Chapter SIX: The Keynote

She waked up in the dark, terrified by a great banging at the door. She thought the house was on fire, that someone was ill, that thieves had broken in. She shook Gilbert fiercely. But he didn’t stir.

Barefooted she rushed across the floor and unfastened the door.

“What is it!” she cried.

“It’s seven o’clock, ma’am,” said a meek voice.

“Seven o’clock!” she repeated.

“Yes, ma’am, I always call Mr. Gilbert at seven.”

“Oh, I see!” she said. “I didn’t know....”

She closed the door and went back to the bed where Gilbert still slept.

“Wake up!” she said, severely.

Still he didn’t move. She clutched his big shoulders and tried to shake him, but he only groaned.

“Oh, do wake up!” she cried, in a sort of desperation.

“All right!” he murmured, but his eyes remained closed.

She was on the point of tears! She would really have liked to hurt him. She seized his hair and pulled it vigorously, and at once he sat up, dazed and resentful.

“Look here!” he said. “That’s no way.”

“It’s seven o’clock!” she said coldly. “I should think, if you’re so sleepy in the mornings, you’d go to bed earlier.”

She herself was very weary and depressed. She had, as she had expected, lain awake a long, long time, unhappy in the darkness of that unfamiliar room, with the shutters all closed, and no sight of the sky to console her. At home she had always kept her windows unobscured so that lying in bed she could watch the moon, the stars, the clouds, the sky whether clear, stormy or ominous. The very shapes of the furniture had distressed her, she had tried to make them out in their corners, as she had listened to the muffled, unfamiliar city noises.

She wasn’t at her best in the morning; that was a recognized fact at home, and she was always carefully let alone. But Gilbert put her to shame. When at last he was roused, he was marvelously cheerful; he got up whistling, and set about dressing in leisurely fashion, talking a great deal. He was very much pleased at occupying the majestic room on the second floor, it gave solidity to his new importance as a married man. He thought his mother had arranged it very tastefully, he pointed out to Claudine the new velvet lambrequin on the mantelpiece and the pincushion the old lady had made for them. He picked it up from the bureau and looked at it with affectionate eyes--a tremendous long blue sausage covered with pleated silk and lace.

“Wonderful, at her age, isn’t it?”

Claudine obliged herself to say “yes,” but unkind thoughts possessed her as to the value of such work at any period of life. She sat listlessly combing her hair, trying to hurry, so that she shouldn’t again be late, but quite sick with longing for a breath of air, a glimpse of sunshine.

“I really can’t get dressed in the dark!” she said, irritably. “Couldn’t we have one of the shutters opened, Gilbert?”

“No,” he said. “Not possibly. The people across the street could look in.”

“Then light the gas,” she said. “I can’t do my hair in the dark.”

He was a little shocked at this extravagant idea, however he did it, and kissed her, because she looked so pretty with her hair about her shoulders.

They descended the stairs together and entered the basement dining-room, where the old lady was pottering about among her rubber plants and ferns. She took her seat at once at the foot of the table behind the coffee urn and the process of breakfasting began, a meal astounding and repulsive to the bride. Such coffee! And no cream, no fresh fruit; prunes, oatmeal, ham and eggs, poorly cooked, poorly served.

“You’re moping!” said the old lady, suddenly.

Claudine looked up with a faint smile.

“I’m never very lively the first thing.”

“Nonsense! A young married woman can’t give way to all sorts of moods and fancies. It’s her duty to be bright and smiling and start her husband off cheerful.”

Gilbert frowned.

“Never mind, Mother!” he said. “Claudine’s got her own way of being cheerful, and it suits me. I understand the little woman, don’t I?”

Claudine was delighted, she would have liked to jump up and rush to him and kiss him. Their eyes met in a friendly and beautiful understanding. This was what she loved in him, for which she had married him, this solid loyalty, this sympathy. She was no longer unhappy.

“Now!” he said, cheerfully. “Let’s see the news!” and picked up the newspaper. He read an item aloud now and then, not because it could by any possibility interest the two women dutifully lingering over their coffee, but because it interested him. He smoked a cigar leisurely, and then it was time to go.

Claudine went upstairs with him into the front hall, she took down his tremendous overcoat from the rack and laughingly let her arms sink with its weight.

“Mercy!” she said. “How _can_ you bear it, Gilbert?”

“It’s nothing compared to my winter one,” he said in his schoolboy way, and suddenly lifted her up, kissed her warmly, and set her down again.

“Good-bye, sweetheart! Be happy--and don’t quarrel with the Old Lady!”

Then he ran down the stairs again to take leave of his mother, and left by the basement door. From the front parlour window Claudine saw him walking off in the cool September morning, big, stalwart, determined ... _going out_.... Envy possessed her. Oh, didn’t she wish _she_ could walk out of the house like that, away from the old lady, and forget it all!

She didn’t quite know how to proceed; she didn’t know just what her share in the house-keeping was to be or what diversions and duties would fill these days. But she was already aware that she needn’t ask, that old Mrs. Vincelle would certainly inform her as to what was expected of her.

She went up the dark, thickly carpeted stairs to the floor above. It was perfectly still and silent, and in order, swept and dusted, all trace of activity vanished. She looked in at all the open doors with infantile curiosity, all alike, thick, dark carpets on the floor, lace curtains at the windows, shades pulled half way down, marble mantelpieces covered with fringed velvet lambrequins, small tables on which were photographs in silver frames, huge bureaus, huge arm chairs, huge rocking chairs, with lace antimacassars, and inevitably a horsehair sofa furnished for naps by a folded “Afghan” of bright coloured stripes. Her bedroom--their bedroom, was no different from the others; there was nothing intimate or friendly about it. Whenever she went into her own room at home, a hundred things at once suggested themselves to her, letters to write, a bit of sewing to be done, a book to read. Here there was nothing whatever; she couldn’t imagine anything to do here. She very unnecessarily “tidied” the bureau top, and looked at her own reflection in the mirror. Mrs. Gilbert Vincelle--a young married woman.... Romantic and interesting creature....

She wandered downstairs again; the chambermaid was dusting the second parlour, scene of last evening’s bitter ennui, but the front parlour was empty, and she ventured in, drawn irresistibly by the piano. She opened it, half afraid to disturb the musty silence of the house; she ran up a scale, and it sounded monstrous. But the touch of the keys restored her courage; she began to play, and as usual lost herself in her playing. She had not yet unpacked her music; she had to draw upon her memory, fragments, entrancing bits, which she played over and over.

She was interrupted by the voice of the old lady, raised shrilly to penetrate the music.

“I’ve ordered Willie for eleven,” she was saying.

Claudine stopped, a little dazed from the harmonies.

“Ordered Willie?” she repeated, stupidly.

“The carriage. We’ll just have nice time to get your wedding presents put away first. Annie has them all unpacked in the back parlour.”

It was an imposing array, and it raised Claudine’s spirits. She stood surveying all the silver, the cut glass, the fine china, the linen, the clocks, vases, lamps. She looked at them all over again.

“Isn’t this lovely. Don’t you really think this is the prettiest?” she kept asking her mother-in-law, and the old lady replied with grim indulgence.

“But this isn’t going to get your things put away,” she said, at last. “Now, let’s see.... The linen you can put up in the linen cupboard; I’ll have a shelf cleared for you. We’ll take the cut glass down into the dining-room. As for the silver--well, if I were you, I’d put it in the safe deposit this day and hour, but of course you won’t. The young folks are all for display these days. So we’ll take it into the dining-room with the rest.”

And thus was all her glittering new wealth disposed of. It gave her an unpleasant feeling of childishness; her things were all superfluous, toys to be made room for among the regular, adult, useful things. No tea would be poured from her silver pot, no dinner served with her array of intriguing dishes, of flat and perforated and curved silver; in whatever room her clocks went, they were unnecessary second clocks. She arranged a great many ornaments in her bedroom, where they were quite incongruous; she even put in there a china umbrella stand because there was already one in the hall.

It was high time now to dress; she found some satisfaction in getting into a new grey broadcloth costume which she felt gave her quite a new dignity. She observed that she was rather pale and that, too, pleased her. She looked like a woman of experience, a mysterious and perhaps somewhat disillusioned creature. The old lady, in a black mantle and a small jet bonnet with a widow’s veil, was waiting for her in the hall, they descended the steps and got into the little closed carriage and went rattling off over the streets of Brooklyn. A most uninspired city, Claudine reflected, calm, quiet, self-sufficing, an absolutely Vincelle place. They went first to the butcher, who came hurrying out to receive the order, for old Mrs. Vincelle rarely set foot in a shop, then to the fruiterer’s, then the grocer’s. She inspected nothing; the only question she permitted herself was “Are the oranges good to-day, Frank?” and yet she prided herself upon her old-fashioned virtue in going to market in person every day and she believed herself a match for any tradesman.

Then, without further instruction, the old coachman turned the heads of the two fat horses, and they went trotting off to Prospect Park, for the invariable daily drive along the same route to the same spot. It was a beautiful morning and Claudine was happy. From time to time the old lady inclined her head to the occupants of other carriages and then Claudine would feel the charm, the interest of her new position as a young married woman. She was conscious of her youth, her slight, delicate figure, her new tailor-made costume, all the touching dignity of a bride.

They reached the consecrated turning point, they turned and drove home again. The old lady talked a little, she pointed out a house now and then, or gave a word of explanation of some regal old dowager driving past. She was affable, she was almost kind, and in her heart she was a little proud of this pretty young creature--an acquisition of her son’s and therefore the property of the family. And what a blow to Brooklyn, that Gilbert should have passed over all its maidens, and taken a wife from Staten Island!

They reached home at one, and lunch was at half past one, the nastiest sort of lunch, wafer-thin slices of dry cold mutton, all sorts of little warmed-over concoctions. Claudine made up her mind to change all this as soon as possible.

After the meal they went upstairs and the old lady lay down on the horsehair sofa in her bedroom and drew the gay colored “Afghan” over herself.

“You might as well rest, Claudine,” she said. “No one will be coming to call this afternoon. They’ll give you a day or two to settle down.”

And she resolutely closed her eyes.

Claudine hesitated.

“Would it disturb you if I played the piano?” she asked.

“Yes, it would!” said the old lady, affronted. “I dare say you can wait.”

Once again that dread feeling of despair came over Claudine. She didn’t _know what to do_! Her clothes were all quite new and perfect, there was nothing about them to alter or to mend. She looked in vain for something to read, but it was a house almost destitute of books. She wandered about, looked out of the windows, but there was nothing to see except a quiet street, lined with brownstone houses, and one solitary nurse-maid with a perambulator. She would have liked to go into the kitchen. She had, in fact, expected to play the rôle of young mistress of a big house, but she dismissed the idea. Her mother-in-law would never, never allow that.

She unpacked her music and mapped out a course of study for herself--an alluring course of exercises and immensely difficult pieces, which she intended to attack with new patience and energy.

“Goodness knows I’ll have time enough!” she reflected, ruefully. “I’ll set aside two definite hours every day, and not let anything distract me. This afternoon I’ll run over the things I’ve picked out.”

At three o’clock she heard the old lady creaking about in her room, and music in hand she flew downstairs. Never had her fingers been so nimble, so sure, never had she worked with such complete satisfaction. Here was a field for definite accomplishment, a little living stream running beneath the stagnant lake which was to be her existence. She was expected--she was required, to be utterly passive, she was not to do anything, she was simply to _be_. To be a Good Wife. That was to fill the universe, that was to comprise everything. She was very willing to be a good wife, but she couldn’t help thinking that there could still be a certain amount of time left impossible to fill with wifeliness.

Now Claudine was not the material of which artists of the first rank are made. She loved music, as she loved literature, and flowers, and many other things. She had, to a certain extent, that quality known as temperament, a sensitive and ardent soul. But she had very little patience, and she was neither thorough-going nor resolute. It is possible, even probable, however, that under the pressure of her ennui and with the spur of her enforced insignificance she might have developed her talent into something remarkably good, for she had a talent. But it was not to be.

She completed an hour of Czerny’s _Finger Dexterity_, then she opened her Liszt Album and attacked a terrific piece which needed all her intelligence. She frowned; she played over and over again a superhuman run.

The old lady’s voice interrupted her.

“Mercy _on_ us child! How long is this going to keep up? Your husband will be home before you know it and you haven’t changed your dress.”

Claudine looked round with a distrait smile.

“I will--in half a minute.... This piano needs tuning badly. And more than tuning. It needs--”

“It’ll do very well as it is, I dare say!” said the old lady, briefly.

“But it isn’t good to practise on a piano--”

“Practise! What do you want with practising? You play very nicely.”

“Oh, but not nearly well enough! I’m going to keep on with my lessons.”

“What!” cried the old lady. “Lessons! A young married woman fiddling about with piano lessons!”

Claudine was surprised at this sudden hostility.

“Yes; why not?”

“Haven’t you anything better than that to do with your time?”

“What else _should_ I do?”

“I never heard such rubbish in my life! A married woman taking lessons! What do you think you’re going to do? Give concerts?”

Claudine was not skilled in quarreling. She had always been quite free to follow her inclinations, and her inclinations had never been harmful or ridiculous. She was accustomed to dignified independence, no one in her household had the least desire to interfere with any of the others, and she could not understand such interference. She felt herself growing very angry with this meddlesome and tyrannical old person, but she made a gallant effort to answer nicely.

“It’s only that I’m very fond of music,” she began.

“You’d better be fond of your husband, that’s my advice! Piano lessons!... Very well, young woman! There’ll be no practising on _my_ piano! It’s there to be _played_ on and not fiddled on and banged on.”

Claudine actually turned pale.

“But you surely can’t mind my practising ...?” she cried.

“I do. All the neighbours’ll hear you. A married woman strumming and jigging away like a school girl.... Piece of nonsense!”

Anger got the better of Claudine.

“I never heard of anything so unreasonable and so ridiculous!” she said. “I don’t intend to give it up.”

“Women that can’t give up their childish nonsense have no business to get married. Now then!”

She walked over and closed the piano and handed Czerny and Liszt to her daughter-in-law.

“You put all this nonsense out of your head!” she said. “And run upstairs and put on a nice fresh dress and see if you can’t tidy that wild looking head of hair before Gilbert gets home.”

But when Gilbert got home he was not welcomed by the smiling and charming young wife he had a right to expect. Instead he found Claudine locked in the bedroom, her eyes red with weeping, and in a state of terrible excitement.

“Gilbert!” she cried. “Your mother says she won’t let me practise on her piano!”

He was astounded and a little frightened. So they were at it already!

“Well ...” he said. “I don’t know.... It’ll probably blow over, if you’ll use tact and patience.... Anyway, it’s a small matter.”

“It’s _not_! It’s not! My music is all I have left!”

“Hold on, Claudine! That’s rather strong!”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you, Gilbert dear. Of course, you come first, only you’re away most of the time.... And you don’t know what it means to me. The idea of her being so domineering and cruel!”

“Claudine,” he said, very gravely. “I hoped this would never happen. Especially as you’re so fond of your own people.... I thought you’d understand how I felt about--Mother. I _know_ she’s unreasonable sometimes--but remember that she’s old, and I’m all she has left.”

As an argument this seemed remarkably weak to Claudine, but the tone, the very pitiful inconsequence of the poor chap, touched her to the heart. She began to weep in his arms, bitterly, forlornly, knowing herself defeated, pitying herself and pitying him still more.

He kissed her and smoothed her disordered hair, perplexed and unhappy. He was very tender and kind to her; he bathed her eyes with cold water, he took the pins out of her hair and released the complicated structure. Her sobs ceased; she grew calm and tranquil again, and when the gong sounded for dinner, she came downstairs on her husband’s arm, smiling, nicely dressed, the very model of a bride.

But that night, when they were alone in the bedroom again, she returned to the subject.

“Gilbert!” she said. “Let me get a piano of my own!”

“I couldn’t, dear. Mother would never consent to that. No, darling, better put the idea out of your head for the time being. You’ll find lots of new things to interest you.”

“But won’t you speak to her, Gilbert? Won’t you _help_ me? Gilbert, if it’s something I want so very, very much, don’t you _care_?”

“Of course I care!” he protested. “I want you to be happy. But ... after all, it’s Mother’s house, and she has to be consulted.”

“Then let’s live by ourselves, Gilbert!”

“We can’t move to-night!” he said laughing, and turning out the gas, got into bed.

But Claudine could not sleep. She had a dreadful feeling of being trapped, of being a captive, helpless, weak, insignificant.