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Fidelity

<h2>CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE</h2> When he could not get away, after the maid had let him in and he had given his name and was waiting in the formal little reception room, he was not only more frightened than he had ever been in his life, but frightened in a way he had never known anything about before. He sat far forward on the stiff little French chair, fairly afraid to let his feet press on the rug. He did not look around him; he did not believe he would be able to move when he had to move; he knew he would not be able to speak. He was appalled at the consciousness of what he had done, of where he was. He would joyfully have given anything he had in the world just to be out doors, just not to have been there at all. There was what seemed a long wait and the only way he got through it was by telling himself that Mrs. Williams would not see him. Of course she wouldn't see him! There was a step on the stairs; he told himself that it was the maid, coming to say Mrs. Williams could not see him. But when he knew there was someone in the doorway he looked up and then, miraculously, he was on his feet and standing there bowing to Mrs. Williams. He thought she looked startled upon actually seeing him, as if she had not believed it was really he. There was a hesitating moment when she stood in the doorway, a moment of looking a little as if trying to overcome a feeling of being suddenly sick. Then she stepped forward and, though pale, had her usual manner of complete self-possession. "You wished to see me?" she asked in an even tone faintly tinged with polite incredulity. "Yes," he said, and was so relieved at his voice sounding pretty much all right that he drew a longer breath. She looked hesitatingly at a chair, then sat down; he resumed his seat on the edge of the stiff little chair. She sat there waiting for him to speak; she still had that look of polite incredulity. She sat erect, her hands loosely clasped; she appeared perfectly poised, unperturbed, but when she made a movement for her handkerchief he saw that her hand was shaking. "I know I've got my nerve to come here, Mrs. Williams," he blurted out. She smiled faintly, and he saw that as she did so her lip twitched. "I'm leaving for the West this afternoon. I'm going out there to live—to work." That he had said quite easily. It was a little more effort to add: "And I wanted to see you before I went." She simply sat there waiting, but there was still that little twitching of her lip. "Mrs. Williams," he began quietly, "I don't know whether or not you know that I've been with my sister Ruth this summer." When she heard that name spoken there was a barely perceptible drawing back, as when something is flicked before one's eyes. Then her lips set more firmly. Ted looked down and smoothed out the soft hat he was holding, which he had clutched out of shape. Then he looked up and said, voice low: "Ruth has come to mean a great deal to me, Mrs. Williams." And still she did not speak, but sat very straight and there were two small red spots now in her pale cheeks. "And so," he murmured, after a moment, "that's why I came to you." "I think," she said in a low, incisive, but unsteady voice, "that I do not quite follow." He looked at her in a very simple, earnest way. "You don't?" he asked. There was a pause and then he said, "I saw you at the theatre last night." "Indeed?" she murmured with a faint note of irony. But she did not deflect him from that simple earnestness. "And when I went home I thought about you." He paused and then added, gently, "Most all night, I thought about you." And still she only sat there looking at him and as if holding herself very tight. She had tried to smile at that last and the little disdainful smile had stiffened on her lips, making them look pulled out of shape and set that way. "I said to myself," Ted went on, "'What's she getting out of it?'" His voice came up on that; he said it rather roughly. Her face flamed. "If this is what you have come here to say—" she began in a low angry voice. "If this is what you have intruded into my house for—you—!" She made a movement as if about to rise. Ted threw out his hand with a little gesture of wanting to explain. "Maybe I shouldn't have put it that way. I hope I didn't seem rude. I only meant," he said gently, "that as I watched you you didn't look as though you were happy." "And what if I'm not?" she cried, as if stung by that. "What if I'm not? Does that give you any right to come here and tell me so?" He shook his head, as if troubled at again putting things badly. "I really came," he said, in a low earnest voice, "because it seemed to me it must be that you did not understand. It occurred to me that perhaps no one had ever tried to make you understand. I came because it seemed fairer—to everybody." Something new leaped into her eyes. "I presume it was suggested to you?" she asked sharply. "No, Mrs. Williams, it was not suggested to me." As she continued to look at him with suspicion he colored a little and said quietly: "You will have to believe that, because I give you my word that it is true." She met the direct look of his clear hazel eyes and the suspicion died out of her own. But new feeling quickly flamed up. "And hasn't it occurred to you," she asked quiveringly, "that you are rather a—well, to be very mild indeed, rather a presumptuous young man to come to me, to come into my house, with this?" There was a big rush of feeling as she choked: "Nobody's spoken to me like this in all these years!" "That's just the trouble," said Ted quickly, as if they were really getting at it now. "That's just the trouble." "What do you mean?" she asked sharply. "Why—just that. Nobody has talked to you about it. Everybody has been afraid to, and so you've just been let alone with it. Things get worse, get all twisted up, get themselves into a tight twist that won't come out when we're shut up with them." His face looked older as he said, "I know that myself." He meditated upon that an instant; then, quickly coming back to her, looked up and added gently: "So it seemed to me that maybe you hadn't had a fair show just because everybody has been afraid of you and let you alone." Her two trembling hands were pulling at her handkerchief. Her eyes were very bright. "And you aren't afraid of me?" she asked with a little laugh that seemed trying to be mocking but was right on the edge of tears. He shook his head. "That is," he qualified it with a slight smile, "not much—now." Then he said, as if dropping what they were talking about and giving her a confidence: "While I was waiting for you I was so scared that I wished I could drop dead." His smile in saying it was so boyish that she too dropped the manner of what they were talking about and faintly smiled back at him. It seemed to help her gain possession of herself and she returned to the other with a crisp, "And so, as I understand it, you thought you'd just drop in and set everything right?" He flushed and looked at her a little reproachfully. Then he said, simply, "It seemed worth trying." He took a letter from his pocket. "I got this from my sister this morning. The girl who has been working for her has gone away. Her mother came and took her away. She had 'heard.' They're always 'hearing.' This has happened time after time." "Now just let me understand it," she began in that faintly mocking way, though her voice was shaking. "You propose that I do something to make the—the servant problem easier for your sister. Is that it? I am to do something, you haven't yet said what, to facilitate the domestic arrangements of the woman who is living with my husband. That's it, isn't it?" she asked with seeming concern. He reddened, but her scoffing seemed to give him courage, as if he had something not to be scoffed at and could produce it. "It can be made to sound ridiculous, can't it?" he concurred. "But—" he broke off and his eyes went very serious. "You never knew Ruth very well, did you, Mrs. Williams?" he asked quietly. The flush spread over her face. "We were not intimate friends," was her dry answer, but in that voice not steady. He again colored, but that steady light was not driven from his eyes. "Ruth's had a terrible time, Mrs. Williams," he said in a quiet voice of strong feeling. "And if you had known her very well—knew just what it is Ruth is like—it seems to me you would have to feel sorry for her." She seemed about to speak again in that mocking way, but looking at his face—the fine seriousness, the tender concern—she kept silence. "And just what is it you propose that I do?" she asked after a moment, as if trying to appear faintly amused. Very seriously he looked up at her. "It would help—even at this late day—if you would get a divorce." She gasped; whether she had been prepared for it or not she was manifestly unprepared for the simple way he said it. For a moment she stared at him. Then she laughed. "You are a most amazing young man!" she said quiveringly. As he did not speak, but only looked at her in that simple direct way, she went on, with rising feeling, "You come here, to me, into my house, proposing that—in order to make things easier for your sister in living with my husband—I get a divorce!" He did not flinch. "It might do more than make things easier for my sister," he said quietly. "What do you mean?" she demanded sharply. "It might make things easier for you." "And what do you mean by that?" she asked in that quick sharp way. "It might make things easier," he said, "just to feel that, even at this late day, you've done the decent thing." She stood up. "Do you know, young man, that you've said things to me that are outrageous to have said?" She was trembling so it seemed hard to speak. "I've let you go on just because I was stupified by your presumption—staggered, and rather amused at your childish audacity. But you've gone a little too far! How dare you talk to me like this?" she demanded with passion. He had moved toward the door. He looked at her, then looked away. His control was all broken down now. "I'm sorry to have it end like this," he muttered. She laughed a little, but she was shaken with the sobs she was plainly making a big effort to hold back. "I'm so sorry," he said with such real feeling that the tears brimmed from her eyes. He stood there awkwardly. Somehow her house seemed very lonely, comfortless. And now that her composure was broken down, the way she looked made him very sorry for her. "I don't want you to think," he said gently, "that I don't see how bad it has been for you." She tried to laugh. "You don't think your sister was very—fair to me, do you?" she asked chokingly, looking at him in a way more appealing than aggressive. "I suppose not," he said. "No, I suppose not." He stood there considering that. "But I guess," he went on diffidently, "I don't just know myself—but it seems there come times when being fair gets sort of—lost sight of." The tears were running down her face and she was not trying to check them. He stood there another minute and then timidly held out his hand. "Good-by, Mrs. Williams," he said gently. She took his hand with a queer, choking little laugh and held it very tight for a minute, as if to steady herself. His own eyes had dimmed. Then he smiled—a smile that seemed to want to go ahead and take any offence or hurt from what he was about to say. "Maybe, Mrs. Williams, that you will come to feel like being fairer to Ruth than Ruth was to you." His smile widened and he looked very boyish as he finished, "And that would be one way of getting back, you know!" <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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