He seldom spoke of Mr. Langhope as his father-in-law, and the chance designation seemed to mark a closer tie between them, to exclude Justine from what was after all a family affair. For a moment she felt tempted to accept the suggestion, and let the responsibility fall where it would. But it would fall on Amherst—and that was intolerable.
“I think you ought to wait,” she insisted.
An embarrassed silence settled on the three.
Wyant broke it by advancing toward Amherst. “I shall never forget your kindness,” he said; “and I hope to prove to Mrs. Amherst that it’s not misplaced.”
The words were well chosen, and well spoken; Justine saw that they produced a good effect. Amherst grasped the physician’s hand with a smile. “My dear fellow, I wish I could do more. Be sure to call on me again if you want help.”
“Oh, you’ve put me on my feet,” said Wyant gratefully.
He bowed slightly to Justine and turned to go; but as he reached the threshold she moved after him.
“Dr. Wyant—you must give back that letter.”
He stopped short with a whitening face.
She felt Amherst’s eyes on her again; and she said desperately, addressing him: “Dr. Wyant understands my reasons.”
Her husband’s glance turned abruptly to Wyant. “Do you?” he asked after a pause.
Wyant looked from one to the other. The moisture came out on his forehead, and he passed his hand over it again. “Yes,” he said in a dry voice. “Mrs. Amherst wants me farther off—out of New York.”
“Out of New York? What do you mean?”
Justine interposed hastily, before the answer could come. “It is because Dr. Wyant is not in condition—for such a place—just at present.”
“But he assures me he is quite well.”
There was another silence; and again Wyant broke in, this time with a slight laugh. “I can explain what Mrs. Amherst means; she intends to accuse me of the morphine habit. And I can explain her reason for doing so—she wants me out of the way.”
Amherst turned on the speaker; and, as she had foreseen, his look was terrible. “You haven’t explained that yet,” he said.
“Well—I can.” Wyant waited another moment. “I know too much about her,” he declared.
There was a low exclamation from Justine, and Amherst strode toward Wyant. “You infernal blackguard!” he cried.
“Oh, gently–-” Wyant muttered, flinching back from his outstretched arm.
“My wife’s wish is sufficient. Give me back that letter.”
Wyant straightened himself. “No, by God, I won’t!” he retorted furiously. “I didn’t ask you for it till you offered to help me; but I won’t let it be taken back without a word, like a thief that you’d caught with your umbrella. If your wife won’t explain I will. She’s, afraid I’ll talk about what happened at Lynbrook.”
Amherst’s arm fell to his side. “At Lynbrook?”
Behind him there was a sound of inarticulate appeal—but he took no notice.
“Yes. It’s she who used morphia—but not on herself. She gives it to other people. She gave an overdose to Mrs. Amherst.”
Amherst looked at him confusedly. “An overdose?”
“Yes—purposely, I mean. And I came into the room at the wrong time. I can prove that Mrs. Amherst died of morphia-poisoning.”
“John!” Justine gasped out, pressing between them.
Amherst gently put aside the hand with which she had caught his arm. “Wait a moment: this can’t rest here. You can’t want it to,” he said to her in an undertone.
“Why do you care…for what he says…when I don’t?” she breathed back with trembling lips.
“You can see I am not wanted here,” Wyant threw in with a sneer.
Amherst remained silent for a brief space; then he turned his eyes once more to his wife.
Justine lifted her face: it looked small and spent, like an extinguished taper.
“It’s true,” she said.
“True?”
“I did give…an overdose…intentionally, when I knew there was no hope, and when the surgeons said she might go on suffering. She was very strong…and I couldn’t bear it…you couldn’t have borne it….”
There was another silence; then she went on in a stronger voice, looking straight at her husband: “And now will you send this man away?”
Amherst glanced at Wyant without moving. “Go,” he said curtly.
Wyant, instead, moved a step nearer. “Just a minute, please. It’s only fair to hear my side. Your wife says there was no hope; yet the day before she…gave the dose, Dr. Garford told her in my presence that Mrs. Amherst might live.”
Again Amherst’s eyes addressed themselves slowly to Justine; and she forced her lips to articulate an answer.
“Dr. Garford said…one could never tell…but I know he didn’t believe in the chance of recovery…no one did.”
“Dr. Garford is dead,” said Wyant grimly.
Amherst strode up to him again. “You scoundrel—leave the house!” he commanded.
But still Wyant sneeringly stood his ground. “Not till I’ve finished. I can’t afford to let myself be kicked out like a dog because I happen to be in the way. Every doctor knows that in cases of spinal lesion recovery is becoming more and more frequent—if the patient survives the third week there’s every reason to hope. Those are the facts as they would appear to any surgeon. If they’re not true, why is Mrs. Amherst afraid of having them stated? Why has she been paying me for nearly a year to keep them quiet?”
“Oh–-” Justine moaned.
“I never thought of talking till luck went against me. Then I asked her for help—and reminded her of certain things. After that she kept me supplied pretty regularly.” He thrust his shaking hand into an inner pocket. “Here are her envelopes…Quebec…Montreal…Saranac…I know just where you went on your honeymoon. She had to write often, because the sums were small. Why did she do it, if she wasn’t afraid? And why did she go upstairs just now to fetch me something? If you don’t believe me, ask her what she’s got in her hand.”
Amherst did not heed this injunction. He stood motionless, gripping the back of a chair, as if his next gesture might be to lift and hurl it at the speaker.
“Ask her–-” Wyant repeated.
Amherst turned his head slowly, and his dull gaze rested on his wife. His face looked years older—lips and eyes moved as heavily as an old man’s.
As he looked at her, Justine came forward without speaking, and laid the little morocco case in his hand. He held it there a moment, as if hardly understanding her action—then he tossed it on the table at his elbow, and walked up to Wyant.
“You hound,” he said—“now go!”
XXXVI
WHEN Wyant had left the room, and the house-door had closed on him, Amherst spoke to his wife.
“Come upstairs,” he said.
Justine followed him, scarcely conscious where she went, but moving already with a lighter tread. Part of her weight of misery had been lifted with Wyant’s going. She had suffered less from the fear of what her husband might think than from the shame of making her avowal in her defamer’s presence. And her faith in Amherst’s comprehension had begun to revive. He had dismissed Wyant with scorn and horror—did not that show that he was on her side already? And how many more arguments she had at her call! Her brain hummed with them as she followed him up the stairs.
In her bedroom he closed the door and stood motionless, the same heavy half-paralyzed look on his face. It frightened her and she went up to him.
“John!” she said timidly.
He put his hand to his head. “Wait a moment–-” he returned; and she waited, her heart slowly sinking again.
The moment over, he seemed to recover his power of movement. He crossed the room and threw himself into the armchair near the hearth.
“Now tell me everything.”
He sat thrown back, his eyes fixed on the fire, and the vertical lines between his brows forming a deep scar in his white face.