CHAPTER XIII

FREDERICA'S PARADOX

Two days later, at half past eight in the morning, he walked in on

Frederica at breakfast with her two eldest children. He had been able to

count on this because the Whitneys had a certain pride in preserving

some of the customs of the generation before them; at least Martin had,

and Frederica's good-natured, rueful acquiescence gave her at once

something to laugh at him a little about and a handy leverage for the

extraction of miscellaneous concessions. It wasn't exactly a misdemeanor

to be late to breakfast--it began promptly at eight o'clock--but it was

distinctly meritorious not to be. Martin never was and he always left

the house for his office at exactly eight-twenty. His chauffeur was

trained to take just ten minutes trundling the big car down-town, and

eight-thirty found him at his desk as invariably as it had found his

father before him. It was all perfectly ritualistic, of course. There

wasn't the slightest need for any of it.

A knowledge of the ritual, though, stood Rodney in good stead this

morning. He liked Martin well enough--had really a traditional and

vicarious affection for him. But he was about the last man he wanted to

see to-day.

The children were a boy of ten, Martin, junior, and a girl, Ellen, of

eight. There was a three-year-old baby, too, but his nurse looked after

him. They had finished breakfast, but Frederica had a way of keeping

them at the table for a little while every morning, chatting with

her--oh, about anything they pleased. If it was a design for their

improvement, they didn't suspect it. The talk broke off short when the

three of them, almost simultaneously, looked up and saw Rodney in the

doorway.

"Hello!" Frederica said, holding out a hand to him, but not rising.

"Just in time for breakfast."

"Don't ring," he said quickly. "I've had all I want. My train got in an

hour ago and I had a try at the station restaurant."

"Well, sit down anyway," said Frederica.

"Take this chair, Uncle Rod," said the boy in a voice of brusk

indifference. "Excuse me, mother?" He barely waited for her nod and

blundered out of the room.

The girl came round to Rodney's chair to offer him her hand and drop her

curtsy; took a carnation from a bowl on the table and tucked it into his

button-hole, slid her arm around his neck and kissed his cheek.

Both the children, Frederica was aware, had remarked something troubled

and serious about their uncle's manner and each had acted on this

observation in his own way. The boy, distressed and only afraid of

showing it, had bolted from the room with a panicky assumption of

indifference. The girl, though two years younger, was quite at ease in

expressing her sympathy, and conscious of how decoratively she did it.

(This was Frederica's analysis, anyhow. As is the wont of mothers, she

liked the boy better.)

"I think Miss Norris is waiting for you, my dear."

"_Oui, maman_," said Ellen dutifully.

She was supposed to talk French all the morning, but somehow this

particular observance of the régime irritated her mother a little and

she rather visibly waited while Ellen quite adequately made her

farewells to her uncle and gracefully left the room.

The tenseness of her attitude relaxed suddenly when the child was gone.

She reached out a cool soft hand and laid it on one of Rodney's that

rested limply on the table. There was rather a long silence--ten seconds

perhaps. Then:

"How did you find out about it?" Rodney asked.

They were both too well accustomed to these telepathic short-cuts to

take any note of this one. She'd seen that he knew, just with her first

glance at him there in the doorway; and something a little tenderer and

gentler than most of her caresses about this one, told him that she did.

What it was they knew, went of course without saying.

"Harriet's back," she said. "She got in day before yesterday. Constance

said something to her about it, thinking she knew. They've thought all

along that you and I knew, too. Harriet was quick enough and clever

enough to pretend she did and yet find out about it, all at the same

time. So that's so much to the good. That's better than having them find

out we didn't know. Of course Harriet came straight to me. I'm glad it

was Harriet Constance spoke to about it and not me. I'd probably have

given it away. But Harriet never batted an eye."

"No," said Rodney, "Harriet wouldn't."

It was a certain dryness in his intonation rather than the words

themselves Frederica answered.

"She'd do anything in the world for you, Roddy," she said, with a

vaguely troubled intensity.

This time his mind didn't follow hers. For an instant he misunderstood

her pronoun, then he saw what she meant.

"Harriet?--Oh, yes, Harriet's all right," he said absently.

She left his preoccupation alone for a minute or two, but at last broke

in on it with a question. "How did you find out about it, Roddy? Who

told you?"

"No one," he said in a voice unnaturally level and dry. "I went to see

the show on the recommendation of a country client, and there she was on

the stage."

"Oh!" cried Frederica--a muffled, barely audible cry of passionate

sympathy. Then:

"Roddy," she demanded, "are you sure it's true? Are you absolutely sure

that it's really Rose? Or if it is, that she's in her right mind--that

she hasn't just wandered off as people do sometimes without knowing who

they are?"

"There's nothing in that notion," he said. "It's Rose all right, and she

knows what she's doing."

"You mean you've seen her off the stage--talked with her?"

He nodded.

She pulled in a long sigh of anticipatory relief.

"Well, then," she demanded, "what did she say? How did she explain how

she _could_ have done such a thing as that?"

"I didn't ask her to explain," said Rodney. "I asked her to come home,

and she wouldn't."

"Oh, it's wicked!" she cried. "It's the most abominably selfish thing I

ever heard of!"

He made a gesture of protest, but it didn't stop her.

"Oh, I suppose," she flashed, "she didn't _mean_ any harm--wasn't just

trying to do the cruelest thing she could to you. But it would be a

little less infuriating if she had."

"Pull up, Freddy!" he said. Rather gently though, for him. "There's no

good going on like that. And besides ... You were saying Harriet would

do anything in the world for me. Well, there's something _you_ can do.

You're the only person I know who can."

Her answer was to come around behind his chair, put her cheek down

beside his, and reach for his hands.

"Let's get away from this miserable breakfast table," she said. "Come up

to where I live, where we can be safely by ourselves; then tell me about

it."

In front of her boudoir fire, looking down on her as she sat in her

flowered wing chair, an enormously distended rug-covered pillow beside

her knees waiting for him to drop down on when he felt like it, he began

rather cautiously to tell her what he wanted.

"I'll tell you the reason why I've come to you," he began, "and then

you'll see. Do you remember nearly two years ago, the night I got wet

coming down here to dinner--the night you were going to marry me off to

Hermione Woodruff? We had a long talk afterward, and you said, speaking

of the chances people took getting married, that it wasn't me you

worried about, but the girl, whoever she might be, who married me."

The little gesture she made admitted the recollection, but denied its

relevancy. She'd have said something to that effect, but he prevented

her.

"No," he insisted, "it wasn't just talk. There was something to it.

Afterward, when we were engaged, two or three times, you gave me tips

about things. And since we've been married ... Well, somehow, I've had

the feeling that you were on her side; that you saw things her

way--things that I didn't see."

"Little things," she protested; "little tiny things that couldn't

possibly matter--things that any woman would be on another

woman's--side, as you say, about."

But she contradicted this statement at once. "Oh, I _did_ love her!" she

said fiercely. "Not just because she loved you, but because I thought

she was altogether adorable. I couldn't help it. And of course that's

what makes me so perfectly furious now--that she should have done a

thing like this to you."

"All right," he said. "Never mind about that. This is what I want you to

do. I want you to go to see her, and I want you to ask her, in the first

place, to try to forgive me."

"What for?" Frederica demanded.

"I want you to tell her," he went on, "that it's impossible that she

should be more horrified at the thing I did than I am myself. I want you

to ask her, whatever she thinks my deserts are, to do just one thing for

me, and that is to let me take her out of that perfectly hideous place.

I don't ask anything else but that. She can make any terms she likes.

She can live where or how she likes. Only--not like that. Maybe it's a

deserved punishment, but I can't stand it!"

There was the crystallization of what little thinking he had managed to

do in the two purgatorial days he'd spent in that down-state hotel--in

the intervals of fighting off the torturing jingle of that tune, and the

memory of the dull frozen agony he'd seen in Rose's face as he left her.

No great result, truly. The mountain had labored and brought forth a

mouse.

But reflect for a moment what Rodney's life had been; how gently, for

all his buoyant theories about the acceptance of discipline, the world,

in its material aspect at any rate, had dealt with him. How completely

that boyish arrogance of his had been allowed to grow unbruised by

circumstance. He'd always been rich, in the sense that his means had

always been sufficient to his wants. He'd never in his life had an

experience that even resembled Portia's with that old unpaid grocery

bill. He'd enjoyed wearing shabby clothes, but he'd never worn them

because he could afford no better. He'd always been democratic in the

narrower social sense, but he'd never realized how easy that sort of

democracy is and how little it means to a man never associated with

persons who assert a social superiority over him. He'd always made a

point of despising luxuries, to be sure. But it hadn't been brought to

his attention at how high a level he drew the line between luxuries and

mere decent necessities.

He wasn't then, near so much of a Spartan as he thought. His long

association with the Lakes and their friends might, you'd think, have

brought him the consolatory reflection that a woman who earned even a

successful chorus-girl's wages, needn't be pitied too lamentably on the

score of poverty; that Rose could, no doubt, have afforded a better room

than that, if she'd wanted to. And that even a three-dollar room, a

whole room that you hadn't to share with anybody, would--if the rent of

it left you money enough to send out your clothes to the laundry and to

buy adequate meals in restaurants--represent luxury--well, to more

people than one likes to think about.

Rodney knew that well enough, of course. He'd read the Sage Foundation

reports on housing; he was familiar with the results of the Pittsburgh

Survey. But the person in question now, wasn't the Working Girl. It was

his Rose!

Out of all the chaos of thought and feeling that had been boiling within

him since the night he had gone with Rose to her room, there emerged,

then, two outstanding ideas. One was that he had outraged her; the other

that she simply couldn't be allowed to go on living as he had found her.

Frederica, naturally, was mystified. "That's absurd, of course, Roddy,"

she said gently. "You haven't done anything to Rose to be forgiven for."

"You'll just have to take my word for it," he said shortly. "I'm not

exaggerating."

"But, Roddy!" she persisted. "You must be sensible. Oh, it's no wonder!

You're all worn out. You look as if you hadn't slept for nights. I wish

you'd sit down and be a little bit comfortable. But I _know_ you're

wrong about that!

"I went out to California with the idea that you might have been--well,

awfully stupid about something and hurt Rose dreadfully without knowing

it. I was perfectly ready to be--on her side, as you say. I thought we'd

have a good talk and I'd find out what it was all about, and then come

home and pack you out there yourself.

"Well, of course I didn't see Rose, and Portia wasn't very

communicative. She'd always been a little stiff with me. I never managed

to get her altogether. But she was clear enough about it at any rate,

that Rose was more in love with you than ever and she didn't blame you

for a thing. The thing that she seemed most anxious about was that her

mother shouldn't blame you. Of course that took the wind out of my sails

and I had to come back. So it's absurd for you to be talking as if she

had a real reason for--detesting you."

"She hadn't, then," said Rodney, and he walked uneasily away to the

window.

"Well, if you mean the other night, the only time you've seen her since,

then it's all the more ridiculous. What if you were angry and lost your

temper and hurt her feelings? Heavens! Weren't you entitled to, after

what she'd done? And when she'd left you to find it out like that?"

"I tell you you don't know the first thing about it."

"I don't suppose you--beat her, did you?" It was too infuriating, having

him meek like this!

His reply was barely audible. "I might better have done it."

Frederica sprang to her feet. "Well, then, I'll tell you!" she said. "I

won't go to her. I'll go if you'll give me a free hand. If you'll let me

tell her what I think of what she's done and the way she's done it--not

letting you know--not giving you a chance. But go and beg her to forgive

_you_, I won't.

"All right," he said dully. "You're within your rights, of course."

The miserable scene dragged on a little longer. Frederica cried and

pleaded and stormed, without moving him at all. He seemed distressed at

her grief, urged her to treat his request as if he hadn't made it; but

he explained nothing, answered none of her questions.

It was an enormous relief to her, and, she fancied, to him, for that

matter, when, after a premonitory knock at the door, Harriet walked in

on them.

The situation didn't need much explaining, but Frederica summed it up

while the others exchanged their coolly friendly greetings, with the

statement:

"Rod's been trying to get me to go to Rose and say that it was all his

fault, and I won't."

"Why not?" said Harriet. "What earthly thing does it matter whose fault

it is? He can have it his fault if he likes."

"You know it isn't," Frederica muttered rebelliously.

Harriet seated herself delicately and deliberately in one of the curving

ends of a little Victorian sofa, and stretched her slim legs out in

front of her.

"Certainly I don't care whose fault it is," she said. "You never get

anywhere by trying to decide a question like that. What I'm interested

in is what can be done about it. It's not a very nice situation. Nobody

likes it--at least I should _think_ Rose would be pretty sick of it by

now. She may have been crazy for a stage career, but she's probably seen

that the chorus of a third-rate musical comedy won't take her anywhere.

"The thing's simply a mess, and the only thing to do, is to clear it up

as quickly and as decently as we can--and it can be cleared up, if we go

at it right. Only, for the love of Heaven, Freddy, before you let Rod go

out of the house, give him a dose of veronal and pack him off to a quiet

room up-stairs to sleep around the clock! The way he looks now, he's a

proclamation of calamity across the street!"

She wasn't at all disturbed by the outburst this provoked from Rodney.

Indeed, Frederica, from a glimpse she got of her face as she sat

listening to his blistering denunciation of this apparently

whole-hearted concern for appearances, and his passionate denial that

they meant anything at all to him, suspected that her sister's words

had been calculated to produce just this result. When it had subsided,

Harriet's first words proved it.

[Illustration: "What earthly thing does it matter whose fault it is?"]

"All right," she observed. "I knew you'd want to say that. Now, it's off

your mind. Appearances do matter to Freddy and me, and of course they

matter to you too, though you don't like to think so. They matter to all

our kind of people. We're supposed to have been trained to take our

medicine without making faces. If we've got cuts and sores and bruises,

we cover them. We don't parade them as a bid for sympathy. We leave

howling about rights and wrongs and soul-mates and affinities and

'ideals,' to the shabby sort of people who like to do that shabby sort

of thing. According to our traditions, the decent thing to do is to shut

up and keep your face and make it possible for other people to keep

theirs. You're as strong for that as I am, really, Rod, and that's why I

want you to back me up in the line I took with Constance. Pretend you've

known all about what Rose was doing, and that you aren't ashamed of it.

It would have been easier, of course, if she'd played fair with us at

the start ..."

"She did play fair," he interrupted. "She offered to tell me what she

was going to do. I wouldn't let her."

Harriet's only commentary on this was a faint shrug.

"Anyhow," she went on, "the point is that once we begin pretending,

everybody else will have to pretend to believe us. Of course the thing

to do is to get her out of that horrible place as soon as we can. And I

suppose the best way of doing it, will be to get her into something

else--take her down to New York and work her into a small part in some

good company. Almost anything, if it came to that, as long as it wasn't

music. Oh, and have her use her own name, and let us make as much of it

as we can. Face it out. Pretend we like it. I don't say it's ideal, but

it's better than this."

"Her own name!" he echoed blankly. "Do you mean she made one up?"

Harriet nodded. "Constance mentioned it," she said, "but that was before

I knew what she was talking about. And of course I couldn't go back and

ask. Daphne something, I think. It sounded exactly like a chorus name,

anyhow." And then: "Well, how about it? Will you play the game?"

"Oh, yes," he said with a docility that surprised Frederica. "I'll play

it. It comes to exactly the same thing, what we both want done, and our

reasons for doing it are important to nobody but ourselves."

She turned to Frederica.

"You too, Freddy?" she asked. "Will you give your moral principles a

vacation and take Rod's message to Rose, even though you may think it's

Quixotic nonsense?"

"I'll see Rose myself," said Rodney quietly.

It struck Frederica that if not his natural self, he had gone a long way

at least, to recovering his natural manner. Telling Martin all about it

that night, as she always told him about everything (because Martin was

Frederica's discovery and her secret. No one else suspected, not even

Martin himself, how intelligent and understanding he was, nor how

luminous his simple remarks about complex situations could sometimes

be), she adverted to a paradox which had often puzzled her in the past.

Rodney was twice as fond of her as he was of Harriet, just as she was

twice as fond of him as Harriet was. And yet, again and again, where her

own love and sympathy had failed dismally to effect anything, Harriet's

dry astringent cynicism would come along and produce highly desirable

results.

"It seems as if it oughtn't to work out that way," she concluded. "You'd

think that loving a person and feeling his troubles the way he feels

them himself, ought to enable you to help him rather than just irritate.

However, as long as it doesn't work that way with you ..."

He reached out, took her by the chin, tilted her face back and kissed

her expertly on the mouth. A rather horrifyingly familiar thing to do,

one might think, to the Venus of Milo, or Frederica, or any one as

simply and grandly beautiful as that. But she seemed to like it.

"No chance for the experiment," said Martin. "I shall never have any

troubles while you're around."