The Fruit of the Tree

by Edith Wharton

  XXXVII

  BUT thought could never be long silent between them; and Justine'striumph lasted but a day.

  With its end she saw what it had been made of: the ascendency of youthand sex over his subjugated judgment. Her first impulse was to try andmaintain it--why not use the protective arts with which love inspiredher? She who lived so keenly in the brain could live as intensely in herfeelings; her quick imagination tutored her looks and words, taught herthe spells to weave about shorn giants. And for a few days she andAmherst lost themselves in this self-evoked cloud of passion, bothclinging fast to the visible, the palpable in their relation, as ifconscious already that its finer essence had fled.

  Amherst made no allusion to what had passed, asked for no details,offered no reassurances--behaved as if the whole episode had beeneffaced from his mind. And from Wyant there came no sound: he seemed tohave disappeared from life as he had from their talk.

  Toward the end of the week Amherst announced that he must return toHanaford; and Justine at once declared her intention of going with him.

  He seemed surprised, disconcerted almost; and for the first time theshadow of what had happened fell visibly between them.

  "But ought you to leave Cicely before Mr. Langhope comes back?" hesuggested.

  "He will be here in two days."

  "But he will expect to find you."

  "It is almost the first of April. We are to have Cicely with us for thesummer. There is no reason why I should not go back to my work atWestmore."

  There was in fact no reason that he could produce; and the next day theyreturned to Hanaford together.

  With her perceptions strung to the last pitch of sensitiveness, she felta change in Amherst as soon as they re-entered Bessy's house. He wasstill scrupulously considerate, almost too scrupulously tender; but witha tinge of lassitude, like a man who tries to keep up under thestupefying approach of illness. And she began to hate the power by whichshe held him. It was not thus they had once walked together, free inmind though so linked in habit and feeling; when their love was not adeadening drug but a vivifying element that cleared thought instead ofstifling it. There were moments when she felt that open alienation wouldbe easier, because it would be nearer the truth. And at such momentsshe longed to speak, to beg him to utter his mind, to go with her oncefor all into the depths of the subject they continued to avoid. But atthe last her heart always failed her: she could not face the thought oflosing him, of hearing him speak estranging words to her.

  They had been at Hanaford for about ten days when, one morning atbreakfast, Amherst uttered a sudden exclamation over a letter he wasreading.

  "What is it?" she asked in a tremor.

  He had grown very pale, and was pushing the hair from his forehead withthe gesture habitual to him in moments of painful indecision.

  "What is it?" Justine repeated, her fear growing.

  "Nothing----" he began, thrusting the letter under the pile of envelopesby his plate; but she continued to look at him anxiously, till she drewhis eyes to hers.

  "Mr. Langhope writes that they've appointed Wyant to SaintChristopher's," he said abruptly.

  "Oh, the letter--we forgot the letter!" she cried.

  "Yes--we forgot the letter."

  "But how dare he----?"

  Amherst said nothing, but the long silence between them seemed full ofironic answers, till she brought out, hardly above her breath: "Whatshall you do?"

  "Write at once--tell Mr. Langhope he's not fit for the place."

  "Of course----" she murmured.

  He went on tearing open his other letters, and glancing at theircontents. She leaned back in her chair, her cup of coffee untasted,listening to the recurrent crackle of torn paper as he tossed aside oneletter after another.

  Presently he rose from his seat, and as she followed him from thedining-room she noticed that his breakfast had also remained untasted.He gathered up his letters and walked toward the smoking-room; and aftera moment's hesitation she joined him.

  "John," she said from the threshold.

  He was just seating himself at his desk, but he turned to her with anobvious effort at kindness which made the set look of his face the moremarked.

  She closed the door and went up to him.

  "If you write that to Mr. Langhope--Dr. Wyant will--will tell him," shesaid.

  "Yes--we must be prepared for that."

  She was silent, and Amherst flung himself down on the leather ottomanagainst the wall. She stood before him, clasping and unclasping herhands in speechless distress.

  "What would you have me do?" he asked at length, almost irritably.

  "I only thought...he told me he would keep straight...if he only had achance," she faltered out.

  Amherst lifted his head slowly, and looked at her. "You mean--I am to donothing? Is that it?"

  She moved nearer to him with beseeching eyes. "I can't bear it.... Ican't bear that others should come between us," she broke outpassionately.

  He made no answer, but she could see a look of suffering cross his face,and coming still closer, she sank down on the ottoman, laying her handon his. "John...oh, John, spare me," she whispered.

  For a moment his hand lay quiet under hers; then he drew it out, andenclosed her trembling fingers.

  "Very well--I'll give him a chance--I'll do nothing," he said, suddenlyputting his other arm about her.

  The reaction caught her by the throat, forcing out a dry sob or two; andas she pressed her face against him he raised it up and gently kissedher.

  But even as their lips met she felt that they were sealing a treaty withdishonour. That his kiss should come to mean that to her! It wasunbearable--worse than any personal pain--the thought of dragging himdown to falsehood through her weakness.

  She drew back and rose to her feet, putting aside his detaining hand.

  "No--no! What am I saying? It can't be--you must tell the truth." Hervoice gathered strength as she spoke. "Oh, forget what I said--I didn'tmean it!"

  But again he seemed sunk in inaction, like a man over whom some banefullethargy is stealing.

  "John--John--forget!" she repeated urgently.

  He looked up at her. "You realize what it will mean?"

  "Yes--I realize.... But it must be.... And it will make no differencebetween us...will it?"

  "No--no. Why should it?" he answered apathetically.

  "Then write--tell Mr. Langhope not to give him the place. I want itover."

  He rose slowly to his feet, without looking at her again, and walkedover to the desk. She sank down on the ottoman and watched him withburning eyes while he drew forth a sheet of note-paper and began towrite.

  But after he had written a few words he laid down his pen, and swung hischair about so that he faced her.

  "I can't do it in this way," he exclaimed.

  "How then? What do you mean?" she said, starting up.

  He looked at her. "Do you want the story to come from Wyant?"

  "Oh----" She looked back at him with sudden insight. "You mean to tellMr. Langhope yourself?"

  "Yes. I mean to take the next train to town and tell him."

  Her trembling increased so much that she had to rest her hands againstthe edge of the ottoman to steady herself. "But if...if afterall...Wyant should not speak?"

  "Well--if he shouldn't? Could you bear to owe our safety to _him_?"

  "Safety!"

  "It comes to that, doesn't it, if _we're_ afraid to speak?"

  She sat silent, letting the bitter truth of this sink into her till itpoured courage into her veins.

  "Yes--it comes to that," she confessed.

  "Then you feel as I do?"

  "That you must go----?"

  "That this is intolerable!"

  The words struck down her last illusion, and she rose and went over tothe writing-table. "Yes--go," she said.

  He stood up also, and took both her hands, not in a caress, but gravely,almost severely.

  "Listen, Justine. You must under
stand exactly what this means--may mean.I am willing to go on as we are now...as long as we can...because Ilove you...because I would do anything to spare you pain. But if I speakI must say everything--I must follow this thing up to its uttermostconsequences. That's what I want to make clear to you."

  Her heart sank with a foreboding of new peril. "What consequences?"

  "Can't you see for yourself--when you look about this house?"

  "This house----?"

  He dropped her hands and took an abrupt turn across the room.

  "I owe everything to her," he broke out, "all I am, all I have, all Ihave been able to give you--and I must go and tell her father thatyou...."

  "Stop--stop!" she cried, lifting her hands as if to keep off a blow.

  "No--don't make me stop. We must face it," he said doggedly.

  "But this--this isn't the truth! You put it as if--almost as if----"

  "Yes--don't finish.--Has it occurred to you that _he_ may think that?"Amherst asked with a terrible laugh. But at that she recovered hercourage, as she always did when an extreme call was made on it.

  "No--I don't believe it! If he _does_, it will be because you think ityourself...." Her voice sank, and she lifted her hands and pressed themto her temples. "And if you think it, nothing matters...one way or theother...." She paused, and her voice regained its strength. "That iswhat I must face before you go: what _you_ think, what _you_ believe ofme. You've never told me that."

  Amherst, at the challenge, remained silent, while a slow red crept tohis cheek-bones.

  "Haven't I told you by--by what I've done?" he said slowly.

  "No--what you've done has covered up what you thought; and I've helpedyou cover it--I'm to blame too! But it was not for this that we...thatwe had that half-year together...not to sink into connivance andevasion! I don't want another hour of sham happiness. I want the truthfrom you, whatever it is."

  He stood motionless, staring moodily at the floor. "Don't you see that'smy misery--that I don't know myself?"

  "You don't know...what you think of me?"

  "Good God, Justine, why do you try to strip life naked? I don't knowwhat's been going on in me these last weeks----"

  "You must know what you think of my motive...for doing what I did."

  She saw in his face how he shrank from the least allusion to the actabout which their torment revolved. But he forced himself to raise hishead and look at her. "I have never--for one moment--questioned yourmotive--or failed to see that it was justified...under thecircumstances...."

  "Oh, John--John!" she broke out in the wild joy of hearing herselfabsolved; but the next instant her subtle perceptions felt theunconscious reserve behind his admission.

  "Your mind justifies me--not your heart; isn't _that_ your misery?" shesaid.

  He looked at her almost piteously, as if, in the last resort, it wasfrom her that light must come to him. "On my soul, I don't know...Ican't tell...it's all dark in me. I know you did what you thoughtbest...if I had been there, I believe I should have asked you to doit...but I wish to God----"

  She interrupted him sobbingly. "Oh, I ought never to have let you loveme! I ought to have seen that I was cut off from you forever. I havebrought you wretchedness when I would have given my life for you! Idon't deserve that you should forgive me for that."

  Her sudden outbreak seemed to restore his self-possession. He went up toher and took her hand with a quieting touch.

  "There is no question of forgiveness, Justine. Don't let us torture eachother with vain repinings. Our business is to face the thing, and weshall be better for having talked it out. I shall be better, for mypart, for having told Mr. Langhope. But before I go I want to be surethat you understand the view he may take...and the effect it willprobably have on our future."

  "Our future?" She started. "No, I don't understand."

  Amherst paused a moment, as if trying to choose the words least likelyto pain her. "Mr. Langhope knows that my marriage was...unhappy; throughmy fault, he no doubt thinks. And if he chooses to infer that...that youand I may have cared for each other...before...and that it was _because_there was a chance of recovery that you----"

  "Oh----"

  "We must face it," he repeated inflexibly. "And you must understandthat, if there is the faintest hint of this kind, I shall give upeverything here, as soon as it can be settled legally--God, how Tredegarwill like the job!--and you and I will have to go and begin life overagain...somewhere else."

  For an instant a mad hope swelled in her--the vision of escaping withhim into new scenes, a new life, away from the coil of memories thatbound them down as in a net. But the reaction of reason came atonce--she saw him cut off from his chosen work, his career destroyed,his honour clouded, above all--ah, this was what wrung them both!--histask undone, his people flung back into the depths from which he hadlifted them. And all through her doing--all because she had clutched athappiness with too rash a hand! The thought stung her to passionateactivity of mind--made her resolve to risk anything, dare anything,before she involved him farther in her own ruin. She felt her brainclear gradually, and the thickness dissolve in her throat.

  "I understand," she said in a low voice, raising her eyes to his.

  "And you're ready to accept the consequences? Think again before it'stoo late."

  She paused. "That is what I should like...what I wanted to ask you...thetime to think."

  She saw a slight shade cross his face, as if he had not expected thisfailure of courage in her; but he said quietly: "You don't want me to gotoday?"

  "Not today--give me one more day."

  "Very well."

  She laid a timid hand on his arm. "Please go out to Westmore asusual--as if nothing had happened. And tonight...when you come back...Ishall have decided."

  "Very well," he repeated.

  "You'll be gone all day?"

  He glanced at his watch. "Yes--I had meant to be; unless----"

  "No; I would rather be alone. Good-bye," she said, letting her hand slipsoftly along his coat-sleeve as he turned to the door.