"I can't see," Hildred reasoned, "why you should find the idea so
terrible."
"And I can't see," Tom returned, "what it matters how I find the idea,
so long as nobody is serious about it."
"Oh, but they will be. It's what I told you before. They'd made up
their minds they didn't want to find him; and now it's hard to unmake
them again. But they're coming to it."
"I hope they're not taking the trouble on my account."
"They're taking it on their own. Tad as much as said so. He said they'd
stuck it out as long as they could; but they couldn't stick it out
forever."
"Stick it out against what?"
"Against what's staring them in the face, I suppose."
"Did he tell you what I said to him, that nothing would induce me to
belong to the family that had produced him?"
She laughed. "Oh, yes. He told me the whole thing, how you'd come into
his room, how Guy had got the other fellows out, and the pitched battle
between you."
"And did he say how it had ended?"
"He said--if you want to know exactly I'll tell you exactly--he said
that when it came to talking about the war and the part he would have
to play in it, you weren't as big a damn fool as he had thought you."
"And did he say how big a damn fool he was himself?"
"He admitted he had been one; but with his father on his hands, and the
war, and all that, he'd have to put the brakes on himself, and pretend
to be a good boy."
Laughing to himself Tom stretched out his legs to the blaze of the
fire. Hildred had sent for him because Mrs. Ansley was out of the way
at her Mothers' Club. There was nothing underhand in this, since she
would not conceal the fact accomplished. It avoided only a preliminary
struggle. If she needed an excuse, the necessities of their good
intentions toward Tad would offer it.
Tea being over, Hildred, who was fond of embroidery, had taken up a
piece of work. Like many women, she found it easier to be daring in an
incidental way while stitching. Stitching kept her from having to look
at Tom as she reverted to the phase of the subject from which they had
drifted away.
"The Whitelaws are a perfectly honorable family. They may even be
called distinguished. I don't see what it is you've got against them."
"I've got nothing against them. They rather--" he sought for a word
that would express the queer primordial attraction they possessed for
him--"they rather cast a spell on me. But I don't want to belong to
them."
"But why not, if it was proved that--?"
"For one reason, it couldn't be proved; and for another, it's too late."
The ring in his voice was strange; it made her look up at him. "Too
late? Why do you say that?"
"Because it is. You told me some time ago that it was what they thought
themselves. Even if it _were_ proved, it would still be--too late."
"I don't understand you."
"I'm not sure that I understand myself. I only know that the life I've
lived would make it impossible for me to go and live their life."
"Oh, nonsense! Their life is just the same as our life."
"Well, I'm not sure that I could live yours. I could conform to it on
the outside. I could talk your way and eat your way; but I couldn't
think your way."
"When you say _my_ way--"
"I mean the way of all your class. Mind you, I'm not against it. I only
feel that somehow--in things I can't explain and wouldn't know how to
remedy--it's wrong."
"Oh, but, Tom--"
"It seems to be necessary that a great many people shall go without
anything in order that a very few people may enjoy everything. That's
as far as I go. I don't draw any conclusions; and I'm certainly not
going in for any radical theories. Only I can't think it right. I want
to be a banker; but even if I _am_ a banker--"
"I see what you mean," she interrupted, pensively. "I often feel that
way myself. But, oh, Tom, what can we do about it that--that wouldn't
seem quite mad?"
He smiled ruefully. "I don't know. But if you live long enough--and
work hard enough--and think straight enough--and don't do anything to
put you off your nut--why, some day you may find a way out that will be
sane."
"Yes, but couldn't you do that and be Harry Whitelaw--if you _are_
Harry Whitelaw--at the same time?"
"Suppose we wait till the question arises? As far as I know, no one who
belonged to Harry Whitelaw, or to whom Harry Whitelaw belonged, has
ever brought it up."
But only a few weeks later this very thing seemed about to come to pass.
It was toward the end of March. On returning to his room one morning
Tom was startled by a telegram. Telegrams were so rare in his life
that merely to see one lying on his table gave him a thrill, partly of
wonder, partly of fear. Opening it, he was still more surprised to find
it from Philip Ansley. Would Tom be in Louisburg Square for reasons of
importance at four that afternoon?
That something had betrayed himself and Hildred would have been his
only surmise; only that there was nothing to betray. Except for the
few hurried words Hildred had spoken on that Sunday night, anything
they had said they had said in looks, and even their looks had been
guarded and discreet. The things most essential to them both were in
what they were taking for granted. They had exchanged no letters; their
intercourse was always of the kind that anyone might overhear. Without
recourse to explanation each recognized the fact that it would be years
before either of them would be free to speak or to take a step. In the
meantime their only crime was their confidence in each other; and you
couldn't betray that.
Nevertheless, it was with uneasiness that he rang at the door, and
asked Pilcher if Mr. Ansley were at home. Pilcher was mysterious. Mr.
Ansley was not at home, but if Mr. Tom would come in he would find
himself expected. Tea being served in the library, Mr. Tom was shown
upstairs.
It was a gloomy afternoon outside; the room was dim. All Tom saw at
first was a tall man standing on the hearth rug, where the fire behind
him had almost gone out. He had taken a step forward and held out his
hand before Tom recognized the distinguished stranger who had first
hailed him in the New Hampshire lake nearly three years earlier.
"Do you remember me?"
"Yes, sir."
They stood with hands clasped, each gazing into the other's face. Tom
would have withdrawn his hand, would have receded, but the other held
him with a grasp both tense and tenacious. The eyes, deep-set like
Tom's own, and overhung with bushy outstanding eyebrows, studied him
with eager penetration. Not till that look was satisfied did the tall
figure swing to someone who was sitting in the shadow.
"This is the boy, Onora. Look at him."
She was sitting out of direct range in a corner of the library darkened
by buildings standing higher on the Hill. The man turned Tom slightly
in her direction, where the daylight fell on him. The degree to which
the woman shrank from seeing him was further marked by the fact that
she partly hid her face behind a big black-feather fan for which there
was no other use than concealment. She said nothing at all; but even in
the obscurity Tom could perceive the light of two feverish eyes.
It was the man who took the lead.
"Won't you sit down?"
He placed a chair where the woman could observe its occupant, without
being drawn of necessity into anything that might be said. The man
himself drew up another chair, on which he sat sidewise in an easy
posture close to Tom. Tom liked him. He liked his face, his voice, his
manner, the something friendly and sympathetic he recalled from the
earlier meetings. Whether this were his father or not, he would have
no difficulty in meeting him at any time on intimate and confidential
terms.
"My wife and I wanted to see you," he began, simply, "in order to thank
you for what you've done for Tad."