“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.
CHAPTER NINE
HOME AGAIN
§ 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—