Those aggressive impulses inherited from the pre-social
state--those tendencies to seek self-satisfaction regardless of
injury to other beings, which are essential to a predatory
life, constitute an anti-social force, tending ever to cause
conflict and eventual separation of citizens.--Herbert Spencer,
_Synthetic Philosophy._
Nina Lindon had by no means given up the pulse-stirring and secret
drives with Geoffrey. The only thing she had given up was saying to
herself that in the future she would not go any more. The result of this
frequent yielding to inclination was that she was miserable enough when
away from him and not particularly contented when with him. Between her
and Margaret Mackintosh a coolness had arisen. Margaret was an
unsuspicious person, but her affections had developed her womanhood, and
in some mysterious way she had divined that Nina cared to be with
Geoffrey more than she would confess. There was no jealousy on
Margaret's side. She simply dropped Nina, and perhaps would have found
it hard to say on what grounds. In such matters women take their
impressions from such small occurrences that their dislikes often seem
more like instinct even to themselves.
As for Nina, she had liked Margaret only with her better self, and now
she had become conscious of a growing feeling of constraint when in her
presence. The increasing frigidity with which the taller beauty received
her seemed to afford ground for private dislike. She was unconfessedly
trying to bring herself to hate Margaret, and was on the lookout for a
reasonable cause to do so. To undermine a detested person treacherously
would be far more comfortable than undermining a friend. The difficulty
lay in being unable to hate sufficiently for the hate to become a
support.
Later on in June a ball was given at Government House. The usual rabble
was present. Margaret did not go, as her father happened to be ill at
the time. Nina was there in full force. Geoffrey appeared late in the
evening with several others who had been dining with him at the club. As
the host he had been observing the hospitalities, and it took several
dances to bring his guests down to the comfortable assurance that they
really had their sea-legs on. They looked all right and perhaps felt
better than they looked; but during the first waltz or two there seemed
to be unexpected irregularities in the floor that had to be treated with
care.
After a few dances, which Geoffrey found kept for him as usual, Nina and
he disappeared--also as usual. Nina was not among the dissolving views
who do nothing but dissolve. She was fond of her dancing as yet, and, as
a rule, only disappeared once in the course of the evening. This sounds
virtuous, but there is perhaps more safety in a plurality of
disappearances.
The next day she telegraphed to some friends in Montreal, from whom she
had a standing invitation, that she was coming to see them. They wired
back that they would be charmed to see her. Then she telegraphed again:
"Had arranged to stop at Brockville on my return from you, but have just
heard that they go away in ten days. Would it be all the same if I went
to you about Monday week?"
The answer came from Montreal: "That will suit us very well--though we
are disappointed. Mind you come." Then Nina wrote and posted to her
Montreal girl friend a note, in which she said: "If any letters should
come for me just keep them until I arrive. I will go to Brockville now."
Jack Cresswell saw her off by the evening train, bought her ticket to
Montreal, and secured her compartment in the sleeper. Her two large
valises were carried into the compartment. She said she preferred to
have her wearing apparel with her and not bother about baggage-checks.
When everything was settled in the compartment she said in a worried
nervous way to Jack: "And I suppose you will be wanting me to write to
you?"
"When you get a chance, Nina. It is not easy, sometimes, to get away, at
a friend's house, to write letters. Don't write till you feel like doing
so and get a good chance."
This was his kind, self-controlled way of taking her vexatious remarks.
But to-day it seemed as if kindness was what she least wished to receive
from him.
"If I waited till I wished to write to you I don't think I would ever
write again."
"You don't quite mean that, Nina. You are worried and anxious to-night.
It makes you unkind and fretful."
"Well, perhaps so," said Nina. "I think I danced too much last night.
And this stupid affair of ours worries me. I want a change, and I am
going to have it. No. I shall not write for at least ten days--perhaps
two weeks, and you had better think over the advisability of getting
somebody else to wear down to a shadow with a long engagement."
The bell was ringing for departure. Jack tried to make the best of it,
and to excuse her inconsiderate remarks. "Remember," she repeated, "I
shall not write for at least ten days, and you had better not write for
a week or so either. I want a complete change."
This was so very decisive that Jack could hardly repress a sigh as he
rose and said: "Well, good-by, old lady; I hope you will have a pleasant
visit."
As he lightly kissed her cheek she stood before him as inanimate as
marble. All at once it seemed dreadful to let him believe in her so
thoroughly. A feeling of kindness toward him came over her--a moment of
remorse--remorse for everything. The train was moving off now. She
suddenly put her arms round his neck and burst into tears. Then she
pushed him away. "Run quickly now and get off. Go at once--"
"But Nina, darling what _is_ the matter?"
"Never mind--run, or you'll be killed getting off. I'm only worried.
Good-by!" And she pushed him through the door.
Nina continued her passage to Montreal as far as Prescott, where she
left the train with her luggage, and crossed the St. Lawrence to
Ogdensburg.