HESITANCIES AND TEARS

Thomas Mackintosh Drummond Erskine, by courtesy known as Viscount Clairloch, was not a remarkably complicated person. His life was governed by a few broad and well-tried principles which he found, as many had found before him, covered practically all the contingencies he was called upon to deal with. One wanted things, and if possible, one got them. That was the first and great commandment of nature, and the second was akin to it; one did nothing contrary to a thing generally known as decency. This was a little more complicated, for though decency was a natural thing—one always wanted to be decent, other things being equal—it had a rather difficult technique which had to be mastered by a long slow process. If any one had asked Tommy how this technique was best obtained he would undoubtedly have answered, by a course of six years at either Eton, Harrow or Winchester, followed by three years at one of half a dozen colleges he could name at Oxford or Cambridge.

Occasionally, of course—though not often—the paths of desire and decency diverged, and this divergence was sometimes provocative of unpleasantness. Treated sensibly, however, the problem could always be brought to an easy and simple solution. Tommy found that in such a case it was always possible to do one of two things; persuade oneself either that the desire was compatible with decency or that it did not exist at all. Either of those simple feats of dialectic accomplished, everything worked out quite beautifully. It is a splendid thing to have been educated at Harrow and Christchurch.

Ever since he arrived in America it had been evident to Tommy that he wanted Beatrice. He did not want her with quite the absorbing intensity that would make him one of the great lovers of history—Harrow and Christchurch decreed that one should go fairly easy on wanting a married woman—but still he wanted her, for him, very much indeed. Up to the night of the boat-race everything had gone swimmingly. Then, indeed, he had received a setback; a setback which came very near making him abandon further pursuit and proceed forthwith to those portions of America which lie to the west of Upper Montclair. If Aunt Cecilia had not casually invited him to accompany the yacht on its trip round Cape Cod he might have started the very next morning. But he went to Bar Harbor, and before he left there it had become plain to him that he could probably have what he had so long desired.

Everything had favored him. Aunt Cecilia had made it pleasant for him for a while, and when the time came when Aunt Cecilia might be expected to become tired of making it pleasant for him others came forward who were more than willing to do as much. Tommy was a desirable as well as an agreeable guest; he looked well in the papers. With the result that he was still playing about Bar Harbor at the end of July, at which time Beatrice, looking quite lovely and wan and heat-fagged, came, unattended by her husband, to be the chief ornament of Aunt Cecilia's spacious halls.

And how Beatrice had changed since he last saw her! She was as little the cold-eyed, contemptuous Artemis of that night in New London as she was the fresh-cheeked dÉbutante of his early knowledge; and she was infinitely more attractive, he thought, than either of them. She had a new way of looking up at him when he came to greet her; she was willing to pass long hours in his sole company; she depended on him for amusement, she relied on him in various little ways; and more important, she soon succeeded in making him forget his fear of her. For the first time in his knowledge of her he had the feeling of being fully as strong as she, fully as self-controlled, as firm-willed. This was in reality but another symptom of her power over him, but he never recognized it as such.

Appetite, as we know, increases with eating, and every sign of favor that came his way fanned the almost extinguished flame of Tommy's desire into renewed warmth and vigor. Before many weeks it had grown into something warmer and more vigorous than anything he had ever experienced, till at last his gentle bosom became the battlefield of the dreaded Armageddon between desire and decency. It wasn't really dreaded, in his case, because he was not the sort of person who is capable of living very far ahead of the present moment, and perhaps, in view of the strength of both the contending forces, the term Armageddon may be an exaggeration; but it was the most serious internal conflict that the good-natured viscount (by courtesy) ever knew.

But the struggle, though painful, was short-lived. After going to bed for five evenings in succession fearing that care would drive sleep from his pillow that night, and sleeping soundly from midnight till eight-thirty, the illuminating thought came to him that, owing to the truly Heaven-made laws of the country in which he then was, the conflict practically did not exist. In America people divorced; no foolish stigma was attached to the process, as at home; it was easy, it was respectable, it was done! He blessed his stars; what a marvelous stroke of luck that Beatrice had married an American and not an Englishman! He thought of the years of carking secrecy through which such things are dragged in England, and contrasted it with the neat despatch of the Yankee system. A few weeks of legal formalities, tiresome, of course, but trivial in view of the object, and then—a triumphant return to native shores, closing in a long vista of years with Beatrice at his side as Lady Clairloch and eventually as Lady Strathalmond! Sweet ultimate union of desire and decency! He gave thanks to Heaven in his fervent, simple-souled way.

Nothing remained save to persuade Beatrice to take the crucial step. Well, there would be little trouble about that, judging by the way things were going....

As for Beatrice, she was at first much too exhausted, both physically and mentally, to think much about Tommy one way or the other. That last month in New York had been a horribly enervating one, both meteorologically and domestically speaking. Scarcely had she been able to bring herself to face the impossibility of winning her husband's affection when the hot weather came on, the crushing heat of July, that burned every ounce of a desire to live out of one and made the whole world as great a desert as one's own home.... It was James who had suggested her going to Aunt Cecilia's—"because he didn't want me to die on his hands," Beatrice idly reflected, as she lay at last in a hammock on the broad verandah, luxuriating in the sea breeze that made a light wrap necessary.

Then Tommy came back to the Wimbournes' to stay, and a regular daily routine was begun. Beatrice remained in her room all the morning, while Tommy played golf. They met at lunch and strolled or drove or watched people play tennis together in the afternoon. After dinner Beatrice generally ensconced herself with rugs on the verandah while Tommy buzzed about fetching footstools or cushions or talked to her or simply sat by her side. After a while she found that Tommy was quite good company, if you didn't take him seriously. Tommy—she supposed this was the real foundation of her liking for him—was her countryman. He knew things, he understood things, he looked at things as she had been brought up to look at them. Tommy, to take a small instance, never stifled a smile when she used such words as caliber or schedule, pronouncing them in the English way—the proper way, when all was said and done, for was not England the home and source of the English language?

A few days later, as returning health quickened her perceptions, she realized that another thing that made Tommy agreeable was the fact that he strove honestly to please her. A pleasant change, at least!... She was well enough to be bitter again, it seemed. Not only was Tommy attentive in such matters as rugs and cushions, but he made definite efforts to fit his speech and his moods to her. He found that she liked to talk about England and he was at some pains to read up information about current events there, a thing he had not bothered much about since his departure from home. She had only to ask a leading question about a friend at home and he would gossip for a whole evening about their mutual acquaintance.

Presently she began to discover—or fancy she discovered—hitherto unsounded depths—or what were, comparatively speaking, depths—in Tommy's character.

"I say, how jolly the stars are to-night," he observed as he took his place by her one evening. "Never see the stars, somehow, but I think of tigers. Ever since I went to India. Went off on a tiger hunt, you know, out in the wilds somewhere, and we had to sleep out on a sort of grassy place with a fire in the middle of us, you know, to keep the beasties off. Well, I'd never seen a tiger, outside of the zoo, and I had 'em on the brain. I had a dream about meeting one, and it got so bad that I woke up at last with a shout, thinkin' a tiger was standin' just over me with his two dev'lish old eyes staring down into mine! Then I saw it was only two bright stars, rather close together. But I never can see stars now without thinkin' of tiger's eyes, though I met a tiger quite close on soon after that and his eyes weren't like that, at all....

"Rather sad, isn't it?" he added after a moment.

"Sad? Why?"

"Well, other people have something better than an old beast's blinkers to compare stars to. Women's eyes, you know, and all that."

There was something in the way he said this that made Beatrice reply "Oh, rot, Tommy!" even as she laughed. But his mood entertained her.

"Tommy," she went on, "I believe you'd try, even so, to say something about my eyes and stars if I let you! Though anything less like stars couldn't well be imagined.... Honestly now, Tommy, do my eyes look more like stars or tiger's eyes?"

"Well," answered Tommy with laborious truthfulness, "I suppose they really look more like tiger's eyes. But they make me think of stars," he added, with a perfect burst of romance and poetry.

"And stars make you think of tiger's eyes! Oh, my poor Tommy!"

"Well, they're dev'lish good-lookin'—you ought to feel jolly complimented!" He wanted to go on and say something about her acting like a tiger, but did not feel quite up to it, at such short notice. But they laughed companionably together.

Yes, Tommy really amused her. There was much to like in the simplicity and kindliness of his nature; Harry had not been proof against it. And there was no harm in him. Beatrice could imagine no more innocuous pleasure than talking with Tommy, even if the conversation ran to eyes—her eyes. She was not bothered this time by any nervous reflections on what fields of amusement were suited to the innocent ramblings of a young wife. And if she was inclined to emphasize the pleasant part of her intercourse and minimize its danger—if indeed there was any—the reason was not far to seek. Even if things went to the last resort, what of it? What had she to lose—now?

Nothing. Not one earthly thing. She was free to glean where she could.

James would be glad—as glad as any one.

Though of course it had not come to that yet....

It was at about this time, however, that Tommy determined it should come to that. Just that. And though he was not one to rush matters, he decided that the sooner it came the better. He learned that James was to come up for a fortnight at the end of August—James' vacation had for some reason dwindled to that length of time—and he desired, in some obscure way, to have it decided before James was actually in the house. But the way had to be paved for the great suggestion and Tommy was not perceptibly quicker at paving than at other intellectual pursuits.

One evening, however, he resolved to be a man of action and at least give an indication of the state of his own heart. With almost devilish craft he decided beforehand on the exact way he would bring the conversation round to the desired point.

"I say, Beatrice," he began when they were settled in their customary place.

"Yes, Tommy?"

"How long do you suppose your aunt wants me kickin' my heels about here?"

"Oh, as long as you want, I suppose. She hasn't told me she was tired of you."

"Yes, but ..."

"But what?"

"I've been here a goodish while, you know. First the boat-race, then the cruise up here, then most of July and now most of August.... Stiffish, wot?... Don't want to wear out my welcome, you know...."

Oh, but it was hard! Why on earth couldn't she do the obvious thing and say, "Why do you want to leave, Tommy?" or something like that? She seemed determined not to give him the least help, so he plunged desperately on.

"Not that I want to go, you know. Jolly pleasant here, and all that—rippin' golf, rippin' people, rippin' time altogether...."

He felt himself perspiring profusely.

"Beatrice, do you know why I don't want to go?" he burst forth.

Beatrice remained silent, lightly tapping the stone balustrade with her foot. When she spoke it was with perfect self-possession.

"You're not going to be tiresome again, are you, Tommy?"

"Yes!" said Tommy fervently.

Again she paused. "Are you really fond of me, Tommy?" she asked unexpectedly.

"Oh, Lord, yes!"

"How fond?"

"Oh ... frightf'ly!... What do you mean, how fond? You know! Do you want me to throw myself into the sea?... I would," he added in a low voice.

"I didn't mean how much, exactly, but in what way? What do you mean by it all?"

"What's the use of asking me? You know!"

"No, I don't think I do.... Are you fond enough of me to desire everything for my good?"

"Yes!"

"Even at the sacrifice of yourself?"

"Yes!"

"Well, don't you think it's for my ultimate good as a married woman that you shouldn't try to make love to me?"

"What the—Beatrice, don't torment me!"

"I don't want to, but you must see how impossible it is, Tommy. You can't go on talking this way to me."

"Why not?"

"Why, because I'm married, obviously! Such things are—well, they simply aren't done!"

Tommy waited a moment. "Do you mean to say, Beatrice...."

"What?"

"Can you truthfully tell me that you—that you aren't fond of me too? Just a little?"

"Certainly!"

"Rot! Utter, senseless rot! You know it isn't so!—"

"Hush, Tommy! People will hear."

"Let 'em hear, then. Beatrice!" he went on more quietly; "there's no use trying to take me in by that 'never knew' rot. Of course you knew, of course you cared. Why've you sat talking with me here, night after night, why've you been so uncommon jolly nice—nicer 'n you ever were before? Why did you ever let me get to this point?—Don't pretend you couldn't help it, either!" He paused a moment. "Why did you let me kiss you that night?"

That shaft hit. She lost her head a little, and fell back on an old feminine ruse.

"Oh, Tommy, you've no right to bring that up against me!" she said, with a little flurried break in her voice.

Tommy's obvious answer was a quiet "Why not?" but he was not the kind who can give the proper answer at such moments. He was much more affected by Beatrice's evident perturbation than Beatrice was by his home truth, and was much slower in recovering.

"I'm sorry, Beatrice," he went on again after a short silence, "but I—well, dash it all, I care, you know!"

"You mustn't, Tommy."

"But what if I jolly well can't help myself? After all, you know, you must give a fellah a chance. Of course, I want you to be happy, and I'd do anything I could to make you so, but—well, there it is! I'm fond of you, Beatrice!"

She could smile quite calmly at him now, and did so. "Very well, Tommy, you're fond of me. Suppose we leave it there for the present.—And now I think I shall go in. It's getting chilly out here."

Evidently it had not quite come to that with her.

Nor did it, for all Tommy could do, before James' arrival a few days later. Aunt Selina came with him; she had elected to spend the summer at her Vermont house, and found it, as she explained to her hostess, "too warm. The interior, you know." With which she closed her lips and gave the impression of charitably refraining from, richly deserved censure of the interior's shortcomings. Aunt Cecilia nodded with the most perfect understanding, and said she supposed it must have been warm in New York also.

James allowed that it had.

Aunt Selina said she had read in the paper that August was likely to be as hot as July there.

Beatrice, just in order to be on the safe side, said that she felt like Rather a Brute.

Tommy, with a vague idea of vindicating her, remarked that some days had been jolly warm in Bar Harbor, too.

Aunt Cecilia, politely reproachful, said that he had no idea what an American summer could be, and that anyway, the nights had been cool.

Tommy said oh yes, rather.

Inwardly he was chafing. He felt his case lamentably weakened by the presence of James. He had not bargained for an abduction from under the husband's very nose. The thought of what he would have to go through now made him feel quite uncomfortable and even a little, just a little, suspicious that the case of decency had not been decisively settled. Still, there was nothing to do but stay and go through with it.

But James, if he had but known it, was in reality his most powerful ally. Continued residence in sweltering New York had not tended to soften James, either in his attitude to the world in general or in his feeling toward his wife in particular. He now adopted a policy of outward affection. "When others were present he lost no opportunity of elaborately fetching and carrying for Beatrice, of making plans for her benefit, of rejoicing in her returning health. As she evinced a fondness for the evening air he made it a rule to sit with her on the verandah every night after dinner. Tommy could not very well oust him from this pleasant duty, and writhed beneath his calm exterior every time he watched them go out together."

He need not have worried, however. The contrast of James' warmth in public to his wholly genuine coldness in private, together with the change from Tommy's sympathetic chatter to James' deathly silence on these evening sojourns had a much more potent effect on Beatrice than anything Tommy could have accomplished actively. James literally seemed to freeze the blood in Beatrice's veins. She became subject to fits of shivering, she required twice as many wraps as before; she began going to bed much earlier than previously. Ten o'clock now invariably found her in her room.

One evening James was suddenly called upon to go out to dinner with Aunt Cecilia and fill an empty place at a friend's table, and Tommy took his place on the verandah. Tommy knew that this would be his best chance, possibly his last. The stars burned brightly in a clear warm sky, but there was no talk of tiger's eyes now. There was no talk at all for a long time; the pleasure of sheer propinquity was too great. Beatrice fairly luxuriated. She wondered why Tommy's silence affected her so differently from that of James....

"Beatrice," began Tommy, but she switched him off.

"No, please don't try to talk now, Tommy, there's a dear."

They were silent again. The night stretched hugely before and above them; it was very still. A little night-breeze arose and touched their cheeks, but its message was only peace. Land and sea alike slept; not a sound reached them save the occasional clatter of distant wheels. Only the sky was awake, with its hundreds of winking eyes. Oh, these stars! Beatrice knew them so well. Antares, glowing like a dying coal, sank and fell below the hills, leaving the bright clusters of Sagittarius in dominion over the southern heavens. Fomalhaut rose in the southeast, shining with a dull chaotic luster, now green, now red. Fomalhaut, she remembered, was the southernmost of all the great stars visible in northern lands; its reign was the shortest of them all. And yet who could tell what might happen before that star finally fell from sight in the autumn?...

"Beatrice!" at length began Tommy again, and this time she could not stop him. "Beatrice, we can't go on like this. We can't do it, I say, we can't! Don't you feel it?... That husband of yours.... Oh, Beatrice, I can't stand by and watch it any longer!"

He caught hold of her hand and clasped it between his. It remained limp there, press it as he would.... Then he saw that she was crying.

He flung himself on his knees beside her, covering her hand with kisses. There was no conflict in him now, only a raging thirst for consummation. Harrow and Christchurch were thrown to the winds.

"Beatrice," he whispered, "come away with me out of this damned place—away from the whole damned lot of them—frozen, church-going rotters! Let me take care of you! I understand, Beatrice, I know how it is! Only come with me! Leave it all to me—no trouble, no worry, everything all right! He'll be glad enough to free you—trust him! Oh, dear Beatrice...."

He bent close over her, uttering all sort of impassioned foolishnesses. He kissed her, too, not once, but again and again, and with things he scarcely knew for kisses, so unlike were they to the lightly given and taken pledges of other days.

And Beatrice was limp in his arms, as little able to stop him as to stop her tears.

"Beatrice, we must go on always like this! We can't go back now, we can't let things go on as they were! Come away with me, Beatrice, to-night, now...."

Beatrice thought how, only a year ago, not far from this very place, some one had used almost those very words to her, and the thought made her weep afresh. But her tears were not all tears of misery.

At last she dried her eyes and pushed him gently away.

"No, no more, Tommy—dear Tommy, you must stop. Really, Tommy! I don't know how I could let you go on this way—I seem to be so weak and silly these days.... I must take hold of myself...."

"But, Beatrice—"

"No, Tommy—not any more now. I know, I know, dear, but it can't go on any more. Now," she added with a momentary relapse of weakness. Then she pulled herself together again. "You must be perfectly quiet and good, now, Tommy, if you stay here. I've got to have a chance to get over this before we go in. It's very important—there's a lot at stake. Just sit there and don't speak a word. You can help me that way."

They sat quietly together for some time. At last Beatrice rose.

"I think I'll go," she said. "I shall be all right now."

"But we can't leave it like this!" protested Tommy. "Beatrice, you can't go up there now...."

"Can't I? I'm going, though."

"No, you've got to give me an answer, Beatrice!"

She turned to him for a moment before walking off. "I can't tell you anything now, Tommy. I don't know. Do you see? I honestly don't know. You'll have to wait."

The hall seemed rather dark as they came into it; the others must have gone to bed. They locked doors and turned out lights and walked upstairs in the dark. They parted at the top with a whispered good-night, almost conspiratorial in effect, Beatrice found James still dressed and sitting under a droplight, reading. He put down his book as she entered and looked at his watch, which lay on the table by him.

"After half-past twelve," he said. "Quite a pleasant evening."

Beatrice made no observation.

"The air has done you good," he went on. "We shall soon see the roses in your cheeks again."

"If you have anything to say, James, perhaps you'd better go ahead and say it."

"I? Oh, dear no! Any words of mine would be quite superfluous. The situation is complete as it is."

Beatrice merely waited. She knew she would not wait in vain, nor did she.

"Only, after this perhaps you'll save yourself the trouble of making up elaborate denials. You and your Tommy!..."

He got up and started walking up and down the room with slow, measured steps. To Beatrice, still sitting quietly on the edge of her bed, the fall of his feet on the carpeted floor sounded like the inexorable tick of fate for once made audible to human ears. The greatest things hung in the balance at this moment; his next words would decide both their destinies for the rest of their mortal life. She thought she knew what they would be, but if there were to sound in them the faintest echo of a regret for older and better times she was ready, even at this last moment, to throw her whole being into an effort to help restore them. Tommy's passionate whisper still echoed in her ears, Tommy's kisses were scarcely cold upon her cheeks, but Tommy was not in her heart.

At last James spoke. At the first sound of his voice Beatrice knew.

"I shall receive a telegram calling me back to town to-morrow, in time for me to catch the evening train...."

She was so occupied with the ultimate meaning of his words that their immediate meaning escaped her. She raised her eyes in question.

"You're going away to-morrow? Why?"

"Yes. I prefer not to remain here and watch it going on under my very eyes. It's a silly prejudice, no doubt, but you must pardon it...."

He continued his pacing, keeping his eyes fixed on the floor in front of him. Occasionally he uttered a few sentences in the same cold, lifeless tone.

"It's all over now, at any rate. I had hoped we might be able to tide these things over through these first years, till we got old enough to stop caring about them, but I was wrong. You can't govern things like that.... I always had a theory that any two sensible people could get along together in marriage, even though they didn't care much about each other, if they made up their minds to take a reasonable point of view; but I was wrong there too. Marriage is a bigger thing than I thought. I was wrong all around....

"Just a year—not even that. I should have said it could go longer than that, even at the worst....

"It's all in the blood, I suppose—rotten, decadent blood, in both of you. I don't blame you, especially. Your father's daughter—I might have known. I suppose I oughtn't to blame your father much more—it's the curse of your whole civilization. Only it's hard to confine one's anger to civilizations in such cases....

"The strange part about you is that you gave no sign of it whatever beforehand. I had no suspicion, at all. I don't think any one could have told....

"There's just one thing I should like to suggest. I don't know whether it will be comprehensible to you, but I have a certain respect for my family name and a sort of desire to spare the members of the family as much as possible. So that, although you're perfectly free to act exactly as you wish, I should appreciate it if you—if you could suspend operations as long as you remain under my uncle's roof. Though it's just as you like, of course.

"I shall be in New York. You can let me know your plans there when you are ready. I suppose you'll want to sue, in which case it can't be done in New York state; you'll have to establish a residence somewhere else. Or if you prefer to have me sue, all right. That would save time, of course.... Let me know what you decide.

"Well, we might as well go to bed, I suppose. It will be the last time...."

Beatrice watched him as he took off his coat and waistcoat and threw them over a chair and then attacked his collar and tie. Then she arose from where she sat and addressed him.

"I don't suppose there's any use in my saying anything. We might get quarreling again, and naturally you wouldn't believe me, anyway. I agree with you that it's impossible for us to live together any longer. But I can't forbear from telling you, James, that you've done me a great wrong. You've said things ... oh, you've said things so wrong to-night that it seems as if God himself—if there is a God—would speak from heaven and show you how wrong you are! But there's no use in mere human beings saying anything at a time like this....

"You've been a very wicked man to-night, James. May God forgive you for it."

She turned away with an air of finality and started to prepare for bed. She hung up her evening wrap in the closet and walked over to her bureau. She took off what jewelry she wore and put it carefully away, and then she seemed to hesitate. She stood looking at her reflection in the mirror a moment, but found no inspiration there. She walked inconclusively across the room and then back. Finally she stopped near James, with her back toward him.

"It seems an absurd thing to ask," she said, "but would you mind? As you say, it's the last time...."

"Certainly," said James.