Chapter FOUR: Claudine’s Peculiar Mother

§ i

No one could have known this better. She was in her room, standing before the mirror, looking with critical attention at her image. She was at her loveliest and well she knew it. She was in white, with a pale green sash about her twenty inch waist. Her red hair was curled over her forehead in a low bang, below which her brown eyes were marvelously bright and alluring. Her face was radiant with happiness, but there lay over it a faint shadow, a sort of tenderness.

This was to be the day. She knew it. She had read his determination in his face the day before. And it was all coming out just as she had wished it to come. Ever since her school days that had been her dream--to be proposed to by a dark, handsome man in evening dress, at a dance. There had been other proposals but none of them just right; there had been other men to whom her fancy had strayed, but never like this. She felt for this silent and stalwart young fellow a pity, a compassion that bordered on pain. She didn’t like to let him out of her sight. She longed so to make him happy. He seemed so lonely, so helpless, so neglected, so pitiably in need of a comrade. Since she had seen his horrible home and his chilly old mother, she had loved him more, felt more sorry for him than ever. Oh, no doubt about it, he was the man!

The sense of impending change was upon her. This room would never look the same to her again, her own face would never have quite this look again; after this evening everything would be _different_. She was lively and high-spirited, but she was in no way frivolous. She wouldn’t make a promise unless she meant to keep it. This was the most important step in her life, and she had considered it well. She had studied her man; she felt that she knew him. She was well aware that he wasn’t clever, and that he wasn’t very good-natured, but she was so accustomed to good-nature, to kindness, tolerance, that she did not know their value. Let him be a little cross if he wished, the dear old bear! She would wheedle away his ill-humour with her own gaiety. She would be the light of his life, she would bring youth and happiness into his monotonous existence. She could be more to him than to any other man.

Divine and naïve idea of a young girl, innocently conscious of her own immeasurable value!

§ ii

It had been a beautiful day for her, a day of profound significance. She had been waked up by her mother coming into her bedroom to kiss her and wish her “many happy returns.” Half asleep she had watched the stout figure moving about the room, pulling up the shades to let in the light of the summer morning, picking up the clothes she had left carelessly about, folding bits of ribbon, straightening the articles on her bureau with that silent and inexhaustible kindness she counted upon as she did upon the very sun.

“Well!” said her mother at last, with her benevolent smile, “are you never going to look at your little presents, chickabiddy?”

Then she had sat up, her short heavy braid over one shoulder, and began opening the packages always found on birthday mornings at one’s bedside. The gifts had brought tears to her eyes. The love in them, the unspeakably dear intimacy! Her mother had embroidered a dozen linen handkerchiefs, and an exquisite sachet case for them; her father had presented her with the bottle of Cherry Blossom perfume he had bought every year since she was a child--and which she didn’t like--and a big box of chocolates with a ten dollar gold piece on top. Lance gave her a book of verse. Then there was a photograph in a silver frame of her eldest sister with her three babies; there were six pairs of French gloves from one brother and a beautiful edition of “Ingoldsby Legends” from the other, and from the sister who had married only a year ago a combing jacket, trimmed with pale green ribbons. She had so well remembered Claudine’s tastes!

“Oh, Mother!” she had said, with a sob, “you’re all so good and dear! I wish ...?”

“What _do_ you wish, Goosie?”

But she didn’t quite know. Perhaps she wished to clutch at Time and hold him here forever.

She had got up and dressed and gone into the garden before breakfast to look at the flowers, and to pick a very few. The roses were just beginning; they were so lovely that she almost wept again. The buds were drooping in a sort of enchanted drowsiness, some yellow, some so faintly pink, some a dark and wonderful red; she touched with her finger the waxy satin petals, she bent over them to inhale the fragrance of them, that heavenly fragrance warmed with the sun. She went about from one bed to the other, to see what new thing had come up, what was flourishing, what was disappointing. Her father was a notable gardener; she hadn’t his skill, but she had his love for growing things. She enjoyed the garden perhaps more than he did, for she had not his anxieties about it. She sauntered over the wide lawn that ran all down the hillside, the sun warm on her bare head, her white dress trailing over the grass, and as she went she reflected, with a little fleeting melancholy in her happiness, Nineteen! Nineteen such wonderful years in this garden!

But the years to come she thought, would be far more wonderful.

§ iii

The Masons were quite unabashed in their family celebrations--Mrs. Mason had a perfectly clear conception of the value of these ceremonies in holding together a family, and she made the most of them, in her calm way. It was a revelation to young Vincelle; he thought it somewhat childish and absurd and not quite the thing. The table that night was set with unusual magnificence with a lace cloth and four silver candelabra, and at the end a wonderful cake was brought, frosted with pink and white and green, and bearing twenty candles, one for good luck. He was the only guest and he felt embarrassed.

After the dinner the dance, the same sort of dance that had been on the occasion of his first visit, but without that unique flavor. He felt a little chilled, a little aloof, dreading unspeakably what lay before him. Never had Claudine seemed so distant, never had she seemed so much a stranger. He began to grow certain that he had no chance at all. Perhaps it would be better if she did refuse him, and he could go home again....

Young men invited to dances at Mrs. Mason’s house in those days were expected to dance, and Gilbert had not much time for reflection. He went dutifully waltzing about the ball-room with one young lady after the other, and once or twice went out upon the veranda with a partner. Actually a moonlight night; he couldn’t have devised a better setting....

The moment came. He stood out there with Claudine, on the lawn, in the moonlight. She had suddenly grown quiet: he could see her face plainly, and it was grave, serious, almost sad. She looked more than ever like a spirit, in her white dress with her slim bare neck and arms.

The breeze blew the end of her silvery scarf against his face, and brought to his nostrils the faint scent of the perfume she used--some innocent, old-fashioned thing of her mother’s. He took her by the arm and led her under the shadow of a row of horse chestnuts.

Poor devil! He had no fit words. God knows what he faltered out.... But she didn’t care. Tears came to her eyes; indeed they were both very close to weeping. She reached out and touched his hot trembling hand, and they clung to each other, mute, with their pitiful young love, their hearts aching with the beauty of the matchless night and the supreme moment, unique in their lives, never again to be recaptured.

“Don’t tell anyone to-night!” she whispered, and for these few hours it was their secret.

§ iv

The very next day the trouble began. His mother received the news of his acceptance with a smile of satirical amusement.

“You’re old enough to know what you’re doing,” she said. “And so is _she_.”

“Claudine’s only nineteen,” said her son, answering her tone rather than her words.

“_Is_ she?” said his mother. “I shouldn’t have thought so. She seems very sophisticated.... But I suppose that’s her upbringing.”

Pursuant to Claudine’s instructions he had taken an afternoon off from the office so that he could go down to Staten Island, and see her father. This ordeal didn’t particularly distress him: he felt that as a son-in-law he was faultless. He had practically no past; nothing that could be troublesome, anyway, and financially he was ready and anxious for the most minute investigation.

The Professor received him with kindliness. He said “Well, young man!” offered him a cigar and said that as Claudine had made up her mind, what were they to do? He asked him a few questions, and then sent him off to Claudine. But, as he left the library, he met Mrs. Mason in the hall. And her look astonished him. Her bland face wore no smile for him: on the contrary, she gave him a glance so cold, severe and merciless that he winced.

When he learned the truth he was still more taken aback. She objected! Claudine was tearful and dejected. She said they’d had a dreadful time that morning.

“Father says I’m to decide for myself, and that neither he nor Mother ought to interfere. But Mother said--Oh, Gilbert, I can’t understand Mother! It’s not a bit like her!... She said she’d never consent to her dying day.”

“But why?” cried the affronted and amazed young man.

“She thinks--we’re not suited to each other.”

“Rubbish!” he said, scornfully. That was a woman’s objection for you! Nothing against him financially, morally or physically, but some absurd feminine notion of suitability. He was a little relieved.

“I suppose the truth of it is, she doesn’t want to lose you, Claudine. I don’t blame her.”

“Oh, no!” said Claudine, “it can’t be that, because--” she stopped short with a sudden blush.

“Because what?”

“Because--I know it isn’t that.... Oh, Gilbert, do try to--win her affection!”

“I don’t see why I should!” he answered. “Upon my word I don’t see why I should humble myself--”

“She’s my mother, Gilbert, and I love her.”

“Yes, of course, my sweet girl! But, after all, if you’re going to marry me, I come first, don’t I? If you really love me--” She began to cry.

“You _know_ I do! Only--you can’t imagine how dear and wonderful Mother’s always been.”

He said he could have a talk with her and he did. It was not a pleasant talk. This benevolent matronly creature, whom he had always taken for granted as a part of Claudine’s background, had suddenly come alive as a woman, as a difficult and unmanageable feminine creature.

She said:

“I should prefer not to discuss this matter with you, Mr. Vincelle.”

“But why?” he protested. “If you have any objection to me, isn’t it only fair to tell me what it is? To let me defend myself?”

She shook her head.

“No,” she said. “I couldn’t put it into words.... I am positive that you cannot make Claudine happy.”

“Why do you think I can’t make her happy, Mrs. Mason?”

“It isn’t in you,” she said frankly. “You are not suited to each other.”

“Well, I believe a woman can adapt herself to any man, if she really cares for him.”

“Claudine’s not adaptable. It would be necessary for _you_ to make concessions--to be very tolerant and wise. And I don’t think you would be.”

He smiled indulgently.

“I think I understand her,” he said. “And I’m used to feminine ways, you know. My mother--”

She shook her head.

“It won’t do!” she said, with emphasis. “I shall never consent to it.”

This was the most outrageous affront imaginable. If she had objected to him for any other reason, because of his morals, his religion, his social standing, his financial position, he could have endured it, because he could have argued and proved her absolutely wrong. But just simply to dislike him....

Of course, he knew how perverse, unreasonable and provoking women were, a man must take that into consideration. But that a mature woman should be so idiotic as to insult an eligible suitor for her daughter’s hand was a thing unheard of. He despised her; she had no common sense; she had no regard for her child’s welfare....

He asked Claudine if she would marry him without her mother’s consent.

“As long as your father agrees, and there’s no valid objection,” he said. “You wouldn’t jilt me because your mother’s taken some sort of--” he checked the words on his lips and said, very moderately--“taken a dislike to me, would you?”

But he could get nothing sensible from her; only that she really did love him, and that her mother was so dear and wonderful, and that there was no hurry, anyway, was there?

He refused to stay for dinner; he went home in a state of sullen rage, and he carried his intolerable hurt to the person whom he fancied best appreciated his worth. He got cold comfort.

“There’s as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it,” said his mother. “They’re very peculiar people. They’d never suit _you_.”

“I don’t want to marry the family,” he said sharply. “Claudine’s not responsible for her mother.”

“Her mother’s responsible for her, though. She’s brought her up according to her own ideas. If you take my advice, you’ll put the whole thing out of your head.”

He went up to his own room, with a most unpleasant fancy that all these women knew things about him which he didn’t know; that they were all, his own mother included, ruled by motives not to be comprehended by him. He was very unhappy. If it were only a matter of Claudine and himself! When he had the dear little thing in his arms, she was his, she loved him, she forgot everyone else; if they were married, it would always be so. He did understand her; he knew he could make her happy if they were alone.

If they had a little house somewhere, by themselves.... He began to dream impossible rustic dreams; he saw them in a vine-covered cottage, such as he had certainly never seen; he fancied Claudine running down the path to meet him when he came home, flinging her arms about him, her bright sweet face uplifted, her curly hair blowing ... oh, he was frightfully unhappy!

He didn’t know whether he ought to go down to Staten Island again, or not. But Claudine wrote to him, and told him to come. Her mother didn’t in the least mind their seeing each other. So he went, sulky and reluctant, and was very well received. Mrs. Mason was quite natural and pleasant, and treated him just as she treated everyone else; and Claudine was heavenly. She found a chance to slip out into the garden with him, and as soon as they were alone, she kissed him, quite of her own accord.

“You see,” she said. “Poor mother thinks that if we see each other often enough, we’ll quarrel, or something of the sort. So if we just wait long enough, and she sees that we _don’t_, she’ll realize that she’s wrong; and it will be all right.”

“How long will it take?” he asked, gloomily. “Five years?”

“Oh, mercy, no! Only be patient.”

“I can’t be! I don’t want to wait! I love you so! I don’t want to waste years--”

“They won’t be wasted, Gilbert. They’ll be the happiest time of our lives. You’re happy now, aren’t you, this very moment?”

“Not so very. I want you for my own, Claudine.”

“I am your own. I love you and love you, darling Gilbert.”

Impossible to argue with her innocence; he resigned himself to get what joy he could from these stolen moments. And he knew that no matter how long he had to wait, no matter what humiliation and unpleasantness he had to endure, Claudine was worth it.

Suddenly, without the slightest pretense of reason, Mrs. Mason gave in, she no longer objected.

“Marry him if you want to, chickabiddy,” she said.

They were all astonished and a little uneasy. A change had come over that incomprehensible woman. Her color was as ruddy, her activity as great, she was as kind, as pleasant, as competent as ever. But an immense moral apathy had seized her, she no longer interfered, no longer gave advice. Let her husband smoke fifteen cigars a day, let her child marry whom she would, she seemed indifferent. She had become strangely and terribly remote. She seemed to have a grim secret of her own, a knowledge of some event in comparison with which all these things were of no importance.

No one realized what shadow had fallen upon her. They were willing to accept her change of heart as a whim. But she who was about to be exiled forever had come to see the futility of resistance. She saw her own death coming toward her; she could bear to watch it. And she saw so clearly too that when she was no longer standing in the highway, the others would still go on, and that cry after her child as she might, no sound would ever again reach her.

Gilbert and Claudine were married that autumn in a little church on Staten Island. Old Mrs. Vincelle was brought there, like a Buddha carried in a procession, and there were a certain number of Brooklyn _haute bourgeoisie_. But it was a Mason wedding, and Mrs. Mason dominated it. She gave a marvelous breakfast after it in the house on the hill, and hers was the last face they saw as they drove away. She had come out into the road, to look after them, a stout, dignified figure in black silk waving her hand, and smiling after her youngest child....