The Folly of Others/A Provident Woman/Part 2/Chapter 7

was more perturbed by the incident of the tickets than she had been willing to show Bertha. It preoccupied her long after Bertha had departed. Cecilia's mind had a way of leaping into the future to guard against possible ills, and now she apprehended many ills from Bertha's evident interest in her own former lover. That interest Cecilia had been aware of in the days before her own marriage was arranged. When Tom had been so obviously devoted to herself, Bertha had been as obviously attracted to Tom. Even then she had tried to attract him, and now here was a new intimacy between them. Bertha was self-indulgent and wilful to the last degree. Her character was exactly like that of their father, and Cecilia distrusted that character profoundly. With less of will, Mrs. Clayber was quite as slack. She had never trained her daughters, and ever since Cecilia had assumed the authority of the head of the house Mrs. Clayber had been in the position of a secret rebel, siding with the other two. They had all wanted to enjoy themselves by any means possible; Cecilia's aim was quite different, and she had forced them largely to conform to her ideas. But she constantly suspected rebellion; she suspected them of pursuing their own foolish ends in underhand ways. She thought Bertha quite capable of falling in love with Tom and encouraging him with perfect recklessness. And it seemed that Tom might be encouraged.

Cecilia had very little vanity. She had not pictured Tom as pining away for her. It was no shock to her mind to think that he could be consoled. Her marriage had seemed to put him infinitely far off from her. She seemed to herself much older and he younger than ever. She thought wistfully of his youth, and of the naturalness of his falling in love with Bertha—a girl in the bloom and sparkle of her spring.

Yes, it was natural enough—but it ought not to happen, for all that. Tom had nothing, Bertha had nothing. It would be exactly in character for them to marry on nothing. But somebody would be responsible. That somebody would be herself, and, ultimately, Mr. Hawley.

Cecilia's pride revolted at this idea, and her sense of right and justice rose in protest. It was not right that her husband, who had already been very generous to her family, should have any fresh demand made on him, and she could not permit it. It was not right that the family should put itself in a position to need further help when there was only one source from which it could come. But Cecilia felt bitterly that these considerations would not weigh in the least with the family. They would proceed on the assumption that the best was sure to happen—they would take any chances to get what they happened to want at the moment. All through her mother's hard life that perpetual disposition to expect favors from Providence had been manifest to Cecilia. But her own experience had led her to expect nothing from that lofty source, to count only upon the meagre products of her own skill and labor. And after having been Providence to her family for some years, she was exasperated to find that their vague faith in the beneficence of the universe had been, if anything, strengthened through her.

Cecilia's access of fortune had indeed operated very differently upon her own mind and the minds of her relatives. Cecilia held herself as a steward of her husband's property, so far as it was entrusted to her. She was as careful and conscientious as though she had been strictly limited in her expenditure. The glitter of her position was mainly in the eyes of her family, and they were all secretly convinced that this rise in the world was the most natural thing possible, and that it spelled further good fortune for them all.

But if they loved the glitter of worldly fortune, there was one thing they loved still better—romance. It was part of their optimistic tendency, it was a constant quantity in their calculations, and to Cecilia a most irritating one. Romance had early been crushed down in Cecilia, and she had learned to take a sedate and cool view of life—temperament largely assisting experience in this. But Bertha, and in a less degree Mabel, had their mother's temperament. Mrs. Clayber had made a love-match, and never concealed her view that it was the natural thing for any girl of spirit to do. And Bertha, full of fire and life, needed no teaching to think much the same thing.

Cecilia was not very imaginative, but she was clear-sighted. Her fears came near hitting the mark. The intimacy between Tom and Bertha grew rapidly. The little theatre-party was very successful, and afterwards Tom had insisted on taking Bertha and her mother to supper. It was pay-day, he had his week's salary in his pocket, and, moreover, he had received his promotion; the latter fact he soon acquainted them with, and made it impossible for them to refuse the supper by offering it as a celebration of his good luck. They were very gay over their oysters and cold turkey, and Tom seemed completely to have shaken off his recent mood of melancholy and reserve. He promised for the future to spend his Sunday afternoons with them in Brooklyn. They would not let him take them home, though he insisted, pointing out that the next day was Sunday, when, consequently, he could sleep late; but left him at the bridge-entrance and went on by themselves, a very good-humored and happy pair.

On Sunday afternoon it happened again that Tom and Cecilia met at the Claybers' house. Cecilia, not without some idea that she should find him there, walked over from her own house and went in without knocking. The four were very merry in the parlor trying to roast chestnuts over the gas-log, Tom sitting on the rug, Bertha kneeling beside him and giving orders. They were all laughing. But Cecilia's entrance changed everything. It hurt her—the instantaneous chill that fell upon the party; Tom's formal bow as he sprang up, leaving the chestnuts to their fate, Bertha's bored look and her mother's embarrassment. It was hard to be a spoil-sport, to be shut out in that marked way, even though she did disapprove what they were doing, and they knew it.

Cecilia did not sit down, did not unfasten her wraps, but stood a few moments speaking to her mother; then she asked Bertha to come into the hall with her for a moment, and said good-by to the rest. Tom bowed again formally; this time they did not even shake hands; his eyes, she thought, looked black and angry. And Bertha, too, as they went out together, flashed an angry look at her. It was evident she expected to be scolded. But Cecilia only said, with a catch in her voice:

"I came to see if you'd like to come to dinner. Mr. Seton is to be there."

"Oh!" said Bertha in some astonishment. "But I can't," she added immediately. "Tom is invited to supper. I can't go away."

Cecilia looked down at her muff, smoothing its rich surface.

"I'd like to have you come. Mr. Seton inquired particularly for you when he called yesterday," she said with some agitation.

"Well, I'd like to very much, but I don't see how I can. It would be rude to go, as long as Tom is to be here."

Cecilia had no further protests to offer. And Bertha, in spite of a certain hesitation in her look and voice, evidently meant what she said. Yet she regretted the dinner with Mr. Seton and, after Cecilia had gone, went back into the parlor rather distrait and bothered. Indeed, Cecilia's visit had effectually dampened the general gayety. By common consent the chestnuts were voted a nuisance, and Mrs. Clayber carried them out as she went to make ready for supper. Mabel too vanished, having no great liking for the rôle of gooseberry. And Bertha, irritated by the constraint which seemed to prevent Cecilia's name from being mentioned, said carelessly,—

"She came to ask me to come to dinner."

"I hope you won't let me keep you from going," Tom said slowly.

"Yes, I shall, because I prefer to stay here."

And she looked up at him softly, half in coquetry, half sincere.

"I'm very much flattered—if you mean it."

Tom's fine eyes were intent upon her—suspicious, steely, but melting a little.

"Oh, yes, I mean it." She smiled and blushed pink, conscious that she was a little wicked, and quite happy.

Thus harmony was restored, even deepened, by these obvious signs of feeling, and Cecilia's interruption was forgotten for the time being before in her rapid walk she had reached her own house.

But on her mind a painful impression had been left. Even to the least vain of women the too prompt consolation of a rejected lover may be a wound, depending on the amount of interest in the rejected one. For Cecilia, a sweet and tender if faint glow of feeling had been her response to Tom's devotion. It had been a memory that in a way she loved. And now it was torn from her. But she would not admit to herself this reason for her agitation. On the grounds of reason and propriety alone she was justified in disliking the situation.

She let a week—ten days—go by without speaking to Bertha about it, and Bertha on her side was silent. During that time Bertha dined at the Hawleys', and Mr. Seton again was there. It was perfectly obvious that he came for Bertha. Even Mr. Hawley now admitted it. Three afternoon calls within a fortnight and a deliberate fishing for dinner invitations could hardly be construed otherwise. He had plainly wanted to be asked to call on the Claybers, but neither Bertha nor Cecilia had so far suggested it.

Bertha was flattered, moved by his admiration; but she was much more intimate with Tom, and she even said to herself that she was in love with him. In her school-girl language this might not mean anything serious; it depended entirely on circumstances whether that budding emotion should be crushed or developed.

In the circumstances of Bertha's life Cecilia certainly played an important part. If she were not an overruling Providence, she assumed some of the responsibilities of one. In the course of those ten troublous days of silence she more and more clearly perceived it to be her duty to interfere. At least she must know definitely what Bertha was doing. It was not altogether an easy task to question her, but Cecilia could always do what she thought her duty.

Accordingly she sent for Bertha one afternoon and bluntly asked how often she was seeing Tom. The young girl, hardening on the instant, nevertheless answered, "Two or three times a week." Cecilia's other questions she evaded for some time, till it became clear she had something to conceal. Then Cecilia pressed her sharply; and Bertha, flashing up in a quick rage, cried out that it was her own affair, that she would not tell whether Tom had made love to her or not, that she would marry him if she chose.

"And if it's any comfort to you to know it, I do care for him—I do!" she said passionately as she got up to go. "And all you say can't prevent it."

Cecilia's immediate action was to write to Tom a command to come to her the next evening.