I can't see," Hildred reasoned, "why you should find the idea so terrible."
"And I can't see," Tom returned, "what it matters how I find the idea, so long as nobody is serious about it."
"Oh, but they will be. It's what I told you before. They'd made up their minds they didn't want to find him; and now it's hard to unmake them again. But they're coming to it."
"I hope they're not taking the trouble on my account."
"They're taking it on their own. Tad as much as said so. He said they'd stuck it out as long as they could; but they couldn't stick it out forever."
"Stick it out against what?"
"Against what's staring them in the face, I suppose."
"Did he tell you what I said to him, that nothing would induce me to belong to the family that had produced him?"
She laughed. "Oh, yes. He told me the whole thing, how you'd come into his room, how Guy had got the other fellows out, and the pitched battle between you."
"And did he say how it had ended?"
[Pg 397]
"He said—if you want to know exactly I'll tell you exactly—he said that when it came to talking about the war and the part he would have to play in it, you weren't as big a damn fool as he had thought you."
"And did he say how big a damn fool he was himself?"
"He admitted he had been one; but with his father on his hands, and the war, and all that, he'd have to put the brakes on himself, and pretend to be a good boy."
Laughing to himself Tom stretched out his legs to the blaze of the fire. Hildred had sent for him because Mrs. Ansley was out of the way at her Mothers' Club. There was nothing underhand in this, since she would not conceal the fact accomplished. It avoided only a preliminary struggle. If she needed an excuse, the necessities of their good intentions toward Tad would offer it.
Tea being over, Hildred, who was fond of embroidery, had taken up a piece of work. Like many women, she found it easier to be daring in an incidental way while stitching. Stitching kept her from having to look at Tom as she reverted to the phase of the subject from which they had drifted away.
"The Whitelaws are a perfectly honorable family. They may even be called distinguished. I don't see what it is you've got against them."
"I've got nothing against them. They rather—" he sought for a word that would express the queer primordial attraction they possessed for him—"they rather cast a spell on me. But I don't want to belong to them."
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"But why not, if it was proved that—?"
"For one reason, it couldn't be proved; and for another, it's too late."
The ring in his voice was strange; it made her look up at him. "Too late? Why do you say that?"
"Because it is. You told me some time ago that it was what they thought themselves. Even if it were proved, it would still be—too late."
"I don't understand you."
"I'm not sure that I understand myself. I only know that the life I've lived would make it impossible for me to go and live their life."
"Oh, nonsense! Their life is just the same as our life."
"Well, I'm not sure that I could live yours. I could conform to it on the outside. I could talk your way and eat your way; but I couldn't think your way."
"When you say my way—"
"I mean the way of all your class. Mind you, I'm not against it. I only feel that somehow—in things I can't explain and wouldn't know how to remedy—it's wrong."
"Oh, but, Tom—"
"It seems to be necessary that a great many people shall go without anything in order that a very few people may enjoy everything. That's as far as I go. I don't draw any conclusions; and I'm certainly not going in for any radical theories. Only I can't think it right. I want to be a banker; but even if I am a banker—"
"I see what you mean," she interrupted, pensively. "I often feel that way myself. But, oh, Tom, what
[Pg 399]
 can we do about it that—that wouldn't seem quite mad?"
He smiled ruefully. "I don't know. But if you live long enough—and work hard enough—and think straight enough—and don't do anything to put you off your nut—why, some day you may find a way out that will be sane."
"Yes, but couldn't you do that and be Harry Whitelaw—if you are Harry Whitelaw—at the same time?"
"Suppose we wait till the question arises? As far as I know, no one who belonged to Harry Whitelaw, or to whom Harry Whitelaw belonged, has ever brought it up."
But only a few weeks later this very thing seemed about to come to pass.
It was toward the end of March. On returning to his room one morning Tom was startled by a telegram. Telegrams were so rare in his life that merely to see one lying on his table gave him a thrill, partly of wonder, partly of fear. Opening it, he was still more surprised to find it from Philip Ansley. Would Tom be in Louisburg Square for reasons of importance at four that afternoon?
That something had betrayed himself and Hildred would have been his only surmise; only that there was nothing to betray. Except for the few hurried words Hildred had spoken on that Sunday night, anything they had said they had said in looks, and even their looks had been guarded and discreet. The things most essential to them both were in what they were taking for granted. They had exchanged no letters; their intercourse was always of the kind that anyone
[Pg 400]
 might overhear. Without recourse to explanation each recognized the fact that it would be years before either of them would be free to speak or to take a step. In the meantime their only crime was their confidence in each other; and you couldn't betray that.
Nevertheless, it was with uneasiness that he rang at the door, and asked Pilcher if Mr. Ansley were at home. Pilcher was mysterious. Mr. Ansley was not at home, but if Mr. Tom would come in he would find himself expected. Tea being served in the library, Mr. Tom was shown upstairs.
It was a gloomy afternoon outside; the room was dim. All Tom saw at first was a tall man standing on the hearth rug, where the fire behind him had almost gone out. He had taken a step forward and held out his hand before Tom recognized the distinguished stranger who had first hailed him in the New Hampshire lake nearly three years earlier.
"Do you remember me?"
"Yes, sir."
They stood with hands clasped, each gazing into the other's face. Tom would have withdrawn his hand, would have receded, but the other held him with a grasp both tense and tenacious. The eyes, deep-set like Tom's own, and overhung with bushy outstanding eyebrows, studied him with eager penetration. Not till that look was satisfied did the tall figure swing to someone who was sitting in the shadow.
"This is the boy, Onora. Look at him."
She was sitting out of direct range in a corner of the library darkened by buildings standing higher on the Hill. The man turned Tom slightly in her direc
[Pg 401]
tion, where the daylight fell on him. The degree to which the woman shrank from seeing him was further marked by the fact that she partly hid her face behind a big black-feather fan for which there was no other use than concealment. She said nothing at all; but even in the obscurity Tom could perceive the light of two feverish eyes.
It was the man who took the lead.
"Won't you sit down?"
He placed a chair where the woman could observe its occupant, without being drawn of necessity into anything that might be said. The man himself drew up another chair, on which he sat sidewise in an easy posture close to Tom. Tom liked him. He liked his face, his voice, his manner, the something friendly and sympathetic he recalled from the earlier meetings. Whether this were his father or not, he would have no difficulty in meeting him at any time on intimate and confidential terms.
"My wife and I wanted to see you," he began, simply, "in order to thank you for what you've done for Tad."
Tom was embarrassed. "Oh, that wasn't anything. I just happened—"
"The Dean has told me all about it. He says that Tad has given him no trouble since. Before that he'd given a good deal. I wish I could tell you how grateful we are, especially as things are turning out, with a war hanging over us."
Tom saw an opportunity of speaking without sentiment. "That's what I thought. It seemed to me a
[Pg 402]
 pity that good fighting stuff should be lost just through—through too much skylarking."
"Yes, it would have been. Tad has good fighting stuff."
There was a catch of the woman's breath. Tom recalled the staccato nervousness of their first brief meeting in Gore Hall. He wished they hadn't brought him there. They were strangers to him; he was a stranger to them. Whatever link might have been between him and them in the past, there was no link now. It would be a mistake to try to forge one.
But in on this thought the man broke gently.
"I wonder if you'd mind telling us all about yourself that you know? I presume that you understand why I'm asking you."
"Yes, sir, I do; but I don't think I can help you much."
The woman's voice, vibrating and tragic, startled him. It was as if she were speaking to herself, as if something were being wrung from her in spite of her efforts to keep it back. "The likeness is extraordinary!"
Taking no notice of this, the man began to question him, "Where were you born?"
"In the Bronx."
He made a note of this answer in a little notebook. "And when?"
"In 1897."
"What date?"
It was the crucial question, but since he meant to tell everything he knew, Tom had no choice but to be exact.
[Pg 403]
&............