Part 7

The man picked up the will, quickly turned over a few of the pages. “You will find,” he said, reading carefully with the same lack of intonations, “under paragraph one, section A, page five and upon the subsequent page. ‘I hereby leave and bequeath to my beloved daughter the sum of three hundred thousand dollars, free of all tax.’ In section B, page six, paragraph five, you will find that this sum of money has been left in trust. You are to be free of any control of this money, and at your death, should you leave any children, they shall come into your share when they shall have attained the age of thirty-five. A fine proviso,” he added. “Per capita and not per stirpes. This refers to your mother’s portion.”

“Why that?” asked Clarinda.

He did not answer Clarinda’s question. “You will find that this money is free from any supervision by your husband and the increment thereof shall be paid to you by your said trustees.” He added again, “A fine proviso.”

“Who are the trustees?” asked Clarinda.

“I have the honor of being one of them, and the Safety and Guarantee Trust Company is the other.”

“Is Peter’s left in trust?” she asked.

“Oh no,” he replied, with a look of astonishment. “Men as a rule do not need trustees. They have more experience.”

“I just wanted to know.” Clarinda’s voice carried a peculiar tone. The lawyer looked at her searchingly. Peter turned his eyes towards her. Her mother sat in the same gloom and the same lack of understanding of what was taking place. Her mind only grasped the idea that in some way she was provided for, that this will had made her independent. Through her mind fled visions of what she would do, she even thought she would like to travel.

“That is all?” asked Clarinda, as she moved away from the table after laying the will upon it.

“I believe so,” answered the lawyer. Apparently not quite certain of himself. Clarinda’s manner broke in upon his usual method of carrying forward proceedings of the kind. He was upset, he could not exactly define why.

Clarinda bowed to him and nodded her head to her mother. She went out of the room and left them still sitting. Her mother was nonplussed. Peter did not go after her.

Clarinda entered the car, and ordered the driver to take her back home.

V

As the car left the front of the house, after the reading of the will, it went down the roadway to the street. At the lodge gates stood the old keeper who had been there many years. He it was who smiled and swept the clean gravel with his cap the day she had been married. He bowed again in the same way and his hat touched the clean gravel again as she went by. He smiled again, but now his smile seemed to be more sinister; it carried, as Clarinda looked at him, more terrible futility with it than it had at the former time.

Clarinda trembled as she huddled back in her seat of the car. She tried to blot him out from her mind, but his old face clung. He gave her more occasion for thought, but soon he was gone. The car went rapidly on its way, and it was only a few moments until it stopped in front of the place Peter called home.

Clarinda got out of the car and went hurriedly into the house, straight through the hall. She saw nothing, not even the servants who stood clustered about. They winked at one another and nodded their heads knowingly. In some manner they sensed with that peculiar intuition which hangs about servants that they were on the brink of a tragedy, the household, like many they had seen before, was disrupted—gone. Already they were turning over in their minds the finding of service elsewhere. Truthfully they hated the thought of the new applications they would have to file. It bothered them. The door boy, the man in buttons who handed the silver tray for the cards of the visitors, the housekeeper, all of them even to the scullery maid, were disgruntled. They liked the place. The stealings were easy and there was very little work to do.

Mrs. Caws stood close to the entrance like a bird of prey. She watched with eager eyes everything that happened. She, too, thought of the next place where she could get employment, and a smile crossed her lips. It was bitter, hard, and seemed full of anticipation. She loved disaster to come to such as Clarinda and Peter. It pleased her that people of the kind that Clarinda and Peter represented should go down from their great estate. She, in her narrow soul hated the rich, although it was from the rich that she was able to live.

Clarinda did not see her any more than she had seen the rest of them. She hastened to her room and after she had entered she closed the door tightly behind her. Then quickly she rang the bell that stood upon a table near the divan. The maid entered, her face was drawn, there were evidences of tears upon it, her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were red.

“Madame, did you ring?” she asked.

Clarinda nodded her head. Presently she sat down upon the divan. Carefully she placed herself in its corner and tucked her body into the cushions and after removing her hat, she laid her head wearily back. A sigh left her lips, and it was so deep that it seemed to come from the depths of her heart. Her face was set, there was no sign of weakening. A bitter look had come into her eyes. The usual beautiful blue of them had died. They had become gray. A deep—dark gray.

After a long period of silence she said shortly as if speaking to herself, “That is over.”

“What is over, Madame?”

“Tizzia,” she continued, “after I am gone—after all this horrible life that I’ve had to lead is over, I want you to think of me, not as you see me now, but as you knew me when you first came into this place. When you do think of me, you must not forget that I feared the place. I don’t know why, but I did fear it.”

“Yes, Madame,” answered Tizzia. “I shall be happy to do so. You are going away?” she ventured timidly.

Clarinda looked at her as if appraising her, as if trying to decide whether she asked questions from interest in her, or only from the spirit of inquisitiveness. The maid stood in front of her. Her whole being to Clarinda seemed to betoken sorrow at her condition, and it gave Clarinda confidence.

“You know,” Clarinda went on. She spoke slowly thinking deeply of every word she uttered. “I don’t trust you. I don’t know if your apparent interest is from curiosity or just from the liking you have for other people’s sorrows.”

“Ah, Madame! I am sorry you said that!” she broke in quickly. “I don’t want your confidence—unless Madame feels I am not just curious. I sympathize with you, Madame, deeply. I’ve seen something of life, too, Madame, I, too, am a woman. I—”

Clarinda arose from the divan, and she strode about the room. She took great steps, as if in their length she could find relief.

Presently, she spoke quickly, not stopping her march. “I don’t care. I don’t care if you listen to me from curiosity or from real sympathy. I must talk to someone. It might as well be you. I’ve no one in the world to turn to. You don’t know the desperateness of such a situation. The meanest people in the world usually have someone. Sit down there!” she commanded.

“I would rather stand, please, Madame.”

“Sit down!”

Tizzia sat down. She placed her body upon the extreme edge of the chair. Clarinda still walked. She spoke loudly, without intermittence, and her words fell over one another, yet she appeared to think of each word as she uttered it. The maid listened and followed as best she could. At times the maid wept. At other times she trembled with fear, then again she thought Clarinda would drop from exhaustion. It seemed to her that she ran instead of walked from one end of the room to the other.

“I’ve thought it all out, Tizzia! I’ve thought it all out! Last night I didn’t sleep. I walked this room and my bedroom all night. I heard you come along the hall. I waited for you to come. It seemed to me as if it were years—years and years! You would be surprised how long it is from daylight to daylight, when you are waiting for some one. The hours are so long. The time goes so slowly. I don’t know how I lived through those hours. It was terrible, but it is over, it is gone! I’ve done my duty today. I’ve heard the will read, I am rich. I am under the domination of a little man and a great Trust Company.” Clarinda laughed. “I’ve three hundred thousand dollars, and when my mother dies, I shall have hundreds of thousands more. After I am dead, it goes to the child. He will be rich. Isn’t that splendid for him?” Clarinda’s voice rang with bitter sarcasm. For a moment she stopped in her march and stood in front of Tizzia. “Are you listening, Tizzia?” she asked. Tizzia nodded her head in assent.

“I am going away. Yes, Tizzia, I am going away. I am going to know an entirely different life. I am going to have lovers. I shall sell myself to the highest bidder—to some man who will buy my body with his filthy dollars. I shall find out whether this creature, man, places more value upon a woman whom he actually buys at so much per pound, than upon the woman who comes to him with love in her heart. Yes, I shall know the world! I shall know. I shall go away.” Clarinda’s eyes narrowed. She went on slowly. Tizzia did not move from the edge of her chair.

“Peter, the lovely, gracious, Peter—the successful Peter, the Peter whom my father patted upon the back and told how wonderful he was—wonderful, because he could filch a few more dollars than another man. He shall know how I am doing. He shall be told, by me, of every step I take. He shall feel the degradation to which I shall fall—he, this lovely Peter, thinks because I am a woman—I shall weaken. He thinks no woman can stand up against the force projected by man. This wonderful person thinks that I being a woman should sue for pity, that in the end, I will come back to him, grovel at his feet and ask him to give me respectability. Men think this sort of thing because a woman has borne him a child. Poor, foolish creature! I am going to destroy myself not with a knife, nor a pistol, nor with poison. But I am going to destroy myself—kill all those finer things which are of me. I am going to the dregs. I shall suffer. O! I shall suffer miserably. I hate the touch of men, Tizzia! But I am going to teach myself to bear it.”

Clarinda stopped as if for breath. She still walked up and down the room at a furious pace.

“O! Madame, you can’t! You don’t know what you say,” Tizzia broke in, and there were tears in her voice.

“O, yes, I do. I know exactly what I say. More’s the pity,” Clarinda answered quickly. “Can you imagine me in a brothel? It is laughable. But I am going. I am going to have a lover. I want a lover. I’ve always wanted a lover. When I married I thought that was what I was getting. I did not. But now I shall have one. It will be wonderful to give oneself to a lover—a man! Probably I shall get one who has committed a great crime. We shall always live in fear of the police. Probably he may have killed some one for a lot of money. When I meet him he will have great piles of bills, and we will sneak out at night and spend it—always in fear. He will beat me. He will get drunk and be brutal. But he will be a man! And after all it may happen I shall learn to love him.” Clarinda laughed. Her laugh scared Tizzia, even more than her words. Tizzia did not believe she meant what she said. But when she laughed she thought it might be true. That she would do as she said.

Clarinda continued: “And this man—this criminal with whom I shall live, to whom I shall give my body, he will probably desert me when I am getting the least bit old. I will feel this age coming upon me, then I shall paint my face. I will fight age. I shall learn how it is done. Every year that comes upon me will make me suffer more—for I know men only love youth. They hate age. They want only the young. But that will be a long way off. I am only twenty-three! It might happen that this lover of mine, kills me in one of his drunken fits. What a glorious heritage to leave Peter’s boy. His mother killed in a brothel by a criminal, a murderer. What a headline for the newspapers. _Mrs. Clarinda Thorbald, the wife of Mr. Peter Thorbald the successful banker, murdered in a brothel._ I hope it happens. It would be a glorious end to a great career. O, it is wonderful!”

Clarinda walked over to the window, and said nothing further. She appeared to have talked herself out. A great calm descended upon her. Tizzia arose from her chair. She did not know what to do. She stood uncertainly in the middle of the room. Clarinda heard her as she moved. She turned.

“You will pack my things, Tizzia. Put all my jewelry in the bags. It is foolish to go without anything. That is quixotic. I must take my money, too. It is easier to get a lover with money than without.”

“You will change your mind about the rest, Madame. You are too good to do the horrible things you say. Madame is excited. When you have thought the matter over you will think again.”

Clarinda looked at Tizzia. “How little you know me,” she said. Her voice was weary. Tizzia could barely hear what she said. “How little everybody knows me. How different it might have been if Peter had known me. I regret Peter, for once I loved him. He was the one great thing in my life, but he has died.”

“The child, Madame?”

“It belongs to Peter. I only brought it into the world. It is only my flesh and blood. It amounts to nothing. I wish it joy. I hate it! I could have loved it madly. But that, too, is dead.”

Tizzia went into the other room. She left Clarinda and began to put the things she wanted into the various bags. Lovingly she took down from the closets the many dresses Clarinda had loved. With delicate touch she folded each garment and placed it in the great trunks. She rang a bell and ordered more trunks brought into the room. The man who brought them ventured to ask what they were for. Was Madame going away? Tizzia did not answer. She wept incessantly. The tears fell from her cheeks and spotted the delicate fabrics.

Clarinda left alone threw herself down upon the divan. Time went by. The clock ticked as if nothing was taking place—as if the old life was just the same, as if happiness had not left the house.

Finally speaking to herself, she said: “It must come. Why not now?”

She arose from the divan, went out of the door leading to the rooms in which Peter lived. Quietly she opened the door. Over at a table she saw Peter. He was writing. His head was bent and he was absorbed in his task. His pen flew with rapidity. He did not hear her come in, nor did he hear the door close behind her. She spoke and Peter jumped from his seat. His face was pale, drawn, distorted. His brow she saw was covered with perspiration. As he moved, he wiped his forehead with his hand. He stood and stared at her.

Clarinda stood upon the opposite side of the table. She looked down upon him. As he jumped from his seat, he stood as if paralyzed. He did not seem able to move.

“Goodbye, Peter.” There was extreme sorrow in her voice. It quavered and trembled as she spoke.

“You are going?” he asked timidly.

“Yes, it is done. I have failed you. I am sorry. It was so full of promise, Peter. Our life could have been happy. But I have failed.”

“You cannot! You cannot!” His hands shook. The tears fell down his cheeks unresisted by him. His knees weakened under him. He fell back into his chair and buried his head in his hands upon the table. His great body shook with intense grief, and Clarinda pitied him, but her mind did not change.

“I am going, Peter. I am going away now, today. The maid is packing for me. Goodbye Peter.”

Peter moaned. “No—no—no! I can’t bear it! You can’t go! I won’t let you! It is impossible!”

“It is done, Peter.”

Clarinda turned and went slowly towards the door. Her hand fell gently upon the knob. Quietly she opened it. As Peter saw her go, he sprang from his chair. He held his arms outstretched towards her. The door came open slowly. Quietly Clarinda passed from the room, and the door closed softly behind her.

Peter screamed in his anguish. His soul was torn and he fell inert upon the floor. The dark took him, and his eyes closed.

STAGE THREE

Dear Peter:

I knew it would come. But I wished to put it off until the chance for a change was impossible. I’ve waited years for the time. I had planned in my mind how I should do this thing I am about to do, with infinite care. Each step was watched and taken even as the blind walk, even when I left the house I intended to do this thing.

I wonder if you have ever read, “The Woman in White”? And if in the reading you remember Count Fosco? You know he is the only fat villain in any book. One thing he did I want to draw to your mind. It is the most trivial thing in the whole book. You know, if you have read the book, that after he was discovered and the things he had done were set before him in all their hideousness, he sat down and wrote his confessions. They covered innumerable sheets. The description by Collins of how he gradually became buried in the pages is wonderfully drawn. You could see him, Fosco, with the perspiration pouring down his fat face, and his hand holding the pen flying over the sheets. I shall be Fosco buried in sheets. That will, however, be my only likeness to him, for I do not consider myself a villain. I am merely a woman.

Let’s see. This is a very difficult task. I do not know where to begin. Shall I start at this end? Or shall I take it up from the time I left the house? Our house. I was horribly alone. You will never understand how poignantly alone I was; but that is neither here nor there.

I’ve decided, even in the writing of these first lines where I shall begin. I am going to start with the now and go back. That is I mean to, but I do not promise to keep it up. It is a long story—a miserable history. I’ve sought for breaks in it, but I’ve discovered none. Remember, Peter, I am not sorry. I feel precisely as I did about the whole matter, as I did the day I walked from the house. I’ve not relented, even at this late date. I am not sorry; I do not regret. I repeat this statement in order that it may be impressed clearly upon your mind. I don’t want you to think I am pleading for pity. I am not. I neither crave your sympathy nor your change of feeling. I hope you get this point exactly.

How time flies. You are sixty-two. I am forty-eight. We are both going down the hill, and we are going down alone. It might have been otherwise. The boy is twenty-three. I saw him when he was fifteen. I saw him again when he was twenty, and again when he was twenty-one. I went where he was out of idle curiosity. I wanted to see what this thing of my flesh and blood had grown into. I was pleased and I was not. I thought he ought to have looked better. I wondered what he would have been under my influence, and had had the advantage of a mother’s love. My friends tell me that a boy needs this sort of thing to lift him over the hard places. Curiously enough I didn’t want to speak to him. I didn’t long to hold him in my arms, nor did I feel any desire to have him know me. I wonder whether that is normal. Most mothers, I suppose, would have gone to him and taken him in their arms, and begged him in a melodramatic way for his love. I desired no such thing. It may be that my life has been confused. I don’t know. However, that is neither here nor there. When I left you he was buried. I always looked upon him as a disgrace. He was not in my mind purely born. He was my stigma. So, he is of me and not of me. I will speak of him no more.

I look back upon my life as a series of developments. First, my youth—full of hope, gay, protected, luxurious, a timid child with no conception of life, a thing raised untutored, pushed into a willing marriage. I wanted to marry you. It was a consuming desire upon my part. I hoped so and I loved so. I thought you were wonderful. It gave me a thrill when you came home. I looked upon you as a super-man—unconquerable. Then gradually the veil was rent asunder. You did the tearing and you did it thoroughly. You destroyed me. I, however, felt it come and I tried hard to fight it out. My aim was to conquer the thing so that you and I, Peter, should lead an ideal existence—that we should have children, that love should radiate about us, like a glorious sun, on a glorious summer day. You killed this. You wanted money, success—futile, necessary money.

Remember, Peter, I don’t blame you for all the misfortune, as I may have been equally at fault. I couldn’t advance as rapidly as you did. I suppose it arose from the fact that I wanted you and not the world. I wanted children, and I wanted a home. I wanted to be separated from the frivolities of life. I wanted the burden of your happiness.

It may have been my fault in that I wanted to have you believe that in me and in me alone was the lodestar of all your hopes. In the development of that part of me, with no end of thought, I failed. I’ve always failed. I can’t understand why, but the fact remains.

I remember—it was a long time ago, many, many years. With what perturbation I was filled that first time you went away without kissing me goodbye. That was a tiny omission, but it was an interstice. Then I knew it came out of the blue. I knew I was slipping, that outside things were grasping you, and I sensed this thing clearly. Then I fought—I fought to recover, but although I fought I lost. I lost more and more. Each losing infinitely small. I mean each slip towards the disintegration; but to me these slips were monumental. I developed. I passed in a few short moments into another stage.

My second stage. I wonder as I write this whether you will read it and whether if you do you will be able to understand what I want to convey to you. Sometimes as I read what I write I think I may have missed the point.

In my second stage, I awoke from a poor bedraggled, dispirited woman. I became mad. I lost all sense of proportion. I magnified things you had done to me into things without proper ratios. I even had the temerity to gloat while my Father died. This was a curious experience. I looked back upon it with wonder. I can’t understand exactly how it could have happened. I can’t exactly define my frame of mind. It must have arisen because I blamed him, even as much as I did you, for the condition in which I found myself.

Of course, my Mother was a negligible quantity in my life. And from the things I have learned concerning her since her death, her sorrow over the tragedies that surrounded her life were but passing affairs which did not seem in any way to approach her. She seemed to sense nothing except her material side. Everything was cast from her as a snake sheds its skin. From her I received life and from her I got nothing except life.

It was different in the case of my Father. He loved me, and I know now as I look back that he adored me. His one ambition in life was to make existence for me as free from all source of worry as the human can. But he failed, and he failed because his perspective was bad. He didn’t understand the longings of a real woman. He knew the world from a man’s point of view. There he stopped. He knew nothing of it from a love’s point of view. He loved, but he loved materially. I asked him once whether he loved Mother as much as when he married her. He could not answer. He knew his love had left her and centered about his own success, which meant money and position—the flattery of men.

I am hastening these two developments because I want to tell you of the third stage of my life—the third development, and what it has cost me, how I arrived at this stage at which I find myself and what if anything I have gained by my conduct towards you.