§ iii
At eight o’clock he rang the door bell.
“I want to see Mrs. Stephens!” he said, curtly, to the servant.
“She’s at supper, sir. Will you wait?”
“No; just ask her to step here and speak to me!”
“What name, please, sir?”
“Her husband,” he said, grimly.
They were all in the dining-room, enjoying the “Sunday night tea” of their tradition. Gilbert sat at the head of the table and made jokes, like a patriarch; opposite him was Claudine, on one side Edna and Malloy; on the other, Bertie and Andrée. They lingered; they had not yet thought of rising from the table when the maid entered with her message.
“Mr. Stephens is upstairs, ma’am!” she whispered to Andrée.
“Who is it?” asked Gilbert, in the tone of a man who is master in his own house.
“Mr. Stephens, sir,” answered the girl.
He turned red; he was sorry he had asked; he was very much at a loss. And so was everyone else. This proscribed man actually under this roof! Gilbert was torn between his anger at the fellow’s audacity and the respect due him as a husband. Propriety conquered.
“Ask Mr. Stephens to come down here and join us,” he said. “Bertie, bring up another chair to the table!”
But the girl returned almost immediately.
“Mr. Stephens is sorry, sir, but he is in a hurry, and he would be obliged if Mrs. Stephens would come upstairs.”
Andrée rose. But her expression alarmed her mother.
“Andrée!” she murmured, but her warning was unheeded. Andrée went slowly upstairs, and into the hall where her husband stood waiting. He had not removed his felt hat, but he had thrown open the fur-lined overcoat of which he was so absurdly proud. Never had his appearance so profoundly displeased her.
“What do you want?” she asked.
Her tone excited him to instant hostility.
“I told you I was coming,” he said.
“And I told you not to come.”
She looked at him.
“I didn’t think even you would do a thing like this—coming here—waiting in the hall—like a servant with a message—”
“That’s enough,” he said. “I only want to know whether you’re coming back, or not.”
“When I’m ready, I’ll come.”
“I’m ready now. I’ve waited as long as I’m going to wait.”
“Are you trying to threaten me?” she asked with cold surprise.
“No, I’m simply giving you your choice—to come with me, or to stay.”
“I’ll stay, thank you,” she said.
She had a sudden impulse of pity for him, he looked so desolate and lost. She thought it would be nice to have her cake and also to eat it.
“Let’s not quarrel!” she said. “Come downstairs and have supper with us!”
“No!” he said. “I’m going.... The servant’s delivered his message.”
He opened the door and went out, slamming it after him with a crash.
Andrée struggled against a great desire to cry, or to shout after him, she didn’t know which.
“Little beast!” she said, aloud. “Vulgar little bully!”
“What’s the meaning of this?” said a severe voice behind her, and she turned to see her father.
“There’s no meaning in it at all,” she answered. “Al’s gone home, that’s all.”
“Did you quarrel, Andrée?”
She was surprised; she had forgotten that fathers were supposedly authorized to ask such impertinent questions.
“No,” she said. “He thought I would come home this evening, but I wasn’t ready.”
Gilbert saw some feminine mutiny in this.
“Did you refuse to accompany him?” he asked, in a portentous voice.
“Yes,” she answered. “Of course I did. Is that a crime? Am I supposed to humour every caprice?”
Gilbert stopped her with a gesture. He put himself in Alfred’s place; he knew how he would have felt under the circumstances, how humiliated and furious.
“No doubt he had very good reasons. You’ve already remained away for over five weeks—”
“Four weeks.”
“Four weeks, then. You have—in my opinion—you have neglected him.”
Andrée made no defense, but her air was not acquiescent. Gilbert became more fatherly.
“Now, I’ll tell you what you’ll do, Andrée. Telephone your husband, and tell him you’ll be home in an hour or so. And I’ll take you myself, and make the young man’s acquaintance, eh?”
“No, thank you, Father. I’m not ready to go.”
“Get ready then! Get ready! Bertie will telephone for you. Bertie!” he called. “Bertie! Just a moment, please!”
Bertie came running upstairs.
“Your sister’s going home—”
“I’m not!” said Andrée.
Gilbert was astounded.
“This is a serious matter,” he said. “I can’t permit it. It’s your duty to go home to your husband.”
“I’ll just postpone the duty for a few days,” said Andrée.
“I say no! He came for you this evening and—”
“What is the matter?” asked Claudine’s low voice. She had come up after Bertie, and was standing in the shadow, outside the circle of light cast by the lamp on the newel post.
“I am telling Andrée that she must go home to-night. It seems her husband came to fetch her and she refused to go with him.”
“She’ll go to-morrow,” said Claudine. “It’s rather late now.”
“Father,” said Andrée, “I don’t want to be rude—but it’s my own affair. I can’t let anyone tell me what I shall do. I’ll go home when I think best.”
“This is outrageous!” shouted Gilbert. “You can’t adopt that tone toward me, young woman! You’ve been spoilt and indulged long enough! Bertie, go down to the garage and bring the car!”
“No!” cried Claudine.
“Do as I tell you! Now, Andrée, I’ll give you fifteen minutes to pack what you need, and then you’ll go, ready or not. This is my house, and what I say shall be done. Do you understand?”
“I believe I do!” she answered, carelessly. “You’re putting me out, aren’t you? Very well, I’ll go!”
She turned and ran up the stairs.
Claudine turned upon Gilbert with desperation.
“Gilbert! Go after her! Tell her she can wait! Tell her—”
“I’ll do nothing of the sort!” he answered. “I won’t be defied in my own house—”
She seized his arms with her weak hands and actually tried to shake him.
“Stop her!” she cried. “Stop her! You don’t realize what you’re doing!”
He looked down at his wife with stupefaction.
“Stop her!” she cried, again. “Go after her and tell her to wait!”
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” he said, severely, “to suggest—”
But she didn’t wait for him to finish.
“Then I’m going with her,” she said.
With trembling knees she ascended the stairs, entered her room and began dressing. She hastily put into a little bag a few necessary clothes, her jewel case and her bank books, and came out again, just as Andrée had gone downstairs.
“Gilbert!” she whispered to her husband. “I must stay with her until they are reconciled. It’s a matter of vital importance!”
He was touched; she was so ill, so weak, so terribly upset.
“Very well!” he said. “Bertie will take you to their house. Take care of yourself! You’re not fit to go out.”
She gave him a hasty kiss, and taking Bertie’s arm, left the house. Andrée was already in the street, standing beside the car.
“I’ll have to drive you,” said Bertie. “Donald was out.”
“But you won’t drive me home, my child!” said Andrée. “You can take me to some other hotel.”
“Take her wherever she wants, Bertie!” said Claudine, with a sob.