§ i
AL didn’t say what he thought; it seemed to him a singularly infelicitous time for that. He was beginning to learn the rudiments of a lamentable sort of tact; he followed Andrée about the new flat and admired all that was pointed out to him; seven rooms and two baths, fronting on Riverside Drive, all furnished now and ready for their installation. Claudine had so urged them to have a home that she had won over Andrée, and according to his principle, he had yielded to Andrée. He said to himself, in his customary struggle to square facts with ideas, that it might be a woman’s instinct to have a home, and he was prepared to admit that women had almost all the instincts left to the race. He couldn’t quite classify the instinct that made her spend so much money on the furnishings; she wasn’t ostentatious, didn’t do it to “show off”—a thing he could have understood—she didn’t do it for him, nor was comfort her object. It was, he decided, her artistic desire for beauty.
Personally, he was ashamed of it. Riverside Drive itself had long been for him a sort of symbol; many, many times he had come to sit there and feast his eyes upon the opulent women with their pet dogs. As a fat man in a white vest and a silk hat typified the Capitalist, so was a stout, well-dressed woman with a Pomeranian the outward and visible sign of all this inward corruption of private life. He saw many such from his windows; there had been one that day in the very lift with him.
On the question of servants he had been firm. And had been diddled.
“No,” he said. “I can’t have people paid to wait on my personal wants.”
“People wait on you in hotels,” said Andrée.
“Professionally,” he said. “They serve the public, not me.”
“But if we don’t have servants, how can we be free to do our work?”
“That’s one of the reasons these private homes are so bad,” he said. “It means nothing but an autocratic—”
“I know,” said Andrée, hastily. “Well, then, we can go out to dinner every night, and we’ll have a visiting maid and a Jap for a few hours every day. They can still be serving some more of the public when they’re not with us.”
“That’s nothing but compromise. But it’s better than having anyone’s life entirely given up to our personal service. I suppose it’s a necessary part of—all this,” he said, looking about his domain. He was inwardly miserable and humiliated; Andrée knew it, but she felt that he would soon enough get used to it. She wanted beauty and luxury about her, and she considered that several grosser souls might well be occupied in ministering to her.
“Servants aren’t unhappy, Al,” she said, “if they’re well treated.”
“No, I dare say they’re not. Neither are kept women. Or imbeciles,” he replied. He suppressed the rest of his thoughts, in deference to Andrée’s instincts, both feminine and artistic. As a woman she was apparently obliged to have a home, and as an artist, it had to be this sort of home. He was conscious himself of a very unreasonable instinct to give her everything she wanted; he consoled himself by the reflection that this desire to please women was what stimulated men to supreme effort—a condition which gave more credit to his sex than to hers, he thought. He had by this time almost entirely discarded his idea that men and women were not very different, were all simply human beings. He considered it generously; which, he asked himself, was the true normal human being, Man or Woman? Not both of them....
“Perhaps what we call feminine traits are the really human ones,” he thought. “Woman’s compassion, her intuition, her flexibility.... Our masculine justice and logic may be aberrations from the normal.... Women are primarily concerned with reality—birth, love, death—”
Only Andrée was not. He felt discouraged, and went into his brand new bedroom to dress for this party he so dreaded. He had flatly refused to wear a dinner jacket—and not entirely from principle, either. Andrée had been unexpectedly nice about it. She came into his room now as he stood before the mirror in his shirt sleeves, and rumpled his wiry hair.
“That’s the way you ought to wear it,” she said, laughing. “Every inch a Socialist! But you are a darling.”
He saw her in the mirror, and it gave him a shock. She was lovely, radiant, in a low cut frock of silver cloth; he might have admired her impersonally on the stage. But as Mrs. Al Stephens, as his wife and comrade, it made his heart sink. He fastened his low collar and made a neat little bow of his necktie.... The two clear eyed and fearless comrades who were to face life together—to solve problems of living—this earnest young man in a blue serge suit, and this slender, seductive creature in silver.
“My God!” he said to himself. “The Life Urge works the wrong way—no doubt about it. It’s against progress and clear thinking.”
He was not given to facile caresses; he only looked at Andrée, with eyes sombre and doubtful.
“Am I outrageous?” she asked, smiling, utterly sure of her power. “Would you rather I had short hair and wore a red flannel blouse?”
“I don’t know ...” he answered, with a sigh. “I’m no better and no worse than lots of others.... I’d be damned eternally for you.”
She threw her arms about his neck and kissed him.
“That’s dear of you!” she cried. “Only I don’t want you to be. I don’t want to be a drag on you.”
“A drag,” he repeated, thoughtfully. She appeared to him not at all a drag, but a terrific impetus—in the wrong direction.
§ ii.
Mr. MacGregor was watching Andrée with mild amusement. He had pupils who played better than she, who were undoubtedly more gifted, but he had never had one of whom he expected a more brilliant future. He was careful not to tell her that not through talent alone would she conquer, that, on the contrary, her greatest advantage was something quite different. It lay in her extraordinary and provocative charm. He believed that her beauty, the ardour and grace of her playing might atone for certain undeniable imperfections not only in technic, but in interpretation, a certain perilous latitude, an alarming tendency to anarchistic originality. She was standing in the centre of a group of her guests, all men, as befitted her; she was listening with her moody, unsmiling air, quite indifferent to any whisper of admiration. She knew very well how to take care of herself; she had her own particular sort of rudeness, an odd, innocent sort of bluntness; she wasn’t in the least like a married woman. Mr. MacGregor was glad of this, because her husband was a grave error, and it was necessary to keep him in the background. Fortunately, he seemed willing to stay there; he appeared to be neither jealous nor uxurious. Mr. MacGregor had told her that if she wished to appear in public she couldn’t possibly be called Mrs. Stephens, and he hoped that she would have sufficient tact not to look or to behave like Mrs. Stephens either.
He was approached by Claudine, who had a secret atonement to make; he understood how she felt; she had, in the matter of Andrée, gone farther and fared worse. He was sorry for her, for having sent him away and thus left the field to Stephens. He liked Claudine; she was one of those agreeable people who took everything for granted and never said what she meant; there was a feeling of security in talking to her. She looked charming that evening because she was happy, bright with pride in her marvelous children. She was enthralled by Andrée in her beautiful dress; this was how she liked to see her; Andrée was born to be worshipped. The somewhat scandalous Bevan Martinsburgh stood beside her, and obviously approved. He was a fair, very tall young fellow of twenty-eight, casual, magnificent, good-humouredly regal; he had a habit of looking down from his great height into adoring feminine eyes uplifted—Andrée’s were not. He approved all the more. She was the only girl present who was making no effort to attract; she had the attitude of her father in his young days; it was for others to please her. She was notably unresponsive, not even critical. The conquering Bevan compared her with Vi Sidell, who was quite as good-looking and apparently as indifferent, but Vi’s was a false indifference which covered a smouldering readiness to be pleased. Vi was insolent, while Andrée was only distrait. He had known Andrée more or less all her life, but never before had he bestowed attention upon her. It was her cachet; Claudine saw it as such. She couldn’t help a little pang of regret at the sight of Al in his blue suit, off in a corner talking to that eccentric Cyril Smith—talking so much and so earnestly. Of course, Smith always looked blank and supercilious like that; and never answered, but she had an unpleasant conviction that he must be bored and indignant. He surely hadn’t come that evening for this. It was, she reflected, like the wedding guests and the Ancient Mariner, only that Al’s tale was frequently by no means absorbingly interesting. No one else paid the least attention to the host; it really wasn’t right. She smiled brightly at Mr. MacGregor, but her mind was on the Breath of Life. She saw him run his fingers through his hair in that familiar gesture, making himself so untidy and so touching. It was cruel to put him here, where none of his good qualities were visible.... Her belief, never shaken by experience or observation, that in a marriage, one or the other of the couple would inevitably change and conform to the other, was slightly disturbed at that moment. What if Alfred never became less opinionated, or Andrée more amenable? If they didn’t change ...?
She was glad as a relief from this oppressive fancy to look at Edna with that young Malloy. He was entirely right. He had been brought over by Mr. Quillen from the English branch of the Line, and was reputed as promising; he was altogether a gentleman, and very handsome, and there was about him a romantic air which charmed her mother heart. When he first arrived in the country he had been instantly smitten by the graceless Vi Sidell, but quite of his own accord he had turned toward the simpler charms of little Edna. They were progressing slowly; Edna was not the sort to smite; she grew on you little by little, with her thoughtful, gracious air, and her infantile, dimpled smile. That would be such a good thing....
Bertie too was entirely reassuring. He was never infatuated, like those other silly boys; he had a gallant and delightful air, but it hid a secret indifference. He always knew what he was doing; he was no passionate fool, that boy of hers. He could be silly enough, but never without a certain grace; it was impossible for him to be ridiculous. He had characteristically passed over all the younger and prettier girls and concerned himself with poor Phyllis Jenkins, who already at twenty-five had learned not to take anyone seriously. She was penniless; years ago this had had a sort of romantic appeal, and she had been many times on the point of becoming engaged, to quite nice men. But that has its limits; it was a horrible fact, now, known to all men, that to be engaged to Phyllis Jenkins would be a joke. She knew it herself, and was obliged to be sprightly. She was an angular, almost pretty girl, nervously vivacious; she had had to be grateful so much that it had rather worn her down. She was wearing a superfluous bouquet of Edna’s and a necklace universally recognized as a former possession of Mrs. Arnold’s; she had come with the Sidells in their motor and someone else would be morally obliged to take her home. Let Bertie flatter and cajole her as much as he wished; it did him only credit and no harm.
It is probable that no one else enjoyed the evening quite so much as Claudine. Andrée was an inexperienced hostess and by no means solicitous for the pleasure of her guests. There was a sort of formality and stiffness that didn’t wear off; there was dancing—Bertie saw to that—but it was dutiful and polite. The supper, provided waiters and all, by Santi, was good enough, but trite; Andrée lacked all hostess alchemy. Only Claudine retained the joyous air of a proud mother at a children’s party.
At last it was over. Bertie had taken Phyllis home, everyone had gone but Claudine and Edna and the attentive Malloy. Andrée stood yawning by the piano.
“I’m glad it’s over,” she said, frankly.
“It was very nice,” said her mother. “Where is Alfred?”
“I don’t know. He went out with Cyril Smith long ago,” Andrée answered, carelessly. Claudine didn’t like that; she frowned slightly, but the presence of Malloy restrained her from speaking further. She kissed her beloved child and prepared to go; she took it for granted that the young man was coming with them, but Edna, with a nice perception for the psychologic moment for parting, thought otherwise. She and Malloy had had a little conversation to which she desired no anticlimax.
“Good night, Mr. Malloy,” she said, with a smile there was no mistaking. The young man looked after her, astonished and rueful. He was for the moment forgetful of Andrée.
“That’s that,” he said aloud.
Andrée laughed, and he turned quickly; the light of a red-shaded lamp gave a strange lustre to her silver dress; she was sitting in a big chair, with her hands clasped behind her head, and she looked—she looked very unlike a Vincelle, he thought.
“Sit down, if you like,” she said, “and smoke a cigarette before you go.”
He was willing enough to do that.
“I thought I was taking them home,” he observed, “but it seems I wasn’t.”
“Edna’s like that,” said Andrée, smiling. “Misleading.”
He considered that the privilege of pretty girls. He was a chivalrous and rather artless young fellow, with a kind and susceptible heart; he was a little vain and unduly anxious to please; he was what would have been called a “flirt” in Claudine’s day, with all the innocence the word implied. He gratified Andrée’s æsthetic eye; he was faultless, an ornament to the room. He was supple and tall, with a punctilious grace; he had a dark, lean face which might have been too regular in its beauty but for the attractive defects of cheek-bones that were too high and an upper lip a trifle too long. Andrée had long ago put him down as stupid as an owl, and had expressed to her mother her dislike for the way he “hovered” about Edna.
“He’s like a stage lover,” she had said.
But to-night she was tired, and his stupidity was agreeable; moreover she was annoyed at Al and wished to keep this handsome creature sitting here until he returned, to punish him.
He talked about her music, and very agreeably remembered all the various times he had heard her play, and gave her ardent praise.
“Oh, but you’re not a critic,” she said.
“No,” he said, looking at her with a smile. “I’m certainly not a critic—of you.”
It was agreeable of him, she thought, not to be serious, like Al, but to be frankly interested, just in her. She offered him a cigarette from a box on the table and lighted one herself.
“Al’s late,” she observed. “I suppose he’s gone to a meeting. He can’t keep away from them.... Are you a Socialist, Mr. Malloy?”
“I don’t really know what a Socialist is. I may be one without knowing it. But I’m afraid I’m frivolous.”
“You’re in business, though. That justifies you. I’ve heard often enough from Father what a prodigious struggle that is!”
“I’ve dabbled in music, too.”
“What a horrible thing to say!”
“I’m not a bit ashamed of it. If you asked me, I’d sing for you.”
“I couldn’t accompany you now. I’m too tired.”
“I accompany myself.”
“Go ahead then! But don’t forget that I am a critic!”
“You’d never have the heart to criticize my artless efforts.”
He sat down at the piano and began playing in a loose, execrable style which made her frown. But when he began to sing, her frown vanished. He had a delightful voice, true, strong, and full of touching fervour. He emphasized his Irishness, he sang old Irish ballads, exactly as they should be sung....
Andrée, leaning back in her chair and listening, was half amused at her own pleasure.
“Have I ‘worked up’ this mood?” she reflected. “What a darling he is! I’ll be glad to have him in the family.... He’ll be a nice foil for little rumpled Al.”
With his strong and tender voice still sounding in her ears, she held out her hand to bid him good-by. And perhaps without quite meaning it, she gave him a glance that went to his head. She saw him kindle, and she smiled, withdrawing her hand.
“Indeed I didn’t want to criticize!” she said. “It was very lovely!”
“You’d inspire a donkey!” he cried.
“Don’t be a donkey!” she said, laughing. “It’s late. You’d better go.”
“May I come again?”
“Of course!” she answered, and almost without meaning it, smiled again, a little too nicely.
“You’re wonderful,” he cried, impulsively. “Like—”
“I know,” she interrupted, laughing. “Never mind! Good night!”
“I shouldn’t have been like that,” she reflected, when he had gone. It had been the most insignificant little conversation in the world, and yet it took on the aspect of a betrayal. She was really uneasy about it; she wandered about the room, waiting for Al, in a most unpleasant frame of mind. Certainly she hadn’t said or done anything to feel guilty about; it must have been some secret mutiny in her heart of which she was only half aware.
“Very silly of me,” she said, almost surprised. “It might help Edna.... He’s a dilatory suitor.... I can talk a lot about her, in an artful way.... If I see him again....”