No; Blanche was not a clever woman; that could not be claimed for her;
but her essential elements were womanly. Pain, grief, distress of any
sort woke in her heart a longing to give help and comfort.
Since Norma's marriage, Blanche had drawn much nearer to her cousin.
She had always been fond of him in an abstract way, and had felt a
surface sorrow, not unmingled with aesthetic interest, in the dramatic
incidents of his life. She had lived in the same house with him, had
associated with him daily, had taken his hand, had kissed him; but she
had never _known_ him. She had never gauged his nature with the
understanding born of sympathy, never seen the real man. Now it was
otherwise. Association with larger, simpler natures had developed the
latent capabilities of her own, and the presence of love had made her
more observant, more responsive.
Her enlarged sympathies made her yearn over Thorne; her happiness made
her long earnestly to help him. She cast about in her mind what she
should do. She knew the strength of Berkeley's prejudices, and that
his influence with his sister had been--and still was--silently but
strenuously exerted to hold her back from a course from which, as
Blanche suspected, his feelings, more than his conscience, revolted.
Blanche, differently reared, could not see the matter from the Mason
standpoint at all. To her, the past was past; to be deplored, of
course, but not to be allowed to cast a baleful shadow on the future.
That, to Blanche, was morbid; she could see no sense in drawing
conscientiousness to a point and impaling her own heart, and, worse,
other hearts thereon. Blanche's creed was simple--people committed
faults, made blunders, sinned, suffered; atoned the sin by the
suffering, and should then be kissed and forgiven.
She talked to Berkeley in her gentle, persuasive way (she had not
courage yet to talk to Pocahontas) and exerted all her influence in
Thorne's behalf; but she speedily discovered that she made little
headway; that while Berkeley listened, he did not assent; that he put
down her efforts; mainly, to personal attachment to her cousin, and was
therefore inclined to rule out her testimony. She needed help;
pressure must be brought to bear which had no connection with Thorne;
some one from the old life must speak, some one who shared the
prejudices, and was big enough and generous enough to set them aside
and judge of the affair from an unbiased, impersonal standpoint.
When this idea presented itself, her mind turned instantly to Jim.
Here was a man from the old life, a man reared as they had been reared,
a man in no way connected with Thorne. Jim could help her, if he
would, and somehow, Blanche felt assured that he would.
Jim had discovered their presence in the hotel very speedily and had
joined the party, glad, with an earnest gladness, to see his old
friends again, glad also to meet these new friends who had become
associated with the old ones. Blanche had been attracted by him, as
women, children, and dumb animals always were attracted by him; he was
strong, and yet very gentle.
She determined to speak to him, to make him understand the position,
and to entreat him to exert his influence with Berkeley, and through
Berkeley, with Pocahontas, to set this matter straight. She did not
know that she was about to do a cruel thing; was about to stretch a
soul on the rack and turn the screws. That fine reserve which infolded
the Masons like a veil precluded gossiping about themselves or their
affairs. Blanche had never heard of Jim as the lover of Pocahontas--or
if she had, it had been in an outside, intangible way that had made no
impression on her.
Possessed by her idea, and intent on securing an opportunity for
uninterrupted conversation, she asked Jim to take a walk with her. She
had some calls to make, she said, and they would walk through the park.
At this season the park was very beautiful, and she should like to show
it to him; New Yorkers were very proud of it. Blanche knew that she
was doing an unconventional thing; but she had observed, rather
wonderingly, the frank helpfulness with which Southerners would
identify themselves with each others' affairs, and she felt sure that
in speaking to Jim she ran little risk of rebuff. Jim had known the
Masons always, was of their blood; to put his shoulder to their wheel
would seem to him the right, and natural thing to do. Therefore
Blanche made her request with confidence, and Jim, who had never in his
life questioned a woman's right to his time and attention, went with
her willingly.
They sauntered about for a time and Jim admired all the beauties that
were pointed out to him, and showed his country training by pointing
out in his turn, subtler beauties which escaped her; the delicate
shading of bark and leaf-bud, the blending of the colors of the soil,
the way the shadows fell, the thousand and one things an artist, or a
man reared in the woods and fields, is quick to see, if he has eyes in
his head. He pointed out to her a nest a pair of birds were building,
and called her attention to a tiny squirrel, with a plume-like tail,
jumping about among the branches overhead. He told her stories of the
tropics, too, and of the strange picturesque life in the land of the
Montezumas, and made himself pleasant in a cheery, companionable way
that was very winning. He was pleased with Blanche, and thought that
his old friend had done well for himself in securing the love of the
sweet-faced maiden at his side. He liked talking to her, and walking
beside her in the sunshine; he decided that "Berke was a deuced lucky
fellow, and had fallen on his feet," and he was glad of it.
After awhile they turned into an unfrequented walk, and Blanche seized
her opportunity. She made Jim sit down on a bench under an old elm
tree and seated herself beside him. Then, insensibly and deftly, she
turned the talk to Virginia. She spoke of his old home, and praised
its beauty, and told him how a love for it had grown up in her heart,
although she was a stranger; she spoke of the cordial, friendly people,
and of the kindness they had extended to her family; of Warner, his
illness, death, and burial beside poor Temple Mason. Then she glided
on to Pocahontas, and spoke of her friend with enthusiasm, almost with
reverence; then, seeing that his interest was aroused, she told him as
simply and concisely as she could the story of her cousin's love for
Pocahontas, and the position in which the affair now stood.
"I know that she loves him," Blanche said quietly, "loves him as he
loves her, and that she is breaking her own heart, as well as his, by
this hesitation. It seems to me so wrong. What is a scruple compared
to the happiness of a life? The child is dead, all connection between
Nesbit and that heartless woman is severed forever. She is no more to
him than she is to you, or to Berkeley. I think that Pocahontas would
give way, but for Berkeley, for the influences of her old life. I
think some one ought to speak to Berkeley, to make him see how wrong he
is, how hard, how almost cruel. I have spoken, but I'm of Nesbit's
blood, on Nesbit's side, and my words haven't the weight that words
would have coming from a person who is outside of it all, and yet who
belongs _to them_. If YOU would speak, Mr. Byrd, I think it would do
good. Berkeley would listen to you, and would come to look at this
matter in its true light. Pocahontas is breaking her heart, and
Nesbit's heart, and she ought not to be let do it." There were tears
in Blanche's eyes and in her voice as she spoke, and she laid one small
hand on Jim's arm appealingly.
Jim never moved; he sat like a man carved out of stone and listened.
He knew that Pocahontas had never loved _him_, as he had wanted her to
love him; but the knowledge that her love was given to another man, was
bitter. He said no word, only listened with a jealous hatred of the
man, who had supplanted him, growing in his breast.
Blanche looked at him with tearful eyes and quivering lips; his gaze
was on the ground; his face wore, to her, an absent, almost apathetic
look. She was disappointed. She had expected, she did not know
exactly _what_, but certainly more sympathy, more response. She
thought that his heart must be less noble than his face, and she
regretted having given him her confidence and solicited his aid. When
they got back to the avenue, she released him from further attendance a
trifle coldly. She would make her calls alone, she said, it might be
irksome to him, probably he had other engagements. He had been very
good to sacrifice so much of his time to her; she would not detain him
longer.
Jim went back to the path and sat down again, not noticing her change
of manner, and only conscious of the relief of being free from the
necessity of talking commonplace, of being left to think this matter
out alone. He thought vaguely that she was a kind, considerate woman
and then she passed out of his mind.
The first feeling with which he grappled was wonder; a strange thing
had happened. A few short months ago these people had been unknown to
him; were, as far as his life had been concerned, non-existent. And
now! Land, home, friends, love, all things that had been his, were
theirs! His place knew him no more; these strangers filled it. It was
a strange thing, a cruel thing.
Pocahontas had been glad to see him again, but in her pleasure there
had been preoccupation; he had felt it; it was explained now. He knew
that she had never loved him, but the possibility of her loving another
man had never come home to him before. He tried to steady himself and
realize it; it ate into his heart like corroding acid. Perhaps it was
not true; there might be some mistake; then his heart told him that it
was true; that there was no mistake. She loved this man, this
stranger, of whose existence she had been ignorant that evening when
she had said farewell to _him_ under the old willows beside the river.
She had been tender and pitiful then; she had laid her soft lips
against his hand, had given him a flower from her breast. He moved his
hand, and, with the fingers of the other hand, touched the spot which
her lips had pressed; the flower, faded and scentless, lay, folded with
a girlish note or two she had written him, in the inside pocket of his
vest.
The shadows shifted as the wind swayed the branches; the sound of
women's voices came from behind a clump of evergreens; they were raised
in surprise or excitement, and sounded shrill and jarring. In the
distance a nurse pushed a basket-carriage carelessly; she was talking
to a workman who slouched beside her, and the child was crying. Two
sparrows near at hand, quarreled and fought over a bit of string.
His anger burned against Thorne. He could see no good in his rival; no
tragedy, no pathos, in the situation. Had his life gone
wrong?--Doubtless the fault had been his. Did he suffer? Jim felt a
brute joy in the knowledge of his pain.
What was that the young lady had said? Thorne had been divorced--the
woman who had been his wife lived--there were prejudices; he knew them
all; a barrier existed; his heart leaped. Here was hope, here was
vengeance.
A cloud passed over the sun, eclipsing its brightness; a chill was on
the face of nature; a dead twig, broken by the squirrel in his gambols,
fell at his feet.
He had been asked to speak, to exert his influence, to smooth the path
for his rival. He would _not_ speak; why should he speak? Was it any
business of his? Nay; was it not rather his duty to be silent, or to
throw such influence as he possessed into the other scale? Should he
aid to bring about a thing which he had been taught to regard with
aversion? Was it not his duty as a man, as a Christian, to _increase_
the prejudice, to build higher the barrier? Was it not better that
Thorne should suffer, that Pocahontas should suffer, as he himself was
suffering, than that wrong should be done?
The devil is never subtler than when he assumes the garb of priest.
And if he did not speak--more, if he should solidify, by every means in
his power, this barrier of prejudice into a wall of principle, which
should separate these two forever, what might not be the result? Jim's
strong frame shook like a leaf. His abnormally-excited imagination
leaped forward and constructed possibilities that thrilled him. The
spot on his hand that her lips had touched, burned.
A little girl came down the walk, trundling a hoop; it struck against
Jim's foot and fell over. The helpful instinct that was in him made
him stoop and lift it for her; the child, a tiny thing, pushed back her
curls and looked up at him with grave, wide-open eyes; suddenly her
face dimpled; a smile like sunshine broke over it, and she raised her
sweet lips to his, to kiss her thanks.
What had happened? A child's look, a child's kiss; it was a strange
thing. He raised his head and glanced around, passing his hand over
his brow like a man aroused from a delirium of dreams. Forces foreign
to his nature had been at work. He could not understand it--or himself.
Words came back to him out of his past--his own words--"a man must hold
up his own weight," and other words, "a man must help with his strength
a woman's weakness." He thought of his love with pity, with remorse.
He had never failed her, never put himself first, till now. What was
this thing he had thought of doing?
Jim stood erect and pulled himself together, lifting his head and
squaring his shoulders as a man does who is about to face an issue
fairly.