CHAPTER XV
CHIEFLY CARDIAC
Life appeared, nevertheless, to have recovered all its normal complexity and variety. Things change with the return of daylight, even if they do not deteriorate, and though the two boys were still, in a manner of speaking, happy in each other's proximity, the thoughts of each were already busy on matters in which the other had no direct share. Harry was already foreseeing unpleasantnesses in the way of the restoration of cordial relations with the world. Exile has its palliations; he had taken a sort of grim pleasure in the state of semi-warfare in which he had lived. But that sort of thing was now over; he wanted to be right with the whole world—he even looked forward to astonishing people with the thoroughness of his conservatism. And he would have to make all the first advances. Thoughts of apologies, unreciprocated nods, suppressed sneers, incredulous glances and all the rest did not dismay him, but they might be said to bother him. At least, they were there.
As for James, he had thought so much about Harry during the last ten days that it is easy to understand why, the affair Harry having been satisfactorily cleared up, his mind should be busy with other things. James' control over his mind was singularly perfect and methodical; its ease of concentration suggested that of an experienced lawyer examining the contents of several scraps of papers and returning each one again to its proper pigeon-hole, neatly docketed. The papers bearing the label of "Harry," neatly tied up in red tape, were again reposing comfortably in their pigeon-hole; the bundle that now absorbed his attention was marked "Beatrice."
Outside of his work, to which he had conscientiously devoted the best of his mental powers, Beatrice had occupied the most prominent place in his thoughts for over a year and a half. For six days in the week, between the hours of nine and five, she had not been conspicuous in his mind; but how often, outside that time, had his attention wandered from a book, a conversation, a play, and fastened itself on the recollection of that softly aquiline profile of hers, the poise of her head on her beautifully modeled shoulders, her unsmiling yet cordial manner of greeting, and which she somehow managed to convey the impression of being unaffectedly glad to see him! It would probably be too much to say that James had been in love with her during that time, but James was not the sort of person who would easily be carried off his feet in an affair of the heart. Often, as the memory of her face obtruded itself on his day-dreams—or still oftener, his night-dreams—he had calmly put to himself, for open mental debate, the question "Am I really in love with her?" and had never been able to answer it entirely satisfactorily.
On the whole, in view of the fact that the memory of her showed no tendency to fade in proportion to the time he was absent from her presence, he had become rather inclined to the opinion that the answer must be in the affirmative. Yet even now he could not be sure. He might be only cherishing an agreeable memory. He had not seen her since the previous June, and could not be absolutely certain, he knew, till he saw her again. He was anxious to see her!—Not that mere friendship would not account for that, of course.
Harry had to attend Sunday Chapel, and it was arranged that James should not go with him, but should proceed directly to the house. Harry himself would turn up at dinner-time—Aunt Selina, it will be remembered, had dinner in the middle of the day on Sundays. Harry was naturally anxious to have all news-breaking over before he came, and James—well, on the whole James was entirely willing to take the burden of news-breaking on himself.
He found Aunt Selina at home; a slight cold in the head and the inclemency of the weather had been sufficient to make her forego church for this Sunday. Beatrice had proved herself of stauncher religious metal—"Though I am sure she would not have gone, if she had known you were in town," as Aunt Selina told James.
Aunt Selina took the good news much as a duchess of the old régime might have learned that the Committee of Public Safety had decided not to chop off her husband's head. It was agreeable news, but it was nothing to make one forget oneself. Her manner of saying "This is splendid news, James; I am proud of you" indicated a profound belief in the sanctity of the Wimbourne destiny and an unshakable faith in the ultimate triumph of the Wimbourne character rather than unbecoming thankfulness for something she ought not to have had to be thankful about. James advised her that Harry would talk much more freely and relations in general would be much more agreeable if she refrained from mention of the subject till he introduced it himself. Aunt Selina calmly agreed. She had great faith in James' judgment.
After an hour's chat with his aunt James exhibited visible signs of restlessness. Half-past twelve; it was time Beatrice returned. He rose from his chair and stood watching in front of the window. Soon he saw her; she alighted from a trolley car and started to walk up the path. There was something rather fine, something high-bred and gently proud about the way she grasped her umbrella and embarked on the long slushy ascent to the house. Her manner rather suggested a daughter of the Crusaders; it was as though she hated the wind and rain and slush, but disdained to give other recognition of their existence than a silent contempt.