Chapter IV

Notwithstanding Peter took her in his arms and soothed her perturbation and made life bloom once more with almost the same brightness it had, the air was permeated with a spirit of uncertainty. The effect was impalpable, for there existed in Clarinda’s mind a subconscious fear that something had crept into her love which was foreign—and ate interstices in the whole.

This permeation of her love by some foreign thing was evident to her father one evening when he dropped in and found Peter absent. Peter explained to Clarinda with care the necessity of his going, and tried to convince her that it was vital for him to keep an engagement. It was so vital, he contended, that it would brook no interference, not even the interference of the thing which was the sole ambition of his life—her happiness. This engagement was of such importance that it would not allow him to sink down upon the divan and take her in his arms and tell her of the things he had accomplished during the day. Peter kissed her as he went out, but Clarinda was upset.

As the old man came through the door, the light was dim, and only the single burner in the tall lamp shed its uncertain rays about the place. He took off his top-coat and placed his cane in a corner. Clarinda kissed him and helpfully settled him in the spot which was Peter’s.

Her father watched her during these preparations, and he felt from some reason that the atmosphere was filled with uncertainty. Feeling this he gathered himself together and pondered upon the various ways of approach by which he might help Clarinda without her suspecting. He knew. It was indicated to him by her movements.

The care with which she fixed things for his comfort were an indication and he decided to abide his time.

Presently Clarinda sat herself down beside him and leaned her head against his shoulder. He put his arm around her and drew her close to him. Clarinda sighed with satisfaction. They talked. Her father answered her various questions. It was a desultory conversation, as if both were sparring for an opening. Presently they sank into silence.

Many days had passed since Peter, on that memorable morning, had gone out of the house and had not kissed her, nor held her in his arms, nor turned at the corner and waved his hand to her. Since then he had forgotten repeatedly, and each time he went from her it left a bitter feeling in her heart. Clarinda lived on love, so when it was denied her she felt as if something vital had been taken out of her life.

Since they had been married, one winter had come and gone, and another was upon them. The snow had fallen, and the leaves had gone from the trees. The people without had gone by unmindful, cold, impersonal—and did not feel the tragedy Clarinda was carrying in her heart. They rushed by muffled to their chins. The days were shorter, and the nights settled down upon her earlier. They gave Clarinda a longer time to think of her sorrow, and to find out how far she had advanced.

On this winter night, in front of Clarinda and her father on the tiny hearth, there burnt a tiny fire, that gave a tiny blaze; and it curled itself up the chimney and lost itself in the orifice. Clarinda settled herself by her father’s side, and gazed intently into the fire. She pressed his hand tightly in hers, and buried her head securely on his shoulder. As she looked into the fire, her eyes widened and her cheeks became flushed with the heat.

“All things are futile, aren’t they, father?” she asked slowly. Then she lapsed into silence as if to think of a proper word or as if a certain delicacy restrained her.

Her father believed that she was about to make a confession, and did not answer.

After a while, she added: “Do people live forever? Do you love mother now as when you first loved her?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I have a wonderful reason—tell me?” she demanded.

A curious expression came over his face, half serious, half amused. Carefully taking his hand from hers and lifting her golden head from his shoulder, he arose from the divan.

The pillow she had placed behind his head slipped noiselessly to the floor, and walking a few steps, he turned his back to the fireplace and took his stand in the middle of the rug.

Judicially he placed his hands behind his back and looked down upon her.

“You will learn,” he answered cryptically.

“What do you mean?” she asked in a puzzled tone.

“There is wisdom, Clarinda, that comes to the old. This wisdom is sometimes uncanny in its analytical possibilities.”

“You don’t reply to my questions,” she said as she turned the full light of her eyes upon him. “Do you still love mother as when you began?”

“You asked me that before, and I told you,” he answered slowly. Then as an afterthought added, “What is the trouble?”

“I have no trouble,” she rejoined hastily. Then she went on as if she had decided to bare her soul to him.

“I will tell you, try to follow me.”

“All right, go ahead with your tragedy,” he replied banteringly.

“Do not laugh—be serious! You don’t know how vital this thing is to me.”

Clarinda moved her feet in a shuffling manner. “I believe,” she went on seriously, “that the flat is too small. It doesn’t give sufficient leverage. We live too much upon each other. It is true I love—I love everything in it. From the maid to the kitchenette. I have been so happy in it. Of course, for me it is not too small. I like it for that very reason. You can’t imagine how delightful it has been for me to sit here with no one but Peter, with not a sound from the outside—just Peter and I alone. Don’t you think love is queer? I mean queer in its effects on different kinds of people?”

As she spoke her father did not interrupt her, but his eyes followed every expression of her face.

“Peter and I,” she went on, “have lived here more than a year.” A combative tone came into her voice. “Peter is doing well. But then that is Peter. Of course, Peter is doing well. How could he do otherwise? You don’t know Peter, Father, as I know him. Peter is wonderful.”

“Then you are pleased with Peter?” her father said with a smile.

Clarinda did not answer his question. It struck her mind as frivolous. She continued as if no interruption had taken place. “Do you know, Father, Peter is cruel? I’ve been very happy here. A great change has come about I find, and many many times I’ve sat here in this corner and tried to analyze the reason for the change. I wonder whether it is my fault or whether it is just the ordinary course of human feeling. I ask myself whether I have failed, or has he failed? Is love only a satisfaction of a certain kind of natural law or is it a thing that can be sustained, I mean carried on forever? I wonder to myself whether there is really such a thing as love, and if not, what is it that produces such wonderful sensations? If after all it is only a myth. Why should people be sorry, or glad, or pleased at the approach of any one person? Why should I not be as happy, if love does not exist, with John Jones or John Smith or any other person? Anyway there is a great change. Peter has changed, I have changed. Everything is different. I can’t understand.”

Her father still smiled. He did not grasp how deeply she felt, nor could he understand precisely the conclusion she was drawing. He thought her a trifle incoherent. He was still satisfied, however, if she were given time he would find out. He remained silent and kept his eyes fastened upon her.

“Listen, Father! Follow me with care. It is very difficult for me to explain exactly.” Clarinda wept and bent over in her grief, then murmured with intensity. “Can’t you understand? Can’t you understand?”

Her father saw her body shaken with emotion and the tears steal between her fingers. He was terribly oppressed.

He advanced a few steps and laid his hand gently upon her head, his touch was sympathetic. She looked up at him with her tear-stained face, and hope entered her heart.

“Poor little Clarinda,” he began with tenderness in his voice. “I know your difficulty. Let’s talk it over.” He sat down in the corner of the divan by her side.

Clarinda fixed the stool again under his feet and replaced the pillow under his head, then she tucked herself into the bend of his arm and Clarinda’s golden head lay in comfort on his shoulder, a feeling of bliss and security in her heart. She waited for him to speak.

“Now let’s see if I can analyze this terrible condition. You would be surprised how observant I am,” he began. “You think Peter doesn’t love you as he did. You, in your silly mind have let your imagination get the better of you. This is probably what happened: Peter in the press of his duties has neglected you, or you think he has, which is about the same thing in the end. This neglect was not in itself a great matter nor of much importance, but was probably in some little attention he gave you.”

Clarinda listened intently.

“Let’s say for example, that he broke some custom that he had built up—a custom that had come to be part of your life, and that you looked forward to as much as you do, for instance, to your fruit in the morning. You have deduced from this infraction that he doesn’t love you as in the beginning.”

Clarinda opened her eyes in astonishment. He was placing before her clearly, exactly what she had wanted to tell, but could not. With a few words he arrived at the bottom of her trouble. Clarinda shook her head and tucked herself closer to his side.

“How wonderful you are, Father,” she whispered. “How exactly you tell me what I wanted to explain.”

“Clarinda,” he went on, “you probably don’t know that as a rule men love intensely. Their love is a curious stable condition of mind. It consumes them. It becomes part of their fibre. You’ll find out later in life, when you’ve had greater experience, that men are monogamous, with polygamous inclinations. That statement is a bit involved. More than likely you don’t get what I mean quite clearly. Of course, Clarinda, I am speaking about ordinary men, the right-thinking and the right-doing sort.” He stopped for an instant as if deliberating, and finally went on:

“Still, Clarinda, even with the sort I have in mind, they are curious, because they are human. They build the foundations of their lives with no uncertainty. After it is done, they arrive at the idea that what they have built is stable. They forget. Men, my dear child, are essentially constructionists. It doesn’t follow because they are complacent that they love any the less. It might be advanced really that they love with fiercer intensity. The reason for this is that men are removed only a slight degree from the animal. It is true they are covered with a slight veneer which is called civilization. Just like animals, anything that comes into their lives becomes part of them. As I have indicated, love gets into their blood, bone and sinew. Peter loves you just the same. Disabuse your mind of this idea that he doesn’t love you. It is all foolishness. All your fears are founded on sand. This condition is not your fault. It is the natural course that love always follows and nearly all men arrive at the same end.”

Clarinda sat very still and listened intently. In her heart as she had always done she felt her father was the greatest being in the world. Even at times greater than Peter. This admission cost her much, but for years he had been her bulwark. Upon his judgment her life had been founded. During her young days she had looked upon him as an oracle. And now in this crisis, after he had spoken she was sure he was just as she thought.

“Your situation is clear to me,” he continued. “Suppose I draw you a picture of your position.” He paused for a moment. “I have in mind what occurred. Let us suppose for example, that every morning when Peter left you before he went out of the door he kissed you. You lived on that kiss until he came back in the evening. It might be before he went away he held you for an instant in his arms and patted your lovely head. And then after he had gone and had gotten out on the street, you ran to the window and waved your hand to him as he went around the corner. You treasured that final wave. Peter is only a man. Peter is not a bad sort. Now, how is that for the first part of my picture?”

“Father! Father!” she exclaimed. “How wonderful you are.”

“Let’s go further with our picture,” he began again. “Now what did you do? Being inexpressibly foolish, on that very first day this terrible thing happened here is what I see. In this picture you are a stricken thing. Slowly you go back into the room, with the weight of the world upon you. The house is all drab. You don’t rush to the window. Oh, no, not you, instead you weep and the tears roll down your face. You feel right then as if all the world has fallen apart, and there is only a great void.

“In your misery you felt, for this was real to you, sick at heart. You threw yourself down upon the divan and sank into a terrible condition. This lasted throughout the day, until Peter came home. When he saw you, so sad and dreary and your face be-streaked with tears, he took you in his arms—and right then—the sun came back. Your heart beat with joy. How’s that, Clarinda?”

“But why should it happen?” Clarinda burst forth. “Why should Peter change? I am just the same. I am just as young. Just as beautiful. Peter always says I am beautiful. My physical self is just the same. I don’t believe I am any the less attractive or less appealing to his man’s side. Peter forgets. He forgets often. Why should he feel that he can go out and leave me as he does? Why should he not kiss me every morning? I don’t forget.”

“All that is true, Clarinda,” her father went on. “The reason for its happening, I have explained. But there is something else. It is a curious psychological fact. Women are different from men, for the reason that nature has so provided. I can’t answer this question. It would take too long, and even if I did, you might not understand the fine distinction I would wish to draw. There are so many shades, so many complexes, so many difficulties in the way of an understandable explanation. The question is too deep for me to discuss. You don’t have a proper grasp of the human factor as it is applied to me. The shadows, Clarinda, upon your life are all imaginary. They don’t exist really.”

The conversation died, and Clarinda sat with her father in complete silence. She endeavored to make him say more, but he would not. He looked into the fire and watched the flame go up the chimney. The clock on the mantel struck the hours musically, and the wind without blew with an angry insistence. But Clarinda was at peace. Her head was clear and she saw distinctly into the future. The seconds of time went into minutes and the minutes grew into hours. The persistent ticking of the clock was at last broken by the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps, as if they bore someone in great haste. Then the door opened and Peter bounded into the room and filled it completely.

“It is late,” said Peter breathlessly. “But I’ve a good excuse. I’ve done well tonight and it is all for you, Clarinda.”

Clarinda arose quickly from the divan, and Peter took her gently in his arms. Her father winked at her knowingly and smiled.

“What have you done, Peter?” she asked, as she struggled to release herself from him.

“Wait until I get my breath,” he replied as he pushed her gently back upon the divan. He sat down between them.

Carefully he arranged himself, stretching his long legs comfortably out in front of him; then he folded his arms complacently over his chest.

“Tell us, Peter?” Clarinda asked again, as she drew herself close to him. “Isn’t it nice?” she added. “Just we three together. Father, you, and I?”

Her father laughed and Peter put his arm around her.

“You’re a nice little person, Clarinda,” he said.

“But think, Peter, why shouldn’t I be happy? What more could I want?”

“That brings me to exactly what I wanted to tell you. What more could you want? I can think of lots of things. For example—a larger place. It might be the house on the Park Way. A car you could drive. A larger divan, with a bigger lamp behind it. Probably new clothes—a fur coat. Maybe a husband who would really accomplish something.” Peter stopped and contracted his brows. “Then further you might have a new father who would think more of you, one who might be more proud of you. I admit that is drawing a long bow; but he might be found.”

“Peter, you are foolish,” she answered with wonderful pleasure in her voice. She loved to hear Peter talk, even if she thought what he said was foolish. “I want nothing. I was just telling father how pleased I was.”

“You were also telling me how unhappy you were,” her father interjected.

Clarinda sprang from the divan and stood directly in front of her father. “You know that isn’t true. I never said I was anything but happy. Father, I don’t see how you can imagine such things. Tell Peter it isn’t so.”

“All right, all right!” her father answered. “Oh, woman! Oh, woman! Now listen, you two. Since I have made such a grievous mistake, let’s speculate. Listen to the oracle: you, Peter, and you, Clarinda. I have a plan, which I think would do you both good. Ahem!” he cleared his throat, “I find after due consideration of your situation, that your lives are too prosaic. Too much the same thing. Suppose you had a plot, some deep and sinister thing. I admit that the average persons don’t have plots in their lives, but that does not matter, some few do, and why not you? You two should have some deep compelling motive, and there should be some other factor that would probably lead to some horrible situation, a murder, or a great theft, or a dual existence, something that would lead to a tragedy, mixed with blood and gore.”

“Horrible!” exclaimed Clarinda, and Peter shook his head in disagreement.

“But think of the interest you would have!” he added. “Peter could shoot you, or you could shoot Peter. You would have your picture in the papers, with splashing headlines. Instead of leading normal lives you would then undergo a great change, and when you died, people would remember you long enough to go to your funerals.”

“The subject is changed. If you can’t be more cheerful you may go home,” broke in Clarinda.

“I agree with Clarinda,” put in Peter.

“Now, father, you are properly squelched. Let Peter tell us what he did today. That’s more interesting than plots, murders and thefts. I don’t care how prosaic my life is so long as I have you two to take care of me. What did you do, Peter?”

“First of all, I bought the house on the Park Way,” he began. “I had the deed made out in the name of Mrs. Clarinda Thorbald. Second, I had put in the garage a nice little car. The license is made out in the name of Mrs. Clarinda Thorbald. Third, I had hung in one of the closets the coat Mrs. Clarinda Thorbald admired so much the other day. Fourth, I have had placed in the house—let’s see?” Peter told off on his fingers. “A housekeeper of the pickled kind, who has never smiled; this quality has been guaranteed by her last employers. A butler of austere mien, a door man, a first-floor maid, a chef, a chauffeur, a hall boy, two cooks—these are in addition to the chef. Then there is a gardener, a furnace man—Lord! I think it is an army. And that’s not all—” Peter stopped for a moment. “Upstairs off the main hall I have had furnished a room precisely like this one. In it is a very tall lamp, with a pink shade. A divan like this one that we are sitting on. But the greatest of all and the thing that was the most difficult to get—I found for her a father—just the kind I suggested.”

“Peter!—Peter!” Clarinda exclaimed.

“Oh, there is something else. Another thing that I found. You might imagine I had difficulty in finding a new father for you, but that was not a circumstance to this thing I accomplished. I spent days in the search. I wandered from one end of the town to the other. I hunted with infinite care. At times I became completely discouraged and almost gave up in despair; but persistency is not a jewel, it is a diadem.”

Clarinda’s father was amused and Clarinda was consumed with impatience.

“As I have said,” he went on, “this last effort caused me great trouble, but I found it. And now, Clarinda, what do you think it was?”

“I don’t know,” she answered. “Tell us? It must have been important if you went to all that trouble.”

“Listen carefully, both of you. It is a matter vital to your happiness, Clarinda. I—found—for Mrs. Clarinda Thorbald—a husband—who would think more of her and love her more and would fill her life with greater content—and—”

Clarinda sprang from the divan. Her face was flushed, and she turned upon Peter. She put her hand over his mouth, and Peter struggled for an instant and then laughed loudly.

“Peter—Peter!” she exclaimed. “You are perfectly horrid. I don’t believe anything is sacred to you. Every bit of pleasure I might have had is destroyed. I hate your old house.”

Clarinda went out of the room and closed the door with a crash behind her.

The two men looked at each other; after a few moments the old man said laconically:

“You ought to know, Peter, that the spirit of jest is not a component part of the female make-up.”

He arose from the divan, put on his coat and hat and went painfully out of the door.

Peter left alone shrugged his shoulders and lit a cigarette, and with a sigh he fell back into the corner of the divan and looked pensively into the fire.