Part 2

Clarinda left the crowd and went up the stairs by herself to dress for her departure. The man, the groom, youth to her youth, waited at the foot of the stairs, and talked rapidly with another man who twitted him. They laughed occasionally, and he smoked, this bridegroom, viciously, drawing the smoke from his cigarette deep down into his lungs, but the tobacco quieted him, and lent him assurance.

As he waited, he thought that from now on in the distant future all things should be his, the world, and success lay in the hollow of his hand. He would command. Life was no mystery, no uncertainty. It was plain and the hard road would be marched with ease.

For months before this wedding, in the still watches of the night, he had dreamed of the house he would build, and the things he would accumulate. He built this house, brick upon brick, just as he had dreamed, and he placed within its walls each piece of furniture as he would have it. In the aurora of it he placed Clarinda, for there was no futility rearing its head in front of him.

For a long time he stood with the other man at the foot of the staircase, waiting patiently, and presently from above came a sound, then he turned his eyes and above him stood Clarinda in all her lovely fragrance. Clarinda was ready, ready to go forth to give herself to him, and to take up life as it would come. A fearlessness, complete, enveloped her.

A smile covered her face as she saw him below. Then she placed one tiny foot in front of another tiny foot, and her movement was slow as if in accordance with the music that played in the hall. The man’s heart beat in unison with her step, and a smile of pride covered his face. The crowd stood back, then, as she stopped for a moment, a faint murmur arose, the voices gradually becoming louder, until the air was rent with a roar of approval.

Out into the sunlight they went—the man and the maid, and at the beginning of the garden they entered the car. The bridesmaids threw after them, as they left, old shoes and broken slippers as if they hoped to give a happy augury to their future.

Then the two, lost in the car, looked out of the windows, and they saw the garden fade out of sight. The keeper of the lodge like some old gnome bowed low to the driveway, this time as if an evil spirit possessed him. He seemed to laugh at their youth and their hopes.

The old keeper knew what futility was, for, in his youth he had taken hope in his heart and love in his soul. He, as they, had started down the roseate path, and it had looked to him as it did to them now, as to all the others who had driven through these gates and had come after him with hopes in their hearts and love in their souls. They, as he, had swept up the ashes of their lives upon the hearths of their homes. And the winds of adversity had come and driven them whirling into space. Out of it all they had gathered nothing, nothing remained, except bitterness, age and the certainty of death.

Clarinda saw nothing of this. In her ears the car sang. The power under the hood sang, and the man who drove sang, even the birds flying in the soft sunlight sang madrigals, and the great beams of the sun, as they cut the branches of the trees, seemed to be doing so out of pure love for her and her joy. The man beside her told her of his love—of the thought in him that at last he had arrived at the peak of his life. He told her that she was the one thing that went to complete his happiness. Clarinda trembled with joy and nestled closer and closer to him. Nothing marred the pleasure she felt. She dwelt upon his words he uttered and gloried in the softness of his voice. Clarinda held fast to the things he said and let them sink into her heart.

Mile after mile went by. They talked but little, but he told her again and again of his love, and from time to time he took her gently in his arms and kissed her.

Clarinda forgot everything, except the moment.

Late in the night they came to the front of a huge house, lit from cellar to garret. In front, collected upon the porch, there moved about many servants. The heavy doors were open and the lights from within cut the night as with a two-edged sword. The car stopped. Clarinda got out slowly. They walked hand in hand into the place. Clarinda gave no thought to anything.

They were served and ate a light repast. The clock in the hall struck twelve, the butler yawned and the other servants stood about and let their faces fall into a curious repose. The man arose from his seat. Clarinda passed out of the room. In her dressing-room there was a book, and it was open and as she read the open page a flush came over her face.

III

In a short while the urge came, and they wished to leave the great house with its lights, its vast rooms, its servants and its gorgeously costumed lackeys. No volition of their own forced them out, but they were compelled to go forth and select the soil in which they should place the foundations, and upon these foundations, build their own lives. As the spirit moved they went from time to time arm in arm, and roamed from one street to another, and it gave them happiness. Together they discussed each department into which they went, its advantages and disadvantages, and with unconcealed joy, they haggled with persons who dealt in these things.

When it became bruited abroad that they were in search of an apartment, agents appeared upon the scene and told them in specious exaggeration, how each place that each offered was superior to that offered by any other agent. The superlative rested in their offerings.

Clarinda and her husband marched from one tiny place to another tiny place, that had tiny rooms with even smaller additions called kitchenettes.

Weeks were spent in this occupation, until eventually, after many times referring back to the judgment of her father and long consultations with her mother, they found a place upon a quiet street. It seemed to them suitable soil in which they could sink their tentacles. They knew that within these four walls they would find happiness, for both of them thought that happiness was a matter of location.

The man as he went with Clarinda listened to her discussions, her objections or her periods of admiration with enthusiasm, and agreed that however small the place might be it made no difference as its very smallness precluded the possibility of their being far from each other. For many nights, before they fled from the big house of their honeymoon, they sat late and discussed the pleasure it would give them, when he should come home after the grind of the day’s work and he and she would make plans for their betterment.

As he and Clarinda talked over these matters, he would rise from his seat beside her and pace the floor in great agitation. Up and down the big room, from one end to the other he paced, and he would draw for her pictures of what they should have, of each piece of furniture and described of what sort it should be, and it gave him pleasure to suggest to her how each piece should be placed and to each suggestion, Clarinda agreed eagerly.

“We shall sit upon the divan in the evenings,” he said, “and you will sit close to me—ever so close. Naturally, we shall have a divan. We could not do without a thing of that sort—a big cushy one. I want it to eat up the room. We’ll place it directly in front of the fireplace. Don’t you think it will be fine in the winter evenings with the fire going lazily up the chimney? Just you and I there together with the big world shut out.”

“And behind the divan, we shall have a tall lamp,” she broke in. “What do you think of a pink shade?”

“Just finishes the picture as I have it in mind. By all means a pink shade,” he replied enthusiastically.

“I do so like clocks. Shall we have a clock? You see I could watch the clock, and then I should know when you were coming and maybe it would not be so hard to wait,” said Clarinda with a plaintive tone in her voice, as if she already felt the sorrow of his absence.

“Of course we shall have to have a clock—a chime clock. One of the kind that strikes different tones for each quarter of an hour. You know the kind I mean,” he assented quickly.

And so they built their castle and fitted it with the things they thought they would love, and they did not know it was all foolish and futile.

They moved into the spot they had selected, and adapted and placed the furniture they had chosen. The divan, for it was upon the divan all their future lives were to be planned, was in the room, and it took up a lot of space just as they thought it would. Behind the divan they placed a tall lamp with a pink shade that sent an even glow over them and threw no shadows, and Clarinda liked the dim light. When the man had gone in the mornings to his place of business, she would cuddle herself on the divan and her mind gloated upon the things about her, and her happiness was complete.

Then her friends came—the bridesmaids, and the others, those who had stood about and been fed, and who drank the wine to excess and had gone unsteadily over the polished floors; they sat upon the divan, and Clarinda thought they desecrated it; they rushed from one tiny room to the other and peered with malicious eyes into the kitchenette; and they smiled among themselves at the tininess of the place, and gave their unerring judgment on its possibilities. Clarinda’s mother soon came, and she turned the things about and bemoaned with her husband the meagerness of the setting and of the furnishings.

Clarinda watched her mother move about the place as she put things as she would have them, and when she was gone Clarinda moved them back again to their original positions. The man laughed and spoke jestingly of her mother’s taste. In her heart her mother pitied her. But the old man was proud of Clarinda and presaged for her all the things he so desired she should have. He did not forget the doleful street, the poorness of the surroundings, and the flimsiness of his first home. His start he remembered was so much poorer than Clarinda’s. Yet he could not forget the pride and the pleasure he had derived from it, and his heart beat with infinite joy then, as Clarinda’s beat now.

Now the round of life was upon them. The man and the maid fell into the swing. The nest was finished, its sides were put together with infinite care. Each twig was intertwined with every other twig, in order that it might be strong and withstand the assaults of wind and weather. The man looked on with pride, and Clarinda was filled with unbounded faith.

Never before had she experienced such pleasure, even in the luxury of her father’s house, as when she sat in the mornings at her own table with her husband, and he at the lower end while the trim little maid brought their breakfast.

Clarinda loved the silver as it stood in front of her, and derived a sensation of sweetness from her surroundings, as she asked whether he would have sugar in his coffee. She knew perfectly what he liked, but there was something wonderful to her to ask each morning with the same anxiety. It pleased her to pour each morning, each cup of coffee, but she did so with perturbation. Always she asked whether it was just right, and always he answered it could not be more perfect. Her heart was filled with apprehension, for it was possible she might make a mistake—it might not be just right.

Each morning at a precise time, the man left the house, and each morning he kissed her goodbye and held her close to his heart. Each morning she went to the door and watched him go down the stairs, then she rushed to the window to watch him wave his hand to her before he disappeared around the corner, and she smiled and was happy.

Then one day in June, just as her wedding had taken place upon a day in June, the day broke as usual, and the sun came up. The early morning breezes fluttered the trees. The usual breakfast had been partaken of. Clarinda had asked the same questions and had received the same replies. The trim little maid had done her duty. Life seemed as happy and as justifiable as ever.

The man arose from his seat and rushed from the room. Clarinda stood upon this memorable morning in the doorway as he went away. She looked after him as he went rapidly down the stairs, and slowly she closed the door behind her.

Clarinda felt the negation of the man’s service. She craved the kiss he had given her each morning. She did not sing when she closed the door, nor did she rush to the window and wait for him to pass the corner. From that moment a wound had been made in her heart and the blood dripped from the gash.

The man did not fail to kiss his wife through malice. Kisses had simply grown stale in his mouth, and now seemed to him a useless observance.

He thought of these things as he went along, and the more he turned them over in his mind, the more convinced he became he had made a mistake. The thought of these things remained with him all the morning, and for some unexplained reason he did not work as well. He lacked interest and the work dragged more than ordinarily. Still he argued within himself as if to justify his position, that kissing was a foolish observance and it ought to be laid aside.

The day dragged for him, and the clocks in the various steeples struck the hours with the same indifference as they did every day. The crowds on the pavements went by as on every other day, with the same intent upon their own difficulties.

Clarinda, left alone in the tiny flat, knew something was wrong. Her day was different. Her heart was wrong, and tears collected on her face many times during the hours that went by. And she knew—why.

The trim little maid came and touched her upon the shoulder as she sat cuddled in a corner of the divan. She was a Frenchwoman, with a white frill about her head. A smile of pity was on her lips, as she kindly touched Clarinda, and her hand was as light as the breeze without, as Clarinda moved and looked up into her face.

“It is the little things in life, Madame, that count,” she said. Clarinda shook her head in assent.

“I am miserable,” Clarinda replied.

Clarinda pushed back her golden hair from her forehead, wiped the tears from her face, and arose from the divan. The maid left as she arose, and went about her duties. She dusted with care and with careful hand replaced the flowers in the vases with fresh ones.

Clarinda stood for a second in the middle of the room and then walked slowly over to the window and looked pensively down upon the street. She wondered if, in all her existence the maid had only dusted and swept, if in all her existence she had ever worked for anyone who was as unhappy as she was.

All during the day Clarinda did not smile, but wandered aimlessly from one part of the apartment to the other, and she took no interest in the maid nor in the fixing of things for the home-coming of the man. But this day went like all the others—it glided by with a total indifference to her or her unfortunate position.

Six o’clock came. The day’s work for many was over. As the clock on the mantel chimed out the hour, the lower entrance door to the house opened and then shut with a bang, and the man came bounding up the stairs with the same haste he had always come. He threw the apartment door open and launched his body into the room. His face was covered with smiles. He was just as wonderful, just as strong as when he had gone from her in the morning. Clarinda wondered that this could be so.

Clarinda looked at him and sighed. Her heart beat painfully, and her breath came in deep short gasps. No, he did not kiss her. As he stopped in the middle of the room and looked about him she went over to him and laid her hand upon his shoulder. He still smiled.

“You forgot something this morning,” she said slowly as she looked up into his face.

A quizzical expression went over him. He did not appreciate her sorrow.

“What?” he asked after quite a while.

“You don’t know?” she asked with astonishment.

“No,” he replied, shaking his head. “Was it my overshoes or my coat?” The man jested with her, which added to the pain she had suffered during the day.

“The maid knows—Peter.”

“The maid knows a great deal,” he answered.

“You don’t know? Oh, Peter! Peter!” she exclaimed, her voice full of tragedy. “You have forgotten something even now.”

Peter pressed his hand against his forehead as if in deep thought, and he let a light come into his eyes. He still jested with her. Of course he knew. He took her slim fingers in his hand and led her over to the divan.

“I know, I know,” he said, as if a great light had broken in upon him. “What a foolish child you are.”

He took her gently in his arms and pressed his lips to hers. Clarinda smiled and tucked herself close in his arms.

“You won’t forget again, Peter?” she asked.

“No,” he replied with a shake of his head.

IV

Notwithstanding Peter took her in his arms and soothed her perturbation and made life bloom once more with almost the same brightness it had, the air was permeated with a spirit of uncertainty. The effect was impalpable, for there existed in Clarinda’s mind a subconscious fear that something had crept into her love which was foreign—and ate interstices in the whole.

This permeation of her love by some foreign thing was evident to her father one evening when he dropped in and found Peter absent. Peter explained to Clarinda with care the necessity of his going, and tried to convince her that it was vital for him to keep an engagement. It was so vital, he contended, that it would brook no interference, not even the interference of the thing which was the sole ambition of his life—her happiness. This engagement was of such importance that it would not allow him to sink down upon the divan and take her in his arms and tell her of the things he had accomplished during the day. Peter kissed her as he went out, but Clarinda was upset.

As the old man came through the door, the light was dim, and only the single burner in the tall lamp shed its uncertain rays about the place. He took off his top-coat and placed his cane in a corner. Clarinda kissed him and helpfully settled him in the spot which was Peter’s.

Her father watched her during these preparations, and he felt from some reason that the atmosphere was filled with uncertainty. Feeling this he gathered himself together and pondered upon the various ways of approach by which he might help Clarinda without her suspecting. He knew. It was indicated to him by her movements.

The care with which she fixed things for his comfort were an indication and he decided to abide his time.

Presently Clarinda sat herself down beside him and leaned her head against his shoulder. He put his arm around her and drew her close to him. Clarinda sighed with satisfaction. They talked. Her father answered her various questions. It was a desultory conversation, as if both were sparring for an opening. Presently they sank into silence.

Many days had passed since Peter, on that memorable morning, had gone out of the house and had not kissed her, nor held her in his arms, nor turned at the corner and waved his hand to her. Since then he had forgotten repeatedly, and each time he went from her it left a bitter feeling in her heart. Clarinda lived on love, so when it was denied her she felt as if something vital had been taken out of her life.

Since they had been married, one winter had come and gone, and another was upon them. The snow had fallen, and the leaves had gone from the trees. The people without had gone by unmindful, cold, impersonal—and did not feel the tragedy Clarinda was carrying in her heart. They rushed by muffled to their chins. The days were shorter, and the nights settled down upon her earlier. They gave Clarinda a longer time to think of her sorrow, and to find out how far she had advanced.

On this winter night, in front of Clarinda and her father on the tiny hearth, there burnt a tiny fire, that gave a tiny blaze; and it curled itself up the chimney and lost itself in the orifice. Clarinda settled herself by her father’s side, and gazed intently into the fire. She pressed his hand tightly in hers, and buried her head securely on his shoulder. As she looked into the fire, her eyes widened and her cheeks became flushed with the heat.

“All things are futile, aren’t they, father?” she asked slowly. Then she lapsed into silence as if to think of a proper word or as if a certain delicacy restrained her.

Her father believed that she was about to make a confession, and did not answer.

After a while, she added: “Do people live forever? Do you love mother now as when you first loved her?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I have a wonderful reason—tell me?” she demanded.

A curious expression came over his face, half serious, half amused. Carefully taking his hand from hers and lifting her golden head from his shoulder, he arose from the divan.

The pillow she had placed behind his head slipped noiselessly to the floor, and walking a few steps, he turned his back to the fireplace and took his stand in the middle of the rug.

Judicially he placed his hands behind his back and looked down upon her.

“You will learn,” he answered cryptically.

“What do you mean?” she asked in a puzzled tone.

“There is wisdom, Clarinda, that comes to the old. This wisdom is sometimes uncanny in its analytical possibilities.”

“You don’t reply to my questions,” she said as she turned the full light of her eyes upon him. “Do you still love mother as when you began?”

“You asked me that before, and I told you,” he answered slowly. Then as an afterthought added, “What is the trouble?”

“I have no trouble,” she rejoined hastily. Then she went on as if she had decided to bare her soul to him.

“I will tell you, try to follow me.”

“All right, go ahead with your tragedy,” he replied banteringly.

“Do not laugh—be serious! You don’t know how vital this thing is to me.”

Clarinda moved her feet in a shuffling manner. “I believe,” she went on seriously, “that the flat is too small. It doesn’t give sufficient leverage. We live too much upon each other. It is true I love—I love everything in it. From the maid to the kitchenette. I have been so happy in it. Of course, for me it is not too small. I like it for that very reason. You can’t imagine how delightful it has been for me to sit here with no one but Peter, with not a sound from the outside—just Peter and I alone. Don’t you think love is queer? I mean queer in its effects on different kinds of people?”

As she spoke her father did not interrupt her, but his eyes followed every expression of her face.

“Peter and I,” she went on, “have lived here more than a year.” A combative tone came into her voice. “Peter is doing well. But then that is Peter. Of course, Peter is doing well. How could he do otherwise? You don’t know Peter, Father, as I know him. Peter is wonderful.”

“Then you are pleased with Peter?” her father said with a smile.