The Fruit of the Tree

by Edith Wharton

  XXXIII

  OVER the tea-table Justine forgot the note in her muff; but when shewent upstairs to dress it fell to the floor, and she picked it up andlaid it on her dressing-table.

  She had already recognized the hand as Wyant's, for it was not the firstletter she had received from him.

  Three times since her marriage he had appealed to her for help, excusinghimself on the plea of difficulties and ill-health. The first time hewrote, he alluded vaguely to having married, and to being compelled,through illness, to give up his practice at Clifton. On receiving thisletter she made enquiries, and learned that, a month or two after herdeparture from Lynbrook, Wyant had married a Clifton girl--a prettypiece of flaunting innocence, whom she remembered about the lanes,generally with a young man in a buggy. There had evidently beensomething obscure and precipitate about the marriage, which was astrange one for the ambitious young doctor. Justine conjectured that itmight have been the cause of his leaving Clifton--or or perhaps he hadalready succumbed to the fatal habit she had suspected in him. At anyrate he seemed, in some mysterious way, to have dropped in two yearsfrom promise to failure; yet she could not believe that, with histalents, and the name he had begun to make, such a lapse could be morethan temporary. She had often heard Dr. Garford prophesy great thingsfor him; but Dr. Garford had died suddenly during the previous summer,and the loss of this powerful friend was mentioned by Wyant among hismisfortunes.

  Justine was anxious to help him, but her marriage to a rich man had notgiven her the command of much money. She and Amherst, choosing to regardthemselves as pensioners on the Westmore fortune, were scrupulous inrestricting their personal expenditure; and her work among themill-hands brought many demands on the modest allowance which herhusband had insisted on her accepting. In reply to Wyant's first appeal,which reached her soon after her marriage, she had sent him a hundreddollars; but when the second came, some two months later--with a freshtale of ill-luck and ill-health--she had not been able to muster morethan half the amount. Finally a third letter had arrived, a short timebefore their leaving for New York. It told the same story of persistentmisfortune, but on this occasion Wyant, instead of making a directappeal for money, suggested that, through her hospital connections, sheshould help him to establish a New York practice. His tone washalf-whining, half-peremptory, his once precise writing smeared andillegible; and these indications, combined with her former suspicions,convinced her that, for the moment, he was unfit for medical work. Atany rate, she could not assume the responsibility of recommending him;and in answering she advised him to apply to some of the physicians hehad worked with at Lynbrook, softening her refusal by the enclosure of asmall sum of money. To this letter she received no answer. Wyantdoubtless found the money insufficient, and resented her unwillingnessto help him by the use of her influence; and she felt sure that the notebefore her contained a renewal of his former request.

  An obscure reluctance made her begin to undress before opening it. Shefelt slightly tired and indolently happy, and she did not wish anyjarring impression to break in on the sense of completeness which herhusband's coming always put into her life. Her happiness was making hertimid and luxurious: she was beginning to shrink from even trivialannoyances.

  But when at length, in her dressing-gown, her loosened hair about hershoulders, she seated herself before the toilet-mirror, Wyant's noteonce more confronted her. It was absurd to put off reading it--if heasked for money again, she would simply confide the whole business toAmherst.

  She had never spoken to her husband of her correspondence with Wyant.The mere fact that the latter had appealed to her, instead of addressinghimself to Amherst, made her suspect that he had a weakness to hide, andcounted on her professional discretion. But his continued importunitieswould certainly release her from any such supposed obligation; and shethought with relief of casting the weight of her difficulty on herhusband's shoulders.

  She opened the note and read.

  "I did not acknowledge your last letter because I was ashamed to tellyou that the money was not enough to be of any use. But I am past shamenow. My wife was confined three weeks ago, and has been desperately illever since. She is in no state to move, but we shall be put out of theserooms unless I can get money or work at once. A word from you would havegiven me a start in New York--and I'd be willing to begin again as aninterne or a doctor's assistant.

  "I have never reminded you of what you owe me, and I should not do sonow if I hadn't been to hell and back since I saw you. But I suppose youwould rather have me remind you than apply to Mr. Amherst. You can tellme when to call for my answer."

  Justine laid down the letter and looked up. Her eyes rested on her ownreflection in the glass, and it frightened her. She sat motionless, witha 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 blackmailall this time.... Somewhere, from the first, in an obscure fold ofconsciousness, she had felt the stir of an unnamed, unacknowledged fear;and now the fear raised its head and looked at her. Well! She would lookback 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 opinionof the many? She had suspected from the first that Wyant knew of herhaving shortened the term of Bessy Amherst's sufferings--returning tothe room when he did, it was almost impossible that he should not haveguessed what had happened; and his silence had made her believe that heunderstood her motive and approved it. But, supposing she had beenmistaken, she still had nothing to fear, since she had done nothing thather own conscience condemned. If the act were to do again she would doit--she had never known a moment's regret!

  Suddenly she heard Amherst's step in the passage--heard him laughing andtalking 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 _becauseshe was not afraid_. From the first she had retained sufficientdetachment to view her act impartially, to find it completely justifiedby circumstances, and to decide that, since those circumstances could bebut partly and indirectly known to her husband, she not only had theright to keep her own counsel, but was actually under a kind ofobligation not to force on him the knowledge of a fact that he could notalter and could not completely judge.... Was there any flaw in this lineof reasoning? Did it not show a deliberate weighing of conditions, aperfect rectitude of intention? And, after all, she had had Amherst'svirtual consent to her act! She knew his feelings on such matters--hisindependence of traditional judgments, his horror of inflicting needlesspain--she was as sure of his intellectual assent as of her own. She waseven sure that, when she told him, he would appreciate her reasons fornot telling him before....

  For now of course he must know everything--this horrible letter made itinevitable. She regretted that she had decided, though for the best ofreasons, not to speak to him of her own accord; for it was intolerablethat he should think of any external pressure as having brought her toavowal. But no! he would not think that. The understanding between themwas so complete that no deceptive array of circumstances could ever makeher motives obscure to him. She let herself rest a moment in thethought....

  Presently she heard him moving in the next room--he had come back todress for dinner. She would go to him now, at once--she could not bearthis 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 fellon her reflection. She could not go to her husband with such a face! Ifshe was not afraid, why did she look like that?

  Well--she was afraid! It would be easier and simpler to admit it. Shewas afraid--afraid for the first time--afraid for her own happiness! Shehad had just eight months of happiness--it was horrible to think oflosing it so soon.... Losing it? But why should she lose it? The lettermust have affected her brain...all her thoughts were in a bl
ur offear.... Fear of what? Of the man who understood her as no one elseunderstood her? The man to whose wisdom and mercy she trusted as thebeliever trusts in God? This was a kind of abominable nightmare--evenAmherst's image had been distorted in her mind! The only way to clearher 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 herfears.... She rose with a long breath of relief.

  She had to cross the length of the room to reach his door, and when shehad 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 droppedWyant's letter into the fire. Her hand had crushed it into a littleball, and she saw the flames spring up and swallow it before her husbandentered.

  It was not that she had changed her mind--she still meant to tell himeverything. But to hold the letter was like holding a venomoussnake--she wanted to exterminate it, to forget that she had ever seenthe blotted repulsive characters. And she could not bear to haveAmherst's eyes rest on it, to have him know that any man had dared towrite to her in that tone. What vile meanings might not be read betweenWyant's phrases? She had a right to tell the story in her own way--thetrue way....

  As Amherst approached, in his evening clothes, the heavy locks smoothedfrom his forehead, a flower of Cicely's giving in his button-hole, shethought 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--Iforgot," she murmured, longing to feel his arms about her, but standingrooted to the ground, unable to move an inch nearer.

  It was he who came close, drawing her lifted hands into his. "You lookworried--I hope it was nothing troublesome that made you forget?"

  The divine kindness in his voice, his eyes! Yes--it would be easy, quiteeasy, to tell him....

  "No--yes--I was a little troubled...." she said, feeling the warmth ofhis 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 hegoing to be angry? But how absurd! He was only distressed at herdistress.

  "What then?" he repeated, more gently.

  She looked up into his eyes for an instant. "It was a horribleletter----" she whispered, as she pressed her clasped hands against him.

  His grasp tightened on her wrists, and again the stern look crossed hisface. "Horrible? What do you mean?"

  She had never seen him angry--but she felt suddenly that, to the guiltycreature, his anger would be terrible. He would crush Wyant--she must becareful 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 armsagainst 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 waspreposterous, yet she trembled at it. It was clear that she must say_something_ at once--must somehow account for her agitation. But thesense that she was unnerved--no longer in control of her face, hervoice--made her feel that she would tell her story badly if she told itnow.... Had she not the right to gain a respite, to choose her own hour?Weakness--weakness again! Every delay would only increase the phantomterror. 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--whoneeds money, I mean----" She tried to laugh away her tears. "And Ihaven't any! That's _my_ trouble!"

  "Foolish child! And to beg you are ashamed? And so you're letting yourtears cool Mr. Langhope's soup?" He had her in his arms now, his kissesdrying her cheek; and she turned her head so that their lips met in along 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 shetried to shape a murmur of gratitude. "Thank you--thank you! I hated toask...."

  "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 throughits fear. She felt the touch of a narcotic in her veins. How calm andpeaceful the room was--and how delicious to think that her life would goon in it, safely and peacefully, in the old familiar way!

  As she swept up her hair, passing the comb through it, and flinging itdexterously over her lifted wrist, she heard Amherst cross the floorbehind 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 thewriting-table. As she picked up the cheque she saw it was for threehundred dollars.