“You mean that he’s still anxious about Cicely?”
“Partly that—yes.” She paused. “The child will get well, no doubt; but she is very lonely. She needs youth, heat, light. Mr. Langhope can’t give her those, or even a semblance of them; and it’s an art I’ve lost the secret of,” she added with her shadowy smile.
Amherst’s brows darkened. “I realize all she has lost–-“
Mrs. Ansell glanced up at him quickly. “She is twice motherless,” she said.
The blood rose to his neck and temples, and he tightened his hand on the arm of his chair. But it was a part of Mrs. Ansell’s expertness to know when such danger signals must be heeded and when they might be ignored, and she went on quietly: “It’s the question of the future that is troubling Mr. Langhope. After such an illness, the next months of Cicely’s life should be all happiness. And money won’t buy the kind she needs: one can’t pick out the right companion for such a child as one can match a ribbon. What she wants is spontaneous affection, not the most superlative manufactured article. She wants the sort of love that Justine gave her.”
It was the first time in months that Amherst had heard his wife’s name spoken outside of his own house. No one but his mother mentioned Justine to him now; and of late even his mother had dropped her enquiries and allusions, prudently acquiescing in the habit of silence which his own silence had created about him. To hear the name again—the two little syllables which had been the key of life to him, and now shook him as the turning of a rusted lock shakes a long-closed door—to hear her name spoken familiarly, affectionately, as one speaks of some one who may come into the room the next moment—gave him a shock that was half pain, and half furtive unacknowledged joy. Men whose conscious thoughts are mostly projected outward, on the world of external activities, may be more moved by such a touch on the feelings than those who are perpetually testing and tuning their emotional chords. Amherst had foreseen from the first that Mrs. Ansell might mean to speak of his wife; but though he had intended, if she did so, to cut their talk short, he now felt himself irresistibly constrained to hear her out.
Mrs. Ansell, having sped her shaft, followed its flight through lowered lashes, and saw that it had struck a vulnerable point; but she was far from assuming that the day was won.
“I believe,” she continued, “that Mr. Langhope has said something of this to you already, and my only excuse for speaking is that I understood he had not been successful in his appeal.”
No one but Mrs. Ansell—and perhaps she knew it—could have pushed so far beyond the conventional limits of discretion without seeming to overstep them by a hair; and she had often said, when pressed for the secret of her art, that it consisted simply in knowing the pass-word. That word once spoken, she might have added, the next secret was to give the enemy no time for resistance; and though she saw the frown reappear between Amherst’s eyes, she went on, without heeding it: “I entreat you, Mr. Amherst, to let Cicely see your wife.”
He reddened again, and pushed back his chair, as if to rise.
“No—don’t break off like that! Let me say a word more. I know your answer to Mr. Langhope—that you and Justine are no longer together. But I thought of you as a man to sink your personal relations at such a moment as this.”
“To sink them?” he repeated vaguely: and she went on: “After all, what difference does it make?”
“What difference?” He stared in unmitigated wonder, and then answered, with a touch of irony: “It might at least make the difference of my being unwilling to ask a favour of her.”
Mrs. Ansell, at this, raised her eyes and let them rest full on his. “Because she has done you so great a one already?”
He stared again, sinking back automatically into his chair. “I don’t understand you.”
“No.” She smiled a little, as if to give herself time. “But I mean that you shall. If I were a man I suppose I couldn’t, because a man’s code of honour is such a clumsy cast-iron thing. But a woman’s, luckily, can be cut over—if she’s clever—to fit any new occasion; and in this case I should be willing to reduce mine to tatters if necessary.”
Amherst’s look of bewilderment deepened. “What is it that I don’t understand?” he asked at length, in a low voice.
“Well—first of all, why Mr. Langhope had the right to ask you to send for your wife.”
“The right?”
“You don’t recognize such a right on his part?”
“No—why should I?”
“Supposing she had left you by his wish?”
“His wish? His–-?”
He was on his feet now, gazing at her blindly, while the solid world seemed to grow thin about him. Her next words reduced it to a mist.
“My poor Amherst—why else, on earth, should she have left you?”
She brought it out clearly, in her small chiming tones; and as the sound travelled toward him it seemed to gather momentum, till her words rang through his brain as if every incomprehensible incident in the past had suddenly boomed forth the question. Why else, indeed, should she have left him? He stood motionless for a while; then he approached Mrs. Ansell and said: “Tell me.”
She drew farther back into her corner of the sofa, waving him to a seat beside her, as though to bring his inquisitory eyes on a level where her own could command them; but he stood where he was, unconscious of her gesture, and merely repeating: “Tell me.”
She may have said to herself that a woman would have needed no farther telling; but to him she only replied, slanting her head up to his: “To spare you and himself pain—to keep everything, between himself and you, as it had been before you married her.”
He dropped down beside her at that, grasping the back of the sofa as if he wanted something to clutch and throttle. The veins swelled in his temples, and as he pushed back his tossed hair Mrs. Ansell noticed for the first time how gray it had grown on the under side.
“And he asked this of my wife—he accepted it?’”
“Haven’t you accepted it?”
“I? How could I guess her reasons—how could I imagine–-?”
Mrs. Ansell raised her brows a hair’s breadth at that. “I don’t know. But as a fact, he didn’t ask—it was she who offered, who forced it on him, even!”
“Forced her going on him?”
“In a sense, yes; by making it appear that you felt as he did about—about poor Bessy’s death: that the thought of what had happened at that time was as abhorrent to you as to him—that she was as abhorrent to you. No doubt she foresaw that, had she permitted the least doubt on that point, there would have been no need of her leaving you, since the relation between yourself and Mr. Langhope would have been altered—destroyed….”
“Yes. I expected that—I warned her of it. But how did she make him think–-?”
“How can I tell? To begin with, I don’t know your real feeling. For all I know she was telling the truth—and Mr. Langhope of course thought she was.”
“That I abhorred her? Oh–-” he broke out, on his feet in an instant.
“Then why–-?”
“Why did I let her leave me?” He strode across the room, as his habit was in moments of agitation, turning back to her again before he answered. “Because I didn’t know—didn’t know anything! And because her insisting on going away like that, without any explanation, made me feel…imagine there was…something she didn’t want me to know…something she was afraid of not being able to hide from me if we stayed together any longer.”
“Well—there was: the extent to which she loved you.”
Mrs. Ansell; her hands clasped on her knee, her gaze holding his with a kind of visionary fixity, seemed to reconstruct the history of his past, bit by bit, with the words she was dragging out of him.