Forgiving

by LaVyrle Spencer

  Nevertheless, he’d promised to respect her wishes. So why had she admonished him against loving her?

  The probability struck him as if the woodpile had collapsed on his head.

  She was dying! Most certainly that was it. His precious Addie was ill with some fatal disease for which no cure was known. Why else her gloomy introspection and her lapses at the piano while she played with despair in every note? Why else her bursts into impassioned fortissimos as if at the unfairness of fate? Why else her withdrawal from his kisses when he knew she had feelings for him? And her withdrawal even from Sarah, whom he knew Addie loved unquestionably?

  If Sarah wondered why Addie returned to the house via the front door that night, and Robert not at all, she tactfully refrained from asking.

  Robert went home without his jacket, sick with worry and shivering from chill in the fifteen-degree January night.

  The following morning after Mr. Merritt had left for his office he knocked on the back door. Mrs. Smith answered.

  “Why, Robert, whatever are you doing out there without a coat in this weather?”

  He offered no explanation. “Would you get it for me, Mrs. Smith? I left it on the hall tree.”

  “Well, of course, but... land sakes, come inside. You look like you’re freezing to death.”

  When Mrs. Smith returned with the garment, he inquired, “Is Addie all right this morning?”

  “Addie? Why, I think so. She’s off to school as usual. Why do you ask?”

  If Addie was dying of some invisible disease, Mrs. Smith certainly acted blasé about it.

  “Don’t tell her I said anything, will you? We had an argument last night, that’s all.”

  “Mum’s the word,” she promised with an affectionate glint in her eye. Mrs. Smith had always been their ally and had held a soft spot in her heart for Robert from the first night he’d come asking for grease. Since then he had fought his family for the right to attend school, had completed twelve grades and taken a job in a bank down on Market Street, where he was clerking for good wages, saving them and meeting the moneymakers of St. Louis. From them he was learning more than any college could have taught him about how the rich get richer. Though he had only one jacket to his name, he knew Mrs. Smith respected his frugality and the reason for it. She believed, as he did, that one day he would make his mark on the world.

  When his jacket was buttoned, he lingered, silently composing and recomposing a question about Addie’s health. In the end, with a lump in his throat, he blurted it out.

  “Mrs. Smith, is Addie dying?”

  Mrs. Smith’s jaw dropped. Her double chin hung like forgotten bread dough over the edge of a pan.

  “Dying?”

  “Something’s wrong with her—something serious. I know!”

  “Goodness gracious, I don’t know,” Mrs. Smith whispered.

  “She scarcely speaks to Sarah and me, and sometimes she gets terribly silent and stares at us like she’s on a ship that’s drifting away into a fog. Last night she... please, Mrs. Smith, forgive me for being blunt, but I kissed her and she cried for no reason at all and said that if I were to fall in love with her I’d be sorry. Since I’m reasonably sure she loves me too, and since I have every intention of marrying her someday, I can’t think of why I might be sorry unless she were to die.”

  Mrs. Smith plopped into a chair, pinching her lower lip, and stared at some kitchen corner.

  “Oh dear me, I’ve known something was amiss, too, but I never considered this.”

  Robert sat on the opposite side of the table, tense in the face of Mrs. Smith’s commensurate worry.

  She looked up. “Did you ask her? What did she say?”

  “No, I was afraid to. That’s why I came to you.”

  “I simply don’t know. If there is something wrong with her, neither she nor Mr. Merritt have confided, in me. I think, perhaps, he’s the one we should ask.”

  “Together?”

  “Why not? We’re both worried about her, aren’t we?”

  They did so that afternoon while the girls were still in school. Robert asked for an hour off work and they met at the newspaper office, clasping hands and exchanging grave glances before entering together.

  Isaac Merritt sat in a cubicle of glass and mahogany, his name in gold leaf on the window of the door. When he saw the unlikely duo approaching, he rose and rushed forward with anxiousness bending him toward them.

  “Mrs. Smith, Robert, what is it? Has something happened to the girls?” Twin lines dented the plane between his eyebrows.

  “Nothing immediate,” Mrs. Smith replied, “though young Robert has come to me with some concerns and we thought it best to speak to you about it.”

  Baffled, Merritt looked from one to the other and belatedly offered, “Most certainly. Come in.” They all sat but Robert, who stood beside Mrs. Smith’s chair, facing Addie’s father behind the desk.

  “Please,” the older man said, “don’t keep me in suspense. If one of my daughters is in some trouble, I want to know about it.”

  “It’s not exactly trouble, sir, it’s...” Mrs. Smith began, then groped in her sleeve for a handkerchief and pressed it to her mouth as her chin began to tremble. “It’s...” Mrs. Smith broke into weeping.

  “Well, good God, out with it!” Merritt exploded, overwrought with concern.

  Robert spoke up.

  “We were hoping that you could tell us, sir, what’s wrong with Addie.”

  “Wrong with her?”

  “Yes, sir. Some things she’s said lately, and her increasing despondency led us to believe she might be ill. Perhaps gravely so.”

  “What has she said?” Merritt’s voice hissed. Inexplicably, his anger seemed to flare.

  Robert hesitated, swallowed. He glanced to Mrs. Smith for guidance.

  “Go on, tell him. He’s a fair man.”

  “She said, sir, that if I were to fall in love with her I’d be sorry, but I’m afraid it’s already too late. I am in love with your daughter and I would very much like to marry her when she comes of age. I had intended to wait until she was sixteen to declare myself, but this... this curious condition seems to have taken hold of her and I thought, since I have reason to believe Addie loves me, too, there must be something very serious wrong with her to make her say such a thing. The only thing I could think of was some dread disease.”

  Isaac Merritt’s face had grown red. His lips were compressed.

  “What do you know about this, Mrs. Smith?”

  “Only that she hasn’t been acting herself lately. She is a sad young lady, and—”

  “I’m speaking of this man and my daughter!” Merritt snapped. “I’ve left her in your care and you’ve obviously allowed her to indulge in improper tête-à-têtes with a man three years her senior when she is nothing but a girl barely out of pinafores!”

  Mrs. Smith stared at her employer in surprise.

  “Why, Mr. Merritt, whatever... why, you know Robert. He’s been the girls’ friend for years.”

  Merritt rapped his knuckles on the desktop. “I thought he was Sarah’s friend, not Addie’s!”

  “He’s that, too, sir. He’s both of their friends.”

  “But while Sarah is of marriageable age, you’ve allowed him to spend time privately with Addie, who is not!”

  Mrs. Smith got spunky. “With the deepest respect, too, I’ll be bound, which he’s earned from me who knows him nearly as well as I know your own daughters. Why, he’s come here to speak to you honestly about his feelings, which took a good deal of courage, considering he thought—and I did too—that Addie might possibly be ill, very ill, maybe even dying. For you to attack him this way when he was sick with worry is not like you, sir.”

  Merritt calmed himself and replied quietly, “You’re right, Mrs. Smith. Robert, I’m sorry. There is nothing physically wrong with Addie. If she’d seen a physician, even without my knowledge, I’d surely have known, for wouldn’t I have received a bill? She has, I’m afrai
d, inherited her mother’s temperament—moony and distracted by turns, which made my wife very difficult to live with, and makes Addie much the same. Though I appreciate your concern, take it from me, it is ill-founded.”

  Both Robert and Mrs. Smith relaxed.

  “Ooo, sir, I’m happy to hear it,” she said, passing a hand over her forehead.

  “I apologize, too, for implying that you’ve done less than a good job with the girls. Your care for them has been impeccable, better perhaps than their own mother could have provided, had she stayed.”

  “Why, thank you, sir.”

  “I believe, though, that we must allow for Addie’s moods. She isn’t the intelligent girl her sister is nor has she the wit and personality to attract friends easily. She’s always preferred to be alone, and loners must be granted their curious shifts of temperament, must they not? She is a young girl standing on the threshold of womanhood. Let’s give her time to step into it gracefully without badgering her to cheer up, shall we? She’ll do so in all due time, I’m sure.”

  “Perhaps you’re right, sir.” Mrs. Smith crossed herself. “I’ll say a novena for her, that’s what I’ll do.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Smith. Now if you wouldn’t mind excusing us for a moment, I’d like to talk to young Robert alone.”

  “Of course.” She worked herself out of her chair with no small effort. Over the years she’d grown rounder. “I’ve got some marketing to do, and since Robert’s going back to the bank from here, I’ll bid you both good afternoon.”

  When she was gone, Isaac Merritt waved a hand toward her chair. “Sit down, Robert.”

  Robert did so.

  Merritt sat, too, joined his hands, steepled his fingers and tapped them against his lips. He studied Robert silently for some time, then let his joined hands drop to his lap.

  “So you love Addie, do you?” He sounded remarkably calm, considering his earlier vehemence.

  “Yes, sir, I do.”

  “And you want to marry her.”

  “When the time is right.”

  “Ah, yes...” Merritt reached for a humidor and extracted a cigar. “When the time is right.” He snipped the end. “And when is that?”

  “As soon as her schooling is done, I thought, although I’d always intended to let my intentions be known when she was sixteen.”

  “Next year.”

  “Yessir.”

  “And you’ll be nineteen then, is that right?”

  “Yessir.”

  Merritt lit his cigar and blew smoke toward the ceiling. Leaning back in his chair, he said, “I thought it best not to expound upon the subject while Mrs. Smith was here, but you’re old enough for a man-to-man talk.” He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the desk, studying the cigar while rolling it between his fingers. “I’ve been eighteen myself, Robert. I know the”—he thought a moment—“the impatience a man feels at that age.” He looked up. “Like a ripe watermelon waiting to be dropped, eh?”

  Robert blushed but his gaze held steady. “In spite of what you may think, sir, Addie and I have never been alone together by design, and when we are there’ve been no improprieties between us.”

  “Of course not. But you’ve kissed her, I suppose.”

  “Yessir, but nothing more.”

  “Of course not, only the struggle with yourselves.”

  Robert could not in all honesty deny it.

  “I would imagine that a girl of fifteen is of an age to be kissed—in my day they were. But think, Robert, of the exigencies it places upon her. You are eighteen already... a man. Old enough to be married, should you choose; to have a family, a home of your own, the freedoms of the marital state. You’ve begun treating Addie as a woman, yet she knows she is, not one. So is it not believable that she should react as she has? With periods of despondency and gloom? She feels guilty, believing she is holding you back. And in spite of your declarations of honor, in spite of your good intent, and in spite of the fact that I believe you, the best thing for both you and Addie might be for you to see her less until she’s reached the age where she can marry.”

  Though Robert felt downhearted he admitted he’d had the same thoughts himself at. times.

  “Two years isn’t so long,” Merritt went on. “I understand you’re learning under the big boys over at the bank. In two years you’ll know nearly as much as they. Undoubtedly you’ll be saving your money and investing it under their tutelage, I’ll be the first to admit I wouldn’t mind having a daughter married to an up-and-coming banker who will—I have every reason to believe—be a prosperous leader of his community one day. Mrs. Smith’s faith in you is not ungrounded. I’ve asked around about you and what I’ve learned is most impressive. I was, however, as I said earlier, under the impression that it was Sarah who’d caught your eye. Forgive me for admitting I’m disappointed that it isn’t. With her plain looks and her bookishness, Sarah will have some difficulty finding a husband. But since it’s Addie, perhaps you and I could reach an understanding.

  “During these next two years, you tend to learning all they can teach you at the bank. Make a good solid start for yourself, invest your money—I’ll even advise you on that if you wish—but ease away from Addie. See her occasionally, of course, but offer logical excuses for having less time to devote to her. And when she’s seventeen I’ll be more than happy to give my blessings at your wedding.”

  Robert felt relieved in a dampened way. Two years of avoiding Addie; how could he do it when he’d seen her almost daily for years?

  “I have your permission then, to propose when she’s sixteen?”

  “You have it.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Robert rose and extended his hand. Merritt shook it solidly.

  “You won’t be sorry,” Robert promised. “I’ll work damned hard during the next two years to give Addie the kind of home she deserves.”

  “I’m sure you will. And I’ll be keeping my eye on you, whether you’re aware of it or not.”

  Robert smiled and released his future father-in-law’s hand.

  “You just watch me. I’m going to be as rich as you someday.”

  Isaac Merritt laughed as the younger man headed for the door.

  “Oh, one more thing, Robert.” Robert paused and turned. “I see no reason to trouble Addie by telling her of this conversation. We must, after all, allow her to do her own choosing when the time comes.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  “Good luck to you, Robert.”

  “And to you, too, sir. Thank you.”

  There had followed the most miserable six months of Robert’s life, avoiding Addie—and thereby, Sarah, too—giving up their friendship while offering plausible excuses for his absences. He lived with the fear that Addie would lose her feelings for him. Once he spoke to Sarah about it, inviting her out for a walk and confessing his loneliness and confusion, and his hurt over Addie’s earlier withdrawal. He told Sarah he was working to secure his future and hinted it was Addie’s future, too, but he was bound by his promise to Isaac Merritt to keep his intentions secret.

  Were there other boys at school who’d caught her attention? No, none Addie spoke of, Sarah assured him. Had she confessed to Sarah that her feelings for him had waned? No, Sarah had replied. Does she speak of me at all? he’d asked with longing in his eyes. Sarah had simply refrained from answering, returning his look with one of shared dismay.

  Addie’s birthday fell in June. Two weeks beforehand he sent her a note, asking for the pleasure of her company on the Sunday preceding it. They would picnic at the Botanical Gardens.

  He rented a rig for the first time ever and picked her up with great pomp and ceremony. He had bought for the occasion a vested linen suit the hue of oatmeal and wore a choking, high collar under a painstakingly knotted tie. She wore an airy dress of lavender dotted Swiss, a wide-brimmed straw bonnet, and carried a white lace parasol. From the moment they regarded one another at the door they recognized a mutual somberness, a sorrow-wasted
state bordering on melancholy which accompanied them to the carriage. He helped her embark and she held her skirts aside as he seated himself beside her.

  “Would you like the bonnet up?” he asked.

  “No, my parasol is fine.”

  He flicked the whip and the bay trotted off briskly, its hooves making the only sound as the two of them rode side by side in silence.

  “How have you been?” he asked, and she replied, “Fine.”

  They had dressed in finest regalia—his first costly summer-weight suit, which had set him back dearly; her first grown-up bonnet and the dress with its rustling petticoats such as full-grown women wore. They had breached some indefinable line between callowness and majority that had nothing to do with age, but having breached it they found it execrably silencing.

  At the gardens he helped her alight and took up their picnic food, tied in his mother’s dish towel: though he’d outlayed cash on a fine suit which would enhance his image at the bank, he would not get rich spending money on wicker baskets.

  “I thought we would try the arbor seat just beyond the orangery. Have you been there?”

  “Yes. My father has brought us here many times.”

  They walked together in the sun, along gravel paths between shoulder-high delphiniums the color of sky, past velvety purple petunias that turned the air to nectar, between a pair of magnificent copper beech trees as wide as houses with great drooping arms of shade, into the sun again along a rose path and through an ornate glass orangery where lacy palm trees thrived in the humid warmth; back into the cool between high boxwood hedges and through a topiary arch that brought them to a circular green enclosure surrounded by more square-edged boxwood hedge. Within it beds of white petunias, brilliant red celosia and purple ageratum formed a starburst design. In its center, painted white and draped with thick emerald grapevines, waited the double-benched arbor seat.