never seemed to grow older. With his light, rather long hair parted in
the middle, his tortoise-shell spectacles, his slender figure, he looked
like a sober and enquiring youth, a juvenile professor. He was quite
illustrious, in the not very extensive circles where paleontologists may
shine, he had been on two noteworthy government expeditions, and had
written a large book, but he hadn’t made money. The most profitable
thing he had ever done, financially, was to tutor young Bertie. But he
was able to exist in comfortable independence, and he wanted no more. He
had a calm self-assurance which impressed everyone, even Gilbert, and he
was a guest not without honour, a friend of prestige.
He took out his watch.
“Time to start!” he announced, and they all rose.
§ ii
Mr. MacGregor expected a triumph that evening. He had hired a large
hall, and had been promised the presence of several well-known musicians
and critics, to say nothing of the important “society element.” He had
been for years steadily growing in favour, until he now held a unique
position as a master who was not only able to give to débutantes a very
attractive accomplishment, but a man who trained and developed genuine
artists. There was a certain youth from the Ghetto at present creating
something of a furore as a concert player whom he had “made,” and
several lesser stars. And he had now up his sleeve two or three
surprises, to be released this evening. He had a boy--a young Pole whom
he had been teaching gratis and more or less supporting, he had a young
woman of buxom charm and amazing technic, and he had Andrée, whose chief
claim was not so much in technic--though hers was of a high order--but
the originality of her interpretations. He knew that some of the critics
would be indignant at a lack of classic reverence, but others would be
charmed, and all of them would talk.
He himself didn’t appear; he stood in the wings, watching and listening,
his attention divided between his pupils and the audience. And there
wasn’t one chagrin; everything went beautifully. His young Russian
aroused a sharp interest in the critics, the buxom young woman was at
her best, and Andrée ...! He was entranced with Andrée. She looked like
the very spirit of music, filled with an innocent wild ardour, young,
lovely, proud. His hopes, his personal hopes, that is, of ever becoming
her husband had very nearly faded away, and he was able to regard her
with a more impersonal eye. He had never summoned the courage to propose
to her; he knew it would only make him ridiculous, and he was beginning
to feel rather glad that he hadn’t committed himself.
“She’ll go a long way beyond me!” he reflected, candidly. “She has a
wonderful future before her--if she doesn’t make a fool of herself!”
Her family sat listening to her with ecstatic pride, even Gilbert, who
was constitutionally opposed to public life for women. They listened to
the enthusiastic clapping, they watched her come back onto the stage
again and take an encore, not at all the timid novice, but cool,
careless, aloof as Diana herself. They heard whispered comments upon her
all about--“a beautiful girl,” “so distinguished,” “a magnetic
personality,” and even a few remarks about her music, and when she
joined them, when it was all over, they were at a loss what to say to
her. Edna wept a little.
They got into the motor; even the chauffeur, who had been given a seat
in the balcony, was beaming. They drove home, and went into the
dining-room for a little supper, with champagne, to celebrate her
triumph.
§ iii
Claudine was nearly asleep when she heard that light tap at the door,
but any voice calling “Mother!” could have aroused her from any sleep
but death. She hastily put on her dressing-gown and opened the door. It
was Andrée.
“I want to speak to you!” she said.
All sleep or fatigue fled from Claudine at once. There was something in
that tone, something in the expression of her child’s face seen in the
dim light of the hall, that froze her heart. She followed her to her own
room, which was brilliantly illumined; it had somehow the appearance of
a stage, a place pitilessly to expose a secret tragedy; and Andrée in
her white dressing-gown and her soft black hair unbound looked a fit
figure for any drama. Claudine asked herself, with a sinking heart, what
was to be her part ...?
“Is anything wrong, darling?” she asked.
“There’s something I want to tell you.”
Claudine smiled mechanically, but her knees were weak, and she sank down
on the bed.
“What is it, dear?” she asked.
“It’s very hard,” said Andrée. “It’s going to hurt you....”
“Don’t keep me waiting,” her mother said, almost sharply. “Tell me,
Andrée!”
Andrée sat down beside her, and lifted one of her mother’s hands,
looking at it with curious abstraction. Claudine didn’t stir.
“Now it’s come,” she thought. “That horrible, nameless disaster I have
always dreaded for this creature I love too much. This will be something
I cannot endure.”
At last Andrée’s voice came, steady and low.
“You remember Mr. Stephens, don’t you, Mother?”
“Yes ...” she murmured.
“We’re going to be married to-morrow.”
“Andrée! _Andrée!_ What do you mean?”
“Just what I said, Mother.”
At first this seemed to Claudine merely preposterous, almost laughable;
one of Andrée’s freaks.
“But, my dear, you don’t know the man,” she protested.
“Oh, yes, I do,” said Andrée, calmly. “We’ve been writing to each other
since last July, and I’ve seen him quite often lately. And I’ve made up
my mind. I knew everyone would make a row; that’s why I didn’t tell you
until the last moment. Al’s going to Europe on Saturday, and I’m going
with him.”
Nothing in that speech made the slightest impression upon Claudine
except the name “Al.” That seemed to her of tremendous significance; the
vulgar name of a vulgar young man; it made the affair a fantasy. She was
not so much worried now as surprised.
“My dear Andrée--” she said. “You....” She paused, aware of the need for
caution.
“I knew you wouldn’t understand,” said Andrée, bitterly. “You can’t see
beneath the surface. I knew all the arguing and talking and reasoning
there’d be, but it’s not going to make one bit of difference. I’m the
one to decide, and I have decided. I want to be married quietly at the
City Hall to-morrow, without any fuss and--talking. I wasn’t even going
to tell you until afterward but--” She frowned. “Somehow I couldn’t. I
wanted to make one more attempt to get you to understand.”
“To give you your chance,” was what she meant, and what her mother
understood. This was the supreme moment to come close to her child--and
she sat spellbound, like a figure in a nightmare, unable to speak,
unable to make even a pretense at comprehension.
“He’s the finest man I’ve ever seen,” Andrée went on. “He’s honest and
kind and--rather wonderful, I think.”
“But--he’s not suitable--” faltered Claudine.
“I knew you’d say that! You’ll tell me it’s disgraceful to marry a man
‘beneath’ me. Well, I don’t think he is, in any way. You’ll say--”
“If you’re going to take my part as well as your own, Andrée, there’s
not much use in going on. I’m not so unsympathetic--or so narrow as you
think.... I shouldn’t have opposed you. I should only have asked you to
wait a little--”
“Because you think I’d change?”
“Only until I felt you were sure.”
“I am sure! I love Al! You don’t know how I feel about him. He’s so dear
and--”
“Hush, Andrée!” she interrupted, almost sternly. There was a faint flush
on her cheeks; this unrestraint, this vehemence, caused her a sort of
shame. She had suddenly a thousand things to say--“Think if there should
be children”--“Think of the personal habits of a man of his class”--And
not one of them could she utter. Her almost morbid modesty, her long
habit of restraint, forbade her. She grew desperate; she could urge
nothing but her own love.
“Andrée,” she said, “I will tell you what I have never told anyone else
in the world. I love you more than my other children! I always have.
I--I think I don’t really love anyone else. You are all my life. You are
all I care to live for. If you _knew_ ...! When you were a baby.... Oh,
Andrée! I used to sit watching you when you were asleep ... you were so
pretty--and so strange.... It--made me turn away from God--I loved you
so much more.... If you do this....”
“Oh, how cruel you are!” cried Andrée. “And how--unfair! How can you
want me to spoil all my life and give up all my happiness, if you love
me? How can you not let me alone? Don’t you see--don’t you
understand--how I love him?”
“Andrée, that love is nothing to mine--I know!”
“And you don’t try to argue, or give reasons, or convince me. Or listen
to my reasons. You only want to play on my feelings!”
“You have no feelings!” cried Claudine. “You have no heart! You don’t
care!”
“Oh, don’t I?” said Andrée, and she suddenly began to sob. “Go away! Go
away! I’ve told you--now let me alone!” she sobbed.
Claudine crossed the room to the bureau and began moving about the
little jars and bottles with trembling hands.
“I won’t--reproach you,” she said. “I won’t.... I’ll try to
understand.... I want to see--Mr. Stephens. Where does he live?”
“I shan’t tell you.”
“Yes, you must. You can trust me, Andrée. I won’t--I promise you I won’t
tell anyone else. I won’t do anything to stop you.... I only want to
hear him. I want to hear--all he has to say.
Andrée hesitated a moment.
“Very well!” she said at last. “I think I’d like you to. I’ll trust
you.... He’s at the Biltmore.... I’m not afraid of anything you can say
to him!”
“No,” said Claudine, dully. She was folding up some bits of ribbon,
quite mechanically, and putting them into the bureau drawer. The room
was very untidy; there lay Andreé’s pretty dress across a chair, and her
beribboned petticoat fallen on the floor. And her slippers on the
dressing-table.... Was it worth while to pick them up? Was it worth
while ever to draw another breath? She looked at Andrée, lying face
downward on the bed, and her heart was not moved. No; this was the last
possible sensation, the very end of everything; she was going to sink
now and be drowned. She went out of the room and closed the door.
Gilbert hadn’t stirred. She lay down beside him and closed her eyes, and
at once anguish, like a fierce beast, sprang at her throat.
CHAPTER TWO
THE BITTER TRIUMPH
“I’m going shopping early this morning,” said Claudine, at the
breakfast-table the next morning. “There are some very good bargains
advertised.... How soon do you think you could send the car back,
Gilbert?”
Now Gilbert, although he scoffed at feminine shopping and bargains,
nevertheless respected all this as one of the bulwarks of family life.
Women must and ought to go shopping. So he said:
“Take the car. I’ll go in the Subway,” in the tone of an exasperated
martyr.
Her destination, however, was the Biltmore. She was filled with a
feverish anxiety to get there; she was in terror lest Mr. Stephens
should have gone out, that he would be beyond her reach, that Andrée
might see him or hear from him before she did. She was going to the desk
to enquire for him, when she caught sight of him, standing up, reading a
newspaper, and she approached him and touched him on the arm.
“Mr. Stephens!” she said. “Have you a few moments to spare?”
He was not pleased to see her; she fancied that his face turned a little
pale; but he greeted her with a sort of subdued courtesy.
“Where can we talk?” she asked. “I have something to say....”
“I have a little sitting-room; if you don’t mind--” he said.
She followed him into the lift, still smiling brightly, a smile which he
saw reflected in the looking-glass and which alarmed him by its
expression of triumph. If he could have read her thoughts as well, his
alarm would have vanished. It was her firm resolution to look bright,
brave, self-assured; she hoped that her air would not only impress him
but herself as well.
“Oh, God!” she was praying under her breath. “Oh, just this once, make
me equal to the situation! I always fail; I’m always beaten! Oh, let me,
only this one time, win!”
He opened the door of his sitting-room, and they entered. She began at
once, the instant the door closed behind them.
“Mr. Stephens,” she said, “I have heard from Andrée what you propose to
do.”
He bowed his head, and said nothing. She realized, with surprise, that
he was not without dignity; that there was nothing in any way
contemptible either in his manner or his appearance.
“I am astonished,” she went on, “that you should have done such
an--unworthy thing. Andrée is very young and impressionable, and you
have taken advantage of this to influence her. She neither knows nor
realizes what she has undertaken.”
“Excuse me,” he said. “But I’m sure she does. I haven’t tried to
influence her. I’ve--I’ve given this a lot of thought, Mrs. Vincelle. At
first I was afraid Andrée couldn’t be happy with me ... but ... now I
do think so.”
“Why, Mr. Stephens?”
His fair face flushed.
“It’s pretty hard to explain,” he said, “but I think--well, I think I
understand her, and can get on with her. I--well--I know I’m--different,
in some ways--but I can’t see that that matters.”
“It does matter,” she said, gently. “More than you realize. It may be
quite wrong, but it is a fact, Mr. Stephens, that marriages of--of this
sort are very, very rarely successful.”
“What kind are?” he asked, with equal gentleness. “As far as I can see,
the chances are overwhelmingly against any marriage being really
successful. It’s--I see it like this: if two people love each other,
they ought to take the risk, they ought to face all the chances as--as
gallantly as they can, and do the best they can in what’s bound to be a
difficult position. Personally, I don’t believe in marriage, but I can
see that nothing else is practicable just now. All I can do is to make
it as little like an ordinary marriage as possible--leave Andrée as free
as I can--”
“Mr. Stephens--I’m sorry ... but I cannot consent to this.”
He looked full at her with a level and grave glance.
“The way I see it--it’s a personal matter between Andrée and me. No one
else has any right to interfere. And no one _can_ interfere. I--you
don’t know how much I admire you, Mrs. Vincelle, but--I didn’t think it
was necessary to consult you, or anyone else. That’s all very well in
the case of a man who wants money--any sort of favours from his wife’s
family. But I don’t. It’s only for Andrée to decide.”
“And I simply don’t count,” said Claudine, with a slight smile.
“I know a mother’s love is a very strong--” he began.
“You don’t know anything about it! You think it’s a sentiment; you think
it’s beautiful to see a mother bending over a cradle. You understand
that women love their babies. But when the babies have grown up, you
forget the mothers. Do you think they evaporate, or disappear? Or turn
into troublesome, ridiculous mothers-in-law? But we don’t! We go on! If
Andrée were a child, you’d think I was right to struggle for her. You
talk about mothers being left free to do what they think best for their
children. But because she’s older, and I still want to protect her--”
“But--don’t you see?--you don’t need to protect her from anyone--like
me--who--who worships her! Do listen just for a moment! All I want in
the world is to make her happy. I want her to have a splendid, free
life. I don’t want to tie her to me. I want her as she is now. I don’t
want to change her and--fetter her. I understand her. She’d never endure
being bound; she’s so proud and independent--”
“And so silly and unstable. That’s what you don’t understand! But it’s
no use arguing. I know what it would mean for her. I’m not talking about
convictions. I’m talking about life as it is, as she will have to live
it. Andrée’s an egoist. She’s fickle and headstrong, and so terribly
unstable.”
“Let her be,” he said, stoutly. “I’m not. I’m strong enough and--and
earnest enough to put up with anything like that.”
“Oh, don’t you see? She’ll think anything you want to suggest to her,
but she’ll always act according to her own impulses and desires.”
(“Just the contrary to me,” she reflected, irrelevantly. “People can
make me do anything, but they never change my ideas....”)
“But that’s just what I want her to do!” protested Stephens. “That’s my
idea of marriage--that we should both--”
“Don’t argue!” she cried, with sudden violence. “You cannot do this! If
you really think any of the things you once said to me--if you have any
compassion, and kind human feeling, you can’t try to make your happiness
on another person’s pain. You can’t ignore me!”
“But--” he began, “isn’t that just a little--selfish?”
She clasped her hands desperately.
“You can’t do it!” she cried. “You’re kind. You cannot hurt me so!”
He wished to point out to her the extreme unfairness of her position but
the sight of her anguish was too much for him. Even when he looked away,
he seemed still to see her tear-filled eyes, her face suddenly so worn,
so much older, its fine tranquillity, which he had so much admired, its
dignity, gone. It was like a sacrilege.
“Please don’t! Please don’t!” he entreated. “I can’t bear to see you
suffer!... If you’d only realize that I’m trying to make Andrée happy--”
“Can’t you have a little mercy on me?” she said. “Even if you think I’m
wrong? Andrée is--my whole life; I’ve let everything else go. I haven’t
any life of my own, or any hopes.... Nothing but her. Oh, I’d go on my
knees to you!”
“No, no!” he cried, shocked profoundly, both by her suffering and by her
amazing unscrupulousness. “Mrs. Vincelle! I beg you!”
“Then listen to me! Think of me! Put aside your theories and your
principles.... Isn’t it something to be kind--even to me? Isn’t it
better to be kind than--”
But she could not go on; she buried her face in her hands and wept
silently. She looked so small, so helpless, so terribly fallen from her
almost superhuman aloofness....
“Please don’t!” he entreated, again. “I’ve always had such a great
respect for you.... I--you don’t know how I’ve thought about you.... I
wouldn’t hurt you for anything in the world! Look here! Really!...
Please listen! We’ll wait.”
She looked up, careless of her tear-stained face, quick to seize her
advantage.
“Give me my chance?”
“What do you mean?” he asked, a little alarmed.
“You’ve done all this--you’ve persuaded her secretly--behind my back.
Let me have a little time!”
“To turn her against me?”
“Yes, if I can.”
They were both silent for a moment.
“All right!” he said. “If she can be as easily turned as that, it had
better be done before it’s too late.... But I don’t believe you can. I’m
not afraid to have you try. I trust--Andrée.”
“How long will you give me?”
“I’m going to England and Germany on--business. I’ll be gone about two
months.”
“And will you promise not to write to her or to see her for two months?”
“I’ll have to see her once before I go, to explain. That’ll be to-day.
After that, I’ll--” He paused and smiled a little, very kindly. “You’ll
have your chance, Mrs. Vincelle!”
She rose and held out her hand, and he took it, rather timidly.
“Good-bye!” she said.
“But--if you find you can’t change her--” he said. “At the end of two
months--will you consent to our being married?”
“What difference will it make, whether I do, or not?” she asked,
bitterly.
CHAPTER THREE
ANDRÉE’S WEDDING
§ i
Gilbert was alone in his office, working in one of his characteristic
fits of great energy. A sort of inspiration would seize him, he would
map out astounding campaigns, design advertisements, write letters to
his travelling salesmen which filled them with admiration and
enthusiasm, humorous, racy letters, replete with valuable suggestions.
The greater part of his time he was cross and wretched, but he had his
glorious hours, his days of geniality and amazing penetration. The
entire office staff would be enchanted, and ready to adore him, for he
had a perverse charm about him, an elusive loveableness, a touch of the
fascination so marked in his eldest child.
He always addressed his salesmen in his own writing, a very neat and
legible one, and he was doing that now, his plump, well-kept hand
travelling deliberately over the paper, and a faint smile on his lips,
when there was a knock at the door and his young Cuban entered.
“Your daughter is outside, sir!” he announced, with all the homage of a
courtier. He was profoundly attached to “the family”; he was not without
hope of something happening similar to the things he had read of in
French romances--that, as a reward for his furious zeal, he would one
day be invited to dinner, for instance, when he could be presented to
the young ladies with due ceremony. After that, the rest would be
easy....
“Ask her to step in,” said Gilbert, and looking at his watch, decided
that he would take Edna out to lunch. He took it for granted that it was
Edna, because it always was. She was sent as an emissary by both Bertie
and Andrée when they wanted money or permission for any unapproved
enterprise, because she knew how to handle him.
He wheeled round in his chair, and was surprised to see Andrée standing
there.
“Well, well!” he said, good-humouredly. “What do _you_ want, eh?”
He thought she looked “queer,” and he stared at her more closely. She
had a sort of desperate, defiant air, an unchanging smile.
“Sit down! Sit down!” he said. “What brings you here, Andrée?”
“I wanted to talk to you. I wanted to tell you something.... I wanted
you to hear it from me instead of from Mother, so that you--wouldn’t fly
at her.”
She knew that she was antagonizing him, but she could not help it. The
only way she felt able to tell her monstrous piece of news was rudely
and sternly, to deny even to herself the dread and shrinking she
suffered. Her father’s face changed perceptibly.
“Well!” he said, impatiently.
She laid her pocket-book on his desk, a beautiful little pocket-book,
for she had all her mother’s elegance in trifles--and stood looking down
at him.
“I’m going to marry Mr. Stephens!” she said.
“Who the devil is Mr. Stephens?” he cried.
Andrée began to laugh.
“That man you had a fight with last summer, in the mountains.”
“What!” he cried, springing up. “What! That common, worthless little
cad!”
“Yes!” she said, looking him steadfastly in the face, and smiling. “That
common, worthless little cad. Don’t begin to rave at me. You can’t stop
me. Mother’s been trying for weeks.”
“I’m not going to ‘rave,’ young woman. I have more effective means than
that to put a stop to your nonsense. You’re not so independent as you
imagine--”
“If you’ll just take it for granted that _I’m going to do it_, we can
talk,” said Andrée. “Otherwise it’s no use, and I’d better go.”
“I see your mother’s hand in this!” he said. “Some of her--peculiar
ideas--”
“No, you don’t. She doesn’t even know I’m going to tell you. She’s done
all she could to persuade me--”
“Persuade isn’t the word I’d use. Look here, Andrée, my girl, I’m not
going to argue with you. Put this idea out of your head once and for
all--”
“Why?”
“Why? Because I tell you to. You’re too young to know what you’re doing,
and you’ll have to listen to people who are older and know better.”
“But--about this--you don’t know better. You don’t know anything about
him. And anyway, it’s not a question of knowing, it’s a question of--of
feeling. I--like him. I’m older than Mother was when she married you. I
know what I’m doing. His only crime is being--what you call ‘common.’
He’s very remarkable. If you knew him, you’d soon see it.”
“You don’t know enough of the world to realize that marriages between
people of unequal social position are always unhappy.”
“They’re just as unhappy in other cases,” said Andrée. “I don’t believe
social position has anything to do with it. It’s--disposition. And Al
has a wonderful disposition.”
“Al!” her father repeated, contemptuously.
“Yes, Al! That’s what he calls himself. I like it! It’s so nice and
jolly and--common!”
“Andrée!” said her father, sternly. “This is nothing but a whim--a freak
of yours.... I think you’re only trying to torment and worry the people
who love you.”
“You’ll see if it’s a whim!” she answered.