IT was a filial duty, as well as a wifely duty, to meet Gilbert’s train. He wished them all to do so, he liked to see these three charmingly dressed, feminine creatures all looking for and expecting him. But he never showed this; he always wore the distracted and annoyed expression of a tremendously busy man snatching a little time for his family.
He got off the train in his rather clumsy way, and they started toward him, when the sight of Mr. MacGregor following him, bag in hand, changed their politely eager smiles to looks of consternation.
Gilbert kissed them all perfunctorily, and then brought forward his companion.
“I’ve brought Mr. MacGregor down with me,” he announced. “I hope the place isn’t crowded.”
“It isn’t,” said Andrée. “I don’t see why it should be. I don’t see anything to bring crowds of people here, I’m sure.”
“Hush, Andrée!” murmured her mother, and bestowed a gracious and expressionless smile upon the visitor. “I’m sure there’ll be a room for Mr. MacGregor. Hadn’t we better get into the bus now? It’s waiting, you know!”
All the way to the hotel she was quite perfect; she told Mr. MacGregor about Andrée’s difficulties in practising, she was gay, in a formal, stereotyped way; when they arrived she arranged with the landlady for a room, even went about, picking him out a nice one. Then they all sat on the veranda for an hour or so, in the terrific heat, looking out over the sun-scorched lawn and the dusty road, and the motionless fir trees, and talked more. It was not an altogether successful conversation; Andrée was perverse and wilfully tactless, Edna was frankly indifferent, and Gilbert very garrulous. He wished to talk about the wholesale rubber business, and he did.
Then it was time to dress for dinner and they all went upstairs. The door into the girls’ room was locked, and Gilbert sat down, prepared for a more confidential talk, and an accounting of Claudine’s expenditure. But she attacked him at once, with a fiercely restrained wrath.
“Gilbert, what made you bring that man here?”
“Who? You mean Mr. MacGregor? I wanted to!” he answered, defiantly.
“It was a stupid, meddlesome thing to do!” she cried.
“See here, Claudine—!”
“You don’t realize the trouble it may cause.... Why didn’t you consult me?”
He laughed unpleasantly.
“I don’t think I’ll start that now, after twenty years—”
“You’ve no right to bring any man, where the girls are, without consulting me.... I particularly didn’t want this man.”
“Why?”
“I don’t care to explain.”
“It’s no use your being so high-handed with me. I’ll bring anyone I see fit. I consider my judgment—”
“Then I shall take Andrée away.”
“Going to leave me? I’ve heard that before!”
She was quite white with anger.
“When it’s a question ofAndrée—” she began.
“There it is again—your cursed, unfair, unwomanly favouritism. What’s the matter with MacGregor? Not good enough for your princess?”
“Then he’s spoken to you!” she cried, in horror.
“Yes, he has, and very decently, too. I don’t see how she could do much better, if you ask me.”
“Gilbert! Are you mad? That old man—old enough to be her father!”
This touched a sore spot.
“Even that isn’t so very ancient,” he said, with infantile resentment. “No one but you would call a man of his age old. He’s a fine fellow. He has a good name, and he’s well fixed, and he’s very fond of Andrée—”
“You’re—you’re positively wicked!” she cried, choking with sobs. “Andrée—that wonderful, beautiful child—and that silly old man ...! I’m ashamed of you! I’m disgusted with you!”
He was astonished and somewhat alarmed. How was he to explain to this unreasonably violent woman his pretty fancies about young brides and adoring, distinguished, grey-haired husbands?
“See here!” he began, but she wouldn’t listen to him.
“I won’t allow him to say a word to her! Not a word! I’m going to speak to him myself and—”
Gilbert sprang to his feet.
“No, you don’t! I’m not going to be made a fool of! I told him he might speak to Andrée—”
“And I’ll tell him he can’t. I won’t have any interference where Andrée’s concerned.”
“I tell you I have something to say in this matter!”
She looked at him with a cold smile, and deliberately turned away from him. It was a trick of hers, and it always infuriated him. He raged at her in a way of which he was afterward ashamed.
She went on dressing, entirely disregarding him; then when she was ready, she said:
“I’m going downstairs now. Perhaps you’ll dress, when you’ve finished your bar-room tirade.”
It was a jolly dinner. Both Claudine and Gilbert were in high spirits, as angry people often are, and Mr. MacGregor appeared greatly entertained. The girls were ridiculous; Claudine recognized their mood and frowned. She knew and dreaded this high tension, when every remark provoked a giggle, when they exchanged glances and were scarcely able to control their lips, trembling with laughter. A thought came to her which made her flush with shame. Could they have heard their father ...? He had certainly talked very loudly. And unfortunately that was the sort of thing they considered funny.
Poor woman! She was in misery, before her wretched task. She was afraid of the inscrutable Mr. MacGregor; he was so masculine, so self-assured, so old and sensible. But she was determined nevertheless to drive him away,no matter how outrageous she had to be. He should not be given the opportunity of putting ideas into Andrée’s head—silly, headstrong Andrée! She wouldn’t leave them alone for an instant.
As they rose from the table, said Mr. MacGregor:
“Miss Andrée, shall we have a little music? We might run over that new duet—”
“No, thanks!” said Andrée, laughing. “Not with you!”
“Nonsense! Come along!” he said, with authoritative, professorial air. “I want to see what you’ve been doing.”
“No!” she repeated. “I don’t want to! I won’t!”
“Come, Andrée!” said Gilbert, severely. “This is no way to behave. When Mr. MacGregor—”
“All right!” she interrupted, and led the way into the parlour where a group of old ladies was already installed. Mr. MacGregor drew up a chair beside the piano stool and they sat down, side by side, the big, stoop-shouldered man with his grizzled hair, and the slight young girl. He spoke to her for a few moments in an undertone, pointing a square finger at the music; and she nodded petulantly.
“Now!” said he.
The four hands were poised above the keyboard in the manner made famous by his teaching. Then they began, a majestic, crashing piece, a prelude in tremendous chords. The group of old ladies was annoyed at first, but some instinct warned them that it was classical music and worthy of respect, and they all sat rocking and listening.
But Claudine could take no pleasure in the noblework. The sight of Andrée and Mr. MacGregor side by side filled her with terror and impatience. She thought of the man’s great prestige, the illustrious pupils who publicly lauded him, the recitals given by his conservatory which she had attended, and where he was a demi-god, adored by students and parents. He had written books on technic, he was a prominent man, respected in certain estimable circles, he was well-to-do, his reputation was unblemished. His attention must seem such a dangerously flattering thing for his young pupil.
Oh, damnable music! She imagined she could actually see it weave its spell about her child. The duet finished, Mr. MacGregor consented to play alone, and it was marvelous playing. Andrée stood beside him, watching his hands, never raising her eyes. And he never looked at her either; sinister fact!
“And now, you, Miss Andrée!” he said.
She consented instantly. She was fired; she wanted to play now. And Mr. MacGregor crossed the room and sat down beside Claudine.
“She is remarkable,” he said.
Claudine looked intently at him.
“You think she would make a concert player?” she asked, briefly.
“She undoubtedly could, if she would. But her temperament is peculiar.”
Claudine smiled.
“Her temperament is more or less familiar to me,” she said.
“Oh, I wasn’t presuming to inform her mother!” he hastened to say. “It was simply that I thought my interpretation—as a musician—might be of interest. Idon’t hesitate to say that she is one of the most promising pupils I have ever had the pleasure of teaching.”
“Then do you think she has a fine future before her?” asked Claudine. She would bring him to the point; he should be made to declare himself so that she could demolish him.
“If she chooses. But I’m not sure that she has the temperament for a public artist. She is too rebellious—”
“Then what do you think she is suited for?” asked Claudine, boldly. But she never had Mr. MacGregor’s reply, for Andrée had suddenly stopped playing and got up.
“Mother!” she said, “Do you mind if Edna and I pop over to the drugstore? We want some things—”
Mr. MacGregor had risen, prepared with a gallant offer to accompany them, but before he could say a word, she had gone, her arm about her smaller sister. And with the cessation of the music, Gilbert intended to be heard. Mr. MacGregor was rather interested in the stock market, in a prudent way, and Gilbert had information to give, and prophecies.
Claudine could not endure it; she went out on the veranda to await the return of the children, but though she lingered there for an hour and a half, there was no sign of them. Thoroughly vexed, she went upstairs and there they were in their own room. She heard Edna shrieking with laughter.
Quite shamelessly she stood close to the crack of the door.
“Gosh!” said Edna. “If he married both of us, andanother one thrown in, it would just about make a wife of his own age. The conceit of men!”
“Well,” said Andrée, “the girls at the conservatory do make awful idiots of themselves about him, you know.”
“But, oh!” cried Edna, “you don’t know how funny you looked, playing that duet, and both—pouncing—!”
“Shut up!” said Andrée, impatiently. “I knew you were laughing. There’s nothing really funny in it, of course not.”
There was silence for a moment, broken by giggles from Edna.
“But, honestly, Andrée,” she said, at last. “Have you encouraged him? I’m sure he came to woo you!”
“I never dreamed he’d come.... I wish he hadn’t! He wrote such heavenly letters. And now he’s spoiled everything.”
“Father adores him; you can see that. What do you suppose he told Father?”
“Goodness knows! Father swallows everything.... Oh, dear! I really liked him—when he was miles away!”
Claudine now knocked at the door; and entered.
“Children,” she said. “Where have you been? I waited and waited for you—”
“We just came up here; we didn’t go to the drugstore after all. We thought we’d like a nice quiet little talk,” said Edna.
“It’s very close and hot up here,” said their mother. “However I suppose you’re not going downstairs again this evening—”
“Not unless Andrée wants to play another duet,” said Edna.
Andrée scowled at her.
“Your playing was beautiful, my dear,” said her mother. “Mr. MacGregor must be a very competent teacher.”
She kissed them both and went back into her own room, unaccountably relieved. She undressed and put on a thin silk dressing-gown and sat down near the window in the dark.
She deliberately tried to banish all thought of Gilbert. He would inevitably go to the large hotel down the road and have a number of whiskies and soda, and come back, either contrite or quarrelsome. One was as bad as another.... She sighed, bitterly. Better think of Andrée.
It was a hot, still night; the world outside seemed restless and fevered, noisy with insects, not sleeping, not tranquil. She could hear dogs barking frantically, and a strain of stupid music from the hotel, chattering voices on the veranda, sounds from other rooms.... Oh, my Andrée, how little life has to give you! Even the best of it is so poor! A profound melancholy overcame her; she could not so much as imagine a future for her child that would be happy.
The door opened softly, and Edna’s voice whispered:
“Mother!”
“Yes, dear?”
“May I come in, just for an instant?”
“Of course!”
“Andrée’s asleep.... But I was so afraid you’d be worrying, Mother darling. I knew how you must feelwhen you saw Mr. MacGregor.... Oh, Andrée’s such a chump! But he’s done for! I made her laugh at him, and that’s spoiled everything.”
“You dear girl! How clever and sensible of you! You really do understand Andrée wonderfully.”
Edna sighed.
“She is a worry! She’d marry anyone—she’d do anything, if she was caught in a certain mood. I hope you’ll be able to keep that old nuisance—”
“Really, my dear!”
“I hope you won’t let Mr. MacGregor talk to her to-morrow. It might undo all the good I’ve done.”
Claudine put her arms about the child and kissed her fervently, the sort of kisses she so often gave to Edna in which were all her secret contrition for her favouritism, all her remorse at the inadequate return she made for this honest and beautiful affection. She had a superstitious dread of being punished some day for her wickedness; some disaster would overtake little Edna, and then she would repent, too late, her idolatry of Andrée.
“Good night, Edna darling!” she said. “You’re such a comfort to me!”
And how much dearer was the pain that one caused her than the comfort the other gave!
CLAUDINE waked up to the dull peace of a mountain Sunday. She could hear the grinding of the ice-cream freezer on the back porch, and far away the bell of the little Roman Catholic church. She rose and dressed while Gilbert still slept, and going out into the hall, knocked on the door of the girls’ room. Andrée was up and half dressed, combing her misty dark hair.
“Edna’s pretending to be asleep,” she said, scornfully.
“There’s no hurry,” said Claudine. “She can wait for Father and have breakfast with him. Finish dressing, and we’ll have time for a little walk.”
She sat down and watched her child with tender eyes. There was an awkward, impatient grace about her, in the hasty movements of her arms as she arranged her hair, something so immature, so touching. She slipped on a white frock, because her father was inordinately fond of seeing young girls in white, and announced herself ready. But Claudine saw untidinesses; she tucked in a stray lock of hair, straightened her collar, tightened her belt.
“Now!” she said. “You’re nice!”
They went out, closing the door quietly on the motionless Edna.
“What on earth is that row!” said Andrée.
They paused for a moment in the hall to listen. Some outrageous person was playing with vigour on the piano, and whistling, to accompany the vulgar air.
“And on Sunday morning, too!” said Claudine, with a frown, “when so many people want to sleep!”
They went on down; the dining-room was still quite empty at this early hour, and the veranda deserted. But every corner was permeated by that loud, shocking noise!
“Let’s see what it is!” said Andrée, and they looked cautiously in at the open door of the parlour.
“Oh, I know him!” said Andrée. “I saw him come last night, on the train with Father and Mr. MacGregor. Horrible, vulgar little wretch!”
Seated at the piano was a slight, fair-haired young man with a minute yellow mustache and a cheerful, impudent face. He wore a new black suit and white buckskin shoes and some awful sort of necktie; he had an air of being specially got up for Sunday. The place was a cheap and obscure one, but they had never before seen in it a guest like this. People of his kind found nothing to please them here.
Claudine was affronted.
“We can only hope he won’t stay long,” she said, as they turned away.
They went into breakfast, alone in the room, but their peace was destroyed by the playing and whistling; at first they frowned, and Claudine even suggested speaking to Mrs. Dewey; but in the end they were forced to laugh.
They went out for a walk, a carefully selected one, where no cows would be met with to terrify Andrée and a good view might be obtained for Claudine. They talked together in one of their few hours of perfect accord.
“I have some influence over her!” thought Claudine, happily. “If she ever contemplates anything foolish, I am sure I can dissuade her. She is mine! We are bound together by a thousand ties.”
Andrée broke into her meditation.
“You’re awfully pretty, Mother!” she said, suddenly. “I love the way you look.... There’s something—I don’t know how to describe it—something old-fashioned about you.”
Claudine was not greatly pleased.
“Old-fashioned?” she said, thinking of her new frock, her chic and becoming coiffure, every dainty detail of her costume.
“Yes. You haven’t the look other women have. You’re so distinguished and—mysterious. Have you had a very sad life, Mother?”
“Mercy, no, child!” said Claudine. She shrank at once from any invasion of her reserve; her dignity compelled her to maintain her aloofness, her air of slightly inhuman tranquillity.
But Andrée was insistent.
“But I do wish you’d tell me one thing!” she said. “Did you really mean to marry Cousin Lance, and were you parted by something?”
“Where did you get such a ridiculous idea?” asked her mother, frowning. “No one ever thought of such a thing.”
“Edna said she thought so.... Mother, I wish I knew you better!”
Claudine was startled and touched.
“My dear!” she cried. “But don’t you ...?”
She stopped.
“After all,” she went on. “I think it is better just to love people, and not to trouble about trying to know or to understand them.”
They had reached a little summer-house built out on a rock over a deep pool in a rocky basin. It had not at all the sinister aspect of that other pool; this was sunny, open and dark blue, with wild flowers growing about it, and ferns. From where they sat, they could see the line of mountains beyond. Andrée didn’t like mountains; the sombre and majestic environment exasperated her restless soul. She sighed, but grew quiet looking at her mother’s rapt face. She was drawing strength and assuagement from the hills. Poor mother, with her philosophers and her scenery! A phantom existence, Andrée reflected.
“Hope I don’t disturb you?” said a cheerful voice, and they both turned, to see with horror the common little man, with a great bundle of Sunday newspapers under his arm. He had politely taken off his hat and stood smiling at them.
“They told me down at the house that this was a pretty walk,” he said. “And it certainly is. Fine air to-day, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Claudine, in her most distrait, affable way. “It’s a lovely day.”
“Would you like to see the papers?” he asked.
“No, thank you. We’re going back at once.... We just stopped for the view.”
He smiled.
“A tame little view!” he said. “I guess I’ll find something better than this before I’ve finished.”
“How?” asked Andrée, abruptly.
“I’m going to climb some of these peaks. I’ve done a lot of climbing in the Alps,” he said. “I’ve got the head for it, and the legs. Why, there wasn’t one of those millionaire sportsmen who could beat me at it. These peaks look like hills to me.”
His boasting was somehow ameliorated by his good-humour. And one couldn’t help believing that he actually had defeated millionaire sportsmen.
“I suppose you ladies don’t climb?” he asked.
“I haven’t,” said Andrée. “But perhaps I shall some time. It might be rather fun. I’d never thought of it.”
“We must go,” said Claudine, firmly. “Your father will be wondering what has become of us. Come, dear!”
She smiled politely at the dreadful little man, and they walked off. At a turn of the path Andrée, looking back, saw him spreading out his papers, his straw hat jauntily at the back of his head.
“I’m afraid he’s going to be a nuisance,” said Claudine.
“I guess you can dispose of him!” said Andrée, grimly. “Lord! How I do hate Sundays!”
Claudine felt obliged to remonstrate, but weakly, because she was quite in agreement with her child. They sauntered back with reluctant steps, each lost in her own incommunicable thought.
The great mid-day dinner had been disposed of, the chicken, the ice-cream, and the other decent, traditional things, and the entire party went out on to the veranda and sat down, constrained, almost enraged with one another.
“Let’s take a walk, Father!” said Andrée, suddenly.
“Not on your life!” said Gilbert. “I’mnot nineteen, old girl!”
He took a bill from his pocket.
“See if you and Edna can’t find some place to buy yourselves a box of caramels,” he said. “I want a look at the papers.”
“I shouldn’t object to a walk,” said Mr. MacGregor.
“Then I’ll show you a nice, cool, after-dinner one,” said Claudine, brightly, “while the girls go for their candy. Run up and get me my sunshade, please, Edna!”
Gilbert looked up with a scowl; but he met so cold and steadfast a glance from his wife that he looked down again. Better let her alone; she was capable of the most alarming retaliations. Anyhow, she couldn’t do any real harm; love was not to be so easily discouraged. He pretended to be deep in his papers, but he was none the less well aware of his daughters going off in one direction and his wife and Mr. MacGregor in another. He was ready to laugh at the woman’s folly.
Claudine had started with the firm intention of approaching and utterly routing Mr. MacGregor. But, to be brief, she didn’t so much as mention Andrée’s name. She couldn’t! Instead they chatted affably as they strolled; Mr. MacGregor gave some information,more sentimental than scientific, regarding Scotch wild flowers. He was really very nice and flattering. She hadn’t for years met anyone who took so frank an interest in her. He was by no means a botanist, but he confessed to a love of Nature, and he admired her quite extensive knowledge. Moreover, he too was a reader of her beloved philosophers, and they had an interesting if somewhat superficial discussion of their theories of life. Claudine’s idea was that one should try to deny the reality of suffering; she had a pitiful hope that if she were to train her reason sufficiently she would in time be able to reason away her unhappiness. Mr. MacGregor, on the contrary, had a tinge of Calvinism in his philosophy, he thought it better to hug one’s pain, to rejoice in its cruel embrace, to be made strong by it.
Then they talked a little of music, Claudine’s old love. But Mr. MacGregor was so very practical. He looked upon a masterwork as a thing to be expressed through high technical perfection, he read no meanings, no sentiment into music, he had none of Claudine’s mystic delight in sound itself.
They both became mollified. Mr. MacGregor was able to forgive this charming and interesting woman her obvious interference in his love-making, and she was willing to admit that as a man he was strong, sensible, and rather likeable. She couldn’t help contrasting his ruggedness, his well-furnished mind, his varied interests, with the bilious and tiresome Gilbert. Here was a companion, who could walk, and who could talk.
They came leisurely home; Gilbert saw them crossing the sunny lawn, both of them annoyingly cool in spiteof the midsummer weather. He himself was quite wretched from the heat, and irritated by the newspaper. He got up and went to meet them.
“Tell you what!” he said. “We’ll see if we can get a motor somewhere in the place and go for a drive in the cool of the afternoon—about five. The children will like it.”
It was of course unimaginable either to him or to Claudine that he should find the conveyance. He was a sort of Sultan; he never did things of that sort. He gave orders, and he paid. So Claudine found and despatched a fat youth belonging to Mrs. Dewey and the thing was done. They then retired to their rooms until five o’clock; Gilbert dozed and his wife gave her attention to her finger-nails.
“What have the children been doing?” she asked suddenly.
“Don’t know.... Haven’t seen them,” he muttered. “Good Lord! This room ishot! Can’t you find some way to keep the flies out? What good are the screens?”
Claudine didn’t answer; an alarming thought had entered her mind. Suppose those provoking girls weren’t back when the car arrived? Gilbert would be in a terrible rage; and there would certainly be a scene.... Where could they have gone, on this drowsy Sunday afternoon in that little village so devoid of resources?
Her fears were confirmed; they didn’t come back. Gilbert had got into the car, Mr. MacGregor was standing near.
“Call the girls!” said Gilbert, impatiently. “I suppose they’re making themselves sick with their caramels.”
But they were not in the house, not in the grounds. Mr. MacGregor went down the road to the hotel, and to the drug-store where they must have gone for their candy, but he did not find them. They wasted half an hour, and then went off without them.
Gilbert didn’t spare Claudine. He remonstrated all the time, in a manner which, if he had not been a man, would certainly have been called nagging. He said it was disgraceful; hadn’t she any control over her children? Didn’t she take any interest in them? Was she in the habit of neglecting them in this way? That was the way with women; they hadn’t a damned thing to dobutlook after their children, and they didn’t even do that properly. And so on. Claudine endured it with a set smile; she scarcely heard him. Mr. MacGregor, however, did hear him; it was not a pleasant drive for him.
They got back a little late for the meal known as Sunday night tea. She hurried upstairs to wash and brush her hair, and there in their room were her daughters, both stretched out on the bed.
“Edna!” she cried. “Andrée! Where have you been? Your father had a motor to take you out ... he was so disappointed. You have no right to worry and annoy him so.... Where have you been since dinner time?”
Edna raised herself on one elbow.
“Sorry, Mother darling! We went out with that funny little man. We ran across him as we were comingout of the drug-store and he began to talk. Said he was going to walk to a place called ‘The Brave’s Leap,’ and asked us if we didn’t want to go along, so we did. It was heavenly! Miles and miles.... We’re awfully tired, but it’s a nice tiredness.”
“What an outrageous thing to do! I’m surprised at you! The man’s a perfect stranger—and not a desirable person at all. I can’t tell you how annoyed I am. And your father’s plans all upset—”
“But we didn’t know about Father’s plans,” said Edna.
“We didn’t miss much,” said Andrée. “I hate those silly drives. As it was, we got a lot of splendid exercise and a lot of fun.”
“You mustn’t do such things without asking me! I thought you both knew better than to go off that way with a stranger. It was very wrong and inconsiderate. Naturally your father expects to see something of you in the little time he’s here—”
“But, Mother dear,” said Edna, patiently. “We’re not children. We couldn’t leave Mr. Stephens standing in the street while we ran home to ask mother. He’s a very nice little beast, and there was really absolutely no harm in taking a walk with him.”
“I have no control over them!” thought Claudine, bitterly. “Gilbert is right!”
Aloud she said, in a tone of great displeasure:
“There is no time to argue with you now. It’s late. Please get dressed at once for supper.”
“We don’t want any supper,” said Andrée. “The nice little beast had all sorts of things in his knapsack. We’ve been eating all afternoon.”
“And we stopped at a funny little inn somewhere on the road and had ginger ale and more sandwiches. Mother, I wish you’d been there! It was the only decent time we’ve had in this place. We saw the most beautiful waterfall, and a wonderful gorge that an Indian’s supposed to have jumped across. And the man’s really very nice. Of course he’s common, and all that sort of thing, but he’s the most cheerful creature!”
“He said he was ‘athaletic,’”said Andrée, “and he is! He showed off all the time, and it was very amusing.”
But Claudine was not listening; she was thinking with dread of what she should say to Gilbert.
And in the end she was certainly not candid.
“The girls went for a long walk in the mountains,” she told him. She didn’t mention the “nice little beast,” and neither did they, whether from dissimulation or carelessness she didn’t care to investigate.
On an early train the next morning Gilbert and Mr. MacGregor went back to the city, and she drew a breath of relief. Now she had only two adversaries to struggle against—and perhaps the common little man as well.
“TIRED?” asked Mr. Stephens.
“Not a bit,” said Andrée. “Edna and I owe you a vote of thanks for putting a little life into one of those ghastly Sundays. I loathe Sundays.”
“You wouldn’t if you’d ever done any work,” said he.
She looked at him in surprise. He was sitting on the rail of the veranda where she had found him when she came out after her late and solitary breakfast. He looked well in his white flannels; he wore his great variety of clothes with a sort of innocent gusto, like so many fancy dress costumes, and though so obviously not to the manner born, he had no awkwardness; there was, on the contrary, an engaging and honest assurance about him, and a remarkable vitality. His features were sharp and by no means distinguished, but they were good. His blue eyes were frank and intelligent. He was wiry, well knit, not without vanity in his strength. The cheerful grin had vanished from his face with his last words, leaving it quite serious.
“I have done work,” she answered. “You don’t know what hard, tiresome work practising is.”
“It isn’t work,” he interrupted. “It’s preparation for work. You’ve never had to go on when you were tired. In fact, you’ve never had to do it at all. Your conscience has been your master, and I can tell you, it’s a darn sight easier master than hunger.”
This was extraordinary talk.
“Well, I suppose I’m lucky then,” said Andrée. “I’ve never had to earn money, and I don’t suppose I ever shall.”
“It’s not lucky to be useless,” he said.
“Useless!” she cried. “Do you think making music is useless?”
“Of course it is. Lots of people get on without music. Fine, high-minded people, too.”
Andrée smiled scornfully.
“I dare say!” she said. “But there are some people who wouldn’t think life was worth living without art.”
“No, there aren’t. Not one. If you gave any human being his choice between a decent happy life without a sign of art, or death, no one but a maniac would choose death.”
“Ishould!”
“Then that’s because you don’t know anything about death, or life either.”
She shrugged her shoulders, and half turned away.
“You’d better not bother to talk to such a fool, then,” she said. “I’ll admit I can’t talk to people who despise music.”
“I don’t despise it. I’m very fond of it. I play a little myself. In fact, I think I’ve got quite a talent for it. If I could have studied, I’d have been a pretty good musician.”
“I don’t doubt it, judging by your performance yesterday morning,” said Andrée.
She was glad to see his face flush as she walked away. He needed taking down.
Still, she couldn’t help thinking of him. He was an interesting, if an impertinent man. Her mother had said nothing further about him, but he was obviously in the category of impossible persons. Perhaps they had encouraged him too much....
But the beastly part of it was, that he was always doing such interesting things, things you couldn’t help wanting to do yourself. He lived in a sort of world of his own, quite cheerful in his ostracism. Perhaps he didn’t even notice the scorn and disapproval of the respectable old ladies, or the contempt of the matrons. He walked about the corridors with his hat on, he sat on the porch whistling loudly, late at night, when his betters wanted to sleep. Complaints poured in upon the placid Mrs. Dewey. And still, in spite of all this, Andrée and Edna followed his activities with envious eyes. One day a lean, worn horse was brought round for him from some mysterious source, and he came out and packed on it a most peculiar burden in a watercloth cover. He was there a long time, inspecting the girths, readjusting his load, intensely serious. Then he glanced up and saw the girls in the doorway.
“I’m off for a little camping trip,” he said. “A couple of days—exploring the hills.”
He mounted nimbly and turned to wave at them, and trotted off, straight and soldierly, in khaki breeches and a white shirt, and a big sombrero on his neat head.
The next thing he did when he returned was to ordera canoe from the city and carry it on his back a long way to a suitable little river. He was away in it for three days and came back with a fine basket of fish which he asked Mrs. Dewey to cook for the entire house.
And that evening after dinner he frankly approached Claudine.
“They tell me you know a lot about flowers,” he said. “I don’t know much, but I know enough to spot rare ones. I’ve brought back three or four specimens I think you’d like to have.”
“Thank you!” said Claudine. “You’re very kind!”
She hadn’t the heart to snub the friendly creature; besides, it was very nice of him to think of her.
“I’ll be very pleased to see them in the morning,” she said.
“Do you mind smoking?” he asked.
She was startled; did he intend to stay by her side?
“Not at all! And anyhow, I’m going in directly. I have letters to write.”
She left him sitting on the rail in his characteristic attitude, the attitude of a small boy, a rather humorous figure. And yet, in a way, a singularly manly and independent one, quite indifferent to the disapproval of the rocking old ladies, quite sufficient unto himself. Solitary, he was not lonely, not forlorn; he no more objected to being ignored than a cat might have objected. He somehow stood out against the background of mountains and starry sky with a startling individuality, like the epitome of valiant humanity defying nature. She thought of him with great indulgence, in spite of the fact that he had driven her indoors.
Claudine came out the next morning, prepared for the excursion she made every fine morning while Andrée practised and Edna sat in the room with her, driven by her sister’s industry to the study of Italian. She had with her two volumes of philosophers and a note book and fountain pen, for the studying she did, copying out and commenting upon the passages that impressed her, getting what comfort and peace of mind she could from them.
She put up her dark green sunshade and started off across the lawn, very trim and elegant in starched white; she looked remarkably young, her calm and serious face hadn’t a line, a wrinkle, her coppery hair was as bright and heavy as it had ever been, she was straight, her outlines neat and clear. She had never been supple; there had always been a sort of woodenness about her small body, but it had a charm all its own; it gave her a peculiarly “ladylike” air of being not quite human.
She left the grounds and entered upon the highway, inches deep in clean white dust, and she heard no footsteps behind her, no sound until an anxious voice said over her shoulder:
“I’ve brought those little plants and things for you to look at. I was afraid I wouldn’t be there when you got back. I’m leaving at noon for two or three days and they’d be withered by the time I got back.”
It was the nice little beast, coatless, in riding breeches and puttees. He proffered a small tin case, and she took it from him with a smile.
“Can’t I carry your books and things to wherever you’re going?” he asked.
She hesitated a moment, and then said, “Yes, thank you!” and they went on, side by side, Mr. Stephens gallantly holding the parasol very high over her head.
He glanced down at the books.
“Marcus Aurelius and Nietzsche!” he said. “That’s a queer combination!”
“Do you know them?” she asked, in surprise.
“Oh, yes! I’ve read about everything you could think of. I used to read things like this a lot. But not any more. They’re not real enough.”
“Some people have found them very real nourishment for the mind,” she said lightly. She couldn’t take this person seriously.
“I haven’t any use for mind without body,” he answered. “That’s what I like about Christianity. It’s so solid and material—”
“But it’s just the spirituality that is so admirable in it!” she protested.
“Not for me, it isn’t. What appeals to me about it is the human, natural, unspiritual part. Tells you todothis and that, instead of thinking this and that. It’s what you do, not what you feel, that counts there. I’ve never thought Christ cared whether people believed in Him or not. My idea is that He sort of had an idea that He’d help people by a few practical ideas on how to make the world a decent place to live in. If you behave in this way, He says, you can all be more or less happy. You see,” he went on, “I’m a Socialist.”
“Oh, mercy!” said Claudine, rather shocked.
“Yes, I’m a Socialist. And the way I see it, to bea good Socialist, you’ve got to be either an atheist or a Christian. If you’re an atheist, and you think this world is all there’s going to be, then you feel so d—— doggone sorry for the people who aren’t getting anything out of it, that you’d do all you possibly could to help them. I used to be an atheist. I was working in a factory when I was about eighteen, and when I’d see those kids starting in—boys, children really—and knew they’d never get even a fair living out of a whole life’s work, I guess I was a kind of Anarchist too. I thought the best thing they could do was to grab what they could, to try to wipe out the—hogs that kept all the good things away from them. But then, one day, I thought I’d read the New Testament, along with a lot of other stuff I had in hand. And, Gosh!... it was like a—a lamp being lighted in a dark room. Right away I felt that it wasright. That He’d got hold of the right idea of how to run the world. I’d always hated the idea that we were a lot of fighting animals, all struggling to get food. Evolution didn’t suit me altogether. It was too darned unfair to the beginners, you know, the cave men and those fellows who just opened the way for us. Well, I thought after I’d read about Christ, this living’s just a job, and here’s the way to do it. And after it’s done, we’ll get a rest. We need it. Why, hang it all! Even a baby a year old has had a hard life, trying to get adjusted.... I don’t believe in all this stuff about a whole lot of future lives, and keeping on developing. No, sir! This life is enough; it’s hard enough, and we learn enough. I guess we deserve peace after this, and I guess we’ll get it. Is this where you always stay?”
“Yes,” said Claudine. “But I wish you’d sit down and talk a little. I like to hear you.”
“I talk too much,” he said, seriously. “Somehow I’m always so full of stuff I want to say that I kind of spill over. And—d’ye know—somehow it seems—valuable—the stuff I want to say. Not particularly because it’s me, but because it’s—human nature.”
“It’s really very interesting,” said Claudine, blandly.
He laughed.
“Do you know,” he went on, “ten years ago the idea of anyone like you—a lady—saying she liked to hear me, even agreeing to listen to me—would have seemed like a pipe dream. I used to think that if I ever got a chance to talk to your sort, I’d give ’em a piece of my mind. But when I got to know more about ’em, why, I saw nothing could be done that way. No, sir; you can’t make people understand by talking. They’ve got to see—and feel. Ifyouever saw or felt what life was really like, you wouldn’t be satisfied to—”
He stopped abruptly.
“I didn’t mean to talk that way to you,” he said. “It’s rude. And you’re so kind and nice.”
“But I want you to! I want to hear what you think! I shouldn’t be satisfied to what?”
“Well ... to take everything and give nothing.”
“But do you imagine that I give nothing? I have three children.”
“That’s nothing. I’ll be frank, if you really want.... What I mean is, youdon’t count. You don’t try to help. You just try to make life bearable for yourself. Don’t you see? Even with your children. You don’t teach them to serve. You just tell them to live decently.”
“Even that is something—in a world like this,” she said, with a little smile.
He shook his head.
“Not to me! Better to forget your own life—even your own decency—a little....”
“But—since you have so clear an idea of the scheme of things—what would you like people like me—myself for instance—to do?”
“I guess it’s too late for you todomuch,” he said, gravely. “All you could do would be to learn to understand.”
“Perhaps I do.”
“You couldn’t. No one understands—really—by intuition. You’ve got to know, through experience—either inside or outside yourself. And I guess you—”
“Do go on! I’m not easily offended.”
“Well, I guess you’ve felt, instead of experiencing. It’s altogether different.”
“I wonder what experience you would countenance?” she asked. “Do you consider that the mother of three children, a woman who has lost both her parents, who has lived nearly forty years, is still without experience?”
He made an extraordinary answer.
“Your soul’s all right,” he said. “It’s your heart that’s undeveloped.”
“Heavens!” she thought. “Is the queer little creature trying to make love to me?”
But he went on.
“The great thing in the world is compassion.”
Then he stopped short and pulled out of a breeches’ pocket a gold cigarette case.
“Isn’t it a beauty?” he asked. “I paid what lotsof people I know could live on for months and months for this.”
“But—” she began, bewildered.
“I suppose you’re wondering what a fellow with views like mine is doing with a toy like that. Well, in the first place, it isn’t a dead loss. After I’ve used it a few years more, I’ll sell it or pawn it for quite a lot. It’s solid gold, you know; one of the best I could buy.Isn’tit a beauty?”
“Yes, it is!” she agreed, terribly touched by his naïve pride. “It is—a beauty!”
What an extraordinary conversation this was, she and this freckled young man, sitting facing each other on great sun-warmed rocks in the little glade which she had for weeks looked upon as her especial domain! She had certainly never met anything at all like him before, no one so absurd and so honest and so touching.
“But I was going to tell you why I had this thing,” he continued. “It’s because I think everyone’s got a right to a few pet follies. Now, some people think a Socialist can’t consistently have a balance in the bank. Well, my idea is this.... I’ve been able to grab for myself my share in the good things in the world. And that’s what I want to see every other fellow do. Not grab, if you could get it any other way, but generally you can’t. I want everyone to get a share. And a chance. I’ve got mine, and I’m going to help other people to get theirs.”
“But how did you get yours?” she asked, with an irresistible curiosity. She knew that he wouldn’t resent any sort of question.
“Fought for it. Fought for it like a devil. You see,I’d made a little invention—an improvement for a certain type of printing press. I’ll explain it all some other time. Well, of course, the fellows on top wanted to take it.... I won’t go into that either just now. But, anyway, I knew. I knew the profit it would make, and I made up my mind that a good part of that profit was coming my way. So I grabbed my share. It’s what everyone ought to have; a decent share in the profit of his work. It was a good kind of grabbing.... And now I’m able to do what I’d like to see every other fellow in the world able to do—work hard, at some kind of useful, manual work until he’s thirty, and then play for three or four years, before he settles down to work his brain. Brains aren’t much good until they’ve had those two things—manual work and play.”
“What is your brain going to do?”
“Write. I’ve got it in me.... But I’ve got off the track. I was showing you that cigarette case because I wanted to ask you if you could imagine what it was like to be an outcast, to have money enough to buy things like that, and to see how they’re begrudged to you. Every time I used to go in to buy things I’d earned enough money to buy, I was made to feel that. My money was good enough, but I wasn’t. If you could have seen the swell English tailor I bought my clothes from! He hated me for being able to get them. Because I’m ‘common.’ Well, as a matter of fact, I’m really very uncommon—darned uncommon.... The point I’m making is, that all the fine, good things in the world are put aside for a few people. Everybody knows it. All the shop people know it. They don’t want outsiders to get any of their choice things. They’relike watch-dogs—fool watch-dogs, starving to death while they watch other people’s meat.... When I was younger and doing more reading and thinking, I used to think the best way to bring about the changes I hoped to see was for the people on top to be awakened. They’ve got the money, the leisure, the power, the education, I thought.... But I learned pretty soon it would never come that way. They haven’t got either brains or compassion enough. They’ve used all their privileges to corrupt, not to enlighten. And not through wickedness or diplomacy, mind you, but from stupidity.”
He pulled out his watch.
“Oh!” he said. “I’ve got to go! Are you all right?”
“Perfectly, thank you!” she answered, smiling. “Only a little confused by all you’ve been telling me.”
It was not his words, however, that remained in her memory after he had gone. They meant little to her. It was the curious vitality and force of the man, his candour, his innocence, his baffling air of certainty. She thought of his activities, his ideas, his tireless flow of talk, and the woods, usually so full of interest and charm for her, were suddenly blank. The mystery and wonder she had seen in the smallest plant were suddenly nothing at all in comparison to the wonder of a human being.
She became uneasily doubtful of her philosophic attitude toward her fellows, her great desire to escape them.
“He’s ...” she thought, with half a smile. “He’s a breath of life in all this stagnation.... A breath of life!”
AFTER lunch they all, Claudine, Andrée, and Edna, dressed themselves in their ceremonial garments, the modish and immaculate white required by the gold-providing Gilbert, and went down to the railway station to meet him. There were other wives there, and other children, and a little swarm of bucolic onlookers. And there was also the “breath of life” in tramping outfit, with immense waterproof boots and a new Panama hat. He came over to them immediately.
“I’m taking the next train up,” he said, with his invariable assumption that everyone was interested in his doings. “They say there’s an old fellow away up in the mountains who’s a regular wild man. An Italian; he used to lead round one of those dancing bears, but it got away one night and he went into the woods after it, and never wanted to come back. Two or three people have told me about him. His hair’s got long, and he has a beard down to his waist. They say he won’t speak, but I guess I can make him. He runs away and tries to hide.”
“That sounds more like the bear,” said Edna. “Perhaps he ate the man and they’re both merged into one.”
He laughed.
“Well, I’m ready for bears, too,” he said. “I’ve got the best kind of rifle made, and I know how to use it.”
“Everything you have is the best there is, isn’t it?” said Andrée scornfully.
He reddened, but he answered cheerfully:
“You bet! And I’m proud of ’em, too. I earned ’em. They weren’t given to me by anyone else.”
Andrée turned away.
“Let’s walk up and down, Mother!” she said. “It’s so much hotter standing still.”
Claudine very willingly assented; the last thing in the world she wanted was for Gilbert to find them talking to that young man. He would be angry, and not without cause, for this was certainly not the sort of acquaintance for the mother of two young daughters to cultivate. Edna might talk to him with impunity, her sensible ideas and her humour legitimatized almost anything. She put her arm through Andrée’s and they began to saunter up and down, keeping a discreet distance from Mr. Stephens.
“He needs to be sat on!” said Andrée, with a frown.
“I don’t believe you can do it!” said her mother, smiling.
“He is a thick-skinned little beast. He’s insufferable!”
“I don’t think so. He’s polite enough, if he’s treated politely.”
“But I’m not going to treat him politely.... There’s the train!”
They halted and stood watching, while the engine roared past them and stopped neatly at the proper spot, and the handful of passengers alighted.
“O Lord!” groaned Andrée. “Again!”
For she had seen the gaunt, ungainly form of Mr. MacGregor coming down the steps, bag in hand. He lifted his hat and came toward them.
“I am charged with a very unwelcome message, I’m afraid,” he said. “Mr. Vincelle is unable to get away this week, and he asked me to come down, and see if I could be of any service to the ladies!”
Oh, cowardly Gilbert! Claudine could have laughed at his infantile ruse. She welcomed Mr. MacGregor with cordiality and beckoned to Edna, who came, but who naughtily brought the little man with her.
“Look here, Mrs. Vincelle!” he said, eagerly. “I’ve been talking to Miss Edna.... As long as your husband didn’t come out, you’re all more or less free, aren’t you? No plans made, I mean? Well, won’t you all be my guests on a little picnic?”
“I’m very sorry—” Claudine began, but he was not to be stopped.
“Why not?” he said. “It’s a hot afternoon, and I’ll show you a fine, cool spot. I’ll arrange everything. I’ll see to the supper, and everything else. All you have to do is just get your bathing suits—”
“Bathing!” said Edna. “I didn’t know there was any in this place!”
“There’s a wonderful swimming pool. And I can lendyoua bathing suit,” he said, looking directly atMr. MacGregor, to whom he had not been, and never was to be, introduced.
“I’m afraid we’re not the same size,” said Mr. MacGregor.
“Doesn’t matter. You can get into it. We can start about four and come home by moonlight.”
The girls were both frankly pleased with the idea; Claudine confessed to herself that it was an attractive prospect. But impossible! They couldn’t be the guests of this man, they couldn’t really, openly, admit that he existed. She looked covertly at Mr. MacGregor, hoping for support, for some grown-up, tactful remark that should help her to get away. But he had taken it for granted that Mr. Stephens was a friend of the family, and he wanted to go on that picnic.
“Some other time—” Claudine began, with her most condescending affability, but Edna broke in, with a wail.
“Oh, Mother, I’m so longing for a swim! Do let’s go!”
“It’ll be very nice, I promise you!” said Mr. Stephens, solemnly. “I’ll take all the responsibility for seeing that you all enjoy yourselves.”
“After all, Mother, why not?” murmured Andrée, in her ear. “I’d like to eat somewhere except in that disgusting dining-room for once. And a moonlight walk!”
“I’m afraid Mr. MacGregor wants to rest after his journey,” said Claudine, and her tone was threatening. But Mr. MacGregor did not understand; he thought that he was expected not to want to rest, and he insisted that he longed for this picnic.
Claudine was miserably conscious of her lack of character; at her age she had no business to allow herself to be entrapped into so undignified a position. She knew she should have prevented this thing, that even now she ought to destroy the project, but she was quite unable to do so. She was committed....
It was an imposing safari, observed by the people on the veranda with excessive interest. First went Claudine under a parasol held by Mr. MacGregor, then the two girls, arm in arm, and behind them, alone and unheeded, the young host, carrying a number of things, and behind him Mrs. Dewey’s fat youth, and a young man never accounted for, both heavily laden. Like a general the little man called out his orders.
“To your right now!” And Claudine and Mr. MacGregor would lead the march in that direction. Once they had to make a détour to avoid a field of cows, through which Andrée refused to pass.
“Now!” he said. “Just down this hill, and you’ll see the place. It’s beautiful! Fern Glen, I’ve named it. It’s a regular, natural swimming pool—water cold and clear as can be. And quiet! Lots of nice little birds, too, Mrs. Vincelle, just what you like.”
But instead of the exclamation of admiration he had expected, he heard a tragic cry from Andrée.
“Why, it’s nothing in the world but our horrible old snakey pool!”
“I didn’t realize we were getting here,” said Edna. “We’ve always come up the stream.”
“But what have you got against it?” asked theyoung man, horribly chagrined. “It’s a beautiful spot, and it’snotsnakey.”
“It is!” said Andrée. “We’ve seen snakes swimming in your beautiful natural swimming pool.”
“They weren’t poisonous snakes, then,” he assured her. “And they’ll keep out of your way.”
“I won’t give them the trouble,” said Andrée.
“We’ll look after you, Miss Edna and I,” said Mr. MacGregor. He always made a point of pretending that he and Edna were the firmest of allies, perhaps because she was the only member of the family he didn’t at all fear.
“I believe I’ll risk it!” said Edna. “It looks so lovely and cool and I’m so terribly hot.”
The fat youth and the young man had gone away again, and Mr. MacGregor and the host withdrew, to return very promptly in their bathing suits. Claudine was filled with quiet amusement at them; each was so evidently satisfied with his superiority over the other. Mr. MacGregor had an air of saying “I don’t believe you realized what a fine, big man I am! This poor chap’s tights are too short for me, and my chest almost bursts his poor little jersey. I may be an artist, but what a manly one!” And young Stephens, straighter than ever, couldn’t keep a grin from his freckled face; he was itching with a desire to show off. He was, moreover, very proud of the arrangements he had provided for the ladies; a little tent to serve as their dressing-room, with a mirror fastened to one of its sides.
It was characteristic that Andrée should be the most daring and reckless of them all. Claudine could not swim; she waded waist deep into the pool and stoodthere throwing water over her shoulders, like a little statue in a fountain, Edna thought, full of a precise and formal grace, not one burnished hair out of place. Mr. MacGregor swam powerfully all about the pool once or twice, to show his strength, and Edna followed him, and though she didn’t go nearly so fast, she wasn’t nearly so tired. He felt a little pang of envy for her youth that tinged his admiration for her with an almost unkindly feeling. Seen in a bathing suit, she was more robust than one would have imagined; she was small, like her mother, but it was not at all a fairylike smallness. She had a beautiful, a perfect figure, well-developed, supple, and sturdy; her skin was as white as a Dryad’s in that tree-shadowed place, and her blond hair was like sunshine, although her dimpled face had no sort of resemblance to any wild wood creature. Never would she pine or die for love! She was a young woman, not a sprite, and she had all of woman’s marvelous resources against suffering. Compared with her, Andrée was an immature andfaroucheschool-girl.
And yet it was she they all looked at. She was a fleet swimmer, but with little endurance. She had a well-known trick of swimming out too far and becoming panic-stricken and needing help to get back to the shore. She had a positive talent for alarming and distressing the others, for being perpetually the centre of attention. It was not that she consciously tried to “show off,” like Stephens; what she did, she did to satisfy some requirement of her own nature. She insisted upon swimming too near the waterfall; shewoulddive, heedless of remonstrance. She was wayward, taciturn, defiant. She was the only one of the women to get her hair wet, theonly one who emerged dank, shivering and dishevelled. And when they sat down on the pebbly shore for supper, she alone was untidy, she alone out of spirits. Her damp hair hung about her shoulders, her lips were bluish; she had only the curtest answers, and was obviously disinclined to speak at all.
“I’m afraid you stayed in the water too long,” said Claudine, with a shade of anxiety.
“No,” whispered Edna to her mother. “It’s not that. She was simply terrified every minute! That snake, you know! And yet, of course, she would hover about the very spot where we saw it.... Don’t speak to her, Mother darling! She’ll be all right in a few minutes.”
The supper was undeniably a triumph for Mr. Stephens. He had done wonders. Carefully concealed, he had caused to be brought a freezer of ice cream, great vacuum bottles of iced tea, and rum to flavour it for those who liked it. His bearers had lighted a fire before leaving, and in it were roasted potatoes and corn. There were also cold chicken and a fine boiled ham and a great number of other delicacies. The guests were hungry and complimentary.
Afterward he brought out that gold cigarette case and passed it about.
“Do you mind if I have one, Mother?” asked Andrée.
“I’d rather you didn’t,” said Claudine, coldly. There was nothing she disliked more.
But Mr. MacGregor intervened.
“As long as Miss Andrée isn’t a singer,” he said, “won’t you be indulgent, Mrs. Vincelle? I believe they’re very good for the nerves. In my younger days,of course, such a thing would have been out of the question. But live and learn! My own sister—”
“Mercy, what a killing look!” murmured Edna to her sister. “He wants to show you how up-to-date and young he is!”
“Very well!” said Claudine, graciously. But it was not Mr. MacGregor’s plea which had persuaded her; it was the peculiar look on her child’s face. It would be unwise to cross her, she thought.
And Andrée smoked, leaning back against a tree, looking an abandoned, reckless young creature, surrounded by a subtle and dangerous atmosphere of adoration.
The moon came up ... what further enchantment did she need than that light on her pale, dark face, than all that sweetness and mystery of the midsummer night about her?
The bearers came back and took away their burdens, and a little later the picnickers followed. Claudine walked a little in advance with Mr. MacGregor, and whenever, with a strange uneasiness, she turned to look behind her, she certainly saw two little points of light from two cigarettes among the shadows.