The Folly of Others/A Provident Woman/Part 2/Chapter 9

Cecilia suffered, she had dealt wounds fully as keen as her own. Tom walked all the way back to his New York boarding-house, unconscious of the stinging cold, on fire with the hot surging of his anger. He vowed to himself that Cecilia should not destroy his relation with Bertha, almost his only pleasure; that if it were true, or ever should be, that Bertha cared for him, he would not be bullied into giving her up, and that he would find out if she did care. She was a dear, charming girl; she was capable of liking a man for himself alone. If she cared enough, they might marry, even if they were poor at first. Not immediately, perhaps, but in a year or so, in spite of Cecilia.

Cecilia! Nobody must love or marry, according to her, until they had a respectable fortune. A man might waste all the years of his youth working alone—and when he was old buy a young wife.

Mr. Hawley! Tom knew his history, had taken pains to trace this part of the mercantile history of the city. He had begun a poor boy from a Western farm, he had married his first wife early, and he had worked his way up from the bottom of his business. Now, at fifty-odd years, he was a millionaire—and could buy Cecilia. That was the course that Cecilia pointed out to him, only he should probably never be a millionaire. Conditions were different—there was less chance nowadays. But he might, by fifty, be "respectable." Meantime, he might go to the devil.

Then the keen pain reasserted itself. He could not bear that Cecilia should treat him so. He had done no wrong, except once thinking that she might love him. He had not made love to Bertha, had not meant to—if that was a wrong. But Cecilia had been willing, just on the chance that he might, to send for him and warn him off. The cruel insult of it cut him to the heart. More than once the tears stood on his cheeks as he strode along. He was, after all, very young; he was full of emotion and sentiment; he was affectionate and he was lonely in the lack of affection—the last person in the world to appreciate the worldly point of view, to comprehend Cecilia.

Nevertheless, the object which Cecilia had virtuously set before her eyes was attained by her procedure.

The next day Tom wrote a note to Bertha, breaking an engagement which they had made for a mid-week evening at the theatre. He did not answer her letter of protest, nor go to her house on the following Sunday. It was not that he had let himself be frightened off by the fear of Cecilia's disapproval. He did not acknowledge her right to interfere. But—simply his budding feeling for Bertha had been nipped, like an early April blossom. He had not been in love with Bertha. But he was of an age and temperament that loves, and she had invited him. His heart might well have been caught on the rebound from his first check in love.

Cecilia's interposition had prevented that—blighted before its flower his new emotional expansion. Tom was not made of stern metal, but of a rather soft and plastic clay. Yet he had strength—enough to hold to the course he marked out for him self on the morrow of the interview with Cecilia. This was, to have nothing more to do with any one of Cecilia's relations.

He had letters from them—from Bertha, from Mrs. Clayber, and from Cecilia. Bertha's he did not answer. To Mrs. Clayber he wrote that he could not come any more to see them, for reasons which he could not help and couldn't explain either—a reply which he perceived was most unsatisfactory.

Cecilia's letter to him was rather incoherent. She wrote that she was very sorry she had hurt him, that she had not at all meant to do so. That she hoped he would forgive her, and not feel that she had tried to deprive him of any reasonable pleasure. She had thought it her duty to warn him. But she had suffered too as much as he. Did he still think so harshly of her?

This was Tom's reply, not composed without the sacrifice of many sheets of note-paper and a gradual toning down from extreme sarcastic severity:

""

It was not to be expected, indeed, that Bertha would rest content without some explanation. When her letters were unanswered, and her mother's received only a curt refusal to explain, she began for the first time to connect Cecilia with Tom's action. She did not at once question Cecilia, however, though she saw her often during the week.

Mr. Seton was the immediate reason of their frequent meetings. Bertha had met him again at dinner at the Hawleys' house; Cecilia, Mr. Seton, and Bertha had gone to an afternoon concert together; and, finally, Cecilia had brought him to call on her mother. All this was exciting to Bertha, but did not drive Tom from her mind. Finally, when Cecilia asked her sister to come, on the second Sunday, and pour tea for a few people,—among them Mr. Seton,—Bertha said flatly that she had written Tom Jackson to come and see her on that day. Cecilia was silent for a few moments. She was mending some torn lace. Then she said, not looking up from her work, "I don't think he will come."

"Why not?" demanded Bertha.

"Because—he wrote me that he didn't mean to go any more."

"Well, I should like to know why not! Why should he write to you? Did you tell him not to come?"

"No, not that."

"Well, what, then? What did you say—how dare you interfere, anyway?"

Bertha had sprung up from her chair, dropping her little muff, and she clinched her hands in her dress.

"I'll tell you, Bertha. Sit down."

"Where's his letter?"

With a glance at Bertha's face, Cecilia rose and brought the note from her desk. Bertha read it, and broke out in a rage.

"You did tell him not to come! He says so! What do you mean by it? What right have you to do it? But I won't stand it—you'll have to take it back—you'll have to write him"

She took a threatening step towards Cecilia, her face aflame and quivering.

"Bertha! Bertha, listen. I'll tell you exactly what I said to him. I said he ought not to go too much to see you, that you ought not to be too much together; for you're both too young—children—and I know you had some sort of a fancy about him."

"Did you tell him that too?"

"No, I said it wouldn't be fair to you, though, to—to pay you too much attention. You're too susceptible—you haven't judgment, and mother—I knew she wouldn't be much protection."

"Protection! Thank you, I can take care of myself. So you let him know you thought he had been making love to me?"

"No. He said he hadn't, and I believed him. But I thought he might."

"And supposing he did, what business is it of yours?"

"Bertha, it is my business. I'm responsible for you."

"Well, I'd like to know why? You act as if you were my mother."

"I act as your mother ought to act—but she can't see things as I can."

"No, and neither can I. I'll tell you what I think, Cecilia, I think you care about Tom Jackson yourself, and you came between us out of jealousy."

Cecilia turned quite white, and went on sewing blindly, making false stitches. At last she rose and put down her work.

"Bertha, go home," she said in a low voice. "I don't think you know what you are saying. When you are willing to ask my pardon you can come back again."

Without a word Bertha picked up her muff and went.

Cecilia locked the door after her and began to walk up and down the floor, clasping and twisting her hands with almost physical suffering. She was tormented, not by what Bertha had said, not by Bertha's suspicion, but by her own. Could there be any truth in it? Could it be true that she was so low and mean as that—to have a hidden, selfish motive for what she had assumed to do for Bertha's good? No, she cried out, no, it was not true. It would be disgraceful that she, Cecilia Hawley, should behave so—and she had meant well to them all. And yet there was a shadow—a something secret that she dared not drag out of its dark corner. Perhaps it was, after all, that she had cared for him. She had not acted differently because of that; if it were so, she would in any case have stood between Bertha and the girl's own rashness. But perhaps she had cared.

And what of it? she demanded of herself defiantly, standing solemnly before the mirror, with her head thrown back and her hands clasped strenuously before her. It should make no difference to anyone if she had. Her strong sense and will asserted themselves. No one, she thought, could reproach her if she acted—as, on the whole, she knew she did—unselfishly. She meant to do her best for them all—her full duty. That was as much as they could ask of her. As for Bertha—Bertha must confess she had been wrong and ask pardon. That was quite certain. And Cecilia lifted her head more proudly and set her lips more firmly, as through this resolve, and the resentment against Bertha that came with it, she grew calmer, more at ease.