They looked at each other a moment in silence; then Justine murmured a word of greeting and led the way to the drawing-room.
It was a snowy afternoon, and in the raw ash-coloured light she thought he looked more changed than at the theatre. She remarked, too, that his clothes were worn and untidy, his gloveless hands soiled and tremulous. None of the degrading signs of his infirmity were lacking; and she saw at once that, while in the early days of the habit he had probably mixed his drugs, so that the conflicting symptoms neutralized each other, he had now sunk into open morphia-taking. She felt profoundly sorry for him; yet as he followed her into the room physical repulsion again mastered the sense of pity.
But where action was possible she was always self-controlled, and she turned to him quietly as they seated themselves.
“I have been wishing to see you,” she said, looking at him. “I have felt that I ought to have done so sooner—to have told you how sorry I am for your bad luck.”
He returned her glance with surprise: they were evidently the last words he had expected.
“You’re very kind,” he said in a low embarrassed voice. He had kept on his shabby over-coat, and he twirled his hat in his hands as he spoke.
“I have felt,” Justine continued, “that perhaps a talk with you might be of more use–-“
He raised his head, fixing her with bright narrowed eyes. “I have felt so too: that’s my reason for coming. You sent me a generous present some weeks ago—but I don’t want to go on living on charity.”
“I understand that,” she answered. “But why have you had to do so? Won’t you tell me just what has happened?”
She felt the words to be almost a mockery; yet she could not say “I read your history at a glance”; and she hoped that her question might draw out his wretched secret, and thus give her the chance to speak frankly.
He gave a nervous laugh. “Just what has happened? It’s a long story—and some of the details are not particularly pretty.” He broke off, moving his hat more rapidly through his trembling hands.
“Never mind: tell me.”
“Well—after you all left Lynbrook I had rather a bad break-down—the strain of Mrs. Amherst’s case, I suppose. You remember Bramble, the Clifton grocer? Miss Bramble nursed me—I daresay you remember her too. When I recovered I married her—and after that things didn’t go well.”
He paused, breathing quickly, and looking about the room with odd, furtive glances. “I was only half-well, anyhow—I couldn’t attend to my patients properly—and after a few months we decided to leave Clifton, and I bought a practice in New Jersey. But my wife was ill there, and things went wrong again—damnably. I suppose you’ve guessed that my marriage was a mistake. She had an idea that we should do better in New York—so we came here a few months ago, and we’ve done decidedly worse.”
Justine listened with a sense of discouragement. She saw now that he did not mean to acknowledge his failing, and knowing the secretiveness of the drug-taker she decided that he was deluded enough to think he could still deceive her.
“Well,” he began again, with an attempt at jauntiness, “I’ve found out that in my profession it’s a hard struggle to get on your feet again, after illness or—or any bad set-back. That’s the reason I asked you to say a word for me. It’s not only the money, though I need that badly—I want to get back my self-respect. With my record I oughtn’t to be where I am—and you can speak for me better than any one.”
“Why better than the doctors you’ve worked with?” Justine put the question abruptly, looking him straight in the eyes.
His glance dropped, and an unpleasant flush rose to his thin cheeks.
“Well—as it happens, you’re better situated than any one to help me to the particular thing I want.”
“The particular thing–-?”
“Yes. I understand that Mr. Langhope and Mrs. Ansell are both interested in the new wing for paying patients at Saint Christopher’s. I want the position of house-physician there, and I know you can get it for me.”
His tone changed as he spoke, till with the last words it became rough and almost menacing.
Justine felt her colour rise, and her heart began to beat confusedly. Here was the truth, then: she could no longer be the dupe of her own compassion. The man knew his power and meant to use it. But at the thought her courage was in arms.
“I’m sorry—but it’s impossible,” she said.
“Impossible—why?”
She continued to look at him steadily. “You said just now that you wished to regain your self-respect. Well, you must regain it before you can ask me—or any one else—to recommend you to a position of trust.”
Wyant half-rose, with an angry murmur. “My self-respect? What do you mean?
“Yes; and your ill-luck has come through your own fault. Till you cure yourself you’re not fit to cure others.”
He sank back into his seat, glowering at her under sullen brows; then his expression gradually changed to half- sneering admiration. “You’re a plucky one!” he said.
Justine repressed a movement of disgust. “I am very sorry for you,” she said gravely. “I saw this trouble coming on you long ago—and if there is any other way in which I can help you–-“
“Thanks,” he returned, still sneering. “Your sympathy is very precious—there was a time when I would have given my soul for it. But that’s over, and I’m here to talk business. You say you saw my trouble coming on—did it ever occur to you that you were the cause of it?”
Justine glanced at him with frank contempt. “No—for I was not,” she replied.
