The Folly of Others/A Provident Woman/Part 2/Chapter 6
VI.
From the topmost gallery of the theatre a pair of rented opera-glasses were levelled more frequently at Mr. Seton's box than at the stage. Tom had paid away his dollar, in fact, not to see the play, but to feed his melancholy, his bitterness against Cecilia, and incidentally against Bertha. He wanted to see them flaunting in their ill-gotten prosperity, forgetful of him, for whom both of them had professed a certain affection. And he saw them, and was melancholy to his heart's content. The opera-glasses brought them so near that he could see Bertha's smile and Cecilia's diamonds. He studied Seton too with minute attention, wondering who he was, and gloomily enraged with him for his look of bland content.
Poor Tom, looking down on the brilliant house, the brilliant stage, the display of luxury, of dress, of jewels, of beauty, high out of reach of it all, felt the gripe of his poverty and insignificance as he had never felt it before, except on the day when Cecilia had told him she was going to marry Mr. Hawley.
She had made him feel then that he was nobody, and now he had a new object-lesson to the same effect. A flame of Nihilistic ideas swept through his mind. The outrageous distinction made between him and these other men, simply because they had money and he had none, inspired him with a savage longing to annihilate them personally. And to think that Cecilia should lend herself to such injustice—that Cecilia, whom he had loved and who had seemed for a moment to love him, should be willing to bargain herself away—that made everything black before him, turned all his honest feeling to gall and bitterness.
He did not stay the play out, but went back to his dismal little hall-bedroom, tired out and miserable. He had a few books there, among which his favorite nowadays was Byron's poems, and he knew by heart Byron's bitterest flings at the world and society. But to-night he found enough wormwood in following Cecilia and Bertha in his thoughts. No doubt they would go to supper with their admirer—at Delmonico's, very likely, or some similar gilded place which Tom had never entered. And that man, whose name he did not know, was privileged also to go and call on them—either or both—on equal terms at least. Probably, now that Cecilia was rich and idle, having married an old man for his money, she would console herself, in the time-honored manner, by flirting with younger men.
For that matter, Tom reflected, he might go to call on her himself. She had certainly invited him. He might go, in his well-brushed and only winter suit, and introduce himself into the midst of her newly acquired luxury. He might meet her husband, perhaps, and some of her new friends. But most certainly he would do nothing of the sort. He would not be reconciled with Cecilia. He would wrap himself in the dignity of his wrongs, and he hoped that she would feel hurt—supposing her to have any feeling at all, which, of course, was doubtful. And yet she had apparently showed some at their last two meetings. No doubt she was willing to indulge her feelings, so far as they did not interfere with practical things.
Bertha, now, was entirely different. There was not an ounce of calculation about Bertha. She frankly followed her impulses—and it seemed to Tom an attractive impulse that had made her seek him out, and half-won him over to friendliness in spite of himself. After all, Bertha could not be held to blame for Cecilia's mercenary spirit. And she plainly liked him. And she was certainly a very pretty, charming girl. Her new ease was becoming to her; she was better dressed than before and even prettier. She had made him promise before he had left the house on Sunday evening to come some evening during the week, and he was not in the least inclined to break that promise.
He kept it, as a matter of fact, two days later, and this time Bertha managed a tête-à-tête with him.
She had adopted no very subtle means to her end, simply stating, indeed, to Mrs. Clayber and Mabel that after half-past eight she expected to be left alone with him. "You know he doesn't come to see you," she added calmly.
"Well, I don't know why he should come especially to see you, Bertha," protested Mrs. Clayber. "You're too young to be having callers, anyway."
"Well, I think not, mother. You were married at eighteen, and I'm nearly that," retorted Bertha.
Mrs. Clayber's eyes opened wide in horror. "But you don't think of marrying him, do you?" she gasped.
"Nonsense! I didn't say that."
"But what will Cecilia say? She won't like your encouraging him to come."
"Now, what does that matter? This isn't Cecilia's house. I have a right to do as I like. Now, don't be fussy, mother. You ought to let me have a little fun occasionally. I'm sure life is poky enough here for anybody, even Cecilia."
And Bertha, pouting and quite determined, carried her point, as usual. After half an hour's general conversation, and coffee and cake, Mrs. Clayber and Mabel retired, though not without a peremptory hint from Bertha, and she and Tom talked for an hour longer, sitting before the flickering gas-log—Bertha much disposed to make herself charming and Tom very willing to admire her. She could be very sweet when she liked, and she liked Tom. His quick and emotional temperament was like her own; the touch of fire in him woke a like response in her. She liked his pride too, and the new dignity he had lately acquired. She liked the fact that she was obliged to exert herself for him. The wilful girl enjoyed nothing more than exercising her will and power, and in this case too she cared not a little for the result.
Tom was soon beguiled into a confidential tone, whereas he had intended to maintain towards Bertha a cool reserve and a tone of light flirtation. But before he went he had actually told her that he had been promised an immediate advance in position and salary by the head of his department, and that he saw his way, sometime in the future, to become a buyer for the firm—a position which might be an important one and would at any rate be comparatively well-paid. And he had also promised to go to the theatre the next Saturday night as escort to Bertha and Mrs. Clayber.
"It's Dutch treat, you know," said Bertha. "I'll get three seats together in the gallery—two for us and one for you, and I'll send your ticket to you. Then you can meet us at the theatre."
As she undressed that night, with the usual delays to contemplate herself in the mirror, Bertha hummed a gay little song to herself. She was almost content with fate just now. Tom certainly was beginning to like her and to admire her. And it was very sweet to be liked by him. Her young heart beat high, her quick blood took fire at the thought that he might come to be in love with her, as he had been with Cecilia. And Bertha was sure that she would not be able to treat him as hardly as Cecilia had done. She was too young, too full of life, for that, and he too handsome and sweet! Bertha's imagination just glanced at a possible more brilliant future for herself, and then she was lost again in a vague, rosy glow of romance. In this light she saw the joy of throwing herself away—as her mother had done—in a whirl of impulse. And Tom was clever, he would get on. Besides, Mr. Hawley could do something for him, else what was the use of a rich brother-in-law? So, dreaming already, Bertha braided her dark hair and laid herself down in her narrow bed, unreasonably happy. But it was long before she could get to sleep. She kept feeling the touch of Tom's hand, as he had held hers for a moment longer than necessary, when he said good-night; and once she put her slender hand to her lips (she had left off her gloves this once) and kissed it.
The next day it became necessary to speak to Cecilia about the theatre tickets, as it had previously been arranged she was to get them for the matinée. Accordingly, Bertha went over to luncheon, as she often did, and, as usual, found Cecilia alone. As also was generally the case nowadays, Cecilia bore the weight of her responsibilities on her brow.
"I have got to find a new cook," she sighed. "This one won't do either."
"Well, it seems to me she's pretty good," Bertha sighed in her turn as she tasted the soufflé.
"Yes, but she drinks. It's disgusting. She was drunk last night and made a disturbance. I have to send her away this afternoon. Another one has promised to come, but I don't know whether she will. It's such a pity. This woman made soups exactly as Frederick likes them, and he's very particular."
Bather to Bertha's surprise, Cecilia took her request about the tickets as a new worry.
"But why should you want to go at night?" she inquired. "I don't think you ought to—all that distance to come back alone."
"Well, Tom Jackson is going with us, and, of course, he can't go to matinées," Bertha explained, with some slight embarrassment.
Cecilia flushed.
"Did you ask him to go?" she inquired after a pause.
"Well, yes—I suggested it. Why shouldn't we go together? It will be much jollier."
"Well, I think you should be more careful, Bertha. I don't think you should have asked him."
"Well, I don't see why not," and Bertha assumed her most aggrieved look. "Don't be so fearfully prim, Cecilia!"
"But, Bertha, you must learn to be what you call prim too."
"Never!"
"Yes, you must, else you may make any amount of trouble—for yourself and others too."
"Trouble! How do you mean? I don't intend to make you any trouble."
"But you do, when you do things—like this—that I don't think right or nice of you. I worry about you, of course."
"Well, you just needn't, then. Mother can look after me, I guess, if I need it. And as for Tom, he's just a nice boy and I like him—and I don't see why I shouldn't see him now and then—and I mean to, anyway. Do you mean because he's poor I shouldn't see him?"
"No!" said Cecilia violently, and sudden, hurt tears rose to her eyes.
Bertha knew how to stab. But she did it in quick blood, not with malice, and she repented on seeing Cecilia's emotion.
"Never mind," she said; "I'll give it up and write him we can't go." She had been struck with a sudden thought about Cecilia which disconcerted her completely. It had never occurred to her before that Cecilia could care anything now for Tom, and she turned rather pale with fright.
"No," Cecilia said coldly after a moment. "If you have made the engagement, it's better to keep it. Shall I get the tickets?"
"No, I intended to go over myself and get them—but if you don't like it—my going, I mean"
"It's settled now. I don't want to interfere."
This curt expression of Cecilia's put an end to the subject, and they tried to talk on indifferent themes.