When he passed the house the next day they were gone. The nursery
windows were thrown open, and he fancied that the place wore a deserted
look. The very streets seemed empty, and the glare of sunshine, whose
heat increased with every hour, added to the air of desolateness he
imagined.
"It _is_ imagination," he said. "And the feeling will die away all the
more quickly because I recognize the unreality of it. By to-morrow or
the day after I shall have got over it."
And yet a week later, when he dropped in upon the professor, one sultry
evening, to spend an hour with him, his old friend found cause for
anxious inspection of him.
"What," he said, "the hot weather begins to tell on you already! You are
not acclimatized yet,--that's it. You must spare yourself as much as
possible. It doesn't promise well that you look fagged so soon. I should
say you had not slept well."
"I don't sleep well," Tredennis answered.
"You are working too hard," said the professor; "that is it, perhaps."
"I am not working hard enough," replied Tredennis, with a slight
knitting of the brows. "I wish I had more to do. Leisure does not agree
with me."
"One must occupy one's self!" said the professor. He spoke
half-absently, and yet with a touch of significance in his tone
which--combined with the fact that he had heard the words before--caused
Tredennis to glance at him quickly.
He smiled slightly, in answer to the glance.
"Bertha?" he said. "Oh, yes, I am quoting Bertha. Your manner is not as
light as hers, but it reminded me of her in some way; perhaps because I
had a letter from her to-day, and she was in my thoughts."
"I hope she is well," said Tredennis, "and does not find her farm-house
too dull."
"She does not complain of it," the professor answered. "And she says
nothing of her own health, but tells me she is a little anxious about
Janey, who does not seem quite herself."
Tredennis looked out into the darkening street. They were sitting by the
opened window.
"She was not well when she went away," he said, a trifle abstractedly.
"Janey?" asked the professor, as if the idea was new to him; "I did not
know that."
Tredennis roused himself.
"I--was thinking of Bertha," he said.
"Oh, of Bertha," said the professor, and then he lapsed into a reverie
himself for a few moments; and seemed to watch the trees on the street
without seeing them.
"No, she was not well," he said, at length; "but I think she will be
better when she comes back."
"The rest and quiet"--began Tredennis.
"I think she had determined to be better," said the professor.
"Determined?" repeated Tredennis.
"She has a strong will," returned the professor, "though it is a thing
she is never suspected of. She does not suspect herself of it, and yet
she has relied upon its strength from the first, and is relying upon it
now. I am convinced that she went away with the determination to conquer
a restlessness whose significance she is just awakening to. And she
deliberately chose nature and the society of her children as the best
means of cure."
"Do you think," asked Tredennis, in a low voice, "that she will get over
it?"
The professor turned to look at him.
"I don't know," he answered, with a slight tone of surprise. "Why did
you fancy I would?"
"You seem to understand her," said Tredennis.
The professor sighed.
"I have studied her so long," he replied, "that I imagine I know what
she is _doing_, but you can't safely go beyond that with women; you
can't say what they are _going_ to do,--with any degree of certainty.
They are absorbingly interesting as a study, but they are not to be
relied on. And they rarely compliment your intelligence by doing what
you expect of them. _She_ has not done what I expected. She has lived
longer than I thought she would without finding herself out. A year ago
she believed that she had proved to herself that such an emotion as--as
this was impossible to her. It was a very innocent belief, and she was
entirely sincere in it, and congratulated herself upon it." He turned to
Tredennis again with a sudden movement and a curious look of pain in his
face. "I am afraid it's a great mistake," he said.
"What?" Tredennis asked.
"This--this feeling," he said, in a tremulous and troubled voice. "I
don't mean in her alone, but in any one, everywhere. I am not sure that
it ever brings happiness really in the end. I am afraid there always
_is_ an end. If there wasn't, it might be different; but I am afraid
there is. There are those of us who try to believe there is none,
but--but I am afraid those are happiest who lose all but their ideal.
There are many who lose even that, and Fate has done her worst by them."
He checked himself, and sank back in his chair.
"Ah!" he said, smiling half sadly. "I am an old man--an old man,--and it
is an old man's fancy, that the best thing in life is death. And Fate
did not do her worst by me; she left me my ideal. She had gray eyes," he
added, "and a bright face, like Bertha's. Perhaps, after all, if I had
won what I wanted, I should not feel so old to-night, and so tired. Her
face was very bright."
He had not been wholly well for some days, and to-night seemed fatigued
by the heat and languor in the air, but he was somewhat more hopeful
when he spoke of Bertha than he had been.
"I have confidence in the strength of her will," he said, "and I like
her pride and courage. She does not give away to her emotions; she
resents them fiercely, and refuses to acknowledge their powers over her.
She insists to herself that her restlessness is nervousness, and her
sadness morbid."
"She said as much to me," said Tredennis.
"Did she?" exclaimed the professor. "That is a good sign; it shows that
she has confidence in you, and that it is a feeling strong enough to
induce her to use you as a defence against her own weakness. She would
never have spoken if she had not believed that you were a sort of
stronghold. It is the old feeling of her girlhood ruling her again.
Thank Heaven for that!"
There was a ring at the front-door bell as he spoke, and a moment or so
later it was answered by a servant; buoyant feet were heard in the hall,
and paused a second on the threshold.
"Are you here, Professor?" some one inquired. "And may I come in?"
Professor Herrick turned his head.
"Come in, Richard," he said; "come in, by all means." And Amory entered
and advanced toward them.
The slight depression of manner Tredennis had fancied he had seen in him
on the last two occasions of their meeting had disappeared altogether.
He seemed even in gayer spirits than usual.
"I have come to tell you," he said to the professor, "that I am going
away for a short time. It is a matter of business connected with the
Westoria lands. I may be away a week or two."
"Isn't it rather a long journey?" asked the professor.
"Oh, yes," he replied, with no air of being daunted by the
prospect,--"and a tiresome one, but it is important that I should make
it, and I shall not be alone."
"Who is to be your companion?"
"Planefield--and he's rather an entertaining fellow, in his
way--Planefield. Oh, it won't be so bad, on the whole."
"It is Planefield who is interested in the lands, if I remember
rightly," suggested the professor.
"Oh, Planefield?" Richard replied, carelessly. "Well, more or less. He
is given to interesting himself in things, and, by Jove!" he added with
a laugh, "this promises to be a good thing to be interested in. I
shouldn't mind if I"--
"My dear Richard," interposed the professor, "allow me to advise you not
to do so. You'll really find it best. Such things rarely end well."
Richard laughed again.
"My dear Professor," he answered, with much good-humor, "you may rely
upon me. I haven't any money of my own."
"And if you had money?" said the professor.
"I think I should risk it. I really do. Though why I should say risk, I
hardly know. There is scarcely enough risk to make it exciting."
He was very sanguine, and once or twice became quite brilliant on the
subject. The great railroad, which was to give the lands an enormous
value, was almost an established fact; everything was being laid in
train: a man influenced here, a touch given there, a vigorous move made
in this direction, an interest awakened in that, and the thing was done.
"There isn't a doubt of the termination," he said, "not a doubt. It's a
brilliant sort of thing that is its own impetus, one might say, and the
right men are at work for it, and the right wom--"
"Were you going to say women?" asked Tredennis, when he pulled himself
up somewhat abruptly.
"Well, yes," Richard said, blithely. "After all, why not? I must confess
to finding the fact lend color and vivacity to the thing. And the
delightful cleverness the clever ones show is a marvellous power for or
against a thing, though I think the feminine tendency is to work for a
thing, not against it."
"I should like to know," said Tredennis, "how they begin it."
For a moment he thought he did not know why he asked the question; but
the self-delusion did not last long. He felt an instant later that he
did know, and wished that he did not.
"In nine cases out of ten," Richard replied, giving himself up at once
to an enjoyable analysis of the subject,--"in nine cases out of ten it
is my impression they begin with almost entire lack of serious
intention, and rarely, if ever, even in the end, admit to themselves
that they have done what they are accused of. Given a clever and pretty
woman whose husband or other male relative needs her assistance: why
should she be less clever and pretty in the society of one political
dignitary than in that of another, whose admiration of her charms may
not be of such importance? I suppose that is the beginning, and then
come the sense of power and the fascination of excitement. What woman
does not like both? What woman is better and more charming than Bertha,
and Bertha does not hesitate to admit, in her own delightful way, that
there must have been a fascination in the lives of those historical
charmers before whom prime ministers trembled, and who could make and
unmake a cabinet with a smile."
"What," was the thought that leaped into Tredennis' mind, "do we begin
to compare Bertha with a king's favorite!" But he did not say it
aloud--it was not for him to defend her against her husband's lightness;
and were they not her own words, after all? And so he could only sit
silent in the shadow of his darkening corner and knit his heavy brows
with hot resentment in his heart, while Richard went on:
"There are some few who make a profession of it," he said; "but they do
not carry the most power. The woman who is ambitious for her husband, or
eager for her son, or who wishes to escape from herself and find refuge
in some absorbing excitement, necessarily is more powerful than the more
sordid element. If I were going in for that kind of thing," he went on,
settling himself in his favorite graceful, lounging posture, and
throwing his arm lightly behind his head,--"if I were going in for it,
and might make a deliberate choice, I think I should choose a woman who
had something to forget,--a woman who had reached an emotional
crisis--who was young, and yet who could not take refuge in girlish
forgetfulness, and who, in spite of her youth, had lived beyond trusting
in the future--a woman who represented beauty, and wit, and despair (the
despair would be the strongest lever of all). There isn't a doubt of it
that such a woman, taken at such a turning-point in her existence, could
move--the world, if you like--the world itself;" and he arranged himself
a trifle more comfortably, and half-laughed again.
"But," suggested the professor, "you are not going in for that sort of
thing, my dear Richard."
"Oh, no, no!" answered Richard; "but _if_ I were, I must confess it
would have a fascination for me which would not permit of my regarding
it in cold blood. I am like Bertha, you know--I like my little drama."
"And, speaking of Bertha," said the professor, "if anything should
happen while you are away"--
"Now, really," said Richard, "that shows what a careless fellow I am! Do
you know, it never once occurred to me that anything could happen. We
have such an admirable record to look back upon, Bertha and I, though I
think I usually refer the fact to Bertha's tact and executive ability;
nothing ever has happened, and I feel that we have established a
precedent. But, if anything should happen, you had better telegraph to
Merritsville. In any ordinary event, however, I feel quite safe in
leaving Bertha in your hands and Tredennis's," he said, smiling at the
large shadow in the corner. "One is always sure, in the midst of the
ruling frivolity, that Tredennis is to be relied on."
He went away soon after, and Tredennis, bidding the professor
good-night, left the house with him.
As they passed down the steps Richard put his arm through his
companion's with caressing friendliness.
"It wouldn't do you any harm to take a run up into Virginia yourself,
once in a while," he said. "You have been losing ground since the heat
set in, and we can't submit to that. We need your muscular development
in its highest form, as an example to our modern deterioration. Kill two
birds with one stone when you have a day's leisure,--go and see Bertha
and the children, and lay in a new supply of that delightful robustness
we envy and admire."
"I should be glad to see Bertha," said Tredennis.
"She would be glad to see you," Richard answered. "And, while I am away,
it will be a relief to me to feel that she has you to call upon in case
of need. The professor--dear old fellow--is not as strong as he was. And
you--as I said before--one naturally takes the liberty of relying upon
your silent substantiality."
"Thank you," said Tredennis. "If it is a matter of avoirdupois"----
Richard turned quickly to look at him.
"Ah, no," he said, "not that; though, being human, we respect the
avoirdupois. It's something else, you know. Upon my word, I can't
exactly say what, but something which makes a man feel instinctively
that he can shift his responsibilities upon you and they will be in good
hands. Perhaps it is not an enviable quality in one's self, after all.
Here am I, you see, shifting Bertha and the children off on your
shoulders.
"If I can be of any use to Bertha and the children why not?" said
Tredennis, tersely.
"Oh, but one might also say 'Why?'" returned Richard. "We haven't any
claim on you, really, and yet we do it, or, rather, _I_ do it, which
speaks all the more strongly for your generosity and trustworthiness."
"And you will be away"--Tredennis began.
"Two or three weeks. It might be more, but I think not. We separate
here, I think, as I am going to drop in on Planefield. Good-night, and
thanks."
"Good-night," responded Tredennis, and they shook hands and parted.