The Fruit of the Tree

She looked up into his eyes for an instant. “It was a horrible letter–-” she whispered, as she pressed her clasped hands against him.

His grasp tightened on her wrists, and again the stern look crossed his face. “Horrible? What do you mean?”

She had never seen him angry—but she felt suddenly that, to the guilty creature, his anger would be terrible. He would crush Wyant—she must be careful 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 arms against the mantelpiece 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 was preposterous, yet she trembled at it. It was clear that she must say something at once—must somehow account for her agitation. But the sense that she was unnerved—no longer in control of her face, her voice—made her feel that she would tell her story badly if she told it now…. Had she not the right to gain a respite, to choose her own hour? Weakness—weakness again! Every delay would only increase the phantom terror. 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—who needs money, I mean–-” She tried to laugh away her tears. “And I haven’t any! That’s my trouble!”

“Foolish child! And to beg you are ashamed? And so you’re letting your tears cool Mr. Langhope’s soup?” He had her in his arms now, his kisses drying her cheek; and she turned her head so that their lips met in a long 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 she tried to shape a murmur of gratitude. “Thank you—thank you! I hated to ask….”

“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 through its fear. She felt the touch of a narcotic in her veins. How calm and peaceful the room was—and how delicious to think that her life would go on in it, safely and peacefully, in the old familiar way!

As she swept up her hair, passing the comb through it, and flinging it dexterously over her lifted wrist, she heard Amherst cross the floor behind 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 the writing-table. As she picked up the cheque she saw it was for three hundred dollars.

XXXIV

ONCE or twice, in the days that followed, Justine found herself thinking that she had never known happiness before. The old state of secure well-being seemed now like a dreamless sleep; but this new bliss, on its sharp pinnacle ringed with fire—this thrilling conscious joy, daily and hourly snatched from fear—this was living, not sleeping!

Wyant acknowledged her gift with profuse, almost servile thanks. She had sent it without a word—saying to herself that pity for his situation made it possible to ignore his baseness. And the days went on as before. She was not conscious of any change, save in the heightened, almost artificial quality of her happiness, till one day in March, when Mr. Langhope announced that he was going for two or three weeks to a friend’s shooting-box in the south. The anniversary of Bessy’s death was approaching, and Justine knew that at that time he always absented himself.

“Supposing you and Amherst were to carry off Cicely till I come back? Perhaps you could persuade him to break away from work for once—or, if that’s impossible, you could take her with you to Hanaford. She looks a little pale, and the change would be good for her.”

This was a great concession on Mr. Langhope’s part, and Justine saw the pleasure in her husband’s face. It was the first time that his father-in-law had suggested Cicely’s going to Hanaford.

“I’m afraid I can’t break away just now, sir,” Amherst said, “but it will be delightful for Justine if you’ll give us Cicely while you’re away.”

“Take her by all means, my dear fellow: I always sleep on both ears when she’s with your wife.”

It was nearly three months since Justine had left Hanaford—and now she was to return there alone with her husband! There would be hours, of course, when the child’s presence was between them—or when, again, his work would keep him at the mills. But in the evenings, when Cicely was in bed—when he and she sat alone, together in the Westmore drawing-room—in Bessy’s drawing-room!… No—she must find some excuse for remaining away till she had again grown used to the idea of being alone with Amherst. Every day she was growing a little more used to it; but it would take time—time, and the full assurance that Wyant was silenced. Till then she could not go back to