When it dawned, Lethbury was still in an ecstasy of apprehension.
Feeling reasonably sure of the princ.i.p.al actors, he had centred his fears on incidental possibilities. The clergyman might have a stroke, or the church might burn down, or there might be something wrong with the license. He did all that was humanly possible to avert such contingencies, but there remained that incalculable factor known as the hand of G.o.d. Lethbury seemed to feel it groping for him.
In the church it almost had him by the nape. Mr. Budd was late; and for five immeasurable minutes Lethbury and Jane faced a churchful of conjecture. Then the bridegroom appeared, flushed but chivalrous, and explaining to his father-in-law under cover of the ritual that he had torn his glove and had to go back for another.
"You"ll be losing the ring next," muttered Lethbury; but Mr. Budd produced this article punctually, and a moment or two later was bearing its wearer captive down the aisle.
At the wedding-breakfast Lethbury caught his wife"s eye fixed on him in mild disapproval, and understood that his hilarity was exceeding the bounds of fitness. He pulled himself together, and tried to subdue his tone; but his jubilation bubbled over like a champagne-gla.s.s perpetually refilled. The deeper his draughts, the higher it rose.
It was at the brim when, in the wake of the dispersing guests, Jane came down in her travelling-dress and fell on her mother"s neck.
"I can"t leave you!" she wailed, and Lethbury felt as suddenly sobered as a man under a douche. But if the bride was reluctant her captor was relentless. Never had Mr. Budd been more dominant, more aquiline.
Lethbury"s last fears were dissipated as the young man s.n.a.t.c.hed Jane from her mother"s bosom and bore her off to the brougham.
The brougham rolled away, the last milliner"s girl forsook her post by the awning, the red carpet was folded up, and the house door closed.
Lethbury stood alone in the hall with his wife. As he turned toward her, he noticed the look of tired heroism in her eyes, the deepened lines of her face. They reflected his own symptoms too accurately not to appeal to him. The nervous tension had been horrible. He went up to her, and an answering impulse made her lay a hand on his arm. He held it there a moment.
"Let us go off and have a jolly little dinner at a restaurant," he proposed.
There had been a time when such a suggestion would have surprised her to the verge of disapproval; but now she agreed to it at once.
"Oh, that would be so nice," she murmured with a great sigh of relief and a.s.suagement.
Jane had fulfilled her mission after all: she had drawn them together at last.
THE RECKONING
I
"THE marriage law of the new dispensation will be: _Thou shalt not be unfaithful--to thyself_."
A discreet murmur of approval filled the studio, and through the haze of cigarette smoke Mrs. Clement Westall, as her husband descended from his improvised platform, saw him merged in a congratulatory group of ladies. Westall"s informal talks on "The New Ethics" had drawn about him an eager following of the mentally unemployed--those who, as he had once phrased it, liked to have their brain-food cut up for them. The talks had begun by accident. Westall"s ideas were known to be "advanced," but hitherto their advance had not been in the direction of publicity. He had been, in his wife"s opinion, almost pusillanimously careful not to let his personal views endanger his professional standing. Of late, however, he had shown a puzzling tendency to dogmatize, to throw down the gauntlet, to flaunt his private code in the face of society; and the relation of the s.e.xes being a topic always sure of an audience, a few admiring friends had persuaded him to give his after-dinner opinions a larger circulation by summing them up in a series of talks at the Van Sideren studio.
The Herbert Van Siderens were a couple who subsisted, socially, on the fact that they had a studio. Van Sideren"s pictures were chiefly valuable as accessories to the _mise en scene_ which differentiated his wife"s "afternoons" from the blighting functions held in long New York drawing-rooms, and permitted her to offer their friends whiskey-and-soda instead of tea. Mrs. Van Sideren, for her part, was skilled in making the most of the kind of atmosphere which a lay-figure and an easel create; and if at times she found the illusion hard to maintain, and lost courage to the extent of almost wishing that Herbert could paint, she promptly overcame such moments of weakness by calling in some fresh talent, some extraneous re-enforcement of the "artistic"
impression. It was in quest of such aid that she had seized on Westall, coaxing him, somewhat to his wife"s surprise, into a flattered partic.i.p.ation in her fraud. It was vaguely felt, in the Van Sideren circle, that all the audacities were artistic, and that a teacher who p.r.o.nounced marriage immoral was somehow as distinguished as a painter who depicted purple gra.s.s and a green sky. The Van Sideren set were tired of the conventional color-scheme in art and conduct.
Julia Westall had long had her own views on the immorality of marriage; she might indeed have claimed her husband as a disciple. In the early days of their union she had secretly resented his disinclination to proclaim himself a follower of the new creed; had been inclined to tax him with moral cowardice, with a failure to live up to the convictions for which their marriage was supposed to stand. That was in the first burst of propagandism, when, womanlike, she wanted to turn her disobedience into a law. Now she felt differently. She could hardly account for the change, yet being a woman who never allowed her impulses to remain unaccounted for, she tried to do so by saying that she did not care to have the articles of her faith misinterpreted by the vulgar. In this connection, she was beginning to think that almost every one was vulgar; certainly there were few to whom she would have cared to intrust the defence of so esoteric a doctrine. And it was precisely at this point that Westall, discarding his unspoken principles, had chosen to descend from the heights of privacy, and stand hawking his convictions at the street-corner!
It was Una Van Sideren who, on this occasion, unconsciously focussed upon herself Mrs. Westall"s wandering resentment. In the first place, the girl had no business to be there. It was "horrid"--Mrs. Westall found herself slipping back into the old feminine vocabulary--simply "horrid" to think of a young girl"s being allowed to listen to such talk. The fact that Una smoked cigarettes and sipped an occasional c.o.c.ktail did not in the least tarnish a certain radiant innocency which made her appear the victim, rather than the accomplice, of her parents"
vulgarities. Julia Westall felt in a hot helpless way that something ought to be done--that some one ought to speak to the girl"s mother.
And just then Una glided up.
"Oh, Mrs. Westall, how beautiful it was!" Una fixed her with large limpid eyes. "You believe it all, I suppose?" she asked with seraphic gravity.
"All--what, my dear child?"
The girl shone on her. "About the higher life--the freer expansion of the individual--the law of fidelity to one"s self," she glibly recited.
Mrs. Westall, to her own wonder, blushed a deep and burning blush.
"My dear Una," she said, "you don"t in the least understand what it"s all about!"
Miss Van Sideren stared, with a slowly answering blush. "Don"t _you_, then?" she murmured.
Mrs. Westall laughed. "Not always--or altogether! But I should like some tea, please."
Una led her to the corner where innocent beverages were dispensed. As Julia received her cup she scrutinized the girl more carefully. It was not such a girlish face, after all--definite lines were forming under the rosy haze of youth. She reflected that Una must be six-and-twenty, and wondered why she had not married. A nice stock of ideas she would have as her dower! If _they_ were to be a part of the modern girl"s trousseau--
Mrs. Westall caught herself up with a start. It was as though some one else had been speaking--a stranger who had borrowed her own voice: she felt herself the dupe of some fantastic mental ventriloquism.
Concluding suddenly that the room was stifling and Una"s tea too sweet, she set down her cup, and looked about for Westall: to meet his eyes had long been her refuge from every uncertainty. She met them now, but only, as she felt, in transit; they included her parenthetically in a larger flight. She followed the flight, and it carried her to a corner to which Una had withdrawn--one of the palmy nooks to which Mrs. Van Sideren attributed the success of her Sat.u.r.days. Westall, a moment later, had overtaken his look, and found a place at the girl"s side.
She bent forward, speaking eagerly; he leaned back, listening, with the depreciatory smile which acted as a filter to flattery, enabling him to swallow the strongest doses without apparent grossness of appet.i.te.
Julia winced at her own definition of the smile.
On the way home, in the deserted winter dusk, Westall surprised his wife by a sudden boyish pressure of her arm. "Did I open their eyes a bit? Did I tell them what you wanted me to?" he asked gaily.
Almost unconsciously, she let her arm slip from his. "What _I_ wanted--?"
"Why, haven"t you--all this time?" She caught the honest wonder of his tone. "I somehow fancied you"d rather blamed me for not talking more openly--before--You"ve made me feel, at times, that I was sacrificing principles to expediency."
She paused a moment over her reply; then she asked quietly: "What made you decide not to--any longer?"
She felt again the vibration of a faint surprise. "Why--the wish to please you!" he answered, almost too simply.
"I wish you would not go on, then," she said abruptly.
He stopped in his quick walk, and she felt his stare through the darkness.
"Not go on--?"
"Call a hansom, please. I"m tired," broke from her with a sudden rush of physical weariness.
Instantly his solicitude enveloped her. The room had been infernally hot--and then that confounded cigarette smoke--he had noticed once or twice that she looked pale--she mustn"t come to another Sat.u.r.day. She felt herself yielding, as she always did, to the warm influence of his concern for her, the feminine in her leaning on the man in him with a conscious intensity of abandonment. He put her in the hansom, and her hand stole into his in the darkness. A tear or two rose, and she let them fall. It was so delicious to cry over imaginary troubles!
That evening, after dinner, he surprised her by reverting to the subject of his talk. He combined a man"s dislike of uncomfortable questions with an almost feminine skill in eluding them; and she knew that if he returned to the subject he must have some special reason for doing so.
"You seem not to have cared for what I said this afternoon. Did I put the case badly?"
"No--you put it very well."
"Then what did you mean by saying that you would rather not have me go on with it?"
She glanced at him nervously, her ignorance of his intention deepening her sense of helplessness.
"I don"t think I care to hear such things discussed in public."