XXXI
THE celebrations at Westmore were over. Hanaford society, mustering forthe 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 theGaines landau with Mrs. Ansell and Cicely; Mrs. Amherst had accepted aseat in the Dressel victoria; and Westy Gaines, with an _empressement_slightly tinged by condescension, was in the act of placing his electricphaeton at Miss Brent's disposal.
She stood in the pretty white porch of the hospital, looking out acrossits squares of flower-edged turf at the long street of Westmore. In thewarm gold-powdered light of September the factory town still seemed ablot on the face of nature; yet here and there, on all sides, Justine'seye saw signs of humanizing change. The rough banks along the street hadbeen levelled and sodded; young maples, set in rows, already made a longfestoon of gold against the dingy house-fronts; and the housesthemselves--once so irreclaimably outlawed and degraded--showed, intheir white-curtained windows, their flowery white-railed yards, agrowing approach to civilized human dwellings.
Glancing the other way, one still met the grim pile of factories cuttingthe sky with their harsh roof-lines and blackened chimneys; but herealso were signs of improvement. One of the mills had already beenenlarged, another was scaffolded for the same purpose, and young treesand neatly-fenced turf replaced the surrounding desert of trampledearth.
As Amherst came out of the hospital, he heard Miss Brent declining aseat in Westy's phaeton.
"Thank you so much; but there's some one here I want to see first--oneof the operatives--and I can easily take a Hanaford car." She held outher hand with the smile that ran like colour over her whole face; andWesty, nettled by this unaccountable disregard of her privileges,mounted his chariot alone.
As he glided mournfully away, Amherst turned to Justine. "You wanted tosee the Dillons?" he asked.
Their eyes met, and she smiled again. He had never seen her sosunned-over, so luminous, since the distant November day when they hadpicnicked with Cicely beside the swamp. He wondered vaguely if she weremore elaborately dressed than usual, or if the festal impression sheproduced were simply a reflection of her mood.
"I do want to see the Dillons--how did you guess?" she rejoined; andAmherst felt a sudden impulse to reply: "For the same reason that madeyou think of them."
The fact of her remembering the Dillons made him absurdly happy; itre-established between them the mental communion that had been checkedby his thoughts of the previous day.
"I suppose I'm rather self-conscious about the Dillons, because they'reone 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 workerswere dispersing toward their houses. They were still a dull-eyed stuntedthrong, to whom air and movement seemed to have been too long denied;but there was more animation in the groups, more light in individualfaces; many of the younger men returned Amherst's good-day with a lookof friendliness, and the women to whom he spoke met him with avolubility that showed the habit of frequent intercourse.
"How much you have done!" Justine exclaimed, as he rejoined her afterone of these asides; but the next moment he saw a shade of embarrassmentcross her face, as though she feared to have suggested comparisons shehad meant to avoid.
He answered quite naturally: "Yes--I'm beginning to see my way now; andit's wonderful how they respond--" and they walked on without a shadowof constraint between them, while he described to her what was alreadydone, and what direction his projected experiments were taking.
The Dillons had been placed in charge of one of the old factorytenements, now transformed into a lodging-house for unmarriedoperatives. Even its harsh brick exterior, hung with creepers andbrightened by flower-borders, had taken on a friendly air; and indoorsit had a clean sunny kitchen, a big dining-room with cheerful-colouredwalls, and a room where the men could lounge and smoke about a tablecovered with papers.
The creation of these model lodging-houses had always been a favouritescheme 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 pinkshells that testified to the family prosperity, Justine shone withenjoyment and sympathy. She had always taken an interest in the livesand thoughts of working-people: not so much the constructive interest ofthe sociological mind as the vivid imaginative concern of a heart opento every human appeal. She liked to hear about their hard struggles andsmall pathetic successes: the children's sicknesses, the father's luckyjob, the little sum they had been able to put by, the plans they hadformed for Tommy's advancement, and how Sue's good marks at school werestill ahead of Mrs. Hagan's Mary's.
"What I really like is to gossip with them, and give them advice aboutthe baby's cough, and the cheapest way to do their marketing," she saidlaughing, as she and Amherst emerged once more into the street. "It'sthe same kind of interest I used to feel in my dolls and guinea pigs--amanaging, interfering old maid's interest. I don't believe I should carea 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 justsuch warm personal sympathy was her sex's destined contribution to thebroad work of human beneficence. Well, it had not been a dream: here wasa 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 wasblinding--like the dazzle of sunlight which faced them as they walkedtoward the mills. But it left him speechless, confused--glad to have apretext for routing Duplain out of the office, introducing him to MissBrent, 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 andleisure of the operatives, instead of treating them as half machine,half man, and neglecting the man for the machine. Nor was she contentwith Utopian generalities: she wanted to know the how and why of eachcase, to hear what conclusions he drew from his results, to whatsolutions his experiments pointed.
In explaining the mill work he forgot his constraint and returned to thefree comradery of mind that had always marked their relation. He turnedthe key reluctantly in the last door, and paused a moment on thethreshold.
"Anything more?" he said, with a laugh meant to hide his desire toprolong their tour.
She glanced up at the sun, which still swung free of the tall factoryroofs.
"As much as you've time for. Cicely doesn't need me this afternoon, andI can't tell when I shall see Westmore again."
Her words fell on him with a chill. His smile faded, and he looked awayfor a moment.
"But I hope Cicely will be here often," he said.
"Oh, I hope so too," she rejoined, with seeming unconsciousness of anyconnection between the wish and her previous words.
Amherst hesitated. He had meant to propose a visit to the old Eldoradobuilding, which now at last housed the long-desired night-schools andnursery; but since she had spoken he felt a sudden indifference toshowing her anything more. What was the use, if she meant to leaveCicely, and drift out of his reach? He could get on well enough withoutsympathy and comprehension, but his momentary indulgence in them madethe ordinary taste of life a little flat.
"There must be more to see?" she continued, as they turned back towardthe village; and he answered absently: "Oh, yes--if you like."
He heard the change in his own voice, and knew by her quick side-glancethat she had heard it too.
"Please let me see everything that is compatible with my getting a carto Hanaford by six."
"Well, then--the night-school next," he said with an effort a
tlightness; and to shake off the importunity of his own thoughts he addedcarelessly, as they walked on: "By the way--it seems improbable--but Ithink 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 ofhis 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, oncloser analysis, denoted only indifference, and her profile seemed toexpress the same negative sentiment. He remembered a vague Lynbrookrumour to the effect that the young doctor had been attracted to MissBrent. Such floating seeds of gossip seldom rooted themselves in hismind, but now the fact acquired a new significance, and he wondered howhe could have thought so little of it at the time. Probably her somewhatexaggerated air of indifference simply meant that she had been bored byWyant's attentions, and that the reminder of them still roused a slightself-consciousness.
Amherst was relieved by this conclusion, and murmuring: "Oh, I supposeit can't have been he," led her rapidly on to the Eldorado. But the oldsense of free communion was again obstructed, and her interest in thedetails of the schools and nursery now seemed to him only a part of herwonderful art of absorbing herself in other people's affairs. He was afool to have been duped by it--to have fancied it was anything morepersonal than a grace of manner.
As she turned away from inspecting the blackboards in one of the emptyschool-rooms he paused before her and said suddenly: "You spoke of notseeing Westmore again. Are you thinking of leaving Cicely?"
The words were almost the opposite of those he had intended to speak; itwas as if some irrepressible inner conviction flung defiance at hissurface distrust of her.
She stood still also, and he saw a thought move across her face. "Notimmediately--but perhaps when Mr. Langhope can make some otherarrangement----"
Owing to the half-holiday they had the school-building to themselves,and the fact of being alone with her, without fear of interruption, wokein Amherst an uncontrollable longing to taste for once the joy ofunguarded utterance.
"Why do you go?" he asked, moving close to the platform on which shestood.
She hesitated, resting her hand on the teacher's desk. Her eyes werekind, but he thought her tone was cold.
"This easy life is rather out of my line," she said at length, with asmile that draped her words in vagueness.
Amherst looked at her again--she seemed to be growing remote andinaccessible. "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 haveto be doing something else."
Why was she blushing? And what did her last phrase mean? "Somethingelse--?" The blood hummed in his ears--he began to hope she would notanswer too quickly.
She had sunk into the seat behind the desk, propping her elbows on itslid, and letting her interlaced hands support her chin. A little bunchof violets which had been thrust into the folds of her dress detacheditself and fell to the floor.
"What I mean is," she said in a low voice, raising her eyes toAmherst's, "that I've had a great desire lately to get back to realwork--my special work.... I've been too idle for the last year--I wantto do some hard nursing; I want to help people who are miserable."
She spoke earnestly, almost passionately, and as he listened hisundefined 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 insemi-tints; yet she seemed much nearer than when her smile shot light onhim.
He stood motionless, his eyes absently fixed on the bunch of violets ather feet. Suddenly he raised his head, and broke out with a boyishblush: "Could it have been Wyant who was trying to see you?"
"Dr. Wyant--trying to see me?" She lowered her hands to the desk, andsat 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 houseyesterday, and insisted that you must have arrived. He seemed so annoyedat not finding you, that I thought...I imagined...it must be some onewho knew you very well...and who had followed you here...for somespecial reason...."
Her colour rose again, as if caught from his; but her eyes stilldeclared her ignorance. "Some special reason----?"
"And just now," he blurted out, "when you said you might not stay muchlonger with Cicely--I thought of the visit--and wondered if there wassome one you meant to marry...."
A silence fell between them. Justine rose slowly, her eyes screenedunder 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 hiseyes, she seemed closer, more approachable and feminine--yet Amherst didnot dare to speak.
She took a few steps toward the window, looking out into the desertedstreet. "It's growing dark--I must go home," she said.
"Yes," he assented absently as he followed her. He had no idea what shewas saying. The inner voices in which they habitually spoke were growinglouder than outward words. Or was it only the voice of his own desiresthat 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 feelher alike in his brain and his pulses, to steep sight and hearing in thejoy of her nearness, while all the while thought spoke clear: "This isthe mate of my mind."
He began again abruptly. "Wouldn't you marry, if it gave you the chanceto do what you say--if it offered you hard work, and the opportunity tomake things better...for a great many people...as no one but yourselfcould do it?"
It was a strange way of putting his case: he was aware of it before heended. But it had not occurred to him to tell her that she was lovelyand desirable--in his humility he thought that what he had to give wouldplead for him better than what he was.
The effect produced on her by his question, though undecipherable, wasextraordinary. She stiffened a little, remaining quite motionless, hereyes on the street.
"_You!_" she just breathed; and he saw that she was beginning totremble.
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 tiedto it for life...but I thought...I've seen so often how you pitysuffering...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 theold plea! He ought to have pleaded for himself--to have let the man inhim seek her and take his defeat, instead of beating about the flimsybush of philanthropy.
"I only meant--I was trying to make my work recommend me..." he saidwith a half-laugh, as she remained silent, her eyes still turned away.
The silence continued for a long time--it stretched between them like anarrowing interminable road, down which, with a leaden heart, he seemedto watch her gradually disappearing. And then, unexpectedly, as sheshrank to a tiny speck at the dip of the road, the perspective wasmysteriously reversed, and he felt her growing nearer again, felt herclose to him--felt her hand in his.
"I'm really just like other women, you know--I shall like it becauseit's your work," she said.
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