THREE
As IF in answer to her wish, the very next day Irene came face to face with Bellew.
She had gone downtown with Felise Freeland to shop. The day was an exceptionally cold one, with a strong wind that had whipped a dusky red into Felise’s smooth golden cheeks and driven moisture into Irene’s soft brown eyes.
Clinging to each other, with heads bent against the wind, they turned out of the Avenue into Fifty-seventh Street. A sudden bluster flung them around the corner with unexpected quickness and they collided with a man.
“Pardon,” Irene begged laughingly, and looked up into the face of Clare Kendry’s husband.
“Mrs. Redfield!”
His hat came off. He held out his hand, smiling genially.
But the smile faded at once. Surprise, incredulity, and—was it understanding?—passed over his features.
He had, Irene knew, become conscious of Felise, golden, with curly black Negro hair, whose arm was still linked in her own. She was sure, now, of the understanding in his face, as he looked at her again and then back at Felise. And displeasure.
He didn’t, however, withdraw his outstretched hand. Not at once.
But Irene didn’t take it. Instinctively, in the first glance of recognition, her face had become a mask. Now she turned on him a totally uncomprehending look, a bit questioning. Seeing that he still stood with hand outstretched, she gave him the cool appraising stare which she reserved for mashers, and drew Felise on.
Felise drawled: “Aha! Been ‘passing,’ have you? Well, I’ve queered that.”
“Yes, I’m afraid you have.”
“Why, Irene Redfield! You sound as if you cared terribly. I’m sorry.”
“I do, but not for the reason you think. I don’t believe I’ve ever gone native in my life except for the sake of convenience, restaurants, theatre tickets, and things like that. Never socially I mean, except once. You’ve just passed the only person that I’ve ever met disguised as a white woman.”
“Awfully sorry. Be sure your sin will find you out and all that. Tell me about it.”
“I’d like to. It would amuse you. But I can’t.”
Felise’s laughter was as languidly nonchalant as her cool voice. “Can it possible that the honest Irene has— Oh, do look at that coat! There. The red one. Isn’t it a dream?”
Irene was thinking: “I had my chance and didn’t take it. I had only to speak and to introduce him to Felise with the casual remark that he was Clare’s husband. Only that. Fool. Fool.” That instinctive loyalty to a race. Why couldn’t she get free of it? Why should it include Clare? Clare, who’d shown little enough consideration for her, and hers. What she felt was not so much resentment as a dull despair because she could not change herself in this respect, could not separate individuals from the race, herself from Clare Kendry.
“Let’s go home, Felise. I’m so tired I could drop.”
“Why, we haven’t done half the things we planned.”
“I know, but it’s too cold to be running all over town. But you stay down if you want to.”
“I think I’ll do that, if you don’t mind.”
And now another problem confronted Irene. She must tell Clare of this meeting. Warn her. But how? She hadn’t seen her for days. Writing and telephoning were equally unsafe. And even if it was possible to get in touch with her, what good would it do? If Bellew hadn’t concluded that he’d made a mistake, if he was certain of her identity—and he was nobody’s fool—telling Clare wouldn’t avert the results of the encounter. Besides, it was too late. Whatever was in store for Clare Kendry had already overtaken her.
Irene was conscious of a feeling of relieved thankfulness at the thought that she was probably rid of Clare, and without having lifted a finger or uttered one word.
But she did mean to tell Brian about meeting John BeIlew.
But that, it seemed, was impossible. Strange. Something held her back. Each time she was on the verge of saying: “I ran into Clare’s husband on the street downtown today. I’m sure he recognized me, and Felise was with me,” she failed to speak. It sounded too much like the warning she wanted it to be. Not even in the presence of the boys at dinner could she make the bare statement.
The evening dragged. At last she said good-night and went upstairs, the words unsaid.
She thought: “Why didn’t I tell him? Why didn’t I? If trouble comes from this, I’ll never forgive myself. I’ll tell him when he comes up.”
She took up a book, but she could not read, so oppressed was she by a nameless foreboding.
What if Bellew should divorce Clare? Could he? There was the Rhinelander case. But in France, in Paris, such things were very easy. If he divorced her— If Clare were free—But of all the things that could happen, that was the one she did not want. She must get her mind away from that possibility. She must.
Then came a thought which she tried to drive away. If Clare should die! Then— Oh, it was vile! To think, yes, to wish that! She felt faint and sick. But the thought stayed with her. She could not get rid of it.
She heard the outer door open. Close. Brian had gone out. She turned her face into her pillow to cry. But no tears came.
She lay there awake, thinking of things past. Of her courtship and marriage and Junior’s birth. Of the time they had bought the house in which they had lived so long and so happily. Of the time Ted had passed his pneumonia crisis and they knew he would live. And of other sweet painful memories that would never come again.
Above everything else she had wanted, had striven, to keep undisturbed the pleasant routine of her life. And now Clare Kendry had come into it, and with her the menace of impermanence.
“Dear God,” she prayed, “make March come quickly.”
By and by she slept.