This earth of mine doth tremble, and I feel
A stark affrighted motion in my blood
and applied them quite aptly to his present state. For a moment the earth literally seemed to reel; he staggered slightly, unnoticed, and caught hold of the back of a chair. Then, while Beatrice went out to meet Harry, he stood there and wished he had never been born to live through such a moment.
Beatrice was in love with Harry—that was the long and the short of it. There was no mistaking the import of the look of utter glorification that came over her face as she heard his hand on the doorknob; such an expression on the face of a human being could mean but one thing.... He wondered, despairingly, if his face had borne such a look a little while ago, when he caught sight of Beatrice....
Whether or not Harry was on similar terms with Beatrice he could not say. He rather thought that he was, or if not, it was only a question of time till he would be. He was not a witness of the actual moment of meeting; that occurred in the hall, and all he got of it was Harry's initial remark: "Well, Beatrice, have you heard the good news? James has made a respectable woman of me!" drowned in a sort of flutter from Beatrice, in which he could distinguish nothing articulate—nor needed to. The character of the remark—flippant to the verge of good taste!—might at another time have excited his disgust; but now it made as little impression on him as it did on Beatrice.
Harry himself might not have made it at another time; it was the result of his embarrassment. So, also, was the expression which he wore when he came into the room with Beatrice a moment later—a very unusual look, due to a very unusual cause. Beatrice had, in fact, all but given herself away to him. He followed her into the room embarrassed and flustered. It was incomparably the worst of the series of strained moments in his intercourse with Beatrice, and it gave point and coherency to the others in a way he hated to think of.... Once in the library he found himself leading conversation, or what passed for conversation among the three for the next few moments. The others appeared conversationally extinct; Beatrice—he hardly dared look toward her—trying to recover her composure; James preternaturally grave and silent, for some unknown reason. The atmosphere seemed surcharged with an unexpected and, to him, inappropriate gravity. He felt like a schoolboy among grown-ups.
Presently Aunt Selina returned and dinner was announced.
Poor James—he had won Paradise only to lose it the next instant! No one could have guessed anything from his behavior—he was not the sort of person to make an exhibition of his emotional crises; but he really lived very hard during the meal that followed. His state of mind was at first nothing but a ghastly chaos, from which but one thing emerged into certainty—he must not betray himself or Beatrice; he must go on exactly as if nothing unusual had occurred. It never paid to make a fool of oneself, and—this was the next thought, the next plank that floated to him from the wreck of his happiness—he had not, that he knew of, given himself away. That was a tremendous thing to be thankful for; what a blessing that he had got wind of Beatrice's true feelings before he had the chance to blunder into making love to her and so precipitate a series of horrors which he could not even bear to contemplate! Now, he told himself reassuringly, as he tried desperately to contribute his fourth to the none too spontaneous conversation, he had only to keep himself in check, keep his mouth shut, keep from making of himself the most unthinkable ass that ever walked God's earth—and it would all come out right!
By the time the roast beef made its appearance he saw there was only one thing to do and without a moment's hesitation he embarked on the doing of it. Beatrice sat on his right; he raised his eyes to her and passed them over each enthralling feature of her, her soft dark hair; her eyes, brown almost to black, gentle yet fearless in their gaze, and at the same time, quite calmly and unemotionally, told himself that she could never be his. She was Harry's. These two were intended for each other all along, made for each other. Could he not have seen that in the beginning, if he had kept his eyes open? Could he not have seen that their childish companionship, dating from Harry's English days, their being placed again, as though by a divine sort of accident, in the same town, and above all their obvious fitness for each other, was going to lead to love?
Well—thus he found himself to his one substantial comfortable support—he had hurt no one but himself. He had only to put Beatrice resolutely out of his mind and all would be well. She was Harry's; was that not the next best thing to her being his?—better, even? No longer ago than last night he had convinced himself that Harry was, when all was said and done, a better man than he was. Was it not perfectly just that the prize should go to him?