The Folly of Others/A Provident Woman/Part 2/Chapter 1
PART TWO.
I.
Cecilia, in a blue velvet dress and her new furs, stood near the railing, looking with a half-puzzled, half-awed expression at that row of pictures hung low, almost within reach of her hand, the hand which held the open Baedeker.
There glowed the Rembrandt,—the woman burning with dusky color, red-brown hair and furred dress and jewels, rich lips and cheeks,—the picture like a tawny flame. There the cool Mona Lisa, dark-robed, with an icy blue landscape behind her, smiled reminiscently. There was Raphael's blue-eyed old man in the gray fur cloak, serene and exquisite. There the Venetian lady of the shoulders. There the Rubens woman with two children, ripe, generous, with a fruity bloom.
Cecilia moved slowly from one to the other of these pictures. Momentarily she was in the way of a copyist who was giving the Venetian lady a double chin and a leer. Cecilia got a fierce glance from the coypist and stepped back timidly. She moved with constraint, the vague discomfort with which this whole place affected her expressing itself in her look. Now and then she turned to smile at her husband, who sat in the middle of the room; and finally, when she had conscientiously made the whole round of the Salon Carré, looked at every picture, and read what Baedeker had to say, Cecilia went to sit down too, and sighed as she shut the book.
"Well?" said Mr. Hawley, who, frankly too tired for pictures, preferred looking at his bride.
Cecilia summoned a faint smile.
"Don't expect me to rave about them," she begged.
Cecilia's intelligence had lately brought her to look over the brink of her own unfathomable ignorance, but she did not like the sensation.
"No, not these. But I want soon to show you some of my favorites—Greuze, Bouguereau. Shall we go now? It's hard work, isn't it? We'll have a drive and then go to some amusing place for dinner."
"If you're not too tired."
That was the spoke in the wheel. Mr. Hawley had been ill nearly all the time of their stay in Paris. He looked ill; and as he got up he carried his left arm stiffly across the troublesome heart. Cecilia stood a moment adjusting her furs and giving the room a pensive farewell glance. As they went out into the corridor Mr. Hawley said: "I suppose you want to see the famous Venus of Milo, don't you? You couldn't say you'd been in Paris without seeing that you know."
"Some other day, then? There's plenty of time, and you're"
"No, no time like to-day!" he said impatiently. "Who knows about to-morrow?"
Cecilia shot a scared glance at him as they went out into the corridor, down the steps, through the long rooms with their crowds of marble and bronze images.
In the red boudoir of the Venus there were two tourists in pedestrian skirts and Alpine hats, their noses in air as they studied the profile and the three-quarters view. Mr. Hawley sat down as soon as they got into the room, and Cecilia stood and looked at the Venus and felt like crying. It was partly perhaps because of honeymoon nerves,—for even Cecilia had developed nerves in the course of this curious honeymoon,—but partly too her mood was the effect of the pictures and the statue.
These things the world said were beautiful, and Cecilia never doubted it. Only she could not see that beauty, and she felt ignorant and oppressed. She stared up at the white eyeballs of the Venus, too much depressed even to care what Baedeker said. Then she found Mr. Hawley was looking, as usual, at her, and she went to sit down beside him.
"You," he said with conviction, "are much more beautiful than that thing."
Cecilia, blushing, glanced at the two tourists. They too were looking at her. Indeed, she was very handsome in the rich dress which the bridegroom had bought and seen fitted upon her. Mr. Hawley was very critical of women's dress and much more positive in his taste than Cecilia. And Cecilia, at tired as she was now, pleased his taste extremely. He touched the soft gray fur of her muff with a discreet caress.
"Shall we go on? It's nearly four o'clock," he said.
Cecilia went unreluctant. She liked best the sights to be seen from a carriage. And, in fact, during the fortnight they had been in Paris she had not seen many others. Shopping had taken up much of their time; drives, lunching, and dining the rest. They had been to the theatre once to see Bernhardt in a poetical five-act play, during which Mr. Hawley had gone to sleep. They had been to a music-hall, where Cecilia was much shocked. And this was all the amusement that Paris afforded them.
Mr. Hawley was pathetically anxious to amuse his bride. But, never having been able to amuse himself successfully, he had no special resources. Beyond buying things, ordering expensive meals, and having the best rooms and carriages to be had, his imagination did not carry him. And in Cecilia's enjoyment he felt there was something sadly lacking. She was always pleased, never enthusiastic—always good-humored and kind, never gay. And the reason for this unvarying sobriety of mood poor Mr. Hawley suspected to lie in himself. Indeed, he could not help seeing that he made but an unromantic figure at the side of a beautiful young woman, at the same time that he felt in his middle-aged breast a stirring of romance—a metaphysical pain as real as the pangs of his bodily malady. He suffered increasingly from both. The "rest" which had been ordered him, like the romance of his life, came too late.
The October afternoon was clear and crisp, the city decorated with flags and festoons of lights in honor of the visit of the Italian King. The victoria rolled easily on broad rubber tires over the asphalt, and even the horses' hoofs seemed to have been padded and to give out a subdued and leisurely sound against the pavement. In the wide avenues through which they drove there was no crowding, none of the familiar clatter and grind, and the very absence of these gave the atmosphere of luxury. Cecilia felt keenly the physical ease and comfort of her new surroundings; but beyond this the splendid city rather depressed than excited her: it was too unfamiliar, too magnificent. These things which she had been taken to see—the spires and pillars of the cathedral, the pictures, the statues—she could no more understand than the language of the people in the streets. And Cecilia knew she was ignorant. She had never had the least smattering of culture. She had never studied French verbs, nor the history of Art. She felt humble in spite of Mr. Hawley's admiration. Yet, in ease and idleness, she was blooming like a rose. Beside her Mr. Hawley looked pallid and old.
They drove for an hour and a half through the sharpening air; then they began to talk about dinner. Mr. Hawley faintly suggested various restaurants; but, pressed by Cecilia, he confessed that he would much prefer to dine in their own rooms at the hotel.
"But that won't be amusing for you," he said remorsefully.
"Oh, I don't care! It will be easier for you, that's the main thing," Cecilia replied quickly.
"It oughtn't to be. It's hard luck—hard on you, dearest."
They went back to the hotel, Mr. Hawley still ruefully apologetic. Their rooms were upholstered, carved, and gilded in the most approved hotel taste and to Cecilia presented a really superb aspect; but Mr. Hawley, as he lay on a blue satin sofa, cast a disparaging glance around him and still lamented.
"It's stupid for you. I wish I knew somebody in Paris who could take you out—but I don't, not a soul."
"Oh, never mind. I wouldn't go and leave you, anyway," Cecilia said dutifully.
"You're very sweet and good. But this is hard—hard on me too, by George! Why couldn't I have known you before, Cecilia? I could be so happy with you"
His voice broke, and he put Cecilia's hand to his lips.
"Hush, you must be quiet, you know," she expostulated.
"Quiet! Yes, that's all that's left now. And yet I feel young enough, if it weren't for this thing. Oh Cecilia, if I only could be young again, or at least strong and well! You were made for something else than to be an old man's nurse. And I could make you happy, I'm sure I could, if I had half a chance. Oh, why does it come now? Why must I give up my life, just when it's beginning to be worth while?"
"Hush, hush! Why do you talk like this? You're not very ill—only you must be careful. You're not going to—going"
"Well, I may not die yet a while, but, you know, I may always be an invalid. And it won't be very gay for you—young and beautiful as you are—unless you'll go on and amuse yourself without me when ever you can. And I hope you will, Cecilia. If only you can be happy, I shall be."
"Why, I am happy. It would be queer if I couldn't be, when you have given me so much—done so much for me and my family"
"Oh, yes," groaned Mr. Hawley, "if you count it up that way. But that's all I can do. I want to give you more—so much more that you would—love me. But"
Again his voice shook, and he turned his face away from her.
Cecilia, much disturbed, tried to calm him.
"You know you mustn't excite yourself," she argued; "it will only make things worse. I don't see why you should be so upset. I don't mind being quiet—not a bit. All this, travelling and all, is exciting for me anyway, you know. And the lovely things you've given me—I'm delighted with them—only you give me too much. You're too kind. And I'll do anything in the world I can for you "
"Kind," sighed Mr. Hawley. "But—you're right, I'm foolish, and ungrateful too. You give me more than I could expect from you. It isn't that I think I deserve more,—not that,—but only I wish I could deserve"
Cecilia was silent, puzzled and alarmed. She looked down at the rich blue of her dress, at the glittering bracelet on the wrist that her husband held. She thought of her purchases of the last few days and wondered dimly. What more could Mr. Hawley possibly do for her than he was doing? She rather wished that he wouldn't buy so much. She feared too that he was not satisfied with her. Why else should he be unhappy?
"You are tired out, going about with me," she said reproachfully. "I won't let you do it again. And I've forgotten your medicine too—it's past time."
She started to rise, but Mr. Hawley tightened his grasp of her hand and drew her towards him.
"Kiss me, Cecilia," he whispered.
As he turned his face, Cecilia saw, with terror, the tears on his cheeks.
"Oh, what is the matter—what have I done?" she cried.
"Nothing, my dear. You've done everything you could. It's only—what is impossible."
He buried his face again in the pillows and refused the medicine, to Cecilia's increased distress.
"Not now—all nonsense anyway. It does no good," he growled.
The room was dark by now, and Cecilia sat down again as quietly as possible, hoping that he might sleep. She was a good deal shaken by his sudden outburst—rather frightened. She only half understood it. Could it be, after all, that Mr. Hawley was not a calm and reasonable person? Could it be that he was going to have nerves and tempers, and quarrel with her? Cecilia, feeling very forlorn, hoped not; but she resolved in any case to do her duty and take care of him. That was implied, she thought, in the contract between them; that was mainly what he had married her for. And she was determined to do all that he expected of her, and even more—if only he would make it clear to her what he wanted and she could give it to him. To night he had said that he wanted to be young and strong. Cecilia sighed. What was the use of wanting the impossible?
He heard the sigh, apparently, for he moved and asked Cecilia to turn on the lights and ring for a dinner-menu. Meantime she pressed the medicine on him, and he took it meekly. When the menu came he said:
"Let's have something good—the best in the house. What do you want?"
"Oh, you order," Cecilia responded. "Whatever you like."
"But I want to get what you like. Come, Cecilia, do tell me something you want."
"I don't care, dear—whatever is best for you."
Mr. Hawley looked at her calm face in despair, and wrote out the order.
"You'll have some champagne?" he asked finally.
"Why, I don't think you ought to drink it. And I would just as soon have Apollinaris."
This was the mood of their honeymoon.