can’t thank you enough for taking such good care of Father, Bertie,
and Cousin Lance. I am very glad you like Bertie’s Giulia; she is a
charming little creature, and very devoted to him. Your description
of their ball was amusing, and, I thought, rather touching. Bertie
had told me of Mr. Santi’s predilection for wizards; I think I
should enjoy them myself. Your dress must have been lovely. I am
sorry your father thought it too short! Personally I think that
style suits you; you don’t look any older than when you were a
little girl going to dancing school.
Write to me often, my dear little Edna. And don’t expect any news
from me, because there is none. I am very much better; you are
_not_ to worry. As soon as this most unfortunate affair is settled,
I shall be at home again.
Very lovingly and gratefully,
YOUR MOTHER.
P. S. Be sure to send the furs to cold storage _this week_!
She looked again at the little pile of letters she had had from Edna,
gay, pleasant, commonplace. And yet alarming. There was not a single
mention of Malloy. Edna was not one to wear her heart on her sleeve;
she had no ability and no desire for expressing her emotions. Her mother
blessed her for her seemly reticence; how easy it was to deal with
people who didn’t talk, who took so much for granted! She was quite
certain that the poor little thing was very unhappy, but she was also
certain that she was not desperate. She had no doubt noticed the change
in her handsome lover, but she wished no consoling for it; she would
console herself, she would endure with dignity and common sense.
And now for Alfred.
She hesitated for a long time, then began to write, in her careful and
delicate hand:
My dear Alfred:
I have just learned of Andrée’s decision, and I think I need not
tell you how it grieved me. Not only on your account, but on hers,
I believe that a divorce would be a terrible mistake, and I beg you
to oppose it resolutely. I beg of you, Alfred, not to consent to
it. No one understands Andrée as I do, and I know that this would
be the very worst thing possible for her.
She has consented to see you and I entreat you to come and talk it
over with her. I trust to your deep affection for her, and to your
humanity. I know that she can never be happy and _safe_ with any
one but you.
Will you come on Sunday, if convenient for you?
Always your friend,
CLAUDINE VINCELLE.
She stamped and sealed it, and lay down on the bed, to read, to try to
read and to forget her bitter anxiety.
§ ii
Sunday came, and no word from him. And on Sunday evening Mr. Malloy
appeared. Claudine was very much taken aback; he had never before come
on Sunday, and she had very humanly taken it for granted that he never
would. She hadn’t told Andrée that she expected Alfred; she had planned
to take her by surprise, before she could adopt a difficult and
dangerous mood. If he should come now! She sat upstairs in her room, in
a state of tremulous agitation, looking out of her window, trying in
vain to see the street through the fog that had risen, listening for his
footfall, though what she could do to forestall him she didn’t know.
Outside on the porch Andrée and Malloy were sitting, well-wrapped, coat
collars turned up against the thick, chill mist of that April night.
Their hands were clasped, but they spoke very little. They were in a
mood of sombre depression, not unknown to lovers. Now and then Claudine
heard the sound of their voices, forlorn and detached; if it had been
Alfred, she thought, how different it would have been! A continuous flow
of talk, and retorts from Andrée, irritated perhaps, but certainly
interested....
She fancied she heard a footstep on the hilly street; she opened her
window softly and leaned out. The trees were dripping on the gravel
drive; hoarse whistles sounded from the bay, and--yes, undoubtedly, that
was the garden gate! A step on the porch, and Andrée’s voice--
“I want to see Mrs. Vincelle!”
She flew down the stairs and opened the front door.
“Come in, Alfred!” she said.
He followed her into the sitting-room and stood before her, still in his
overcoat and cap.
“So she’s out there with him?” he said. “Do you think that’s a fair way
to treat me?”
“I’m sorry, Alfred. Very sorry. I had no idea he would come this
evening. I wouldn’t for worlds have--”
“He does come to see her then? In your house? And you don’t mind?”
“Please sit down!” she said, gently. “I am so glad you came. I wanted so
to talk to you--to explain--”
He took off his overcoat and cap and threw them on a chair. He was
thinner; his face had lost its boyish and alert expression, it was set
in an expression of bitterness and misery.
“I didn’t want to come,” he said. “It can’t do any good. I knew what you
thought would happen. You thought if we saw each other we’d--melt. That
she’d change her mind. Well, I don’t want that. We’ve had enough
emotion. I don’t want any--love that comes from caprice. No more moods
and impulses. I--it wasn’t that way with me. It was--real.”
“Alfred, you mustn’t be hard! It’s not like you. If you love her, you
must forgive her a hundred times. She’s silly and--”
“It’s not a question of forgiving. I don’t see it that way. She’s free
to do as she pleases. It’s simply that now I know she’s not capable of
loyalty.”
“Alfred, I give you my word there’s been nothing wrong--”
“Oh, I believe it! She’s _respectable_!” he said, bitterly. “I’m not
afraid of her being too generous with--anyone. She’ll be like some of
those singers and geniuses I’ve read of. She’ll have half a dozen
husbands, but she’ll never do anything wrong.”
“That’s very cruel and unjust! Surely you’ve seen enough of the world to
understand these--infatuations.... He’s a very handsome and attractive
man, and she has lost her head. That’s all it is! It won’t last!”
“I know it won’t. But it will happen again. It isn’t the infatuation
that hits me so hard. I can understand that. It could happen to almost
anyone. But it’s the--the rank, beastly cruelty of it! To walk off and
leave me without a word. I--you don’t know--leaving all her little
things there--all her little things--telling me all the time she’d come
back in a few days.... It’s....”
He got up and walked over to the fire.
“No,” he said. “She can have her divorce. I always told her I’d never
try to keep her against her will. But--I wish to God we’d never got
married.... If we could only part now with some sort of decency ... if
she could just say, ‘It’s over. Good-by!’ But now--I guess you don’t
realize--I’ll have to be caught in a compromising situation--all the
dirty, filthy business will have to be written down and talked about by
a lot of lawyers.... The sort of thing I hate worse than death. It’s
what they call acting honourably for me to do that.”
“Don’t do it, Alfred! Don’t do it, I beg you! I am sure she loves you!”
“She has a damn peculiar way of loving, then.”
“I know she has. There are horrible things in her nature. But I am sure
that you know the good in her too. She is honest and--”
She covered her face with her hands.
“Can’t you see, Alfred? She needs you so! No one else can help. No one
else can help her to grow into something better.”
“Please don’t cry!” he said, in great distress. “I’d do anything for
you. You’re an angel!”
“I’m not! I’m not! I once--long ago--thought I’d leave _my_ husband. But
thank God I didn’t!”
“But it might have been better for you if you had,” he said, frankly.
She looked up in surprise.
“No!” she said. “It would have been--I am sure that self-sacrifice is
the best way in life.”
“That depends on the object. If you sacrifice yourself for--well,
humanity, it’s fine and good. But for one other human being, no!”
She had no intention of permitting an argument to begin. She pulled the
conversation away from reason back to emotion, where it belonged.
“I don’t ask you to sacrifice yourself, Alfred. It would make you both
happy.”
“I can’t do it!” he said, quietly. “She wants to leave me, and I must
let her.”
“But you’ll see her?”
“No. Please don’t ask me any more. It’s settled. I’m sorry--on your
account. I should be glad to do it for you--if I could. But I can’t.”
He went toward the chair where his coat lay and was about to put it on,
when the door opened and Andrée entered. He turned and faced her. Her
cheeks were rosy from the damp air, her black hair curled about her
forehead; her mother looked at her loveliness with a beating heart.
Surely he could not resist her!
But he picked up his cap and threw his coat over his arm.
“Good-night!” he said.
The front door closed after him.
§ iii
Not fifteen minutes ahead of him Malloy was making his way to the ferry.
“My God, what a mess!” he was saying over and over to himself. He had
never in his life felt so shabby, so shamefaced, as he had felt that
evening. There was no triumph in this love; he was a thief. He had
mortally stricken that poor little chap. He had humiliated and hurt
Edna. He had involved himself and Andrée in a disgusting scandal.
“We never can be happy,” he said. “Not on such a foundation.... But I
don’t care! I’d rather have her and be miserable all my life!”
CHAPTER TEN
DESTINY INTERVENES
§ i
Andrée was very late that evening. She had gone to the city to do some
shopping, and at eight o’clock she had not yet returned. Claudine sat
down to supper alone, but she could not eat. She was filled with
apprehension. She couldn’t imagine what was keeping Andrée.
The weather had suddenly turned mild, the dining-room windows were open
and a sweet damp breeze was blowing in from the garden. Rose had
prepared an especially appetizing supper; she hovered about the silent
woman, very anxious that she should eat it. The shaded lamp threw a warm
light on the table, set out with Mrs. Mason’s glowing old Crown Derby;
there was the same order and quiet all about her that had so delighted
her a few weeks ago. But now it frightened her. It was death-like....
“There’s no use trying to go on,” she thought. “This must end! I’ll have
to tell Gilbert--and poor little Edna. I’ll have to go back.... I’ve
done all I can.”
It was nearly a week since Alfred had come, and in the meantime Andrée
had begun her divorce proceedings. No miracle had happened; heaven had
not intervened. This disaster, this ruin was approaching with a sure
step.
“I really don’t believe I can eat, Rose!” she said, apologetically. “I’m
sorry; your little supper was so nice. Be sure to put something aside
for Mrs. Stephens.”
“I think I hear a taxi coming now, ma’am,” said Rose.
They both listened. Rose was right, a taxi was stopping outside the
house; a man’s voice said “Thank you, Miss!” and there was a step on the
veranda. Rose hurried to open the door, and in an instant Andrée entered
the room.
Claudine sprang up.
“What is the matter?” she cried, alarmed at her child’s face.
Andrée at once began to cry hysterically.
“Stop, child!” said her mother. “What is it? What has happened?”
Andrée sank into a chair by the table and leaned her head on her arms,
shaking with sobs.
“It’s too much!” she cried.
“Go away, Rose!” said Claudine. “Go into the kitchen and make Mrs.
Stephens a nice hot cup of tea!”
Rose vanished.
“What is it, Andrée?” she asked again. “Don’t torture me so! What has
happened?”
Andrée sat up suddenly and began to laugh through her sobs.
“I went to see Doctor Lawrence!” she cried. “I was afraid--It’s true!...
There’s going to be a baby!”
She began to shriek with laughter. Claudine seized her by the shoulders,
and shook her.
“Be quiet! Be quiet, Andrée! Come upstairs!”
Andrée shook her head.
“No!” she cried. “No! I’m expecting company! Francis is coming! Oh,
Lord! Oh, Lord! Isn’t it funny! Won’t he be pleased!”
“Hush! Come upstairs!” Claudine repeated, and half dragged her to her
feet. She put her arm about her and supported her up the stairs to her
own room.
“Lie down!” she said. “I’ll bathe your face in cold water. Try to
control yourself, Andrée!”
But Andrée could do nothing but weep and laugh. Claudine sat by her,
patting her cold hands and stroking her hair, silent, waiting for her to
become tranquil.
The doorbell rang, and Andrée sprang up, suddenly sobered.
“Mother!... It’s Francis! You’ll have to see him!”
“We’ll tell Rose to say you’re not at home.”
“No! I want you to see him! Listen, Mother!”
“Yes?”
Andrée looked at her with a stern glance.
“You’ll have to send him away,” she said. “Tell him it’s all over. I’ll
never see him again.”
“Do you mean that, Andrée?”
“It would hardly do to introduce a little Stephens into our household,”
said Andrée, with a frigid smile.
“But what shall I say?”
“I don’t care. Anything! Only, Mother, if you ever let him guess the
truth, I’ll never, never forgive you! My life is ruined. I’ve got to
give him up. But--it’s so ridiculous and humiliating. No one must ever
know!”
“But they can’t help knowing!”
“Francis won’t. He’s stupid. He won’t put two and two together. Tell
him--anything. Say I’ve repented on account of Edna. Only get rid of
him, for God’s sake!”
“Hush, Andrée!”
“Oh, I’m so ashamed and wretched! Why did this horrible thing happen! I
wouldn’t believe it at first! It was too ridiculous and shameful! I
won’t have Francis know. I’ll go away somewhere.”
Claudine rose.
“You’ll lie here quietly, won’t you?” she asked.
Andrée assured her that she would, and closing the door after her,
Claudine descended the stairs.
Of all the painful and awkward tasks she had yet had to do for her
child, this was the worst. She couldn’t suppress a wry little smile. She
who so loved peace and dignity, who was so constitutionally averse to
plain speaking!
Mr. Malloy was in the drawing-room, walking about. He stared a little at
the sight of Claudine.
“Good-evening!” he said.
“Good-evening!” Claudine answered, brightly.
How was she to begin? She stood quite still, and her silence warned him
of something unpleasant to come.
“It’s very difficult--” she said. “Please sit down, Mr. Malloy!”
He did so, and she seated herself opposite him.
“I must be very firm!” she thought. “Oh, if I only can get rid of him!”
He waited for some time.
“I hope there’s nothing wrong, Mrs. Vincelle,” he said, at last.
“No ... I should not call it wrong.... Indeed, I think ... I won’t try
to conceal from you, Mr. Malloy, that all this has been very painful for
me. I have always had the greatest respect for Andrée’s husband and I
thought it a great--a terrible mistake for her to leave him.”
He flushed.
“I’m sorry ...” he said.
“Naturally I think first of her. I knew that this was not for her good.
I knew--please forgive me--I knew she wouldn’t be happy with you. But I
couldn’t stop her. She is very wilful.”
“But--”
“But she has--changed, Mr. Malloy! She sees now that she was wrong. She
has asked me to tell you so!”
He rose.
“No!” he cried. “No! It’s impossible!”
“She asked me to tell you. She could not bear to do so herself. She--and
I too, Mr. Malloy--we both rely upon your--fine feeling to understand.
And to go away.”
“But I can’t believe it! Why, only three days ago--”
“I know. But you must believe me. She--it’s so hard to tell you--she
doesn’t wish to see you again.”
“Please let me see her!”
“She doesn’t want to see you. I am sure you will understand that it is
best so.”
“What has happened? What has made her change?”
“It is impossible to say. A--a change of heart.... But I beg you to
accept this as--final--and to go!”
“Very well!” he said. “I’ll go!”
She held out her hand to him.
“Mr. Malloy!” she said. “Can’t all this be as if it had never happened?”
“I don’t see how,” he said. “I’m afraid I can’t forget so easily.”
“But--some day I hope you will marry happily and--”
He shook his head.
“You will!” she assured him. “You are too much of a man to let this
really hurt you! If you cannot have--exactly what you want, you must--”
She stopped, in confusion, and suddenly, in some inexplicable way, he
guessed her meaning. He was astounded.
“You don’t mean--” he began. “ ... Edna?”
“Yes,” she murmured.
“But--after I’ve deceived her so?”
“The only question is--if you--care for her?”
“I do! I always have! Not as I did for--Andrée.... But she’s the finest
and truest girl in the world.... I can’t tell how unutterably ashamed
I’ve been of the way I’ve behaved toward her--”
“Repair it!”
“Don’t you see that I can’t!”
“She doesn’t know, does she?”
“No.... But she’s suspected that--there’s something wrong--”
“It’s not too late. If you really care for her, if you’re really sorry
for what you’ve done--”
“I do care for her. Too much to make a--second best of her.”
“Oh, stupid! Stupid!” she cried to herself. “What does it matter!”
He went on, in a horrified voice.
“You surely wouldn’t recommend a marriage founded on a deception?”
A cynical thought occurred to her.
“They’re all founded on deceptions,” she reflected. “On lies that people
believe about each other.”
“I’m not recommending anything,” she said, aloud. “I only want to say
again that I’m very sorry for all this, Mr. Malloy.”
He went away, down the little garden walk for the last time.
“She’s not the high-minded woman I thought her!” he reflected.
“She’s--her ideas are absolutely--sordid.”
And then he forgot her in his profound sorrow.
Claudine remained for a moment in the drawing-room.
“He’ll go back to Edna,” she said to herself. “I’m glad.... He’ll do as
well as anyone else. He’s kind. And rather attractive.... She won’t
expect too much.”
§ ii
She was just falling asleep that night, after having seen Andrée
comfortably settled. She was mortally weary, unable even to think. She
had a light burning low, as was her reprehensible custom, and she had a
book beside her, in case she could not sleep. But, in spite of her
trouble, the murmur of the night wind soothed her, and the air blowing
across her face. She had closed her eyes, and a blissful numbness was
stealing over her, when she was startled by Andrée’s voice.
“Mother!” she cried. “Mother!”
She was instantly wide awake. Andrée stood beside her, like a spectre in
the dim light, in her night dress and her dark hair about her shoulders.
“I want Alfred!” she said. “Oh, Mother ...! I began to think--”
Claudine took her dressing-gown from the foot of the bed and laid it
about her child’s shoulders.
“I’ve been so wicked!” she went on. “It frightens me! I want Al back! I
want to see his kind face.... He’s so kind and so good! I want to go
home to him! I want just him--and this baby. Please, please send for
him!”
“I will, pet, as soon as it’s morning!”
“I can’t wait! I’m so unhappy! I want to hear his dear, kind voice!”
“Come in here and lie down beside me, darling. Talk to me!”
With that beloved head on her shoulder, Claudine grew calm and strong
again. She would have listened to her all night. What did it matter if
this were only a new caprice? It was a good one, a safe one.
She thought of her own life, of how her child had assuaged her
bitterness and given her peace. She thought of the hopes she had
relinquished--such little hopes compared with Andrée’s inordinate
ambitions, and she believed that all that was to happen again. Andrée
would be saved, if she would love her child better than herself. And she
believed that this would happen. She looked very earnestly into her
face; it was imperious, even cruel, but it was the cruelty of blindness,
of one who inflicts suffering without knowing what suffering is.
She didn’t care in the least that Andrée’s brilliant future was
endangered. She didn’t care how fettered and narrow her life might
become. Better narrow and deep, she thought, than broad and shallow.
She listened quite unmoved to her child’s tears and sobs. It didn’t
matter. She kissed her with a sublime sort of indifference. She had won;
God had helped her, and she had won.
§ iii
Alfred came, promptly, the next morning, and Andrée received him alone.
“Al,” she said. “Can we make a new start?”
He didn’t look at her. When Claudine had telephoned so urgently for him
to come, he had expected something of this sort.
“I suppose we could make any number of them,” he said. “The question is,
would there be any use in it?”
“You said--”
“I know all that I said. I said you could be free whenever you wanted.
And that implied the same thing for me, Andrée.”
“I don’t want to be free.”
“Why don’t you?”
“Because--I want--”
She held out her arms, her eyes filled with tears. But he did not move
toward her.
“Al!” she cried. “Do please come here!”
“No,” he said. “Let’s not complicate the thing with--_that_. Just tell
me what’s changed you. I’m here to listen.”
“Suppose--it was only that I’d found out I was wrong--and that I missed
you, and wanted you back? “Wouldn’t that be enough? Haven’t you missed
me?”
In spite of himself he was touched.
“I won’t pretend I haven’t.... It was a bit of a shock to me, you know.
I’d never expected anything like that. I thought that you--that we were
so--close--nothing could come between us.”
“Couldn’t you forget it? Al, it’s hard for me to--to beg like this! I
can’t say anything more. I only ask you if you’re willing to start
again.”
That was a voice which he found it hard indeed to withstand, a face that
moved him beyond measure. Yet he was passionately anxious that no new
mistake should be made.
“But what guarantee would we have that we’d do any better?” he cried.
“I think--” she began. “I think it would be different--now.”
“But why, Andrée? Do you see things differently? I mean--”
She had begun to cry a little.
“You see, Al ... there’s going to be a baby....”
“What!” he cried. His face had turned quite pale. “What! My God!
Really?”
“Very really!” she answered, with a faint smile.
He sprang up and caught her in his arms, in a sort of desperation.
“Oh, Andrée! I’m so sorry! My lovely, beautiful girl! I’m so sorry!”
“Don’t!” she cried. “You make it worse! Be glad, can’t you? I thought
you would be. I thought everyone would be--simply beaming.... I wanted
you to be!”
“I’m not!” he said, doggedly. “I love you too much!”
“_Do_ you?” she said, triumphantly.
“Now you’ve got it out of me,” he said. “I knew you would! Yes, I do
love you--too much, I guess. I don’t want anyone but you, ever.”
“Oh, Al! Al! It’s so heavenly to have you back again, and hear you
again, and see you--with your dear old rumpled hair. There’s no one like
you!”
“I wish to God you didn’t have this before you!” he said, sombrely.
“But I’m glad, Al!” she told him. “It’s life!”
EPILOGUE
§ i
It struck Claudine with the force of a blow. She put down the book and
the night wind at once fluttered over the pages, as if by command of
nature trying to divert her. But she turned back to the place again, all
her heart fixed on the words like the eyes of a frightened child fixed
upon an approaching light; she did not all at once grasp the meaning,
but the significance was coming to her, illuminating and dispelling a
familiar dusk, revealing to her what had always been there, but what she
had not seen.
She had been turning over the pages of an old copy of Browning’s poems,
given her by Lance years ago, because he had fancied that so small and
delicate and pretty a creature must necessarily feed on poetry. As a
matter of fact, she had never been poetic, not even very romantic; she
had always had a love for indigestible ideas, which had, in the main,
done her very little harm. She might read Nietzsche and Schopenhauer;
she remained none the less the Claudine who could wander gay and happy
in a garden.
And now suddenly stood up this robust dead poet to look into her soul
and accuse her, to judge and condemn her. The thing had all the solemn
horror of what her ancestors would have called the voice of an awakened
conscience; it was the handwriting on the wall.
The sin I impute to each frustrate ghost
Is--the unlit lamp and the ungirt loin,
Though the end in sight was a vice, I say.
That was for her! That was an arrow for her heart.
She was quite alone in the house; Rose had gone out to a lodge meeting
of the Lady Pioneers. Claudine was always glad to let her go; she was
never so happy as when alone with her ghosts. When the stairs creaked,
that was the stout figure of her mother in dull black silk, going about
her benevolent household affairs; there was a rustle of paper; that was
the boy Lance studying in his room upstairs; a faint tapping; that was
her father emptying his pipe. The wind blowing across the garden brought
back to her unblemished the old emotions, the sheltered security, that
careless and formless hope that had filled her girlhood; she would
forget, alone in her room, the reality she had found so bitter.