Mrs. Horton’s death came just before the time when Matthew had planned
to leave for Washington. A succession of complications had hastened it.
Three days before it came, Fliss knew that it was imminent and she spent
those days sitting beside her mother for long periods, her face white
and drawn, but her courage sustained as it always was in a crisis.
Death seemed on no great errand here in this shabby little flat,
breaking no heart, effecting no terrible cleavage. Yet the solemnity of
the struggle was not altered by the fact that it was only a commonplace,
middle-aged woman who was fighting for the chance to keep on going to
the moving pictures, gossiping, living in trivialities. Death,
disregarding human gradations of importance, was choosing this soul
gravely, solemnly. And Fliss, shivering a little by her mother’s bed,
watched and learned, and perhaps in her quick, practical way got a
firmer grip on life from this first intimacy with death.
She would have nothing to do with the funeral arrangements. Until the
end she had stayed by her mother, but after it was over and her mother
was gone, Ellen and Mrs. Ellis managed the details of burial. Mr. Horton
remained unobtrusive. Vaguely encouraging his wife, he had also stayed
beside her and she had turned to him rather than to Fliss. Later he went
out and bought a box of red carnations, giving them to Ellen to arrange
near his wife.
“She always liked carnations,” he said.
Fliss was very gentle to him and very anxious to make him comfortable,
but it was soon clear to every one that the boarding house where Mrs.
Ellis lived and where a remnant of friends of his early married life
still stayed was the best solution. He obviously preferred it so and
Mrs. Ellis had him under her charge. In two weeks there was nothing left
of the Horton household in the flat, and Fliss, her spirits rising in
their characteristic way, made her plans for Washington and prepared to
close her own house. She did not see much of Matthew now, for he was
absorbed in work that kept him busy night and day. Much of it she knew
was with Dick, but Dick did not come to her house. They had met once or
twice in Matthew’s office when she had gone in to see her husband, but
that was all. Dick had been carefully casual in his manner, and Fliss
flippant as usual. To see the three of them together for those few
moments would never have been to guess at the clashes and attractions
which were between them.
If Fliss wondered whether Matthew had seen Cecily and deliberately kept
herself from inquiring, she was rewarded by his asking her one night a
week before their departure, “Shall we go to see Cecily for a moment
to-night?”
Knowing what he wanted and expected, she answered as he would wish.
“Can’t. I have a caller. But you go.”
He said nothing more. After dinner, though she tried to detain him in
spite of her permission, he went out early. Fliss frowned a little and
then prepared to receive her caller.
* * * * *
Matthew went along swiftly like a man overcoming irresolution. He was
walking instead of driving and the night air, full of the chill of early
autumn, seemed to invigorate him. At Cecily’s house Ellen took his hat
and told him that Mrs. Harrison was in. He had last seen Ellen at Mrs.
Horton’s bedside.
“You fit in well here, Ellen,” he said, looking about at the quiet,
spacious house which seemed too quiet. “I hope you’re planning to stay,
now.”
“Yes, I am going to stay,” she answered. “Mrs. Harrison needs me.”
She turned to go, but on impulse he called her back.
“Ellen, if Mrs. Harrison ever needs me, if she ever needs a man and you
know it, will you send me word? Mrs. Allenby and I are off to Washington
next week.”
“Yes. That’s what Mr. Harrison asked me, too.”
She might have said more, but Cecily herself came down the staircase, a
little surprised at the sight of her visitor. She held out both hands
and drew him into the long living-room before the fire.
“I hoped you wouldn’t go away without coming to see me.”
“Of course not. How are you?”
All was casual. But they could not keep it up. After a little there was
silence and as the silence ripened, they knew they could speak of
anything.
“Things have changed since we first sat in this room, Matthew. When Dick
used to sit over in that chair and we all used to talk about everything
in the world. And since then have come wars and babies and now Dick’s
gone. How is he, Matthew?”
“Pretty fit. A little thinner. Working hard.”
She paused for a moment, and then went on with a little laugh:
“I have so much to say that I can’t afford to be reflective. So much to
ask. What is the matter with us all, Matthew?”
“I’ve tried to figure it out myself. You mean about you and Dick?”
“Why I failed.” He could see her hands pressing themselves together.
“Why Dick stopped caring for me.”
“I don’t think he did.”
“Oh, yes. He didn’t care when he left. We had nothing left at all except
memories. We jarred on each other all the time.”
“And has this been peace since you parted?”
“It has not been happiness or even satisfaction. I keep on expecting
happiness right around the corner. Then I turn the corner and find
loneliness.”
“If you and Dick could only get at the root of all this and dig it out.”
“We tried, but we couldn’t. There was no single root. It was just basic
difference in ideals. He wasn’t with me in demanding greater dignity
from life--does that sound foolish? And I was jealous of Fliss.”
“Not really, Cecily. That would be nonsense.”
“I didn’t suspect Dick of a love affair with Fliss, of course. But I
couldn’t bear his admiration of her and of Della. I couldn’t bear to
have him even tolerate them. It sounds small, Matthew, but I wanted him
with me--with me completely. I couldn’t go on with him at all if we
weren’t together. Yet now it isn’t peace; it’s quiet, that’s all. And I
shall go on into middle age. I’m middle-aged now and I’m only
twenty-six.”
Matthew leaned forward and took one of her hands gently, naturally.
“Do you know that Fliss is jealous of you?” he asked.
“Of me! Not any more!”
“Always will be. Because she knows that you have a part of men’s souls
that she can never reach. I wouldn’t tell you this if I didn’t think you
needed it. But when I asked Fliss to marry me she said I was in love
with you. I wanted her to marry me. I wanted all her sparkle and charm
and gayety. I needed it. So I told her. And she said I was in love with
you; that she had read it in my face every time I looked at you. So
finally I said that even admitting that and refusing to discuss it, I
wanted her to marry me. And we have had a very good time together. But
she knows that I always have carried about with me----”
“Don’t, Matthew.”
“I must, just once. I’m going away. I know that it isn’t going to hurt
you or do me any good. But if you thought that there was the faintest
chance that I could do you any good--help you at all with my love--I’d
carry you off to-morrow.”
Then all the invisible little bonds which had grown between them in six
years tightened suddenly and all Matthew’s repressions and evasions
crumbled. For one moment bigger than all reason, he held her against his
heart and as he bent his head to hers Cecily looked up at the man who
understood her and thought with her and for her and she trusted herself
to the comfort of his arms, while he said foolish, shaken things and
broke off to press his lips into the soft hollow of her neck.
Then she drew away, but very, very gently.
“It’s a terrible confusion, isn’t it? There’s nothing for us; little for
you and Fliss; and nothing for Dick and me. All our lives are tangled up
together and we can’t straighten it out.”
The dream had not quite gone from Matthew’s eyes as he looked down at
her soft, flushed cheeks and the waves of dark hair.
“You think we couldn’t, you and I, for each other?”
“I’ve three children, Matthew. I couldn’t start over.”
“I’d love the children. It would all be arranged so easily--so quickly.
You’d not need to have the slightest embarrassment or pain. And to bring
you happiness, Cecily--to keep you in the midst of the happiness you
deserve and need--might be what only I could do. I’d try, dear.”
Cecily sat silent, her hands pressed against her face. Whether it was
pity or hesitation or horror that she felt he could not tell. But
to-night Matthew was not a philosopher, but a man with intense desires
and hopes. He pressed his advantage.
“After it was settled we’d be able to go away--away to places you’ve
never seen--we’d learn about the world together.”
He wanted to take her in his arms again, but she gave him no
opportunity.
“It wouldn’t do,” she said swiftly. “I’m sure it wouldn’t do. Just for a
moment, Matthew, you thought it would. But you and I couldn’t do that
sort of thing and you know it as well as I do. We’re not the kind of
persons who can build happiness out of wrongs.”
“But what are the wrongs?”
“Wrongs to Fliss and to Dick--even if we don’t think they’d care much.
I’m sure, Matthew. There was a moment when I was doubtful about it, but
I’m not doubtful any more. There are times, I suppose, when that sort of
thing is justified--if a woman loves a man enough. But----”
He did not let her finish. “Don’t say it, Cecily. I know. But I’d rather
not have you say it. Forget it all. For a moment while you were doubtful
I sailed among the clouds. It was my big personal moment. Now I’m back
on the earth and there I’ll stay. I’ll go to Washington and fumble
around among the tangles of the country’s affairs and if I’m lucky
perhaps I’ll untie some little knot in the great tangle. And I’ll be
glad all the time that you are alive and that the world is enriched by
you.”
“It will be so lonely without you. Even when I don’t see much of you,
just to know that you are here is a comfort.”
“I’ll always be ready to come on demand, you know, Cecily. What I hope
is that you can fight your way through this. You mustn’t expect things
to clear perfectly and absolutely. The best any one of us gets is a ray
of hope and enlightenment now and then. You may have to compromise--even
if it hurts you. But you won’t have to compromise your ideals,
Cecily--just the manner of putting them over.”
She had fallen back into her chair and sat there looking at the fire.
“I’m going now.”
Cecily made a bewildered gesture of protest. He turned to the door, but
she sprang up, hurrying after him.
“It will be so terrible alone--again. Don’t go.”
Her hands were stretched out towards him in appeal and they faced each
other trembling. Then Matthew’s voice came--unnatural, shaken:
“I can’t stay now, Cecily. It would only make you more wretched.”
She heard the door close and was alone in the warm, softly lit room,
helplessly sobbing.
Matthew hurried along as if trying to escape from the thoughts or
suggestions that pursued him. Through the darkened streets, choosing
side streets for his progress, almost stumbling in his absorption, he
walked for miles, apparently seeing nothing, all the keenness of
observation that was usual with him obscured in his face. It was
midnight when he reached his home, and entering softly, went upstairs.
The light from Fliss’s room shone bright into the hallway. He was
passing when she called him back.
“Late, aren’t you, Matthew?”
He stood silhouetted in her doorway, looking unkempt and worn. Fliss was
at her dressing table brushing the luxuriant hair of which she was so
proud. She looked at him curiously.
“Where on earth have you been to look like that?”
“Like what? I took a walk and it’s damp outside.”
“You certainly must have walked,” commented Fliss. “Sit down here and
rest and talk to me.”
“I’m tired. I think I’ll go along to bed.”
“How’s Cecily?”
“Very fine.”
“Glad to see you.”
“She’s always cordial.”
“Not very expansive are you, darling? Well, sit down anyway. I want to
tell you about my evening. I’ve had an exciting one.”
“Who was here?”
“Gordon.”
“That must have passed the time.”
“Gordon was very trying to-night. Excitable.”
He looked at her curiously as she brushed out the black, shining
lengths. For the first time since he came in he seemed to see her as
something other than an obstacle.
“What was he excitable about?”
“Me. He wanted me--to make love to me.”
“Oh, my God!” said Matthew, laughing as if the thing that amused him was
not at all funny.
“Amused?”
“I was laughing at the foolishness of men, Fliss.”
“Not so foolish,” said Fliss, drily. “He was very much in earnest. And
as it happens that he cares a lot I was almost tempted to pack my bag.
What would you have done?”
“Gone after you.”
She looked around at him skeptically. “Well, anyway I didn’t run. I
called that whole business off. Told him there was nothing doing at all.
He won’t be back.”
“Why did you lead him such a dance, Fliss? He’s such a nice young
fellow.”
“Well, you see”--Fliss contemplated her image in the glass--“I was doing
my best to make you jealous. But you wouldn’t fall for it, old thing.
Now tell me what you were doing. Trying to get Cecily to run off with
you?”
At that random shot Matthew stiffened angrily. “Good-night.”
“So you won’t tell me about your escapades even if I tell you about
mine?” said Fliss, imperturbably. But he had gone. She saw the face in
her mirror lose its lightness and get hard and a little bitter. Then she
brushed on. It was good for the hair.
Later he came in and kissed her and patted her head thoughtfully.
“I’ve been thinking, Fliss,” he said to her, “that since you are to be
in Washington you need a few more things. Most of the women must have a
lot more jewels than you have. How about coming down to-morrow and
treating yourself?”
“But I thought you were preaching economy for the nation.”
“I am. And I mean it. But I’d like to do this.”
She took her cue, though the droop in her voice belied the gayety of her
words.
“All right, darling. Hang me with diamonds and watch me sparkle.”