The unlit lamp

“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

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.

He, of course, knew nothing at all of the Malloy complication; he believed it to be a simple quarrel.

Then she wrote to Edna:

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:

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

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

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.