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"AH, Mrs. Dressel, we were on the lookout for you--waiting for thecurtain to rise. Your friend Miss Brent? Juliana, Mrs. Dressel's friendMiss Brent----"
Near the brilliantly-striped marquee that formed the axis of the Gainesgarden-parties, Mr. Halford Gaines, a few paces from his wife anddaughters, stood radiating a royal welcome on the stream of visitorspouring across the lawn. It was only to eyes perverted by a differentsocial perspective that there could be any doubt as to the importanceof the Gaines entertainments. To Hanaford itself they were epoch-making;and if any rebellious spirit had cherished a doubt of the fact, it wouldhave been quelled by the official majesty of Mr. Gaines's frock-coat andthe comprehensive cordiality of his manner.
There were moments when New York hung like a disquieting cloud on thesocial horizon of Mrs. Gaines and her daughters; but to Halford GainesHanaford was all in all. As an exponent of the popular and patriotic"good-enough-for-me" theory he stood in high favour at the HanafordClub, where a too-keen consciousness of the metropolis was alternatelycombated by easy allusion and studied omission, and where the unsettledfancies of youth were chastened and steadied by the reflection that, ifHanaford was good enough for Halford Gaines, it must offer opportunitiescommensurate with the largest ideas of life.
Never did Mr. Gaines's manner bear richer witness to what could beextracted from Hanaford than when he was in the act of applying to itthe powerful pressure of his hospitality. The resultant essence was sobubbling with social exhilaration that, to its producer at any rate, itssomewhat mixed ingredients were lost in one highly flavoured draught.Under ordinary circumstances no one discriminated more keenly than Mr.Gaines between different shades of social importance; but any one whowas entertained by him was momentarily ennobled by the fact, and not allthe anxious telegraphy of his wife and daughters could, for instance,recall to him that the striking young woman in Mrs. Dressel's wake wasonly some obscure protegee, whom it was odd of Effie to have brought,and whose presence was quite unnecessary to emphasize.
"Juliana, Miss Brent tells me she has never seen our roses. Oh, thereare other roses in Hanaford, Miss Brent; I don't mean to imply that noone else attempts them; but unless you can afford to give _carteblanche_ to your man--and mine happens to be something of aspecialist...well, if you'll come with me, I'll let them speak forthemselves. I always say that if people want to know what we can do theymust come and see--they'll never find out from _me_!"
A more emphatic signal from his wife arrested Mr. Gaines as he was inthe act of leading Miss Brent away.
"Eh?--What? The Amhersts and Mrs. Ansell? You must excuse me then, I'mafraid--but Westy shall take you. Westy, my boy, it's an ill-wind.... Iwant you to show this young lady our roses." And Mr. Gaines, withmingled reluctance and satisfaction, turned away to receive the mostimportant guests of the day.
It had not needed his father's summons to draw the expert Westy to MissBrent: he was already gravitating toward her, with the nonchalance bredof cosmopolitan successes, but with a directness of aim due also to hislarger opportunities of comparison.
"The roses will do," he explained, as he guided her through theincreasing circle of guests about his mother; and in answer to Justine'sglance of enquiry: "To get you away, I mean. They're not much inthemselves, you know; but everything of the governor's always beginswith a capital letter."
"Oh, but these roses deserve to," Justine exclaimed, as they pausedunder the evergreen archway at the farther end of the lawn.
"I don't know--not if you've been in England," Westy murmured, watchingfurtively for the impression produced, on one who had presumably not, bythe great blush of colour massed against its dusky background of clippedevergreens.
Justine smiled. "I _have_ been--but I've been in the slums since; inhorrible places that the least of those flowers would have lighted uplike a lamp."
Westy's guarded glance imprudently softened. "It's the beastliest kindof a shame, your ever having had to do such work----"
"Oh, _had_ to?" she flashed back at him disconcertingly. "It was mychoice, you know: there was a time when I couldn't live without it.Philanthropy is one of the subtlest forms of self-indulgence."
Westy met this with a vague laugh. If a chap who was as knowing as thedevil _did_, once in a way, indulge himself in the luxury of talkingrecklessly to a girl with exceptional eyes, it was rather upsetting todiscover in those eyes no consciousness of the risk he had taken!
"But I _am_ rather tired of it now," she continued, and his look grewguarded again. After all, they were all the same--except in thatparticular matter of the eyes. At the thought, he risked another look,hung on the sharp edge of betrayal, and was snatched back, not by themanly instinct of self-preservation, but by some imp of mockery lurkingin the depths that lured him.
He recovered his balance and took refuge in a tone of worldly ease. "Isaw a chap the other day who said he knew you when you were at SaintElizabeth's--wasn't that the name of your hospital?"
Justine assented. "One of the doctors, I suppose. Where did you meethim?"
Ah, _now_ she should see! He summoned his utmost carelessness of tone."Down on Long Island last week--I was spending Sunday with theAmhersts." He held up the glittering fact to her, and watched for theleast little blink of awe; but her lids never trembled. It was aconfession of social blindness which painfully negatived Mrs. Dressel'shint that she knew the Amhersts; if she had even known _of_ them, shecould not so fatally have missed his point.
"Long Island?" She drew her brows together in puzzled retrospection. "Iwonder if it could have been Stephen Wyant? I heard he had taken overhis uncle's practice somewhere near New York."
"Wyant--that's the name. He's the doctor at Clifton, the nearest town tothe Amhersts' place. Little Cicely had a cold--Cicely Westmore, youknow--a small cousin of mine, by the way--" he switched a rose-branchloftily out of her path, explaining, as she moved on, that Cicely wasthe daughter of Mrs. Amherst's first marriage to Richard Westmore."That's the way I happened to see this Dr. Wyant. Bessy--Mrs.Amherst--asked him to stop to luncheon, after he'd seen the kid. Heseems rather a discontented sort of a chap--grumbling at not having aNew York practice. I should have thought he had rather a snug berth,down there at Lynbrook, with all those swells to dose."
Justine smiled. "Dr. Wyant is ambitious, and swells don't have asinteresting diseases as poor people. One gets tired of giving them breadpills for imaginary ailments. But Dr. Wyant is not strong himself and Ifancy a country practice is better for him than hard work in town."
"You think him clever though, do you?" Westy enquired absently. He wasalready bored with the subject of the Long Island doctor, and vexed atthe lack of perception that led his companion to show more concern inthe fortunes of a country practitioner than in the fact of his own visitto the Amhersts; but the topic was a safe one, and it was agreeable tosee how her face kindled when she was interested.
Justine mused on his question. "I think he has very great promise--whichhe is almost certain not to fulfill," she answered with a sigh whichseemed to Westy's anxious ear to betray a more than professionalinterest in the person referred to.
"Oh, come now--why not? With the Amhersts to give him a start--I heardmy cousin recommending him to a lot of people the other day----"
"Oh, he may become a fashionable doctor," Justine assentedindifferently; to which her companion rejoined, with a puzzled stare:"That's just what I mean--with Bessy backing him!"
"Has Mrs. Amherst become such a power, then?" Justine asked, taking upthe coveted theme just as he despaired of attracting her to it.
"My cousin?" he stretched the two syllables to the cracking-point."Well, she's awfully rich, you know; and there's nobody smarter. Don'tyou think so?"
"I don't know; it's so long since I've seen her."
He brightened. "You _did_ know her, then?" But the discovery made herobtuseness the more inexplicable!
"Oh, centuries ago: in another world."
"_Centuries_--I like that!" Westy gallantly p
rotested, his ardourkindling as she swam once more within his social ken. "And Amherst? Youknow him too, I suppose? By Jove, here he is now----"
He signalled a tall figure strolling slowly toward them with bent headand brooding gaze. Justine's eye had retained a vivid image of the manwith whom, scarcely three years earlier, she had lived through a momentof such poignant intimacy, and she recognized at once his lean outline,and the keen spring of his features, still veiled by the same look ofinward absorption. She noticed, as he raised his hat in response toWesty Gaines's greeting, that the vertical lines between his brows haddeepened; and a moment later she was aware that this change was thevisible token of others which went deeper than the fact of his goodclothes and his general air of leisure and well-being--changesperceptible to her only in the startled sense of how prosperity had agedhim.
"Hallo, Amherst--trying to get under cover?" Westy jovially accostedhim, with a significant gesture toward the crowded lawn from which thenew-comer had evidently fled. "I was just telling Miss Brent that thisis the safest place on these painful occasions--Oh, confound it, it'snot as safe as I thought! Here's one of my sisters making for me!"
There ensued a short conflict of words, before his feeble flutter ofresistance was borne down by a resolute Miss Gaines who, as she swepthim back to the marquee, cried out to Amherst that her mother was askingfor him too; and then Justine had time to observe that her remainingcompanion had no intention of responding to his hostess's appeal.
Westy, in naming her, had laid just enough stress on the name to let itserve as a reminder or an introduction, as circumstances might decide,and she saw that Amherst, roused from his abstraction by the profferedclue, was holding his hand out doubtfully.
"I think we haven't met for some years," he said.
Justine smiled. "I have a better reason than you for remembering theexact date;" and in response to his look of surprise she added: "Youmade me commit a professional breach of faith, and I've never knownsince whether to be glad or sorry."
Amherst still bent on her the gaze which seemed to find in externaldetails an obstacle rather than a help to recognition; but suddenly hisface cleared. "It was you who told me the truth about poor Dillon! Icouldn't imagine why I seemed to see you in such a differentsetting...."
"Oh, I'm disguised as a lady this afternoon," she said smiling. "But I'mglad you saw through the disguise."
He smiled back at her. "Are you? Why?"
"It seems to make it--if it's so transparent--less of a sham, less of adishonesty," she began impulsively, and then paused again, a littleannoyed at the overemphasis of her words. Why was she explaining andexcusing herself to this stranger? Did she propose to tell him next thatshe had borrowed her dress from Effie Dressel? To cover her confusionshe went on with a slight laugh: "But you haven't told me."
"What was I to tell you?"
"Whether to be glad or sorry that I broke my vow and told the truthabout Dillon."
They were standing face to face in the solitude of the garden-walk,forgetful of everything but the sudden surprised sense of intimacy thathad marked their former brief communion. Justine had raised her eyeshalf-laughingly to Amherst, but they dropped before the unexpectedseriousness of his.
"Why do you want to know?" he asked.
She made an effort to sustain the note of pleasantry.
"Well--it might, for instance, determine my future conduct. You see I'mstill a nurse, and such problems are always likely to presentthemselves."
"Ah, then don't!"
"Don't?"
"I mean--" He hesitated a moment, reaching up to break a rose from thebranch that tapped his shoulder. "I was only thinking what risks we runwhen we scramble into the chariot of the gods and try to do the driving.Be passive--be passive, and you'll be happier!"
"Oh, as to that--!" She swept it aside with one of her airy motions."But Dillon, for instance--would _he_ have been happier if I'd beenpassive?"
Amherst seemed to ponder. "There again--how can one tell?"
"And the risk's not worth taking?"
"No!"
She paused, and they looked at each other again. "Do you mean thatseriously, I wonder? Do you----"
"Act on it myself? God forbid! The gods drive so badly. There's poorDillon...he happened to be in their way...as we all are at times." Hepulled himself up, and went on in a matter-of-fact tone: "In Dillon'scase, however, my axioms don't apply. When my wife heard the truth shewas, of course, immensely kind to him; and if it hadn't been for you shemight never have known."
Justine smiled. "I think you would have found out--I was only the humbleinstrument. But now--" she hesitated--"now you must be able to do somuch--"
Amherst lifted his head, and she saw the colour rise under his fairskin. "Out at Westmore? You've never been there since? Yes--my wife hasmade some changes; but it's all so problematic--and one would have tolive here...."
"You don't, then?"
He answered by an imperceptible shrug. "Of course I'm here often; andshe comes now and then. But the journey's tiresome, and it is not alwayseasy for her to get away." He checked himself, and Justine saw that he,in turn, was suddenly conscious of the incongruity of explaining andextenuating his personal situation to a stranger. "But then we're _not_strangers!" a voice in her exulted, just as he added, with anembarrassed attempt to efface and yet justify his moment of expansion:"That reminds me--I think you know my wife. I heard her asking Mrs.Dressel about you. She wants so much to see you."
The transition had been effected, at the expense of dramatic interest,but to the obvious triumph of social observances; and to Justine, afterall, regaining at his side the group about the marquee, the interest wasnot so much diminished as shifted to the no less suggestive problem ofstudying the friend of her youth in the unexpected character of JohnAmherst's wife.
Meanwhile, however, during the brief transit across the Gainesgreensward, her thoughts were still busy with Amherst. She had seen atonce that the peculiar sense of intimacy reawakened by their meeting hadbeen chilled and deflected by her first allusion to the topic which hadpreviously brought them together: Amherst had drawn back as soon as shenamed the mills. What could be the cause of his reluctance? When theyhad last met, the subject burned within him: her being in actual fact astranger had not, then, been an obstacle to his confidences. Now that hewas master at Westmore it was plain that another tone became him--thathis situation necessitated a greater reserve; but her enquiry did notimply the least wish to overstep this restriction: it merely showed herremembrance of his frankly-avowed interest in the operatives. Justinewas struck by the fact that so natural an allusion should put him on thedefensive. She did not for a moment believe that he had lost hisinterest in the mills; and that his point of view should have shiftedwith the fact of ownership she rejected as an equally superficialreading of his character. The man with whom she had talked at Dillon'sbedside was one in whom the ruling purposes had already shapedthemselves, and to whom life, in whatever form it came, must henceforthtake their mould. As she reached this point in her analysis, it occurredto her that his shrinking from the subject might well imply notindifference, but a deeper preoccupation: a preoccupation for somereason suppressed and almost disavowed, yet sustaining the moreintensely its painful hidden life. From this inference it was but a leapof thought to the next--that the cause of the change must be soughtoutside of himself, in some external influence strong enough to modifythe innate lines of his character. And where could such an influence bemore obviously sought than in the marriage which had transformed theassistant manager of the Westmore Mills not, indeed, into theirowner--that would rather have tended to simplify the problem--but intothe husband of Mrs. Westmore? After all, the mills were Bessy's--and fora farther understanding of the case it remained to find out what mannerof person Bessy had become.
Justine's first impression, as her friend's charming arms receivedher--with an eagerness of welcome not lost on the suspended judgment offeminine Hanaford--the immediate impression was of a gain of emp
hasis,of individuality, as though the fluid creature she remembered had beliedher prediction, and run at last into a definite mould. Yes--Bessy hadacquired an outline: a graceful one, as became her early promise, thoughwith, perhaps, a little more sharpness of edge than her youthful texturehad promised. But the side she turned to her friend was still allsoftness--had in it a hint of the old pliancy, the impulse to lean andenlace, that at once woke in Justine the corresponding instinct ofguidance and protection, so that their first kiss, before a word wasspoken, carried the two back to the precise relation in which theirschool-days had left them. So easy a reversion to the past left no roomfor the sense of subsequent changes by which such reunions are sometimesembarrassed. Justine's sympathies had, instinctively, and almost atonce, transferred themselves to Bessy's side--passing over at a leapthe pained recognition that there _were_ sides already--and Bessy hadgathered up Justine into the circle of gentle self-absorption which lefther very dimly aware of any distinctive characteristic in her friendsexcept that of their affection for herself--since she asked only, as sheappealingly put it, that they should all be "dreadfully fond" of her.
"And I've wanted you so often, Justine: you're the only clever personI'm not afraid of, because your cleverness always used to make thingsclear instead of confusing them. I've asked so many people aboutyou--but I never heard a word till just the other day--wasn't itodd?--when our new doctor at Rushton happened to say that he knew you.I've been rather unwell lately--nervous and tired, and sleepingbadly--and he told me I ought to keep perfectly quiet, and be under thecare of a nurse who could make me do as she chose: just such a nurse asa wonderful Miss Brent he had known at St. Elizabeth's, whose patientsobeyed her as if she'd been the colonel of a regiment. His descriptionmade me laugh, it reminded me so much of the way you used to make me dowhat you wanted at the convent--and then it suddenly occurred to me thatI had heard of you having gone in for nursing, and we compared notes,and I found it was really you! Wasn't it odd that we should discovereach other in that way? I daresay we might have passed in the streetand never known it--I'm sure I must be horribly changed...."
Thus Bessy discoursed, in the semi-isolation to which, under anoverarching beech-tree, the discretion of their hostess had allowed thetwo friends to withdraw for the freer exchange of confidences. Therewas, at first sight, nothing in her aspect to bear out Mrs. Amherst'splaintive allusion to her health, but Justine, who knew that she hadlost a baby a few months previously, assumed that the effect of thisshock still lingered, though evidently mitigated by a reviving interestin pretty clothes and the other ornamental accessories of life.Certainly Bessy Amherst had grown into the full loveliness which herchildhood promised. She had the kind of finished prettiness thatdeclares itself early, holds its own through the awkward transitions ofgirlhood, and resists the strain of all later vicissitudes, as thoughmiraculously preserved in some clear medium impenetrable to the wear andtear of living.
"You absurd child! You've not changed a bit except to grow more so!"Justine laughed, paying amused tribute to the childish craving for "acompliment" that still betrayed itself in Bessy's eyes.
"Well, _you_ have, then, Justine--you've grown extraordinarilyhandsome!"
"That _is_ extraordinary of me, certainly," the other acknowledgedgaily. "But then think what room for improvement there was--and howmuch time I've had to improve in!"
"It is a long time, isn't it?" Bessy assented. "I feel so intimate,still, with the old Justine of the convent, and I don't know the new onea bit. Just think--I've a great girl of my own, almost as old as we werewhen we went to the Sacred Heart: But perhaps you don't know anythingabout me either. You see, I married again two years ago, and my poorbaby died last March...so I have only Cicely. It was such adisappointment--I wanted a boy dreadfully, and I understand littlebabies so much better than a big girl like Cicely.... Oh, dear, here isJuliana Gaines bringing up some more tiresome people! It's such a bore,but John says I must know them all. Well, thank goodness we've only onemore day in this dreadful place--and of course I shall see you, dear,before we go...."
The Fruit of the Tree Page 10
