Chapter IV

In the morning at nine, Clarinda’s maid came into her room. Quietly she threw open the blinds and drew down the windows. She went from one place to another and picked up the various articles of clothing Clarinda had dropped upon the floor, a stocking, a pair of shoes, a skirt. When she had finished she turned towards the bed and saw Clarinda sitting up among the covers. Her hair streamed down about her shoulders and her eyes blazed like two great stars. Dark circles were under each of them, as if painted. The maid was startled. She came over to the side of the bed.

“Madame has not slept. Will Madame have a bath?” she asked with hesitation.

“No,” answered Clarinda shortly.

“Shall the nurse bring the child?”

“No,” she answered.

It had been the custom to bring the baby into the room in the morning. Clarinda always took it in her arms and would place it so it might play among the covers. It amused her. She always looked upon it as a phenomenon. She could not conceive this vital thing that scrabbled about, crawling from here to there was part of her flesh and blood, that she had brought it into the world. When she looked at it, she could not imagine it would grow into a man’s estate and be a power for good or evil, as the fates might carve out for it, that it should be a force. It was called Peter.

“Will Madame dress?” asked the maid.

“What time is it?”

“Nine o’clock, Madame.” The maid watched Clarinda carefully, as if she feared something. “Will you have your coffee now?”

“No,” answered Clarinda.

She rose from the bed and the maid threw a garment of light filmy stuff about her. Clarinda advanced to the middle of the floor. The maid thought she wavered as she stood, as if she were uncertain of herself. She walked quickly towards her but Clarinda felt her approach and sank into a chair.

“I must talk,” Clarinda said quickly. “Say something! Do something! Don’t walk about the place so aimlessly. It doesn’t matter what you say—say something!”

“You suffer, Madame,” the maid said quickly. “You have not slept. Have you some terrible trouble?” said the maid stopping as if at a loss. Clarinda turned her burning eyes upon her. “I don’t know what to say. I know nothing, but I pity you, Madame, your eyes are so bright they scare me.” The maid trembled. “You suffer.”

“Yes, I suffer. I suffer horribly.” Clarinda wrung her hands in despair. They dropped listlessly over the edge of the chair.

“From what, Madame? Why should you suffer? You have everything.”

“I must talk. I’ve no one to talk to.” Clarinda wept as she spoke and the great tears fell down her cheeks.

“Ah! Madame, I pity you, tell me. I will be discreet. I promise! I swear! It might do you good. It might spare you something. I might be able to help.”

Clarinda arose and walked about the room. She went hastily from one end to the other. Her arms beat the air. Occasionally she brushed the tears from her cheeks. Her eyes were bright as they had been, like two burning stars.

“Listen, Tizzia!” she commanded.

“I am listening, Madame.”

Clarinda increased her pace. She almost ran from one end of the place to the other. The filmy garment she wore trailed behind her in the wind she made. Her feet were bare and she spoke so rapidly she was almost incoherent.

“Can you imagine, to what a condition I have fallen? I, Clarinda! It can’t be true. It must be a horrible dream. He said I killed my father, the person I adored. It is not true. It is impossible. I loved him and I don’t believe he is dead. I didn’t go to his funeral. Peter says I killed him. Tizzia, I hate Peter!” and she turned and looked into the frightened face of the maid.

“Madame!” she exclaimed.

“Hush! I am talking. At last I can speak. Yes, I hate him. No one has ever hated as I hate. I even hate the child. He, Peter, said I would have killed it. I would have. I knew this house meant disaster. The others who lived in it met disaster. The man died and his wife and his children are in the world—starving. I knew it meant disaster. I begged Peter not to bring me here.”

“You will be divorced, Madame?”

Clarinda straightened herself up. Her figure seemed to add height. She laughed aloud. The tones of her voice rattled in her throat, and with a struggle she regained herself.

“No,” she said slowly, each word gathering strength, “I will not be divorced.”

“Probably Madame will go away,” Tizzia answered timidly.

“Did you ever hate, Tizzia? Did you ever hate? Hate so that murder entered your heart, so that it became an obsession?”

“God forbid!” exclaimed Tizzia with fright in her voice.

“That is not so bad. Murder is not so bad. For the thing you kill, dies. It stops. Think of me, my position. It is more terrible than if I had been murdered. I cannot die. I must live. Instead of being dead. I must go to my father’s house. I must sit and listen to his will. I must appear broken and distraught. I must do these things, and in my heart I shall fear none of them. I am glad he is dead. I am glad I saw him die. Did you ever see anyone die? It is wonderful. You should have seen his frightened old face. You should have seen his hands, the blood going from them, drying up. The veins stood out, and they seemed to pulsate. His face was first white, but when I spoke to him, it grew gray. His eyes lost their luster. His old body wrapped in a great cover shrank from me. It cried out for pity. I did not pity. I was amused. He was so pathetic, so frightened, then he gave a great convulsion and he dropped limp, and he was still. His body gradually slipped down and down until it lay a huddled mass of nothing on the floor. I laughed.” Clarinda’s voice stuck in her throat. A convulsion passed over her face, and she was fast becoming hysterical. She stopped.

“You must calm yourself, Madame. It is necessary. Mr. Thorbald will come. It would be bad for him to see you like this.”

“He will not come. He does not dare. He is afraid. He is a coward, Tizzia. Mr. Thorbald lies.” Clarinda clenched her hands. They pained her.

“Madame must collect herself. Madame doesn’t know what she says. It is terrible to hear, Madame!” Tizzia exclaimed quickly. Her face had become ashen with fear.

“I know what I say, Tizzia. I know only too well. I suffer so. I can’t understand why this should have come to me. I’ve tried so hard to do the things I thought were right. I’ve failed. He told me I had failed. He was right. I have failed miserably.”

A gong rang downstairs and the sound reverberated throughout the house. It struck Clarinda’s ear as if it would break the drums. Clarinda shivered.

“I must go,” she said. “I must enter the car with Peter. I must get out of the house and sit beside him. I must show sympathetic interest. They will force me to listen and be impressed with the things they say. I will do it. I will finish the story. I shall not weep.”

Hastily with the aid of the maid, Clarinda dressed herself, and did it with meticulous care. She charged the maid with lack of attention, and time after time, she took her hair down and had it re-arranged as often. It never suited her. After she had finished and had looked into the glass that hung from the ceiling to the floor, she went from the room out upon the landing, and on down the stairs to the hall, where Peter was waiting for her. He turned his eyes towards her as he heard her come. He was filled with apprehension, and a slight tremor shook his body, his heart stood still. Clarinda bowed to him as she passed, but said nothing. He likewise did not speak but with a slight bow he opened the door for her to pass out. The footman at the car, that stood at the bottom of the steps, held the door open and they entered.

At a sign from Peter the car moved slowly out of the garden, and then went more rapidly down the street. In a few moments it drew up in front of the house of her late father. Again the footman opened the door and offered his arm to aid her but she paid no attention to him, and quickly went into the house.

In the library to the right of the main entrance she found her mother sitting in gloomy silence. Clarinda spoke to her and found herself a seat some distance from her where she sat in a deep shadow. There was no sound. Peter sought to sit close to her, but Clarinda turned her eyes upon him and he went away and sat quite near her mother. Clarinda was alone in her portion of the room. She seemed to be set apart, as if she had nothing to do with the affair.

At a large table especially arranged sat a man, clothed in black like an undertaker. His head was large, his forehead protruded, and upon his nose rested a pair of glasses over which he looked. His air was pompous, and he seemed oppressed with his knowledge. To Clarinda he looked foolish. Before him upon the table lay a mass of papers, documents of parchment, and upon the floor propped up by the legs of his chair, stood portentous bags of leather with silver clasps. Impressive bits of red string lay among the documents. Clarinda looked at him, for he amused her. He looked so false, so pretentious, so unnecessary. She watched him move. He was being paid for his pantomime, and his pay would be in proportion to the bulge of his forehead.

After he had bowed to all those present, and spoken to each by his proper name, he cleared his throat. Then he wiped his forehead with a huge white handkerchief, which he placed on the table beside him. It looked like a mountain with peaks and turrets of intense white. To Clarinda it seemed part of his pretensions.

Accordingly, having duly impressed his hearers, he picked up a thick document, which was folded many times. Carefully he pressed out each crease. With slow precision he arose from the chair he occupied, and looked at the company over his glasses and read.

For a long time his voice went on monotonously. There was no inflection; he might have been reading to a court. He only stopped now and then to glance at Clarinda’s mother, at Peter, or at Clarinda. It seemed to Clarinda he would never finish, as if he would go on forever. Eventually the final sheet of the document was turned and he stopped as if he were an actor and waited for applause. When it did not come, he appeared disappointed.

Clarinda gathered nothing from the reading of the will. Peter smiled at the amount he received, and he was pleased. Peter loved money. Clarinda’s mother knew equally as much as Clarinda. She was entirely in the dark. They both knew they had been left something, but neither knew just how much or what.

“A wonderful will,” said the lawyer. “Fair, comprehensive, unbreakable.”

Clarinda arose from her chair. She walked over to the table and picked up the will from among the other papers.

“What do I have under this will?” she asked.

“Your father has treated you magnificently,” the lawyer replied.

“I didn’t ask that,” she said tersely.

The man picked up the will, quickly turned over a few of the pages. “You will find,” he said, reading carefully with the same lack of intonations, “under paragraph one, section A, page five and upon the subsequent page. ‘I hereby leave and bequeath to my beloved daughter the sum of three hundred thousand dollars, free of all tax.’ In section B, page six, paragraph five, you will find that this sum of money has been left in trust. You are to be free of any control of this money, and at your death, should you leave any children, they shall come into your share when they shall have attained the age of thirty-five. A fine proviso,” he added. “Per capita and not per stirpes. This refers to your mother’s portion.”

“Why that?” asked Clarinda.

He did not answer Clarinda’s question. “You will find that this money is free from any supervision by your husband and the increment thereof shall be paid to you by your said trustees.” He added again, “A fine proviso.”

“Who are the trustees?” asked Clarinda.

“I have the honor of being one of them, and the Safety and Guarantee Trust Company is the other.”

“Is Peter’s left in trust?” she asked.

“Oh no,” he replied, with a look of astonishment. “Men as a rule do not need trustees. They have more experience.”

“I just wanted to know.” Clarinda’s voice carried a peculiar tone. The lawyer looked at her searchingly. Peter turned his eyes towards her. Her mother sat in the same gloom and the same lack of understanding of what was taking place. Her mind only grasped the idea that in some way she was provided for, that this will had made her independent. Through her mind fled visions of what she would do, she even thought she would like to travel.

“That is all?” asked Clarinda, as she moved away from the table after laying the will upon it.

“I believe so,” answered the lawyer. Apparently not quite certain of himself. Clarinda’s manner broke in upon his usual method of carrying forward proceedings of the kind. He was upset, he could not exactly define why.

Clarinda bowed to him and nodded her head to her mother. She went out of the room and left them still sitting. Her mother was nonplussed. Peter did not go after her.

Clarinda entered the car, and ordered the driver to take her back home.