For the next day, and the next day, and the next day, Clarinda sat in a
stupor. She revolved the death of her father about in her mind with such
rapidity, that she sensed nothing of it. A new and curious development
grasped her, and she could not understand what the development
portended, or in what direction it was leading.
The preparations for the funeral, the long discussions with her mother
as to the proper thing to do did not move her. It was a thing apart.
Everything was mechanical. All passed over her head without stirring an
emotion.
When a lucid moment came to her and she examined herself, she could not
decide if she had been cruel or kind in hastening the end of the parent
she had adored. She tried to talk to Peter about it, but Peter would not
listen to her. Yet out of it, she could not, even though she tried,
force one iota of pity for the old man. It appeared to her to be a
peculiar cataclysm.
She asked herself over and over again, why had she thought of killing
the child? It was in no way responsible for anything. Yet she could have
done it and felt no more sorrow than she felt at the death of her
father. To her the child did not represent youth, it represented a term
of years. It was old enough to die. It had life, and her great desire
was to crush something that had life. She had not done it at the moment
because it came to her in a flash, that the child was too young to
appreciate the condition under which she suffered. It would not have
sensed the words she would have said to it, before she would have
crushed its life out. It struck her from this point of view that it
would have been a useless sacrifice. It would have been just as useless
to kill Peter, for then he would have been dead and removed from any
further suffering. This would not have been wise, for it was her purpose
that he should feel, where she could see, the degradation to which he
had reduced her, so she let him live.
Peter left her in her solitude. It was only broken by the coming and
going of her mother from time to time. She never asked for the child. In
a vague way she knew it was being taken care of by its numerous nurses
and its attendant physician, but in her heart she hated it, for it
represented to her something terrible.
Peter, however, sought it out and looked after its material comforts.
Peter was afraid to leave it alone. He was frightened at the outcome of
his trial of strength with Clarinda. He could see the look on her face
as he had entered the room after the sudden death of her father and the
expression with which she looked at the child as it cooed up at her from
the floor. He could not make out why he had followed her, or what force
had compelled him to leave her father’s house in the midst of the
turmoil of the death. For some unknown reason he had slipped away to his
own home with fear grasping his heart, for he presaged a new disaster.
Why, he could not tell.
Day followed day with him even as it followed with Clarinda, and the
time of the funeral was upon them. Mechanically they went to the house,
and they sat about for some hours before the company came to pay the
last rites to the owner.
Clarinda’s mother sat in proper gloomy silence. Her great body heaved at
intervals with emotion. A tear at times stole down her face. She blew
her nose, making a noise that appeared painful to Clarinda, and over her
face was hung a heavy black veil that hid her entirely from the gaze of
the people, who gradually filed in and took seats in prescribed limits.
Clarinda thought her mother looked like a lump. She sat quite near the
flower-covered casket that held the body of the old man, and it was
black, with silver handles.
Candles gave a fitful light and the tiny blaze they bore swung here and
there like imprisoned souls, that longed to be free. Tiny trails of
smoke went from them into the air, and the smoke melted away in the mass
of flowers which decorated the mantels and the casket.
Clarinda like her mother was covered with a veil. She looked through it,
and it came back to her vividly the last time a crowd of people had been
gathered in this same place. It had been decorated as now, except an
altar stood where the casket was now. It was swept as then with a soft
breeze when the doors to the hall were opened. Almost the same people
were here now as were here then. A musician presided at the organ before
and the soft tones filled the hall then as now. The only difference was
that the song was changed. Instead of “O Perfect Love,” it played now,
“Nearer, My God, to Thee.” As then, now a small voice sang in the offing
and the sweet, gentle tones filled the hall even as before.
Then, there were smiles and tones of laughter and now only suppressed
polite moanings. Sorrow instead of joy, tears instead of laughter. None
of the guests weaved his way across the polished floors. They sat stiff,
immovable. Instead of a bridegroom, an undertaker slipped noiselessly
about the place, like some gnome, or bird of ill omen. The priest was
still. He stood beside the coffin and in a few moments read in subdued
tones from his rubric and his face was drawn and somber. There was none
of the lightsomeness of the other occasion when he had married the man
to Clarinda, who sat stiff and stolid beside her.
Peter looked about furtively. He saw the mother of Clarinda and wondered
why she should be so grief-stricken. He had known her as a person who
delighted in the Church and believed perfectly in its history and its
manifold benefits. He knew she prayed each night that she might be taken
up into heaven and stand upon the right hand of the Throne of Power. He
could not understand how with her belief she could not have rejoiced at
the death of this person. To him it was a wonderful release. The fight
was done. The struggle to hold on to the meagre possessions that this
one had accumulated was over. He had succeeded.
To him the atmosphere was bad. The paid pall-bearers were bad, they
seemed an incongruous note in the place, he disliked them. He hoped in
his heart that when he should become as the one in the box, that some of
his friends would carry him out of his house and place him in the
hearse. Peter did not fear death. He liked to dwell upon it. He liked to
try to reason exactly what it meant to him, for he looked upon it as a
release. He believed nothing and feared nothing. Peter scoffed at
religion and it amused him to discover that the symbols of the church
were the same as those to which the Egyptians bowed thousands of years
ago.
They left the house, and they came back again. The dirt had fallen with
a hollow sound over the bones of the old man. They ate. The flowers had
disappeared from the hall. The servants resumed their same tones of
servility and nature reasserted itself and life went on as before.
Clarinda and he went back to their own house. Peter lit a cigarette, and
stretched himself. Clarinda sat upon the divan, and didn’t think of
anything. Time went by her without notice.
Peter blew the smoke from his cigarette into the air, and it curled in
fantastic waves about his head and sank away into nothingness. His mind
was almost as much a blank as Clarinda’s. He could not think, things had
happened so rapidly that his head was in a whirl and he saw the future
darkly.
The maid came into the room and asked quietly whether they desired
anything, but received no response from either of them. She went out as
quietly as she had come, and she shook her head as she closed the door
behind her. Under her breath she said as if to herself:
“I’ve seen many just like these. It is the end. They will separate. It
is bad, and she so beautiful.”
The sun gradually went down and the dark came into the room. The things
about them grew indistinct and the shadows died. The wind came up
outside and sighed around the building. They did not move. Clarinda felt
the strain. Peter grew nervous and moved his feet about on the rug as if
to relieve the tension. Clarinda did not move from the position which
she took when she first sank upon the divan. Her hands hung listlessly
by her side and her head was sunk back upon one of the big cushions.
Hour after hour they sat. Peter suddenly sprang from the divan and
screamed, but Clarinda did not move. She seemed not to hear him. Peter
arose from his seat and paced up and down the room. His step was
nervous, excited and the perspiration gathered upon his forehead. He
wiped it away with his hand. His face became pale and haggard and he
stumbled over the rugs. It was only with an intense effort that he saved
himself from falling. In an agonized voice he spoke. He was incoherent.
He spoke rapidly and his words tumbled over each other and he wiped his
forehead again as he stopped in front of her.
“For God’s sake speak!” he exclaimed. “I am going mad. I can’t stand the
strain. Say something! It is horrible!”
“I’ve nothing to say,” Clarinda answered quietly.
“You’re a murderess!” he said with a trembling voice. He lost control of
his speech. He kept on talking but he did not know what he said. Again
he wiped his forehead with his open hand. It was wet.
“Stop!” exclaimed Clarinda. “You don’t know what you say. Someone might
hear you. There are servants in the house.”
“I don’t care. I shall scream it from the housetops. I want everyone to
know I’ve married a murderess.” Peter sank hopelessly back upon the
divan.
Clarinda put out her hand and placed it upon his arm. Her touch made him
shiver. He drew away from her.
“You’re a philosopher, but you’re a liar. You teach, but you fear your
own teaching. You fight and when you lose, you weep. You destroy and you
give nothing in return.” Clarinda stopped and took her hand from his arm
and let it hang as it had hung since she had first sat down upon coming
into the house. Peter trembled under her touch and trembled more when he
lost the feel of her hand upon his arm.
“Put your hand back!” he demanded. Clarinda put her hand back and her
face broke into a weary smile. She even allowed herself to pity him in
his fear.
“What do you fear, Peter?” she asked. “Where is your philosophy?” Her
voice was full of sarcasm. “You needn’t fear me. I am not going to do
you any harm. You needn’t fear for the child. I’m not going to do it any
harm. That would be useless. If I should do you harm, you would be
finished. You told me that when you should die you would be finished. I
don’t want you to die, I want you to live. I want you to see your other
woman, the kind you wanted to marry. The sort you dreamed of in your
idle moments, in your office, where you built air castles and forgot the
human factor.”
“I shall divorce you!” he broke in.
“Oh, no, you won’t. I won’t let you. You’ve no grounds. I believe one
has to have grounds for that sort of thing. But you shall have relief. I
am going away for a long time. Months and months, perhaps years. But you
will not forget me, Peter.”
“Where are you going?” he asked with a tone of relief in his voice.
“When?” he added.
“Are you anxious for me to go?” she asked. Peter nodded his head in
assent. Again he wiped his forehead with his hand, but in his eyes there
came a look of relief. He even looked at her. She seemed different. She
seemed to him to have expanded, her figure was different, her face was
more beautiful and her eyes had a strange look in them.
“Where are you going?” he asked again.
“In a few days I am going. Where I don’t know. Europe I suppose. All
broken, unhappy women go to Europe. They say they forget there. It must
be the lights, the chairs on the boulevards. I may go to California. I
may not. It makes no difference. You will tell lies about me and you
will say the strain I have been under has been too great, that you are
sorry that I’ve gone, and that you intend to join me in the fall or
spring. But you do not. You will shake your head and look for sympathy
and probably you will get it. You will lie manfully, Peter.” Clarinda
laughed. Peter wiped his forehead with his hand. It was wet.
“I shall be divorced!” he repeated.
“Because my health is broken with the strain. No, you won’t, Peter. You
won’t be divorced. If you do I shall kill you. If you besmirch my good
name—” Clarinda’s voice rose in anger. “I shall come back. It is easy to
kill. It amounts to nothing. You should know, for you killed the thing
that loved you. You killed a trust. It is worse to kill that than
anything else. I didn’t die, I couldn’t die. More is the pity.”
“Clarinda!” Peter exclaimed.
“Listen, I have it all arranged. Tomorrow, or the day after. We shall go
back to Father’s house. The lawyer will be there, he will read the will.
Father’s things will be given to those whom he wished. You will sit
there with a crease in your forehead and will look wise. You will
acquiesce and wonder why he did not leave you more. Inside your heart
will be hurt. You will not say anything, you will smile, and pretend to
be very much surprised that he has left you anything at all. You will
draw upon your philosophy, and maybe you will be comforted. I doubt that
very much. It will end in a farce. Mother will groan, and feel hurt. I—I
shall not care. After this is done I shall go away to Europe or
California or some other place and you, Peter, will meet me next fall or
spring. You will lie.”
“Clarinda!” Peter could not understand. He could not believe the person
who talked was Clarinda. He looked at her as if to reassure his mind
that it was really she. He could not think. His mind was in a turmoil.
“The baby?” he asked.
“That is yours, you will raise it, you will lie to it, you will tell it
of its mother, her beauty, her cleanness of spirit. You will lie to it
as you have lied all your life. You will tell it that you are going to
take it to its mother, and when it gets old enough you will lie to it
again. You will blame me. But you will not tell the child the truth.
You’ve not the fearlessness to do that. You will not tell it that this
thing was your fault, you will not tell it that the greatest failure in
your life was of your own making, you have not the temerity.”
“I shall tell the child,” he answered.
“Oh no you won’t. I know you, Peter. Even better than you know yourself.
You are a coward, Peter, a wonderful coward. This part is finished, this
chapter is done. You may as well go. It is of no avail to talk more. I
will go with you to my mother’s tomorrow and we will listen to the will.
Another farce. Goodbye, Peter. Would you like to kiss me goodbye? You
might think of it afterwards, Peter. It might do you good.”
Peter arose from the divan. He looked at her squarely in the face. A
shiver went down his back. He said nothing but walked to the door and
opening it quietly as one does on the dead, he walked from the room and
closed it even as gently behind him.
Clarinda listened to his footfall and it gradually grew more and more
indistinct and then died out. A silence fell in the place. The dark
became impenetrable, there was no sound. Clarinda gave a great sigh and
leaned back among the cushions and closed her eyes.