Bedelia Read online

  Bedelia had packed stockings, a change of underwear, a nightgown, slippers, a black silk crepe kimono with a turquoise-blue lining, and an extra shirtwaist. There were also her toilet things, the padded leather box in which she kept her knickknacks, and a sheaf of travel folders showing schedules of Cunard, White Star, and Hamburg-Amerika sailings. The discovery of these pamphlets unnerved Charlie. They were evidence that Bedelia’s idea of running off to Europe had not occurred spontaneously at the table last night.

  Idly he opened the leather box. It contained trifles, the sort of souvenirs that young girls cherish. In a heart-shaped locket he saw Bedelia’s dark eyes under a mass of fair curls and he wondered why his wife had never showed him this picture of her mother. A pressed rose, dry and breaking apart, and a spray from a cerise plume were in a faded lavender envelope. There was a miniature Japanese fan, a penknife with a mother-of-pearl handle and broken blade, and a round pillbox with a blank label. In it was a white powder like the powder his wife used for polishing her fingernails. Last of all he pulled out the swollen velvet box which had held his garnet ring.

  He snapped it open. There was the black pearl in its setting of platinum and diamonds.

  We can’t give Abbie that ring, Charlie, I don’t have it any more. I’ve given it away.

  Hastily Charlie replaced the ring and put the velvet box back in the padded leather container. He put away the travel folders, too, and the rest of his wife’s tawdry souvenirs.

  “ARE YOU ANGRY with me, Charlie?”

  He pulled down the shade. The light disturbed him. He did not wish to look at Bedelia’s face nor show his to her. “We’ll talk about it later. How are you feeling?”

  “I’ve caught a bad cold.”

  “Yes. You’ll have to stay in bed.”

  Dark hair outlined the pale oval of her face. She moaned lightly.

  “Are you in pain?”

  “My chest hurts. It’s my own fault, though. I’ve been naughty, I deserve punishment.”

  She waited for Charlie to comment upon her naughtiness. The word she had chosen was far too frivolous to describe her thoroughly abnormal conduct. Charlie could not speak at all. Pretending to be busy with the knob of the radiator, he kept his face toward the wall.

  “Charlie!”

  “Yes?”

  Huskily she whispered, “Have you heard from Ben?”

  Charlie turned, still squatting beside the radiator, glared across the room at his wife. His voice was thickened by new, coarse notes. “No, and we’re not likely to for a few days. The road’s blocked, the electricity’s off, and the telephone wires are down.”

  “Oh!” Bedelia said, and after she had thought about it, laughed lightly. “Snowbound, Charlie! Are we snowbound?”

  “Yes.”

  “When I was in school we studied a poem about a family who were snowbound. Do you know it, Charlie?”

  He could not answer. Bedelia was making an effort to restore the old relationship; she was pretending that there had been no attempt to run off, no lies, no unanswered questions.

  “You must know it,” she persisted and her voice was actually blithe. “You know so much poetry, Charlie. I think it’s by Lowell.”

  “No, Whittier.”

  “Yes, of course, Whittier. I wish I had your memory, dear.”

  He looked at her obliquely and saw that she was smiling and trying to win him. It was as if nothing extraordinary had happened, as if they had gone to bed comfortably last night and awakened side by side that morning.

  “After we’ve had breakfast, I want to ask you some questions, Bedelia.”

  She pushed up in bed. “Yes, of course, dear. But we must have breakfast first, I’m hungry. Will you pull up the shades, please?” There were the dimples again, dancing in her cheeks, the shining eyes, the creamy luster of her skin. She was rosier, too, flushed with fever but prettier for it.

  “What about Mary? Didn’t she get back?”

  “Not in this storm,” Charlie said. “She’s probably snowed in at Blackman’s farm.”

  “With her young man,” Bedelia laughed. “I hope she makes the most of her good luck.” Then the smile disappeared and she frowned and sucked in her cheeks, worrying about the housekeeping. If Mary was away and she was ill in bed, how was Charlie to be fed and the house kept clean?

  “Leave everything to me, I’ll take care of it.”

  “But you can’t do housework, Charlie.”

  “Why not? I can’t get to the office.”

  “I don’t like to see a man do housework.”

  There was no other way of handling it. Charlie fled gladly to the lonely kitchen where he need not face deceit, nor suffer remorse because he had not the courage to ask his wife a few questions. This was weak of him and he despised himself for it, but he knew that once he had put them into words his fears would have substance and reality, and he would be forced to take action.

  Bedelia had no excuses to offer. So long as Charlie avoided the questions, she was content to let the answers wait. One would think she had caught cold shaking her rugs out of the window. As the day passed, both she and Charlie seemed to have forgotten that she had tried to desert him. Whatever urge had sent her off in the midst of the blizzard was lost in the lethargy of fever and comfort.

  If Bedelia had sought a way, deliberately, to recapture Charlie’s love, she could have found none more effective than fever, confinement in bed, helplessness. The more she depended on him, the richer grew his affection and the firmer his belief that strength such as his was capable of forgiveness. His enjoyment of her weakness was no sign of cruelty in him. It carried out the pattern of his training. He had been taught that man is strong, woman frail; that devotion and self-sacrifice are love’s glowing crown. He cooked, washed dishes, carried trays, cleaned lamps, ran gladly whenever she had an errand. She had given in completely to her illness, enjoying the weakness that made him her slave. She leaned upon his arm while he arranged her pillows and depended upon his moral strength in trusting him to abandon his grievance.

  In the afternoon she felt better, wanted to sit up in bed, and asked him to bring one of her robes from the closet. Charlie chose the black crepe kimono with the turquoise lining.

  As he held it for her, he said, “I unpacked your bag, you know.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  She knotted the sash, straightened the seams and pulled at the wide sleeves. “This is pretty, don’t you think?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Would you get me my silver mirror, please? And my brush and comb. I’d like my powder and chamois, too. And yes, Charlie, that naughty little box.”

  Charlie frowned.

  Bedelia laughed. “So you’ve discovered my little secret? I hope you don’t despise me for it.”

  “Bedelia,” he said, determined to have it out with her now, “I have become more and more mystified by your behavior. There is nothing funny about this to me, and I shall be grateful if you’ll explain the situation.”

  The wayward creature laughed even more frivolously. “Oh, Charlie, don’t be so pompous. I’m talking about the little box that contains the secret of my pretty red lips and cheeks.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t understand you.”

  “Rouge,” she said merrily. “Paint, if that’s what you call it. Abbie paints, too, but she uses that horrid dry powder. She thinks it doesn’t show, but even a blind man would notice.”

  Silently Charlie watched while she brushed and combed her hair, braided it and wound the braids in snails over her ears. She smiled and winked as she dipped her little finger into the rouge pot, reddened her lips and rubbed color into her pale cheeks.

  “I do look better now, don’t I?”

  “Are you quite done?”

  She put her hairbrush and cosmetics in the drawer where she had left his digestive powders. “I’ll keep these handy so you won’t have to do so many errands.”

  “Bedelia!”

  “Yes, dear.”

/>   “There are some things we ought to discuss. I believe you’re well enough now.”

  “Why are you so cross, darling? Have I done something again?”

  Her teasing made Charlie feel that he had been pompous. He had been standing before the mantel with his arms crossed on his chest. He relaxed, slouched forward, and put his hands in his pockets so that he should not appear so formidable. But his voice was cold. “My dear, I should like some explanations of your conduct.”

  She examined her fingernails.

  “Why did you run off? Is there anything here that you’re afraid of?”

  “I was afraid that you didn’t love me anymore.”

  The simplicity of her statement astonished Charlie. He could think of nothing to say.

  “You were unkind the other night. I thought you were tired of me and wanted me to go.”

  “Bedelia, look at me.”

  Her eyes met his.

  “You tried to run off in the midst of a blizzard, you risked your life to get away from this house. Surely it couldn’t have been because I refused to listen to your irresponsible talk of running off to Europe. There must have been more to it than that.”

  “I love you so much, Charlie, and I’m always afraid I’m not good enough for you.”

  “Biddy, my dear, please be sensible.”

  “You’re so much more intelligent that I am. Whenever I see you with Ellen, I realize how much better an intellectual woman would have suited you.”

  “If Ellen had suited me better, I’d have married her. You ought to understand that. Now tell me honestly, why did you run off?”

  “You were horrid to me. You hurt my feelings.”

  “I?”

  “You made me feel like a silly goose.” Tears gathered and she groped among the pillows for her handkerchief. Finally she had to ask Charlie to get one out of the top drawer.

  He felt sorry for her. This was not reasonable, but he could not help himself. “I don’t remember being cruel, and if I happened to say something out of the way, I’m sincerely sorry. But was that your only reason? Did you actually rush off like that because you thought I’d quit caring for you?”

  She bowed her head.

  Charlie prepared gloomily to speak his mind. Bedelia wiped her eyes and reached for the hand mirror. When she caught Charlie staring, she smiled ruefully.

  He began clearing his throat. Then, “I also have something to confess. When I unpacked your bag, I discovered something.”

  “You mustn’t blame yourself for that, dear. Anyone would have done the same thing. I think it was sweet of you to unpack for me.”

  “I discovered something!” He came closer to the bed and squinted down at her, expecting guilt or fear to be written on her face. She was not discomposed. He went on, “I discovered, first of all, that your flight was not unpremeditated. There were a number of travel booklets in your bag. You knew when certain ships were sailing. It’s clear you’ve been thinking of this for some time.”

  “Yes, I have,” she said amiably.

  “You don’t say!”

  “Listen to me, Charlie. It’s not easy to say what I’m going to say now. When I married you, I was very fond of you. I thought you were the sort of man who could make a woman happy, and I needed a man like that. I pretended to be more in love than I really was.” A penitent sigh escaped. “I can tell you this now because I am in love with you now, Charlie, desperately. It took me a while to understand how wonderful you are. And when I discovered that I was passionately in love with you, I began to be afraid. I felt that I wasn’t half good enough nor clever enough to be your wife, and I voiced that if you should ever get tired of me, if I ever discovered that you were unhappy or sorry you had married me, I’d run off.” She spoke readily, the words tumbled out, and she was soon out of breath.

  “Why, Biddy,” Charlie said, shaken by her intensity.

  “I’d die before I hurt you, Charlie.”

  Charlie sat down at the foot of the bed. He was moved by his wife’s outburst, but also bewildered. If love had sent her rushing out into the snowstorm to desert him because she had felt herself unworthy, why had she asked him, several hours earlier, to flee with her? He was tempted to ask that question, but unwilling to hurt her by showing that he lacked faith in her excuse.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Bedelia said. “You’re wondering where I’d get the money for a trip like that. I’ve got something to confess, dear.”

  Now that he was close to the truth, Charlie was not sure whether he wanted to hear it. His forefinger traced the curves of a green calico snake quilted into the white muslin of the comforter. Better to live happily, he told himself, than to suffer painful knowledge. The trunks of the quilted apple tees were russet-colored, the foliage green with small white dots. In every fourth patch was stitched a round apple of scarlet cotton.

  “I got a little money in November, money of my own.”

  “How?”

  “A legacy. Raoul’s grandmother died. She left it to him and it became mine legally. His people didn’t want me to have it, they were always against me, but they were afraid I’d make a scandal and show how mean and greedy they were, so they had to give it to me.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?

  She sighed. “Darling, darling Charlie, I hate to reproach you, but”—she uttered a slight, deprecating chuckle—“you are a bit jealous, you know, even of poor dead Raoul. So I decided to keep this fund secret and have a little money of my own to buy Christmas presents with. So I could be as extravagant as I liked, and not feel that I was wasting your money.”

  “Then you lied about saving the money out of your household allowance?”

  “Yes, dear.”

  “I’d rather you told me the truth.”

  “Forgive me, Charlie, please say you’ll forgive me.” She extended her hands. Charlie did not take them and they lay cup-like on the quilt. “I’ll die if you don’t forgive me.”

  “That’s extravagant talk.”

  “Don’t be so horrid to me, Charlie. I love you. I live only for you.”

  Her fervor embarrassed him. He rose and walked away from the bed, and looked at his mother’s portrait above the mantel. Harriet Philbrick had never colored her lips and cheeks with rouge. Only righteousness had adorned her countenance. She sat upright in the carved Victorian chair and faced the world with full assurance of her superiority. Emboldened by the look in his mother’s eyes, Charlie whirled around and said in the voice she had used when she wished to show displeasure, “Why did you lie to me about the ring?”

  “What ring, dear?”

  “Please don’t lie, Bedelia. I know you didn’t give away the black pearl. I saw it in your bag.”

  “Oh, that. Yes, of course, you found it in my bag. Since I thought I was leaving you, it didn’t matter whether I wore it or not. You see, dear, you haven’t improved my taste at all. I’m still fond of that imitation pearl.”

  “But you said you’d given it away.”

  “No, I didn’t. I never gave that ring away.”

  “You told me you had.”

  “What a funny idea!”

  “Look here”—Charlie almost shouted it—“you told me that on Christmas. I wanted to give Abbie the ring and you said you’d given it away.”

  She shook her head.

  “I distinctly remember,” Charlie said. “On two occasions you said it. The night we dined at Ben’s.”

  “No!” she interrupted. “No, I didn’t say it at all. You said it. I remember now that you told Ben and Abbie I’d given the ring away. I didn’t say anything then because I didn’t want to contradict you in public, particularly after Abbie made that flattering remark about me and what an unusual wife I was. I wondered where you’d got the idea, and I meant to ask you about it when were alone, but you had your attack that night, and I was so frightened I completely forgot.”

  “Do you mean to stand there and say you didn’t tell me on Christmas that you’d given the rin
g away?”

  “I’m not standing here,” Bedelia said, “I’m lying here in bed, sick as a dog, and it’s very cruel of you to stand there and say I told you anything like that.”

  “I could have sworn it,” Charlie said.

  “You probably imagined it. You’ve got an awfully vivid imagination, Charlie.”

  He could think of nothing to say. She might be right. He had been certain that Bedelia told him she had given the ring away. Was it only imagination? Was his memory unreliable, his truth illusion, his reality mere fantasy?

  One question honestly answered might have cleared away all the confusion. But Charlie was loath to ask his wife about her relations with Ben Chaney. How much happier he would be if he attributed all suspicion to the workings of an overwrought mind. The truth was that Charlie did not want to know the truth, and willingly allowed himself to be confused by Bedelia’s air of innocence and melted by her charms.

  THAT NIGHT CHARLIE was awakened by the touch of icy fingers on his face. He had gone to bed in his old room, the one he had used when he was a boy and his parents were alive. While Charlie was ill, Bedelia had occupied this room. She had left her handkerchief on a table beside the bed, and as he drifted off to sleep, Charlie had been aware of the fragrance.

  He smelled it again, but the odor was stronger and closer to him. Believing this and the icy finger to be part of a dream, he kept his eyes closed and turned toward the wall. The fragrance lightened, but the fingers seemed to be pulling at his flesh and through the walls of his drowsiness he heard his name spoken.

  Bedelia bent over the bed. In one hand she held the candle which Charlie had left burning at her bedside. It had been a tall candle when he left it there at eight o’clock, but now it was burned to a half-inch stub. The white Angora shawl was slipping from Bedelia’s shoulders, and her hair hung in dark tangles over it. Her eyes burned with an uneasy fire that seemed to be constantly heightening and dying. Her cheeks were scarlet.