Chapter THREE: Andrée’s Wedding

§ i

Gilbert was alone in his office, working in one of his characteristic fits of great energy. A sort of inspiration would seize him, he would map out astounding campaigns, design advertisements, write letters to his travelling salesmen which filled them with admiration and enthusiasm, humorous, racy letters, replete with valuable suggestions. The greater part of his time he was cross and wretched, but he had his glorious hours, his days of geniality and amazing penetration. The entire office staff would be enchanted, and ready to adore him, for he had a perverse charm about him, an elusive loveableness, a touch of the fascination so marked in his eldest child.

He always addressed his salesmen in his own writing, a very neat and legible one, and he was doing that now, his plump, well-kept hand travelling deliberately over the paper, and a faint smile on his lips, when there was a knock at the door and his young Cuban entered.

“Your daughter is outside, sir!” he announced, with all the homage of a courtier. He was profoundly attached to “the family”; he was not without hope of something happening similar to the things he had read of in French romances--that, as a reward for his furious zeal, he would one day be invited to dinner, for instance, when he could be presented to the young ladies with due ceremony. After that, the rest would be easy....

“Ask her to step in,” said Gilbert, and looking at his watch, decided that he would take Edna out to lunch. He took it for granted that it was Edna, because it always was. She was sent as an emissary by both Bertie and Andrée when they wanted money or permission for any unapproved enterprise, because she knew how to handle him.

He wheeled round in his chair, and was surprised to see Andrée standing there.

“Well, well!” he said, good-humouredly. “What do _you_ want, eh?”

He thought she looked “queer,” and he stared at her more closely. She had a sort of desperate, defiant air, an unchanging smile.

“Sit down! Sit down!” he said. “What brings you here, Andrée?”

“I wanted to talk to you. I wanted to tell you something.... I wanted you to hear it from me instead of from Mother, so that you--wouldn’t fly at her.”

She knew that she was antagonizing him, but she could not help it. The only way she felt able to tell her monstrous piece of news was rudely and sternly, to deny even to herself the dread and shrinking she suffered. Her father’s face changed perceptibly.

“Well!” he said, impatiently.

She laid her pocket-book on his desk, a beautiful little pocket-book, for she had all her mother’s elegance in trifles--and stood looking down at him.

“I’m going to marry Mr. Stephens!” she said.

“Who the devil is Mr. Stephens?” he cried.

Andrée began to laugh.

“That man you had a fight with last summer, in the mountains.”

“What!” he cried, springing up. “What! That common, worthless little cad!”

“Yes!” she said, looking him steadfastly in the face, and smiling. “That common, worthless little cad. Don’t begin to rave at me. You can’t stop me. Mother’s been trying for weeks.”

“I’m not going to ‘rave,’ young woman. I have more effective means than that to put a stop to your nonsense. You’re not so independent as you imagine--”

“If you’ll just take it for granted that _I’m going to do it_, we can talk,” said Andrée. “Otherwise it’s no use, and I’d better go.”

“I see your mother’s hand in this!” he said. “Some of her--peculiar ideas--”

“No, you don’t. She doesn’t even know I’m going to tell you. She’s done all she could to persuade me--”

“Persuade isn’t the word I’d use. Look here, Andrée, my girl, I’m not going to argue with you. Put this idea out of your head once and for all--”

“Why?”

“Why? Because I tell you to. You’re too young to know what you’re doing, and you’ll have to listen to people who are older and know better.”

“But--about this--you don’t know better. You don’t know anything about him. And anyway, it’s not a question of knowing, it’s a question of--of feeling. I--like him. I’m older than Mother was when she married you. I know what I’m doing. His only crime is being--what you call ‘common.’ He’s very remarkable. If you knew him, you’d soon see it.”

“You don’t know enough of the world to realize that marriages between people of unequal social position are always unhappy.”

“They’re just as unhappy in other cases,” said Andrée. “I don’t believe social position has anything to do with it. It’s--disposition. And Al has a wonderful disposition.”

“Al!” her father repeated, contemptuously.

“Yes, Al! That’s what he calls himself. I like it! It’s so nice and jolly and--common!”

“Andrée!” said her father, sternly. “This is nothing but a whim--a freak of yours.... I think you’re only trying to torment and worry the people who love you.”

“You’ll see if it’s a whim!” she answered.

Suddenly he was disarmed; some gesture, some intonation of hers, had brought back to him the naughty little girl who had so perplexed and amused him, the scowling little rebel he had so often wanted to shake--and never had. He remembered her with surprising vividness as a child of six, spending a Saturday morning with him, sitting in the corner of this very office, cutting out paper dolls, while she waited for him to wind up his business and take her out to lunch and the circus.

“Andrée!” he said. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll let you go over to Germany with your mother to study music for a year.”

“But I’m going to study here! That’s what Al and I have arranged. I’m going to go on just the same!” she said, triumphantly. “And he’s going to give me a grand piano for a wedding present!”

This put an end to his softness.

“If you don’t renounce this--mad idea--at once, and finally,” he said, “it will mean--that I wash my hands of you. That you’ll be entirely cut off from your family, including your mother, whom you pretend to love so much. You’ll disgrace--”

“Nonsense!” she interrupted. “It’s not true to say I’ll disgrace you, because I want to marry someone you don’t like. It’s--”

“Enough!” he said, frowning. “I’ve said all I’m going to. If you’re not prepared to tell me _now_ that you will--obey me in this matter ... or at least, agree to wait a year--”

“No, I’m not prepared to do that!”

“Then you may consider that you are no longer a member of my household!”

“What does that mean?” she asked, scornfully. “Does it mean you’re turning me out?”

“Yes!” he shouted. “If you haven’t the common decency to appreciate, or feel any gratitude for all that’s been done for you, you can try doing without for a while. You can go back now and talk it over with your mother, and when I come home this evening, I’ll tell you what I’ve decided.”

“No, thanks! I won’t go home. I’ll never go home again. It’s your home, not mine, I see. Good-by!”

He caught her by the arm.

“I won’t allow this! I insist upon your going home at once. Do you hear?”

“Of course I hear! Everyone in the office must. But I won’t go!”

“Yes, you will!” he said. He was furious, and very much frightened. He had no idea what she might do. “I’m going to call a taxi and send you home.”

“You’ll have to get a policeman to go with me!” she said, laughing again. “I won’t go! I don’t mind a row once in a while, but I don’t like the idea of a whole lot of them. It was hard enough to come and tell you about this, but you’ve made things impossible now. You won’t treat me as a woman--”

“You’re not a woman!” he cried. And certainly she had never looked less like one. She looked like a school-girl, reckless and ignorant of the consequences of her folly, her face alight with a defiance that was more mischievous than resolute.

“Good-by!” she said.

“Andrée!... Confound you!... Think of your mother! Go home, and we’ll talk the thing over thoroughly this evening!”

“All right!” she said, suddenly, and left him without another word.

§ ii

It was due to Claudine that she remained in the house until her wedding three weeks later. The distracted woman went from one to the other of them, seeing the breach widen every day. She implored and entreated Andrée, she faced Gilbert with unparalleled firmness; she was able to keep up an outward semblance of dignity in the family. But it was a monstrous thing. Andrée and her father never spoke to each other. The meals were a nightmare, to see them there side by side, so bitterly hostile. She dreaded to speak herself, for fear of hurting or angering one or the other of those inordinately sensitive creatures. Edna was grief-stricken; she had tried to remonstrate in the old friendly fashion with her sister, to make her realize the prodigious unfitness of Mr. Stephens, but she had been rudely rebuffed. Bertie was gravely displeased; he disapproved of Andrée and also of his parents for not preventing such a marriage.

“And these are the last days I’ll ever have Andrée with me!” thought the poor mother. “These bitter, wretched days! This is the end of her girlhood--and what an end! What a memory to take with her!”

The day after Stephens had returned from Europe he had invited her to tea with Andrée, without having made any attempt to see Andrée alone, or even to write to her. He had no need to ask Claudine whether she had succeeded in alienating Andrée from him; her face told him everything, her smile. He had a little table reserved for them in a corner of the tea-room, and they all sat down in silence.

But Claudine, glancing up, saw them looking at each other, and it was horrible to her. She saw in his kindly, honest face that least kindly, least honest of human desires, his mouth had a kind of grimness; he looked so entirely a man.... And Andrée! Was that the way a woman should look, who is about to decide her destiny? Her brilliant eyes were full on him, provocative, equivocal....

They talked, very harmoniously. He told them about his trip in dutiful fashion, because he wanted Claudine to know his position.

“You see,” he said. “I’ve put about everything I own into this English syndicate. It pays me well, but I put the biggest part of my income back into it again. I calculate that inside the next five years I and three pals of mine can pretty well buy the rest out, and then we expect to turn the thing into a co-operative enterprise, with the workers sharing the profits. Then, of course, I won’t get so much as I’m getting now, but I’m getting too much now. But it’ll be a good living--something more than that--for both of us, for the rest of our lives.”

“But I’m going to work too, you know,” said Andrée. “I’m going to study a few years more, and then I’ll give concerts. All over Europe!”

“You won’t have much of a home, will you?” asked Claudine.

“We don’t want one!” said Stephens, cheerfully. “I never could see any reasonable connection between--well, marriage and house-keeping. Because I--love a woman, that doesn’t mean I want her to look after my personal needs. I’d hate to see anyone like Andrée tied up to a house and a lot of dull, petty details. I’m not going to interfere with her life. Never! If I can help, I will, but if I can’t, at least I won’t hinder her.”

“But--” began Claudine, and she was conscious of a slight flush which mortified her. They didn’t mind talking of such things! “A home is supposed--isn’t it?--to be a place for--bringing up children.”

“Sure! But that doesn’t imply that the mother and father have to spend all their time in it. There are people specially qualified to bring up children. Then let ’em do it!”

“That doesn’t seem--” Claudine began, but she stopped. What was the use? Perhaps he was right; if he wasn’t, they would soon find out.

“You’ll have to live somewhere,” she said. “What will you do?”

“A suite in a nice, quiet hotel,” said Andrée, “where I can have my piano.”

So there was nothing to prepare for this young bride, no house-linen to mark, no silver to buy. Even her trousseau she insisted upon buying ready-made. Her mother did sew a few little things for her, but she felt all the time, with every stitch, how superfluous they were. There was nothing required of her; she too was superfluous.

§ iii

They sat in the motor car, well wrapped in furs, holding each other’s gloved hands. In the corner was Lance, who was to give Andrée away, and facing them, Bertie and Edna. But the mother was not conscious of them; she felt quite alone in the world with her child.

They had left Gilbert in the most painful way. He couldn’t really believe that Andrée would so flout him; he had continued to hope that at the last moment she would capitulate, and he longed for that moment. He had never asked about the progress of the affair, and Claudine had said nothing until a few days before the wedding.

“Remember, Andrée,” he had said then, “if you do this outrageous, disgraceful thing, I’ll never see you or speak to you again.”

And the morning of that day he hadn’t gone to his office; he had remained in the dining-room, after breakfast, smoking and reading the newspaper. Claudine had come in to him.

“Gilbert!” she had said. “Gilbert! Please, please come to her wedding! No matter how you feel about it, she’s your own--”

“No!” he had cried. “I won’t sanction it! It’s altogether wrong, and I won’t countenance it! She’s marrying a vulgar, underbred cur who’s a disgrace to the family ... the first and only time I saw the fellow he insulted me grossly. She’s absolutely disregarded my authority. She’s doing this against my wishes, and she knows it!”

Through the open door of the dining-room he had seen Andrée come down the stairs, quite ready, with her hat on. He had gone out into the hall and stood looking at her, with a terrible twinge of pain.

“Remember!” he said. “If you go out of this house--to marry that man, you can never set foot in here again!”

“I didn’t expect to!” she answered, briefly. “Good-by, Father.”

But he would not say good-by, he went back into the dining-room and from behind his paper he saw them all go. It was as if he were being deserted, rebuked by his family. His hand trembled, he bit his mustache. Andrée gone! And gone to her certain unhappiness.... She would be married, and her father would not be standing beside her.... He couldn’t endure it. He sprang up and hurried to his bedroom, in a blind desire to escape his thoughts. But there was no comfort in that silent house. He could think of no better refuge than his office. His child had gone without him....

“And yet I’m right!” he cried to himself. “I’m right! I’ve done what I ought to have done! I’ve refused to sanction this thing!”

§ iv

Not one of the party gave him a thought. They reached the church and entered, and Mr. Stephens was waiting there, with two friends. No one else had been invited. Like a woman in a dream Claudine went into the vestry with Andrée, to take off their furs.

“Am I all right?” asked Andrée.

“Yes, darling, very nice!” she answered. She wanted to look forever and ever at that girl in her plain dark suit, her small hat, that gallant and heart-breaking young figure.

Suddenly Andrée crushed her in a fierce embrace.

“Mother!” she said. “Mother!”

“Don’t cry, my heart’s darling!”

“I won’t; just in a minute.... Mother, are you satisfied--now?”

“Yes, my darling!”

“Tell me, Mother--I don’t understand ... why do you care so much about this--about this ceremony? What does it matter, if we care for each other?”

“I think it’s this, Andrée. I think marriage is the only way to impress upon a man what a woman is giving to him. You know--almost all women know--how sacred and wonderful and terrible a thing it is. But I don’t believe men quite understand. I think they would take it very casually--if it weren’t made as solemn and impressive as--”

Andrée flushed.

“It isn’t sacred and wonderful!” she said. “I hate that sort of talk so! I don’t want to impress poor little Al with my preciousness. He’s just as valuable and good as I am. He gives up just as much.”

“Andrée--my baby--if you’ll--”

“Don’t give me any advice about managing him!” said Andrée, with her sudden laugh. “I’ll never try! Hadn’t we better go in, Mother?”

Claudine took her seat in a front pew.

“Now I must sit here and watch this horrible thing!” she said to herself. “Oh God! Oh God! Do other mothers feel like this? How can they smile?... How can they be pleased--and try to make matches?... Am I a morbid, perverted woman? It’s her destiny to marry someone--and he’s a kind man.... I must be glad!”

She heard their responses, both of their voices steady and clear, both of them making those promises.

“I must be happy!” she said, again. “It’s just the beginning of her life. There is sure to be so much joy and accomplishment in it.... This is only one step.... I must have fortitude. I can’t live her life for her....”

She rose, to face the little man’s wife. She kissed her pale, sombre face, she clasped his hand.

“Be happy!” she said.

Then she looked round in a sort of panic for Bertie.

“Bertie!” she whispered. “Take me home! Take me home!”