In the morning at nine, Clarinda’s maid came into her room. Quietly she
threw open the blinds and drew down the windows. She went from one place
to another and picked up the various articles of clothing Clarinda had
dropped upon the floor, a stocking, a pair of shoes, a skirt. When she
had finished she turned towards the bed and saw Clarinda sitting up
among the covers. Her hair streamed down about her shoulders and her
eyes blazed like two great stars. Dark circles were under each of them,
as if painted. The maid was startled. She came over to the side of the
bed.
“Madame has not slept. Will Madame have a bath?” she asked with
hesitation.
“No,” answered Clarinda shortly.
“Shall the nurse bring the child?”
“No,” she answered.
It had been the custom to bring the baby into the room in the morning.
Clarinda always took it in her arms and would place it so it might play
among the covers. It amused her. She always looked upon it as a
phenomenon. She could not conceive this vital thing that scrabbled
about, crawling from here to there was part of her flesh and blood, that
she had brought it into the world. When she looked at it, she could not
imagine it would grow into a man’s estate and be a power for good or
evil, as the fates might carve out for it, that it should be a force. It
was called Peter.
“Will Madame dress?” asked the maid.
“What time is it?”
“Nine o’clock, Madame.” The maid watched Clarinda carefully, as if she
feared something. “Will you have your coffee now?”
“No,” answered Clarinda.
She rose from the bed and the maid threw a garment of light filmy stuff
about her. Clarinda advanced to the middle of the floor. The maid
thought she wavered as she stood, as if she were uncertain of herself.
She walked quickly towards her but Clarinda felt her approach and sank
into a chair.
“I must talk,” Clarinda said quickly. “Say something! Do something!
Don’t walk about the place so aimlessly. It doesn’t matter what you
say—say something!”
“You suffer, Madame,” the maid said quickly. “You have not slept. Have
you some terrible trouble?” said the maid stopping as if at a loss.
Clarinda turned her burning eyes upon her. “I don’t know what to say. I
know nothing, but I pity you, Madame, your eyes are so bright they scare
me.” The maid trembled. “You suffer.”
“Yes, I suffer. I suffer horribly.” Clarinda wrung her hands in despair.
They dropped listlessly over the edge of the chair.
“From what, Madame? Why should you suffer? You have everything.”
“I must talk. I’ve no one to talk to.” Clarinda wept as she spoke and
the great tears fell down her cheeks.
“Ah! Madame, I pity you, tell me. I will be discreet. I promise! I
swear! It might do you good. It might spare you something. I might be
able to help.”
Clarinda arose and walked about the room. She went hastily from one end
to the other. Her arms beat the air. Occasionally she brushed the tears
from her cheeks. Her eyes were bright as they had been, like two burning
stars.
“Listen, Tizzia!” she commanded.
“I am listening, Madame.”
Clarinda increased her pace. She almost ran from one end of the place to
the other. The filmy garment she wore trailed behind her in the wind she
made. Her feet were bare and she spoke so rapidly she was almost
incoherent.
“Can you imagine, to what a condition I have fallen? I, Clarinda! It
can’t be true. It must be a horrible dream. He said I killed my father,
the person I adored. It is not true. It is impossible. I loved him and I
don’t believe he is dead. I didn’t go to his funeral. Peter says I
killed him. Tizzia, I hate Peter!” and she turned and looked into the
frightened face of the maid.
“Madame!” she exclaimed.
“Hush! I am talking. At last I can speak. Yes, I hate him. No one has
ever hated as I hate. I even hate the child. He, Peter, said I would
have killed it. I would have. I knew this house meant disaster. The
others who lived in it met disaster. The man died and his wife and his
children are in the world—starving. I knew it meant disaster. I begged
Peter not to bring me here.”
“You will be divorced, Madame?”
Clarinda straightened herself up. Her figure seemed to add height. She
laughed aloud. The tones of her voice rattled in her throat, and with a
struggle she regained herself.
“No,” she said slowly, each word gathering strength, “I will not be
divorced.”
“Probably Madame will go away,” Tizzia answered timidly.
“Did you ever hate, Tizzia? Did you ever hate? Hate so that murder
entered your heart, so that it became an obsession?”
“God forbid!” exclaimed Tizzia with fright in her voice.
“That is not so bad. Murder is not so bad. For the thing you kill, dies.
It stops. Think of me, my position. It is more terrible than if I had
been murdered. I cannot die. I must live. Instead of being dead. I must
go to my father’s house. I must sit and listen to his will. I must
appear broken and distraught. I must do these things, and in my heart I
shall fear none of them. I am glad he is dead. I am glad I saw him die.
Did you ever see anyone die? It is wonderful. You should have seen his
frightened old face. You should have seen his hands, the blood going
from them, drying up. The veins stood out, and they seemed to pulsate.
His face was first white, but when I spoke to him, it grew gray. His
eyes lost their luster. His old body wrapped in a great cover shrank
from me. It cried out for pity. I did not pity. I was amused. He was so
pathetic, so frightened, then he gave a great convulsion and he dropped
limp, and he was still. His body gradually slipped down and down until
it lay a huddled mass of nothing on the floor. I laughed.” Clarinda’s
voice stuck in her throat. A convulsion passed over her face, and she
was fast becoming hysterical. She stopped.
“You must calm yourself, Madame. It is necessary. Mr. Thorbald will
come. It would be bad for him to see you like this.”
“He will not come. He does not dare. He is afraid. He is a coward,
Tizzia. Mr. Thorbald lies.” Clarinda clenched her hands. They pained
her.
“Madame must collect herself. Madame doesn’t know what she says. It is
terrible to hear, Madame!” Tizzia exclaimed quickly. Her face had become
ashen with fear.
“I know what I say, Tizzia. I know only too well. I suffer so. I can’t
understand why this should have come to me. I’ve tried so hard to do the
things I thought were right. I’ve failed. He told me I had failed. He
was right. I have failed miserably.”
A gong rang downstairs and the sound reverberated throughout the house.
It struck Clarinda’s ear as if it would break the drums. Clarinda
shivered.
“I must go,” she said. “I must enter the car with Peter. I must get out
of the house and sit beside him. I must show sympathetic interest. They
will force me to listen and be impressed with the things they say. I
will do it. I will finish the story. I shall not weep.”
Hastily with the aid of the maid, Clarinda dressed herself, and did it
with meticulous care. She charged the maid with lack of attention, and
time after time, she took her hair down and had it re-arranged as often.
It never suited her. After she had finished and had looked into the
glass that hung from the ceiling to the floor, she went from the room
out upon the landing, and on down the stairs to the hall, where Peter
was waiting for her. He turned his eyes towards her as he heard her
come. He was filled with apprehension, and a slight tremor shook his
body, his heart stood still. Clarinda bowed to him as she passed, but
said nothing. He likewise did not speak but with a slight bow he opened
the door for her to pass out. The footman at the car, that stood at the
bottom of the steps, held the door open and they entered.
At a sign from Peter the car moved slowly out of the garden, and then
went more rapidly down the street. In a few moments it drew up in front
of the house of her late father. Again the footman opened the door and
offered his arm to aid her but she paid no attention to him, and quickly
went into the house.
In the library to the right of the main entrance she found her mother
sitting in gloomy silence. Clarinda spoke to her and found herself a
seat some distance from her where she sat in a deep shadow. There was no
sound. Peter sought to sit close to her, but Clarinda turned her eyes
upon him and he went away and sat quite near her mother. Clarinda was
alone in her portion of the room. She seemed to be set apart, as if she
had nothing to do with the affair.
At a large table especially arranged sat a man, clothed in black like an
undertaker. His head was large, his forehead protruded, and upon his
nose rested a pair of glasses over which he looked. His air was pompous,
and he seemed oppressed with his knowledge. To Clarinda he looked
foolish. Before him upon the table lay a mass of papers, documents of
parchment, and upon the floor propped up by the legs of his chair, stood
portentous bags of leather with silver clasps. Impressive bits of red
string lay among the documents. Clarinda looked at him, for he amused
her. He looked so false, so pretentious, so unnecessary. She watched him
move. He was being paid for his pantomime, and his pay would be in
proportion to the bulge of his forehead.
After he had bowed to all those present, and spoken to each by his
proper name, he cleared his throat. Then he wiped his forehead with a
huge white handkerchief, which he placed on the table beside him. It
looked like a mountain with peaks and turrets of intense white. To
Clarinda it seemed part of his pretensions.
Accordingly, having duly impressed his hearers, he picked up a thick
document, which was folded many times. Carefully he pressed out each
crease. With slow precision he arose from the chair he occupied, and
looked at the company over his glasses and read.
For a long time his voice went on monotonously. There was no inflection;
he might have been reading to a court. He only stopped now and then to
glance at Clarinda’s mother, at Peter, or at Clarinda. It seemed to
Clarinda he would never finish, as if he would go on forever. Eventually
the final sheet of the document was turned and he stopped as if he were
an actor and waited for applause. When it did not come, he appeared
disappointed.
Clarinda gathered nothing from the reading of the will. Peter smiled at
the amount he received, and he was pleased. Peter loved money.
Clarinda’s mother knew equally as much as Clarinda. She was entirely in
the dark. They both knew they had been left something, but neither knew
just how much or what.
“A wonderful will,” said the lawyer. “Fair, comprehensive, unbreakable.”
Clarinda arose from her chair. She walked over to the table and picked
up the will from among the other papers.
“What do I have under this will?” she asked.
“Your father has treated you magnificently,” the lawyer replied.
“I didn’t ask that,” she said tersely.
The man picked up the will, quickly turned over a few of the pages. “You
will find,” he said, reading carefully with the same lack of
intonations, “under paragraph one, section A, page five and upon the
subsequent page. ‘I hereby leave and bequeath to my beloved daughter the
sum of three hundred thousand dollars, free of all tax.’ In section B,
page six, paragraph five, you will find that this sum of money has been
left in trust. You are to be free of any control of this money, and at
your death, should you leave any children, they shall come into your
share when they shall have attained the age of thirty-five. A fine
proviso,” he added. “Per capita and not per stirpes. This refers to your
mother’s portion.”
“Why that?” asked Clarinda.
He did not answer Clarinda’s question. “You will find that this money is
free from any supervision by your husband and the increment thereof
shall be paid to you by your said trustees.” He added again, “A fine
proviso.”
“Who are the trustees?” asked Clarinda.
“I have the honor of being one of them, and the Safety and Guarantee
Trust Company is the other.”
“Is Peter’s left in trust?” she asked.
“Oh no,” he replied, with a look of astonishment. “Men as a rule do not
need trustees. They have more experience.”
“I just wanted to know.” Clarinda’s voice carried a peculiar tone. The
lawyer looked at her searchingly. Peter turned his eyes towards her. Her
mother sat in the same gloom and the same lack of understanding of what
was taking place. Her mind only grasped the idea that in some way she
was provided for, that this will had made her independent. Through her
mind fled visions of what she would do, she even thought she would like
to travel.
“That is all?” asked Clarinda, as she moved away from the table after
laying the will upon it.
“I believe so,” answered the lawyer. Apparently not quite certain of
himself. Clarinda’s manner broke in upon his usual method of carrying
forward proceedings of the kind. He was upset, he could not exactly
define why.
Clarinda bowed to him and nodded her head to her mother. She went out of
the room and left them still sitting. Her mother was nonplussed. Peter
did not go after her.
Clarinda entered the car, and ordered the driver to take her back home.
V
As the car left the front of the house, after the reading of the will,
it went down the roadway to the street. At the lodge gates stood the old
keeper who had been there many years. He it was who smiled and swept the
clean gravel with his cap the day she had been married. He bowed again
in the same way and his hat touched the clean gravel again as she went
by. He smiled again, but now his smile seemed to be more sinister; it
carried, as Clarinda looked at him, more terrible futility with it than
it had at the former time.
Clarinda trembled as she huddled back in her seat of the car. She tried
to blot him out from her mind, but his old face clung. He gave her more
occasion for thought, but soon he was gone. The car went rapidly on its
way, and it was only a few moments until it stopped in front of the
place Peter called home.
Clarinda got out of the car and went hurriedly into the house, straight
through the hall. She saw nothing, not even the servants who stood
clustered about. They winked at one another and nodded their heads
knowingly. In some manner they sensed with that peculiar intuition which
hangs about servants that they were on the brink of a tragedy, the
household, like many they had seen before, was disrupted—gone. Already
they were turning over in their minds the finding of service elsewhere.
Truthfully they hated the thought of the new applications they would
have to file. It bothered them. The door boy, the man in buttons who
handed the silver tray for the cards of the visitors, the housekeeper,
all of them even to the scullery maid, were disgruntled. They liked the
place. The stealings were easy and there was very little work to do.
Mrs. Caws stood close to the entrance like a bird of prey. She watched
with eager eyes everything that happened. She, too, thought of the next
place where she could get employment, and a smile crossed her lips. It
was bitter, hard, and seemed full of anticipation. She loved disaster to
come to such as Clarinda and Peter. It pleased her that people of the
kind that Clarinda and Peter represented should go down from their great
estate. She, in her narrow soul hated the rich, although it was from the
rich that she was able to live.
Clarinda did not see her any more than she had seen the rest of them.
She hastened to her room and after she had entered she closed the door
tightly behind her. Then quickly she rang the bell that stood upon a
table near the divan. The maid entered, her face was drawn, there were
evidences of tears upon it, her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were
red.
“Madame, did you ring?” she asked.
Clarinda nodded her head. Presently she sat down upon the divan.
Carefully she placed herself in its corner and tucked her body into the
cushions and after removing her hat, she laid her head wearily back. A
sigh left her lips, and it was so deep that it seemed to come from the
depths of her heart. Her face was set, there was no sign of weakening. A
bitter look had come into her eyes. The usual beautiful blue of them had
died. They had become gray. A deep—dark gray.
After a long period of silence she said shortly as if speaking to
herself, “That is over.”
“What is over, Madame?”
“Tizzia,” she continued, “after I am gone—after all this horrible life
that I’ve had to lead is over, I want you to think of me, not as you see
me now, but as you knew me when you first came into this place. When you
do think of me, you must not forget that I feared the place. I don’t
know why, but I did fear it.”
“Yes, Madame,” answered Tizzia. “I shall be happy to do so. You are
going away?” she ventured timidly.
Clarinda looked at her as if appraising her, as if trying to decide
whether she asked questions from interest in her, or only from the
spirit of inquisitiveness. The maid stood in front of her. Her whole
being to Clarinda seemed to betoken sorrow at her condition, and it gave
Clarinda confidence.
“You know,” Clarinda went on. She spoke slowly thinking deeply of every
word she uttered. “I don’t trust you. I don’t know if your apparent
interest is from curiosity or just from the liking you have for other
people’s sorrows.”
“Ah, Madame! I am sorry you said that!” she broke in quickly. “I don’t
want your confidence—unless Madame feels I am not just curious. I
sympathize with you, Madame, deeply. I’ve seen something of life, too,
Madame, I, too, am a woman. I—”
Clarinda arose from the divan, and she strode about the room. She took
great steps, as if in their length she could find relief.
Presently, she spoke quickly, not stopping her march. “I don’t care. I
don’t care if you listen to me from curiosity or from real sympathy. I
must talk to someone. It might as well be you. I’ve no one in the world
to turn to. You don’t know the desperateness of such a situation. The
meanest people in the world usually have someone. Sit down there!” she
commanded.
“I would rather stand, please, Madame.”
“Sit down!”
Tizzia sat down. She placed her body upon the extreme edge of the chair.
Clarinda still walked. She spoke loudly, without intermittence, and her
words fell over one another, yet she appeared to think of each word as
she uttered it. The maid listened and followed as best she could. At
times the maid wept. At other times she trembled with fear, then again
she thought Clarinda would drop from exhaustion. It seemed to her that
she ran instead of walked from one end of the room to the other.
“I’ve thought it all out, Tizzia! I’ve thought it all out! Last night I
didn’t sleep. I walked this room and my bedroom all night. I heard you
come along the hall. I waited for you to come. It seemed to me as if it
were years—years and years! You would be surprised how long it is from
daylight to daylight, when you are waiting for some one. The hours are
so long. The time goes so slowly. I don’t know how I lived through those
hours. It was terrible, but it is over, it is gone! I’ve done my duty
today. I’ve heard the will read, I am rich. I am under the domination of
a little man and a great Trust Company.” Clarinda laughed. “I’ve three
hundred thousand dollars, and when my mother dies, I shall have hundreds
of thousands more. After I am dead, it goes to the child. He will be
rich. Isn’t that splendid for him?” Clarinda’s voice rang with bitter
sarcasm. For a moment she stopped in her march and stood in front of
Tizzia. “Are you listening, Tizzia?” she asked. Tizzia nodded her head
in assent.
“I am going away. Yes, Tizzia, I am going away. I am going to know an
entirely different life. I am going to have lovers. I shall sell myself
to the highest bidder—to some man who will buy my body with his filthy
dollars. I shall find out whether this creature, man, places more value
upon a woman whom he actually buys at so much per pound, than upon the
woman who comes to him with love in her heart. Yes, I shall know the
world! I shall know. I shall go away.” Clarinda’s eyes narrowed. She
went on slowly. Tizzia did not move from the edge of her chair.
“Peter, the lovely, gracious, Peter—the successful Peter, the Peter whom
my father patted upon the back and told how wonderful he was—wonderful,
because he could filch a few more dollars than another man. He shall
know how I am doing. He shall be told, by me, of every step I take. He
shall feel the degradation to which I shall fall—he, this lovely Peter,
thinks because I am a woman—I shall weaken. He thinks no woman can stand
up against the force projected by man. This wonderful person thinks that
I being a woman should sue for pity, that in the end, I will come back
to him, grovel at his feet and ask him to give me respectability. Men
think this sort of thing because a woman has borne him a child. Poor,
foolish creature! I am going to destroy myself not with a knife, nor a
pistol, nor with poison. But I am going to destroy myself—kill all those
finer things which are of me. I am going to the dregs. I shall suffer.
O! I shall suffer miserably. I hate the touch of men, Tizzia! But I am
going to teach myself to bear it.”
Clarinda stopped as if for breath. She still walked up and down the room
at a furious pace.
“O! Madame, you can’t! You don’t know what you say,” Tizzia broke in,
and there were tears in her voice.
“O, yes, I do. I know exactly what I say. More’s the pity,” Clarinda
answered quickly. “Can you imagine me in a brothel? It is laughable. But
I am going. I am going to have a lover. I want a lover. I’ve always
wanted a lover. When I married I thought that was what I was getting. I
did not. But now I shall have one. It will be wonderful to give oneself
to a lover—a man! Probably I shall get one who has committed a great
crime. We shall always live in fear of the police. Probably he may have
killed some one for a lot of money. When I meet him he will have great
piles of bills, and we will sneak out at night and spend it—always in
fear. He will beat me. He will get drunk and be brutal. But he will be a
man! And after all it may happen I shall learn to love him.” Clarinda
laughed. Her laugh scared Tizzia, even more than her words. Tizzia did
not believe she meant what she said. But when she laughed she thought it
might be true. That she would do as she said.
Clarinda continued: “And this man—this criminal with whom I shall live,
to whom I shall give my body, he will probably desert me when I am
getting the least bit old. I will feel this age coming upon me, then I
shall paint my face. I will fight age. I shall learn how it is done.
Every year that comes upon me will make me suffer more—for I know men
only love youth. They hate age. They want only the young. But that will
be a long way off. I am only twenty-three! It might happen that this
lover of mine, kills me in one of his drunken fits. What a glorious
heritage to leave Peter’s boy. His mother killed in a brothel by a
criminal, a murderer. What a headline for the newspapers. _Mrs. Clarinda
Thorbald, the wife of Mr. Peter Thorbald the successful banker, murdered
in a brothel._ I hope it happens. It would be a glorious end to a great
career. O, it is wonderful!”
Clarinda walked over to the window, and said nothing further. She
appeared to have talked herself out. A great calm descended upon her.
Tizzia arose from her chair. She did not know what to do. She stood
uncertainly in the middle of the room. Clarinda heard her as she moved.
She turned.
“You will pack my things, Tizzia. Put all my jewelry in the bags. It is
foolish to go without anything. That is quixotic. I must take my money,
too. It is easier to get a lover with money than without.”
“You will change your mind about the rest, Madame. You are too good to
do the horrible things you say. Madame is excited. When you have thought
the matter over you will think again.”
Clarinda looked at Tizzia. “How little you know me,” she said. Her voice
was weary. Tizzia could barely hear what she said. “How little everybody
knows me. How different it might have been if Peter had known me. I
regret Peter, for once I loved him. He was the one great thing in my
life, but he has died.”
“The child, Madame?”
“It belongs to Peter. I only brought it into the world. It is only my
flesh and blood. It amounts to nothing. I wish it joy. I hate it! I
could have loved it madly. But that, too, is dead.”
Tizzia went into the other room. She left Clarinda and began to put the
things she wanted into the various bags. Lovingly she took down from the
closets the many dresses Clarinda had loved. With delicate touch she
folded each garment and placed it in the great trunks. She rang a bell
and ordered more trunks brought into the room. The man who brought them
ventured to ask what they were for. Was Madame going away? Tizzia did
not answer. She wept incessantly. The tears fell from her cheeks and
spotted the delicate fabrics.
Clarinda left alone threw herself down upon the divan. Time went by. The
clock ticked as if nothing was taking place—as if the old life was just
the same, as if happiness had not left the house.
Finally speaking to herself, she said: “It must come. Why not now?”
She arose from the divan, went out of the door leading to the rooms in
which Peter lived. Quietly she opened the door. Over at a table she saw
Peter. He was writing. His head was bent and he was absorbed in his
task. His pen flew with rapidity. He did not hear her come in, nor did
he hear the door close behind her. She spoke and Peter jumped from his
seat. His face was pale, drawn, distorted. His brow she saw was covered
with perspiration. As he moved, he wiped his forehead with his hand. He
stood and stared at her.
Clarinda stood upon the opposite side of the table. She looked down upon
him. As he jumped from his seat, he stood as if paralyzed. He did not
seem able to move.
“Goodbye, Peter.” There was extreme sorrow in her voice. It quavered and
trembled as she spoke.
“You are going?” he asked timidly.
“Yes, it is done. I have failed you. I am sorry. It was so full of
promise, Peter. Our life could have been happy. But I have failed.”
“You cannot! You cannot!” His hands shook. The tears fell down his
cheeks unresisted by him. His knees weakened under him. He fell back
into his chair and buried his head in his hands upon the table. His
great body shook with intense grief, and Clarinda pitied him, but her
mind did not change.
“I am going, Peter. I am going away now, today. The maid is packing for
me. Goodbye Peter.”
Peter moaned. “No—no—no! I can’t bear it! You can’t go! I won’t let you!
It is impossible!”
“It is done, Peter.”
Clarinda turned and went slowly towards the door. Her hand fell gently
upon the knob. Quietly she opened it. As Peter saw her go, he sprang
from his chair. He held his arms outstretched towards her. The door came
open slowly. Quietly Clarinda passed from the room, and the door closed
softly behind her.
Peter screamed in his anguish. His soul was torn and he fell inert upon
the floor. The dark took him, and his eyes closed.