The Whirligig of Time Part 47

Heavens!

For the first time she began to feel a trifle nervous about Tommy. Was Aunt Cecilia right? Had all her careful euphemisms about young wives some basis of justification as applied to her own case? She and Tommy.... Well, she and Tommy?... Half an hour ago she could have placed them perfectly; now her sight was a trifle blurred. There was not time to think it all out now, anyway; another boatload of people from the sh.o.r.e was even now crowding up the gangway; to-morrow she would go into the matter thoroughly with herself and put things, whatever they might be, on a definite business footing. To-night, even, if she did not sleep....

Everybody was back, it appeared, and things shortly became festive.

There were drinks and sandwiches and entertaining reminiscences of the evening from the young people, lasting till bedtime. Thought was out of the question.

Once undressed and in bed, to be sure, there was better opportunity. She slipped comfortably down between the sheets; what a blessing that the night was not too hot, after all! Aunt Cecilia had said ... what was it that Aunt Cecilia had said? Something about a young wife--a young wife ought to have something to do. Of course. These were linen sheets, by the way, and the very finest linen, at that. Aunt Cecilia did know how to do things.... What was it? Something more, she fancied, about valuing something more than something else. Tommy Clairloch was the first thing, she was sure of that. Aunt Cecilia had not said it, but she had meant it.... She was going to sleep, after all; what a blessing!... What was that other thing? It was hard to think when one was so comfortable. Oh, yes, she had it now--the love of a husband!

Whose husband? The young wife's, to be sure. And who was the young wife?

She herself, obviously. But--the thought flared up like a strong lamp through the thickening fog of her brain--_her_ husband did not love her!

She and James were not like ordinary young wives and husbands.... How silly of her not to have seen that before! That changed everything, of course. Aunt Cecilia was on a wrong track altogether; her--what was the word?--her premises were false. That threw out her whole argument--everything--including that about Tommy.

Gradually the sudden illumination of that thought faded in the evergrowing shadow of sleep. Now only vague wisps of ideas floated through her mind; even those were but pale reflections of that one truth; Aunt Cecilia was mistaken.... Aunt Cecilia was wrong.... It was all right about Tommy.... Tommy was all right.... Aunt Cecilia ... was wrong....

Psychologists tell us that ideas make most impression on the mind when they are introduced into it during that indefinite period between sleeping and waking; they then become incorporated directly with our subconscious selves without having to pa.s.s through the usual tortuous channels of consciousness and reason. And the sub-consciousness, as every one knows, is a most intimate and important place; once an idea is firmly grounded there it has become substantially a part of our being, so far as we can tell from our incomplete knowledge of our own ideal existence. We are not sure that a single introduction of this sort can give an idea a good social standing in the realm of sub-consciousness; probably not. But it can help; it can give it at least a nodding acquaintance there. Certain it is, at any rate, that when Beatrice awoke next morning it was with a mind at least somewhat more willing than previously to take for granted, as part of the natural order of things, the fact of the inherent wrongness of Aunt Cecilia and its corollary, the innate rightness of Tommy. (Possibly this corollary would not have appeared so inevitable if the matter had all been threshed out in reason; they are rather lax about logic and such things in sub-consciousness, making a good introduction the one criterion of acceptance.) With the net material result that Beatrice was less inclined than ever to be nervous about Aunt Cecilia and also less inclined than ever to be nervous about Tommy.

The day began in an atmosphere of not unpleasant indolence. Breakfast was late and was followed by the best cigarette of the day on deck--Beatrice's smoking was the secret admiration and envy of all the female half of the younger section. A cool breeze ruffled the harbor and gathered in a flock of clouds from the Sound that left only just enough sunlight to bring out the brilliant colors of the little flags all the yachts had strung up between their mastheads and down again to bowsprit and stern. It was rather pleasant to sit and watch these and other things; the continual small traffic of the harbor, the occasional arrivals of more slim white yachts.

Presently Harry and Madge and Beatrice and Tommy and one or two others made a short excursion to the sh.o.r.e, for no other apparent reason than to join the procession of smartly dressed people that for one day in the year convert the quiet town of New London into one of the gayest-looking places on earth. Tommy was much in evidence here, fairly crowing with delight over each new thing that pleased him. It was all Harry could do to keep him from swathing himself in blue; Tommy had become an enthusiastic Yalensian. He had spent a week-end with Harry in New Haven during the spring; he had driven with Aunt Selina in the victoria, he had been shown the university and had met a number of pretty gells and rippin' fellahs; what business was it of Wiggers if he wanted to wave a blue flag? Wiggers ought to feel jolly complimented, instead of makin' a row!

"You'd say just the same about Harvard, if you went there--the people are just as nice," said Harry. "Besides, Harvard will probably win. You may buy us each a blue feather, if you like, and call it square at that."

Beatrice smiled, but she thought Harry a little hard.

"Never mind, Tommy," said she; "you can sit by me at the race this afternoon and we'll both scream our lungs out, if we want."

That was substantially what happened. Luncheon on the yacht--an enormous "standing" affair, with lots of extra people--was followed by a general exodus to the observation trains. Tommy had never seen an observation train before and was full of curiosity. They didn't have them at Henley.

It was all jolly different from Henley, wasn't it, though? As they walked through the railroad yards to their car he was inclined to think it wasn't as good fun as Henley. One missed the punts, and all that.

Once seated in the car, however, with an un.o.bstructed view of the river, it was a little better, and by the time the crews had rowed up to the starting-point he had almost come round to the American point of view.

It might not be so jolly as Henley, quite, but Jove! one could see!

Tommy sat on Beatrice's left; on her right was Mr. MacGrath and beyond him again was Aunt Cecilia. The others were scattered through the train in similar mixed groups. Beatrice thought it a good idea to split up that way.... She began to have an idea she was going to enjoy this race.

So she did, too, more than she had enjoyed anything in--oh, months! She couldn't remember much about it afterward, though she did remember who won, which is more than we do. She had a recollection, to begin with, of Tommy joining in l.u.s.tily in every Yale cheer and of Mr. MacGrath trying not to thump Aunt Cecilia on the back at an important moment and thumping herself instead. He apologized very nicely. Presently Tommy committed the same offense against her and neglected to apologize entirely, but she didn't mind in the least. (That was the sort of race it was.) Perhaps there lurked in the back of her brain a certain sense of joy in the omission.... She herself became infected with Tommy-mania before long.

And the spectacle was an exhilarating one, under any circ.u.mstances. The n.o.ble sweep of the river, the keen blue of the water and sky, the green of the hills, the brilliant double row of yachts and the general atmosphere of hilarity were enough to make one glad to be alive. And then the excitement of the race itself, the sense of partic.i.p.ation the motion of the train gave one, the almost painful fascination of watching those two little sets of automatons, the involuntary, electric response from the crowd when one or the other of them pulled a little into the lead, the thrill of bursting out from behind some temporary obstruction and seeing them down there, quite near now, entering the last half-mile with one's own crew just a little, ever so little, ahead! From which moment it seemed both a second and an age to the finish, that terrific, heart-raising finish, with its riot of waving colors and its pandemonium of toots from the water and cries from the land....

On the whole, we suppose Yale must have won that race. For after all, it isn't quite so pleasant when the other crew wins, no matter how close the race was and no matter how good a loser one happens to be. Tommy was as good a loser as you could easily find, but not even he could have been as cheerful as all that on the ride back if his crew had lost.

Indeed, cheerful was rather a weak word with which to describe Tommy by this time. Beatrice, doing her best to calm him down, became aware, from glances shot at him from various--mostly feminine--directions, that some people would have characterized his condition by a much sharper and shorter word. Involuntarily, almost against her will, Beatrice indignantly repelled their accusation. What nonsense! They didn't know Tommy; he was naturally like this. Though there had been champagne at lunch, of course....

Rather an interesting experience, that ride back to town. The enforced inactivity gave one a chance to think, in the intervals of tugging at Tommy's coat tails. Why should she be enjoying herself so ridiculously?

Whole-souled enjoyment was not a thing she had been accustomed to during the last few years, at any rate since.... Yes, she had enjoyed herself more this afternoon than at any time since she had been married; but what of it? She attached no blame to James; it was not James' fault; nothing was anybody's fault. She was taking a little, a very little fun where she found it, that was all.

The train pulled up in the yards and thought was discontinued. It was resumed a few minutes later, however, as they sat in the launch, waiting for the rest of their party to join them. She happened to be sitting just opposite to Aunt Cecilia, on whom her eyes idly rested. Aunt Cecilia! What about Aunt Cecilia? She was wrong, of course! She did not understand; she was wrong! Tommy was all right....

So sub-consciousness got in its little work, till conscious reason sallied forth and routed it. Oh, why, Beatrice asked herself, with a mental motion as of throwing off an entangling substance, why all this nonsensical worrying about a danger that did not exist? What danger was there of her--making a fool of herself over Tommy when.... She did not follow that thought out; it was better to leave those "when" clauses hanging in the air, when possible.

But Tommy! Poor, good-natured, simple, ineffective Tommy!

She resolved to think no longer, but to give herself entirely over to what slight pleasure the moment had to offer She dressed and dined in good spirits, with a sense of antic.i.p.ation almost childlike in its innocence.

After dinner there was a general exodus to the Griswold. From the moment she stepped on to the hotel dock, surrounded by its crowd of cheerfully bobbing launches, she became infected with the prevailing spirit of gaiety. Tommy was right; Americans did know how to enjoy themselves!

They made their way up the lawn toward the big brilliant hotel. They reached the door of the ballroom and stopped a moment. In this interval Beatrice became aware of James at her elbow.

"You'd better dance with me first," he said.

They danced two or three times around the room in complete silence.

Beatrice did not in the least mind dancing with James, indeed she rather enjoyed it, he danced so well. But why address her in that sepulchral tone; why make his invitation sound like a threat; why not at least put up a pretense of making duty a pleasure? She was conscious of a slight rise of irritation; if James was going to be a skeleton at this feast.... She was relieved when he handed her over to one of the other men.

But James had no intention of being a skeleton. He went back to bed before any of the others, alleging a headache. Beatrice learned this indirectly, through Harry, and felt rather disappointed. She would have preferred to have him remain and enjoy himself; she did not bother to explain why. But he was apparently determined that nothing should make him enjoy himself. James was rather irritating, sometimes. She said as much, to Harry, who a.s.sented, frowning slightly. She saw a chance to get in some of the small work of destiny-fighting.

"He's not been at all natural lately," she said; "I've been quite worried about him. I wish you'd watch him and tell me what to do about it. I feel rather to blame for it, naturally."

"Oh, I wouldn't worry," said Harry. "Working in the city in summer is hard on any one, of course."

"I'm afraid it's more than that, and I want your help. You understand James better than I do, I think."

"No, you're wrong there. I don't understand James at all. No one really understands any one else, as a matter of fact. We think we do, but we don't. The very simplest nature is a regular Cretan labyrinth."

"But a wife ought to be the Theseus of her husband's labyrinth, that's the point."

"Perhaps you're right. Here's hoping you don't find a minotaur in the middle!"

She didn't worry much about it, however. Tommy cut in soon afterward, and they didn't talk about James or labyrinths either. Tommy had not danced with her before that evening. She was going to say something about that, but decided not to. It was too jolly dancing to talk, really. Tommy danced very well--quite as well as James. They danced the contemporary American dances for some time and then they broke into an old-fas.h.i.+oned whirling English waltz; the dance they had both been brought up on. It brought memories to the minds of both; they felt old times and places creeping back on them.

"Do you remember the last time we did this?" asked Tommy presently.

"At the Dimchurches', the winter before I came here."

"Didn't last long, though. You were the prettiest gell there."

"I suppose I was.--And you were just Tommy Erskine then, and awfully ineligible!"

What an absurd remark to make! If she was going to let her tongue run away with her like that, she had better keep her mouth shut.

They danced on in silence for some time, rested in the cool of a verandah and then danced again. The room was already beginning to empty somewhat, making dancing more of a pleasure than ever. They danced on till they were tired and then sat out again.

"We might take a stroll about," suggested Tommy presently.

They walked down the steps and out on the lawn. Presently they came near the windows of the bar, which was on the ground floor of the hotel, and stopped to look in for a moment. It was a lively scene. The room--a great white bare place--was filled with men laughing and shouting and slapping each other on the shoulder and bellowing college songs, all in a thick blue haze of tobacco smoke. They were also drinking, and Beatrice noticed that when they had drained their gla.s.ses they invariably threw them carelessly on the floor, adding a new sound to the din and fairly paving the room with broken gla.s.s. Many of them were mildly intoxicated, but none were actually drunk; the whole sounded the note of celebration in the ballroom strengthened and masculinized. It had its effect on Beatrice; it was a pleasure to think that one lived in a world where people could enjoy themselves thoroughly and uproariously and without becoming b.e.s.t.i.a.l about it.

"It's really very jolly, isn't it?" she said at last.

"Oh, rippin'," a.s.sented Tommy.

"Perhaps you'd rather go in there now?"