# Conflict (Prouty)/Book 4/Chapter 8

Roger and Cicely had just finished dinner. Cicely led the way into what used to be called her father's den, when Roger first came to see her—leather-furnished, leather-walled then, studded with many brass-headed upholstery tacks, but now known as 'the book-room,' lined to the ceiling with Cicely's own long, slow accumulation of the most beautiful editions of the most beautiful things that have ever been expressed in print. And all within an arm's length, or an easy step or two, of the two low, softcushioned chairs, drawn up before the mantelless fireplace over which hung a single oil painting, the only interruption in the solid phalanx of books, except for the low narrow door (maple like the rest of the wood-work, rubbed to dark gold like an old saddle) and two windows.
The two windows were hung in purple velvet, the color of Concord grapes their bloom untouched; the two low armchairs and a couch near by, covered in raspberry red. There were logs burning now in the fireplace. The books in their many-colored bindings glowed in their gold settings like old jewels, and blended with amazing harmony with the exotic ​purple and red. 'Charming! Like a salpiglossis!' Roger had exclaimed the first time he had seen the room in the firelight. Cicely had felt fully repaid for all her pains. Roger's praise was very dear to her.
A similar metamorphosis had taken place in every room in the house. The typical living-room of the nineties, over-furnished with armchairs and sofas upholstered and tufted, overhung with oil-paintings framed in heavy gilt, over-carpeted with oriental rugs laid on top of padded Wilton, was now as clean and chaste as a trimmed forest; its bare waxed floors, with only an occasional rug here and there, dimly reflecting the slender ankles of a duck-footed table, the delicate legs of a Sheraton sofa, and other lovely tapering shadows of old forms and shapes, undraped, uncovered, sparsely distributed. There was little upholstered furniture in the room. One saw through the open backs of old chairs, space beyond, and vistas. But it was a cool, formal room. Cicely preferred the warm purple and red to-night, and the intimacy of the closely crowding books, and two armchairs.
Beside one of the armchairs there was a low table upon which had already been placed cigarettes and a tray with coffee. Cicely sat down in the chair close beside the low table. Roger sat down in the chair close beside hers. The evening paper, carefully unfolded had, as usual, been placed upon the arm of ​Roger's chair. Roger picked up the paper. But he laid it aside in a moment to receive from Cicely's white hand, her wrist braceletted in emerald and diamonds to-night, a bit of dark steaming coffee in a small gold-leafed cup.
As their eyes met he smiled and said, 'This is rather nice, isn't it?'
Rather nice? It was heaven to Cicely.
The butler brought in liqueurs later. The heat of the burning logs; the cold of the ground ice in the tiny crystal glass; the sharp, permeating fragrance of the smooth, thick, emerald essence; and the presence of a lovely woman, whom the years had not robbed yet of her charm, close beside Roger—yes, really rather nice!
At first Roger had combated the increasing consolation he found himself feeling in the nearness of a woman who was not Sheilah. But finally he concluded it was but another proof of the intensity of his love for her. Before Sheilah's advent his desires, as far as women were concerned, were well under control. She awoke them, excited them, and then went away, and left them unsatisfied. It was the absent and forever-forbidden Sheilah he groped for in Cicely, when he placed his hand upon her wrist and felt the warm, smooth, feminine flesh beneath his fingers.
He was fully aware of the significance to Cicely of his gesture. He had not decided to commit himself to her to-night, however. That was the detail in which his will-power slipped a little. But why not to-night? Why postpone it? For many weeks now he had been arriving at the conclusion that he would follow Sheilah's suggestion, and seek happiness where he had sought it many years ago.
He and Cicely were well suited. He admired her brain, took keen pleasure in her unerring good taste and fine discernment. He was an excellent audience for her finished performances as a hostess. And they had many tastes in common. Both liked interesting people, interesting conversation, good food, good wine, good horses, music, books, and, not least of all, ​Sheilah. Cicely had often told him, with eyes that shone, that she loved Sheilah. It was, in fact, her love for Sheilah that first stirred again Roger's ardor for Cicely.
Moreover, if he should marry Cicely he would be able to help Sheilah. His income had increased to a depressing amount (depressing as compared to the happiness it gave him) in the last few years. Cicely's income had diminished since her father's death, and enough for her to think twice, now, before buying another horse, or a new automobile. Married to Cicely, he would be allowed to share her burden of the education of Sheilah's children, which Cicely had made her responsibility. What joy it would give him to send Laetitia abroad next summer with a chaperon; and Roddie to Antioch College next fall, as Cicely had once suggested; and possibly—possibly, if Cicely thought well of it, together they could provide a more fitting home for Sheilah and her children to live in.
The vision of the ugly, narrow brown house kept returning to Roger, with unpleasant vividness. What if he could build her a house, sometime, of her own—broad and spreading; with low, gracious lines; white with dark green blinds; in Terry if that was where she would be happiest; and surround her with beauty and comfort. And then—exciting possibility—drop in on her sometimes (with Cicely, ​of course) and see with his own two eyes if she were well and happy. Exchange a casual word or two, a smile, a good-night, a good-morning. And sometimes, might she not sleep beneath his roof? Already, twice, since she had moved to Terry, she had spent several days with Cicely in Wallbridge. By marrying Cicely he would become at least an acquaintance of Sheilah's. By putting his arms around one woman, he could reach out and touch another with the tips of his fingers. A makeshift—yes. But better than void, than blankness.
It wasn't unfair to Cicely. He was not immune to her magnetism. There had always been a subtle quality about her that drew him, that still drew him. Alone with her before an open fire, after exercise, and food, and a little wine, he felt of late a very poignant attraction. Oh, he could satisfy Cicely!
To-night as his hand encircled her wrist he made a sudden decision. He would ask Cicely to marry him as soon as the telephone in the hall stopped ringing.
Cicely made no immediate response to the touch of Roger's hand upon her wrist, steadfastly keeping her eyes upon the burning logs in front of her, not stirring a muscle for a moment, for fear she would betray her violent inner agitation. Intuitively she ​was aware that at last the moment had arrived, for which she had been waiting for many years.
All the fall and winter she had observed an increasing tenderness in Roger's manner toward her. More and more often she had caught the unmistakable signs of his consciousness of her physical presence—a peculiar intensifying of the glow in his eyes, and slow deepening of his color—fleeting, like cloud-shadows, that used to come and go only when he was talking of Sheilah, but now frequently when Sheilah's name hadn't been mentioned for hours.
Cicely was aware that Roger had loved Sheilah. He hadn't told her so in so many words. It had not been necessary. But she knew. Therefore he could not love her solely and supremely above all others, as she had once so desired. But she was content. She wanted him on his own terms, on any terms.
Now, with a great effort at self-control, she raised her eyes from the logs and met his. He slipped his hand from her wrist down over her fingers and held them in a long embrace. It was a beautiful moment to Cicely—but brief, a mere fragment, shattered by the sound of approaching steps. The butler crossing the hall. Reluctantly Cicely drew her hand away—her eyes away too—and sat alert.
'Miss Morgan is wanted on the telephone,' the butler announced from the threshold.
'Can't you take the message?'
​'It is a long-distance call. Miss Morgan personally is wanted.'
Cicely rose.
'I'm sorry, Roger,' she said, smiling down at him. She placed her hand a moment on his shoulder. He covered it quickly with his own, pressing it against him hard.
'Come right back, won't you?'
'I will,' she promised, and left him, her heart singing.