Notwithstanding Peter took her in his arms and soothed her perturbation
and made life bloom once more with almost the same brightness it had,
the air was permeated with a spirit of uncertainty. The effect was
impalpable, for there existed in Clarinda’s mind a subconscious fear
that something had crept into her love which was foreign—and ate
interstices in the whole.
This permeation of her love by some foreign thing was evident to her
father one evening when he dropped in and found Peter absent. Peter
explained to Clarinda with care the necessity of his going, and tried to
convince her that it was vital for him to keep an engagement. It was so
vital, he contended, that it would brook no interference, not even the
interference of the thing which was the sole ambition of his life—her
happiness. This engagement was of such importance that it would not
allow him to sink down upon the divan and take her in his arms and tell
her of the things he had accomplished during the day. Peter kissed her
as he went out, but Clarinda was upset.
As the old man came through the door, the light was dim, and only the
single burner in the tall lamp shed its uncertain rays about the place.
He took off his top-coat and placed his cane in a corner. Clarinda
kissed him and helpfully settled him in the spot which was Peter’s.
Her father watched her during these preparations, and he felt from some
reason that the atmosphere was filled with uncertainty. Feeling this he
gathered himself together and pondered upon the various ways of approach
by which he might help Clarinda without her suspecting. He knew. It was
indicated to him by her movements.
The care with which she fixed things for his comfort were an indication
and he decided to abide his time.
Presently Clarinda sat herself down beside him and leaned her head
against his shoulder. He put his arm around her and drew her close to
him. Clarinda sighed with satisfaction. They talked. Her father answered
her various questions. It was a desultory conversation, as if both were
sparring for an opening. Presently they sank into silence.
Many days had passed since Peter, on that memorable morning, had gone
out of the house and had not kissed her, nor held her in his arms, nor
turned at the corner and waved his hand to her. Since then he had
forgotten repeatedly, and each time he went from her it left a bitter
feeling in her heart. Clarinda lived on love, so when it was denied her
she felt as if something vital had been taken out of her life.
Since they had been married, one winter had come and gone, and another
was upon them. The snow had fallen, and the leaves had gone from the
trees. The people without had gone by unmindful, cold, impersonal—and
did not feel the tragedy Clarinda was carrying in her heart. They rushed
by muffled to their chins. The days were shorter, and the nights settled
down upon her earlier. They gave Clarinda a longer time to think of her
sorrow, and to find out how far she had advanced.
On this winter night, in front of Clarinda and her father on the tiny
hearth, there burnt a tiny fire, that gave a tiny blaze; and it curled
itself up the chimney and lost itself in the orifice. Clarinda settled
herself by her father’s side, and gazed intently into the fire. She
pressed his hand tightly in hers, and buried her head securely on his
shoulder. As she looked into the fire, her eyes widened and her cheeks
became flushed with the heat.
“All things are futile, aren’t they, father?” she asked slowly. Then she
lapsed into silence as if to think of a proper word or as if a certain
delicacy restrained her.
Her father believed that she was about to make a confession, and did not
answer.
After a while, she added: “Do people live forever? Do you love mother
now as when you first loved her?”
“Why do you ask?”
“I have a wonderful reason—tell me?” she demanded.
A curious expression came over his face, half serious, half amused.
Carefully taking his hand from hers and lifting her golden head from his
shoulder, he arose from the divan.
The pillow she had placed behind his head slipped noiselessly to the
floor, and walking a few steps, he turned his back to the fireplace and
took his stand in the middle of the rug.
Judicially he placed his hands behind his back and looked down upon her.
“You will learn,” he answered cryptically.
“What do you mean?” she asked in a puzzled tone.
“There is wisdom, Clarinda, that comes to the old. This wisdom is
sometimes uncanny in its analytical possibilities.”
“You don’t reply to my questions,” she said as she turned the full light
of her eyes upon him. “Do you still love mother as when you began?”
“You asked me that before, and I told you,” he answered slowly. Then as
an afterthought added, “What is the trouble?”
“I have no trouble,” she rejoined hastily. Then she went on as if she
had decided to bare her soul to him.
“I will tell you, try to follow me.”
“All right, go ahead with your tragedy,” he replied banteringly.
“Do not laugh—be serious! You don’t know how vital this thing is to me.”
Clarinda moved her feet in a shuffling manner. “I believe,” she went on
seriously, “that the flat is too small. It doesn’t give sufficient
leverage. We live too much upon each other. It is true I love—I love
everything in it. From the maid to the kitchenette. I have been so happy
in it. Of course, for me it is not too small. I like it for that very
reason. You can’t imagine how delightful it has been for me to sit here
with no one but Peter, with not a sound from the outside—just Peter and
I alone. Don’t you think love is queer? I mean queer in its effects on
different kinds of people?”
As she spoke her father did not interrupt her, but his eyes followed
every expression of her face.
“Peter and I,” she went on, “have lived here more than a year.” A
combative tone came into her voice. “Peter is doing well. But then that
is Peter. Of course, Peter is doing well. How could he do otherwise? You
don’t know Peter, Father, as I know him. Peter is wonderful.”
“Then you are pleased with Peter?” her father said with a smile.
Clarinda did not answer his question. It struck her mind as frivolous.
She continued as if no interruption had taken place. “Do you know,
Father, Peter is cruel? I’ve been very happy here. A great change has
come about I find, and many many times I’ve sat here in this corner and
tried to analyze the reason for the change. I wonder whether it is my
fault or whether it is just the ordinary course of human feeling. I ask
myself whether I have failed, or has he failed? Is love only a
satisfaction of a certain kind of natural law or is it a thing that can
be sustained, I mean carried on forever? I wonder to myself whether
there is really such a thing as love, and if not, what is it that
produces such wonderful sensations? If after all it is only a myth. Why
should people be sorry, or glad, or pleased at the approach of any one
person? Why should I not be as happy, if love does not exist, with John
Jones or John Smith or any other person? Anyway there is a great change.
Peter has changed, I have changed. Everything is different. I can’t
understand.”
Her father still smiled. He did not grasp how deeply she felt, nor could
he understand precisely the conclusion she was drawing. He thought her a
trifle incoherent. He was still satisfied, however, if she were given
time he would find out. He remained silent and kept his eyes fastened
upon her.
“Listen, Father! Follow me with care. It is very difficult for me to
explain exactly.” Clarinda wept and bent over in her grief, then
murmured with intensity. “Can’t you understand? Can’t you understand?”
Her father saw her body shaken with emotion and the tears steal between
her fingers. He was terribly oppressed.
He advanced a few steps and laid his hand gently upon her head, his
touch was sympathetic. She looked up at him with her tear-stained face,
and hope entered her heart.
“Poor little Clarinda,” he began with tenderness in his voice. “I know
your difficulty. Let’s talk it over.” He sat down in the corner of the
divan by her side.
Clarinda fixed the stool again under his feet and replaced the pillow
under his head, then she tucked herself into the bend of his arm and
Clarinda’s golden head lay in comfort on his shoulder, a feeling of
bliss and security in her heart. She waited for him to speak.
“Now let’s see if I can analyze this terrible condition. You would be
surprised how observant I am,” he began. “You think Peter doesn’t love
you as he did. You, in your silly mind have let your imagination get the
better of you. This is probably what happened: Peter in the press of his
duties has neglected you, or you think he has, which is about the same
thing in the end. This neglect was not in itself a great matter nor of
much importance, but was probably in some little attention he gave you.”
Clarinda listened intently.
“Let’s say for example, that he broke some custom that he had built up—a
custom that had come to be part of your life, and that you looked
forward to as much as you do, for instance, to your fruit in the
morning. You have deduced from this infraction that he doesn’t love you
as in the beginning.”
Clarinda opened her eyes in astonishment. He was placing before her
clearly, exactly what she had wanted to tell, but could not. With a few
words he arrived at the bottom of her trouble. Clarinda shook her head
and tucked herself closer to his side.
“How wonderful you are, Father,” she whispered. “How exactly you tell me
what I wanted to explain.”
“Clarinda,” he went on, “you probably don’t know that as a rule men love
intensely. Their love is a curious stable condition of mind. It consumes
them. It becomes part of their fibre. You’ll find out later in life,
when you’ve had greater experience, that men are monogamous, with
polygamous inclinations. That statement is a bit involved. More than
likely you don’t get what I mean quite clearly. Of course, Clarinda, I
am speaking about ordinary men, the right-thinking and the right-doing
sort.” He stopped for an instant as if deliberating, and finally went
on:
“Still, Clarinda, even with the sort I have in mind, they are curious,
because they are human. They build the foundations of their lives with
no uncertainty. After it is done, they arrive at the idea that what they
have built is stable. They forget. Men, my dear child, are essentially
constructionists. It doesn’t follow because they are complacent that
they love any the less. It might be advanced really that they love with
fiercer intensity. The reason for this is that men are removed only a
slight degree from the animal. It is true they are covered with a slight
veneer which is called civilization. Just like animals, anything that
comes into their lives becomes part of them. As I have indicated, love
gets into their blood, bone and sinew. Peter loves you just the same.
Disabuse your mind of this idea that he doesn’t love you. It is all
foolishness. All your fears are founded on sand. This condition is not
your fault. It is the natural course that love always follows and nearly
all men arrive at the same end.”
Clarinda sat very still and listened intently. In her heart as she had
always done she felt her father was the greatest being in the world.
Even at times greater than Peter. This admission cost her much, but for
years he had been her bulwark. Upon his judgment her life had been
founded. During her young days she had looked upon him as an oracle. And
now in this crisis, after he had spoken she was sure he was just as she
thought.
“Your situation is clear to me,” he continued. “Suppose I draw you a
picture of your position.” He paused for a moment. “I have in mind what
occurred. Let us suppose for example, that every morning when Peter left
you before he went out of the door he kissed you. You lived on that kiss
until he came back in the evening. It might be before he went away he
held you for an instant in his arms and patted your lovely head. And
then after he had gone and had gotten out on the street, you ran to the
window and waved your hand to him as he went around the corner. You
treasured that final wave. Peter is only a man. Peter is not a bad sort.
Now, how is that for the first part of my picture?”
“Father! Father!” she exclaimed. “How wonderful you are.”
“Let’s go further with our picture,” he began again. “Now what did you
do? Being inexpressibly foolish, on that very first day this terrible
thing happened here is what I see. In this picture you are a stricken
thing. Slowly you go back into the room, with the weight of the world
upon you. The house is all drab. You don’t rush to the window. Oh, no,
not you, instead you weep and the tears roll down your face. You feel
right then as if all the world has fallen apart, and there is only a
great void.
“In your misery you felt, for this was real to you, sick at heart. You
threw yourself down upon the divan and sank into a terrible condition.
This lasted throughout the day, until Peter came home. When he saw you,
so sad and dreary and your face be-streaked with tears, he took you in
his arms—and right then—the sun came back. Your heart beat with joy.
How’s that, Clarinda?”
“But why should it happen?” Clarinda burst forth. “Why should Peter
change? I am just the same. I am just as young. Just as beautiful. Peter
always says I am beautiful. My physical self is just the same. I don’t
believe I am any the less attractive or less appealing to his man’s
side. Peter forgets. He forgets often. Why should he feel that he can go
out and leave me as he does? Why should he not kiss me every morning? I
don’t forget.”
“All that is true, Clarinda,” her father went on. “The reason for its
happening, I have explained. But there is something else. It is a
curious psychological fact. Women are different from men, for the reason
that nature has so provided. I can’t answer this question. It would take
too long, and even if I did, you might not understand the fine
distinction I would wish to draw. There are so many shades, so many
complexes, so many difficulties in the way of an understandable
explanation. The question is too deep for me to discuss. You don’t have
a proper grasp of the human factor as it is applied to me. The shadows,
Clarinda, upon your life are all imaginary. They don’t exist really.”
The conversation died, and Clarinda sat with her father in complete
silence. She endeavored to make him say more, but he would not. He
looked into the fire and watched the flame go up the chimney. The clock
on the mantel struck the hours musically, and the wind without blew with
an angry insistence. But Clarinda was at peace. Her head was clear and
she saw distinctly into the future. The seconds of time went into
minutes and the minutes grew into hours. The persistent ticking of the
clock was at last broken by the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps,
as if they bore someone in great haste. Then the door opened and Peter
bounded into the room and filled it completely.
“It is late,” said Peter breathlessly. “But I’ve a good excuse. I’ve
done well tonight and it is all for you, Clarinda.”
Clarinda arose quickly from the divan, and Peter took her gently in his
arms. Her father winked at her knowingly and smiled.
“What have you done, Peter?” she asked, as she struggled to release
herself from him.
“Wait until I get my breath,” he replied as he pushed her gently back
upon the divan. He sat down between them.
Carefully he arranged himself, stretching his long legs comfortably out
in front of him; then he folded his arms complacently over his chest.
“Tell us, Peter?” Clarinda asked again, as she drew herself close to
him. “Isn’t it nice?” she added. “Just we three together. Father, you,
and I?”
Her father laughed and Peter put his arm around her.
“You’re a nice little person, Clarinda,” he said.
“But think, Peter, why shouldn’t I be happy? What more could I want?”
“That brings me to exactly what I wanted to tell you. What more could
you want? I can think of lots of things. For example—a larger place. It
might be the house on the Park Way. A car you could drive. A larger
divan, with a bigger lamp behind it. Probably new clothes—a fur coat.
Maybe a husband who would really accomplish something.” Peter stopped
and contracted his brows. “Then further you might have a new father who
would think more of you, one who might be more proud of you. I admit
that is drawing a long bow; but he might be found.”
“Peter, you are foolish,” she answered with wonderful pleasure in her
voice. She loved to hear Peter talk, even if she thought what he said
was foolish. “I want nothing. I was just telling father how pleased I
was.”
“You were also telling me how unhappy you were,” her father interjected.
Clarinda sprang from the divan and stood directly in front of her
father. “You know that isn’t true. I never said I was anything but
happy. Father, I don’t see how you can imagine such things. Tell Peter
it isn’t so.”
“All right, all right!” her father answered. “Oh, woman! Oh, woman! Now
listen, you two. Since I have made such a grievous mistake, let’s
speculate. Listen to the oracle: you, Peter, and you, Clarinda. I have a
plan, which I think would do you both good. Ahem!” he cleared his
throat, “I find after due consideration of your situation, that your
lives are too prosaic. Too much the same thing. Suppose you had a plot,
some deep and sinister thing. I admit that the average persons don’t
have plots in their lives, but that does not matter, some few do, and
why not you? You two should have some deep compelling motive, and there
should be some other factor that would probably lead to some horrible
situation, a murder, or a great theft, or a dual existence, something
that would lead to a tragedy, mixed with blood and gore.”
“Horrible!” exclaimed Clarinda, and Peter shook his head in
disagreement.
“But think of the interest you would have!” he added. “Peter could shoot
you, or you could shoot Peter. You would have your picture in the
papers, with splashing headlines. Instead of leading normal lives you
would then undergo a great change, and when you died, people would
remember you long enough to go to your funerals.”
“The subject is changed. If you can’t be more cheerful you may go home,”
broke in Clarinda.
“I agree with Clarinda,” put in Peter.
“Now, father, you are properly squelched. Let Peter tell us what he did
today. That’s more interesting than plots, murders and thefts. I don’t
care how prosaic my life is so long as I have you two to take care of
me. What did you do, Peter?”
“First of all, I bought the house on the Park Way,” he began. “I had the
deed made out in the name of Mrs. Clarinda Thorbald. Second, I had put
in the garage a nice little car. The license is made out in the name of
Mrs. Clarinda Thorbald. Third, I had hung in one of the closets the coat
Mrs. Clarinda Thorbald admired so much the other day. Fourth, I have had
placed in the house—let’s see?” Peter told off on his fingers. “A
housekeeper of the pickled kind, who has never smiled; this quality has
been guaranteed by her last employers. A butler of austere mien, a door
man, a first-floor maid, a chef, a chauffeur, a hall boy, two
cooks—these are in addition to the chef. Then there is a gardener, a
furnace man—Lord! I think it is an army. And that’s not all—” Peter
stopped for a moment. “Upstairs off the main hall I have had furnished a
room precisely like this one. In it is a very tall lamp, with a pink
shade. A divan like this one that we are sitting on. But the greatest of
all and the thing that was the most difficult to get—I found for her a
father—just the kind I suggested.”
“Peter!—Peter!” Clarinda exclaimed.
“Oh, there is something else. Another thing that I found. You might
imagine I had difficulty in finding a new father for you, but that was
not a circumstance to this thing I accomplished. I spent days in the
search. I wandered from one end of the town to the other. I hunted with
infinite care. At times I became completely discouraged and almost gave
up in despair; but persistency is not a jewel, it is a diadem.”
Clarinda’s father was amused and Clarinda was consumed with impatience.
“As I have said,” he went on, “this last effort caused me great trouble,
but I found it. And now, Clarinda, what do you think it was?”
“I don’t know,” she answered. “Tell us? It must have been important if
you went to all that trouble.”
“Listen carefully, both of you. It is a matter vital to your happiness,
Clarinda. I—found—for Mrs. Clarinda Thorbald—a husband—who would think
more of her and love her more and would fill her life with greater
content—and—”
Clarinda sprang from the divan. Her face was flushed, and she turned
upon Peter. She put her hand over his mouth, and Peter struggled for an
instant and then laughed loudly.
“Peter—Peter!” she exclaimed. “You are perfectly horrid. I don’t believe
anything is sacred to you. Every bit of pleasure I might have had is
destroyed. I hate your old house.”
Clarinda went out of the room and closed the door with a crash behind
her.
The two men looked at each other; after a few moments the old man said
laconically:
“You ought to know, Peter, that the spirit of jest is not a component
part of the female make-up.”
He arose from the divan, put on his coat and hat and went painfully out
of the door.
Peter left alone shrugged his shoulders and lit a cigarette, and with a
sigh he fell back into the corner of the divan and looked pensively into
the fire.
V
Several days went by before Clarinda recovered from the shock she had
sustained during the conversation with her father and with Peter.
Clarinda made it a point never to disagree with Peter. She wanted to
submerge herself in his moods and thoughts, to absorb his point of view.
It was true that she often found Peter bombastic and egotistical and
even foolish, but that did not alter her determination. Her observation
of combative women, and to what end they came, was sure, and it meant
always mental separation, so she determined to avoid this condition at
whatever cost it might be to her own individuality. As he should go, so
would she go.
When she had thought the matter over, she saw that she had been small,
and decided that when they went to inspect the house she would assent to
anything he would suggest.
Clarinda knew the house, and had often envied the people who had lived
in it. It stood upon one of the most fashionable streets of the city.
Surrounded by large gardens it stood alone on the top of a hill, with a
wall running around its borders that kept away the gaze of the public.
It had been built but a few years, by a man who had made progress in his
undertakings. He built it after plans he had long thought of, and in it
he had placed his hopes. Within its four walls he wanted to pass a
wonderful life and a long existence.
The forces that control, however, took no interest in his plans, and he
and his family moved in, and in only a short time he was smitten with an
illness and all that he had hoped for was buried in a few feet of earth.
This man who built the house was filled with ambition. He imagined as he
walked through the halls and its decorated rooms, with his wife, that
they would live long and he would have the opportunity of showing those
whom he knew what the proper condition of life should be. These two sat
in the marvelous rooms and wandered in its gardens and made their futile
plans.
Success had twisted their perspective; and the woman’s perspective was
even more badly twisted than the man’s.
Fate stood back of them in the shadows and laughed at them and their
vain imaginings.
The servants whom they hired to do their bidding, grinned at their
stupidity. They worked with secret grudgings in their hearts and stole
from them with perfect equanimity. The man knew these things, but felt
it was part of the price he had to pay.
In the world he was bowed down to and people he knew pointed their
fingers at him and envied him his wealth and his big house. But fate
came and crushed him. When he was gone fate went out of the doors to
look for others to come into the house, and the place he had made for
himself, and swept into its walls and gardens Clarinda and Peter.
Peter and Clarinda went in the front doors of the house of sorrow. The
servants bowed and grinned. The clocks struck the hours with
indifference, but Peter gloated. The automobile he had bought stood on
the paved way. As they entered he handed Clarinda a deed for the place,
and Clarinda smiled and kissed him. All the anger she had felt went from
her heart. The newness of the place, its size compared with the flat,
gave her pride just as it had Peter.
Peter took her through the rooms, and they passed from the hall into the
parlors, then up the stairs into Clarinda’s apartments. In the middle of
the room stood Clarinda’s little maid who gave assurance that all had
not been swept away, that there was something to hold to. Peter’s joy
was great. He babbled on without hindrance, and with pleasure took her
into a tiny room just off the one they were in. There he had placed a
divan, with a tall lamp behind it. In front of which was a fireplace,
and on the irons lay wood ready to be lit.
Clarinda was pleased and she turned to Peter.
“It is very nice. Only, Peter, I am afraid it is too large. I don’t
think I am going to like it as much as I did the flat.”
“Then you are not pleased that I bought it? Or is it because I joked
with you?”
“I don’t know,” she replied. “I hate jokes, and I hate people who try
them on me.”
“I am sorry, but try to be happy if you can. Forgive me this time, for I
only wanted it to be a surprise.”
“I hate surprises,” she said slowly.
“All right, never again,” he said finally.
The little maid rushed about the place, for she liked the grandeur of
the fittings, and the extent of the spaces.
Clarinda examined the arrangements with care. She went into the rooms
Peter had fixed for himself, and found that they were quite far from her
own. She could not decide whether she liked this or not. Peter had
always occupied the same room she had and it had worked very nicely.
She feared that a hiatus had come, and it would grow into a tolerance.
Something new was creeping into her life, but she did not know whether
it appealed to her or not in view of the dangers it concealed.
It was true in her father’s house that her father and mother occupied
separate rooms, and when she thought it over she remembered that it had
worked well. They had managed to be very comfortable, physically and
mentally. It might after all be much nicer. Probably with this
arrangement she could collect about her things she liked and Peter could
do likewise. Then it was conceded to be more civilized, and it would
redound to her comfort in the mornings as she could have the maid help
her to dress.
Peter kept her moving from one part of the house to the other, then he
led her into the kitchen. It was as big as the rest of the place. There
were all kinds of contrivances just as her mother had them. As she
entered she was greeted by a big person in a white apron and a cap on
his square ill-looking head, who announced he was the chef.
Clarinda smiled as he bowed low before her, but it chilled her, for she
knew her one delight was gone. No more would she be allowed to supervise
what Peter ate. Never would she be allowed to dictate to the vegetable
man, or the meat man, or the man who brought the eggs and the butter.
Then a large person loomed out of the distance. A queer hard-faced
person, who carried command in her manner, just such a person as Peter
had described, who announced that she was the housekeeper.
Clarinda shrank back from all these, and a queer feeling went down her
back. All these elaborate things that hung in festoons from the walls
and hooks and this crowd of powerful servants scared her. She felt she
had receded into the position of a marionette.
Quickly she drew Peter from the kitchen and went back by a hidden
staircase to the little room with the tall lamp and the divan; for here
Clarinda felt more at home.
Peter sat down in the corner of the divan and stretched his legs out in
front of him. He was filled with a great complacency, as he pulled
Clarinda down beside him. The tall lamp glowed behind them. The maid had
lit the fire and the flames went up the chimney, just as they did in the
flat.
“Well,” he asked, “how do you like the new nest I have got for you?”
Clarinda sat for a long time and made no answer. Her face was drawn into
a knot. She was thinking seriously. However, she tucked herself into her
place beside him and took his hand in hers and her eyes were half closed
as she gazed steadily into the fire.
“Father is coming presently,” she said at last, without answering his
question. “I want him to look the place over, for he knows so much more
than we do.”
“You’ve great faith in the judgment of your father—and apparently little
in your husband,” Peter replied with a peeved tone in his voice.
“No—not—exactly—that,” she hesitated. “Ring the bell for the maid,
Peter.”
Peter rang the bell, and the maid came in and stood inquiringly at the
door.
“I want to do something, Peter,” she said.
“All right,” he answered.
Clarinda turned to the maid. “Bring some coffee for Mr. Peter and me.
Don’t make it, but bring hot water and just the coffee and some toast.”
The maid curtsied and went out.
“Why that?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I am worried, Peter. I am all upset. I am trying to find
out if I shall like this place. I feel as if something had given me a
turn.”
Clarinda arose from the divan, and pulled a small table from the center
of the room. When the maid came in she told her to go down and get some
cups and saucers, then to fix the table as she used to have it.
The maid soon had the things as Clarinda wanted them, and Peter looked
on in astonishment.
“Now, Peter, you sit down there at the end, and I shall sit here. Let’s
pretend it is morning and you are having your breakfast and you are in a
dreadful hurry.”
Peter sat down as he was told and waited for her to finish her
preparations.
Clarinda was trying to drag herself back, but for some reason she could
not. A new light had broken. Probably this was the rebirth her father
had told her of.
As they sat opposite each other and she was making the coffee, the door
to the room opened and her father came in smiling, seemingly happy over
the new nest Peter had provided for his daughter.
Clarinda went over and kissed him. She helped him take off his coat and
placed his cane in the corner, then she made a place for him at the
table.
After he had sat down a desultory conversation began. They talked about
the house and its arrangements, concerning the extent of the garden, the
placing of the lake which Peter contemplated, the number of servants,
and the effect the house made from the outside. Clarinda listened while
she busied herself making the coffee, and the maid brought in the toast.
The men continued to speak of various stocks, the rise and fall in
foreign exchange, the effect of the rise in the prices of steel, but
Clarinda took no interest in these things.
Without warning she broke in upon their conversation.
“I—I—don’t believe in this place. It seems to me to be too large. I feel
as if my happiness had gone out of the window.”
The men looked at her as if not hearing what she said. They waited for
her to pass the coffee, and it was evident her father was pleased.
“I wish I were back,” she broke in again.
“Oh, Clarinda!” exclaimed Peter. “That’s the first mean remark I ever
heard you make.”
“I mean it!” she replied slowly.
“After all this struggle?” said her father.
“I’ve been thinking,” answered Clarinda.
“What! Women should not think, for it is bad for them,” her father put
in smilingly.
“I’ve been thinking of many things lately,” she replied.
“Name one of these things, Clarinda,” Peter said banteringly.
“Everything is all wrong,” said Clarinda, as she left the table. She
walked about with a nervous step. “Do you remember, Father, when I was
married, you said that I was not dying, but that it was a rebirth?”
“Yes, I remember, Clarinda,” answered her father. “What is the trouble?
You know my method, I always believe that there is nothing so good as an
out-and-out discussion, if anyone feels in a wrong situation. It
clarifies things and leaves no room for misunderstanding,” he said
looking into Clarinda’s eyes. “People who are married drift into
situations just on this account, because they refuse to speak of them.
Now, tell us what it is you are thinking.”
“You are talking at random, trying to conjure up something that doesn’t
exist. I know of no difficulty. Everything seems to me to be as calm as
a summer’s day,” broke in Peter.
“There is a rift,” answered her father. “Let’s find it.”
“You are a pessimist. Where can there be a rift when two people are
satisfied and understand each other perfectly?”
“How do you know these people are satisfied?” asked Clarinda. “Because
one of them is wrapped in his own complacency, it does not follow that
the other person is in the same frame of mind.” Clarinda had a queer
look in her eyes.
“There you are,” her father said quickly. He placed upon the table the
cup he had in his hand. “Let Clarinda say what she means.”
“I will,” she replied firmly. “You both shall be arraigned. I’ve decided
to drag you both before yourselves and will appeal to you both—place you
both in the light I think you ought to occupy.”
“Listen—listen—another Portia!” Peter carried deep mockery in his voice.
“Be quiet, Peter,” commanded her father.
Clarinda flushed and looked kindly at the old man.
“I have thought—” she began.
“The lady thinks,” laughed Peter.
“Yes, as queer as it may seem—the lady thinks,” Clarinda put in. Peter
noticed the look upon her face and it did not please him.
“Hush, Peter,” said her father, laying his hand upon Peter’s arm.
“As queer as it may seem to you,” went on Clarinda. “The lady thinks,
but she has thought for sometime past. The lady has come to know you
two. She knows also that both of you think no woman should think.
Nevertheless, they do think but at all times their thoughts are not
pleasant.”
“What have you thought?” her father asked as if to encourage her.
“I’ve thought of my life and how extremely foolish it is. I’ve made a
review of it, just while I was looking into the fire, and while I
looked, it spread itself out before me, and made me ashamed. It is
curious how rapidly one can think, and how a life that has covered years
is gone over in a moment. I don’t like this big house. It comes to me
just what my position will be.”
“The house is yours. You have the deed for it. I gave it to you,” said
Peter.
“That’s true. I’ve a piece of paper that recites that fact, but it is of
no value to me. The thing I want has gone out of the window.”
“I don’t follow you, Clarinda,” broke in her father.
“You will understand, Father.”
“Will I understand?” asked Peter.
“I don’t know,” she replied.
“Why won’t we understand?” asked Peter.
“I don’t know.”
“Go on, Clarinda,” said her father.
“I’ve something to say. It will no doubt fill you both with
astonishment. It has been on my mind for a long time. The other things
have come to me only tonight. Listen, and get it carefully in your
minds. Don’t think I am indelicate or that I regret. I know it is the
allotted thing for women. It is the natural condition. As you have both
said so often, the one and only reason for women being in the world. I
am going to be a mother.”
“Clarinda!” exclaimed Peter. A curious wave went over him.
“I am not pleased,” said her father, slowly as if turning the thing over
in his mind. “It is dangerous.”
“Irrespective of your ideas, it is true. I’ve said nothing about it
before for many reasons,” she went on. “You must not think for a moment
that I am afraid. Nature doesn’t allow me to be afraid. Many times since
this thing has come upon me I have analyzed my sensations. I find my
heart is filled with a curious kind of joy. I find my whole nature has
undergone a change and that my outlook has expanded. It seems to me as
if I’ve gone through a revolution. But there is something else,
something that is closer to my heart than even that. It is supposed to
be the closest thing that can come to a woman.”
“For the Lord’s sake! What else?” asked Peter with astonishment.
“There is much else. I have discovered that I am all wrong,” Clarinda
went on quietly and slowly and her voice carried a peculiar tone of
sadness. “My life is all wrong. My perspective is all wrong. I discover
I’ve been submerged by you two. Still, I don’t believe it is exactly all
your fault. A great deal of it arises from my own point of view. But,
now, I’ve come to a point. I have revolted. This revolt may arise from
my condition. This condition may create this revolt. It seems to me as
if it were a physical awakening. I don’t know where to place the blame.
It may be your fault, Peter. But it is more the fault of my mother and
father. They laid down the lines, and Peter simply follows out these
limits as they had placed them.”
Her father did not reply. To him it was wonderful to hear her speak. It
interested him vitally, for as far as he was concerned it placed
Clarinda in a new light. He had never thought it was in her to have an
idea except such as was conveyed to her by either Peter or himself. It
was a new concept. He could not judge if she were making a mistake or
not. He waited for her to say more.
“All my life,” she began again, “I’ve been trained by people who tried
to avoid for me any phase of life that might be difficult. As I see it,
my existence has been made a bed of roses. Temptation has been kept from
me. Existence as it is has been pushed aside. Luxury has been spread at
my feet. Everything has been done to lead me to believe that in the
world there was nothing but ease and comfort. I was allowed to look only
upon the bright side. The lights were always lit, and yet I lived in a
haze. Somehow I felt during all the years I lived that it was wrong. But
I did not try to reason the thing out. I could not. What is the result?
I am the result.” Clarinda stopped and then with a new tone in her voice
went on:
“The result is that you’ve created a woman without force, a puny thing
that can be argued into any position. Think of it! By two men who are as
narrow in their point of view of women as the creases in their shirt
fronts, by two men who have looked upon me as a toy, or a piece of
Dresden china. Something that should give them pleasure, a puppet,
walking about on two legs. Now, listen, I don’t blame either of you as I
should. I blame much more the environment in which I was born. Here is
the remarkable thing about it. Since this new condition has come upon
me, as I told you—I have undergone a change. It is psychological as well
as physical. It startles me and I feel as if something had been torn
from me. I have revolted. Out of this revolution is created a new
personality and the birth of this personality is causing me as much pain
as I shall suffer with the birth of my child.”
“But, Clarinda,” interposed her father, “your premises are wrong. Your
argument is poor. Why should you not have been protected and advised by
older minds? Why should you not have the easiest way? I could afford it.
I certainly thought it for the best. My love for you did this thing.
Peter has lived with but one thought in his mind, which is you.”
“I, too, object to your statements, just as your father does, for I feel
it a pleasure to give you all that you want. There is nothing else in
life for me but that. I can’t see why you would deny me this one thing,”
Peter broke in as her father finished speaking.
“You are both wrong,” Clarinda said quickly. “Look at the result of your
misapplied consideration. What is the result? As I said, a puppet, a
thing without color, or a mere toy. It is terrible to think of. It is so
unjust, so unfair. If anybody knew me as I am they would laugh or weep.
I don’t know which. But thank heavens that is done before it is too late
and I am about to enter upon a second stage, a new development. I have
shed this thing as a cloak, I have awakened to a change that has come—a
vital change, so big that you in your little minds, I doubt if you can
appreciate what it is. In the place of the toy and the puppet here
stands a woman. I hope a force, an intellectual entity.”
“And—,” began Peter. But before he could formulate a sentence, Clarinda
had raised her hand.
“Stop! As I told you, I am about to become a mother. It is curious how
this condition has affected me. I should like to tell you, to describe
the mental adjustment that has taken place, but I doubt whether I can.”
“Go on!” commanded her father. “What has happened? What has taken place?
What do you feel?”
“I don’t know if I can,” Clarinda replied. “It is too great a
revolution. You might not believe what I have thought. You might think
my words were just words. You might think I was versed in psychosis. I
will try, however. You ask me what has happened? A wonderful thing has
happened. As I look at it. This is what has happened. Hitherto, I have
lived as if behind an impenetrable veil. Of a sudden this thing has been
torn apart and a dazzling light, almost more than I can face, has broken
in upon me, and is leaving me dazed. The new situation is almost
impossible for me to face, and this is what has happened. Then you ask
me what has taken place? This—I am another person. In me has been raised
a peculiar animal instinct. I have reverted to the field. There is no
feeling of fear. It is more—one of preservation, not so much of myself,
but rather of the life that is quickening in me. This is what has taken
place. I want to fight, I don’t know what I want to fight. Then—you ask
me, what do I feel? I feel joy. I have lost my lethargy. I am excited.
Every movement in me is one of distinct anticipation. And I don’t know
what I anticipate.”
“Good Lord!” exclaimed Peter.
“I am done,” she said finally. “There is only one request I have to
make, and there is only one thing that I want. I am willing to go
through this period. That is, I want to go back to the flat. For once I
should be allowed to do as I please. Honestly, Peter,” and her voice was
full of pleading. “I don’t like this place. It is too big. It is too
much. I can ever occupy in it but a secondary position. I dislike the
housekeeper, the chef, the maids, and the spaces. I’ve only a short time
to pass through, and for that short time I want things as I wish to have
them.”
“Yes, I would go back, Peter,” put in her father.
“No, for it is only a whim, probably aroused by her condition. I
understand women often take these turns when they are as she is. It is
foolish,” Peter answered with anger.
“We are going back,” replied Clarinda, with a fixity of purpose. “Why
not? I may die. I may be ill for a long time. Why should I not have what
I want? But remember I am not afraid of this thing.”
“When do you want to go back?” asked Peter.
“Now,” she answered shortly.
“It can’t be done.”
“I think Clarinda is reasonable,” her father said.
“But what of all these people?” asked Peter.
“They are certainly no more important than I am. Are they?” Clarinda
asked.
Peter arose from the divan and shrugging his shoulders stepped over to
the wall and touched a button. Presently the woman with the big jaw and
the impenetrable face came in. Peter turned to her as she entered.
“Mrs. Caws, Mrs. Thorbald doesn’t like this place,” said Peter stupefied
with anger. Clarinda stopped him.
“I shall tell Mrs. Caws, Peter,” she said quickly. “Please, Mrs. Caws,
will you be kind enough to dismiss the servants. Mr. Thorbald and I have
decided to go away for sometime. You will see to the closing of the
house. That is all, Mrs. Caws.”
Mrs. Caws went out.
“It is done, Peter.”
“Do you think that settles it, Clarinda?”
“Yes, that settles it, Peter,” and Clarinda smiled wearily as she rose
and left the room.