Chapter TWO: The Bitter Triumph

“I’m going shopping early this morning,” said Claudine, at the breakfast-table the next morning. “There are some very good bargains advertised.... How soon do you think you could send the car back, Gilbert?”

Now Gilbert, although he scoffed at feminine shopping and bargains, nevertheless respected all this as one of the bulwarks of family life. Women must and ought to go shopping. So he said:

“Take the car. I’ll go in the Subway,” in the tone of an exasperated martyr.

Her destination, however, was the Biltmore. She was filled with a feverish anxiety to get there; she was in terror lest Mr. Stephens should have gone out, that he would be beyond her reach, that Andrée might see him or hear from him before she did. She was going to the desk to enquire for him, when she caught sight of him, standing up, reading a newspaper, and she approached him and touched him on the arm.

“Mr. Stephens!” she said. “Have you a few moments to spare?”

He was not pleased to see her; she fancied that his face turned a little pale; but he greeted her with a sort of subdued courtesy.

“Where can we talk?” she asked. “I have something to say....”

“I have a little sitting-room; if you don’t mind--” he said.

She followed him into the lift, still smiling brightly, a smile which he saw reflected in the looking-glass and which alarmed him by its expression of triumph. If he could have read her thoughts as well, his alarm would have vanished. It was her firm resolution to look bright, brave, self-assured; she hoped that her air would not only impress him but herself as well.

“Oh, God!” she was praying under her breath. “Oh, just this once, make me equal to the situation! I always fail; I’m always beaten! Oh, let me, only this one time, win!”

He opened the door of his sitting-room, and they entered. She began at once, the instant the door closed behind them.

“Mr. Stephens,” she said, “I have heard from Andrée what you propose to do.”

He bowed his head, and said nothing. She realized, with surprise, that he was not without dignity; that there was nothing in any way contemptible either in his manner or his appearance.

“I am astonished,” she went on, “that you should have done such an--unworthy thing. Andrée is very young and impressionable, and you have taken advantage of this to influence her. She neither knows nor realizes what she has undertaken.”

“Excuse me,” he said. “But I’m sure she does. I haven’t tried to influence her. I’ve--I’ve given this a lot of thought, Mrs. Vincelle. At first I was afraid Andrée couldn’t be happy with me ... but ... now I do think so.”

“Why, Mr. Stephens?”

His fair face flushed.

“It’s pretty hard to explain,” he said, “but I think--well, I think I understand her, and can get on with her. I--well--I know I’m--different, in some ways--but I can’t see that that matters.”

“It does matter,” she said, gently. “More than you realize. It may be quite wrong, but it is a fact, Mr. Stephens, that marriages of--of this sort are very, very rarely successful.”

“What kind are?” he asked, with equal gentleness. “As far as I can see, the chances are overwhelmingly against any marriage being really successful. It’s--I see it like this: if two people love each other, they ought to take the risk, they ought to face all the chances as--as gallantly as they can, and do the best they can in what’s bound to be a difficult position. Personally, I don’t believe in marriage, but I can see that nothing else is practicable just now. All I can do is to make it as little like an ordinary marriage as possible--leave Andrée as free as I can--”

“Mr. Stephens--I’m sorry ... but I cannot consent to this.”

He looked full at her with a level and grave glance.

“The way I see it--it’s a personal matter between Andrée and me. No one else has any right to interfere. And no one _can_ interfere. I--you don’t know how much I admire you, Mrs. Vincelle, but--I didn’t think it was necessary to consult you, or anyone else. That’s all very well in the case of a man who wants money--any sort of favours from his wife’s family. But I don’t. It’s only for Andrée to decide.”

“And I simply don’t count,” said Claudine, with a slight smile.

“I know a mother’s love is a very strong--” he began.

“You don’t know anything about it! You think it’s a sentiment; you think it’s beautiful to see a mother bending over a cradle. You understand that women love their babies. But when the babies have grown up, you forget the mothers. Do you think they evaporate, or disappear? Or turn into troublesome, ridiculous mothers-in-law? But we don’t! We go on! If Andrée were a child, you’d think I was right to struggle for her. You talk about mothers being left free to do what they think best for their children. But because she’s older, and I still want to protect her--”

“But--don’t you see?--you don’t need to protect her from anyone--like me--who--who worships her! Do listen just for a moment! All I want in the world is to make her happy. I want her to have a splendid, free life. I don’t want to tie her to me. I want her as she is now. I don’t want to change her and--fetter her. I understand her. She’d never endure being bound; she’s so proud and independent--”

“And so silly and unstable. That’s what you don’t understand! But it’s no use arguing. I know what it would mean for her. I’m not talking about convictions. I’m talking about life as it is, as she will have to live it. Andrée’s an egoist. She’s fickle and headstrong, and so terribly unstable.”

“Let her be,” he said, stoutly. “I’m not. I’m strong enough and--and earnest enough to put up with anything like that.”

“Oh, don’t you see? She’ll think anything you want to suggest to her, but she’ll always act according to her own impulses and desires.”

(“Just the contrary to me,” she reflected, irrelevantly. “People can make me do anything, but they never change my ideas....”)

“But that’s just what I want her to do!” protested Stephens. “That’s my idea of marriage--that we should both--”

“Don’t argue!” she cried, with sudden violence. “You cannot do this! If you really think any of the things you once said to me--if you have any compassion, and kind human feeling, you can’t try to make your happiness on another person’s pain. You can’t ignore me!”

“But--” he began, “isn’t that just a little--selfish?”

She clasped her hands desperately.

“You can’t do it!” she cried. “You’re kind. You cannot hurt me so!”

He wished to point out to her the extreme unfairness of her position but the sight of her anguish was too much for him. Even when he looked away, he seemed still to see her tear-filled eyes, her face suddenly so worn, so much older, its fine tranquillity, which he had so much admired, its dignity, gone. It was like a sacrilege.

“Please don’t! Please don’t!” he entreated. “I can’t bear to see you suffer!... If you’d only realize that I’m trying to make Andrée happy--”

“Can’t you have a little mercy on me?” she said. “Even if you think I’m wrong? Andrée is--my whole life; I’ve let everything else go. I haven’t any life of my own, or any hopes.... Nothing but her. Oh, I’d go on my knees to you!”

“No, no!” he cried, shocked profoundly, both by her suffering and by her amazing unscrupulousness. “Mrs. Vincelle! I beg you!”

“Then listen to me! Think of me! Put aside your theories and your principles.... Isn’t it something to be kind--even to me? Isn’t it better to be kind than--”

But she could not go on; she buried her face in her hands and wept silently. She looked so small, so helpless, so terribly fallen from her almost superhuman aloofness....

“Please don’t!” he entreated, again. “I’ve always had such a great respect for you.... I--you don’t know how I’ve thought about you.... I wouldn’t hurt you for anything in the world! Look here! Really!... Please listen! We’ll wait.”

She looked up, careless of her tear-stained face, quick to seize her advantage.

“Give me my chance?”

“What do you mean?” he asked, a little alarmed.

“You’ve done all this--you’ve persuaded her secretly--behind my back. Let me have a little time!”

“To turn her against me?”

“Yes, if I can.”

They were both silent for a moment.

“All right!” he said. “If she can be as easily turned as that, it had better be done before it’s too late.... But I don’t believe you can. I’m not afraid to have you try. I trust--Andrée.”

“How long will you give me?”

“I’m going to England and Germany on--business. I’ll be gone about two months.”

“And will you promise not to write to her or to see her for two months?”

“I’ll have to see her once before I go, to explain. That’ll be to-day. After that, I’ll--” He paused and smiled a little, very kindly. “You’ll have your chance, Mrs. Vincelle!”

She rose and held out her hand, and he took it, rather timidly.

“Good-bye!” she said.

“But--if you find you can’t change her--” he said. “At the end of two months--will you consent to our being married?”

“What difference will it make, whether I do, or not?” she asked, bitterly.