# Conflict (Prouty)/Book 4/Chapter 1

Sheilah had been at home nearly three weeks when the telephone bell rang one morning about half-past eleven. She was in the kitchen, scouring the brass faucets over the sink. She wore gloves. She was very careful of her hands since her return from Avidon's. She kept them as nicely as she made the beds now. One could, if one cared enough. Rubber gloves for cutting vegetables, cotton gloves for cleaning brass and silver, kid gloves for the appliance of rose-water and glycerine at night. She pulled off her cotton gloves now, and went into the dining-room. Probably the provision-man who was supposed to call her at nine-thirty.
'Hello.'
'Hello.'
It was not the provision-man!
'May I speak to Mrs. Nawn?'
'This is she.'
'Hello, Sheilah.' And then, as if she didn't know—as if she hadn't known from the first instant that he had spoken—'This is Roger Dallinger,' the voice announced. 'How are you?'
'All right. How are you?'
​'All right. By the way, you going to be at home, by any chance, late this afternoon?'
'Oh, I am sorry. I'm afraid I——'
'Oh, well, never mind. I just wanted to leave something of yours I have.'
'Why, I haven't missed anything. It can't be of any importance. Don't bother, please.'
'It's no bother. I'll drop around with it, somewhere around four-thirty this afternoon, and if you're not there, why, I'll just leave it at the door.'
'Oh, please don't. Really I——'
'You don't have to stay at home for me.'
'I know. But——'
'I'll be there. Good-bye.'
'But you don't know where I live.'
'Oh, don't I?' he retorted, and then in a low confidential tone he added, 'I like the ruffled curtains, better than the plain ones.'
Sheilah had been experimenting with new curtains in her front room this last week.
'You do!' she gasped.
'Yes,' he went on ingenuously, as if unaware that he had said anything incriminating. 'I think ruffles jollier somehow, at least from the outside. I'll tell you what I think from inside this afternoon, if you're there.'
'But I——'
'That's all right,' he interrupted. He simply ​wouldn't let her speak. 'Don't change your plans. I shall drop in at half-past four anyway. Good-bye,' and he hung up.
Sheilah hung up too, sitting very still afterward, with her hands clasped in her lap. She held up one hand finally before her in amazement. That shaking hand alone was sufficient reason for her not to be at home when Roger called this afternoon. She had thought her infatuation for him (for such she named the disturbance in her emotions following the moonlight night) was over. But it seemed she had only to hear his voice over the telephone to be set trembling like a girl in her teens!
She went back to her brass polishing with indignation in her heart. She polished hard and vigorously for twenty minutes, and as her hands became steady and her heart beat normally, her intelligence assumed its proper position of supremacy. He simply wanted to call and leave something she had forgotten—a perfectly conventional thing to do. It would be ridiculous to run away from him. His voice over the telephone had been light and casual. Probably that last half-minute on the verandah had meant little more to him than a ceremonious kissing of her hand. Much wiser to see him, and prove by a light and casual manner to match his, that it had meant little more to her.
But the mere thought that she was so soon to see ​Roger again, filled Sheilah with such a choking sensation of joy, that her intelligence held up a warning hand to her. Better not. Better not. Safer to get into the Ford, about three o'clock, and drive out into the country and tramp miles till supper-time. Oh, well, she wouldn't decide definitely, until after lunch. No harm anyway in fixing up the poor shabby little front room as nicely as possible; and pull out the white ruffles on the new muslin curtains. How like him to call them 'jolly.'
She was busy with the ruffles, when the telephone bell rang again. This surely would be the provision-man. But no. It was Cicely. Just home from her month in the Berkshires. She was in Boston for the day. She hadn't seen Sheilah since her return from Avidon's. She would run out at about half-past two for half an hour, if Sheilah was to be at home.
Luckily it was Friday. All the children remained at school all day on Fridays. Sheilah had an uninterrupted two hours before Cicely was due, to straighten out the apartment, and change her dress, and decide whether or not she'd go for a tramp in the country after Cicely left.
It was a very happy Cicely Morgan who stopped before Sheilah's door that afternoon. There were soft, pleasant lines hovering around her eyes and ​mouth, and her voice was soft and pleasant too, when she spoke to the chauffeur. In spite of the fact, too, that she had just been kept waiting at her dressmaker's for nearly three quarters of an hour. It was now nearly half-past three. But nothing seemed to disturb Cicely's peace of mind to-day. For that morning she had received a gram of her old magic, had dissolved it in a rich mixture of anticipation, and drank often of it all day. The morning mail had contained a note from Roger Dallinger—a brief and formal acceptance to a dinner-party she was giving, but it began, 'Cicely,' and was signed, 'Roger.'
Cicely had hesitated before inviting Roger to dinner, but in view of the interchange of ceremonies the preceding spring, and his own expressed desire to call upon her sometime in the fall, it seemed to her entirely in accordance with her idea of good taste.
Since automobiles had brought Boston within easy motoring distance of Wallbridge, Cicely Morgan's dinner-parties often included Bostonians, and usually interesting Bostonians. Roger had become an interesting Bostonian himself now—a lawyer in a well-known firm, to the distinguished prestige of which he had been no small contributor. Cicely was glad that she was in a position to provide him at dinner with a group of successful contemporaries in his own, as well as other professions, and offer him besides as attractive a selection of women as existed. ​The guests for this particular dinner-party were all chosen with Roger in view. The gown Cicely was to wear at this particular dinner-party (the fitting for which had delayed her to-day) was also chosen with Roger in view. Already she was planning on the food, and flowers, and wines, with Roger in view. She felt absurdly young and light-hearted. She kissed Sheilah tenderly. She had brought her flowers—rich, red, shaggy chrysanthemums.
'Smelling of football games,' laughed Sheilah, as she took them, and ran to put them in a high vase, thinking, 'They'll make the room prettier for Roger, if I decide to stay and see him.'
'How much nicer you look here!' Cicely exclaimed, glancing around the apartment. 'And how well you're looking. And so pretty! Are you really better? I don't need to ask. I see it in your eyes. You seem to be just glowing. You're happier, aren't you, Sheilah?'
'Oh, yes. Much. Especially this afternoon—somehow. Seeing you, and everything. I'm very happy. And oh—ever so much better. I've so much to tell you!'
'Well, tell me. I can stay a little while.' She glanced at her wrist. ('Not too long,' Sheilah hoped.) 'Tell me all about it—whom you met, what you did, what you learned—everything.'
Sheilah's letters to Cicely had been brief. She ​hadn't mentioned Roger. She didn't now, by name. Only referred to him as 'a man who was awfully nice to me.'
'A man?' Cicely gently jibed her.
Sheilah flushed.
Cicely laughed, and hugged her, and mercifully changed the subject. 'What about some new fall clothes?'
'How good of you, Cicely! But I don't need clothes any more. I'd much rather have the money. I do so want Laetitia to be in the right environment. The summer has been wonderful for her. She's so much finer, since her summer in a place where fineness was an ideal. All the children are so improved. I've a little money of mother's, you know, and I think perhaps next year I can manage, with a little help, to send Laetitia to a private school. I do so want to.'
'Do you? Well, we must talk about it.'
They were still talking about it when Roger Dallinger's gray coupé roadster drew up behind Cicely's black limousine at exactly half-past four.
Sheilah's eyes had been on the clock for the last ten minutes, but she found herself unprepared for the buzz of the bell that made her escape from Roger impossible. She simply couldn't run away now. Circumstances had decided it for her.
​'That's the front-door bell. I must answer it,' she said, and went to press the button that would release the door three stories below. When she returned, 'Don't go just yet,' she said to Cicely who had risen. After all it would make the meeting with Roger easier and more conventional if she had a caller. 'I think this may be the man who was nice to me this summer. Do wait and see him.'
'But it's after half-past four.'
'For just a minute. You'll have to anyway. He's on his way up.' And she opened the door into the hall. She heard Roger's steps slowly ascending the last flight of stairs, and before he had quite reached the top, saw him hesitate, and glance about uncertainly.
'This way,' she called.
'Oh, you're here!'
'Just by chance.'
They were shaking hands now.
'I hope you didn't stay in for me,' he laughed.
'Of course I didn't,' she laughed back. 'Come in this way, please. I want you to meet my cousin, Miss Morgan. This is Mr. Dallinger, Cicely.'
They were in the little front room now—all three. For a moment Cicely and Roger just stared at each other. It was Roger who recovered first.
'Your cousin!' he exclaimed, 'Cicely Morgan your cousin! Why, Cicely, how do you do.' He shook ​hands with her enthusiastically. 'This is splendid!' He was complete master of the situation. He would be, thought Cicely. 'How are you? You look wonderfully.'
Cicely replied, 'I'm very well, thank you.'
Roger turned to Sheilah. 'Your cousin and I are old friends,' he announced.
'Really?' groped Sheilah. When—where—how? That tantalizing sensation again! And then it flashed over her! She remembered it all! The sunny winter morning; the high banks of snow; Cicely stopping her; telling her about Roger Dallinger; the look in her eyes; the tone of her voice; 'I remember!' she said, slowly, wonderingly. 'Why, I remember.' And she stared at Cicely, suddenly become so cold, and formal, and withdrawn.
'Oh, no, you don't,' scoffed Roger. 'You never heard of my existence.' Sheilah didn't contradict him. 'I mailed you a note last night,' Roger remarked, turning to Cicely. 'I'm delighted to come to dinner with you on the sixth, or is it the eighth?'
That was all the impression her invitation had made! 'The eighth,' she replied. 'I received your note this morning.' Her intonation was smooth and flawless.
'I've a great deal to talk to you about—years to make up,' Roger rushed on. 'Among other things I want to discuss this fellow inmate of mine.' He ​nodded toward Sheilah. 'She was at Avidon's this summer, and so was I. You remember Avidon's?'
Cicely nodded.
'Why, she sent me there,' Sheilah announced. 'But for Cicely——'
'Oh, I begin to see light,' Roger exclaimed. 'She was rather a mystery to us, you know,' he told Cicely, smiling across at Sheilah fondly—too fondly. 'Well—' he broke off, 'she did you credit, Cicely. She was very popular at Avidon's.'
Cicely's voice had lost its soft mellow note, and her eyes their kindness, when she stepped into her automobile a little later, and told the chauffeur to drive directly home.
Oh, what wouldn't she give to recall that dinner invitation to Roger—to recall the dinner itself? She had lost all pleasure in it now. Oh, why had she allowed Roger Dallinger to come into her life again? He always only hurt her, always only humiljated her, and cast her pride in the dust. Why had she drunk again of his poisonous magic? The first reaction of elation was always followed by disappointment and despair, and worse—jealousy. There is no poison more deadly than jealousy, no emotion more devastating. Several of her women friends were jealous of her, and men used to be. How ​she despised them for it. How she despised herself for it. Strange coincidence, that she should have sent Sheilah into Roger's very arms. Any one could see there was something between them. How happy Sheilah had seemed, and glowing. And how she had flushed when she had jibed her about the man who had been nice to her at Avidon's. And later how elaborately at ease Roger had tried to appear; and yet how impossible for him to avoid centering the entire conversation upon Sheilah, and the impression she had made at Avidon's, smiling at her in that fond, tender way of his, she used to know so well. What were they doing now together, alone?
She closed her eyes to shut out the image of it. How unaware they were of her, and her bitterness, and humiliation. Well, they would be always unaware. She would go abroad again as soon as possible. The underlying motive in returning to America had been the possibility of some sort of renewed relationship with Roger. But it was impossible. It had been demonstrated. She cared for him too much—still too much. Oh, when would the years come to her rescue?
But nothing happened between Sheilah and Roger that afternoon that Cicely needed to close her eyes to. Masked in his lightest and airiest manner he ​concealed even from Sheilah herself the earnestness of his feelings.
Left alone with her his first remark had been about the curtains. 'Yes, I like these better from the inside too. Ruffled muslin curtains always put me in mind of a clothes-yard in the country on a sunny Monday morning.' And his second about the chrysanthemums, 'What beauties! And to be growing in a clothes-yard too!' And his third, as he gazed slowly about him, 'So this is the tenement—the tower—the beautiful princess lives in!' And then quickly, for fear she might think he was getting personal (as perhaps he was. It was difficult not to, with Sheilah standing right here in the same room with him), he switched off. 'So Cicely Morgan is your cousin! What a coincidence!'
He stayed less than half an hour. It had been his firm intention to stay less than ten minutes—just to drop in, this first time, to prove to her there was nothing more about him to fear here in Boston than at Avidon's. But the minutes flew so! They used up the first ten discussing Cicely, and the next ten the Outsiders, and the next five the reason for his call. It was Sheilah who referred to the reason first.
'Whatever can it be of mine you are returning?'
He produced it from a side pocket.
'A book I bought for you two weeks ago, and have been borrowing since without your permission. A ​volume of "Amy's" poems. "The blue tiles of the sky" is in it, and other things I like, and you'll like, too, I think. I've marked the things I liked—lightly, in pencil. You can rub the marks out if you don't agree.'
'But, I——'
For a moment he was afraid she was going to refuse the book. It would have hurt him terribly if she had.
Perhaps she surmised it, for suddenly she smiled, and reached out her hand. 'Thank you so much. I shall love reading it.'
And he replied quickly, impulsively, in a voice she remembered afterward, 'I shall love having you!' The clock struck five. 'I must go,' he broke off.
'But,' she laughed, 'you haven't even sat down yet!'
They were still standing by the chrysanthemums, where Cicely had left them half an hour ago. It hadn't occurred to them to sit down.
'I will next time,' he laughed at her. 'Sometimes I'm out this way, and I shall drop in.' He didn't ask her if he might—just made the statement, adding quickly, before she could object, 'Good-bye. It's been wonderful to see you,' and held out his hand.
She put her own on it. 'Good-bye' she smiled at him.
And suddenly he did such a strange, unprece​dented thing—such a sweet, strange, unprecedented thing. He placed his forefinger lightly on her lips and pressed them gently, looking straight into her eyes, and then quickly, as if the act had slipped out against his will, and he wished to cover it up, 'It's later than I thought. I must hurry. How early it grows dark,' he said, and left her.
Half an hour later, Sheilah greeted the children with shining eyes. She put her arms around them, held them close. Oh, how rich she was! How happy she was! She greeted Felix with the same shining eyes. She sang to herself, as she used to years ago, as she prepared the supper. She laughed and told amusing stories at the supper-table later.
'Mother's better than before she was sick,' said Laetitia.
After supper she went over to Felix with that same singing feeling in her heart, put her arm around his bent shoulders, and admired a little armchair he was sandpapering, leaning down afterward and kissing the back of one of his big clumsy hands.