The Folly of Others/A Provident Woman/Part 2/Chapter 4

next day being Sunday, Tom in fact made his appearance at four in the afternoon, and he was warmly welcomed. Not only Bertha, but Mrs. Clayber and Mabel also were on the lookout for him, and were cordial to him in proportion to their previous boredom. Very few visitors indeed came to the new house. The Claybers had dropped most of their Jersey City acquaintances and Brooklyn to them was still a dreary desert.

Tom had come to see them from much the same motive that the two elder ladies had for being glad to see him. He was exceedingly lonely. He had no friends in New York, where he was now boarding, no acquaintances even except some of the men in the store. After his experience with Cecilia and the semi-social atmosphere of the place where he had known her—the chatty meals, the evenings on the piazza, Cecilia's calm smiles and Bertha's vivacity—after these pleasures the blank prospect of his little hall-bedroom at the end of a day's work was more than ever terrible to him. Tom was naturally social, affectionate, demonstrative, and dependent on the people about him for his happiness. He had a natural refinement too, which tended to make the few pleasures of the city now within his reach unsatisfactory to him. And after his short dream of love and bitter awakening, the mere uproariousness of his companions "on a lark" disgusted him.

He told himself that he disliked all the Claybers, and especially Bertha, and yet when he was sitting before the naming gas-log in their little parlor, provided with coffee and cake, and bombarded with eager questions which at least showed an interest in his doings, Tom was happier than he had been for some months.

Bertha took the smallest part in the conversation. She looked very charming in a little blue dress which she had made herself; and after the first half-hour sat with her hands folded and her slender feet in shining new slippers demurely crossed, shooting covert glances at her mother and Mabel, which were intended to intimate that she desired their absence.

The two ladies ignored these glances; indeed, their starved social tendencies, given this outlet, refused to be dammed. They were dying to talk, and they talked. Totally cut off for some months from the masculine world, they now received Tom, whom they had previously affected to consider a mere boy, with all the honors. Mabel had put on her least unbecoming dress; Mrs. Clayber, who was still a pretty woman, showed as much coquetry as either of her daughters. Tom could not help glowing a little in this coaxing atmosphere.

But Bertha grew more and more bored and abstracted, becoming at last totally silent. She considered that her mother and Mabel were behaving disgracefully; for this was her caller, she had captured him herself, and now "they" seemed to think he had come to see them! Finally, Tom having been invited to supper, and, after much urging, having consented to stay, Mrs. Clayber departed to the kitchen, it being the "girl's" afternoon out, and she presently called Mabel to set the table.

Bertha sighed.

"You must be talked to death," she remarked.

"No, I like it. I don't see many people to talk to, you know," Tom said soberly.

"Well, I should think that you might have come to see us, then. But never mind that—I'm not going to find fault with you any more. Don't you think I had nerve, though, to come and find you?"

"Well, I was taken by surprise, rather."

"All right, I don't mind. I don't like to be snubbed, that's all. I like to have my own way."

And Bertha, smiling, nodded her charming head with a victorious air.

"Can't blame you for that," said Tom, with the aloof, sarcastic look which was new to him, "it's a common failing."

He looked much older, Bertha thought, and handsomer. He even seemed somehow to have grown taller. He had a way of looking well-dressed in spite of his small means. In short, he was a charming youth, and Bertha was half in love with him. Tom could not be indifferent to the fascinations she instinctively brought to bear on him. He confessed that he was lonely and that he was glad she had dragged him out of his shell. He sympathized with her view of Brooklyn. He even agreed to join her party for the theatre some evening.

"I'll get Cecilia to change the tickets—she always gets them for the matinée," Bertha said unwarily, and then halted and blushed, angry with herself for having made that allusion. Tom was silent, completely at a loss, and there was an awkward pause. Then Bertha plunged into a description of the play she had seen the day before, and chattered on all the faster for the sight of Tom's downcast face. But she could get only monosyllables from him; that unlucky speech of hers had quite frozen the current of his soul! If the mere mention of Cecilia could affect him so, how would he behave at the sight of her, Bertha wondered. It was quite possible that Cecilia would walk in upon them. She often stopped of an afternoon, and especially on Sundays, when it was her custom to drive with Mr. Hawley. Sometimes he stopped with her, but more often he drove home and sent the carriage back for Cecilia. Bertha had not taken this possibility into account in inviting Tom, she had been too much absorbed in attaining her immediate object; but now it occurred to her, and she reflected that Mr. Hawley's illness would probably keep him indoors, especially as the day was gloomy. Nevertheless, her ears were alert for the sound of carriage-wheels, and while she was lighting the gas—it having grown dark soon after five—she heard them. Through the lace curtains, as she drew down the shades, she saw the victoria draw up in front of the house, and Cecilia stepped out of it. She was alone. Tom saw her too; he had politely risen when Bertha did, and the windows of the little parlor looked almost directly on the street. Bertha impetuously made a start for the door, saying superfluously, "There's Cecilia."

"I shall be glad to see her," Tom said, eyeing Bertha defiantly. He was not going to have anybody think he needed to be kept away from her. He turned rather pale, and his slight, well-made figure was nervously rigid as he stood waiting the encounter.

Cecilia entered with a quiet murmur of greeting to Bertha in the hall and a rustle of rich draperies. Tom heard Bertha's whisper, the momentary halt of Cecilia's step; then she came into the parlor. She put out her hand to Tom, with the conventional inquiry, and he responded even more formally.

At this moment Cecilia looked her best. The drive in the open air had given her a soft bloom, which deepened slightly as she spoke to Tom. She wore a dark dress and turban, and some beautiful furs, Mr. Hawley's Christmas gift. She looked stately, impressive, important in a real way, without any assumption on her part; and she looked very prosperous.

"I came to arrange about to-morrow night," she said to Bertha. "We shall have to start early from here. I'll come for you at half-past seven."

"All right, I'll be ready. Won't you sit down?" said Bertha shortly.

"No, no—I can only stop a minute. I'm going right on home."

"The carriage is gone," observed Bertha.

"No, he's only turning. I want to speak to mother a minute. Where is she?"

"I'll call her."

Bertha moved towards the door, but Cecilia anticipated her swiftly.

"I'll go and find her," she murmured, and went out of the room.

Tom turned to the window and stood there till Cecilia's carriage rolled up again, new, glittering, and luxurious. Then he dropped the lace curtain from his hand and moved away. Bertha looked sombrely at him.

"We're going to see a new play to-morrow—Sothern. I love first nights. Don't you?" she said.

"I don't know. No better than second ones, I think," returned Tom sarcastically.

"Do you like romantic plays? I do. I don't see any use in realistic plays that are just like ordinary life. Do you?"

"No, I should think that the less they are like life, the pleasanter they would be."

"Ye-es, I think so too. I like princesses and that sort of thing. This play to-morrow night is 'If I were King.' It's about a poor man who is suddenly put in the place of a king"

"How interesting," said Tom abruptly.

He walked across the room nervously, listening for Cecilia's return. Presently she came, accompanied by Mrs. Clayber. They were talking in the hall. Tom wondered if she would go without speaking to him again. But she came in and shook hands with him once more, and Tom said calmly,—

"Let me put you into the carriage."

"Oh, thank you," Cecilia murmured.

She bade good-by to the others, and Tom went out bareheaded beside her and offered his hand as she stepped into the carriage. She said to him then, "I hope you will come and see me sometime—if you like."

Her manner was formal, but in her glance there was a certain timidity, an unsureness oddly at variance with the general impression she made.

"Thank you," said Tom gravely.

He bowed with dignity as the carriage started, and then, with a faint feeling of satisfaction at his own demeanor, turned to walk back into the house.