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--

He left early. It certainly had not been a pleasant evening for him. He had scarcely been able to speak, with Claudine present. But when he was going, and had said good-night to Andrée, who hadn’t risen, she followed him out to the front door.

“Mr. Malloy!” she said. “Have you told--Edna?”

“No ...” he said. “I’m ashamed to say I haven’t.... But of course I shall....”

“Don’t!” she entreated. “Please don’t! Not just yet! If you can--won’t you go to see her as usual?”

“But--do you think that’s--honourable?” he asked, shocked.

“It’s kind, Mr. Malloy!”

“But--isn’t it--only putting it off, you know?”

“Sometimes it’s better to do that,” she said. “Please, Mr. Malloy, if you are able to--?”

“I’ll try!” he said, quite miserably. “I suppose you don’t want--me to say anything--until you’re home again?”

“Yes,” she answered.

The door closed behind him.

“Because I’m going to stop this!” she said to herself. “It can’t be! I’m going to stop it!”

That was her one object--that nothing irreparable should be said or done. She was absolutely certain that the infatuation would not last, there was not one element in it to make it permanent. She was certain that if no monstrous irrevocable folly were committed, Malloy would thankfully return to Edna, who really suited him, and that Andrée would go back to her husband.

But she was filled with terror at the possibility of that evil chance. She lay awake all that night, trying to plan how she could prevent it.

No enlightenment came. Malloy came again and again. She dreaded to speak to Andrée, for she knew how speech solidifies and strengthens the vaguest thoughts, but it could no longer be avoided. She could no longer be complaisant. She waited until Andrée was in bed one night and then she went into her room and sat beside her in the dark, at the foot of her bed.

“Andrée!” she said. “I must know!”

“I want you to, Mother. I’ve been waiting for you to ask me....” She sat up and flung her arms round her mother.

“Oh, my darling!” she said. “I’m so terribly, terribly sorry! I know I’ve made you suffer. I know it’s a dreadful thing to do to dear little Edna! But I can’t help it! I thought at first it would only be a lark. I didn’t mean any harm. I never imagined _this_ would come! But now it’s too late! I love him so, Mother! I never knew what love was before. I never, never felt like this about Al.... Oh, Mother! I’d stop if I could! I don’t want to hurt you or Edna. But I can’t help it!”

“You can, Andrée! It’s not necessary to do what you want.”

“You’re so cold and so--good, you can’t understand! I love Francis so that I can’t give him up. No matter what harm it does, to me, or anyone else.”

“What do you intend to do?”

“I’ve written to Al, to ask him to--for a divorce.”

“Oh!” cried her mother. “_Why_ did you do that?”

“What else could I do? You didn’t think I wanted a nasty underhand intrigue, did you, Mother? I wouldn’t--I wouldn’t even kiss Francis until I was free from Al. I’m not that sort.”

“What did Alfred say?”

“Nothing. He didn’t answer. But I know he’ll do it. He’s always said he’d never try to hold me if I wanted to be free.”

“I think you ought to see him, my child.”

“Why?”

Claudine had no intention of telling her true reason.

“It’s the best and frankest way to do,” she said. “If you like, I will write to him and ask him to come here. I wish you would see him--for my sake, Andrée.”

Andrée sighed.

“I will, then, if you like, Mother. But it’ll be horrible. We’ll be horrible. We’ll quarrel. All his commonness comes out when he’s angry.”

“You needn’t quarrel. Then it’s agreed that I’m to write?”

“Yes,” said Andrée. “But it’s not a bit of use to try your diplomacy, Mother dear! I see through you!”

* * * * *

And this very evening she was trying to write that letter. Andrée and Malloy were sitting on the porch, almost under her window, now and then she could hear the murmur of their voices.

“I’ll write the other letters first!” she decided, in despair.

She wrote to Gilbert, the same sort of thing she had been writing all the month.

“I think it is very necessary to stay with Andrée until she and her
husband are reconciled. It is a critical time. I hope and believe
that all will turn out well.”

He, of course, knew nothing at all of the Malloy complication; he believed it to be a simple quarrel.

Then she wrote to Edna:

My dear little girl:

It is always a pleasure to receive one of your cheerful letters. I
can’t thank you enough for taking such good care of Father, Bertie,
and Cousin Lance. I am very glad you like Bertie’s Giulia; she is a
charming little creature, and very devoted to him. Your description
of their ball was amusing, and, I thought, rather touching. Bertie
had told me of Mr. Santi’s predilection for wizards; I think I
should enjoy them myself. Your dress must have been lovely. I am
sorry your father thought it too short! Personally I think that
style suits you; you don’t look any older than when you were a
little girl going to dancing school.

Write to me often, my dear little Edna. And don’t expect any news
from me, because there is none. I am very much better; you are
_not_ to worry. As soon as this most unfortunate affair is settled,
I shall be at home again.

Very lovingly and gratefully,
YOUR MOTHER.

P. S. Be sure to send the furs to cold storage _this week_!

She looked again at the little pile of letters she had had from Edna, gay, pleasant, commonplace. And yet alarming. There was not a single mention of Malloy. Edna was not one to wear her heart on her sleeve; she had no ability and no desire for expressing her emotions. Her mother blessed her for her seemly reticence; how easy it was to deal with people who didn’t talk, who took so much for granted! She was quite certain that the poor little thing was very unhappy, but she was also certain that she was not desperate. She had no doubt noticed the change in her handsome lover, but she wished no consoling for it; she would console herself, she would endure with dignity and common sense.

And now for Alfred.

She hesitated for a long time, then began to write, in her careful and delicate hand:

My dear Alfred:

I have just learned of Andrée’s decision, and I think I need not
tell you how it grieved me. Not only on your account, but on hers,
I believe that a divorce would be a terrible mistake, and I beg you
to oppose it resolutely. I beg of you, Alfred, not to consent to
it. No one understands Andrée as I do, and I know that this would
be the very worst thing possible for her.

She has consented to see you and I entreat you to come and talk it
over with her. I trust to your deep affection for her, and to your
humanity. I know that she can never be happy and _safe_ with any
one but you.

Will you come on Sunday, if convenient for you?

Always your friend,
CLAUDINE VINCELLE.

She stamped and sealed it, and lay down on the bed, to read, to try to read and to forget her bitter anxiety.

§ ii

Sunday came, and no word from him. And on Sunday evening Mr. Malloy appeared. Claudine was very much taken aback; he had never before come on Sunday, and she had very humanly taken it for granted that he never would. She hadn’t told Andrée that she expected Alfred; she had planned to take her by surprise, before she could adopt a difficult and dangerous mood. If he should come now! She sat upstairs in her room, in a state of tremulous agitation, looking out of her window, trying in vain to see the street through the fog that had risen, listening for his footfall, though what she could do to forestall him she didn’t know.

Outside on the porch Andrée and Malloy were sitting, well-wrapped, coat collars turned up against the thick, chill mist of that April night. Their hands were clasped, but they spoke very little. They were in a mood of sombre depression, not unknown to lovers. Now and then Claudine heard the sound of their voices, forlorn and detached; if it had been Alfred, she thought, how different it would have been! A continuous flow of talk, and retorts from Andrée, irritated perhaps, but certainly interested....

She fancied she heard a footstep on the hilly street; she opened her window softly and leaned out. The trees were dripping on the gravel drive; hoarse whistles sounded from the bay, and--yes, undoubtedly, that was the garden gate! A step on the porch, and Andrée’s voice--

“I want to see Mrs. Vincelle!”

She flew down the stairs and opened the front door.

“Come in, Alfred!” she said.

He followed her into the sitting-room and stood before her, still in his overcoat and cap.

“So she’s out there with him?” he said. “Do you think that’s a fair way to treat me?”

“I’m sorry, Alfred. Very sorry. I had no idea he would come this evening. I wouldn’t for worlds have--”

“He does come to see her then? In your house? And you don’t mind?”

“Please sit down!” she said, gently. “I am so glad you came. I wanted so to talk to you--to explain--”

He took off his overcoat and cap and threw them on a chair. He was thinner; his face had lost its boyish and alert expression, it was set in an expression of bitterness and misery.

“I didn’t want to come,” he said. “It can’t do any good. I knew what you thought would happen. You thought if we saw each other we’d--melt. That she’d change her mind. Well, I don’t want that. We’ve had enough emotion. I don’t want any--love that comes from caprice. No more moods and impulses. I--it wasn’t that way with me. It was--real.”

“Alfred, you mustn’t be hard! It’s not like you. If you love her, you must forgive her a hundred times. She’s silly and--”

“It’s not a question of forgiving. I don’t see it that way. She’s free to do as she pleases. It’s simply that now I know she’s not capable of loyalty.”

“Alfred, I give you my word there’s been nothing wrong--”

“Oh, I believe it! She’s _respectable_!” he said, bitterly. “I’m not afraid of her being too generous with--anyone. She’ll be like some of those singers and geniuses I’ve read of. She’ll have half a dozen husbands, but she’ll never do anything wrong.”

“That’s very cruel and unjust! Surely you’ve seen enough of the world to understand these--infatuations.... He’s a very handsome and attractive man, and she has lost her head. That’s all it is! It won’t last!”

“I know it won’t. But it will happen again. It isn’t the infatuation that hits me so hard. I can understand that. It could happen to almost anyone. But it’s the--the rank, beastly cruelty of it! To walk off and leave me without a word. I--you don’t know--leaving all her little things there--all her little things--telling me all the time she’d come back in a few days.... It’s....”

He got up and walked over to the fire.

“No,” he said. “She can have her divorce. I always told her I’d never try to keep her against her will. But--I wish to God we’d never got married.... If we could only part now with some sort of decency ... if she could just say, ‘It’s over. Good-by!’ But now--I guess you don’t realize--I’ll have to be caught in a compromising situation--all the dirty, filthy business will have to be written down and talked about by a lot of lawyers.... The sort of thing I hate worse than death. It’s what they call acting honourably for me to do that.”

“Don’t do it, Alfred! Don’t do it, I beg you! I am sure she loves you!”

“She has a damn peculiar way of loving, then.”

“I know she has. There are horrible things in her nature. But I am sure that you know the good in her too. She is honest and--”

She covered her face with her hands.

“Can’t you see, Alfred? She needs you so! No one else can help. No one else can help her to grow into something better.”

“Please don’t cry!” he said, in great distress. “I’d do anything for you. You’re an angel!”

“I’m not! I’m not! I once--long ago--thought I’d leave _my_ husband. But thank God I didn’t!”

“But it might have been better for you if you had,” he said, frankly.

She looked up in surprise.

“No!” she said. “It would have been--I am sure that self-sacrifice is the best way in life.”

“That depends on the object. If you sacrifice yourself for--well, humanity, it’s fine and good. But for one other human being, no!”

She had no intention of permitting an argument to begin. She pulled the conversation away from reason back to emotion, where it belonged.

“I don’t ask you to sacrifice yourself, Alfred. It would make you both happy.”

“I can’t do it!” he said, quietly. “She wants to leave me, and I must let her.”

“But you’ll see her?”

“No. Please don’t ask me any more. It’s settled. I’m sorry--on your account. I should be glad to do it for you--if I could. But I can’t.”

He went toward the chair where his coat lay and was about to put it on, when the door opened and Andrée entered. He turned and faced her. Her cheeks were rosy from the damp air, her black hair curled about her forehead; her mother looked at her loveliness with a beating heart. Surely he could not resist her!

But he picked up his cap and threw his coat over his arm.

“Good-night!” he said.

The front door closed after him.

§ iii

Not fifteen minutes ahead of him Malloy was making his way to the ferry.

“My God, what a mess!” he was saying over and over to himself. He had never in his life felt so shabby, so shamefaced, as he had felt that evening. There was no triumph in this love; he was a thief. He had mortally stricken that poor little chap. He had humiliated and hurt Edna. He had involved himself and Andrée in a disgusting scandal.

“We never can be happy,” he said. “Not on such a foundation.... But I don’t care! I’d rather have her and be miserable all my life!”