The Folly of Others/A Provident Woman/Part 2/Chapter 8

appeared promptly on the evening named. Cecilia's note had been so imperative that he could not well refuse to come; nor could she receive him on any other footing than that of a person summoned on an important affair. She would, perhaps, have been glad enough to do so, glad enough if she had not committed herself. She had had many moments of regret and misgiving since on impulse she had mailed the note; and though each time she had come back to her purpose, the effort to see it clear as at first had somehow failed. There was a confusion in her mind, and when Tom was announced a sort of panic fluttered her pulses. She rose and went down to the drawing-room, not knowing in the least how she was to say what she had to say to him.

Tom was standing. He wore his light overcoat and had his hat in his hand; when she went in he was looking at the floor, with an obvious lack of interest in the luxury of the room.

Cecilia went forward and shook hands with him and asked him to take off his coat, which he did with some hesitation.

"Thank you for coming," she said in a subdued voice, a little tremulous, as she sat down and indicated a chair to him. "I suppose you were surprised to have such a letter from me?"

"Yes—a little. I was surprised that you wanted to see me."

Tom's tone was cool and slightly bitter. He held himself very erect and looked at her with that alert hardness which he seemed to assume for her alone. Cecilia felt suddenly that she was being unfairly treated. It was all very well that he should stop caring for her,—she had no complaint to make of that,—but he had no right to treat her as though he despised her. She flushed up over her fair face and forehead, and said, with the resolution born of resentment,—

"I suppose you have some idea of what I wanted to see you about?"

Tom hesitated. It was true he had no definite idea of what she wanted to say to him, but that was only because there were so many things that she might want to say—that perhaps she ought to say.

"No, I can't say I have," he said.

Cecilia was spurred on by this hesitation. It looked like self-consciousness.

"It's about Bertha," she said more firmly.

"Bertha?"

"Yes. I—you see—I am in an unusual position. I feel I am responsible for Bertha—almost as if I were her mother. I feel that she wouldn't be properly looked after—unless I did it. I've always felt that"

"Yes, I know."

Tom looked at her inquiringly, but with no sign of approval for her conscientiousness. Bather he seemed to resent it in a reminiscent way.

"And so," Cecilia went on with increasing difficulty, "I thought I ought to speak to you. I know you admire Bertha—it's natural, everybody does—and it's natural she should like you. But you are both so young—she is hardly more than a child."

Tom flushed hotly. "I don't know what you mean," he said, his eyes flashing black.

"Why, yes you do. I mean—there should not be anything serious between you. It wouldn't be right or fair."

"Who said there was anything serious? How did you get that idea? I've been there two or three times. Is that what you judge from? Do you object to my going?"

His tone was more than bitter now, it was biting. The dark flush made him look fiercely angry.

"I wouldn't if—if I were not worried about Bertha," Cecilia said with an imploring look. "But she is so impulsive and romantic—and she has no control at home."

"I don't understand you. Do you—think I should make love to her? Is that what you're afraid of?"

"It would be natural enough if you saw much of her. She's very attractive," Cecilia said, with her eyes fixed on his.

Tom laughed bitterly.

"You needn't worry. I've had my lesson. I know what a fool I should be to expect a girl to care about me when I can't give her anything. No,—if that's all,—you can set your mind at rest."

Cecilia winced and dropped her eyes.

"You won't understand," she said faintly. "And what I mean is—Bertha is like that too. She doesn't understand what life is. She's full of romantic ideas. She is easily influenced too—and she might do—almost anything—in a flash, and then be sorry afterwards."

Tom was silent, looking at Cecilia in amazement. He thought he understood her now. She meant that Bertha cared for him. In the surprise of the whole thing he could find no words.

"So you see," she went on, faltering a little, "you ought to be very careful, you ought to"

"I ought not to see her, do you mean that?"

It was what Cecilia meant and desired; she let her silence say as much.

"I think you're quite wrong," Tom said in a low voice. "You're mistaken if you think she cares anything about me."

"You can easily make her."

"But I'm not going to try to make her! I told you that."

"Yes, but you can't be sure."

That was true enough. Tom's anger took another turn.

"You think it would be a terrible thing if she did care for me. You think it would be a crime for me to try to get her! Heaven knows I never thought of it till now, but you seem to be afraid I might marry her."

A silence.

"That's it, then? That's what you're afraid of, that Bertha might marry a poor fellow?"

He sprang up, huddling on his coat and trembling with emotion.

"By the Lord, you're the coldest-blooded woman on the face of this earth! I  didn't think there was a woman like you, Cecilia! To think that you should say all this to me! I did care for you, Cecilia—I did love you. And you threw me over because I was poor, and told me plainly that was the reason. And now—for no reason at all—for some crazy idea you've got—for fear your sister might make a bad match—you send for me and—talk to me like this. Cool! Good Lord! I wouldn't have believed it—even of you. I wouldn't believe there was so heartless"

He choked, stooped and caught up his hat, and rushed to the door.

Cecilia sprang up, reached him, laid a quick grasp on his arm.

"Tom, I didn't mean to hurt you"

He flung off her hand.

"No, you didn't mean it! You only meant to be—clever, and have your own way. How can you know—what will hurt? Not that you care, either. If you'd cared a straw about it—even you might have known

"What right have you, anyway? I'm free to do as I choose, I hope—even to marry, if I am a poor devil. Even poor people have a right to marry, I suppose—and to be liked. But you don't believe that. A man must have a bank-account, a fine income, else he can be kicked out! You don't want any poor relations!

"Well, listen. I never was in love with Bertha, I never had an idea of marrying her. She doesn't care anything for me. But if she did, don't think you could stand in the way. If I wanted her I wouldn't ask your leave."

"Tom, don't be angry with me. I did it for the best—for you too. I want you to be happy."

"What do you know about happiness? Better let it alone—let the rest of us alone. We couldn't be happy in your way. Not that I believe you, though. You want to be respectable—you told me so once. Well, it isn't the same thing—for most people."

He flung these words at her savagely and backed away from her towards the door. Cecilia, overwhelmed by this unforeseen feeling of his, could only murmur a despairing protest. She had meant him to feel something quite different. It had been in her mind—but vaguely and secretly—that the result would perhaps be that he would understand her, take her point of view, come to be friendly to her. And now—this! Tom's trembling fingers fumbled a moment with the knob of the door. Under the rose-tinted light of the hall-lamp his face, as he turned it towards her for the last time, seemed still flushed with passionate resentment. At last he had the door open and a draught of icy air rushed in. He murmured something unintelligible, seemed not to see Cecilia's outstretched hand. In a moment he was gone, and the heavy door shut with a reverberating noise behind him.

Cecilia sank down on the lowest step of the stairway and buried her face, sobbing. Careless of herself and the possibility that she might be seen, for almost the first time in her life, she wept out with inarticulate cries her disappointment, her wounds.

"Cecilia!"

Mr. Hawley leant over the balustrade, looking down upon her. He started down the stairs.

"In a minute!" she gasped, waving him back.

"But what's the matter? What has happened?"

She controlled herself by a strong effort, rose, and went up to him.

"It's nothing—I'll tell you—by-and-by."

She kept her face half-hidden by her handkerchief and tried to pass him. But he put his arm round her and questioned her with quick anxiety.

"There was someone there? You've had bad news?"

"No—no—really it's nothing—serious. I'll tell you. I must go bathe my face. It's silly of me—to cry."

She freed herself gently, and went to her dressing-room and locked herself in.