The Folly of Others/A Provident Woman/Part 1/Chapter 3
III.
"If you're not going to the social, we shall be able to get in another bicycle lesson," suggested Mr. Jackson, who when he had been another month in the house would in the natural order of things be called Tom by everybody. He was a young fellow of twenty-three, lightly made, with a delicate face, a dark dust on his upper lip, and remarkably beautiful, large gray eyes, so dark that they passed for black. Cecilia looked into these eyes and shook her head.
"No, I want to rest to-night."
"I'm afraid you went at it too hard this morning," he said anxiously. "Next time we must go slow."
Cecilia agreed, inwardly reflecting, however, that probably there would not be any next time. She felt that it had suddenly become impossible to appear in the open street, even in summer dusk, mounted on a wobbling bicycle and supported by Mr. Jackson's manful arm. She blushed at the idea that Mr. Hawley might see her in this undignified situation, and at the recollection of what she had told him about the lessons. Mr. Jackson saw the blush and pondered it with agitation. After dinner Cecilia tried to induce him to go with the rest to the ice-cream social, but the young man very calmly and positively declined, and settled himself on the top step of the porch after Cecilia had taken the hammock. Mrs. Clayber and the two girls in their light dresses, escorted by Mr. Higgins, went away presently, and the house was left dark and empty. Cecilia swayed in the hammock slightly, absorbed in the events of the day; and Mr. Jackson, absorbed in her, at last interrupted her meditations.
"Shan't I fan you?" he suggested, moving to the camp-chair beside the hammock and taking the palm-leaf from her idle hand.
"It's nice to be all alone," he went on with a little tremble in his boyish voice. "I've been looking forward all day to seeing you. You haven't been out of my mind once."
"Now, Tom," said Cecilia languidly, "you mustn't talk nonsense."
"Oh Cecilia, let me talk to you! You can't imagine how much I have to say"
"Well, all right, talk—but not about that, you know."
"But it's all about that! I haven't thought of anything else. I can't think of anything but you. Oh Cecilia, don't you think —you could ever care for me?"
"It isn't a question of that, you know very well. What good would it do if I did care for you? I couldn't marry you!"
"Perhaps not just now. But if you cared you would be willing to, after a little. Oh Cecilia, I'd work like hell for you!"
"It isn't a question only of me," said Cecilia in cool, hard tones. "The man that marries me marries my family too. How do you think they'd get on without me?"
"How do you think I'd get on without you? With you beside me I could get ahead, I know. I need you, Cecilia—you can't imagine how much!"
Instinctively he took the tone that was most certain to touch Cecilia. As he leaned forward, the tears in his young, eager eyes, she put her hand over them lightly. Tom sank down on his knees at her side.
"What would a boy like you do with a wife?" she asked with half-smiling pity. "Boys are always having fancies. No—I won't care for you, Tom—never."
"Don't say that! If I had money—and position—would you marry me?"
"I don't know—you're such a boy. But I'd rather like to take care of you."
"Oh, you would then"
"But what difference does that make? You haven't got them, you know, and it will be years—ten, twenty years—before you could get them, even if you ever do."
Tom's head sank. He put his arms about Cecilia and buried his face on her shoulder, and she held him, smoothing his hair gently, as though he were a child.
"It's no use, Tom. If I marry, I must marry someone that can take my place, as far as my family goes, and more. They can't take care of themselves. Mother hasn't an idea about business or getting along, and she can't manage the girls. You see what Bertha is—so pretty, and just as wild as a colt. I can't have her growing up so. You know we've never had a real home. My father—well, he was the sort of a man that never ought to marry. My mother has had a hard life. And I want the girls to have a chance. If I should go and tie myself down so that I could hardly get along myself and couldn't do a thing for them, how would I feel? I can't do that."
"Yes, that's all very well!" cried Tom, clinging to her, "but you must think of yourself—your own life—and—mine, Cecilia. With them it's a question of bread and butter and clothes, but with me—it's almost life or death!"
"No, it isn't, Tom. I don't believe that. Bread and butter and clothes are more important than you seem to think, and—sentiment—isn't as important as you think. I want to live decently, and without this horrible load of debt that we're just getting out of, and to know that the rent is going to be paid, and that Bertha isn't running the streets with a lot of common boys and girls. That's what I care about."
Cecilia put him gently away from her and rose.
"And you don't care—how I suffer," he stammered.
"I do care. But it isn't my fault. I didn't make this world. And if you're going to keep on worrying me, Tom, you'd better go away, I think. I'm sorry. If things were different I think I might love you—but I can't change them."
There were tears in Cecilia's eyes now, but they only came and gleamed and disappeared. She was kind, but Tom, gazing at her with sick, piteous wonder, felt that she was incapable of the merest idea of the storm that shook him. To tell her of his pain, his longing, was like speaking to her in an unknown language; there was no response from brain or heart. If he had lacked food or clothes, she would have had sympathy for him; it was so much easier to touch her heart than her imagination, though she was not an emotional person.
But no such lover, no matter what the coldness of his divinity, ever despaired without some actual, tangible reason. And during the next two weeks Tom hoped and anguished and pleaded whenever he could get a chance at Cecilia alone. Within that time Mr. Hawley made three evening calls, spending an hour each time in the dreary little parlor, with Mrs. Clayber nervously making conversation, and Cecilia sitting by, smiling and calm. On the third occasion Mrs. Clayber left them together, and Mr. Hawley stayed longer than usual. When Cecilia came upstairs her mother was waiting in her room. Cecilia announced gravely, "Mother, I'm going to marry Mr. Hawley."
Mrs. Clayber breathed, "Yes, Cecilia," and fixed her eager eyes on her daughter, afraid to question her. It was impossible to hurry Cecilia. She sat down on the edge of the bed, took off her ribbon collar and belt, and smoothed them out on her knee thoughtfully.
"We shall be married in about a month. Mr. Hawley has been ordered to take a rest, and we shall go to Europe for three months. You and the girls will have a house at the seashore, or in the mountains somewhere, for the summer. I am to have an allowance of five hundred dollars a month, and I shall take care of you out of that—that's the arrangement. He is willing that Bertha shall be with us a good deal of the time. We shall probably have a house in Brooklyn. You might live in Brooklyn too."
Cecilia had spoken with gravity, curtly, like a general announcing an important success. But now after a moment's pause, which Mrs. Clayber visibly restrained herself from breaking, she smiled, still smoothing out the ribbons, and added:
"We're going first to Paris. Don't that sound fine, mother? I never thought I'd see Paris. Oh, there's such a load off my mind! to think there's to be no more worry, and pinching, and meanness—and that we can all live quietly and respectably and enjoy life—oh, I can hardly realize it!"
"Cecilia, tell me about it all!"
"Why, I have told you, I should think!"
"I mean, tell me about him."
"Oh, he is very kind—lovely. He's had rather a hard time of it, some ways. He told me about his first wife. She was an invalid nearly all their mar ried life,—nervous prostration or somethings like that,—so she was helpless, no good at all, and just at the time when he was working hardest at his business he had to give every minute he could spare to taking care of her. Then she died about three years ago. I shouldn't think he'd dare marry again, would you? But I guess he thinks he's safe with me—I'll never have nervous prostration!" And Cecilia threw back her head and laughed.
"No, that you won't," said Mrs. Clayber with a touch of ironic bitterness. "Your nerves are all right, Cecilia."
"Of course—and a good thing they are. Where would you be if I hadn't kept my head? But now you're going to have an easy time for the rest of your life, thank goodness! And so am I, I hope. Anyhow, I shall live decently. But there's one thing—Mr. Hawley isn't very well."
"Not well? Why, he looks"
"Yes, I know, but he has heart disease. It's—angina pectoris, the name of it, and it may grow worse any time. He wanted to prepare me, he said"
"Oh, Cecilia!"
A rustle at the door attracted Mrs. Clayber's attention.
"Why, Bertha! I didn't hear you come in," she exclaimed. "You're back early."
The girl came into the room, pale, her big eyes very bright.
"Are you going to, Cecilia?" she demanded breathlessly.
"Am I going to what?"
"You know—marry."
Cecilia nodded and put out her hand to her sister. "You nervous little monkey! Your hands are cold as ice. What's the matter?"
"Oh, I was just listening. But ain't you excited, Cecilia? Why, I never heard of anybody like you. If I was engaged"
"Well, you won't be yet awhile, so don't worry. Oh, I'm sleepy."
Cecilia yawned unaffectedly and began to undress.
"Sleepy!" cried Bertha. "Mother, did you ever!" And they exchanged glances of wonder and tantalized curiosity. "Haven't you got anything to tell us?"
"Well, I've just told everything. I'm going to be married in a month, then I'm going to Paris, you're going to the seashore, and we're all going to live happy ever after. Mr. Hawley thinks you're pretty, Bertha."
"Oh, does he? I think he's good-looking, too. And he has such swell clothes. I suppose you'll have loads of things, won't you now, Cis? Have you got the ring yet? And are you going to have a trousseau?"
"No, how should I? I'm not going to take any money from him before we're married. Now I'm going to bed. Good-night, mother."
Bertha undressed slowly, pondering a long time over each shoe and stocking. Cecilia was in bed and half asleep when Bertha cried suddenly, "Shall we tell the boarders?"
"What?"
"Who'll tell Tom—Mr. Jackson, I mean? Oh Cecilia!"
"I'll tell him," said Cecilia sleepily. "They'll both have to go away."
"Oh—of course. Well, there won't be any more housework to do, will there? Glory hallelujah! I hope T—Mr. Jackson won't go far away. Cecilia!"
"Well?"
"You didn't—care anything about him, did you?"
Cecilia made no reply.