant. He seldom spoke of Mr. Langhope as his father-in-law, and the chance designation seemed to mark a closer tie between them, to exclude Justine from what was after all a family affair. For a moment she felt tempted to accept the suggestion and let the responsibility fall where it would, but it would fall on Amherst, and that was intolerable. I think you ought to wait, she insisted. An embarrassed silence settled on the three. Wyant broke it by advancing toward Amherst. I shall never forget your kindness, he said, and I hope to prove to Mrs. Amherst that it's not misplaced. The words were well chosen and well spoken. Justine saw that they produced a good effect. Amherst grasped the physician's hand with a smile. My dear fellow, I wish I could do more. Be sure to call on me again if you want help. Oh, you've put me on my feet, said Wyant gratefully. He bowed slightly to Justine and turned to go, but as he reached the threshold she moved after him. Dr. Wyant, you must give me back that letter. He stopped short with a whitening face. She felt Amherst's eyes on her again, and she said desperately addressing him. Dr. Wyant understands my reasons. Her husband's glance turned abruptly to Wyant. Do you? he asked after a pause. Wyant looked from one to the other. The moisture came out on his forehead, and he passed his hand over it again. Yes, he said in a dry voice. Mrs.  Out of New York? What do you mean? Justine interposed hastily before the answer could come. It is because Dr. Wyant is not in condition, for such a place, just at present. But he assures me he is quite well. There was another silence, and again Wyant broke in, this time with a light laugh. I can explain what Mrs. Amherst means. She intends to accuse me of the morphine habit, and I can explain her reason for doing so. She wants me out of the way. Amherst turned on the speaker, and as she had foreseen, his look was terrible. You haven't explained that yet, he said. Well, I can. Wyant waited another moment. I know too much about her, he declared. There was a low exclamation from Justine, and Amherst strode toward Wyant.  Oh, gently Wyant muttered, flinching back from his outstretched arm. My wife's wish is sufficient. Give me back that letter. Wyant straightened himself. No, by God I won't, he retorted furiously. I didn't ask you for it till you offered to help me. But I won't let it be taken back without a word, like a thief that you'd caught with your umbrella. If your wife won't explain I will. She's afraid I'll talk about what happened at Lindbrook. Amherst's arm fell to his side. At Lindbrook? Behind him there was a sound of inarticulate appeal, but he took no notice. Yes, it's she who used morphia, but not on herself. She gives it to other people. She gave an overdose to Mrs. Amherst. Amherst looked at him confusedly. An overdose? Yes. Purposely, I mean. And I came into the room at the wrong time. I can prove that Mrs. Amherst died of morphiopoisoning. John, Justine gasped out, pressing between them. Amherst gently put aside the hand with which she had caught his arm. Wait a moment. This can't rest here. You can't want it to, he said to her in an undertone. Why do you care for what he says when I don't? She breathed back with trembling lips. You can see I am not wanted here, Wyant threw in with a sneer. Amherst remained silent for a brief space, then he turned his eyes once more to his wife. Justine lifted her face. It looked small and spent like an extinguished taper. It's true, she said. True. I did give an overdose intentionally when I knew there was no hope and when the surgeon said she might go on suffering. She was very strong and I couldn't bear it. You couldn't have borne it. There was another silence. Then she went on in a stronger voice, looking straight at her husband. And now will you send this man away? Amherst glanced at Wyant without moving. Go, he said curtly. Wyant instead moved a step nearer. Just a minute, please. It's only fair to hear my side. Your wife says there was no hope. Yet the day before she gave the dose, Dr. Garford told her in my presence that Mrs. Amherst might live. Again Amherst's eyes addressed themselves slowly to Justine and she forced her lips to articulate an answer. Dr. Garford said one could never tell, but I know he didn't believe in the chance of recovery. No one did. Dr. Garford is dead, said Wyant grimly. Amherst strode up to him again. You scoundrel leave this house, he commanded. But still Wyant sneeringly stood his ground. Not till I've finished.  Every doctor knows that in cases of spinal lesion recovery is becoming more and more frequent. If the patient survives the third week there's every reason to hope. Those are the facts as they would appear to any surgeon. If they're not true, why is Mrs. Amherst afraid of having them stated? Why has she been paying me for nearly a year to keep them quiet? Oh, Justine moaned. I never thought of talking till luck went against me. Then I asked her for help and reminded her of certain things. After that she kept me supplied pretty regularly. He thrust his shaking hand into an inner pocket. Here are her envelopes. Quebec, Montreal, Sarnac. I know just where you went on your honeymoon. She had to ride often because the sums were small. Why did she do it if she wasn't afraid? And why did she go upstairs just now to fetch me something? If you don't believe me, ask her what she's got in her hand. Amherst did not need this injunction. He stood motionless gripping the back of a chair as if his next gesture might be to lift and hurl it at the speaker. Ask her, why ain't repeated?  His face looked years older. Lips and eyes moved as heavily as an old man's. As he looked at her, Justine came forward without speaking and laid the little Morocco case in his hand. He held it there a moment as if hardly understanding her action. Then he tossed it on the table at his elbow and walked up to Wyant. You hound, he said, now go.