Chapter SIX: The Unlawful Picnic

§ i

After lunch they all, Claudine, Andrée, and Edna, dressed themselves in their ceremonial garments, the modish and immaculate white required by the gold-providing Gilbert, and went down to the railway station to meet him. There were other wives there, and other children, and a little swarm of bucolic onlookers. And there was also the “breath of life” in tramping outfit, with immense waterproof boots and a new Panama hat. He came over to them immediately.

“I’m taking the next train up,” he said, with his invariable assumption that everyone was interested in his doings. “They say there’s an old fellow away up in the mountains who’s a regular wild man. An Italian; he used to lead round one of those dancing bears, but it got away one night and he went into the woods after it, and never wanted to come back. Two or three people have told me about him. His hair’s got long, and he has a beard down to his waist. They say he won’t speak, but I guess I can make him. He runs away and tries to hide.”

“That sounds more like the bear,” said Edna. “Perhaps he ate the man and they’re both merged into one.”

He laughed.

“Well, I’m ready for bears, too,” he said. “I’ve got the best kind of rifle made, and I know how to use it.”

“Everything you have is the best there is, isn’t it?” said Andrée scornfully.

He reddened, but he answered cheerfully:

“You bet! And I’m proud of ’em, too. I earned ’em. They weren’t given to me by anyone else.”

Andrée turned away.

“Let’s walk up and down, Mother!” she said. “It’s so much hotter standing still.”

Claudine very willingly assented; the last thing in the world she wanted was for Gilbert to find them talking to that young man. He would be angry, and not without cause, for this was certainly not the sort of acquaintance for the mother of two young daughters to cultivate. Edna might talk to him with impunity, her sensible ideas and her humour legitimatized almost anything. She put her arm through Andrée’s and they began to saunter up and down, keeping a discreet distance from Mr. Stephens.

“He needs to be sat on!” said Andrée, with a frown.

“I don’t believe you can do it!” said her mother, smiling.

“He is a thick-skinned little beast. He’s insufferable!”

“I don’t think so. He’s polite enough, if he’s treated politely.”

“But I’m not going to treat him politely.... There’s the train!”

They halted and stood watching, while the engine roared past them and stopped neatly at the proper spot, and the handful of passengers alighted.

“O Lord!” groaned Andrée. “Again!”

For she had seen the gaunt, ungainly form of Mr. MacGregor coming down the steps, bag in hand. He lifted his hat and came toward them.

“I am charged with a very unwelcome message, I’m afraid,” he said. “Mr. Vincelle is unable to get away this week, and he asked me to come down, and see if I could be of any service to the ladies!”

Oh, cowardly Gilbert! Claudine could have laughed at his infantile ruse. She welcomed Mr. MacGregor with cordiality and beckoned to Edna, who came, but who naughtily brought the little man with her.

“Look here, Mrs. Vincelle!” he said, eagerly. “I’ve been talking to Miss Edna.... As long as your husband didn’t come out, you’re all more or less free, aren’t you? No plans made, I mean? Well, won’t you all be my guests on a little picnic?”

“I’m very sorry--” Claudine began, but he was not to be stopped.

“Why not?” he said. “It’s a hot afternoon, and I’ll show you a fine, cool spot. I’ll arrange everything. I’ll see to the supper, and everything else. All you have to do is just get your bathing suits--”

“Bathing!” said Edna. “I didn’t know there was any in this place!”

“There’s a wonderful swimming pool. And I can lend _you_ a bathing suit,” he said, looking directly at Mr. MacGregor, to whom he had not been, and never was to be, introduced.

“I’m afraid we’re not the same size,” said Mr. MacGregor.

“Doesn’t matter. You can get into it. We can start about four and come home by moonlight.”

The girls were both frankly pleased with the idea; Claudine confessed to herself that it was an attractive prospect. But impossible! They couldn’t be the guests of this man, they couldn’t really, openly, admit that he existed. She looked covertly at Mr. MacGregor, hoping for support, for some grown-up, tactful remark that should help her to get away. But he had taken it for granted that Mr. Stephens was a friend of the family, and he wanted to go on that picnic.

“Some other time--” Claudine began, with her most condescending affability, but Edna broke in, with a wail.

“Oh, Mother, I’m so longing for a swim! Do let’s go!”

“It’ll be very nice, I promise you!” said Mr. Stephens, solemnly. “I’ll take all the responsibility for seeing that you all enjoy yourselves.”

“After all, Mother, why not?” murmured Andrée, in her ear. “I’d like to eat somewhere except in that disgusting dining-room for once. And a moonlight walk!”

“I’m afraid Mr. MacGregor wants to rest after his journey,” said Claudine, and her tone was threatening. But Mr. MacGregor did not understand; he thought that he was expected not to want to rest, and he insisted that he longed for this picnic.

Claudine was miserably conscious of her lack of character; at her age she had no business to allow herself to be entrapped into so undignified a position. She knew she should have prevented this thing, that even now she ought to destroy the project, but she was quite unable to do so. She was committed....

§ ii

It was an imposing safari, observed by the people on the veranda with excessive interest. First went Claudine under a parasol held by Mr. MacGregor, then the two girls, arm in arm, and behind them, alone and unheeded, the young host, carrying a number of things, and behind him Mrs. Dewey’s fat youth, and a young man never accounted for, both heavily laden. Like a general the little man called out his orders.

“To your right now!” And Claudine and Mr. MacGregor would lead the march in that direction. Once they had to make a détour to avoid a field of cows, through which Andrée refused to pass.

“Now!” he said. “Just down this hill, and you’ll see the place. It’s beautiful! Fern Glen, I’ve named it. It’s a regular, natural swimming pool--water cold and clear as can be. And quiet! Lots of nice little birds, too, Mrs. Vincelle, just what you like.”

But instead of the exclamation of admiration he had expected, he heard a tragic cry from Andrée.

“Why, it’s nothing in the world but our horrible old snakey pool!”

“I didn’t realize we were getting here,” said Edna. “We’ve always come up the stream.”

“But what have you got against it?” asked the young man, horribly chagrined. “It’s a beautiful spot, and it’s _not_ snakey.”

“It is!” said Andrée. “We’ve seen snakes swimming in your beautiful natural swimming pool.”

“They weren’t poisonous snakes, then,” he assured her. “And they’ll keep out of your way.”

“I won’t give them the trouble,” said Andrée.

“We’ll look after you, Miss Edna and I,” said Mr. MacGregor. He always made a point of pretending that he and Edna were the firmest of allies, perhaps because she was the only member of the family he didn’t at all fear.

“I believe I’ll risk it!” said Edna. “It looks so lovely and cool and I’m so terribly hot.”

The fat youth and the young man had gone away again, and Mr. MacGregor and the host withdrew, to return very promptly in their bathing suits. Claudine was filled with quiet amusement at them; each was so evidently satisfied with his superiority over the other. Mr. MacGregor had an air of saying “I don’t believe you realized what a fine, big man I am! This poor chap’s tights are too short for me, and my chest almost bursts his poor little jersey. I may be an artist, but what a manly one!” And young Stephens, straighter than ever, couldn’t keep a grin from his freckled face; he was itching with a desire to show off. He was, moreover, very proud of the arrangements he had provided for the ladies; a little tent to serve as their dressing-room, with a mirror fastened to one of its sides.

It was characteristic that Andrée should be the most daring and reckless of them all. Claudine could not swim; she waded waist deep into the pool and stood there throwing water over her shoulders, like a little statue in a fountain, Edna thought, full of a precise and formal grace, not one burnished hair out of place. Mr. MacGregor swam powerfully all about the pool once or twice, to show his strength, and Edna followed him, and though she didn’t go nearly so fast, she wasn’t nearly so tired. He felt a little pang of envy for her youth that tinged his admiration for her with an almost unkindly feeling. Seen in a bathing suit, she was more robust than one would have imagined; she was small, like her mother, but it was not at all a fairylike smallness. She had a beautiful, a perfect figure, well-developed, supple, and sturdy; her skin was as white as a Dryad’s in that tree-shadowed place, and her blond hair was like sunshine, although her dimpled face had no sort of resemblance to any wild wood creature. Never would she pine or die for love! She was a young woman, not a sprite, and she had all of woman’s marvelous resources against suffering. Compared with her, Andrée was an immature and _farouche_ school-girl.

And yet it was she they all looked at. She was a fleet swimmer, but with little endurance. She had a well-known trick of swimming out too far and becoming panic-stricken and needing help to get back to the shore. She had a positive talent for alarming and distressing the others, for being perpetually the centre of attention. It was not that she consciously tried to “show off,” like Stephens; what she did, she did to satisfy some requirement of her own nature. She insisted upon swimming too near the waterfall; she _would_ dive, heedless of remonstrance. She was wayward, taciturn, defiant. She was the only one of the women to get her hair wet, the only one who emerged dank, shivering and dishevelled. And when they sat down on the pebbly shore for supper, she alone was untidy, she alone out of spirits. Her damp hair hung about her shoulders, her lips were bluish; she had only the curtest answers, and was obviously disinclined to speak at all.

“I’m afraid you stayed in the water too long,” said Claudine, with a shade of anxiety.

“No,” whispered Edna to her mother. “It’s not that. She was simply terrified every minute! That snake, you know! And yet, of course, she would hover about the very spot where we saw it.... Don’t speak to her, Mother darling! She’ll be all right in a few minutes.”

The supper was undeniably a triumph for Mr. Stephens. He had done wonders. Carefully concealed, he had caused to be brought a freezer of ice cream, great vacuum bottles of iced tea, and rum to flavour it for those who liked it. His bearers had lighted a fire before leaving, and in it were roasted potatoes and corn. There were also cold chicken and a fine boiled ham and a great number of other delicacies. The guests were hungry and complimentary.

Afterward he brought out that gold cigarette case and passed it about.

“Do you mind if I have one, Mother?” asked Andrée.

“I’d rather you didn’t,” said Claudine, coldly. There was nothing she disliked more.

But Mr. MacGregor intervened.

“As long as Miss Andrée isn’t a singer,” he said, “won’t you be indulgent, Mrs. Vincelle? I believe they’re very good for the nerves. In my younger days, of course, such a thing would have been out of the question. But live and learn! My own sister--”

“Mercy, what a killing look!” murmured Edna to her sister. “He wants to show you how up-to-date and young he is!”

“Very well!” said Claudine, graciously. But it was not Mr. MacGregor’s plea which had persuaded her; it was the peculiar look on her child’s face. It would be unwise to cross her, she thought.

And Andrée smoked, leaning back against a tree, looking an abandoned, reckless young creature, surrounded by a subtle and dangerous atmosphere of adoration.

The moon came up ... what further enchantment did she need than that light on her pale, dark face, than all that sweetness and mystery of the midsummer night about her?

The bearers came back and took away their burdens, and a little later the picnickers followed. Claudine walked a little in advance with Mr. MacGregor, and whenever, with a strange uneasiness, she turned to look behind her, she certainly saw two little points of light from two cigarettes among the shadows.

She condemned Mr. Stephens to Limbo.

§ iii

Naturally when Gilbert came out the next week-end he wished to know all about this picnic, and he wished to know also, although he dared not ask, why his candidate, Mr. MacGregor, had appeared so obviously discouraged. They had become great friends; they dined and went to the theatre together, and maintained a delightful bachelor intimacy, coming and going as they pleased. He had listened to MacGregor’s praise of Claudine with a sore heart. She kept her charm, her affability, well hidden from her husband! There she sat beside him, on the veranda, her book politely closed on her lap, just wifely, no more.

“Who was the fellow who gave the picnic?” he asked. “I’ve never heard of him. You haven’t mentioned his name in your letters.”

“You’ll see him in the dining-room this evening,” said Claudine. “He’s not--not quite our own sort, you know, Gilbert, but he’s very nice and pleasant.”

“Well, I’m no snob!” said Gilbert. He was in a wonderfully pleasant mood, his wife noticed, and if she had felt the least assurance of its keeping on, she would have unbent a little. But so many, many times had she hurried to meet him half way, only to see him retreat.... His thoughts would have astounded her.

“Why in God’s name can’t the woman be simple and friendly with me--and not so damned suspicious!” he said to himself. “She’s always watching me out of the corners of her eyes.... If we’re not--in love, there’s no reason why we shouldn’t be friends.”

He was really anxious to be friendly that day, poor devil, who had never had a friend in his life, or ever been one!

“No, I’m not a snob,” he went on. “That’s a feminine failing. But I don’t like my family making bosom friends of people I don’t know.”

“He’s certainly not a bosom friend,” said Claudine, “and as for your not knowing him, how could that be helped, when you weren’t here?”

“Very well! Very well!” he said, impatiently. “We won’t argue. Introduce the fellow to me, and I’ll soon see what sort he is.”

No one could imagine Claudine’s dread and misery. She knew very well what Gilbert would think of Mr. Stephens.

His solitary little table was near a window, and a vagrant breeze that ruffled his light hair gave him a boyish and untidy look. He had a book propped up before him and he was eating absent-mindedly. She pointed him out with a smile which was the equivalent of a shrug of the shoulders, throwing the poor young fellow to the wolves.

“There he is, Gilbert!” she said.

Gilbert stared incredulously at the cheerful young man, with sleeves rolled up on his sunburnt arms, coatless, innocently absorbed in his book.

“What!” he said. “That fellow!”

“I told you he wasn’t quite--”

“And that’s the sort of man you encourage--and have hanging around your daughters, while you raise cain about a gentleman like MacGregor!”

He stared again.

“You introduce him to me,” he said, “and I’ll soon settle his hash!”

“Don’t be rude to him, Gilbert! Remember we’ve accepted his hospitality.... You’ll put me in a very undignified position.”

“You’ve done that for yourself,” he said.

With what reluctance did she approach the unsuspecting young man, and present him to Gilbert! He got up with alacrity and held out his hand, but Gilbert ignored it. He glanced round, and saw that Claudine had gone, and that he might therefore be rude without fear of interruption. He was terribly upset; he had a dim suspicion that Claudine had set up this man in opposition to his Mr. MacGregor, that it was altogether some beastly feminine plot.

“I want to thank you for your hospitality to my family,” he said, slowly. “However--”

“However?” repeated Mr. Stephens, encouragingly, but Gilbert found it very difficult to go on. He stood with his hands behind his back, the very image of respectability and decent prosperity, lowering at “that grasshopper,” as he mentally named the other.

“However,” said Mr. Stephens. “It mustn’t happen again. Is that it?” He was, it must be confessed, rather unduly sensitive to the social disapproval of capitalists.

“Yes!” said Gilbert. “I’m very particular--in regard to the acquaintances--about the people--about people I know nothing about--where my family is concerned.”

“Well,” said Stephens, “you can investigate, if you like. You can find out all about me. You can write to--”

“No! It won’t do!... No, I’ll have to ask you to--to discontinue the intimacy.”

“There isn’t any intimacy.”

“There’s not to be any intercourse whatever.”

“I don’t see how you can stop it,” said Stephens.

“I forbid it!” said Gilbert, with a scowl.

“You can’t forbid me, you know. As for your ‘family,’ I don’t know whether you can forbid them or not. That’s their business. If they consider it the best policy to knuckle down, why, I shan’t think any the worse of them. It’s the way of the world to dance when the fellow with the money fiddles. You--”

“Look here, you damned, impudent, vulgar jackanapes--”

“Don’t begin calling names, or I might call you a damn’ vulgar bully. But I won’t. I don’t lose my temper so easily. Fellows like me know that when they do lose their tempers, they’ve got to back it up with their fists. Something your sort never do, do you? You yell and curse, and that’s the end of it.”

They were disturbed by the distressful voice of Mrs. Dewey, outraged by these loud voices, but respectful before two such profitable persons.

“Gentlemen!” she said. “Please ...!”

Gilbert turned on his heel and strode out of the room. He went, of course, to his wife.

“I’ve been having a talk with that gentlemanly friend of yours,” he said, with a desperate effort to steady his voice. “And I want to tell you, once and for all, I’ll have--I’ll have ... I’ll have.... Understand me, both of you--and I want you to tell Andrée, too--you’re not to speak to the fellow again. Under any circumstances.”

“I’ll have to answer him if he speaks to me,” said Edna.

Both her parents were astonished.

“No, you don’t!” said her father. “I won’t have it!”

“I can’t be rude to him,” said Edna, in her most tranquil, sensible voice.

“I tell you!” shouted Gilbert. “I won’t have it!”

Edna said nothing, but the expression of her face was not obedient. Gilbert didn’t know how to proceed; he hesitated a moment, then he turned away.

“Claudine,” he said, from the doorway, “this is your business! You brought them up, and now you can handle them. You see to it that my--wishes are carried out. Understand, I’ll have no nonsense!”

“Oh, my dear child!” said Claudine, when the door had banged after him. “I wish you had more--tact! Surely Mr. Stephens isn’t worth a quarrel with your own father!”

“I don’t know, Mother. I think he’s rather wonderful. I wouldn’t be rude to him for anything. You know Andrée and I have seen a lot of him this week. We’ve been rowing with him, and walking, and he’s been as nice as could be. You can’t imagine!... He’s so different from anyone else we’ve ever known. And even if he is common, he’s not the least bit--objectionable. Why, Mother, you can see how trustworthy and honest he is! It’s written all over him!”

“I know, my dear. But your father--”

“Father’s not infallible. He makes mistakes. He’s not a good judge of people at all. And I’m not going to be rude to the poor man. And I’m _sure_ Andrée won’t, either. She loves to hear him talk. She says he makes her ambitious.”

Claudine was in despair. How did other mothers manage to impress their children? Was the trouble because she was singularly ineffectual or because her children were singularly rebellious? It didn’t occur to her that it might be because she was wrong. She decided to try another tack.

“Edna!” she cried, fervently. “For my sake, dear, avoid any trouble with your father! You can’t think how it distresses me!”

“Mother!” said Edna, firmly. “That’s not fair! That’s just as bad as Father’s way. It isn’t fair to try to make me do what I don’t think is right.”

But she melted at the sight of her mother’s face.

“Very well, darling!” she said. “I hate to do it, but if it’ll make you any happier, I’ll be tactful. Father won’t know a thing about it. I’ll give Mr. Stephens a little hint. He’s never offended. I’ll only talk to him when Father isn’t here.”

And Claudine must be satisfied with this.