BOOK IV

XXX

ON a September day, somewhat more than a year and a half after Bessy

Amherst's death, her husband and his mother sat at luncheon in the

dining-room of the Westmore house at Hanaford.

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, Bessy had divided her estate between her

husband and daughter, placing Cicely'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 ensured by his receiving a slightly

larger proportion of the stock than his step-daughter.

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 morrow 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 a way 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

the 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 Bessy 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 Cicely's representative, made him doubly eager to justify

his wife's trust in him.

Mrs. Amherst, looking up from a telegram which the parlour-maid had

handed her, smiled across the table at her son.

"From Maria Ansell--they are all coming tomorrow."

"Ah--that's good," Amherst rejoined. "I should have been sorry if Cicely

had not been here."

"Mr. Langhope is coming too," his mother continued. "I'm glad of that,

John."

"Yes," Amherst again assented.

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 Bessy. The strict

retrenchment of all personal expenses, and the leasing of Lynbrook and

the town house, 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

Hanaford should take the same view; and the opening of the Westmore

Memorial Hospital was therefore to be performed with an unwonted 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 grand-daughter 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 step-daughter, 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

Cicely?"

"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 parlour-maid 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, enthroning 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 door-step there was such a striking-looking young man enquiring for

her, and I heard the parlour-maid say she was arriving tomorrow."

"A young man? Some one you didn't know?" Striking apparitions of the

male sex were of infrequent occurrence at Hanaford, 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 Seize."

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 Bessy 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 absent-mindedly

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 Cicely--under the circumstances."

Mrs. Amherst's black eye-brows gathered in a slight frown. She had

already noticed, on the part of the Hanaford clan, a disposition to

regard Amherst as imprisoned in the conditions of his trust, and

committed to the obligation of handing on unimpaired to Cicely 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 Cicely,

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 d'you do? I suppose you're very busy about

tomorrow? 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 _bonhomie_ 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

Cicely," Mrs. Amherst quietly interposed.

"Yes--and it was so 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 darkened at the allusion, 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 Cicely. 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 of the use he had made of his

great opportunity. Even now that the opportunity had come, and all

obstacles were levelled, sympathy with his work was as much lacking as

ever; and only Duplain, at length reinstated as 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 instinctive 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 Bessy: even Mr. Tredegar's chary praise swelled

the general commendation. From the surgeons he heard how her unwearied

skill had helped them in their fruitless efforts; poor Cicely, awed by

her loss, clung to her mother's friend with childish tenacity; and the

young rector of Saint Anne's, shyly acquitting himself of his visit of

condolence, dwelt chiefly on the consolatory thought of Miss Brent's

presence at the death-bed.

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 Lynbrook; 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

Cicely.

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 Cicely.

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 parlour-maid who had long ruled it resented the intervention

of Cicely'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

Cicely'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 fervour of bereavement, has undertaken the

construction of an imposing monument without having counted the cost. He

had meant that his devotion to Cicely 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 Cicely to her step-father, though Mrs.

Amherst would gladly have undertaken her care; Mrs. Ansell'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.

There was no trace in her now of the dumb misery which had haunted him

at their parting; 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 Ariel 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--something 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 parlour-maid if

the gentleman had left his name; and the parlour-maid had answered in

the negative. The young man was evidently not indigenous: all the social

units of Hanaford 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 Lynbrook circle. After all, he had seen her chiefly not among her

own friends but among his wife's. 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 centre

of her own, must be subject to influences of which he was wholly

ignorant. And since her departure from Lynbrook 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 Cicely; and

Mr. Langhope, on going abroad for the summer, had established his

grand-daughter in a Bar Harbour cottage, where, save for two flying

visits from Mrs. Ansell, Miss Brent had reigned alone till his return in

September.

Very likely, Amherst reflected, the mysterious visitor was a Bar Harbour

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 Hanaford 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. Wyant's--but what could Wyant be

doing at Hanaford, and in a Westmore car?

Amherst's first impulse was to spring out and overtake him. He knew how

admirably the young physician had borne himself at Lynbrook; he even

recalled Dr. Garford's saying, with his kindly sceptical smile: "Poor

Wyant 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 Wyant, and had tried to express his sense of the

fact by warm words and a liberal fee; but since Bessy's death he had

never returned to Lynbrook, 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 Hanaford, and make some proffer of hospitality; but if the stranger

were really Wyant, 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 Hanaford 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 of 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 massed themselves, till they drew an impenetrable veil over the

upper light and stretched threateningly across his whole horizon.

XXXI

THE celebrations at Westmore were over. Hanaford society, mustering for

the event, had streamed through the hospital, inspected the clinic,

complimented Amherst, recalled itself to Mr. Langhope and Mrs. Ansell,

and streamed out again to regain its carriages and motors.

The chief actors in the ceremony were also taking leave. Mr. Langhope,

somewhat pale and nervous after the ordeal, had been helped into the

Gaines landau with Mrs. Ansell and Cicely; Mrs. Amherst had accepted a

seat in the Dressel victoria; and Westy Gaines, with an _empressement_

slightly tinged by condescension, was in the act of placing his electric

phaeton at Miss Brent's disposal.

She stood in the pretty 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-railed 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 roof-lines 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 phaeton.

"Thank you so much; but there's some one here I want to see first--one

of the operatives--and I can easily take a Hanaford car." She held out

her hand with the smile that ran like colour over her whole face; and

Westy, nettled 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 Dillons?" 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 Cicely 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 Dillons--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 Dillons 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 Dillons, 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

cross 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 Dillons 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-coloured

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 favourite

scheme of Amherst's, and the Dillons, incapacitated for factory work,

had shown themselves admirably adapted to their new duties. In Mrs.

Dillon's small hot sitting-room, among the starched sofa-tidies 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 had

formed for Tommy's advancement, and how Sue's good marks at school were

still ahead of Mrs. Hagan's Mary's.

"What I really like is to gossip with them, 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 Duplain out of the office, introducing him to Miss

Brent, and asking him for the keys of the buildings....

It was wonderful, again, how she grasped what he was doing in 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 mill work he forgot his constraint and returned to the

free comradery 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 Eldorado

building, which now at last housed the long-desired night-schools and

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 Hanaford 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 heard of

his being at Hanaford?"

"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 Lynbrook

rumour 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 Eldorado. 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 Cicely?"

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, woke

in 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 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 happy with Cicely--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. He had never before seen her in this mood,

with brooding brows, and the darkness of the world's pain in her eyes.

All her glow had faded--she was a dun thrush-like creature, clothed in

semi-tints; yet she seemed much nearer than when her smile shot light on

him.

He stood motionless, his eyes absently fixed on the bunch of violets at

her feet. 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 must be some one

who knew you very well...and who had followed you here...for some

special reason...."

Her colour rose again, as if caught from his; but her eyes still

declared her ignorance. "Some special reason----?"

"And just now," he blurted out, "when you said you might not stay much

longer with Cicely--I thought of the visit--and wondered if there was

some one you meant to marry...."

A silence fell between them. 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.

Restored to his level, her small shadowy head just in a line with his

eyes, she seemed closer, more approachable and feminine--yet Amherst did

not dare to speak.

She took a few steps toward the window, looking 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-tide: 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 again 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 he

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 for him better 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. "Oh, I _hate_

suffering!" she broke out, raising her hands to her face.

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.

XXXII

EVERY one agreed that, on the whole, Mr. Langhope had behaved extremely

well.

He was just beginning to regain his equanimity in the matter of the

will--to perceive that, in the eyes of the public, something important

and distinguished was being done at Westmore, and that the venture,

while reducing Cicely's income during her minority, might, in some

incredible way, actually make for its ultimate increase. So much Mr.

Langhope, always eager to take the easiest view of the inevitable, had

begun to let fall in his confidential comments on Amherst; when his

newly-regained balance was rudely shaken by the news of his son-in-law's

marriage.

The free expression of his anger was baffled by the fact that, even by

the farthest stretch of self-extenuating logic, he could find no one to

blame for the event but himself.

"Why on earth don't you say so--don't you call me a triple-dyed fool for

bringing them together?" he challenged Mrs. Ansell, as they had the

matter out together in the small intimate drawing-room of her New York

apartment.

Mrs. Ansell, 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 you told me not to engage Miss Brent! Didn't you

tell me not to engage her?"

She made a hesitating motion of assent.

"But, 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

only 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

enamelled match-box 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 Cicely off your mind, I mean."

"Cicely 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. Ansell 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. Every one 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 Cicely'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 Cicely--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 Cicely."

"But you must remember that, from Mr. Amherst's standpoint, the money

belongs rather to Westmore than to Cicely."

"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

Cicely 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 shall never forget what Miss Brent did for my poor Bessy...."

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 Hanaford 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 friend had 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 an

_idee fixe_; and it was natural that Hanaford 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 wake into life.

She had felt it in him from the first, though their talks had so

uniformly turned on the subject which palled on Hanaford; 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 business man 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 Hanaford: 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, contrarily, 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 rarer 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

mid-current 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 homoeopathically. 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 Seize," 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_

Hanaford--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." She put aside her untasted cup, resting her elbows

on her knees, and her chin on her clasped hands, in the attitude

habitual to her in moments of inward debate.

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

Polycrates. 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. "I only had a fancy that they

might overlook such a dull place as Hanaford."

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

ardour. 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 _bien-etre_

that wife of yours diffuses about her!"

The element of _bien-etre_ 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 Hanaford had the merit of giving a

finer flavour 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 Cicely for the summer. Amherst and Justine were both anxious that

the child should spend more time at Hanaford, that her young

associations should begin to gather about Westmore; and Justine exulted

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. There's

nothing you can't make people believe, you little Jesuit!"

"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 parlour-maid 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 Cicely awaited them; and Justine,

carelessly pushing the envelope into her muff, murmured "I suppose so"

as she followed him.

XXXIII

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 Wyant's, 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 Lynbrook, Wyant had married a Clifton girl--a pretty

piece of flaunting innocence, whom she remembered about the lanes,

generally with a young man in a buggy. There had evidently been

something obscure and precipitate 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 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 prophesy 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.

Justine 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

mill-hands 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, some 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 their 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 Lynbrook, 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.

But when at length, in her dressing-gown, her loosened hair about her

shoulders, she seated herself before the toilet-mirror, 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

interne 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."

Justine 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 Bessy 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 had made her believe that he

understood her motive and approved it. But, supposing she had been

mistaken, she still 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!

Suddenly she heard Amherst's step in the passage--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 weighing 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 assent 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 of

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

avowal. 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 pushed back her chair,

crumpling the letter in her hand; but as she did so, her eyes again fell

on her reflection. 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 half-way she heard him knock.

"May I come in?"

She was close to the fire-place, and a bright fire burned on the hearth.

"Come in!" she answered; and as she did so, she turned and dropped

Wyant'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

Wyant'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 Cicely's giving in his button-hole, 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! What about?"

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 clasped hands against him.

His grasp tightened on her wrists, and again the stern look crossed his

face. "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 crush Wyant--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 mantel-piece 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--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 some one--unlucky--whom I've known about...."

"And whose troubles have been troubling you? But can't we help?"

She shone on him through gleaming lashes. "Some one 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. Langhope's soup?" He had her in his arms now, his kisses

drying her cheek; and she turned her head so that their lips met in a

long pressure.

"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 cheque 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 pause 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 cheque she saw it was for three

hundred dollars.

XXXIV

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!

Wyant 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 Bessy's death was

approaching, and Justine knew that at that time he always absented

himself.

"Supposing you and Amherst were to carry off Cicely 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 Hanaford. 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 Cicely's going to Hanaford.

"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 Cicely 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 Hanaford--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 Cicely was

in bed--when he and she sat alone, together in the Westmore

drawing-room--in Bessy'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 Hanaford.

She found a pretext in her own health. She pleaded that she was a little

tired, below par...and to return to Hanaford meant returning to hard

work; with the best will in the world she could not be idle there. Might

she not, she suggested, take Cicely 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 assent. Certainly she did look

tired--Mr. Langhope himself had noticed it. Had he perhaps over-taxed

her energies, left the household too entirely on her shoulders? Oh,

no--it was only the New York air...like Cicely, she pined for a breath

of the woods.... And so, the day Mr. Langhope left, she and Cicely were

packed off to Lakewood.

They stayed there a week: then a fit of restlessness drove Justine back

to 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

over-heated 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 Cicely to Mrs. Ansell's

care, and making a sudden dash for Hanaford. 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. None

from Wyant--that fear was allayed! 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 wrung 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 parlour-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 parlour-maid had not

described the caller--why jump to the conclusion that it was Wyant?

Three days passed, and no letter came--no sign. She struggled with the

temptation to describe Wyant to the servants, and to forbid his

admission. But it would not do. They were nearly all old servants, in

whose eyes she was still the intruder, the upstart sick-nurse--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. Ansell. She and Mrs. Ansell, 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. Ansell. 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 pass 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. Ansell were

alone in the box for the moment, and she started up, pushing back her

chair....

Mrs. Ansell 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 he not 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. Ansell's side.

The other members of the party came back--the bell rang, the foot-lights

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 should he stand at the door for half

the evening?

At last the act ended; the entr'acte elapsed; 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. Ansell set 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 Amherst 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 Cicely lunched alone, and after

luncheon the little girl was despatched to her dancing-class. Justine

herself meant to go out when the brougham returned. She went up to her

room to dress, planning to drive in the park, and to drop in on Mrs.

Ansell before she called for Cicely; 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

at once that, while in the early days of the habit he had probably mixed

his drugs, so that the conflicting symptoms neutralized 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 over-coat, 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 the 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 Lynbrook I had rather a bad break-down--the

strain of Mrs. Amherst's case, I suppose. You remember Bramble, the

Clifton grocer? 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 that 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--or any bad set-back. 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. Ansell are both interested

in the new wing for paying patients at Saint 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 colour 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. "You said just now that you

wished to regain your self-respect. Well, you must regain it before you

can ask me--or any one else--to recommend you to a position of trust."

Wyant half-rose, with an angry murmur. "My self-respect? What do you

mean? _I_ meant that I'd lost courage--through ill-luck----"

"Yes; and your ill-luck has come through your own fault. Till you cure

yourself you're not fit to cure others."

He sank back into his seat, glowering at her under sullen brows; then

his expression gradually changed to half-sneering admiration. "You're a

plucky one!" he said.

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--first my

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."

Wyant rose also, moving a step nearer. "Well, get me that place,

then--I'll see to 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--his feeble sneering laugh was disgusting. "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

Saint Christopher's you'll have to give me another cheque--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.

Wyant 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."

"I was mistaken enough to think that, in your distress, you had not

realized what you wrote. But if you're a systematic blackmailer----"

"Gently--gently. Bad names don't frighten me--it's hunger and debt I'm

afraid of."

Justine felt a 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 today."

"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 favour, would

inevitably dispose her husband to readier 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: a reaction of scorn

would throw him into unhesitating championship of her conduct. All this

was so clear that, had she been advising any one else, her confidence in

the course to be taken might have strengthened the feeblest will; but

with the 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.

Her final conclusion was that she must, at any rate, gain time: buy off

Wyant till she had been able to tell her story in her own way, and at

her own hour, and then defy him when he returned to the assault. 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 tonight?_

"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 blackmailer--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 scrutinized her a moment: her despair must have rung 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.