§ i
CLAUDINE sat down to answer her distressing correspondence. She took a long time to arrange her writing materials, to adjust the light, for her heart failed her, courage and hope were nearly gone. She sat before the same little rosewood desk she had used in her girlhood, in that little bedroom she had passed so many happy years in, she was at home again, in the house in which she had been born, and she had at this moment no better wish than that she might die there.
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.
“I think it is very necessary to stay with Andrée until she and her husband are reconciled. It is a critical time. I hope and believe that all will turn out well.”
He, of course, knew nothing at all of the Malloy complication; he believed it to be a simple quarrel.
Then she wrote to Edna:
My dear little girl:
It is always a pleasure to receive one of your cheerful letters. I can’t thank you enough for taking such good care of Father, Bertie, and Cousin Lance. I am very glad you like Bertie’s Giulia; she is a charming little creature, and very devoted to him. Your description of their ball was amusing, and, I thought, rather touching. Bertie had told me of Mr. Santi’s predilection for wizards; I think I should enjoy them myself. Your dress must have been lovely. I am sorry your father thought it too short! Personally I think that style suits you; you don’t look any older than when you were a little girl going to dancing school.
Write to me often, my dear little Edna. And don’t expect any news from me, because there is none. I am very much better; you are not to worry. As soon as this most unfortunate affair is settled, I shall be at home again.
Very lovingly and gratefully,
Your Mother.
P. S. Be sure to send the furs to cold storage this week!
She looked again at the little pile of letters she had had from Edna, gay, pleasant, commonplace. And yet alarming. There was not a single mention of Malloy. Edna was not one to wear her heart on her sleeve; she had no ability and no desire for expressing her emotions. Her mother blessed her for her seemly reticence; how easy it was to deal with people who didn’t talk, who took so much for granted! She was quite certain that the poor little thing was very unhappy, but she was also certain that she was not desperate. She had no doubt noticed the change in her handsome lover, but she wished no consoling for it; she would console herself, she would endure with dignity and common sense.
And now for Alfred.
She hesitated for a long time, then began to write, in her careful and delicate hand:
My dear Alfred:
I have just learned of Andrée’s decision, and I think I need not tell you how it grieved me. Not only on your account, but on hers, I believe that a divorce would be a terrible mistake, and I beg you to oppose it resolutely. I beg of you, Alfred, not to consent to it. No one understands Andrée as I do, and I know that this would be the very worst thing possible for her.
She has consented to see you and I entreat you to come and talk it over with her. I trust to your deep affection for her, and to your humanity. I know that she can never be happy and safe with any one but you.
Will you come on Sunday, if convenient for you?
Always your friend,
Claudine Vincelle.
She stamped and sealed it, and lay down on the bed, to read, to try to read and to forget her bitter anxiety.