The Folly of Others/A Provident Woman/Part 2/Chapter 5

drove home chilled and depressed. She was not a woman given to crying, but tears would have been a relief to her present mood. Tom's attitude had hurt her—the fact that while he seemed to have resumed friendly relations with the family, he obviously felt anything but friendly towards herself.

Otherwise she would have liked very much to stay and talk with him a little, to find out what he was doing, to show him that she had not forgotten him, but still kept a decided interest in his welfare. This was, in fact, the truth; Cecilia had often thought of her young suitor since her marriage. She had not thought it allowable to seek him out, however; but now, since they had met by chance, even the dignity of the married state permitted her to say that she would like to see him again. But, apparently, he had no wish to see her.

He had meant plainly to decline coming to see her. He preferred to go to see Bertha. That was natural enough, no doubt; they were both young, had no cares, and could enjoy themselves. Whereas, Cecilia felt, she herself was already an old married woman, her time and thoughts occupied with the care of an invalid husband and an establishment. Cecilia took her responsibilities with extreme seriousness; she felt burdened always, and sometimes she felt bored.

Now it suddenly occurred to her that she couldn't remember ever having been really young—young as Bertha was, young as her mother was even now. They could enjoy life, shift responsibility, and shirk care, while she had the trouble of looking after them. It had always been so, and always would be, she supposed. It seemed unjust.

At the same moment that she thought this her heart convicted her of ingratitude. She had no right, she thought, to make so much of her burdens. Her husband had done his best to take them off her shoulders. He was kindness itself—generous, patient and devoted to her. She thoroughly liked him and respected in him all the virtues whose lack had made her own family life wretched. But—but—Cecilia for the moment envied the little party she had left behind—envied Bertha her youth and carelessness. For a moment she had a vision of herself acting wilfully, escaping the long control of Duty, which had crushed all the levity out of her life. Cecilia had always done her duty, as she saw it, without sparing herself. Now she experienced the truth of the maxim that the reward of virtue is more virtue. After that one wayward glance and moment of revolt she turned again to the straight path marked out before her and the load of responsibilities, of which she accepted the full weight and perhaps a little more. The thought of her husband was first in her mind, his illness her heaviest burden. On reaching the house she went directly to their room, dusk now, where he was lying down. He had the Sunday papers on the bed beside him and seemed to be sleeping, but at her quiet entrance he looked up and smiled, and put out his hand to her. Cecilia sat down beside him, dropping her furs and unfastening her coat.

"Did you enjoy your drive? You have brought back a fine color," he said fondly.

"Yes, I enjoyed it. How are you feeling? Have you kept quiet?" she asked.

"Oh, yes. I read a little—went to sleep, too, I think."

"The pain—is it still bothering?"

"Oh, a little."

"And your medicine—you haven't taken it? It's just time."

Cecilia looked at her watch—a jewelled remembrance of her recent birthday—and rose to get the medicine. After taking it Mr. Hawley sank back on his pillow with a suppressed groan and closed his eyes for an instant.

"The pain?" Cecilia cried.

"It's nothing—all right now."

He smiled faintly, but the tears welled into Cecilia's eyes.

"I can't bear to see you suffer," she said, quivering.

"My dear, it's harder for you than it is for me, I'm afraid. I'm very comfortable—most of the time. I'm very sorry it worries you so."

His pained look at her warned Cecilia to control herself. She rose and took off her hat and coat, and then, pushing up a chair by the bedside, she sat down, calm and cheerful in appearance, and began to talk about Bertha and the excursion planned for the next evening.

"I don't like to go without you—but, of course, you can't think of going," she said. "And then it will be a great pleasure for Bertha. But"

"But what, old woman?"

"I was thinking about Mr. Seton. He is—rather dissipated, isn't he?"

"Oh, I don't know. He's a good fellow enough—a little gay, perhaps. But it's quite respectable for you to go under the circumstances. Is that what bothers you?"

"No. I was thinking of Bertha. He seemed to admire her very much. And this invitation was for her, I suppose?"

"Oh, I don't think there's anything in that. He did it out of politeness, I imagine. And Bertha is a little girl. I don't think she'd interest a man like him."

"Well, if she should interest him, what then? You know she is eighteen now, and she's very attractive. And I have to look after her. Mother's worse than nobody that way. She only thinks of having a good time, like Bertha."

"Poor old woman, always worrying about something! But, really, I don't think you need worry about Seton. Probably we shan't see anything more of him for some time. He has his own set, you know. And then, anyhow, he's a square sort of a fellow, so far as I know—only rather self-indulgent, a good deal of a viveur—that kind. Not at all apt to fall in love with a child like Bertha, you see."

Cecilia sat silent for a few moments, her hand in her husband's. She was thinking about Bertha and Tom; wondering if their little supper were gay, and how it would seem to be a young girl and free to choose. She wondered too if Tom still cared anything for her. She had never taken his feeling for her very seriously; she would not have been surprised to find him wholly recovered from it. Yet the thought of it was in a way sweet to her—it had been so full of the fire and color of youth—and the memory stirred in her a vague longing. She had not told Mr. Hawley about Tom's folly—and it seemed no more necessary to mention that she had seen him again, or even that she had asked him to come to the house. For she had no idea that he would come; he was now entirely apart from her life.

It had grown quite dark, and still Cecilia sat pensive, absorbed in her vague thoughts—a thing very unusual with her. The big house was perfectly quiet. A Sunday calm intensified the sober dignity of this prosperous quarter. People had come back from afternoon church, and were now dozing or reading respectably in their libraries. The very air was peace, with a suggestion of slumber in it.

Cecilia sighed heavily. Then, aghast at herself, she rose and turned on the electric light, which gleamed out in a shaded bulb here and there.

"It's nearly time for tea," she said gently.

The theatre-party was gay, undeniably. Cecilia, in her most sumptuous dress,—Mr. Hawley's favor ite, which he insisted on her wearing,—called for Bertha, as they had arranged, and they drove in a snow-storm across the bridge and up-town to find Mr. Seton awaiting them at the theatre-entrance. Bertha was in wild spirits. The sight of the house, crowded and brilliant, the novel luxury of being in a box, the presence of handsome Mr. Seton—all combined to turn her young head in a giddy whirl of joy. With her usual expressiveness she showed, in every look, word, and motion, the keenness of her pleasure. She was fairly on fire with excitement.

The curtain was late, as it was a first night, but the orchestra's tuneful musings, the continuous procession of beautiful dresses down the aisles, the festive air and murmur of the place, and the conversation of Mr. Seton made the twenty minutes wait even an additional pleasure. Mr. Seton had a good deal to tell them about the star of the evening, whom he knew personally, and about the play, which he had seen at a dress rehearsal. He talked in an easy, lively fashion, and seemed to be enjoying himself thoroughly—as, indeed, he generally did. His hand some, florid face expressed the essence of good-nature. He nodded to people all over the house, and pointed out to his guests a number of well-known persons. His own party attracted some little attention—at which none of the three, perhaps, was displeased. Seton was conscious that he appeared with two very well-dressed and pretty women. Bertha's cheeks and lips were dyed a deeper rose as she caught admiring glances and opera-glasses focussed on her. And even Cecilia, though calm and chaperonesque in appearance, was faintly fluttered. In her light-colored lace dress and plumed hat, with diamonds flashing on her bosom and wrists, she could not but know that she was rather dazzling.

When the play began Bertha, at least, forgot all else. It was a romance and a bright spectacle, full of fine words and fine clothes, with fighting and lovemaking both hot and strong. Bertha was absorbed. She leaned over the box-rail, eager and silent, and the occasional remarks of Mr. Seton rather disturbed her. He went on talking to Cecilia, however, commenting on the play or the actors. But his eyes rested much oftener on Bertha's profile or flushed cheek, the charming outline of her young shoulders, the smooth folds of her hair.

He had come with the intention of flirting a little with Cecilia. He was very curious about her. Knowing, of course, the circumstances of her marriage, he had promised himself a novel spectacle in her behavior as Hawley's wife. But to his surprise and admiration she conducted herself, he had to admit, perfectly. She had a quiet, unpretentious dignity and reserve which were really wonderful. She was thoroughly discreet. She was, in short, admirable—but not so amusing as he had expected to find her.

But Bertha amused him immensely. The naïveté and completeness of her absorption in the play, and before that her natural coquetry and graces, had quite taken his mature fancy. And there was a striking distinction in her physical charm. There was not a trace of the plebeian anywhere about her. From the texture of her hair to the line of her profile, her figure, her hands and feet, the main characteristic was delicacy, fineness. She might be anybody, he told himself, admitting, at the same time, that the proverb about an old fool no longer seemed applicable to his partner. Neither the young Mrs. Hawley nor her family—to judge by this specimen—were to be condescended to. On the contrary, they were to be cultivated.