THE TIDE TURNS

A gray morning, wet and close, whose very atmosphere was death to hope. James did hope, nevertheless, with all the refreshed energy of his being. Hope came as soon as he started to wake up, before he began to feel the cramps in his limbs, before he had time to rub his eyes and wonder what had happened.

A hot bath, and then breakfast. Physical alleviations; he was humiliated to realize they did make a difference, even to him. He shuddered at the thought of how he had patronizingly envied Aunt Selina for being helped by them last night, much as he shuddered at the remembrance of having once dared to pity Beatrice....

But the present was also with him, and the present was even harder to face than the past. Hope sprang eternal, but so did certainty. One might have thought that they would have neutralized each other's effects and left a blank, but as a matter of fact they only doubled each other's torments. The moment breakfast was over James started off for the station to set one or the other at rest.

He went straight to the press room, which was only just open; he had to wait for the agent to arrive. When he came he was able to tell James nothing new, but he conducted him to a departmental manager. He was no more satisfactory, but he undertook to make every possible inquiry. Leaving James in an outer office he called various people to him, got into telephonic communication with others and ended by calling up Stamford and then Boston. But James could guess the result from his face the moment he reentered the room.

"Nothing?" he asked.

"Nothing. But don't give up yet."

James walked slowly down the corridor toward the elevator. It was a long corridor, dark and empty; James could not see the end of it when he started. The sound of his feet echoed hollowly along the dim walls. Altogether it was rather an eerie place, not at all suggestive of a modern office building. Much more, it seemed to James as he walked on, like life.... A blind alley, the end of which was in shadow, where one must walk alone and in almost total darkness. A place where one's footsteps echo with painful exactness—one must walk carefully lest the sound of their irregularity should ring evilly in one's ears and pierce unharmoniously into those mysterious chambers alongside, perhaps even into other corridors, other people's corridors....

He roused himself from his reverie with a jerk, but his mood remained on him, translated into a larger meaning. He was alive; no matter what had happened to Beatrice, he was still alive, with a living person's duties and responsibilities—and chances. Beatrice, even though cut off in the bloom of her youth, had succeeded in making a person of herself, justifying her existence, supplying a guiding light to some of those who walked in greater darkness than herself. He had not as yet done that. Well, he must. He would. Beatrice's gift to him should not be wasted. In a flash he felt his strength and his manhood return to him. He looked into the future with a humble yet unflinching gaze; hope and certainty had lost their terrors for him. If Beatrice had died, he would thank God that it had been given him to know her and do his best to translate her spirit into earthly terms. If by any impossible chance she still lived—well, he could do nothing to make himself worthy of such happiness, but he would do his best.

He walked out of the elevator into the concourse, the huge unchanging concourse where so much had happened yesterday. It was comparatively empty at this moment, only a few figures waiting patiently before train gates. One of these caught his eye; it took on a bafflingly familiar appearance. He moved curiously nearer to it....

Tommy!

At last, at last, at last he was going to feel that throat between his fingers, get a chance to exterminate that—that—He sprang forward like a wildcat.

He stopped before he had taken two steps, with a feeling of impotence, hopelessness. Who was he, who under the sun was he to teach Tommy anything? Tommy—why, Tommy had loved Beatrice, not after it was too late, but before! Beatrice had preferred Tommy to him. Tommy was a better man than he was; he took a morbid joy in thinking how much better.

It was conceivable that Tommy might know something. Perhaps he had even come to this very spot to meet Beatrice.... Well, he would not blame her or offer objections, if it were so. He would accept such a judgment gladly, as a small price for knowing she was alive. He hurried across the concourse.

"Tommy, can you tell me anything about Beatrice?" James' voice was so matter-of-fact, so strikingly unfitted to a Situation, that Tommy was rather irritated. He flushed.

"No, of course not. Why should I?"

"I only thought—seeing you here—"

"No." The tone was abrupt to the point of rudeness, wholly un-Tommylike. There was an odd moment of silence, which Tommy ended by breaking out: "Why the devil do you have to come here and crow over me? Why can't you let me clear out in peace?"

James was so penitent for having hurt Tommy that he did not at first notice the implication in his words.

"I'm sorry—I meant nothing! I've been out of my head with anxiety.... I only thought she might have gone somewhere else to meet you—it was my last hope...."

"What?" Tommy cocked his eyebrows incredulously, with a sort of fierceness. "Hope of what?"

"Why, that Beatrice was still alive."

"Still alive? What on earth—! What makes you think she isn't?"

"Do you mean to say—"

Again the two stared at each other in a strained silence. Then Tommy produced a crumpled yellow envelope from his pocket and handed it to James.

"I got this yesterday morning—that's all I know. I haven't been able to destroy the damned thing...."

James took it and opened it. A telegram:—

It's all off, Tommy. Please go away and forgive me if you can. Beatrice.

He looked at the date at the top. Boston, 8:37 A. M. Boston! The Maine Special did not go into Boston; Beatrice had left it before—before....

"Tommy," he said faintly, "Tommy, I—" His head swam; he felt himself reeling.

"All right, old top, all right; easy does it." He felt Tommy's arm about him and heard Tommy's voice in his ears, the voice of the good-hearted Tommy of old. Suddenly the idea of a disappointed lover calling his fainting though successful rival old top and telling him that easy did it struck him as wildly and irresistibly humorous. He laughed, and the sound of his laugh acted like a stimulant. He bit his lip hard.

"All right now—I'll go up and get into a taxi. You see," he began explanatorily to Tommy as he walked beside him, "I thought—I thought—"

"I see," supplied Tommy companionably, "you thought she was in the accident, of course. Beastly thing, that accident; no wonder it knocked you up. Knocked me up a bit myself when I heard of it, although I knew she couldn't be in it. Easy up the steps—righto! Everything turned out all right in the end, though, didn't it? Pretty hefty steps, wot? Pretty hefty place altogether—nothing like it in London...."

A cab puffed up beside them. James turned with his hand on the door. An unaccountable wave of affection, respect, even, for Tommy surged through him. "Tommy, you're going away now, I take it?"

"Yes—Chicago." (He pronounced it Shickago. That was nothing; when he arrived in the country he had pronounced it with the ch sound. In a few more weeks he would get it correctly; you couldn't expect too much at a time from Tommy.)

"Well, Tommy, see here—"

"Yes?"

"It may sound silly to you, but—come and see us some time!"

"Righto. Not now, though—got to see the country—train leaves in two minutes. See America first, wot? Good-by!" and he was off.

James sank back into the cab, admiring the other's tact. A thoughtless, brutal proposal; of course he ought never to have made it. It was not in him, though, to deny Tommy any sign of the overwhelming love for the whole world that filled him.

When he reached his apartment his physical strength was restored, but mentally he seemed paralyzed. There was much to be done, but he had no idea how to go about it. A bright thought struck him; he called up Aunt Selina. He laughed foolishly into the transmitter; Heaven knows how he made her understand at last. The two babbled incoherently at one another for a moment and abruptly rang off, without saying good-by.... Another bright idea—Uncle James. He was more definite, but James had little idea of what he said. He caught something about a Comparatively Simple Matter.... Uncle J. undertook to do everything, whatever it was. A satisfactory person.

After that James sat down in an armchair and for a long time remained there, reduced to an inarticulate pulp of joy.

An hour or two later Beatrice's telegram arrived. It was dated from an obscure place in the White Mountains. "Quite safe and well; only just heard of the accident," it read. Just ten words. But quite enough! To think of her telegraphing him!...

Immediately he became strong and efficient again. He rushed back to the station, dashed off a telegram and caught up a time table. Confound the trains—nothing till eight-fifteen!

When she left Bar Harbor, Beatrice had no very clear idea of what she was going to do. Of one thing she was fairly sure; she was not going to Tommy. Where Aunt Cecilia's tentative suggestions concerning the dangers besetting a young wife had failed, Aunt Selina's uncompromising realism had gone straight to the point. Her eyes were opened; she saw what pitfalls infatuation and pique and obstinacy might lead her into. She was willing to admit that the thing she had planned to do would be equivalent to throwing away her last hold on life—all she read into the word life. No, she would not go to Tommy. Not directly, anyway....

Ah, there was the rub. Suppose her imagined scene of confession and appeal turned into one of mutual recrimination and resentment—the old sort. What was more likely, in view of her past experience? Were things so radically changed now that either she or James would be able to understand the other better than before? With the best intentions in the world she could not help rubbing him the wrong way, and she feared the anger and hopelessness that it was his power to inspire in her. With Tommy at hand, in the same town, could she trust herself to resist the temptation of throwing herself into his ready arms? It was all very well for Aunt Selina to say that she was worth more to Beatrice than Tommy; Beatrice was quite convinced of it, in the calm light of reason. But in the hour of failure, with her pride and her woman's desire for protection and love worked up to white heat, would she still be convinced of it? Could she dare entrust her whole chance of future happiness to the strength of her reason in the moment of its greatest trial?

Thoughts like these mingled with the rattle of the train in a sleepless night. In the morning one thing emerged into clarity; she must wait till Tommy was out of the way. If her determination to try to regain James was worth anything, she must give it every possible chance for success. Her hopes for a happy issue out of her dreadful labyrinth were not so good that she could afford to take one unnecessary risk.

Well, if she wasn't going to New York she would have to get off the train, obviously. So she alighted outside Boston early in the morning, took a local into town and telegraphed Tommy. Then, as she wandered aimlessly through the station her eye fell on a framed time-table in which occurred the name of a small White Mountain resort of which she had lately heard; a place described to her as remote and quiet and possessed of one fairly good hotel. She noticed that a train was due to leave for there in an hour's time. In a moment her decision was made; she would go up there and wait for Tommy to get safely out of the way, carefully plan out her course of action and—she scarcely dared express the thought, even mentally—give herself a little time to enjoy her newly-awakened love before putting it to the final test.

She arrived in the evening, took a room in the hotel and went to bed almost immediately, sleeping soundly for the first time in weeks. About the middle of the next morning the Boston papers arrived. Until then she had no notion that the train she had traveled by had been wrecked.

She telegraphed immediately to Aunt Cecilia and then, after some thought, to James. It seemed the thing to do, everything being considered. She wondered if he knew she was safe, how he would take the news, if he had been much disturbed by uncertainty. She was inclined to fear that her escape had not done her cause any particular good....

His reply arrived surprisingly soon: "Stay where you are, am coming." She was touched. Apparently the turn of events had had a favorable effect on him; if he cared enough now to come up and see her the opportunity for putting her plea to him must be fairly propitious. There was a fair chance that if she acted wisely all would turn out well. But oh, she must be careful!

She knew he must arrive by the morning train and arose betimes so as to be on hand. She was in some doubt about breakfast, whether to get it early or wait for him. Either way might be better or worse; it all depended on the outcome of their meeting. She ended by deciding to wait; she would let him breakfast alone if—if. Small interest she would have in breakfast in that event.

She was downstairs long before the train was due to arrive. The weather had cleared during the night and the morning was sunny and cool, a true autumn day. She tried waiting on the verandah, but the wind was so sharp that she soon returned to the warm lobby. She could watch the road equally well from the front windows; there was a long open ascent from the station. At last she saw the hotel wagon appear round a curve. There was only one passenger in it. He, of course. She could recognize the set of his head and shoulders even at that distance. She hoped he had a warm enough overcoat.

The wagon reached the steepest part of the incline, and he was out, walking briskly along beside it. Before it, very soon; he went so much faster. How like James, and how unnecessary! He the only passenger, and what were horses made for, anyway? Still perhaps it was better, if he were not warmly dressed....

The ascent grew steeper before him and his pace visibly decreased. But the wagon merely crawled, far behind him! He was a furious walker. That hill was enough to phase any one....

Presently the sight of him plodding painfully up toward her while she waited calmly at the top grew perfectly intolerable. She could bear it no longer; hatless and coatless she rushed out of the hotel and down the road toward him. After a while he raised his face and their eyes met. Nearer and nearer they came, gazing fixedly into each other's eyes and discovering new things there, new lives, new worlds....

They did not even kiss. She, looking beyond him, saw the driver of the station wagon peering up at them, and he caught sight over her shoulder of the staring windows of the hotel. They stopped with some embarrassment and immediately began walking up together.

"It's nice to see you, James; did you have a good journey?"

"Yes, very, thanks. You comfortable here?"

On they walked, in silence. Gradually their embarrassment left them and gave place to a sort of awe. Something was going to happen, something great and wonderful; they no longer doubted it nor felt any fear. But—all in good time!

It must be coming soon, though, to judge by the way it kept pressing down on them. Good time? Heavens, there never was any time but the present moment, never would be any....

"Beatrice," said James, staring hard at the ground in front of him, "I know now how wicked I've been. Do you think you can ever forgive me?"

"Why, James," said Beatrice gently, "dear James, there's nothing to forgive."

Then he looked up and saw there were tears on her cheeks....

Yes, right there in the open road!