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ANDRÉE was very late that evening. She had gone to the city to do some shopping, and at eight o’clock she had not yet returned. Claudine sat down to supper alone, but she could not eat. She was filled with apprehension. She couldn’t imagine what was keeping Andrée.
The weather had suddenly turned mild, the dining-room windows were open and a sweet damp breeze was blowing in from the garden. Rose had prepared an especially appetizing supper; she hovered about the silent woman, very anxious that she should eat it. The shaded lamp threw a warm light on the table, set out with Mrs. Mason’s glowing old Crown Derby; there was the same order and quiet all about her that had so delighted her a few weeks ago. But now it frightened her. It was death-like....
“There’s no use trying to go on,” she thought. “This must end! I’ll have to tell Gilbert—and poor little Edna. I’ll have to go back.... I’ve done all I can.”
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!”
“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.”