HESITANCIES AND TEARS
Thomas Mackintosh Drummond Erskine, by courtesy known as Viscount
Clairloch, was not a remarkably complicated person. His life was
governed by a few broad and well-tried principles which he found, as
many had found before him, covered practically all the contingencies he
was called upon to deal with. One wanted things, and if possible, one
got them. That was the first and great commandment of nature, and the
second was akin to it; one did nothing contrary to a thing generally
known as decency. This was a little more complicated, for though decency
was a natural thing--one always wanted to be decent, other things being
equal--it had a rather difficult technique which had to be mastered by a
long slow process. If any one had asked Tommy how this technique was
best obtained he would undoubtedly have answered, by a course of six
years at either Eton, Harrow or Winchester, followed by three years at
one of half a dozen colleges he could name at Oxford or Cambridge.
Occasionally, of course--though not often--the paths of desire and
decency diverged, and this divergence was sometimes provocative of
unpleasantness. Treated sensibly, however, the problem could always be
brought to an easy and simple solution. Tommy found that in such a case
it was always possible to do one of two things; persuade oneself either
that the desire was compatible with decency or that it did not exist at
all. Either of those simple feats of dialectic accomplished, everything
worked out quite beautifully. It is a splendid thing to have been
educated at Harrow and Christchurch.
Ever since he arrived in America it had been evident to Tommy that he
wanted Beatrice. He did not want her with quite the absorbing intensity
that would make him one of the great lovers of history--Harrow and
Christchurch decreed that one should go fairly easy on wanting a
married woman--but still he wanted her, for him, very much indeed. Up
to the night of the boat-race everything had gone swimmingly. Then,
indeed, he had received a setback; a setback which came very near making
him abandon further pursuit and proceed forthwith to those portions of
America which lie to the west of Upper Montclair. If Aunt Cecilia had
not casually invited him to accompany the yacht on its trip round Cape
Cod he might have started the very next morning. But he went to Bar
Harbor, and before he left there it had become plain to him that he
could probably have what he had so long desired.
Everything had favored him. Aunt Cecilia had made it pleasant for him
for a while, and when the time came when Aunt Cecilia might be expected
to become tired of making it pleasant for him others came forward who
were more than willing to do as much. Tommy was a desirable as well as
an agreeable guest; he looked well in the papers. With the result that
he was still playing about Bar Harbor at the end of July, at which time
Beatrice, looking quite lovely and wan and heat-fagged, came, unattended
by her husband, to be the chief ornament of Aunt Cecilia's spacious
halls.
And how Beatrice had changed since he last saw her! She was as little
the cold-eyed, contemptuous Artemis of that night in New London as she
was the fresh-cheeked debutante of his early knowledge; and she was
infinitely more attractive, he thought, than either of them. She had a
new way of looking up at him when he came to greet her; she was willing
to pass long hours in his sole company; she depended on him for
amusement, she relied on him in various little ways; and more important,
she soon succeeded in making him forget his fear of her. For the first
time in his knowledge of her he had the feeling of being fully as strong
as she, fully as self-controlled, as firm-willed. This was in reality
but another symptom of her power over him, but he never recognized it as
such.
Appetite, as we know, increases with eating, and every sign of favor
that came his way fanned the almost extinguished flame of Tommy's desire
into renewed warmth and vigor. Before many weeks it had grown into
something warmer and more vigorous than anything he had ever
experienced, till at last his gentle bosom became the battlefield of the
dreaded Armageddon between desire and decency. It wasn't really
dreaded, in his case, because he was not the sort of person who is
capable of living very far ahead of the present moment, and perhaps, in
view of the strength of both the contending forces, the term Armageddon
may be an exaggeration; but it was the most serious internal conflict
that the good-natured viscount (by courtesy) ever knew.
But the struggle, though painful, was short-lived. After going to bed
for five evenings in succession fearing that care would drive sleep from
his pillow that night, and sleeping soundly from midnight till
eight-thirty, the illuminating thought came to him that, owing to the
truly Heaven-made laws of the country in which he then was, the conflict
practically did not exist. In America people divorced; no foolish stigma
was attached to the process, as at home; it was easy, it was
respectable, it was done! He blessed his stars; what a marvelous stroke
of luck that Beatrice had married an American and not an Englishman! He
thought of the years of carking secrecy through which such things are
dragged in England, and contrasted it with the neat despatch of the
Yankee system. A few weeks of legal formalities, tiresome, of course,
but trivial in view of the object, and then--a triumphant return to
native shores, closing in a long vista of years with Beatrice at his
side as Lady Clairloch and eventually as Lady Strathalmond! Sweet
ultimate union of desire and decency! He gave thanks to Heaven in his
fervent, simple-souled way.
Nothing remained save to persuade Beatrice to take the crucial step.
Well, there would be little trouble about that, judging by the way
things were going....
As for Beatrice, she was at first much too exhausted, both physically
and mentally, to think much about Tommy one way or the other. That last
month in New York had been a horribly enervating one, both
meteorologically and domestically speaking. Scarcely had she been able
to bring herself to face the impossibility of winning her husband's
affection when the hot weather came on, the crushing heat of July, that
burned every ounce of a desire to live out of one and made the whole
world as great a desert as one's own home.... It was James who had
suggested her going to Aunt Cecilia's--"because he didn't want me to die
on his hands," Beatrice idly reflected, as she lay at last in a hammock
on the broad verandah, luxuriating in the sea breeze that made a light
wrap necessary.
Then Tommy came back to the Wimbournes' to stay, and a regular daily
routine was begun. Beatrice remained in her room all the morning, while
Tommy played golf. They met at lunch and strolled or drove or watched
people play tennis together in the afternoon. After dinner Beatrice
generally ensconced herself with rugs on the verandah while Tommy buzzed
about fetching footstools or cushions or talked to her or simply sat by
her side. After a while she found that Tommy was quite good company, if
you didn't take him seriously. Tommy--she supposed this was the real
foundation of her liking for him--was her countryman. He knew things, he
understood things, he looked at things as she had been brought up to
look at them. Tommy, to take a small instance, never stifled a smile
when she used such words as caliber or schedule, pronouncing them in the
English way--the proper way, when all was said and done, for was not
England the home and source of the English language?
A few days later, as returning health quickened her perceptions, she
realized that another thing that made Tommy agreeable was the fact that
he strove honestly to please her. A pleasant change, at least!... She
was well enough to be bitter again, it seemed. Not only was Tommy
attentive in such matters as rugs and cushions, but he made definite
efforts to fit his speech and his moods to her. He found that she liked
to talk about England and he was at some pains to read up information
about current events there, a thing he had not bothered much about since
his departure from home. She had only to ask a leading question about a
friend at home and he would gossip for a whole evening about their
mutual acquaintance.
Presently she began to discover--or fancy she discovered--hitherto
unsounded depths--or what were, comparatively speaking, depths--in
Tommy's character.
"I say, how jolly the stars are to-night," he observed as he took his
place by her one evening. "Never see the stars, somehow, but I think of
tigers. Ever since I went to India. Went off on a tiger hunt, you know,
out in the wilds somewhere, and we had to sleep out on a sort of grassy
place with a fire in the middle of us, you know, to keep the beasties
off. Well, I'd never seen a tiger, outside of the zoo, and I had 'em on
the brain. I had a dream about meeting one, and it got so bad that I
woke up at last with a shout, thinkin' a tiger was standin' just over me
with his two dev'lish old eyes staring down into mine! Then I saw it was
only two bright stars, rather close together. But I never can see stars
now without thinkin' of tiger's eyes, though I met a tiger quite close
on soon after that and his eyes weren't like that, at all....
"Rather sad, isn't it?" he added after a moment.
"Sad? Why?"
"Well, other people have something better than an old beast's blinkers
to compare stars to. Women's eyes, you know, and all that."
There was something in the way he said this that made Beatrice reply
"Oh, rot, Tommy!" even as she laughed. But his mood entertained her.
"Tommy," she went on, "I believe you'd try, even so, to say something
about my eyes and stars if I let you! Though anything less like stars
couldn't well be imagined.... Honestly now, Tommy, do my eyes look more
like stars or tiger's eyes?"
"Well," answered Tommy with laborious truthfulness, "I suppose they
really _look_ more like tiger's eyes. But they make me _think_ of
stars," he added, with a perfect burst of romance and poetry.
"And stars make you think of tiger's eyes! Oh, my poor Tommy!"
"Well, they're dev'lish good-lookin'--you ought to feel jolly
complimented!" He wanted to go on and say something about her acting
like a tiger, but did not feel quite up to it, at such short notice. But
they laughed companionably together.
Yes, Tommy really amused her. There was much to like in the simplicity
and kindliness of his nature; Harry had not been proof against it. And
there was no harm in him. Beatrice could imagine no more innocuous
pleasure than talking with Tommy, even if the conversation ran to
eyes--her eyes. She was not bothered this time by any nervous
reflections on what fields of amusement were suited to the innocent
ramblings of a young wife. And if she was inclined to emphasize the
pleasant part of her intercourse and minimize its danger--if indeed
there was any--the reason was not far to seek. Even if things went to
the last resort, what of it? What had she to lose--now?
Nothing. Not one earthly thing. She was free to glean where she could.
James would be glad--as glad as any one.
Though of course it had not come to that yet....
It was at about this time, however, that Tommy determined it should come
to that. Just that. And though he was not one to rush matters, he
decided that the sooner it came the better. He learned that James was to
come up for a fortnight at the end of August--James' vacation had for
some reason dwindled to that length of time--and he desired, in some
obscure way, to have it decided before James was actually in the house.
But the way had to be paved for the great suggestion and Tommy was not
perceptibly quicker at paving than at other intellectual pursuits.
One evening, however, he resolved to be a man of action and at least
give an indication of the state of his own heart. With almost devilish
craft he decided beforehand on the exact way he would bring the
conversation round to the desired point.
"I say, Beatrice," he began when they were settled in their customary
place.
"Yes, Tommy?"
"How long do you suppose your aunt wants me kickin' my heels about
here?"
"Oh, as long as you want, I suppose. She hasn't told me she was tired of
you."
"Yes, but ..."
"But what?"
"I've been here a goodish while, you know. First the boat-race, then the
cruise up here, then most of July and now most of August.... Stiffish,
wot?... Don't want to wear out my welcome, you know...."
Oh, but it was hard! Why on earth couldn't she do the obvious thing and
say, "Why do you want to leave, Tommy?" or something like that? She
seemed determined not to give him the least help, so he plunged
desperately on.
"Not that I _want_ to go, you know. Jolly pleasant here, and all
that--rippin' golf, rippin' people, rippin' time altogether...."
He felt himself perspiring profusely.
"Beatrice, do you know _why_ I don't want to go?" he burst forth.
Beatrice remained silent, lightly tapping the stone balustrade with her
foot. When she spoke it was with perfect self-possession.
"You're not going to be tiresome again, are you, Tommy?"
"Yes!" said Tommy fervently.
Again she paused. "Are you really fond of me, Tommy?" she asked
unexpectedly.
"Oh, Lord, yes!"
"How fond?"
"Oh ... frightf'ly!... What do you mean, how fond? You know! Do you want
me to throw myself into the sea?... I would," he added in a low voice.
"I didn't mean how much, exactly, but in what way? What do you mean by
it all?"
"What's the use of asking me? You know!"
"No, I don't think I do.... Are you fond enough of me to desire
everything for my good?"
"Yes!"
"Even at the sacrifice of yourself?"
"Yes!"
"Well, don't you think it's for my ultimate good as a married woman that
you shouldn't try to make love to me?"
"What the--Beatrice, don't torment me!"
"I don't want to, but you must see how impossible it is, Tommy. You
can't go on talking this way to me."
"Why not?"
"Why, because I'm _married_, obviously! Such things are--well, they
simply aren't done!"
Tommy waited a moment. "Do you mean to say, Beatrice...."
"What?"
"Can you truthfully tell me that you--that you aren't fond of me too?
Just a little?"
"Certainly!"
"Rot! Utter, senseless rot! You know it isn't so!--"
"Hush, Tommy! People will hear."
"Let 'em hear, then. Beatrice!" he went on more quietly; "there's no use
trying to take me in by that 'never knew' rot. Of course you knew, of
course you cared. Why've you sat talking with me here, night after
night, why've you been so uncommon jolly nice--nicer 'n you ever were
before? Why did you ever let me get to this point?--Don't pretend you
couldn't help it, either!" He paused a moment. "Why did you let me kiss
you that night?"
That shaft hit. She lost her head a little, and fell back on an old
feminine ruse.
"Oh, Tommy, you've no right to bring that up against me!" she said, with
a little flurried break in her voice.
Tommy's obvious answer was a quiet "Why not?" but he was not the kind
who can give the proper answer at such moments. He was much more
affected by Beatrice's evident perturbation than Beatrice was by his
home truth, and was much slower in recovering.
"I'm sorry, Beatrice," he went on again after a short silence, "but
I--well, dash it all, I _care_, you know!"
"You mustn't, Tommy."
"But what if I jolly well can't help myself? After all, you know, you
must give a fellah a chance. Of course, I want you to be happy, and I'd
do anything I could to make you so, but--well, there it is! I'm _fond_
of you, Beatrice!"
She could smile quite calmly at him now, and did so. "Very well, Tommy,
you're fond of me. Suppose we leave it there for the present.--And now I
think I shall go in. It's getting chilly out here."
Evidently it had not quite come to _that_ with her.
Nor did it, for all Tommy could do, before James' arrival a few days
later. Aunt Selina came with him; she had elected to spend the summer at
her Vermont house, and found it, as she explained to her hostess, "too
warm. The interior, you know." With which she closed her lips and gave
the impression of charitably refraining from, richly deserved censure of
the interior's shortcomings. Aunt Cecilia nodded with the most perfect
understanding, and said she supposed it must have been warm in New York
also.
James allowed that it had.
Aunt Selina said she had read in the paper that August was likely to be
as hot as July there.
Beatrice, just in order to be on the safe side, said that she felt like
Rather a Brute.
Tommy, with a vague idea of vindicating her, remarked that some days
had been jolly warm in Bar Harbor, too.
Aunt Cecilia, politely reproachful, said that he had no idea what an
American summer could be, and that anyway, the nights had been cool.
Tommy said oh yes, rather.
Inwardly he was chafing. He felt his case lamentably weakened by the
presence of James. He had not bargained for an abduction from under the
husband's very nose. The thought of what he would have to go through now
made him feel quite uncomfortable and even a little, just a little,
suspicious that the case of decency had not been decisively settled.
Still, there was nothing to do but stay and go through with it.
But James, if he had but known it, was in reality his most powerful
ally. Continued residence in sweltering New York had not tended to
soften James, either in his attitude to the world in general or in his
feeling toward his wife in particular. He now adopted a policy of
outward affection. "When others were present he lost no opportunity of
elaborately fetching and carrying for Beatrice, of making plans for her
benefit, of rejoicing in her returning health. As she evinced a fondness
for the evening air he made it a rule to sit with her on the verandah
every night after dinner. Tommy could not very well oust him from this
pleasant duty, and writhed beneath his calm exterior every time he
watched them go out together."
He need not have worried, however. The contrast of James' warmth in
public to his wholly genuine coldness in private, together with the
change from Tommy's sympathetic chatter to James' deathly silence on
these evening sojourns had a much more potent effect on Beatrice than
anything Tommy could have accomplished actively. James literally seemed
to freeze the blood in Beatrice's veins. She became subject to fits of
shivering, she required twice as many wraps as before; she began going
to bed much earlier than previously. Ten o'clock now invariably found
her in her room.
One evening James was suddenly called upon to go out to dinner with Aunt
Cecilia and fill an empty place at a friend's table, and Tommy took his
place on the verandah. Tommy knew that this would be his best chance,
possibly his last. The stars burned brightly in a clear warm sky, but
there was no talk of tiger's eyes now. There was no talk at all for a
long time; the pleasure of sheer propinquity was too great. Beatrice
fairly luxuriated. She wondered why Tommy's silence affected her so
differently from that of James....
"Beatrice," began Tommy, but she switched him off.
"No, please don't try to talk now, Tommy, there's a dear."
They were silent again. The night stretched hugely before and above
them; it was very still. A little night-breeze arose and touched their
cheeks, but its message was only peace. Land and sea alike slept; not a
sound reached them save the occasional clatter of distant wheels. Only
the sky was awake, with its hundreds of winking eyes. Oh, these stars!
Beatrice knew them so well. Antares, glowing like a dying coal, sank and
fell below the hills, leaving the bright clusters of Sagittarius in
dominion over the southern heavens. Fomalhaut rose in the southeast,
shining with a dull chaotic luster, now green, now red. Fomalhaut, she
remembered, was the southernmost of all the great stars visible in
northern lands; its reign was the shortest of them all. And yet who
could tell what might happen before that star finally fell from sight in
the autumn?...
"Beatrice!" at length began Tommy again, and this time she could not
stop him. "Beatrice, we can't go on like this. We can't do it, I say, we
can't! Don't you feel it?... That husband of yours.... Oh, Beatrice, I
_can't_ stand by and watch it any longer!"
He caught hold of her hand and clasped it between his. It remained limp
there, press it as he would.... Then he saw that she was crying.
He flung himself on his knees beside her, covering her hand with kisses.
There was no conflict in him now, only a raging thirst for consummation.
Harrow and Christchurch were thrown to the winds.
"Beatrice," he whispered, "come away with me out of this damned
place--away from the whole damned lot of them--frozen, church-going
rotters! Let _me_ take care of you! I understand, Beatrice, I know how
it is! Only come with me! Leave it all to me--no trouble, no worry,
everything all right! _He'll_ be glad enough to free you--trust him! Oh,
dear Beatrice...."
He bent close over her, uttering all sort of impassioned foolishnesses.
He kissed her, too, not once, but again and again, and with things he
scarcely knew for kisses, so unlike were they to the lightly given and
taken pledges of other days.
And Beatrice was limp in his arms, as little able to stop him as to stop
her tears.
"Beatrice, we must go on _always_ like this! We _can't_ go back now, we
can't let things go on as they were! Come away with me, Beatrice,
to-night, now...."
Beatrice thought how, only a year ago, not far from this very place,
some one had used almost those very words to her, and the thought made
her weep afresh. But her tears were not all tears of misery.
At last she dried her eyes and pushed him gently away.
"No, no more, Tommy--dear Tommy, you must stop. Really, Tommy! I don't
know how I could let you go on this way--I seem to be so weak and silly
these days.... I must take hold of myself...."
"But, Beatrice--"
"No, Tommy--not any more now. I know, I know, dear, but it can't go on
any more. Now," she added with a momentary relapse of weakness. Then she
pulled herself together again. "You must be perfectly quiet and good,
now, Tommy, if you stay here. I've got to have a chance to get over this
before we go in. It's very important--there's a lot at stake. Just sit
there and don't speak a word. You can help me that way."
They sat quietly together for some time. At last Beatrice rose.
"I think I'll go," she said. "I shall be all right now."
"But we can't leave it like this!" protested Tommy. "Beatrice, you can't
go up there now...."
"Can't I? I'm going, though."
"No, you've got to give me an answer, Beatrice!"
She turned to him for a moment before walking off. "I can't tell you
anything now, Tommy. I don't know. Do you see? I honestly don't know.
You'll have to wait."
The hall seemed rather dark as they came into it; the others must have
gone to bed. They locked doors and turned out lights and walked upstairs
in the dark. They parted at the top with a whispered good-night, almost
conspiratorial in effect, Beatrice found James still dressed and
sitting under a droplight, reading. He put down his book as she entered
and looked at his watch, which lay on the table by him.
"After half-past twelve," he said. "Quite a pleasant evening."
Beatrice made no observation.
"The air has done you good," he went on. "We shall soon see the roses in
your cheeks again."
"If you have anything to say, James, perhaps you'd better go ahead and
say it."
"I? Oh, dear no! Any words of mine would be quite superfluous. The
situation is complete as it is."
Beatrice merely waited. She knew she would not wait in vain, nor did
she.
"Only, after this perhaps you'll save yourself the trouble of making up
elaborate denials. You and your Tommy!..."
He got up and started walking up and down the room with slow, measured
steps. To Beatrice, still sitting quietly on the edge of her bed, the
fall of his feet on the carpeted floor sounded like the inexorable tick
of fate for once made audible to human ears. The greatest things hung in
the balance at this moment; his next words would decide both their
destinies for the rest of their mortal life. She thought she knew what
they would be, but if there were to sound in them the faintest echo of a
regret for older and better times she was ready, even at this last
moment, to throw her whole being into an effort to help restore them.
Tommy's passionate whisper still echoed in her ears, Tommy's kisses were
scarcely cold upon her cheeks, but Tommy was not in her heart.
At last James spoke. At the first sound of his voice Beatrice knew.
"I shall receive a telegram calling me back to town to-morrow, in time
for me to catch the evening train...."
She was so occupied with the ultimate meaning of his words that their
immediate meaning escaped her. She raised her eyes in question.
"You're going away to-morrow? Why?"
"Yes. I prefer not to remain here and watch it going on under my very
eyes. It's a silly prejudice, no doubt, but you must pardon it...."
He continued his pacing, keeping his eyes fixed on the floor in front of
him. Occasionally he uttered a few sentences in the same cold, lifeless
tone.
"It's all over now, at any rate. I had hoped we might be able to tide
these things over through these first years, till we got old enough to
stop caring about them, but I was wrong. You can't govern things like
that.... I always had a theory that any two sensible people could get
along together in marriage, even though they didn't care much about each
other, if they made up their minds to take a reasonable point of view;
but I was wrong there too. Marriage is a bigger thing than I thought. I
was wrong all around....
"Just a year--not even that. I should have said it could go longer than
that, even at the worst....
"It's all in the blood, I suppose--rotten, decadent blood, in both of
you. I don't blame you, especially. Your father's daughter--I might have
known. I suppose I oughtn't to blame your father much more--it's the
curse of your whole civilization. Only it's hard to confine one's anger
to civilizations in such cases....
"The strange part about you is that you gave no sign of it whatever
beforehand. I had no suspicion, at all. I don't think any one could have
told....
"There's just one thing I should like to suggest. I don't know whether
it will be comprehensible to you, but I have a certain respect for my
family name and a sort of desire to spare the members of the family as
much as possible. So that, although you're perfectly free to act exactly
as you wish, I should appreciate it if you--if you could suspend
operations as long as you remain under my uncle's roof. Though it's just
as you like, of course.
"I shall be in New York. You can let me know your plans there when you
are ready. I suppose you'll want to sue, in which case it can't be done
in New York state; you'll have to establish a residence somewhere else.
Or if you prefer to have me sue, all right. That would save time, of
course.... Let me know what you decide.
"Well, we might as well go to bed, I suppose. It will be the last
time...."
Beatrice watched him as he took off his coat and waistcoat and threw
them over a chair and then attacked his collar and tie. Then she arose
from where she sat and addressed him.
"I don't suppose there's any use in my saying anything. We might get
quarreling again, and naturally you wouldn't believe me, anyway. I agree
with you that it's impossible for us to live together any longer. But I
can't forbear from telling you, James, that you've done me a great
wrong. You've said things ... oh, you've said things so wrong to-night
that it seems as if God himself--if there is a God--would speak from
heaven and show you how wrong you are! But there's no use in mere human
beings saying anything at a time like this....
"You've been a very wicked man to-night, James. May God forgive you for
it."
She turned away with an air of finality and started to prepare for bed.
She hung up her evening wrap in the closet and walked over to her
bureau. She took off what jewelry she wore and put it carefully away,
and then she seemed to hesitate. She stood looking at her reflection in
the mirror a moment, but found no inspiration there. She walked
inconclusively across the room and then back. Finally she stopped near
James, with her back toward him.
"It seems an absurd thing to ask," she said, "but would you mind? As you
say, it's the last time...."
"Certainly," said James.