The Folly of Others/A Provident Woman/Part 1/Chapter 2

intonation of the last word startled Cecilia, and, though he had already gone, she blushed deeply again as she put away her work and put on her hat and jacket. It was not the man's presence that moved her, but the mental images he had created. So much did these absorb her, now that the effort of concentrating her mind on her work was relaxed, that she found herself twenty minutes later on the ferry boat without the least recollection of getting there. In fact, this journey was now such a matter of routine, the walk from the office to the dingy little horse-car, the jolting ride to the ferry, the short sail standing in a crowded cabin or on a crowded deck, then a trolley-car to the corner of the side street in which she lived—Cecilia had gone through this daily six days out of the week, until she was capable of performing it automatically, with all her simple mind bent on something else. To-night she had forgotten to buy an evening paper and did not miss it, nor even notice the admiring glances which always followed her, and which heretofore had softened the discomforts of the trip. She stood by the rail of the forward deck, the crowd pressing upon her with every motion of the boat. The slight coolness of the air was grateful to her; but she had seen the water-spectacle so often that even its beauty on a blue and white morning no longer attracted her eyes; and now sky and water made a mass of yeasty gray, with hideous flat, brown ferryboats crawling to and fro, loaded to the water's edge, and little tugs darting about like water-spiders. The Jersey City sky-line presented no relieving beauty, nor would Cecilia, even if her senses had been awake, have perceived anything in the approaches to the ferry or the streets through which the trolley took her except places to be got through as quickly as possible. Cecilia's surroundings all her life had been of this sort—disagreeable matters of course, to which by force of habit you got so used that you no longer saw them.

In much the same way she regarded her home, a narrow, two-story wooden house, cramped in a small yard with thin grass and wooden palings, in a street of similar houses and small shops. There was a weather-beaten shingle on one of the posts of the porch which promised "Rooms and Board." A honeysuckle-vine shaded a hammock at one end of the porch. As the gate clicked behind Cecilia a young girl jumped up from the hammock and met her at the steps. Bertha Clayber was just seventeen, and promised to be more beautiful, in a subtler way, than her sister. She looked now rather draggled, in a light print gown much soiled and collarless, her dark hair strained up from the nape of her slender neck into a tight topknot, a palm-leaf fan in her hand.

"Hello, Cis. Isn't this awful—aren't you nearly melted?" she demanded. "I'm tired," said Cecilia languidly, dumping her parasol and hat into a chair. "Lemonade? That's good."

"Yes, I just made it. It's a wonder Ma and Mabel haven't been after it."

"Don't say 'Ma,' Bertha," said Cecilia mechanically.

"Well, 'Mother,' then. I don't see how you can stand those stiff chokers this weather. Why, it would melt on me in five minutes. But you're always as cool as a cucumber. Say, I want to ask you, Cis, are you going to wear your blue satin belt and bow to-night, and if not, can I borrow 'em? My pink ones are so dirty"

"Yes, you can have them. I'm not going."

"Not going? Why, it's the church ice-cream social"

"Yes, I know. But I don't want to go. I'm too tired."

"Oh Cecilia! Now, that spoils everything! If you don't go, Mr. Jackson won't, and I'll have to go with Ma and Mabel"

"Well, don't bother me now, Bertha. I'm going to lie down a little before dinner. Hadn't you better go and set the table?"

"Oh, I suppose so. I wish we could have something good to eat for a change—or some new dishes or something—or a girl. I hate housework—I'd a hundred times rather work in an office the way you do, and I will too when I get through school. I'm going to have three plates of ice-cream to-night anyway. Do you know, Cis, I've got a new fellow?"

Cecilia frowned, but she only said as she went into the entry and up the narrow stairs that started almost at the screened doors: "Hurry, Bertha, or you won't have time to dress before dinner. Mr. Jackson will be here in twenty minutes."

Bertha whisked into the dining-room at this and shut the door, and Cecilia went up to the room the two occupied together. It was one of the two front bedrooms, the other being rented to Mr. Jackson. It was not large, had ugly green paper on the walls, and mismated furniture of the black-walnut period. Cecilia took off her skirt and shirt-waist, bathed her face, arms and neck, and was brushing out her thick blond hair when her mother came in. Mrs. Clayber was a slender, dark woman, who had kept her figure and some traces of the beauty which had endowed her daughters. But there were the lines of a perpetual frown between her eyebrows, and the corners of her mouth had a bitter turn. She had an unpleasant voice, both flat and harsh. She sat down in a rocker by the window, unfastening her dark-blue lawn wrapper. Her face was flushed and moist.

"I declare I wish people didn't have to eat in hot weather," she said wearily. "I'm dead-beat, standing in that hot kitchen. Bertha says you don't mean to go to-night."

"No," said Cecilia. "As long as you're going, you can look after Bertha."

"Yes, but what's happened? You're always so set on going to everything there is."

"Well, mother, you know why. Bertha has got to be looked after. And I couldn't afford to miss any chances for myself. But—I'm tired to-night. I've got some news for you."

"Yes? What is it?" Mrs. Clayber's face in its sudden flash of curiosity looked much like Bertha's.

"I took lunch with Mr. Hawley to-day."

"Mr. Hawley? Not"

"Yes, the Mr. Hawley."

"Why, Cecilia, how on earth did that happen?"

"He asked me. It was so I couldn't very well refuse. I was taken by surprise—but I guess I'd have done it anyway."

"Well! What did he say to you—how did he behave?"

"Oh, he behaved like a gentleman, of course. He asked a lot about me, and he said he'd like to come over and call, and meet you."

"Cecilia!"

"Yes, mother. Now, don't get excited about it. You can never be sure of things, you know, until they've happened. Perhaps he won't come. And anyhow, of course, you won't say a word to anybody until he does. I don't want everybody talking about it."

"No, dear, of course," said Mrs. Clayber quickly. "Dear me, there come the men, I must run! You must tell me the rest after dinner."

She scurried across the hall into her own room, and a moment later Bertha rushed in.

"There he is—he nearly caught me!" she cried. "Heavens! I look like a pig, don't I? I wish I could always look as spick and span as you do. I could, I guess, if I didn't have to do housework. I'm going to put on my white lawn."

The two sisters took turns at the mirror as they did their hair. Now and then it reflected them together—a charming contrast. Cecilia's strong, fair neck and arms, her robust figure, calm, healthy face, and the coils of red hair she was fastening on top of her head accentuated Bertha's opposite characteristics. She was a slip of a creature, on edge with nervous activity. Her profile, seen between two bands of dark hair that hung in long wisps down her thin shoulders, had a striking delicacy and force. Emotional intensity spoke in her quick eyes and in the beautiful curves of her mouth. Her face was never still. She smiled or she scowled. She acted out all she said, and, when silent, all she thought. Now as she brushed her hair vigorously she frowned.

"Beef-stew again! I can smell it up here. I'm so tired of beef-stew, aren't you, Cis? And this weather too. What are you going to do to-night—anybody coming to see you?"

"No, not to-night," said Cecilia absently, lifting a pink lawn skirt over her head.

"Well, what then? Why are you staying at home—on account of Mr. Jackson?"

"Nonsense. I told you, I'm tired. Do you suppose I never get tired?"

As a matter of fact there was an impression to this effect in Cecilia's household; and when she went down to dinner, five minutes after the ringing of the bell, she had to repeat to the two boarders and to her other sister, Mabel, her reason for staying at home and to support glances of concern from Mr. Jackson and of surprise from the other two. Bertha in her white lawn and borrowed blue ribbons was the last one down, although she had to help serve the dinner. Her first look as she entered the dining-room was for Mr. Jackson, who sat opposite Cecilia and devoted his entire attention to her. And Cecilia, looking calm as a statue as she ate a hearty dinner, was conscious not only of these appealing glances, but also of the look on Bertha's face as she performed the duties she so disliked: the disdain with which she supplied butter to Mr. Higgins, the other boarder, a young man with no chin and with a propensity to joke, who clerked in a Jersey City dry-goods store; the nervousness which prevented her from eating her own dinner when the chance came; her effort to attract the attention of Mr. Jackson to herself in the general buzz of talk. Mabel, two years older than Bertha, and by some misfortune combining her sallow tints with Cecilia's features and so missing the charm of either, was not above chaffing Mr. Higgins, though unkindly. Mrs. Clayber, with her worried look, smiled perfunctorily at the boarder's jokes, checked Mabel, reminded Bertha that she had forgotten to put the spoon-holder on the table, and now and then studied Cecilia, who, in the midst of all these nervous, expressive people, looked calm, strong, and significant as fate.