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CLAUDINE waked up to the dull peace of a mountain Sunday. She could hear the grinding of the ice-cream freezer on the back porch, and far away the bell of the little Roman Catholic church. She rose and dressed while Gilbert still slept, and going out into the hall, knocked on the door of the girls’ room. Andrée was up and half dressed, combing her misty dark hair.
“Edna’s pretending to be asleep,” she said, scornfully.
“There’s no hurry,” said Claudine. “She can wait for Father and have breakfast with him. Finish dressing, and we’ll have time for a little walk.”
She sat down and watched her child with tender eyes. There was an awkward, impatient grace about her, in the hasty movements of her arms as she arranged her hair, something so immature, so touching. She slipped on a white frock, because her father was inordinately fond of seeing young girls in white, and announced herself ready. But Claudine saw untidinesses; she tucked in a stray lock of hair, straightened her collar, tightened her belt.
“Now!” she said. “You’re nice!”
They went out, closing the door quietly on the motionless Edna.
“What on earth is that row!” said Andrée.
They paused for a moment in the hall to listen. Some outrageous person was playing with vigour on the piano, and whistling, to accompany the vulgar air.
“And on Sunday morning, too!” said Claudine, with a frown, “when so many people want to sleep!”
They went on down; the dining-room was still quite empty at this early hour, and the veranda deserted. But every corner was permeated by that loud, shocking noise!
“Let’s see what it is!” said Andrée, and they looked cautiously in at the open door of the parlour.
“Oh, I know him!” said Andrée. “I saw him come last night, on the train with Father and Mr. MacGregor. Horrible, vulgar little wretch!”
Seated at the piano was a slight, fair-haired young man with a minute yellow mustache and a cheerful, impudent face. He wore a new black suit and white buckskin shoes and some awful sort of necktie; he had an air of being specially got up for Sunday. The place was a cheap and obscure one, but they had never before seen in it a guest like this. People of his kind found nothing to please them here.
Claudine was affronted.
“We can only hope he won’t stay long,” she said, as they turned away.
They went into breakfast, alone in the room, but their peace was destroyed by the playing and whistling; at first they frowned, and Claudine even suggested speaking to Mrs. Dewey; but in the end they were forced to laugh.
They went out for a walk, a carefully selected one, where no cows would be met with to terrify Andrée and a good view might be obtained for Claudine. They talked together in one of their few hours of perfect accord.
“I have some influence over her!” thought Claudine, happily. “If she ever contemplates anything foolish, I am sure I can dissuade her. She is mine! We are bound together by a thousand ties.”
Andrée broke into her meditation.
“You’re awfully pretty, Mother!” she said, suddenly. “I love the way you look.... There’s something—I don’t know how to describe it—something old-fashioned about you.”
Claudine was not greatly pleased.
“Old-fashioned?” she said, thinking of her new frock, her chic and becoming coiffure, every dainty detail of her costume.
“Yes. You haven’t the look other women have. You’re so distinguished and—mysterious. Have you had a very sad life, Mother?”
“Mercy, no, child!” said Claudine. She shrank at once from any invasion of her reserve; her dignity compelled her to maintain her aloofness, her air of slightly inhuman tranquillity.
But Andrée was insistent.
“But I do wish you’d tell me one thing!” she said. “Did you really mean to marry Cousin Lance, and were you parted by something?”
“Where did you get such a ridiculous idea?” asked her mother, frowning. “No one ever thought of such a thing.”
“Edna said she thought so.... Mother, I wish I knew you better!”
Claudine was startled and touched.
“My dear!” she cried. “But don’t you ...?”
She stopped.
“After all,” she went on. “I think it is better just to love people, and not to trouble about trying to know or to understand them.”
They had reached a little summer-house built out on a rock over a deep pool in a rocky basin. It had not at all the sinister aspect of that other pool; this was sunny, open and dark blue, with wild flowers growing about it, and ferns. From where they sat, they could see the line of mountains beyond. Andrée didn’t like mountains; the sombre and majestic environment exasperated her restless soul. She sighed, but grew quiet looking at her mother’s rapt face. She was drawing strength and assuagement from the hills. Poor mother, with her philosophers and her scenery! A phantom existence, Andrée reflected.
“Hope I don’t disturb you?” said a cheerful voice, and they both turned, to see with horror the common little man, with a great bundle of Sunday newspapers under his arm. He had politely taken off his hat and stood smiling at them.
“They told me down at the house that this was a pretty walk,” he said. “And it certainly is. Fine air to-day, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Claudine, in her most distrait, affable way. “It’s a lovely day.”
“Would you like to see the papers?” he asked.
“No, thank you. We’re going back at once.... We just stopped for the view.”
He smiled.
“A tame little view!” he said. “I guess I’ll find something better than this before I’ve finished.”
“How?” asked Andrée, abruptly.
“I’m going to climb some of these peaks. I’ve done a lot of climbing in the Alps,” he said. “I’ve got the head for it, and the legs. Why, there wasn’t one of those millionaire sportsmen who could beat me at it. These peaks look like hills to me.”
His boasting was somehow ameliorated by his good-humour. And one couldn’t help believing that he actually had defeated millionaire sportsmen.
“I suppose you ladies don’t climb?” he asked.
“I haven’t,” said Andrée. “But perhaps I shall some time. It might be rather fun. I’d never thought of it.”
“We must go,” said Claudine, firmly. “Your father will be wondering what has become of us. Come, dear!”
She smiled politely at the dreadful little man, and they walked off. At a turn of the path Andrée, looking back, saw him spreading out his papers, his straw hat jauntily at the back of his head.
“I’m afraid he’s going to be a nuisance,” said Claudine.
“I guess you can dispose of him!” said Andrée, grimly. “Lord! How I do hate Sundays!”
Claudine felt obliged to remonstrate, but weakly, because she was quite in agreement with her child. They sauntered back with reluctant steps, each lost in her own incommunicable thought.