JUSTINE was pacing the long library at Lynbrook, between the caged sets of standard authors.
She felt as much caged as they: as much a part of a conventional stage-setting totally unrelated to the action going on before it. Two weeks had passed since her return from Philadelphia; and during that time she had learned that her usefulness at Lynbrook was over. Though not unwelcome, she might almost call herself unwanted; life swept by, leaving her tethered to the stake of inaction; a bitter lot for one who chose to measure existence by deeds instead of days. She had found Bessy ostensibly busy with a succession of guests; no one in the house needed her but Cicely, and even Cicely, at times, was caught up into the whirl of her mother’s life, swept off on sleighing parties and motor-trips, or carried to town for a dancing-class or an opera matinée.
Mrs. Fenton Carbury was not among the visitors who left Lynbrook on the Monday after Justine’s return.
Mr. Carbury, with the other bread-winners of the party, had hastened back to his treadmill in Wall Street after a Sunday spent in silently studying the files of the Financial Record; but his wife stayed on, somewhat aggressively in possession, criticizing and rearranging the furniture, ringing for the servants, making sudden demands on the stable, telegraphing, telephoning, ordering fires lighted or windows opened, and leaving everywhere in her wake a trail of cigarette ashes and cocktail glasses.
Ned Bowfort had not been included in the house-party; but on the day of its dispersal he rode over unannounced for luncheon, put up his horse in the stable, threaded his way familiarly among the dozing dogs in the hall, greeted Mrs. Ansell and Justine with just the right shade of quiet deference, produced from his pocket a new puzzle-game for Cicely, and sat down beside her mother with the quiet urbanity of the family friend who knows his privileges but is too discreet to abuse them.
After that he came every day, sometimes riding home late to the Hunt Club, sometimes accompanying Bessy and Mrs. Carbury to town for dinner and the theatre; but always with his deprecating air of having dropped in by accident, and modestly hoping that his intrusion was not unwelcome.
The following Sunday brought another influx of visitors, and Bessy seemed to fling herself with renewed enthusiasm into the cares of hospitality. She had avoided Justine since their midnight talk, contriving to see her in Cicely’s presence, or pleading haste when they found themselves alone. The winter was unusually open, and she spent long hours in the saddle when her time was not taken up with her visitors. For a while she took Cicely on her daily rides; but she soon wearied of adapting her hunter’s stride to the pace of the little girl’s pony, and Cicely was once more given over to the coachman’s care.
Then came snow and a long frost, and Bessy grew restless at her imprisonment, and grumbled that there was no way of keeping well in a winter climate which made regular exercise impossible.
“Why not build a squash-court?” Blanche Carbury proposed; and the two fell instantly to making plans under the guidance of Ned Bowfort and Westy Gaines. As the scheme developed, various advisers suggested that it was a pity not to add a bowling-alley, a swimming-tank and a gymnasium; a fashionable architect was summoned from town, measurements were taken, sites discussed, sketches compared, and engineers consulted as to the cost of artesian wells and the best system for heating the tank.
Bessy seemed filled with a feverish desire to carry out the plan as quickly as possible, and on as large a scale as even the architect’s invention soared to; but it was finally decided that, before signing the contracts, she should run over to New Jersey to see a building of the same kind on which a sporting friend of Mrs. Carbury’s had recently lavished a fortune.
It was on this errand that the two ladies, in company with Westy Gaines and Bowfort, had departed on the day which found Justine restlessly measuring the length of the library. She and Mrs. Ansell had the house to themselves; and it was hardly a surprise to her when, in the course of the afternoon, Mrs. Ansell, after a discreet pause on the threshold, advanced toward her down the long room.
Since the night of her return Justine had felt sure that Mrs. Ansell would speak; but the elder lady was given to hawk-like circlings about her subject, to hanging over it and contemplating it before her wings dropped for the descent.
Now, however, it was plain that she had resolved to strike; and Justine had a sense of relief at the thought. She had been too long isolated in her anxiety, her powerlessness to help; and she had a vague hope that Mrs. Ansell’s worldly wisdom might accomplish what her inexperience had failed to achieve.
“Shall we sit by the fire? I am glad to find you alone,” Mrs. Ansell began, with the pleasant abruptness that was one of the subtlest instruments of her indirection; and as Justine acquiesced, she added, yielding her slight lines to the luxurious depths of an armchair: “I have been rather suddenly asked by an invalid cousin to go to Europe with her next week, and I can’t go contentedly without being at peace about our friends.”
She paused, but Justine made no answer. In spite of her growing sympathy for Mrs. Ansell she could not overcome an inherent distrust, not of her methods, but of her ultimate object. What, for instance, was her conception of being at peace about the Amhersts? Justine’s own conviction was that, as far as their final welfare was concerned, any terms were better between them than the external harmony which had prevailed during Amherst’s stay at Lynbrook.
The subtle emanation of her distrust may have been felt by Mrs. Ansell; for the latter presently continued, with a certain nobleness: “I am the more concerned because I believe I must hold myself, in a small degree, responsible for Bessy’s marriage—” and, as Justine looked at her in surprise, she added: “I thought she could never be happy unless her affections were satisfied—and even now I believe so.”
“I believe so too,” Justine said, surprised into assent by the simplicity of Mrs. Ansell’s declaration.
“Well, then—since we are agreed in our diagnosis,” the older woman went on, smiling, “what remedy do you suggest? Or rather, how can we administer it?”
“What remedy?” Justine hesitated.
“Oh, I believe we are agreed on that too. Mr. Amherst must be brought back—but how to bring him?” She paused, and then added, with a singular effect of appealing frankness: “I ask you, because I believe you to be the only one of Bessy’s friends who is in the least in her husband’s confidence.”
Justine’s embarrassment increased. Would it not be disloyal both to Bessy and Amherst to acknowledge to a third person a fact of which Bessy herself was unaware? Yet to betray embarrassment under Mrs. Ansell’s eyes was to risk giving it a dangerous significance.
“Bessy has spoken to me once or twice—but I know very little of Mr. Amherst’s point of view; except,” Justine added, after another moment’s weighing of alternatives, “that I believe he suffers most from being cut off from his work at Westmore.”
“Yes—so I think; but that is a difficulty that time and expediency must adjust. All we can do—their friends, I mean—is to get them together again before the breach is too wide.”
Justine pondered. She was perhaps more ignorant of the situation than Mrs. Ansell imagined, for since her talk with Bessy the latter had not again alluded to Amherst’s absence, and Justine could merely conjecture that he had carried out his plan of taking the management of the mill he had spoken of. What she most wished to know was whether he had listened to her entreaty, and taken the position temporarily, without binding himself by the acceptance of a salary; or whether, wounded by the outrage of Bessy’s flight, he had freed himself from financial dependence by engaging himself definitely as manager.