Several days went by before Clarinda recovered from the shock she had sustained during the conversation with her father and with Peter.
Clarinda made it a point never to disagree with Peter. She wanted to submerge herself in his moods and thoughts, to absorb his point of view. It was true that she often found Peter bombastic and egotistical and even foolish, but that did not alter her determination. Her observation of combative women, and to what end they came, was sure, and it meant always mental separation, so she determined to avoid this condition at whatever cost it might be to her own individuality. As he should go, so would she go.
When she had thought the matter over, she saw that she had been small, and decided that when they went to inspect the house she would assent to anything he would suggest.
Clarinda knew the house, and had often envied the people who had lived in it. It stood upon one of the most fashionable streets of the city. Surrounded by large gardens it stood alone on the top of a hill, with a wall running around its borders that kept away the gaze of the public.
It had been built but a few years, by a man who had made progress in his undertakings. He built it after plans he had long thought of, and in it he had placed his hopes. Within its four walls he wanted to pass a wonderful life and a long existence.
The forces that control, however, took no interest in his plans, and he and his family moved in, and in only a short time he was smitten with an illness and all that he had hoped for was buried in a few feet of earth.
This man who built the house was filled with ambition. He imagined as he walked through the halls and its decorated rooms, with his wife, that they would live long and he would have the opportunity of showing those whom he knew what the proper condition of life should be. These two sat in the marvelous rooms and wandered in its gardens and made their futile plans.
Success had twisted their perspective; and the woman’s perspective was even more badly twisted than the man’s.
Fate stood back of them in the shadows and laughed at them and their vain imaginings.
The servants whom they hired to do their bidding, grinned at their stupidity. They worked with secret grudgings in their hearts and stole from them with perfect equanimity. The man knew these things, but felt it was part of the price he had to pay.
In the world he was bowed down to and people he knew pointed their fingers at him and envied him his wealth and his big house. But fate came and crushed him. When he was gone fate went out of the doors to look for others to come into the house, and the place he had made for himself, and swept into its walls and gardens Clarinda and Peter.
Peter and Clarinda went in the front doors of the house of sorrow. The servants bowed and grinned. The clocks struck the hours with indifference, but Peter gloated. The automobile he had bought stood on the paved way. As they entered he handed Clarinda a deed for the place, and Clarinda smiled and kissed him. All the anger she had felt went from her heart. The newness of the place, its size compared with the flat, gave her pride just as it had Peter.
Peter took her through the rooms, and they passed from the hall into the parlors, then up the stairs into Clarinda’s apartments. In the middle of the room stood Clarinda’s little maid who gave assurance that all had not been swept away, that there was something to hold to. Peter’s joy was great. He babbled on without hindrance, and with pleasure took her into a tiny room just off the one they were in. There he had placed a divan, with a tall lamp behind it. In front of which was a fireplace, and on the irons lay wood ready to be lit.
Clarinda was pleased and she turned to Peter.
“It is very nice. Only, Peter, I am afraid it is too large. I don’t think I am going to like it as much as I did the flat.”
“Then you are not pleased that I bought it? Or is it because I joked with you?”
“I don’t know,” she replied. “I hate jokes, and I hate people who try them on me.”
“I am sorry, but try to be happy if you can. Forgive me this time, for I only wanted it to be a surprise.”
“I hate surprises,” she said slowly.
“All right, never again,” he said finally.
The little maid rushed about the place, for she liked the grandeur of the fittings, and the extent of the spaces.
Clarinda examined the arrangements with care. She went into the rooms Peter had fixed for himself, and found that they were quite far from her own. She could not decide whether she liked this or not. Peter had always occupied the same room she had and it had worked very nicely.
She feared that a hiatus had come, and it would grow into a tolerance. Something new was creeping into her life, but she did not know whether it appealed to her or not in view of the dangers it concealed.
It was true in her father’s house that her father and mother occupied separate rooms, and when she thought it over she remembered that it had worked well. They had managed to be very comfortable, physically and mentally. It might after all be much nicer. Probably with this arrangement she could collect about her things she liked and Peter could do likewise. Then it was conceded to be more civilized, and it would redound to her comfort in the mornings as she could have the maid help her to dress.
Peter kept her moving from one part of the house to the other, then he led her into the kitchen. It was as big as the rest of the place. There were all kinds of contrivances just as her mother had them. As she entered she was greeted by a big person in a white apron and a cap on his square ill-looking head, who announced he was the chef.
Clarinda smiled as he bowed low before her, but it chilled her, for she knew her one delight was gone. No more would she be allowed to supervise what Peter ate. Never would she be allowed to dictate to the vegetable man, or the meat man, or the man who brought the eggs and the butter. Then a large person loomed out of the distance. A queer hard-faced person, who carried command in her manner, just such a person as Peter had described, who announced that she was the housekeeper.
Clarinda shrank back from all these, and a queer feeling went down her back. All these elaborate things that hung in festoons from the walls and hooks and this crowd of powerful servants scared her. She felt she had receded into the position of a marionette.
Quickly she drew Peter from the kitchen and went back by a hidden staircase to the little room with the tall lamp and the divan; for here Clarinda felt more at home.
Peter sat down in the corner of the divan and stretched his legs out in front of him. He was filled with a great complacency, as he pulled Clarinda down beside him. The tall lamp glowed behind them. The maid had lit the fire and the flames went up the chimney, just as they did in the flat.
“Well,” he asked, “how do you like the new nest I have got for you?”
Clarinda sat for a long time and made no answer. Her face was drawn into a knot. She was thinking seriously. However, she tucked herself into her place beside him and took his hand in hers and her eyes were half closed as she gazed steadily into the fire.
“Father is coming presently,” she said at last, without answering his question. “I want him to look the place over, for he knows so much more than we do.”
“You’ve great faith in the judgment of your father—and apparently little in your husband,” Peter replied with a peeved tone in his voice.
“No—not—exactly—that,” she hesitated. “Ring the bell for the maid, Peter.”
Peter rang the bell, and the maid came in and stood inquiringly at the door.
“I want to do something, Peter,” she said.
“All right,” he answered.
Clarinda turned to the maid. “Bring some coffee for Mr. Peter and me. Don’t make it, but bring hot water and just the coffee and some toast.”
The maid curtsied and went out.
“Why that?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I am worried, Peter. I am all upset. I am trying to find out if I shall like this place. I feel as if something had given me a turn.”
Clarinda arose from the divan, and pulled a small table from the center of the room. When the maid came in she told her to go down and get some cups and saucers, then to fix the table as she used to have it.
The maid soon had the things as Clarinda wanted them, and Peter looked on in astonishment.
“Now, Peter, you sit down there at the end, and I shall sit here. Let’s pretend it is morning and you are having your breakfast and you are in a dreadful hurry.”
Peter sat down as he was told and waited for her to finish her preparations.
Clarinda was trying to drag herself back, but for some reason she could not. A new light had broken. Probably this was the rebirth her father had told her of.
As they sat opposite each other and she was making the coffee, the door to the room opened and her father came in smiling, seemingly happy over the new nest Peter had provided for his daughter.
Clarinda went over and kissed him. She helped him take off his coat and placed his cane in the corner, then she made a place for him at the table.
After he had sat down a desultory conversation began. They talked about the house and its arrangements, concerning the extent of the garden, the placing of the lake which Peter contemplated, the number of servants, and the effect the house made from the outside. Clarinda listened while she busied herself making the coffee, and the maid brought in the toast.
The men continued to speak of various stocks, the rise and fall in foreign exchange, the effect of the rise in the prices of steel, but Clarinda took no interest in these things.
Without warning she broke in upon their conversation.
“I—I—don’t believe in this place. It seems to me to be too large. I feel as if my happiness had gone out of the window.”
The men looked at her as if not hearing what she said. They waited for her to pass the coffee, and it was evident her father was pleased.
“I wish I were back,” she broke in again.
“Oh, Clarinda!” exclaimed Peter. “That’s the first mean remark I ever heard you make.”
“I mean it!” she replied slowly.
“After all this struggle?” said her father.
“I’ve been thinking,” answered Clarinda.
“What! Women should not think, for it is bad for them,” her father put in smilingly.
“I’ve been thinking of many things lately,” she replied.
“Name one of these things, Clarinda,” Peter said banteringly.
“Everything is all wrong,” said Clarinda, as she left the table. She walked about with a nervous step. “Do you remember, Father, when I was married, you said that I was not dying, but that it was a rebirth?”
“Yes, I remember, Clarinda,” answered her father. “What is the trouble? You know my method, I always believe that there is nothing so good as an out-and-out discussion, if anyone feels in a wrong situation. It clarifies things and leaves no room for misunderstanding,” he said looking into Clarinda’s eyes. “People who are married drift into situations just on this account, because they refuse to speak of them. Now, tell us what it is you are thinking.”
“You are talking at random, trying to conjure up something that doesn’t exist. I know of no difficulty. Everything seems to me to be as calm as a summer’s day,” broke in Peter.
“There is a rift,” answered her father. “Let’s find it.”
“You are a pessimist. Where can there be a rift when two people are satisfied and understand each other perfectly?”
“How do you know these people are satisfied?” asked Clarinda. “Because one of them is wrapped in his own complacency, it does not follow that the other person is in the same frame of mind.” Clarinda had a queer look in her eyes.
“There you are,” her father said quickly. He placed upon the table the cup he had in his hand. “Let Clarinda say what she means.”
“I will,” she replied firmly. “You both shall be arraigned. I’ve decided to drag you both before yourselves and will appeal to you both—place you both in the light I think you ought to occupy.”
“Listen—listen—another Portia!” Peter carried deep mockery in his voice.
“Be quiet, Peter,” commanded her father.
Clarinda flushed and looked kindly at the old man.
“I have thought—” she began.
“The lady thinks,” laughed Peter.
“Yes, as queer as it may seem—the lady thinks,” Clarinda put in. Peter noticed the look upon her face and it did not please him.
“Hush, Peter,” said her father, laying his hand upon Peter’s arm.
“As queer as it may seem to you,” went on Clarinda. “The lady thinks, but she has thought for sometime past. The lady has come to know you two. She knows also that both of you think no woman should think. Nevertheless, they do think but at all times their thoughts are not pleasant.”
“What have you thought?” her father asked as if to encourage her.
“I’ve thought of my life and how extremely foolish it is. I’ve made a review of it, just while I was looking into the fire, and while I looked, it spread itself out before me, and made me ashamed. It is curious how rapidly one can think, and how a life that has covered years is gone over in a moment. I don’t like this big house. It comes to me just what my position will be.”
“The house is yours. You have the deed for it. I gave it to you,” said Peter.
“That’s true. I’ve a piece of paper that recites that fact, but it is of no value to me. The thing I want has gone out of the window.”
“I don’t follow you, Clarinda,” broke in her father.
“You will understand, Father.”
“Will I understand?” asked Peter.
“I don’t know,” she replied.
“Why won’t we understand?” asked Peter.
“I don’t know.”
“Go on, Clarinda,” said her father.
“I’ve something to say. It will no doubt fill you both with astonishment. It has been on my mind for a long time. The other things have come to me only tonight. Listen, and get it carefully in your minds. Don’t think I am indelicate or that I regret. I know it is the allotted thing for women. It is the natural condition. As you have both said so often, the one and only reason for women being in the world. I am going to be a mother.”
“Clarinda!” exclaimed Peter. A curious wave went over him.
“I am not pleased,” said her father, slowly as if turning the thing over in his mind. “It is dangerous.”
“Irrespective of your ideas, it is true. I’ve said nothing about it before for many reasons,” she went on. “You must not think for a moment that I am afraid. Nature doesn’t allow me to be afraid. Many times since this thing has come upon me I have analyzed my sensations. I find my heart is filled with a curious kind of joy. I find my whole nature has undergone a change and that my outlook has expanded. It seems to me as if I’ve gone through a revolution. But there is something else, something that is closer to my heart than even that. It is supposed to be the closest thing that can come to a woman.”
“For the Lord’s sake! What else?” asked Peter with astonishment.
“There is much else. I have discovered that I am all wrong,” Clarinda went on quietly and slowly and her voice carried a peculiar tone of sadness. “My life is all wrong. My perspective is all wrong. I discover I’ve been submerged by you two. Still, I don’t believe it is exactly all your fault. A great deal of it arises from my own point of view. But, now, I’ve come to a point. I have revolted. This revolt may arise from my condition. This condition may create this revolt. It seems to me as if it were a physical awakening. I don’t know where to place the blame. It may be your fault, Peter. But it is more the fault of my mother and father. They laid down the lines, and Peter simply follows out these limits as they had placed them.”
Her father did not reply. To him it was wonderful to hear her speak. It interested him vitally, for as far as he was concerned it placed Clarinda in a new light. He had never thought it was in her to have an idea except such as was conveyed to her by either Peter or himself. It was a new concept. He could not judge if she were making a mistake or not. He waited for her to say more.
“All my life,” she began again, “I’ve been trained by people who tried to avoid for me any phase of life that might be difficult. As I see it, my existence has been made a bed of roses. Temptation has been kept from me. Existence as it is has been pushed aside. Luxury has been spread at my feet. Everything has been done to lead me to believe that in the world there was nothing but ease and comfort. I was allowed to look only upon the bright side. The lights were always lit, and yet I lived in a haze. Somehow I felt during all the years I lived that it was wrong. But I did not try to reason the thing out. I could not. What is the result? I am the result.” Clarinda stopped and then with a new tone in her voice went on:
“The result is that you’ve created a woman without force, a puny thing that can be argued into any position. Think of it! By two men who are as narrow in their point of view of women as the creases in their shirt fronts, by two men who have looked upon me as a toy, or a piece of Dresden china. Something that should give them pleasure, a puppet, walking about on two legs. Now, listen, I don’t blame either of you as I should. I blame much more the environment in which I was born. Here is the remarkable thing about it. Since this new condition has come upon me, as I told you—I have undergone a change. It is psychological as well as physical. It startles me and I feel as if something had been torn from me. I have revolted. Out of this revolution is created a new personality and the birth of this personality is causing me as much pain as I shall suffer with the birth of my child.”
“But, Clarinda,” interposed her father, “your premises are wrong. Your argument is poor. Why should you not have been protected and advised by older minds? Why should you not have the easiest way? I could afford it. I certainly thought it for the best. My love for you did this thing. Peter has lived with but one thought in his mind, which is you.”
“I, too, object to your statements, just as your father does, for I feel it a pleasure to give you all that you want. There is nothing else in life for me but that. I can’t see why you would deny me this one thing,” Peter broke in as her father finished speaking.
“You are both wrong,” Clarinda said quickly. “Look at the result of your misapplied consideration. What is the result? As I said, a puppet, a thing without color, or a mere toy. It is terrible to think of. It is so unjust, so unfair. If anybody knew me as I am they would laugh or weep. I don’t know which. But thank heavens that is done before it is too late and I am about to enter upon a second stage, a new development. I have shed this thing as a cloak, I have awakened to a change that has come—a vital change, so big that you in your little minds, I doubt if you can appreciate what it is. In the place of the toy and the puppet here stands a woman. I hope a force, an intellectual entity.”
“And—,” began Peter. But before he could formulate a sentence, Clarinda had raised her hand.
“Stop! As I told you, I am about to become a mother. It is curious how this condition has affected me. I should like to tell you, to describe the mental adjustment that has taken place, but I doubt whether I can.”
“Go on!” commanded her father. “What has happened? What has taken place? What do you feel?”
“I don’t know if I can,” Clarinda replied. “It is too great a revolution. You might not believe what I have thought. You might think my words were just words. You might think I was versed in psychosis. I will try, however. You ask me what has happened? A wonderful thing has happened. As I look at it. This is what has happened. Hitherto, I have lived as if behind an impenetrable veil. Of a sudden this thing has been torn apart and a dazzling light, almost more than I can face, has broken in upon me, and is leaving me dazed. The new situation is almost impossible for me to face, and this is what has happened. Then you ask me what has taken place? This—I am another person. In me has been raised a peculiar animal instinct. I have reverted to the field. There is no feeling of fear. It is more—one of preservation, not so much of myself, but rather of the life that is quickening in me. This is what has taken place. I want to fight, I don’t know what I want to fight. Then—you ask me, what do I feel? I feel joy. I have lost my lethargy. I am excited. Every movement in me is one of distinct anticipation. And I don’t know what I anticipate.”
“Good Lord!” exclaimed Peter.
“I am done,” she said finally. “There is only one request I have to make, and there is only one thing that I want. I am willing to go through this period. That is, I want to go back to the flat. For once I should be allowed to do as I please. Honestly, Peter,” and her voice was full of pleading. “I don’t like this place. It is too big. It is too much. I can ever occupy in it but a secondary position. I dislike the housekeeper, the chef, the maids, and the spaces. I’ve only a short time to pass through, and for that short time I want things as I wish to have them.”
“Yes, I would go back, Peter,” put in her father.
“No, for it is only a whim, probably aroused by her condition. I understand women often take these turns when they are as she is. It is foolish,” Peter answered with anger.
“We are going back,” replied Clarinda, with a fixity of purpose. “Why not? I may die. I may be ill for a long time. Why should I not have what I want? But remember I am not afraid of this thing.”
“When do you want to go back?” asked Peter.
“Now,” she answered shortly.
“It can’t be done.”
“I think Clarinda is reasonable,” her father said.
“But what of all these people?” asked Peter.
“They are certainly no more important than I am. Are they?” Clarinda asked.
Peter arose from the divan and shrugging his shoulders stepped over to the wall and touched a button. Presently the woman with the big jaw and the impenetrable face came in. Peter turned to her as she entered.
“Mrs. Caws, Mrs. Thorbald doesn’t like this place,” said Peter stupefied with anger. Clarinda stopped him.
“I shall tell Mrs. Caws, Peter,” she said quickly. “Please, Mrs. Caws, will you be kind enough to dismiss the servants. Mr. Thorbald and I have decided to go away for sometime. You will see to the closing of the house. That is all, Mrs. Caws.”
Mrs. Caws went out.
“It is done, Peter.”
“Do you think that settles it, Clarinda?”
“Yes, that settles it, Peter,” and Clarinda smiled wearily as she rose and left the room.
STAGE TWO
A great deal of water had run under the bridge since Clarinda had left the big house and gone back to the flat. A great deal more water had run under the bridge before Clarinda had consented to come back to the big house and had settled permanently in its rooms and halls.
Her child had been born, it had thrived and grown, her father had aged. Rarely he came to the house unless he was assisted by his man, and then only when the sun was bright and the sky unclouded. Peter had grown more successful and had acquired the Midian touch. Gold came to him as penury comes to most. His arrogance and bombast had grown greater. Her mother remained in the background. Removed from all contact with Clarinda and her life, she came to the house very seldom and then only to complain. She appeared to think her duty toward Clarinda finished and reasoned as she had given Clarinda birth, raised her to womanhood and married her off, she had done for her all that a mother could do.
Having finished her duty, she gave herself up to a life of pleasure, and she caromed from one gaiety to another like the balls upon a billiard table, propelled by a professional.
The going from the flat to the house had been considered by Clarinda for many, many months before she reached a decision. She thought it out carefully. She argued the thing from all sides, and came to the conclusion that probably she might be in error, as many women err who are in love. Without consideration of her own happiness she gave in before the arguments of her father and of Peter.
Peter won the first great point in their lives. On the day they came back Mrs. Caws again stood in front of them with a curious smile upon her hard old features; he gloated upon his victory, and gave orders with unction. It pleased him immensely, and it swelled him with his own importance. He felt it was by his own strength of will that he compelled Clarinda to accept the exact position he deemed proper a woman should occupy in relation to her husband. His joy on the whole was complete, for woman to him was a woman properly placed.
Clarinda looked at him narrowly. Her mind was in a state of chaos. She felt in her soul that she had lost something she could never recover. Yes, she knew his outlook, and although she knew it she hated it fiercely.
If it had not been that by persistent effort through a term of years, Clarinda had taught herself to control her tears, she would have wept. But she had learned in these years how to control her tears. Tears had no effect upon Peter, for when she wept, Peter only scorned her. So she found that she aroused no pity in his heart.
Steadily Clarinda had fought the move from the old to the new, but Peter had fought even as consistently. His strength resulted in her defeat and so it came about. After they had entered the house Peter helped her off with her wraps. At a signal to Mrs. Caws, who had been standing close by, she left the hall. As she closed the door behind her, Clarinda turned to Peter and said slowly as if repeating a line she had heard,
“My happiness has gone out of the window.”
Peter tossed his head. A wicked smile crossed his lips. He spoke with bitter sarcasm.
“I can’t understand your attitude, Clarinda. It seems to me if anyone had given me such a place as this, I would rather have said my happiness had come in by the window.”
Clarinda paid no attention to his reply. She continued to speak in the same painful voice:
“You’ve won, Peter,” and her lips trembled as she stopped for an instant. “It is the little things in life that count. It is the tiny pebble that changes the course of the stream. Yes, Peter, you’ve won—and at what a price.”
“It represents thousands and thousands, Clarinda,” he replied, without getting her point of view.
“Money—money—money! That is your fetish. You are carried away with gold! It will bury eventually all that is good in you.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he replied. “Money may be rotten and all that; but from my observation it is a most comfortable sort of possession.”
“Where is your soul?”
“Rot!” he exclaimed. “Why be trite? Souls in this world? A curious superstition handed down from no one knows where. A relic of fear. A thing to dangle before the eyes of the sick to help them die with a smile. A sop to the sick. A thing to dangle before the ignorant. Of what avail are they? Sometimes, I wonder whether you will ever graduate into the sort of woman I want. Must you always have a child’s point of view?”
“What sort of woman do you want, Peter?” she asked looking at him closely. “Since you’ve won this point, if you will tell me I will be that sort.”
Peter walked away from her a few steps then after a short while he turned and replied.
“I’ve thought a lot about the sort of woman I want. It is difficult to come to an exact conclusion. When I am idle I picture to myself the sort I think I should have. It is a very hard proposition.”
“Express it, Peter! You’ve never had difficulty on that score.”
“Sometime I will. I can’t do it now for it would take too long. I am very busy. I’ll tell you some other time.”
“I want you to do it now. Explain!” Clarinda broke forth. “I don’t believe you ever can explain! I see!—I know!—I may be stupid and only a child—but I know! Another illusion has been torn from me, and the bare bone is left.”
Clarinda turned to go out of the door that led to the upper reaches of the house. Peter went after her quickly. He took her hand in his and led her unwillingly toward the sofa that stood to one side.
“Sit down here,” he commanded, “for just a moment. I am going to try to tell you what I mean.” Clarinda sat down and bent her head forward looking intently at the floor in front of her. A deep serious gaze was in her eyes. “I am going to tell you what I mean,” he continued repeating himself. “It is true, Clarinda, that I’ve not much time, but we might as well thrash the thing out. I am going to put before you the position I occupy. You’ve always been square and able to see how just I am. Now listen.”
In the more than three years they had been married, Clarinda had lost none of her sweetness of look. Peter was forced to concede that much. Since the baby had come, it appeared to him that an added lustre had been given to her. She had developed wonderfully. Her figure and the lines of her young face had been metamorphosed. The baby represented to him another incident in life—a component part of the progress.
He sat down beside her and looked at her bent body. But he would not let himself be swayed, for he felt this would not be just to himself. The time had come when Clarinda must be brought to face the exalted position he had constructed for her and for himself.
They sat close together and Peter chose his words with infinite care. With as much certainty and deliberation as if he were placing a matter of great moment before one of the numerous boards of directors to which he belonged.
“This,” he began slowly, “is my position and I think you ought to realize it perfectly. I am, what is normally termed, a successful man, having arrived at this position by my own efforts. It is vital to me that you fill this position with me. You know, if you have ever considered the matter, that a wife assumes more or less the position of either an employee or a partner in a marriage contract. A thing like this is not all of one side. Butterflies are all well enough in a garden, but only in a garden. In the grand scheme they amount to nothing. If either of the contracting parties does not arise to his or her part, the one not arising assumes a minor position in the operation. In other words, she or he loses his standing as a partner. He or she stands apart in the fight. You will concede that life is a fight, a survival of the fittest. This you must acknowledge is correct. It stands without discussion. It is a syllogism.”
Clarinda listened to his words and her mind followed each sentence as he spoke. In her arose a wrath complete. He destroyed every foundation upon which she had hoped to build her existence. However, she said nothing.
Peter continued: “I admit I love you. It would distress me beyond words if I thought for an instant that love didn’t exist in me and if the same thing didn’t animate your spirit. You must understand that my love isn’t an effervescing thing, but a solid unfrothed condition. Stable and certain. Pushed aside, it is true, by necessities, but existent. Now, with that love, as I say a certainty, it is required of you to fulfill your part of the contract to expand, to develop, to spread, even as I have spread.”
“Do you think you love?” asked Clarinda. “Have you ever thought in your dissection of this matter of how I have suffered for you? I suffered terribly when the baby came. I suffered for months with a painful illness. But that is of no importance. The baby is only part of me, a thing—how should I say?”
“Don’t try,” he said quickly. “Suffering is part of your life, just as this disappointment in you is an adjunct of mine, a necessary part of our existence to be treated philosophically. It amounts to nothing. When the pain is assuaged you cannot remember its effects. You speak of love, our love. What of our love? My opinion of this matter of love, is this. Love is a proper condition and should be in every house, but in the main it amounts to nothing. It has no intrinsic value. Nature does not recognize love. It only sees propinquity which it reduces to the necessity of reproduction. Do you suppose love exists in the lower forms of life? It does not. I love, but I don’t allow love to obscure my larger view. I submerge it and put it to its proper uses. What does love mean? Nothing but a moment’s forgetfulness—passion—children—probably better if never born. It is useful in its place, but in the grand scheme it has no place. Of course you suffer—why not? But you should realize that never can a woman arrive at the proper point of view. They are too animal-like and too physically disarranged. They are by far too bound down by their natural destiny. It is unnecessary for me to mention what that destiny is.”
“Do you believe what you are saying? Don’t you think you’re just talking, Peter?” Clarinda broke in as he paused for an instant.
“I believe I am not just talking for talk’s sake. I’ve no time to waste in idle words. There is one more thing. No doubt you probably think what I have said is cruel. I admit it sounds cruel. It is cruel, because all life is cruel. The coming of your child was cruel. The coming of age upon you is cruel, nature is the epitome of cruelty, it crushes without stint or consideration. It builds only to destroy.”
“What a curious philosophy,” Clarinda’s voice quavered. “Then I have failed. How queer. And the baby—”
“The baby,” he went on with even as great care as he had used, “the baby is a thing apart, an accident in life, which was desired by neither of us. Why should we have babies? I’ve asked myself this many times and arrived at no solution. Why produce these things? An uncontrolled animal instinct forces us to bring them into the world, and for what? When I see babies I generally weep. I see before me the future, the futility of youth, the sadness of the middle period, the arrival at puberty, then the going forth to seek a mate, the development of the sex instinct, and then the shriveling and shrinking into the grave. I would not say, Clarinda, that you had failed, I would not go that far. It is hard to explain. I shall try to think it out further.”
Clarinda arose from the sofa, and went to one of the long windows that gave a view out upon the garden. She gazed unseeingly over its expanse, and spoke in a tone so low that he from his distance could barely hear her.
“I do not believe as you believe, Peter, I am glad to say. I can’t tear things apart as you do, and I am glad I cannot. It is terrible to think as you think. It makes everything so black, so discouraging. Even with this view of yours there are things even more vital; if possible, more vital than money and success. You’ve said frightful things to me; you think you are analytical, logical, but you are not; you only destroy. It is horrible to me to think that it is only a little over three years since we were married and already the good in you has died, and for what? Money, and a false philosophy built upon—nothing! Oh! how I hate money, success, riches and places like this. How I wish we were poor!”
“Then, probably, Clarinda, instead of lashing you with indisputable logic, I would be beating you with a whip. Everything is comparative. You speak in broken tones, as if a tragedy had come upon you. Life is a tragedy. But it is foolish to think of it so. Why not face facts?”
“Facts! Facts! Nothing but facts!” Clarinda almost screamed. “It is a tragedy. You remember, Peter, at one time Father said our lives were too prosaic. How mistaken he was. He could not see tragedy even if it stalked directly in front of him. Poor soul. He said, if you remember, that it would be a good thing for us if we had a murder, a great theft, or that you or I should lead a double life. That this sort of thing would lend interest. Poor Father. He didn’t know that tragedy was upon me. That murder was in your heart and that you were preparing to commit murder, only in a worse way than the actual stabbing or shooting me to death. It would have been better if you had done it that way, than to have done it, as you say, with indisputable logic. It might have been better for me had I been the wife of a drunkard. He might have beaten me with whips. But at least he would have left hope in my heart. Now I have nothing. Yes, yes, Peter, you have won. You should be proud of your victory.”
Peter arose from the divan and walked quickly and impatiently up and down the hall. He did not think Clarinda would take the change he was forced to bring about so much to heart. He had convinced himself she would see it as he did.
“You are dramatic, Clarinda, and unnecessarily so. I don’t believe you think.”
“I’ve been taught that to think was wrong. I know now women should not think. It might be better if they did. For without thought they only invite disaster. We will see, Peter, but don’t be disappointed if this philosophy doesn’t come to your end. You’ve said I have failed you. I promise not to fail in the future.”
Clarinda turned from the window and went quickly out of the room, and she closed the door gently behind her. Peter made a motion as if to stop her, but he did not. He felt it were better that she should work the new situation out in her mind. He was convinced she would see the justice of his position.
Presently he went out of the house and entered the automobile that waited for him at the door. As he settled himself back in the cushions of the car, he reverted to the first refusal Clarinda had made when she left the big house upon her first induction into it. He had never forgiven her for this. He had tried to make excuses for her, but could find none even when he ascribed it to her condition at the time; but her consistent attitude in her refusal divorced this excuse from his mind. It had hurt him immeasurably when he considered the time and the effort he had expended to accumulate the place. Her stubborness and wilful conduct destroyed his ambition.
He knew he would never get over the blow from the instant she had given it to him. His mental attitude towards her underwent a change, a change so vital that he would never be able to overcome it. Clarinda fell from the pinnacle upon which he had placed her and had descended into the mere wife. She had become a necessary evil in his life, but not a component part thereof.
As he allowed her to go out of the door, he reflected he had caused a change and he would abide by it. If it evolved a bad situation, he would accommodate himself to the new condition. He was too busy to give it more thought, it might take his mind off his real effort. Peter tossed his head in the air and as the car went swiftly along his tongue evolved the few words:
“What a hell of a bore!”
Clarinda watched him go from the window in her apartment. She heard the automobile that waited outside. She heard the engine start and she heard Peter give his order to the driver. A great black pall came over her. She went from the window and sank hopelessly upon the divan. Clarinda buried her lovely head in a cushion and thought.
With clearness she saw her position. She knew from now on that instead of being an integral part of Peter’s life she was but his legalized mistress, clothed with respectability. All her hopes died, and all her anticipations for herself and her baby died and were swept by the angry winds of adversity into space. Clarinda wept.
After a long time by superhuman effort she collected herself, and forced a new spirit into her life. She was no more the Clarinda who had existed. Her love for Peter died. She stood untrammelled—free.
She rang the bell that was near at hand.
“I will go out,” she said to the maid as she entered the room. “Order my car.”
The maid whispered almost to herself. “Something has happened.”
Clarinda put on her wraps, and it was only a few moments when the car was at the door. She entered it and gave an order to the driver.
Then, “Horrors!” she muttered.
The car sped over the road. Occasionally the driver turned for directions. Clarinda’s only reply was to drive faster. It seemed to her the only thing she desired was motion, such motion as might keep pace with her thoughts.
A feeling of despair overcame her, for her body suffered with her mind. Futility was even more dominant than ever. She had become imbued with the spirit of Peter, that nothing in the world was of any avail, that to fight against a surrounding condition was of no use, that all things were controlled by an invisible force, a force that laughed at any effort to set it aside from its driven path. There was nothing left. It was all reduced to her as a difficulty without a sign of relief.
All that she believed in was destroyed. Even the struggle she had made to make for herself and Peter a life as near an approach to the ideal as possible had fallen to pieces. There was left of her endeavor—nothing.
In the midst of her madness the face of her child came before her. She hated it even as she hated all things. Her hate for Peter was paramount and a greater hate existed in her heart for her father. Her bitterness seemed to concentrate against her father, for it was he who had tutored her into the thing she was. The education he gave her had blighted her life, by leaving her unprepared to meet its vicissitudes, its necessities, and demands.
She sought in her mind for an excuse for them, but could find none. At last as if some great force had taken Peter and her father and stripped them of their flesh, laying bare their innermost souls, she looked into their breasts and saw of what they were made.
Heretofore her face had never betrayed a sign of hardness. It became hard, and her eyes changed color, her cheeks took upon them a different bloom. Her whole body changed under the blow she had received. A determination came into her and broke down all the barriers to her better self. All these barriers she had erected through years of endeavor were gone, and cast into the dust heap.
As a snake sheds its skin, so Clarinda shed all that had been the old Clarinda.
The impasse brought a new factor, one actuated by a woman of new motives. It brought a woman’s mind dark and seething and bitter, and Clarinda felt the change and shivered with fear at the prospect. She could not decipher to what end it would lead her.
Clarinda balanced her account with life and found it all written in red. Never had she received from it anything but the most terrible futility. Evil was not of her, but she determined it should come. All the good she scattered at her feet, breaking it as a frail piece of glass. From now on she would follow in the steps of those whom she had looked up to. Henceforth, she would gather the bitter, no matter what the poison might be.
Where she would land or to what end it should bring her, she cared not. With indefatigable sincerity she had tried to do what she thought was right. This had landed her in a morass of disappointment, and made her only the mistress of the man to whom she had been married. It was not her fault. It was the fault of Peter and her father and she was determined that they should pay. The price they should pay would be the price of death. For the years she had been married she had patted Peter upon the back and helped him with unswerving faith. Now, she should destroy with the same determination what she had endeavored to build. He should pay and pay in the coin he knew nothing of. Her father likewise should pay, for it was he who had spurred Peter on. Endlessly he told him in long conversations, during many nights, of his ability, until Peter believed he was impregnable. He caused Peter to lose all sense of proportion.
Clarinda was not angry at her own position; it was deeper than that. She would seek her own emancipation, for her life was destroyed. Why not bring down the temple with her in her fall, grind it, grind it out into powder that would leave no trace of its original intent?
“Vengeance is mine saith the Lord, I will repay.” Clarinda knew this line, but it had no significance.
She put her hand upon the arm of the driver and told him to turn back and she directed him to the house of her father. In a short time she arrived. After the car stopped at the marble steps that led to his glory, she sprang from its interior and ran into the hall, the same hall she had come from with hope in her heart and visions of perfect joy in her soul. Then all the world had looked to her as if it desired to cover her with a mantle of good. Now it was gone, obliterated, wiped out and nothing remained. It was futile. In the place of promises it had given nothing and the struggle she had made was a vain endeavor.
Rapidly she walked across the hall and went up the stairs. She pushed open the door and entered the room in which her father sat.
In three years a change had come upon him. His limbs almost refused to carry his body. His hands shook pitifully. His eyes lacked in lustre, they had died, before he had died. Around his shoulders, limp and lost in form, hung a blanket of rich design to protect him from any draft that might steal insidiously across the floors. His head shook, even as his hands. All about him was disintegration. A sickness that portended death enveloped him.
He had been sitting there for months, and ever before his old, dim eyes came images of those who had gone before. He saw them when he was left alone and in the night they were even more present. They seemed to beckon to him across the dark passage he was confronting and he thought they smiled and their smiles seemed to him to be smiles of derision. Always they pointed at him with bony fingers and their fleshless jaws clashed with a painful noise. He feared and trembled with dread. There was no hope and he knew it, death was at hand. It was only tomorrow.
Often he saw the opened grave that would receive his worn-out body, and all would be ended. There was no hope of immortality. He believed in nothing. He saw but death, dirt and disintegration. When he had ceased to breathe, he would become carrion to be devoured by countless maggots.
The old man wept with regret and begged in his innermost self that he might be given a few more moments. Sometimes, the tears ran down his old, withered face. They fell mockingly upon his clothes and stained them as if with blood. He would slink back into the folds of his chair as if from its depths he could find protection from the thing he dreaded.
Clarinda as she entered the room saw him drawn back into his chair. She watched his hands shake and tremble as if with the palsy and pity went out of her heart, she wanted him to die. Clarinda linked her revenge with him. She wanted the death of this worn-out old man in front of her. He was dying, she knew it, and she rejoiced that it was so. The condition in which she found herself was his burden. Pity had died and nothing was left, there was no surcease. The thing was before her that had produced her and of this thing she would have revenge. She suffered and her suffering was greater than his. His was ended while hers stretched out for years. There was no such end for hers, as his. There was a stone in her breast where her heart should have been. She would carry this stone for endless years.
Clarinda threw off her coat. She did not go to her father, nor place the cover about him with her hands.
Her father looked at her and pride filled his heart. He envied her her youth and would have sacrificed her for a few more years of life. He was human and acknowledged it. Clarinda hated him as she hated Peter and she could not say which one she hated the more. Even her child she hated.
Her father stretched out his hand to her and placed his face to hers that she might kiss him. Clarinda did not move but stood directly in front of him. Her eyes were narrowed. A bitter smile flitted across her face. Clarinda saw him shake. She looked, as his hand fell inert at his side.
“It is over,” she said slowly.
“What is over?” her father asked mumbling his words.
Clarinda sat down in a chair and pulled it over in front of him. Her manner did not change. She kept her eyes fixed upon his face.
“It is over,” she repeated. “Life is queer. Don’t you think so, Father?”
“Yes, yes!” he answered. “What do you mean?”
“You are dying and it is fortunate it is so,” she replied with conviction in her voice.
The old man shrank back further in his chair. He turned his eyes towards her and looked eagerly into her face. He trembled in an agony of fear—he could not understand. He asked himself if in one day there had come such a change. Were the hands of the dead stretched out any more insistently today than yesterday?
“Do I look worse?” he asked pitifully.
“Yes, you are worse. Your hands are worse. Your face is more drawn. I can see a great change,” she replied, following with her eyes the effect of her words. It pleased her that he felt so deeply. Then she added:
“I believe you are dying. I believe that today when the sun goes down you will be dead. You’ve not fought, as you should have fought. You are as weak as I thought you would be.”
“Clarinda! Clarinda!” he screamed.
“Why do you fear? What’s the use? The thing is upon you. It is here. You must die. And now!” Clarinda smiled, her satisfaction was intense. Had he not murdered her? Had he not destroyed her? Was not her destruction greater than the destruction she passed on to him?
The old man gasped and his heart beat with fury in his breast. He could barely see her as she sat before him. He could not understand this curious change that had come to her, his Clarinda, the thing he had loved and worshiped.
“Why this, Clarinda, when you know my condition?” he stuttered.
“I will tell you,” she said intensely. “Through all my life you aimed to destroy me, even from my youth.”
As she was about to continue the door opened and Peter rushed into the room. Clarinda sprang quickly from her chair, as she heard him enter. He cast a look toward the huddled heap in the chair, and in a moment he saw that it was dead.
“What has happened? I suspected that you were up to something,” he said.
“You are the matter,” Clarinda replied turning from him and walking to the other side of the room.
“What have I done?” he asked, his face turning pale.
“You ask!” Clarinda exclaimed.
“I ask,” he said with wonder in his voice.
“What you have done is finished. There is the result.”
The figure in the chair slipped down a little further. The helpless hands dropped limp beside the chair, and a curious look of repose spread itself over the gray ashen face. A bit of saliva trickled from the open mouth.
Peter cried aloud and the house went into a turmoil. He tried to pull the old dead man back into the chair. It was useless, for gradually the body slipped to the floor and lay bent in curious contortions. Clarinda went out of the door, down through the hall and entered the car, and ordered the driver to take her home.
A fury that was intense drove her, but there was no pity in her heart. She wanted revenge and she would persist in bringing it about.
Peter followed her shortly and found her sitting upon the divan. There was no disturbance in her attitude. Clarinda sat quietly. On the floor in front of her was her child. It played unmindful of the tragedy about it. It cooed and looked occasionally at its mother. Clarinda bent her eyes towards it and wished in her heart it was as dead as her father. Should it be raised to sorrow such as she had? Would it put its trust in some great thing and have that trust destroyed? She could kill it with her own hands. It would take but a moment. Its life was held by a slender thread and her hands were strong.
Peter saw the look on her face as he entered. Quickly he took the child from the floor as if to protect it from her. Clarinda did not move.
“Your father is dead,” Peter said.
“I know it,” she replied shortly.
“You’ve killed him.”
“I know it,” she answered in a deadened voice.
“Why?” Peter asked.
“He is dead,” she answered. “It is better so. I am not sorry. You should have seen his fear. It was pathetic.”
“Why did you do it?” Peter asked, with awe in his voice.
“I am someone else. Probably such a wife as you want. I am different. My other self has died even as my father has died.”
“God forbid! I didn’t know!” Peter gasped.
“Go!” she demanded.
“You would have killed the child. I had a premonition. That is why I followed you. You would have killed the child?”
“Yes, I would have killed it. Why not? It is only the emblem of my degradation. It would not have mattered. Death may have saved it much.”
“Clarinda!” Peter trembled from head to foot. His mind was in a whirl. He could not understand.
“It is useless. Go!” Clarinda turned her face from him and walked over to one of the windows that gave a view of the garden.
Peter went out of the room, carrying the child with him and left her alone.