“I won’t allow him to say a word to her! Not a word! I’m going to speak
to him myself and--”
Gilbert sprang to his feet.
“No, you don’t! I’m not going to be made a fool of! I told him he might
speak to Andrée--”
“And I’ll tell him he can’t. I won’t have any interference where
Andrée’s concerned.”
“I tell you I have something to say in this matter!”
She looked at him with a cold smile, and deliberately turned away from
him. It was a trick of hers, and it always infuriated him. He raged at
her in a way of which he was afterward ashamed.
She went on dressing, entirely disregarding him; then when she was
ready, she said:
“I’m going downstairs now. Perhaps you’ll dress, when you’ve finished
your bar-room tirade.”
§ ii
It was a jolly dinner. Both Claudine and Gilbert were in high spirits,
as angry people often are, and Mr. MacGregor appeared greatly
entertained. The girls were ridiculous; Claudine recognized their mood
and frowned. She knew and dreaded this high tension, when every remark
provoked a giggle, when they exchanged glances and were scarcely able to
control their lips, trembling with laughter. A thought came to her which
made her flush with shame. Could they have heard their father ...? He
had certainly talked very loudly. And unfortunately that was the sort of
thing they considered funny.
Poor woman! She was in misery, before her wretched task. She was afraid
of the inscrutable Mr. MacGregor; he was so masculine, so self-assured,
so old and sensible. But she was determined nevertheless to drive him
away, no matter how outrageous she had to be. He should not be given
the opportunity of putting ideas into Andrée’s head--silly, headstrong
Andrée! She wouldn’t leave them alone for an instant.
As they rose from the table, said Mr. MacGregor:
“Miss Andrée, shall we have a little music? We might run over that new
duet--”
“No, thanks!” said Andrée, laughing. “Not with you!”
“Nonsense! Come along!” he said, with authoritative, professorial air.
“I want to see what you’ve been doing.”
“No!” she repeated. “I don’t want to! I won’t!”
“Come, Andrée!” said Gilbert, severely. “This is no way to behave. When
Mr. MacGregor--”
“All right!” she interrupted, and led the way into the parlour where a
group of old ladies was already installed. Mr. MacGregor drew up a chair
beside the piano stool and they sat down, side by side, the big,
stoop-shouldered man with his grizzled hair, and the slight young girl.
He spoke to her for a few moments in an undertone, pointing a square
finger at the music; and she nodded petulantly.
“Now!” said he.
The four hands were poised above the keyboard in the manner made famous
by his teaching. Then they began, a majestic, crashing piece, a prelude
in tremendous chords. The group of old ladies was annoyed at first, but
some instinct warned them that it was classical music and worthy of
respect, and they all sat rocking and listening.
But Claudine could take no pleasure in the noble work. The sight of
Andrée and Mr. MacGregor side by side filled her with terror and
impatience. She thought of the man’s great prestige, the illustrious
pupils who publicly lauded him, the recitals given by his conservatory
which she had attended, and where he was a demi-god, adored by students
and parents. He had written books on technic, he was a prominent man,
respected in certain estimable circles, he was well-to-do, his
reputation was unblemished. His attention must seem such a dangerously
flattering thing for his young pupil.
Oh, damnable music! She imagined she could actually see it weave its
spell about her child. The duet finished, Mr. MacGregor consented to
play alone, and it was marvelous playing. Andrée stood beside him,
watching his hands, never raising her eyes. And he never looked at her
either; sinister fact!
“And now, you, Miss Andrée!” he said.
She consented instantly. She was fired; she wanted to play now. And Mr.
MacGregor crossed the room and sat down beside Claudine.
“She is remarkable,” he said.
Claudine looked intently at him.
“You think she would make a concert player?” she asked, briefly.
“She undoubtedly could, if she would. But her temperament is peculiar.”
Claudine smiled.
“Her temperament is more or less familiar to me,” she said.
“Oh, I wasn’t presuming to inform her mother!” he hastened to say. “It
was simply that I thought my interpretation--as a musician--might be of
interest. I don’t hesitate to say that she is one of the most promising
pupils I have ever had the pleasure of teaching.”
“Then do you think she has a fine future before her?” asked Claudine.
She would bring him to the point; he should be made to declare himself
so that she could demolish him.
“If she chooses. But I’m not sure that she has the temperament for a
public artist. She is too rebellious--”
“Then what do you think she is suited for?” asked Claudine, boldly. But
she never had Mr. MacGregor’s reply, for Andrée had suddenly stopped
playing and got up.
“Mother!” she said, “Do you mind if Edna and I pop over to the
drugstore? We want some things--”
Mr. MacGregor had risen, prepared with a gallant offer to accompany
them, but before he could say a word, she had gone, her arm about her
smaller sister. And with the cessation of the music, Gilbert intended to
be heard. Mr. MacGregor was rather interested in the stock market, in a
prudent way, and Gilbert had information to give, and prophecies.
Claudine could not endure it; she went out on the veranda to await the
return of the children, but though she lingered there for an hour and a
half, there was no sign of them. Thoroughly vexed, she went upstairs and
there they were in their own room. She heard Edna shrieking with
laughter.
Quite shamelessly she stood close to the crack of the door.
“Gosh!” said Edna. “If he married both of us, and another one thrown
in, it would just about make a wife of his own age. The conceit of men!”
“Well,” said Andrée, “the girls at the conservatory do make awful idiots
of themselves about him, you know.”
“But, oh!” cried Edna, “you don’t know how funny you looked, playing
that duet, and both--pouncing--!”
“Shut up!” said Andrée, impatiently. “I knew you were laughing. There’s
nothing really funny in it, of course not.”
There was silence for a moment, broken by giggles from Edna.
“But, honestly, Andrée,” she said, at last. “Have you encouraged him?
I’m sure he came to woo you!”
“I never dreamed he’d come.... I wish he hadn’t! He wrote such heavenly
letters. And now he’s spoiled everything.”
“Father adores him; you can see that. What do you suppose he told
Father?”
“Goodness knows! Father swallows everything.... Oh, dear! I really liked
him--when he was miles away!”
Claudine now knocked at the door; and entered.
“Children,” she said. “Where have you been? I waited and waited for
you--”
“We just came up here; we didn’t go to the drugstore after all. We
thought we’d like a nice quiet little talk,” said Edna.
“It’s very close and hot up here,” said their mother. “However I suppose
you’re not going downstairs again this evening--”
“Not unless Andrée wants to play another duet,” said Edna.
Andrée scowled at her.
“Your playing was beautiful, my dear,” said her mother. “Mr. MacGregor
must be a very competent teacher.”
She kissed them both and went back into her own room, unaccountably
relieved. She undressed and put on a thin silk dressing-gown and sat
down near the window in the dark.
She deliberately tried to banish all thought of Gilbert. He would
inevitably go to the large hotel down the road and have a number of
whiskies and soda, and come back, either contrite or quarrelsome. One
was as bad as another.... She sighed, bitterly. Better think of Andrée.
It was a hot, still night; the world outside seemed restless and
fevered, noisy with insects, not sleeping, not tranquil. She could hear
dogs barking frantically, and a strain of stupid music from the hotel,
chattering voices on the veranda, sounds from other rooms.... Oh, my
Andrée, how little life has to give you! Even the best of it is so poor!
A profound melancholy overcame her; she could not so much as imagine a
future for her child that would be happy.
The door opened softly, and Edna’s voice whispered:
“Mother!”
“Yes, dear?”
“May I come in, just for an instant?”
“Of course!”
“Andrée’s asleep.... But I was so afraid you’d be worrying, Mother
darling. I knew how you must feel when you saw Mr. MacGregor.... Oh,
Andrée’s such a chump! But he’s done for! I made her laugh at him, and
that’s spoiled everything.”
“You dear girl! How clever and sensible of you! You really do understand
Andrée wonderfully.”
Edna sighed.
“She is a worry! She’d marry anyone--she’d do anything, if she was
caught in a certain mood. I hope you’ll be able to keep that old
nuisance--”
“Really, my dear!”
“I hope you won’t let Mr. MacGregor talk to her to-morrow. It might undo
all the good I’ve done.”
Claudine put her arms about the child and kissed her fervently, the sort
of kisses she so often gave to Edna in which were all her secret
contrition for her favouritism, all her remorse at the inadequate return
she made for this honest and beautiful affection. She had a
superstitious dread of being punished some day for her wickedness; some
disaster would overtake little Edna, and then she would repent, too
late, her idolatry of Andrée.
“Good night, Edna darling!” she said. “You’re such a comfort to me!”
And how much dearer was the pain that one caused her than the comfort
the other gave!
CHAPTER FOUR
THE UNABASHED OUTCAST
§ i
Claudine waked up to the dull peace of a mountain Sunday. She could hear
the grinding of the ice-cream freezer on the back porch, and far away
the bell of the little Roman Catholic church. She rose and dressed while
Gilbert still slept, and going out into the hall, knocked on the door of
the girls’ room. Andrée was up and half dressed, combing her misty dark
hair.
“Edna’s pretending to be asleep,” she said, scornfully.
“There’s no hurry,” said Claudine. “She can wait for Father and have
breakfast with him. Finish dressing, and we’ll have time for a little
walk.”
She sat down and watched her child with tender eyes. There was an
awkward, impatient grace about her, in the hasty movements of her arms
as she arranged her hair, something so immature, so touching. She
slipped on a white frock, because her father was inordinately fond of
seeing young girls in white, and announced herself ready. But Claudine
saw untidinesses; she tucked in a stray lock of hair, straightened her
collar, tightened her belt.
“Now!” she said. “You’re nice!”
They went out, closing the door quietly on the motionless Edna.
“What on earth is that row!” said Andrée.
They paused for a moment in the hall to listen. Some outrageous person
was playing with vigour on the piano, and whistling, to accompany the
vulgar air.
“And on Sunday morning, too!” said Claudine, with a frown, “when so many
people want to sleep!”
They went on down; the dining-room was still quite empty at this early
hour, and the veranda deserted. But every corner was permeated by that
loud, shocking noise!
“Let’s see what it is!” said Andrée, and they looked cautiously in at
the open door of the parlour.
“Oh, I know him!” said Andrée. “I saw him come last night, on the train
with Father and Mr. MacGregor. Horrible, vulgar little wretch!”
Seated at the piano was a slight, fair-haired young man with a minute
yellow mustache and a cheerful, impudent face. He wore a new black suit
and white buckskin shoes and some awful sort of necktie; he had an air
of being specially got up for Sunday. The place was a cheap and obscure
one, but they had never before seen in it a guest like this. People of
his kind found nothing to please them here.
Claudine was affronted.
“We can only hope he won’t stay long,” she said, as they turned away.
They went into breakfast, alone in the room, but their peace was
destroyed by the playing and whistling; at first they frowned, and
Claudine even suggested speaking to Mrs. Dewey; but in the end they were
forced to laugh.
They went out for a walk, a carefully selected one, where no cows would
be met with to terrify Andrée and a good view might be obtained for
Claudine. They talked together in one of their few hours of perfect
accord.
“I have some influence over her!” thought Claudine, happily. “If she
ever contemplates anything foolish, I am sure I can dissuade her. She is
mine! We are bound together by a thousand ties.”
Andrée broke into her meditation.
“You’re awfully pretty, Mother!” she said, suddenly. “I love the way you
look.... There’s something--I don’t know how to describe it--something
old-fashioned about you.”
Claudine was not greatly pleased.
“Old-fashioned?” she said, thinking of her new frock, her chic and
becoming coiffure, every dainty detail of her costume.
“Yes. You haven’t the look other women have. You’re so distinguished
and--mysterious. Have you had a very sad life, Mother?”
“Mercy, no, child!” said Claudine. She shrank at once from any invasion
of her reserve; her dignity compelled her to maintain her aloofness, her
air of slightly inhuman tranquillity.
But Andrée was insistent.
“But I do wish you’d tell me one thing!” she said. “Did you really mean
to marry Cousin Lance, and were you parted by something?”
“Where did you get such a ridiculous idea?” asked her mother, frowning.
“No one ever thought of such a thing.”
“Edna said she thought so.... Mother, I wish I knew you better!”
Claudine was startled and touched.
“My dear!” she cried. “But don’t you ...?”
She stopped.
“After all,” she went on. “I think it is better just to love people, and
not to trouble about trying to know or to understand them.”
They had reached a little summer-house built out on a rock over a deep
pool in a rocky basin. It had not at all the sinister aspect of that
other pool; this was sunny, open and dark blue, with wild flowers
growing about it, and ferns. From where they sat, they could see the
line of mountains beyond. Andrée didn’t like mountains; the sombre and
majestic environment exasperated her restless soul. She sighed, but grew
quiet looking at her mother’s rapt face. She was drawing strength and
assuagement from the hills. Poor mother, with her philosophers and her
scenery! A phantom existence, Andrée reflected.
“Hope I don’t disturb you?” said a cheerful voice, and they both turned,
to see with horror the common little man, with a great bundle of Sunday
newspapers under his arm. He had politely taken off his hat and stood
smiling at them.
“They told me down at the house that this was a pretty walk,” he said.
“And it certainly is. Fine air to-day, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Claudine, in her most distrait, affable way. “It’s a lovely
day.”
“Would you like to see the papers?” he asked.
“No, thank you. We’re going back at once.... We just stopped for the
view.”
He smiled.
“A tame little view!” he said. “I guess I’ll find something better than
this before I’ve finished.”
“How?” asked Andrée, abruptly.
“I’m going to climb some of these peaks. I’ve done a lot of climbing in
the Alps,” he said. “I’ve got the head for it, and the legs. Why, there
wasn’t one of those millionaire sportsmen who could beat me at it. These
peaks look like hills to me.”
His boasting was somehow ameliorated by his good-humour. And one
couldn’t help believing that he actually had defeated millionaire
sportsmen.
“I suppose you ladies don’t climb?” he asked.
“I haven’t,” said Andrée. “But perhaps I shall some time. It might be
rather fun. I’d never thought of it.”
“We must go,” said Claudine, firmly. “Your father will be wondering what
has become of us. Come, dear!”
She smiled politely at the dreadful little man, and they walked off. At
a turn of the path Andrée, looking back, saw him spreading out his
papers, his straw hat jauntily at the back of his head.
“I’m afraid he’s going to be a nuisance,” said Claudine.
“I guess you can dispose of him!” said Andrée, grimly. “Lord! How I do
hate Sundays!”
Claudine felt obliged to remonstrate, but weakly, because she was quite
in agreement with her child. They sauntered back with reluctant steps,
each lost in her own incommunicable thought.
§ ii
The great mid-day dinner had been disposed of, the chicken, the
ice-cream, and the other decent, traditional things, and the entire
party went out on to the veranda and sat down, constrained, almost
enraged with one another.
“Let’s take a walk, Father!” said Andrée, suddenly.
“Not on your life!” said Gilbert. “_I’m_ not nineteen, old girl!”
He took a bill from his pocket.
“See if you and Edna can’t find some place to buy yourselves a box of
caramels,” he said. “I want a look at the papers.”
“I shouldn’t object to a walk,” said Mr. MacGregor.
“Then I’ll show you a nice, cool, after-dinner one,” said Claudine,
brightly, “while the girls go for their candy. Run up and get me my
sunshade, please, Edna!”
Gilbert looked up with a scowl; but he met so cold and steadfast a
glance from his wife that he looked down again. Better let her alone;
she was capable of the most alarming retaliations. Anyhow, she couldn’t
do any real harm; love was not to be so easily discouraged. He pretended
to be deep in his papers, but he was none the less well aware of his
daughters going off in one direction and his wife and Mr. MacGregor in
another. He was ready to laugh at the woman’s folly.
Claudine had started with the firm intention of approaching and utterly
routing Mr. MacGregor. But, to be brief, she didn’t so much as mention
Andrée’s name. She couldn’t! Instead they chatted affably as they
strolled; Mr. MacGregor gave some information, more sentimental than
scientific, regarding Scotch wild flowers. He was really very nice and
flattering. She hadn’t for years met anyone who took so frank an
interest in her. He was by no means a botanist, but he confessed to a
love of Nature, and he admired her quite extensive knowledge. Moreover,
he too was a reader of her beloved philosophers, and they had an
interesting if somewhat superficial discussion of their theories of
life. Claudine’s idea was that one should try to deny the reality of
suffering; she had a pitiful hope that if she were to train her reason
sufficiently she would in time be able to reason away her unhappiness.
Mr. MacGregor, on the contrary, had a tinge of Calvinism in his
philosophy, he thought it better to hug one’s pain, to rejoice in its
cruel embrace, to be made strong by it.
Then they talked a little of music, Claudine’s old love. But Mr.
MacGregor was so very practical. He looked upon a masterwork as a thing
to be expressed through high technical perfection, he read no meanings,
no sentiment into music, he had none of Claudine’s mystic delight in
sound itself.
They both became mollified. Mr. MacGregor was able to forgive this
charming and interesting woman her obvious interference in his
love-making, and she was willing to admit that as a man he was strong,
sensible, and rather likeable. She couldn’t help contrasting his
ruggedness, his well-furnished mind, his varied interests, with the
bilious and tiresome Gilbert. Here was a companion, who could walk, and
who could talk.
They came leisurely home; Gilbert saw them crossing the sunny lawn, both
of them annoyingly cool in spite of the midsummer weather. He himself
was quite wretched from the heat, and irritated by the newspaper. He got
up and went to meet them.
“Tell you what!” he said. “We’ll see if we can get a motor somewhere in
the place and go for a drive in the cool of the afternoon--about five.
The children will like it.”
It was of course unimaginable either to him or to Claudine that he
should find the conveyance. He was a sort of Sultan; he never did things
of that sort. He gave orders, and he paid. So Claudine found and
despatched a fat youth belonging to Mrs. Dewey and the thing was done.
They then retired to their rooms until five o’clock; Gilbert dozed and
his wife gave her attention to her finger-nails.
“What have the children been doing?” she asked suddenly.
“Don’t know.... Haven’t seen them,” he muttered. “Good Lord! This room
is _hot_! Can’t you find some way to keep the flies out? What good are
the screens?”
Claudine didn’t answer; an alarming thought had entered her mind.
Suppose those provoking girls weren’t back when the car arrived? Gilbert
would be in a terrible rage; and there would certainly be a scene....
Where could they have gone, on this drowsy Sunday afternoon in that
little village so devoid of resources?
Her fears were confirmed; they didn’t come back. Gilbert had got into
the car, Mr. MacGregor was standing near.
“Call the girls!” said Gilbert, impatiently. “I suppose they’re making
themselves sick with their caramels.”
But they were not in the house, not in the grounds. Mr. MacGregor went
down the road to the hotel, and to the drug-store where they must have
gone for their candy, but he did not find them. They wasted half an
hour, and then went off without them.
Gilbert didn’t spare Claudine. He remonstrated all the time, in a manner
which, if he had not been a man, would certainly have been called
nagging. He said it was disgraceful; hadn’t she any control over her
children? Didn’t she take any interest in them? Was she in the habit of
neglecting them in this way? That was the way with women; they hadn’t a
damned thing to do _but_ look after their children, and they didn’t even
do that properly. And so on. Claudine endured it with a set smile; she
scarcely heard him. Mr. MacGregor, however, did hear him; it was not a
pleasant drive for him.
§ iii
They got back a little late for the meal known as Sunday night tea. She
hurried upstairs to wash and brush her hair, and there in their room
were her daughters, both stretched out on the bed.
“Edna!” she cried. “Andrée! Where have you been? Your father had a motor
to take you out ... he was so disappointed. You have no right to worry
and annoy him so.... Where have you been since dinner time?”
Edna raised herself on one elbow.
“Sorry, Mother darling! We went out with that funny little man. We ran
across him as we were coming out of the drug-store and he began to
talk. Said he was going to walk to a place called ‘The Brave’s Leap,’
and asked us if we didn’t want to go along, so we did. It was heavenly!
Miles and miles.... We’re awfully tired, but it’s a nice tiredness.”
“What an outrageous thing to do! I’m surprised at you! The man’s a
perfect stranger--and not a desirable person at all. I can’t tell you
how annoyed I am. And your father’s plans all upset--”
“But we didn’t know about Father’s plans,” said Edna.
“We didn’t miss much,” said Andrée. “I hate those silly drives. As it
was, we got a lot of splendid exercise and a lot of fun.”
“You mustn’t do such things without asking me! I thought you both knew
better than to go off that way with a stranger. It was very wrong and
inconsiderate. Naturally your father expects to see something of you in
the little time he’s here--”
“But, Mother dear,” said Edna, patiently. “We’re not children. We
couldn’t leave Mr. Stephens standing in the street while we ran home to
ask mother. He’s a very nice little beast, and there was really
absolutely no harm in taking a walk with him.”
“I have no control over them!” thought Claudine, bitterly. “Gilbert is
right!”
Aloud she said, in a tone of great displeasure:
“There is no time to argue with you now. It’s late. Please get dressed
at once for supper.”
“We don’t want any supper,” said Andrée. “The nice little beast had all
sorts of things in his knapsack. We’ve been eating all afternoon.”
“And we stopped at a funny little inn somewhere on the road and had
ginger ale and more sandwiches. Mother, I wish you’d been there! It was
the only decent time we’ve had in this place. We saw the most beautiful
waterfall, and a wonderful gorge that an Indian’s supposed to have
jumped across. And the man’s really very nice. Of course he’s common,
and all that sort of thing, but he’s the most cheerful creature!”
“He said he was ‘athaletic,’” said Andrée, “and he is! He showed off all
the time, and it was very amusing.”
But Claudine was not listening; she was thinking with dread of what she
should say to Gilbert.
And in the end she was certainly not candid.