§ ii
They went down, all three, to the dining-room, and sat down at their small table, accompanied by a great many glances from the other guests. They never suspected how much they were gossiped about, how much interest they aroused. It was the first time they had come to so small and cheap a place for their summer holiday; heretofore they had stopped at lively and agreeable resorts with others of their own comfortable sort. But Gilbert had taken one of those unaccountable fancies to which husbands are so prone. It may have been an obscure resentment at the sight of the care-free and pampered existence of his women-folk, or one of those sudden anxieties he often felt at the thought of the future. However, from no matter what cause, he had suddenly required Claudine to retrench and she had obeyed, with her usual profound and polite indifference. Hence the “Pine View Villa,” in the Catskills, and two small rooms without a bath.
Their attitude aroused resentment. Claudine had her own special tea, which she made in a pot at the table, and they had extra milk and cream, and various potted delicacies ordered from the city. The landlady took this as a reflection upon her table and it was. And then they had made a special arrangement whereby Andrée was to have the exclusive use of the piano in the mornings, and on chilly or wet mornings, when some of the ladies would have enjoyed sitting in the parlour and rocking and chatting, they were not at all pleased by the vigorous rhythm of her interminable exercises. She regarded them no more than so many chairs.
Edna was the most approachable, but she had a scrutinizing air, an amused sort of interest outrageous in one so young. Altogether a conceited, snobbish, intolerable family; that was the verdict.
“Take the tea and the anchovy paste, Andrée!” said Claudine. “And will you bring them up to my room, please? I’d like to speak to you for a moment. Edna’ll wait on the veranda for you.”
She closed the door of her room and sat down.
“Andrée, dear,” she said. “Was that another letter from Mr. MacGregor this morning?”
“Yes, it was,” said Andrée, nonchalantly.
“I wish you’d show it to me!” she said, coaxingly.
“I’d rather not, Mother, it’s private.”
“But Andrée, my dear, why should you have private letters from that man which you can’t show your mother?”
She had adopted a very tranquil, reasonable tone, to conceal her own distress and the advantage which it gave to Andrée. She was confronted once more by the terrible independence of her children, they all led such busy, lively, entertaining lives in which there was no need at all for her. They loved her, but they would have gone on in exactly the same way if she were not with them. She was unessential, they needed nothing from her. She had never been able to understand how it had happened. When they were little, she was their universe, she consoled, protected, she alone understood them. She had wished to give her life to them. And then little by little they had got upon their feet and walked away, leaving her still standing with empty arms in the nursery. She couldn’t follow them; she didn’t know how to draw near to them, how to win them. She was helpless, just as she was now helpless before Andrée. The very sight of Andrée frightened her, the fragile and mysterious charm of her beloved child wrung her heart, robbed her of worldly wisdom and common sense. She could have knelt before Andrée and adored her, and wept for the pity that touching youth and ignorance caused her.
“I have loved you every moment of your life, from your first breath!” she might have cried. “There is no one in the world for me but you! I love my other children, but oh, not like you! Not like you! I wanted to give all my life to your service. I wanted to live for you, to wear myself out to give you happiness. And you will not have me!”
She stole a glance at the child’s downcast face, mutinous, impatient.
“Andrée, my dear,” she said again. “Why should you have letters from that man which you don’t wish me to see?”
For answer Andrée put her hand inside her blouse and drew out a crumpled letter.
“Here!” she said. “Read it then, if you want!”
But it was impossible to do so, to pry into her poor little secret.
“I don’t want to read it, my darling. I only want to talk to you about—”
To her great surprise Andrée began to cry.
“Oh, Mother!” she sobbed. “That’s just what I knew you’d do! Talk it over, and talk and talk, and spoil everything.... Why can’t you understand? It’s nothing, just nothing at all, and you want to talk it into something. Why can’t I be let alone? I’m so unhappy!”
“Unhappy? Andrée, why? Tell me! Let me help you!”
“I don’t know why—except that I never have any peace or freedom. It’s disgusting to have to talk about every thought that comes into your head.... How would you like it? How would you like to have to tell exactly how you felt toward everyone and everything?”
Claudine turned away her head.
“I see how you feel,” she said. “It must be disgusting, as you say.... But you’re surely fair-minded enough to see that I must make every possible effort to safeguard you. You are young and inexperienced.”
“When you were my age you were married and had a baby.”
Claudine smiled, one of her rare and enchanting smiles.
“That’s true. I had you.”
“So you see I’m not so very young. And as for experience ... well, honestly, Mother, I don’t think you’ve had much.”
Claudine was startled. She who had suffered so much, been so cruelly disappointed and mocked by life, who had learned so many, many bitter lessons, to be reproached with lack of experience by this baby? She smiled again, sadly.
“You’ve never been to Europe, or met any famous people, or anything. And you’ve never—” Andrée flushed and hesitated. “You’ve never had any romance. Nothing but just Father, and he’s not very thrilling.”
“My dear!”
“Please don’t be shocked! It makes it so hard to talk to you. It’s no use my pretending that I want a life like yours or that I’d marry a man like Father. I wouldn’t for anything!”
“Andrée, I really—”
Andrée shook her head. She alone of the three had never been drawn to her father, had never been influenced by him.
“No,” she said. “It’s no use talking. I want something very different. I don’t want any stuffy family life. I’d like to go away, by myself—”
“Andrée! Think what you’re saying! How can you be so cruel? What should I do without you?”
“You’ve got Bertie and Edna. And you’re settled down and all that sort of thing. You have lots of things to interest you, but I haven’t anything. That’s why—” Once more she stopped, her cheeks scarlet.
“That’s why I like to hear from—Mr. MacGregor. He encourages me. He says there’s no reason why I shouldn’t make a name for myself, giving concerts. He—well, I know he exaggerates, but he says I’m a—a—sort of—wonder.”
“Is he urging you to leave your parents?”
“Heavens, no! He just encourages me. He says to keep on practising and practising. And when I get back he’s going to give me a lot of extra time.”
“Why?”
“Because he thinks I’m—promising.”
“Andrée, isn’t there anything more personal beneath this interest?”
“I don’t know,” said Andrée, curtly. “I don’t want to know.”
Claudine was still for a moment, thinking with supreme displeasure of that man, that music teacher, who had by flattery, by chicanery, won her child’s interest. It must be stopped! Should she ridicule him, point out to Andrée that Mr. MacGregor was as old as her father, and a man of no distinction, either mental or physical, a shaggy, lumbering, grey-haired creature only too well used to the silly admiration of young girl pupils? No, ridicule was not a weapon Claudine could handle. She thought for a moment of appealing to her affection, but that too she rejected. She dared not....
“Andrée,” she said at last, very gravely. “I am going to ask you to promise me something. If Mr. MacGregor—if this thing—”
“I know what you mean. You mean you want me to promise to tell you if anything happens.”
“Yes.”
“But don’t you see that that isn’t a fair promise?”
Claudine was startled.
“Surely your mother has the right—”
“Oh, yes, you have all sorts of rights!” said Andrée, bitterly. “And I haven’t any. But if I were you—if ever I have a daughter—I’ll never, never ask her to promise to tell me things. I wouldn’t want to know them if she didn’t want to tell them.”
Claudine approached and put her arm about the unwilling girl.
“Very well!” she said, with a sigh. “I will leave you free to do as you please about telling me.”
Then Andrée bent down and kissed her.
“You are a darling!” she cried. “Now I’ll rush to Edna!”