ONE
SUCH WERE Irene Redfield’s memories as she sat there in her room, a flood of October sunlight streaming in upon her, holding that second letter of Clare Kendry’s.
Laying it aside, she regarded with an astonishment that had in it a mild degree of amusement the violence of the feelings which it stirred in her.
It wasn’t the great measure of anger that surprised and slightly amused her. That, she was certain, was justified and reasonable, as was the fact that it could hold, still strong and unabated, across the stretch of two years’ time entirely removed from any sight or sound of John Bellew, or of Clare. That even at this remote date the memory of the man’s words and manner had power to set her hands to trembling and to send the blood pounding against her temples did not seem to her extraordinary. But that she should retain that dim sense of fear, of panic, was surprising, silly.
That Clare should have written, should, even all things considered, have expressed a desire to see her again, did not so much amaze her. To count as nothing the annoyances, the bitterness, or the suffering of others, that was Clare.
Well—Irene’s shoulders went up—one thing was sure: that she needn’t, and didn’t intend to, lay herself open to any repetition of a humiliation as galling and outrageous as that which, for Clare Kendry’s sake, she had borne “that time in Chicago.” Once was enough.
If, at the time of choosing, Clare hadn’t precisely reckoned the cost, she had, nevertheless, no right to expect others to help make up the reckoning. The trouble with Clare was, not only that she wanted to have her cake and eat it too, but that she wanted to nibble at the cakes of other folk as well.
Irene Redfield found it hard to sympathize with this new tenderness, this avowed yearning of Clare’s for “my own people.”
The letter which she just put out of her hand was, to her taste, a bit too lavish in its wordiness, a shade too unreserved in the manner of its expression. It roused again that old suspicion that Clare was acting, not consciously, perhaps—that is, not too consciously—but, none the less, acting. Nor was Irene inclined to excuse what she termed Clare’s downright selfishness.
And mingled with her disbelief and resentment was another feeling, a question. Why hadn’t she spoken that day? Why had she allowed him to make his assertions and express his misconceptions undisputed? Why, simply because of Clare Kendry, who had exposed her to such torment, had she failed to take up the defence of the race to which she belonged?
Irene asked these questions, felt them. They were, however, merely rhetorical, as she herself was well aware. She knew their answers, every one, and it was the same for them all. The sardony of it! She couldn’t betray Clare, couldn’t even run the risk of appearing to defend a people that were being maligned, for fear that that defence might in some infinitesimal degree lead the way to final discovery of her secret. She had to Clare Kendry a duty. She wa