learned from her lawyer that her old home in Staten Island--which her
father had left her at his death--was temporarily vacant, and he had
secured it for a year. Half of it, that is, for her father had converted
it into a double house, an improvement by which she had profited, for
she had received rent for both halves for years. With the help of Edna
he had removed from the storage warehouse as much of Mrs. Mason’s old
furniture as they thought good, and later in the spring, when Claudine
was strong enough, she was to go there with Edna, to find it all
prepared for her. This plan had touched her, she had thanked him with
tears in her eyes. He would have gone there with them, if it had been
suggested....
“What’s this?” asked Andrée.
He roused himself from his unpleasant meditation, and turned to look at
the object she held in her hand.
“That? It’s a game--‘Pigs in Clover.’ I remember your mother was very
much amused with it when she was first married.”
Andrée smiled and began to manipulate it, singing again.
Now Gilbert had been brought up to distrust happiness, especially
feminine happiness. His mother had never been happy. Claudine was never
happy; the only permissible thing in that line was the benevolent, and
possibly alcoholically stimulated, high spirits of the _pater familias_,
coming home bearing gifts. He loved Andrée, he was delighted to have the
pretty, wilful creature about him again, but still, he could not help
distrusting such gaiety.
“When do you expect to go home?” he asked.
“This is home!” said Andrée.
“Your home is with your husband, young lady!” he said, severely.
“I know! I’m going--pretty soon.”
There wasn’t the slightest need or reason for staying another hour. She
had been there for four weeks, and her mother was now well on the road
to recovery. Al telephoned every day, first he asked about Claudine,
whose illness he had taken terribly to heart, and then he always said--
“When are you coming home, old girl?”
And she always answered “In a day or so.”
“You know your old father likes nothing better than to have his girl at
home,” Gilbert went on. “But you’re a married woman, and you have to
think of your duty.”
“I do think of it. But not all the time.... I think I’ll run up and see
if Mother’s dressed.”
She had started up the stairs, when the telephone rang, and she ran back
to answer it. She was quite sure it would be Al; this was his regular
hour.
His voice responded.
“Mrs. Stephens in?”
“This is Andrée!” she answered, brightly. “How are you, Alfred?”
“Your mother doing well?”
“Yes, very!”
And then, instead of his usual query, he said--
“It’s about time you were coming home, isn’t it?”
His voice was somewhat alarming, and she answered in her very
pleasantest manner.
“Yes; I’m coming in a day or two, Al.”
“Suppose you come this evening?”
“Oh, I couldn’t! Not possibly!”
“Why not? I’ll come for you about eight.”
“No, Al, it’s not possible. My things aren’t packed.”
“Edna can pack them and send them after you to-morrow.”
“But how ridiculous! Why should I rush off like this?”
“Well,” he said slowly. “Suppose--because I particularly ask you to--?”
“You’re very unreasonable!”
“Humour me, then, for once.”
“No, Al!” she said, firmly. “I can’t come to-night. To-morrow--or the
next day--I’ll let you know--”
“Look here, Andrée; I’m coming for you to-night!”
“But I tell you I’m not going home!”
“I insist!”
She laughed.
“What in the world is the matter with you, my dear boy? Do you imagine
you can bully me?”
“I don’t want to. I’m asking you--to do me a favour.”
“It’s a ridiculous, selfish, unreasonable favour, and I shan’t do it.”
“I’m coming for you just the same, at eight o’clock!” he said.
She was going to remonstrate with him, but she found that he had left
the telephone. Her cheeks flushed, and she bit her lip.
“Little beast!” she said to herself. But some secret thought made her
unusually indulgent, she shrugged her shoulders and dismissed the
thought of him.
She went on up to her mother’s room and knocked at the door.
“It’s Andrée!” she announced in her triumphal voice, as if that name
were a talisman to admit her anywhere.
Claudine was sitting at her dressing-table, brushing her hair. There was
grey in it now, on the temples, and her face was thin and drawn. She
wore a negligée with high collar and long sleeves, to conceal the
pitiful emaciation of her neck and arms. Andrée couldn’t look at her
without a twinge of pain.
“I’ll do your hair for you, darling!” she said, and Claudine willingly
relinquished the brush to her.
“I am some use to you, aren’t I, Mother?”
“I don’t know what I should have done without you, dear!”
“‘Should have done!’ Then you don’t need me now?”
“You know how dearly I love to have you with me, but--”
“But I ought to go home? I’m not useful any more, and I’m not wanted--”
“Don’t be so unreasonable, my dear! It’s only that I think it unfair to
Alfred--”
“Why?” she demanded, impatiently.
“You shouldn’t stay away from him.”
“Why not? He’s always saying he wants me to feel free. He certainly
shouldn’t object to my taking a little holiday.”
“And you ought to be at your work again.”
“I can practice here for Doctor Jaas. The Conservatory can wait.”
“You ought to go home!” her mother repeated.
Andrée frowned.
“Al’s just been telephoning, to ‘insist’ upon my coming home this
evening. I suppose you think he’s right?”
“Yes.”
“You mean you’d like me to rush off like that?”
“Yes, I should.”
“I shan’t!” said Andrée. “I don’t suppose you’ll mind my waiting until
to-morrow to pack my things?”
“If I were you, I should go with Alfred this evening--”
“I wouldn’t for anything! Just give in to his silly whim--”
“It’s not a silly whim.... Andrée.... I wrote to him.”
Andrée stared at her mother’s reflection in the glass.
“What!” she cried.
Claudine opened the drawer of the dressing-table and looked into it.
“I thought--the sooner you went home, the better,” she said, in a low
voice.
Andrée did not ask why. She understood very well.
§ ii
It was a marvel to Claudine that no one else had noticed. There was a
certain effrontery about them both, a smiling ease, but it should not
have deceived Edna. She herself had observed it the first time she had
gone downstairs and seen them together. Andrée had been at the piano,
and Malloy standing by her, to turn her music. She had looked up at him,
and met his eyes, and it was not possible for Claudine to doubt that
they understood each other too well. She could not help watching them.
Malloy was attentive to Edna--rather too much so--but it was with an air
of bravado, of displaying his versatility, his irresistible fascination.
With a sidelong glance he would follow Andrée with his idiotic
infatuation, his bedazzlement, plain in his face. The very fact that
they so seldom spoke to each other made her quite sure that there was a
great deal of which she knew nothing. She regarded Andrée’s cool triumph
with an aching heart. She was not shocked or astounded; it is a sad
truth that no perfidy or evil could shock that woman. She was willing to
believe both the best and the worst of anyone; whatever was presented to
her, she accepted. She believed that now she was seeing the very worst
of Andrée, the selfishness, the recklessness, the cruelty, which she
knew better than anyone else. She didn’t blame Malloy; not much was to
be expected from him. He was kind-hearted and manly, and so on, but wax
in hands like Andrée’s. He didn’t love Andrée; he wouldn’t have thought
of her if she hadn’t made him. He had been happy with Edna, and he would
be again--if he were let alone. And Andrée didn’t love him; she would
forget him. If it were stopped _now_.
That is the reason that Claudine had written to her son-in-law.
“I really think, Alfred, that for several reasons it would be wise to
induce Andrée to go home to you as soon as possible, and to take up her
work again,” she had written, and she had left it to his common sense to
comprehend and to follow her hint.
But she hadn’t reckoned with his unruly passions. He had put two and two
together, to make a sum considerably more than four. He had seen Malloy
once in their sitting-room at the hotel, where he had come to sing for
Andrée. He had decidedly not liked him.
“If he’s engaged to Edna--or going to be--why does he hang around here?”
he had asked.
“I suppose he hasn’t the same idea of etiquette as you,” Andrée had
answered, with an unpleasant smile. “However, if you don’t like him,
I’ll tell him not to come. He’ll understand.”
She had intended to wound and anger him, and she had succeeded. But she
had done something more; she had awakened in him that old and buried
suspicion for women of Andrée’s class.
Years before he had met Andrée that idea had been superseded. He had
made his money, and had begun to know at least a little of that other
world. And he saw that the women there were no more or less than human
beings, very much hampered and hurt by their idleness. He had tried to
see in Andrée not only the beloved woman, but a human being entitled to
as many faults and weaknesses as he had himself, entitled to the same
moderation of judgment that he himself required. He had deliberately put
aside his suspicion of Malloy, he had conquered Andrée’s irritability
with his patient good-humour, and they had been getting along very
nicely the week before Claudine’s illness.
And now, by the words of Claudine’s letter, all the fruits of his
reason were destroyed, and the old distrust and envy and utter
misunderstanding came rushing back. He saw Andrée as a stranger of whom
he knew really nothing, an unaccountable, alien creature. He knew at
once that Claudine’s letter referred to Malloy. No doubt the fellow was
hanging about the house there all the time, singing to her....
It was on Saturday night that he got it; he had reflected upon it all
that night, and the next morning, and by the afternoon he was in a
humour which would have caused Andrée no little astonishment. He hated
the Vincelles and all their entourage; he believed that they were
laughing at him, that he had been played with all these weeks, that now
they fancied they had got well rid of him. All except Claudine; she
wasn’t like the others, of course. He wished that he could see her and
talk to her, but that couldn’t be. She had at least indicated to him
what should be done.
§ iii
At eight o’clock he rang the door bell.
“I want to see Mrs. Stephens!” he said, curtly, to the servant.
“She’s at supper, sir. Will you wait?”
“No; just ask her to step here and speak to me!”
“What name, please, sir?”
“Her husband,” he said, grimly.
They were all in the dining-room, enjoying the “Sunday night tea” of
their tradition. Gilbert sat at the head of the table and made jokes,
like a patriarch; opposite him was Claudine, on one side Edna and
Malloy; on the other, Bertie and Andrée. They lingered; they had not
yet thought of rising from the table when the maid entered with her
message.
“Mr. Stephens is upstairs, ma’am!” she whispered to Andrée.
“Who is it?” asked Gilbert, in the tone of a man who is master in his
own house.
“Mr. Stephens, sir,” answered the girl.
He turned red; he was sorry he had asked; he was very much at a loss.
And so was everyone else. This proscribed man actually under this roof!
Gilbert was torn between his anger at the fellow’s audacity and the
respect due him as a husband. Propriety conquered.
“Ask Mr. Stephens to come down here and join us,” he said. “Bertie,
bring up another chair to the table!”
But the girl returned almost immediately.
“Mr. Stephens is sorry, sir, but he is in a hurry, and he would be
obliged if Mrs. Stephens would come upstairs.”
Andrée rose. But her expression alarmed her mother.
“Andrée!” she murmured, but her warning was unheeded. Andrée went slowly
upstairs, and into the hall where her husband stood waiting. He had not
removed his felt hat, but he had thrown open the fur-lined overcoat of
which he was so absurdly proud. Never had his appearance so profoundly
displeased her.
“What do you want?” she asked.
Her tone excited him to instant hostility.
“I told you I was coming,” he said.
“And I told you not to come.”
She looked at him.
“I didn’t think even you would do a thing like this--coming
here--waiting in the hall--like a servant with a message--”
“That’s enough,” he said. “I only want to know whether you’re coming
back, or not.”
“When I’m ready, I’ll come.”
“I’m ready now. I’ve waited as long as I’m going to wait.”
“Are you trying to threaten me?” she asked with cold surprise.
“No, I’m simply giving you your choice--to come with me, or to stay.”
“I’ll stay, thank you,” she said.
She had a sudden impulse of pity for him, he looked so desolate and
lost. She thought it would be nice to have her cake and also to eat it.
“Let’s not quarrel!” she said. “Come downstairs and have supper with
us!”
“No!” he said. “I’m going.... The servant’s delivered his message.”
He opened the door and went out, slamming it after him with a crash.
Andrée struggled against a great desire to cry, or to shout after him,
she didn’t know which.
“Little beast!” she said, aloud. “Vulgar little bully!”
“What’s the meaning of this?” said a severe voice behind her, and she
turned to see her father.
“There’s no meaning in it at all,” she answered. “Al’s gone home, that’s
all.”
“Did you quarrel, Andrée?”
She was surprised; she had forgotten that fathers were supposedly
authorized to ask such impertinent questions.
“No,” she said. “He thought I would come home this evening, but I wasn’t
ready.”
Gilbert saw some feminine mutiny in this.
“Did you refuse to accompany him?” he asked, in a portentous voice.
“Yes,” she answered. “Of course I did. Is that a crime? Am I supposed to
humour every caprice?”
Gilbert stopped her with a gesture. He put himself in Alfred’s place; he
knew how he would have felt under the circumstances, how humiliated and
furious.
“No doubt he had very good reasons. You’ve already remained away for
over five weeks--”
“Four weeks.”
“Four weeks, then. You have--in my opinion--you have neglected him.”
Andrée made no defense, but her air was not acquiescent. Gilbert became
more fatherly.
“Now, I’ll tell you what you’ll do, Andrée. Telephone your husband, and
tell him you’ll be home in an hour or so. And I’ll take you myself, and
make the young man’s acquaintance, eh?”
“No, thank you, Father. I’m not ready to go.”
“Get ready then! Get ready! Bertie will telephone for you. Bertie!” he
called. “Bertie! Just a moment, please!”
Bertie came running upstairs.
“Your sister’s going home--”
“I’m not!” said Andrée.
Gilbert was astounded.
“This is a serious matter,” he said. “I can’t permit it. It’s your duty
to go home to your husband.”
“I’ll just postpone the duty for a few days,” said Andrée.
“I say no! He came for you this evening and--”
“What is the matter?” asked Claudine’s low voice. She had come up after
Bertie, and was standing in the shadow, outside the circle of light cast
by the lamp on the newel post.
“I am telling Andrée that she must go home to-night. It seems her
husband came to fetch her and she refused to go with him.”
“She’ll go to-morrow,” said Claudine. “It’s rather late now.”
“Father,” said Andrée, “I don’t want to be rude--but it’s my own affair.
I can’t let anyone tell me what I shall do. I’ll go home when I think
best.”
“This is outrageous!” shouted Gilbert. “You can’t adopt that tone toward
me, young woman! You’ve been spoilt and indulged long enough! Bertie, go
down to the garage and bring the car!”
“No!” cried Claudine.
“Do as I tell you! Now, Andrée, I’ll give you fifteen minutes to pack
what you need, and then you’ll go, ready or not. This is my house, and
what I say shall be done. Do you understand?”
“I believe I do!” she answered, carelessly. “You’re putting me out,
aren’t you? Very well, I’ll go!”
She turned and ran up the stairs.
Claudine turned upon Gilbert with desperation.
“Gilbert! Go after her! Tell her she can wait! Tell her--”
“I’ll do nothing of the sort!” he answered. “I won’t be defied in my own
house--”
She seized his arms with her weak hands and actually tried to shake him.
“Stop her!” she cried. “Stop her! You don’t realize what you’re doing!”
He looked down at his wife with stupefaction.
“Stop her!” she cried, again. “Go after her and tell her to wait!”
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” he said, severely, “to suggest--”
But she didn’t wait for him to finish.
“Then I’m going with her,” she said.
With trembling knees she ascended the stairs, entered her room and began
dressing. She hastily put into a little bag a few necessary clothes, her
jewel case and her bank books, and came out again, just as Andrée had
gone downstairs.
“Gilbert!” she whispered to her husband. “I must stay with her until
they are reconciled. It’s a matter of vital importance!”
He was touched; she was so ill, so weak, so terribly upset.
“Very well!” he said. “Bertie will take you to their house. Take care of
yourself! You’re not fit to go out.”
She gave him a hasty kiss, and taking Bertie’s arm, left the house.
Andrée was already in the street, standing beside the car.
“I’ll have to drive you,” said Bertie. “Donald was out.”
“But you won’t drive me home, my child!” said Andrée. “You can take me
to some other hotel.”
“Take her wherever she wants, Bertie!” said Claudine, with a sob.
CHAPTER NINE
HOME AGAIN
§ i
Claudine sat down to answer her distressing correspondence. She took a
long time to arrange her writing materials, to adjust the light, for her
heart failed her, courage and hope were nearly gone. She sat before the
same little rosewood desk she had used in her girlhood, in that little
bedroom she had passed so many happy years in, she was at home again, in
the house in which she had been born, and she had at this moment no
better wish than that she might die there.
She had brought Andrée here the day after their flight, nearly a month
ago. She had felt a presumptuous and sublime joy; for the first time in
her life she was going to have Andrée alone, alone there in that house
of gentle memories. She would take her for walks, show her the places
she had so loved in her own young days, she would soften her heart and
win her utterly. She would teach her to see the worth of her husband,
the sacredness of their bond, with all her love, all her sad wisdom she
would lead her back from this morass into which she had strayed. She
had felt sure that she could do this, now that they were alone. Andrée
was susceptible, she could be persuaded. She had shown a passionate
affection for her mother; she had wept in her arms that night, she had
accused herself of selfishness and ingratitude.
There had been just two days of Paradise, two long days spent together
in exquisite companionship. The granddaughter of Selma, Mrs. Mason’s
most devoted old servant, had come to wait on them, and she made them
entirely comfortable. There was nothing to worry or disturb them. They
had had their meals together alone, and quiet evenings in the
drawing-room before a fine log fire. They hadn’t mentioned Andrée’s
affair; Claudine was content to wait for that, filled with hope by her
child’s new softness.
And then on the third evening Malloy came. Evidently Andrée had sent for
him, for she greeted him without surprise. He was troubled, anxious,
very ill at ease; he had the unmistakable air of a man tormented by an
unwelcome passion. He was afraid of Claudine, he was ashamed of his
treachery to Edna, he was ashamed of his terrible bondage. But he could
not escape. Andrée’s mocking smile turned his heart to water. He adored
her; he was unable to hide his madness.
Andrée didn’t attempt to see him alone. She brought him into the room
where her mother sat before the fire, and kept him there. She asked him
to sing, and he did so, his fervent and touching voice sounded through
the fire-lit room and moved the wretched mother to tears. What was she
to do? She could see him with Andrée’s eyes, she could so easily
understand what it was that had captured that reckless and beauty-loving
heart. He was so handsome, so ardent, so entirely a lover. He had none
of Alfred’s preoccupations; he hadn’t, she thought, any thoughts at all,
nothing but sentiments and traditions. But a gallant gentleman--
He left early. It certainly had not been a pleasant evening for him. He
had scarcely been able to speak, with Claudine present. But when he was
going, and had said good-night to Andrée, who hadn’t risen, she followed
him out to the front door.
“Mr. Malloy!” she said. “Have you told--Edna?”
“No ...” he said. “I’m ashamed to say I haven’t.... But of course I
shall....”
“Don’t!” she entreated. “Please don’t! Not just yet! If you can--won’t
you go to see her as usual?”
“But--do you think that’s--honourable?” he asked, shocked.
“It’s kind, Mr. Malloy!”
“But--isn’t it--only putting it off, you know?”
“Sometimes it’s better to do that,” she said. “Please, Mr. Malloy, if
you are able to--?”
“I’ll try!” he said, quite miserably. “I suppose you don’t want--me to
say anything--until you’re home again?”
“Yes,” she answered.
The door closed behind him.
“Because I’m going to stop this!” she said to herself. “It can’t be! I’m
going to stop it!”
That was her one object--that nothing irreparable should be said or
done. She was absolutely certain that the infatuation would not last,
there was not one element in it to make it permanent. She was certain
that if no monstrous irrevocable folly were committed, Malloy would
thankfully return to Edna, who really suited him, and that Andrée would
go back to her husband.
But she was filled with terror at the possibility of that evil chance.
She lay awake all that night, trying to plan how she could prevent it.
No enlightenment came. Malloy came again and again. She dreaded to speak
to Andrée, for she knew how speech solidifies and strengthens the
vaguest thoughts, but it could no longer be avoided. She could no longer
be complaisant. She waited until Andrée was in bed one night and then
she went into her room and sat beside her in the dark, at the foot of
her bed.
“Andrée!” she said. “I must know!”
“I want you to, Mother. I’ve been waiting for you to ask me....” She sat
up and flung her arms round her mother.
“Oh, my darling!” she said. “I’m so terribly, terribly sorry! I know
I’ve made you suffer. I know it’s a dreadful thing to do to dear little
Edna! But I can’t help it! I thought at first it would only be a lark. I
didn’t mean any harm. I never imagined _this_ would come! But now it’s
too late! I love him so, Mother! I never knew what love was before. I
never, never felt like this about Al.... Oh, Mother! I’d stop if I
could! I don’t want to hurt you or Edna. But I can’t help it!”
“You can, Andrée! It’s not necessary to do what you want.”
“You’re so cold and so--good, you can’t understand! I love Francis so
that I can’t give him up. No matter what harm it does, to me, or anyone
else.”
“What do you intend to do?”
“I’ve written to Al, to ask him to--for a divorce.”
“Oh!” cried her mother. “_Why_ did you do that?”
“What else could I do? You didn’t think I wanted a nasty underhand
intrigue, did you, Mother? I wouldn’t--I wouldn’t even kiss Francis
until I was free from Al. I’m not that sort.”
“What did Alfred say?”
“Nothing. He didn’t answer. But I know he’ll do it. He’s always said
he’d never try to hold me if I wanted to be free.”
“I think you ought to see him, my child.”
“Why?”
Claudine had no intention of telling her true reason.
“It’s the best and frankest way to do,” she said. “If you like, I will
write to him and ask him to come here. I wish you would see him--for my
sake, Andrée.”
Andrée sighed.
“I will, then, if you like, Mother. But it’ll be horrible. We’ll be
horrible. We’ll quarrel. All his commonness comes out when he’s angry.”
“You needn’t quarrel. Then it’s agreed that I’m to write?”
“Yes,” said Andrée. “But it’s not a bit of use to try your diplomacy,
Mother dear! I see through you!”
* * * * *
And this very evening she was trying to write that letter. Andrée and
Malloy were sitting on the porch, almost under her window, now and then
she could hear the murmur of their voices.
“I’ll write the other letters first!” she decided, in despair.
She wrote to Gilbert, the same sort of thing she had been writing all
the month.
“I think it is very necessary to stay with Andrée until she and her
husband are reconciled. It is a critical time. I hope and believe
that all will turn out well.”
He, of course, knew nothing at all of the Malloy complication; he
believed it to be a simple quarrel.
Then she wrote to Edna:
My dear little girl: