§ ii
It was a jolly dinner. Both Claudine and Gilbert were in high spirits, as angry people often are, and Mr. MacGregor appeared greatly entertained. The girls were ridiculous; Claudine recognized their mood and frowned. She knew and dreaded this high tension, when every remark provoked a giggle, when they exchanged glances and were scarcely able to control their lips, trembling with laughter. A thought came to her which made her flush with shame. Could they have heard their father ...? He had certainly talked very loudly. And unfortunately that was the sort of thing they considered funny.
Poor woman! She was in misery, before her wretched task. She was afraid of the inscrutable Mr. MacGregor; he was so masculine, so self-assured, so old and sensible. But she was determined nevertheless to drive him away, no matter how outrageous she had to be. He should not be given the opportunity of putting ideas into Andrée’s head—silly, headstrong Andrée! She wouldn’t leave them alone for an instant.
As they rose from the table, said Mr. MacGregor:
“Miss Andrée, shall we have a little music? We might run over that new duet—”
“No, thanks!” said Andrée, laughing. “Not with you!”
“Nonsense! Come along!” he said, with authoritative, professorial air. “I want to see what you’ve been doing.”
“No!” she repeated. “I don’t want to! I won’t!”
“Come, Andrée!” said Gilbert, severely. “This is no way to behave. When Mr. MacGregor—”
“All right!” she interrupted, and led the way into the parlour where a group of old ladies was already installed. Mr. MacGregor drew up a chair beside the piano stool and they sat down, side by side, the big, stoop-shouldered man with his grizzled hair, and the slight young girl. He spoke to her for a few moments in an undertone, pointing a square finger at the music; and she nodded petulantly.
“Now!” said he.
The four hands were poised above the keyboard in the manner made famous by his teaching. Then they began, a majestic, crashing piece, a prelude in tremendous chords. The group of old ladies was annoyed at first, but some instinct warned them that it was classical music and worthy of respect, and they all sat rocking and listening.
But Claudine could take no pleasure in the noble work. The sight of Andrée and Mr. MacGregor side by side filled her with terror and impatience. She thought of the man’s great prestige, the illustrious pupils who publicly lauded him, the recitals given by his conservatory which she had attended, and where he was a demi-god, adored by students and parents. He had written books on technic, he was a prominent man, respected in certain estimable circles, he was well-to-do, his reputation was unblemished. His attention must seem such a dangerously flattering thing for his young pupil.
Oh, damnable music! She imagined she could actually see it weave its spell about her child. The duet finished, Mr. MacGregor consented to play alone, and it was marvelous playing. Andrée stood beside him, watching his hands, never raising her eyes. And he never looked at her either; sinister fact!
“And now, you, Miss Andrée!” he said.
She consented instantly. She was fired; she wanted to play now. And Mr. MacGregor crossed the room and sat down beside Claudine.
“She is remarkable,” he said.
Claudine looked intently at him.
“You think she would make a concert player?” she asked, briefly.
“She undoubtedly could, if she would. But her temperament is peculiar.”
Claudine smiled.
“Her temperament is more or less familiar to me,” she said.
“Oh, I wasn’t presuming to inform her mother!” he hastened to say. “It was simply that I thought my interpretation—as a musician—might be of interest. I don’t hesitate to say that she is one of the most promising pupils I have ever had the pleasure of teaching.”
“Then do you think she has a fine future before her?” asked Claudine. She would bring him to the point; he should be made to declare himself so that she could demolish him.
“If she chooses. But I’m not sure that she has the temperament for a public artist. She is too rebellious—”
“Then what do you think she is suited for?” asked Claudine, boldly. But she never had Mr. MacGregor’s reply, for Andrée had suddenly stopped playing and got up.
“Mother!” she said, “Do you mind if Edna and I pop over to the drugstore? We want some things—”
Mr. MacGregor had risen, prepared with a gallant offer to accompany them, but before he could say a word, she had gone, her arm about her smaller sister. And with the cessation of the music, Gilbert intended to be heard. Mr. MacGregor was rather interested in the stock market, in a prudent way, and Gilbert had information to give, and prophecies.
Claudine could not endure it; she went out on the veranda to await the return of the children, but though she lingered there for an hour and a half, there was no sign of them. Thoroughly vexed, she went upstairs and there they were in their own room. She heard Edna shrieking with laughter.
Quite shamelessly she stood close to the crack of the door.
“Gosh!” said Edna. “If he married both of us, and another one thrown in, it would just about make a wife of his own age. The conceit of men!”
“Well,” said Andrée, “the girls at the conservatory do make awful idiots of themselves about him, you know.”
“But, oh!” cried Edna, “you don’t know how funny you looked, playing that duet, and both—pouncing—!”
“Shut up!” said Andrée, impatiently. “I knew you were laughing. There’s nothing really funny in it, of course not.”
There was silence for a moment, broken by giggles from Edna.
“But, honestly, Andrée,” she said, at last. “Have you encouraged him? I’m sure he came to woo you!”
“I never dreamed he’d come.... I wish he hadn’t! He wrote such heavenly letters. And now he’s spoiled everything.”
“Father adores him; you can see that. What do you suppose he told Father?”
“Goodness knows! Father swallows everything.... Oh, dear! I really liked him—when he was miles away!”
Claudine now knocked at the door; and entered.
“Children,” she said. “Where have you been? I waited and waited for you—”
“We just came up here; we didn’t go to the drugstore after all. We thought we’d like a nice quiet little talk,” said Edna.
“It’s very close and hot up here,” said their mother. “However I suppose you’re not going downstairs again this evening—”
“Not unless Andrée wants to play another duet,” said Edna.
Andrée scowled at her.
“Your playing was beautiful, my dear,” said her mother. “Mr. MacGregor must be a very competent teacher.”
She kissed them both and went back into her own room, unaccountably relieved. She undressed and put on a thin silk dressing-gown and sat down near the window in the dark.
She deliberately tried to banish all thought of Gilbert. He would inevitably go to the large hotel down the road and have a number of whiskies and soda, and come back, either contrite or quarrelsome. One was as bad as another.... She sighed, bitterly. Better think of Andrée.
It was a hot, still night; the world outside seemed restless and fevered, noisy with insects, not sleeping, not tranquil. She could hear dogs barking frantically, and a strain of stupid music from the hotel, chattering voices on the veranda, sounds from other rooms.... Oh, my Andrée, how little life has to give you! Even the best of it is so poor! A profound melancholy overcame her; she could not so much as imagine a future for her child that would be happy.
The door opened softly, and Edna’s voice whispered:
“Mother!”
“Yes, dear?”
“May I come in, just for an instant?”
“Of course!”
“Andrée’s asleep.... But I was so afraid you’d be worrying, Mother darling. I knew how you must feel when you saw Mr. MacGregor.... Oh, Andrée’s such a chump! But he’s done for! I made her laugh at him, and that’s spoiled everything.”
“You dear girl! How clever and sensible of you! You really do understand Andrée wonderfully.”
Edna sighed.
“She is a worry! She’d marry anyone—she’d do anything, if she was caught in a certain mood. I hope you’ll be able to keep that old nuisance—”
“Really, my dear!”
“I hope you won’t let Mr. MacGregor talk to her to-morrow. It might undo all the good I’ve done.”
Claudine put her arms about the child and kissed her fervently, the sort of kisses she so often gave to Edna in which were all her secret contrition for her favouritism, all her remorse at the inadequate return she made for this honest and beautiful affection. She had a superstitious dread of being punished some day for her wickedness; some disaster would overtake little Edna, and then she would repent, too late, her idolatry of Andrée.
“Good night, Edna darling!” she said. “You’re such a comfort to me!”
And how much dearer was the pain that one caused her than the comfort the other gave!