“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? I meant that I’d lost courage—through ill-luck–-“
“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.
“That’s an easy way out of it. But you took everything from me—first my hope of marrying you; then my chance of a big success in my career; and I was desperate—weak, if you like—and tried to deaden my feelings in order to keep up my pluck.”
Justine rose to her feet with a movement of impatience. “Every word you say proves how unfit you are to assume any responsibility—to do anything but try to recover your health. If I can help you to that, I am still willing to do so.”
Wyant rose also, moving a step nearer. “Well, get me that place, then—I’ll see to the rest: I’ll keep straight.”
“No—it’s impossible.”
“You won’t?”
“I can’t,” she repeated firmly.
“And you expect to put me off with that answer?”
She hesitated. “Yes—if there’s no other help you’ll accept.”
He laughed again—his feeble sneering laugh was disgusting. “Oh, I don’t say that. I’d like to earn my living honestly—funny preference—but if you cut me off from that, I suppose it’s only fair to let you make up for it. My wife and child have got to live.”
“You choose a strange way of helping them; but I will do what I can if you will go for a while to some institution–-“
He broke in furiously. “Institution be damned! You can’t shuffle me out of the way like that. I’m all right—good food is what I need. You think I’ve got morphia in me—why, it’s hunger!”
Justine heard him with a renewal of pity. “Oh, I’m sorry for you—very sorry! Why do you try to deceive me?”
“Why do you deceive me? You know what I want and you know you’ve got to let me have it. If you won’t give me a line to one of your friends at Saint Christopher’s you’ll have to give me another cheque—that’s the size of it.”
As they faced each other in silence Justine’s pity gave way to a sudden hatred for the poor creature who stood shivering and sneering before her.
“You choose the wrong tone—and I think our talk has lasted long enough,” she said, stretching her hand to the bell.
Wyant did not move. “Don’t ring—unless you want me to write to your husband,” he rejoined.
A sick feeling of helplessness overcame her; but she turned on him firmly. “I pardoned you once for that threat!”
“Yes—and you sent me some money the next day.”
“I was mistaken enough to think that, in your distress, you had not realized what you wrote. But if you’re a systematic blackmailer–-“
“Gently—gently. Bad names don’t frighten me—it’s hunger and debt I’m afraid of.”
Justine felt a last tremor of compassion. He was abominable—but he was pitiable too.
“I will really help you—I will see your wife and do what I can—but I can give you no money today.”
“Why not?”
“Because I have none. I am not as rich as you think.”
He smiled incredulously. “Give me a line to Mr. Langhope, then.”
“No.”
He sat down once more, leaning back with a weak assumption of ease. “Perhaps Mr. Amherst will think differently.”
She whitened, but said steadily: “Mr. Amherst is away.”
“Very well—I can write.”
For the last five minutes Justine had foreseen this threat, and had tried to force her mind to face dispassionately the chances it involved. After all, why not let him write to Amherst? The very vileness of the deed must rouse an indignation which would be all in her favour, would inevitably dispose her husband to readier sympathy with the motive of her act, as contrasted with the base insinuations of her slanderer. It seemed impossible that Amherst should condemn her when his condemnation involved the fulfilling of Wyant’s calculations: a reaction of scorn would throw him into unhesitating championship of her conduct. All this was so clear that, had she been advising any one else, her confidence in the course to be taken might have strengthened the feeblest will; but with the question lying between herself and Amherst—with the vision of those soiled hands literally laid on the spotless fabric of her happiness, judgment wavered, foresight was obscured—she felt tremulously unable to face the steps between exposure and vindication. Her final conclusion was that she must, at any rate, gain time: buy off Wyant till she had been able to tell her story in her own way, and at her own hour, and then defy him when he returned to the assault. The idea that whatever concession she made would be only provisional, helped to excuse the weakness of making it, and enabled her at last, without too painful a sense of falling below her own standards, to reply in a low voice: “If you’ll go now, I will send you something next week.”