didn’t mention the “nice little beast,” and neither did they, whether
from dissimulation or carelessness she didn’t care to investigate.
On an early train the next morning Gilbert and Mr. MacGregor went back
to the city, and she drew a breath of relief. Now she had only two
adversaries to struggle against--and perhaps the common little man as
well.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE BREATH OF LIFE
§ i
“Tired?” asked Mr. Stephens.
“Not a bit,” said Andrée. “Edna and I owe you a vote of thanks for
putting a little life into one of those ghastly Sundays. I loathe
Sundays.”
“You wouldn’t if you’d ever done any work,” said he.
She looked at him in surprise. He was sitting on the rail of the veranda
where she had found him when she came out after her late and solitary
breakfast. He looked well in his white flannels; he wore his great
variety of clothes with a sort of innocent gusto, like so many fancy
dress costumes, and though so obviously not to the manner born, he had
no awkwardness; there was, on the contrary, an engaging and honest
assurance about him, and a remarkable vitality. His features were sharp
and by no means distinguished, but they were good. His blue eyes were
frank and intelligent. He was wiry, well knit, not without vanity in his
strength. The cheerful grin had vanished from his face with his last
words, leaving it quite serious.
“I have done work,” she answered. “You don’t know what hard, tiresome
work practising is.”
“It isn’t work,” he interrupted. “It’s preparation for work. You’ve
never had to go on when you were tired. In fact, you’ve never had to do
it at all. Your conscience has been your master, and I can tell you,
it’s a darn sight easier master than hunger.”
This was extraordinary talk.
“Well, I suppose I’m lucky then,” said Andrée. “I’ve never had to earn
money, and I don’t suppose I ever shall.”
“It’s not lucky to be useless,” he said.
“Useless!” she cried. “Do you think making music is useless?”
“Of course it is. Lots of people get on without music. Fine, high-minded
people, too.”
Andrée smiled scornfully.
“I dare say!” she said. “But there are some people who wouldn’t think
life was worth living without art.”
“No, there aren’t. Not one. If you gave any human being his choice
between a decent happy life without a sign of art, or death, no one but
a maniac would choose death.”
“_I_ should!”
“Then that’s because you don’t know anything about death, or life
either.”
She shrugged her shoulders, and half turned away.
“You’d better not bother to talk to such a fool, then,” she said. “I’ll
admit I can’t talk to people who despise music.”
“I don’t despise it. I’m very fond of it. I play a little myself. In
fact, I think I’ve got quite a talent for it. If I could have studied,
I’d have been a pretty good musician.”
“I don’t doubt it, judging by your performance yesterday morning,” said
Andrée.
She was glad to see his face flush as she walked away. He needed taking
down.
Still, she couldn’t help thinking of him. He was an interesting, if an
impertinent man. Her mother had said nothing further about him, but he
was obviously in the category of impossible persons. Perhaps they had
encouraged him too much....
But the beastly part of it was, that he was always doing such
interesting things, things you couldn’t help wanting to do yourself. He
lived in a sort of world of his own, quite cheerful in his ostracism.
Perhaps he didn’t even notice the scorn and disapproval of the
respectable old ladies, or the contempt of the matrons. He walked about
the corridors with his hat on, he sat on the porch whistling loudly,
late at night, when his betters wanted to sleep. Complaints poured in
upon the placid Mrs. Dewey. And still, in spite of all this, Andrée and
Edna followed his activities with envious eyes. One day a lean, worn
horse was brought round for him from some mysterious source, and he came
out and packed on it a most peculiar burden in a watercloth cover. He
was there a long time, inspecting the girths, readjusting his load,
intensely serious. Then he glanced up and saw the girls in the doorway.
“I’m off for a little camping trip,” he said. “A couple of
days--exploring the hills.”
He mounted nimbly and turned to wave at them, and trotted off, straight
and soldierly, in khaki breeches and a white shirt, and a big sombrero
on his neat head.
The next thing he did when he returned was to order a canoe from the
city and carry it on his back a long way to a suitable little river. He
was away in it for three days and came back with a fine basket of fish
which he asked Mrs. Dewey to cook for the entire house.
And that evening after dinner he frankly approached Claudine.
“They tell me you know a lot about flowers,” he said. “I don’t know
much, but I know enough to spot rare ones. I’ve brought back three or
four specimens I think you’d like to have.”
“Thank you!” said Claudine. “You’re very kind!”
She hadn’t the heart to snub the friendly creature; besides, it was very
nice of him to think of her.
“I’ll be very pleased to see them in the morning,” she said.
“Do you mind smoking?” he asked.
She was startled; did he intend to stay by her side?
“Not at all! And anyhow, I’m going in directly. I have letters to
write.”
She left him sitting on the rail in his characteristic attitude, the
attitude of a small boy, a rather humorous figure. And yet, in a way, a
singularly manly and independent one, quite indifferent to the
disapproval of the rocking old ladies, quite sufficient unto himself.
Solitary, he was not lonely, not forlorn; he no more objected to being
ignored than a cat might have objected. He somehow stood out against the
background of mountains and starry sky with a startling individuality,
like the epitome of valiant humanity defying nature. She thought of him
with great indulgence, in spite of the fact that he had driven her
indoors.
§ ii
Claudine came out the next morning, prepared for the excursion she made
every fine morning while Andrée practised and Edna sat in the room with
her, driven by her sister’s industry to the study of Italian. She had
with her two volumes of philosophers and a note book and fountain pen,
for the studying she did, copying out and commenting upon the passages
that impressed her, getting what comfort and peace of mind she could
from them.
She put up her dark green sunshade and started off across the lawn, very
trim and elegant in starched white; she looked remarkably young, her
calm and serious face hadn’t a line, a wrinkle, her coppery hair was as
bright and heavy as it had ever been, she was straight, her outlines
neat and clear. She had never been supple; there had always been a sort
of woodenness about her small body, but it had a charm all its own; it
gave her a peculiarly “ladylike” air of being not quite human.
She left the grounds and entered upon the highway, inches deep in clean
white dust, and she heard no footsteps behind her, no sound until an
anxious voice said over her shoulder:
“I’ve brought those little plants and things for you to look at. I was
afraid I wouldn’t be there when you got back. I’m leaving at noon for
two or three days and they’d be withered by the time I got back.”
It was the nice little beast, coatless, in riding breeches and puttees.
He proffered a small tin case, and she took it from him with a smile.
“Can’t I carry your books and things to wherever you’re going?” he
asked.
She hesitated a moment, and then said, “Yes, thank you!” and they went
on, side by side, Mr. Stephens gallantly holding the parasol very high
over her head.
He glanced down at the books.
“Marcus Aurelius and Nietzsche!” he said. “That’s a queer combination!”
“Do you know them?” she asked, in surprise.
“Oh, yes! I’ve read about everything you could think of. I used to read
things like this a lot. But not any more. They’re not real enough.”
“Some people have found them very real nourishment for the mind,” she
said lightly. She couldn’t take this person seriously.
“I haven’t any use for mind without body,” he answered. “That’s what I
like about Christianity. It’s so solid and material--”
“But it’s just the spirituality that is so admirable in it!” she
protested.
“Not for me, it isn’t. What appeals to me about it is the human,
natural, unspiritual part. Tells you to _do_ this and that, instead of
thinking this and that. It’s what you do, not what you feel, that counts
there. I’ve never thought Christ cared whether people believed in Him or
not. My idea is that He sort of had an idea that He’d help people by a
few practical ideas on how to make the world a decent place to live in.
If you behave in this way, He says, you can all be more or less happy.
You see,” he went on, “I’m a Socialist.”
“Oh, mercy!” said Claudine, rather shocked.
“Yes, I’m a Socialist. And the way I see it, to be a good Socialist,
you’ve got to be either an atheist or a Christian. If you’re an atheist,
and you think this world is all there’s going to be, then you feel so
d---- doggone sorry for the people who aren’t getting anything out of it,
that you’d do all you possibly could to help them. I used to be an
atheist. I was working in a factory when I was about eighteen, and when
I’d see those kids starting in--boys, children really--and knew they’d
never get even a fair living out of a whole life’s work, I guess I was a
kind of Anarchist too. I thought the best thing they could do was to
grab what they could, to try to wipe out the--hogs that kept all the
good things away from them. But then, one day, I thought I’d read the
New Testament, along with a lot of other stuff I had in hand. And,
Gosh!... it was like a--a lamp being lighted in a dark room. Right away
I felt that it was _right_. That He’d got hold of the right idea of how
to run the world. I’d always hated the idea that we were a lot of
fighting animals, all struggling to get food. Evolution didn’t suit me
altogether. It was too darned unfair to the beginners, you know, the
cave men and those fellows who just opened the way for us. Well, I
thought after I’d read about Christ, this living’s just a job, and
here’s the way to do it. And after it’s done, we’ll get a rest. We need
it. Why, hang it all! Even a baby a year old has had a hard life, trying
to get adjusted.... I don’t believe in all this stuff about a whole lot
of future lives, and keeping on developing. No, sir! This life is
enough; it’s hard enough, and we learn enough. I guess we deserve peace
after this, and I guess we’ll get it. Is this where you always stay?”
“Yes,” said Claudine. “But I wish you’d sit down and talk a little. I
like to hear you.”
“I talk too much,” he said, seriously. “Somehow I’m always so full of
stuff I want to say that I kind of spill over. And--d’ye know--somehow
it seems--valuable--the stuff I want to say. Not particularly because
it’s me, but because it’s--human nature.”
“It’s really very interesting,” said Claudine, blandly.
He laughed.
“Do you know,” he went on, “ten years ago the idea of anyone like you--a
lady--saying she liked to hear me, even agreeing to listen to me--would
have seemed like a pipe dream. I used to think that if I ever got a
chance to talk to your sort, I’d give ’em a piece of my mind. But when I
got to know more about ’em, why, I saw nothing could be done that way.
No, sir; you can’t make people understand by talking. They’ve got to
see--and feel. If _you_ ever saw or felt what life was really like, you
wouldn’t be satisfied to--”
He stopped abruptly.
“I didn’t mean to talk that way to you,” he said. “It’s rude. And you’re
so kind and nice.”
“But I want you to! I want to hear what you think! I shouldn’t be
satisfied to what?”
“Well ... to take everything and give nothing.”
“But do you imagine that I give nothing? I have three children.”
“That’s nothing. I’ll be frank, if you really want.... What I mean is,
you _don’t count_. You don’t try to help. You just try to make life
bearable for yourself. Don’t you see? Even with your children. You don’t
teach them to serve. You just tell them to live decently.”
“Even that is something--in a world like this,” she said, with a little
smile.
He shook his head.
“Not to me! Better to forget your own life--even your own decency--a
little....”
“But--since you have so clear an idea of the scheme of things--what
would you like people like me--myself for instance--to do?”
“I guess it’s too late for you to _do_ much,” he said, gravely. “All you
could do would be to learn to understand.”
“Perhaps I do.”
“You couldn’t. No one understands--really--by intuition. You’ve got to
know, through experience--either inside or outside yourself. And I guess
you--”
“Do go on! I’m not easily offended.”
“Well, I guess you’ve felt, instead of experiencing. It’s altogether
different.”
“I wonder what experience you would countenance?” she asked. “Do you
consider that the mother of three children, a woman who has lost both
her parents, who has lived nearly forty years, is still without
experience?”
He made an extraordinary answer.
“Your soul’s all right,” he said. “It’s your heart that’s undeveloped.”
“Heavens!” she thought. “Is the queer little creature trying to make
love to me?”
But he went on.
“The great thing in the world is compassion.”
Then he stopped short and pulled out of a breeches’ pocket a gold
cigarette case.
“Isn’t it a beauty?” he asked. “I paid what lots of people I know could
live on for months and months for this.”
“But--” she began, bewildered.
“I suppose you’re wondering what a fellow with views like mine is doing
with a toy like that. Well, in the first place, it isn’t a dead loss.
After I’ve used it a few years more, I’ll sell it or pawn it for quite a
lot. It’s solid gold, you know; one of the best I could buy. _Isn’t_ it
a beauty?”
“Yes, it is!” she agreed, terribly touched by his naïve pride. “It is--a
beauty!”
What an extraordinary conversation this was, she and this freckled young
man, sitting facing each other on great sun-warmed rocks in the little
glade which she had for weeks looked upon as her especial domain! She
had certainly never met anything at all like him before, no one so
absurd and so honest and so touching.
“But I was going to tell you why I had this thing,” he continued. “It’s
because I think everyone’s got a right to a few pet follies. Now, some
people think a Socialist can’t consistently have a balance in the bank.
Well, my idea is this.... I’ve been able to grab for myself my share in
the good things in the world. And that’s what I want to see every other
fellow do. Not grab, if you could get it any other way, but generally
you can’t. I want everyone to get a share. And a chance. I’ve got mine,
and I’m going to help other people to get theirs.”
“But how did you get yours?” she asked, with an irresistible curiosity.
She knew that he wouldn’t resent any sort of question.
“Fought for it. Fought for it like a devil. You see, I’d made a little
invention--an improvement for a certain type of printing press. I’ll
explain it all some other time. Well, of course, the fellows on top
wanted to take it.... I won’t go into that either just now. But, anyway,
I knew. I knew the profit it would make, and I made up my mind that a
good part of that profit was coming my way. So I grabbed my share. It’s
what everyone ought to have; a decent share in the profit of his work.
It was a good kind of grabbing.... And now I’m able to do what I’d like
to see every other fellow in the world able to do--work hard, at some
kind of useful, manual work until he’s thirty, and then play for three
or four years, before he settles down to work his brain. Brains aren’t
much good until they’ve had those two things--manual work and play.”
“What is your brain going to do?”
“Write. I’ve got it in me.... But I’ve got off the track. I was showing
you that cigarette case because I wanted to ask you if you could imagine
what it was like to be an outcast, to have money enough to buy things
like that, and to see how they’re begrudged to you. Every time I used to
go in to buy things I’d earned enough money to buy, I was made to feel
that. My money was good enough, but I wasn’t. If you could have seen the
swell English tailor I bought my clothes from! He hated me for being
able to get them. Because I’m ‘common.’ Well, as a matter of fact, I’m
really very uncommon--darned uncommon.... The point I’m making is, that
all the fine, good things in the world are put aside for a few people.
Everybody knows it. All the shop people know it. They don’t want
outsiders to get any of their choice things. They’re like
watch-dogs--fool watch-dogs, starving to death while they watch other
people’s meat.... When I was younger and doing more reading and
thinking, I used to think the best way to bring about the changes I
hoped to see was for the people on top to be awakened. They’ve got the
money, the leisure, the power, the education, I thought.... But I
learned pretty soon it would never come that way. They haven’t got
either brains or compassion enough. They’ve used all their privileges to
corrupt, not to enlighten. And not through wickedness or diplomacy, mind
you, but from stupidity.”
He pulled out his watch.
“Oh!” he said. “I’ve got to go! Are you all right?”
“Perfectly, thank you!” she answered, smiling. “Only a little confused
by all you’ve been telling me.”
It was not his words, however, that remained in her memory after he had
gone. They meant little to her. It was the curious vitality and force of
the man, his candour, his innocence, his baffling air of certainty. She
thought of his activities, his ideas, his tireless flow of talk, and the
woods, usually so full of interest and charm for her, were suddenly
blank. The mystery and wonder she had seen in the smallest plant were
suddenly nothing at all in comparison to the wonder of a human being.
She became uneasily doubtful of her philosophic attitude toward her
fellows, her great desire to escape them.
“He’s ...” she thought, with half a smile. “He’s a breath of life in all
this stagnation.... A breath of life!”
CHAPTER SIX
THE UNLAWFUL PICNIC
§ i
After lunch they all, Claudine, Andrée, and Edna, dressed themselves in
their ceremonial garments, the modish and immaculate white required by
the gold-providing Gilbert, and went down to the railway station to meet
him. There were other wives there, and other children, and a little
swarm of bucolic onlookers. And there was also the “breath of life” in
tramping outfit, with immense waterproof boots and a new Panama hat. He
came over to them immediately.
“I’m taking the next train up,” he said, with his invariable assumption
that everyone was interested in his doings. “They say there’s an old
fellow away up in the mountains who’s a regular wild man. An Italian; he
used to lead round one of those dancing bears, but it got away one night
and he went into the woods after it, and never wanted to come back. Two
or three people have told me about him. His hair’s got long, and he has
a beard down to his waist. They say he won’t speak, but I guess I can
make him. He runs away and tries to hide.”
“That sounds more like the bear,” said Edna. “Perhaps he ate the man and
they’re both merged into one.”
He laughed.
“Well, I’m ready for bears, too,” he said. “I’ve got the best kind of
rifle made, and I know how to use it.”
“Everything you have is the best there is, isn’t it?” said Andrée
scornfully.
He reddened, but he answered cheerfully:
“You bet! And I’m proud of ’em, too. I earned ’em. They weren’t given to
me by anyone else.”
Andrée turned away.
“Let’s walk up and down, Mother!” she said. “It’s so much hotter
standing still.”
Claudine very willingly assented; the last thing in the world she wanted
was for Gilbert to find them talking to that young man. He would be
angry, and not without cause, for this was certainly not the sort of
acquaintance for the mother of two young daughters to cultivate. Edna
might talk to him with impunity, her sensible ideas and her humour
legitimatized almost anything. She put her arm through Andrée’s and they
began to saunter up and down, keeping a discreet distance from Mr.
Stephens.
“He needs to be sat on!” said Andrée, with a frown.
“I don’t believe you can do it!” said her mother, smiling.
“He is a thick-skinned little beast. He’s insufferable!”
“I don’t think so. He’s polite enough, if he’s treated politely.”
“But I’m not going to treat him politely.... There’s the train!”
They halted and stood watching, while the engine roared past them and
stopped neatly at the proper spot, and the handful of passengers
alighted.
“O Lord!” groaned Andrée. “Again!”
For she had seen the gaunt, ungainly form of Mr. MacGregor coming down
the steps, bag in hand. He lifted his hat and came toward them.
“I am charged with a very unwelcome message, I’m afraid,” he said. “Mr.
Vincelle is unable to get away this week, and he asked me to come down,
and see if I could be of any service to the ladies!”
Oh, cowardly Gilbert! Claudine could have laughed at his infantile ruse.
She welcomed Mr. MacGregor with cordiality and beckoned to Edna, who
came, but who naughtily brought the little man with her.
“Look here, Mrs. Vincelle!” he said, eagerly. “I’ve been talking to Miss
Edna.... As long as your husband didn’t come out, you’re all more or
less free, aren’t you? No plans made, I mean? Well, won’t you all be my
guests on a little picnic?”
“I’m very sorry--” Claudine began, but he was not to be stopped.
“Why not?” he said. “It’s a hot afternoon, and I’ll show you a fine,
cool spot. I’ll arrange everything. I’ll see to the supper, and
everything else. All you have to do is just get your bathing suits--”
“Bathing!” said Edna. “I didn’t know there was any in this place!”
“There’s a wonderful swimming pool. And I can lend _you_ a bathing
suit,” he said, looking directly at Mr. MacGregor, to whom he had not
been, and never was to be, introduced.
“I’m afraid we’re not the same size,” said Mr. MacGregor.
“Doesn’t matter. You can get into it. We can start about four and come
home by moonlight.”
The girls were both frankly pleased with the idea; Claudine confessed to
herself that it was an attractive prospect. But impossible! They
couldn’t be the guests of this man, they couldn’t really, openly, admit
that he existed. She looked covertly at Mr. MacGregor, hoping for
support, for some grown-up, tactful remark that should help her to get
away. But he had taken it for granted that Mr. Stephens was a friend of
the family, and he wanted to go on that picnic.
“Some other time--” Claudine began, with her most condescending
affability, but Edna broke in, with a wail.
“Oh, Mother, I’m so longing for a swim! Do let’s go!”
“It’ll be very nice, I promise you!” said Mr. Stephens, solemnly. “I’ll
take all the responsibility for seeing that you all enjoy yourselves.”
“After all, Mother, why not?” murmured Andrée, in her ear. “I’d like to
eat somewhere except in that disgusting dining-room for once. And a
moonlight walk!”
“I’m afraid Mr. MacGregor wants to rest after his journey,” said
Claudine, and her tone was threatening. But Mr. MacGregor did not
understand; he thought that he was expected not to want to rest, and he
insisted that he longed for this picnic.
Claudine was miserably conscious of her lack of character; at her age
she had no business to allow herself to be entrapped into so undignified
a position. She knew she should have prevented this thing, that even now
she ought to destroy the project, but she was quite unable to do so. She
was committed....
§ ii
It was an imposing safari, observed by the people on the veranda with
excessive interest. First went Claudine under a parasol held by Mr.
MacGregor, then the two girls, arm in arm, and behind them, alone and
unheeded, the young host, carrying a number of things, and behind him
Mrs. Dewey’s fat youth, and a young man never accounted for, both
heavily laden. Like a general the little man called out his orders.
“To your right now!” And Claudine and Mr. MacGregor would lead the march
in that direction. Once they had to make a détour to avoid a field of
cows, through which Andrée refused to pass.
“Now!” he said. “Just down this hill, and you’ll see the place. It’s
beautiful! Fern Glen, I’ve named it. It’s a regular, natural swimming
pool--water cold and clear as can be. And quiet! Lots of nice little
birds, too, Mrs. Vincelle, just what you like.”
But instead of the exclamation of admiration he had expected, he heard a
tragic cry from Andrée.
“Why, it’s nothing in the world but our horrible old snakey pool!”
“I didn’t realize we were getting here,” said Edna. “We’ve always come
up the stream.”