- s«'sgi*s€s>^-ir^*' 
 
CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 BEQUEST OF 
 
 George Jean Nathan 
 
 Class of 1904 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PS 3515.0445U5 
 
 The unit lamp:a study of nter-actions, 
 
 3 1924 022 479 087 
 
The original of tliis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924022479087 
 
THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 A STUDY OF INTEH-ACTIONS 
 
 BY 
 
 ELISABETH SANXAY HOLDING 
 
 Author of "Invincible Minnie," "Rosaleen Among the Artists," 
 "Angelica," etc. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 E. P. DUTTON & COMPANYl 
 
 681 Fifth Avenue 
 
Copyright, 1922 
 By E. P. Button & Company 
 
 All Rights Reserved 
 
 nmrnsD m thi: vshed 
 
 STATES OF AMEBIOA 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 BOOK ONE— THE BEBDE 
 
 I. A Dance on Staten Island in 1890 3 
 
 n. A ViNOELLE IN His Natural Habitat 15 
 
 m. Gilbert Goes A-wooinq 26 
 
 rV. Claudine's Peoulur Mother 37 
 
 V. Claitdine Learns to Adapt Herself 49 
 
 VI. The Keynote 59 
 
 VII. The Hedge Which Grew So Fast 73 
 
 Vni. A Tear Later 88 
 
 BOOK TWO— THE BEEATH OF LIFE 
 
 I. After Twenty Years 97 
 
 II. The Forsaken Provider 110 
 
 m. The Suitor with Credentials 122 
 
 IV. The Unabashed Outcast 132 
 
 V. The Breath of Life 143 
 
 VI. The Unlawful Picnic 155 
 
 VII. Stephens Explains Himself 170 
 
 Vm. The Thino is on Them 181 
 
 IX. Bertie 196 
 
 V 
 
vi CONTENTS 
 
 BOOK THEEE— THE CUP IS OFFERED 
 
 CHAFTEl SAGE 
 
 I. Andres's Becital 211 
 
 II. The Bitter Triumph 222 
 
 m. Andrbe's Wedding 229 
 
 IV. The Beginning 241 
 
 V. The Housewarming 252 
 
 VI. Discords 264 
 
 Vli. The Pastry-Cook's Daughter 273 
 
 Vin. Mutiny 284 
 
 IX. Home Again 299 
 
 X. Destiny Intervenes 311 
 
 Epilogue 322 
 
BOOK ONE 
 THE BRIDE 
 
THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 CHAPTER ONE 
 
 A DANCE ON STATEN ISLAND IN 1890 
 
 "/^OOD Lord!" said young Vincelle, turning up the 
 
 VJ collar of his overcoat. "I didn't know we were 
 going to the ends of the earth." 
 
 "It's worth it," said his friend. 
 
 They sat in total darkness while the hired hack dragged 
 them up the hills of Staten Island; it was a bitter 
 night, and Vincelle wasn't prepared for it. He shivered 
 and pulled the rug higher over his knees. He was taking 
 a little more than his share of that rug, but Pendleton, 
 feeling himself more or less responsible for the cold, 
 made no complaint. It was he who had persuaded 
 Vincelle to make the arduous trip from Brooklyn to 
 Staten Island, to attend a dance, and to see the prettiest 
 girl there was to see. And Vincelle was a fellow ac- 
 customed only to cities, to warm, well-lighted houses 
 and theatres and swift transitions in street cars and 
 hansom cabs; he was, moreover, not adaptable and not 
 compliant. 
 
 He looked out of the window with a sort of dismay; 
 nothing but bare trees against a sinister night sky; now 
 and then a lighted house in a big garden. The horse 
 went steadfastly forward, with a monotonous jerking 
 
 3 
 
4 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 of his head ; outside on the box loomed the swathed and 
 shapeless figure of the coachman, who didn't appear to 
 be driving, but to be waiting to get somewhere. 
 
 "Is it much farther?" asked Vincelle, in an ominous 
 voice. 
 
 "It's not really far from the ferry," said his friend. 
 "Only being uphill all the way makes it seem longer." 
 
 "I'm numb vdth cold . . . Why the devil wasn't 
 I satisfied with the pretty girls in Brooklyn?" 
 
 "It's worth it, I tell you!" Pendleton assured him, 
 earnestly. "I've never had such good times in my life 
 as I've had at the Masons'. Informal, but a good tone, 
 you know. Charming people!" 
 
 Vincelle didn't answer at all. He made up his mind 
 to be very critical ; he felt that the Masons needed to be 
 almost superhumanly charming to compensate for so 
 much discomfort. 
 
 They began the ascent of an outrageous hiU, and the 
 cheerful Pendleton, looking out of his window, an- 
 nounced that they were "practically there — ^the house 
 is at the top of this hill." He turned down the collar 
 of his coat and gave his silk hat a careful rub with his 
 sleeve; he began to stir about under the rug. But Vin- 
 celle made no preparations whatever; he intended to 
 look cold and uncomfortable; it was not for him to 
 please, but to be pleased. The carriage entered a gravel 
 driveway with a sudden burst of speed, and drew up 
 under a porte cochere. Lights were shining from the 
 long windows curtained in white, and the sound of their 
 wheels had brought a man-servant to the door. 
 
 For a moment VinceUe lingered while Pendleton made 
 bis arrangement with the driver, and then they entered 
 
THE BKIDE 5 
 
 the house together. And it astonished Vincelle. It was so 
 extraordinarily full of light and colour ; on either side of 
 the hall were open doors, showing big rooms brightly 
 carpeted, with blazing fires and flowers everywhere. 
 From some distant region he heard voices, laughter, foot- 
 steps. The man-servant ushered them into a smaller 
 room, carpeted in red, and lined with book shelves, 
 where on a little table before the hearth stood a huge 
 punch bowl; he proffered and they accepted; then he 
 led them up the fine stairway to a bedroom which waa 
 hospitably ready for them with a roaring fire. He re- 
 turned with a jug of hot water. 
 
 "Dinner in half an hour, gentlemen," he said, and 
 went away. 
 
 No use denying that Vincelle was impressed. Cer- 
 tainly they didn't do things in this way at home. Jugs 
 of hot water, instead of a chilly and possibly very dis- 
 tant bathroom, wood fires instead of hot-air registers and 
 gas logs, flowers in February, instead of potted palms 
 and rubber plants. Moreover, this idea of leaving it 
 to a servant to welcome guests impressed him by its 
 casualness; his mother always received visitors with cere- 
 mony, as soon as they crossed the threshold. He recog- 
 nized here something exotic and rather disturbing; he 
 got up and went over to the bureau, where he could 
 critically regard himself, for he had decided that, after 
 aU, he would try to please. 
 
 He was a handsome fellow, very dark; he had heavy 
 features and a sullen and obstinate mouth; he was not 
 very tall, but stalwart and powerful. He was twenty- 
 five, and though he looked even younger, owing per- 
 haps to that tragic sulkiness, he had a thoroughly adult 
 
6 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 and responsible air. He was no fop, like Pendleton; 
 there was sobriety and decorum in the cut of his coat; 
 he was even then every inch the business man. Evening 
 dress did not become his thick-set figure, but he was 
 naturally not aware of that. 
 
 "Do they have a gong — or send after you when din- 
 ner's ready?" he asked, still intent upon his image. 
 
 "They do not! You^re supposed to know, and if 
 you're late^ they don't wait for you. Come on! You're 
 lovely enough!" said Pendleton. He surveyed his 
 friend good^humouredly; it didn't disturb him that Vin- 
 celle was handsome and he was not, or that Vincelle had 
 money and was almost sure to make more. The Masons 
 wouldn't care about that. He was consoled by certain 
 advantages of his own ; he was lively, cheerful, witty in 
 a very mild way; everyone liked him; he was, in an 
 innocuous sense, a "ladies? man," master of the utterly 
 lost art of polite flirtation. He was tall, slender, elegant, 
 with a long, sharp nose and a bulging forehead ; his hair 
 and eyebrows were so light as to look almost white; he 
 had wrinkles about his little blue eyes;, it is of no signifi- 
 cance to say that he was twenty-seven^ because he was 
 ageless, and would be in no way different ten or twenty 
 years later. 
 
 "Come on!" he said, again. 
 
 In great decorum, conscious of their immaculate ap- 
 pearance and their value as eligible and admirable young 
 men, they descended the stairs and entered the drawing- 
 room. The subtle air of excitement which Vincelle had 
 felt upon entering the house was intensified here, the 
 same abundance of light and flowers, and a big fire. But 
 with the addition now of an agreeable babel of voices. 
 
THE BEIDE 7 
 
 Pendleton led him forward to a stout lady in black 
 silk, -with an august, kindly face and a very high colour. 
 
 "Mrs. Mason," he said, "may I present — " 
 
 "This must be Mr. Vincelle," she said, cheerfully, 
 and held out her hand. "You're just in time. "We're 
 about to have dinner." 
 
 And she took the arm of a young man in spectacles 
 and led the -way into the dining-room,, followed by all 
 the others, without order or ceremony. She was not the 
 aristocratic person the young man had expected, but 
 she was dignified, and that sufficed for a mother. No 
 more introducing was done, and he sat down between 
 two girls who talked to him immediately and agreeably. 
 But he couldn't respond; he was a little out of his ele- 
 ment ; he was accustomed to formality, ceremony, an air 
 of sobriety, and it didn't agree with him to be plunged 
 suddenly into the midst of a dozen strange people, with- 
 out, one might say, his passport. If people didn't know 
 who he was, then where was his prestige? 
 
 He looked about him. There were certainly a dozen 
 people, all of them young, with the exception of the 
 hostess, and a queer, bearded man who was unaccount- 
 ably dressed in a rough grey suit and who likewise had 
 the effrontery to wear run-down morocco slippers. That 
 was bad ; that was odd and eccentric, and everything he 
 objected to most strongly. But the two girls beside him 
 addressed him as "Professor," and if he were a profes- 
 sor, that explained it, though without justifying, it. His 
 glance left this unpleasant object, and sought for his 
 friend, and found him opposite, lost in conversation with 
 a girl. That must be the girl, of course! He stared at 
 her, entranced. Pendleton hadn't exaggerated in the 
 
8 THE TmLIT LAMP 
 
 least. She was eliarining, fascinating ! Mentally lie made 
 use of the adjective which probahly four out of every 
 five of the young lady's admirers used. He called her 
 "fairylike." 
 
 As a matter of fact, she wasn't quite pretty, but no 
 male person had discovered that. She destroyed judg- 
 ment. She was a little, slight thing, rather pale, with 
 reddish hair that stood out like an aureole of fine copper 
 threads. She had warm brown eyes, the kindly eyes 
 of her mother; small, pretty features. But her charm 
 and her distinction lay in her wonderful animation. One 
 could, he thought, look at her for hours, and never 
 tire of her gestures, of the change of expression on her 
 mobile face. She was witty, too; or it seemed wit to 
 him, her dear little grimaces and her joUy, good-natured 
 banter. No, he didn't blame Pendleton in the least; 
 she was worth the trip. Her dress satisfied his exacting 
 requirements too; it was white, much beruffled, cut a 
 little low in the neck, with short sleeves, and it had a 
 train. It was the dress of a young lady, for in these 
 days there really weren't any girls. 
 
 She raised her eyes and met this new young man's 
 glance, and smiled at him — a hostess's smile, friendly, 
 but a little impersonal. He was gratified to see that 
 she didn't appear at all serious with Pendleton; she 
 was, he thought, somewhat mocking. And from that 
 hour, he decided to consider his friend's well-known 
 worship as a thing of no consequence, simply one of 
 Pendleton's innumerable little loves — a sort of joke. . . . 
 
 It was an excellent dinner; he couldn't rememter 
 a better, and it was surprisingly abundant. He was 
 accustomed to frugality, and more or less austerity. His 
 
THE BEIDE 9 
 
 mother had finer linen, more silver, more magnificence, 
 but never had she had on her table a feast like this, 
 such honest, unpretentious excellence in food. There 
 was one wine served throughout the meal, which was 
 not according to his standard of elegance, but it was 
 a good wine, beyond denial.- 
 
 When the meal was finished, the ladies rose and 
 fluttered away. 
 
 "Not much time, you know!" said Mrs. Mason, wam- 
 ingly, as she left. "It's after eight!" 
 
 The professor then produced a box of cigars and a 
 decanter and they lingered for a time in the warm 
 room, very content. But the sound of carriage wheels 
 interrupted them; they threw their cigars into the fire 
 and went into the big room across the hall, where Mrs. 
 Mason was waiting. A succession of bundled-np forms 
 went past and up the stairs, descending in due time 
 as more young ladies; the room began to fill. Pendle- 
 ton was busy taking his friend about and introducing 
 him here and there, not leaving him until his card was 
 quite fiUed and he had Secured two dances with Miss 
 Mason herself. 
 
 "What was it about this particular dance which made 
 it different from all the other dances he had attended? 
 "Why did he have such a surpassingly enjoyable eve- 
 ning that he looked back upon it with a smile all his 
 life? There were pretty, lively girls, a floor like glass, 
 good music, a matchless supper; but there was nothing 
 unusual in that. No, there was some quite special 
 quality about it; a charming festivity, a revel wholly 
 youthful and innocent and happy. He held the ador- 
 able Claudine in his arms for two waltzes ; he had very 
 
10 ' THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 little to say to her, but he was by nature taciturn; he 
 listened instead. He was lost. . . . 
 
 The carriages began coining back and the dance guests 
 to take their leave. He watched one group after an- 
 other of bright faces vanish, then at length the front 
 door closed upon the last one, and M!rs. Mason, with a 
 sigh that was half laughter, sank into a chair. 
 
 "Mercy!" she said. "I'm getting too old for this, 
 children!" 
 
 There were only the house guests left now, and the 
 family, standing about the big room. There were him- 
 self and Pendleton, the lovely Claudine and her mother, 
 and five other persons, whom he was beginning to be 
 able to place now; there were a daughter and her hus- 
 band, there were two bosom friends of Claudine 's, and 
 the incomprehensible young man ia spectacles. 
 
 "It's after two o'clock," said Mrs. Mason. "There's 
 a little sort of breakfast laid out in the dining-room 
 for you young people, if you're hungry again. But 
 don't be long over it, and don't disturb your father 
 as you come upstairs. Good-night, all of you!" 
 
 She rose heavily, 
 
 "And, Lance, you'll put out the lights and lock up?" 
 she added. 
 
 The young man in spectacles nodded. 
 
 "Mother," said Claudine, "it was lovely! It's so 
 dear of you!" 
 
 Her mother looked at her for a moment with a faint 
 smile. 
 
 "You're only young once!" she said. 
 
 Trite words, certainly, and none of her hearers felt 
 their force. Her other daughter kissed her warmly, 
 
THE BEIDE 11 
 
 her son-in-law escorted her to the foot of the stairs, and 
 her stout, black-clad figure was seen ascending, wearily, 
 a little bent. 
 
 She puzzled VinceUe; she had no elegance; he felt 
 sure that his mother would call her "ordinary." Yet 
 there was about her a dignity, an authority, he had 
 never seen surpassed. And her way of entertaining 
 you had a sort of vigour and originality about it; he 
 felt that she didn't care much what other people did, 
 or, what was correct, but was concerned only with com- 
 fort, gaiety, and this unostentatious, invincible dignity 
 of hers. 
 
 "Come on!" said Claudine, and they all followed her 
 across the hall. 
 
 A new mood had settled upon them; they weren't 
 conscious of being tired, but they were, all of them, 
 subdued, inclined to a pleasant seriousness. The room 
 was shadowy, except for a hanging gas lamp above the 
 table, and the glow of the fire. They sat about the 
 table, hungry in spite of the hearty supper they had 
 consumed a few hours ago, and the young man in 
 spectacles began to talk in an unaccountable and eccen- 
 tric fashion about Pre-historic Man, and drew a picture 
 of him, cowering and shivering on such nights as this. 
 
 "A life of incessant fear," he said. "Imagine that. 
 Never to know security. Never to see any possibility 
 of safety. No chance of old age." 
 
 VinceUe listened, but he felt vaguely that Pre-his- 
 toric Man was rather blasphemous and Darwinian and 
 free-thinking. It was also displeasing to observe that 
 Claudine was interested. 
 
12 THE TUSTLIT LAMP 
 
 < 
 
 "It's safety that's made us develop, isn't it, Lance?" 
 she asked. 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 "It's safety that's making us decline," he said. "It's 
 making us soft and weak and dull." 
 
 "But if we weren't secure, we couldn't have any art," 
 said Claudine. 
 
 "Art!" said the young man, with a harsh laugh. 
 "Art! The opium dreams of drugged, idle people!" 
 
 The married sister interposed, laughiag. 
 
 "Don't be so serious. Lance! Claudine, dear, you're 
 not attending to us!" 
 
 For Claudine was sitting at the head of the table, 
 dispensing tea and coffee. The sparkling brightness 
 had gone from her face, she looked pale and a little 
 weary, but lovelier than ever. Vincelle was now dis- 
 posed to admire her more seriously; she had poise and 
 dignity, and she could talk in a way to startle him. 
 She had something to say even on the topic of Pr&- 
 historic Mian; she had ideas which he couldn't have had. 
 
 "Life lost its meaning," Lance went on, "when it 
 ceased to be a struggle." 
 
 "For Heaven's sake, when did it cease to be a 
 struggle?" said Pendleton. "They forgot to tell me. 
 I thought it was still pretty hard to get a foothold." 
 
 Lance ignored him. 
 
 "Man waged a magnificent and heroic struggle with 
 Nature," he said, "but was defeated." 
 
 "But was it really so heroic, Lance? It was an 
 involuntary struggle, it hadn't any aim. It seems to 
 me that now, when we're conscious, and can really try 
 to improve — " 
 
THE BEIDE 13 
 
 "We don't. We can't. It's too late. We're in the 
 final stage of evolution. We went the wrong way." 
 
 "Lance is a paleontologist," murmured the girl next 
 to VineeUe. "He's wonderful, isn't he? But so 
 gloomy!" 
 
 VinceUe had no idea what a paleontologist was, but 
 he didn't like them. He felt horribly out of it. He 
 couldn't be learned, and he wouldn't be funny, like 
 Pendleton. He was quite aware that he wasn't making 
 any sort of impression here. Claudine must have be- 
 come conscious of Ms dissatisfaction — ^perhaps he showed 
 it — for she suddenly addressed him. 
 
 "What do you think, Mr. Vincdle? Do you think 
 we're a miserable, doomed remnant?" 
 
 He flushed. 
 
 "I've never given it much thought," he said. "I've 
 been bijsy keeping up with business." 
 
 His poor little remark sounded so sulky and infantile 
 that even he was confused. 
 
 "And politics," he added, in an attempt to sound 
 broader-minded. 
 
 Lance drew out his watch. 
 
 "I'm going to lock up now," he said. "Five minutes 
 before the lights go out!" 
 
 There was a chorus of good-nights. 
 
 "Don't forget that Father's asleep!" warned the 
 married sister, as Claudine and her two bosom friends 
 went chattering up the stairs. Pendleton and VinceUe 
 followed them and turned down the hall to their own 
 room. Pendleton began flinging off his clothes, but 
 Vincelle sat motionless in an armcheiir before the fire. 
 
 "Who is that fellow they call Lance?" he asked. 
 
14 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 "Oh! Him? He's a cousin. The Professor's pro- 
 tege. He lives with them, you know. Nice chap; a 
 little bit crazy. But then the old man is too. Both 
 scientists, you know. Professor's a botanist. Come to 
 bed, old boy, and get that light out, will you?" 
 
 Tall and lanky in his night shirt, Pen^eton stretched 
 tremendously. 
 
 "Come to bed!" he said, again. "Come and get 
 your beauty sleep, my boy. Your face is your fortune, 
 you know." 
 
 Vincelle answered him with a sudden burst of anger. 
 
 "Oh, yes, but I'm not quite a fool, you know. A 
 fellow can't hold a position in a business like mine 
 without some trace of brains. I may not know much 
 about Seienpe, but I know a damn lot about the Art of 
 Making Money. And I'm not a boor, either," he added. 
 "Hitherto I've always managed to hold my own in any 
 sort of social gathering. I've been considered worthy of 
 a word now and then. ..." 
 
 A loud, artificial snore from his friend cut him short. 
 He turned out the light and undressed in the firelight. 
 But he felt his face bum in the dark with a resentment 
 he was not able to analyze. 
 
CHAPTER TWO 
 
 A VINCELLK IN HIS NATURAL HABITAT 
 
 HE waked the next morning to a marvelous peace. 
 Pendleton was still sleeping beside him, and 
 there was no other sound but his quiet breathing. Vin- 
 celle felt very wide awake; he got up instantly, and 
 he was glad to believe, from the silence, that it was 
 still very early and that he would be able to get home 
 before eleven. He had forgotten to wind his watch the 
 night before and it had stopped, but he fancied that he 
 could sense the time. He went over to one of the win- 
 dows and pulled up the shade with a rattle; it wasn't 
 his nature to consider the sleep of friends. It was a 
 bright, frosty morning, very clear; before him lay a 
 neat back garden, and behind it a stable. Not a sign 
 of life. He drew on his socks, always the first step of 
 his routine, and suddenly a disturbing thought assailed 
 him. He went over to Pendleton and shook him and 
 shook him until he opened his eyes. Pendleton swore 
 at him. 
 
 "Look here!" said young Vineelle. "Where do I 
 shave?" 
 
 "Don't shave!" said Pendleton. "Go to sleep again 
 like a Christian." 
 
 "No. I told Mother I'd try to get home in time to 
 take her to church." 
 
 15 
 
16 THE TINLIT LAMP 
 
 Pendleton pulled out his watch from under his pillow, 
 
 "Ah!" he shouted, exultantly. "Half past eleven 
 already, my son! Foiled!" 
 
 Vincelle frowned. 
 
 "I haven't missed in years," he said. "Poor old 
 lady! She counts on it." 
 
 "Now perhaps you'll shut up and let me go to sleep 
 again." 
 
 "Where can I shave? Is there a bathroom?" 
 
 "Ring the beU," said Pendleton. "And some one 11 
 bring you hot water." 
 
 But when he was dressed in the clothes he had brought 
 with him in his bag, he hesitated to go down alone in 
 this strange house. He strolled about the room, smoking, 
 until Pendleton was ready, and they descended together. 
 There wasn't a soul to be seen. 
 
 "They've all gone to church," said Pendleton. 
 
 This struck VinceUe as grossly inhospitable, someone 
 should have been there to attend to him. But a nice 
 little servant brought them an excellent breakfast in the 
 dining room and after it they aat comfortably in front 
 of the fire, enjoying cigars from an open box on the 
 sideboard. 
 
 "As soon as they come back, we'll go," said Pendle- 
 ton. And they did so. Mrs. Mason offered them the 
 use of the family omnibus in which they had returned 
 from church, but Pendleton said they'd rather walk. 
 She did not invite them to stop for dinner, which Vin- 
 celle considered impolite. If she didn't want them, why 
 couldn't she simply invite them in a half-hearted, un- 
 acceptable manner ? 
 
THE BEIDE 11 
 
 "I must thank you for a most enjoyable time," he 
 said ceremoniously. 
 
 She smiled and held out her hand. 
 
 "Gome again!" she said. 
 
 Clau(Jine, too, gave him her hand, but her glance and 
 her smile were lamentably devoid of significance. Evi- 
 dently he wasn't, for her, a special person; he was 
 nothing but a young man who had come down for a 
 dabce. They set out down the hill, and he was able 
 now to gain an idea of the place at his leisure. It was 
 a big wooden house with a cupola on top; it had no 
 pretension to beauty or architectural style, it was in 
 fact, quite hideous and ungainly, made of grey clap- 
 boards with a slate roof; square, except that on one side 
 a little greenhouse was built out from the veranda. 
 The garden, too, although large, was not like the gardens 
 of other people : there was no fountain, no nicely set out 
 shrubs. There was a beautiful old box hedge enclosing 
 it, but inside it looked irregular and untidy. 
 
 Pendleton was talking cheerfully. 
 
 "What do you think of her?" he asked. 
 
 "Very attractive," said Vincelle. 
 
 "Did you ever see anyone like her?" he pursued. 
 
 Vincelle admitted that he hadn't. 
 
 "I don't mind telling you I'm pretty hard hit," said 
 Pendleton. 
 
 This was something his friend had very much wished 
 not to hear. 
 
 "What about herf" he asked, briefly. 
 
 Pendleton groaned. 
 
 "She's such a little flirt!" he said. "Of course, I'm 
 not in a position to marry now, anyway. I'm not mak- 
 
18 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 ing enougli to keep myself. And by the time I can 
 ask her . . . with all these fellows hanging round her 
 all the time . . . Lord!" 
 
 Vincelle considered this frankness unmanly and in- 
 decorous. Never would he have admitted a liking for 
 a young lady until he was certain that she returned it. 
 
 They crossed on the ferry, standing outaide in the fine, 
 cold air, on the deck of the ark-shaped old boat. They 
 reached New York and just caught the Wall Street 
 ferry and at last disembarked iu the familiar air of 
 Brooklyn. They both lived in the august Columbia 
 Heights district, Pendleton in a house which was re- 
 spectable, but no more, and Vincelle in a fine one, on a 
 corner, with a garden quite twenty feet wide. He re- 
 spected this garden, because it represented extra prop- 
 erty and also because it kept them aloof from all neigh- 
 bors; through the high iron fence could be seen its 
 winter desolation, a complete and woeful barrenness. 
 At the best of times it was hardly an oasis, nothing 
 grew in it, and nothing was intended to grow in it, 
 except a wretched ancient wistaria, two bushes of Jap- 
 anese holly and a tall shrub, dry and dead. The com- 
 mon use of the garden was as a place in which the 
 house plants could stand, the rubber trees and palms 
 and orange trees in tubs. Every Spring old Mrs. Vin- 
 celle bought a number of potted geraniums and had 
 them planted in a certain bed where they blossomed, 
 mangily, for a month or two. 
 
 He bade his friend good-bye here and ran up the 
 brown stone steps, opened the door with his latch key, 
 and entered into a chill vault, dark, muffled, dismal. He 
 hung up coat and hat on a gigantic piece of furniture 
 
THE BEIDE 19 
 
 which towered up to the ceiling and which was at once 
 a hat rack, a pier-glass, a bureau with six drawers and 
 a low table with a marble top. Then he ran up the 
 thickly carpeted stairs to a bedroom on the floor above 
 where he knew he would find his mother. 
 
 Sure enough, there she was, sitting in her rocking 
 chair, with folded hands, looking out on to the quiet 
 street, a fragile little old lady of sixty with a con- 
 temptuous, wizened little face and melancholy brown 
 eyes. She was dressed in her Sunday dress of black silk 
 with a white lace vest, she wore her best earrings, her 
 diamond brooch, and a fine wool shawl bundled about 
 her narrow shoulders. 
 
 "^Well!" she said with a smile. 
 
 Her son approached and kissed her reverently. 
 
 "I was very sorry, Mother, to miss taking you to 
 church," he said, "but I didn't wake up xmtil eleven. 
 It was three o'clock when we got to bed." 
 
 She raised her eyebrows. 
 
 "Did they dance on Sunday morning? Well, I dare 
 say no one thinks of such things any longer. However, 
 it didn't matter, Gilbert. I had a touch of rheumatism, 
 I shouldn't have gone anyway." 
 
 "Pshaw!" he said solicitously. "Your shoulder again. 
 Mother?" 
 
 "It doesn't matter. Sit down, Gilbert, and tell me 
 all about it." 
 
 He sat down opposite her, smoothing his sleek black 
 head. 
 
 "Oh! The usual thing!" he said. 
 
 "Are they nice people?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, nice enou^. The father's a professor.** 
 
20 THE tnSTLIT LAMP 
 
 "That may mean anything," said the old lady. "I've 
 known some professors who were very nice people and 
 some who were impossible. Did you see that girl that 
 Ashley is so enthusiastic about!" 
 
 "Yes, I saw her." 
 
 "Mrs. Pendleton tells me he's head over heels in love 
 with her." 
 
 "Oh, well, you know what Ashley is. He's always 
 in. love." 
 
 "Is she as pretty as he imagines?" 
 
 "I don't know what he imagines," said her son, a 
 little peevishly. "She's a very attractive girl. Look 
 here, Mother, I haven't had any dinner." 
 
 "Merey me," cried the old lady. "And it's nearly 
 foTir o'clock! Why didn't you stay in Staten Island? 
 Our dinner's over and done with hours ago. Ring the 
 bell, GUbert!" 
 
 He did so and it was promptly answered by a woman 
 servant. 
 
 "Fetch Miss Dorothy," she said. 
 
 She had risen in her agitation regarding her son's 
 shocking hunger and began pottering about the room, 
 frowning, lifting up little articles from the bureau and 
 the table with trembling old hands. It was a fine, big 
 room with a Turkish rug on the floor and an assemblage 
 of solid walnut furniture. It was crowded with knick- 
 knacks, photographs, a hundred and one mementoes of 
 her past life. It hadn't the look of a bedroom, for the 
 bureau was hidden behind a screen and the bed was a 
 folding one, displajdng nothing but an immense bevelled 
 mirror set in a broad frame of polished wood. Her 
 
THE BKIDE 21 
 
 son had never, even in childhood, seen the least trace 
 of disorder in this room. 
 
 "Pshaw!" said the old lady, "she's asleep again, I 
 suppose. The older she grows the lazier she gets. She's 
 forever creeping upstairs and going to sleep. , . . All 
 nonsense. . . . Here am I so troubled with insomnia 
 that I don't get five hours rest out of the night and I 
 don't think anyone's even seen me taking a nap. . . . 
 Well, Dorothy!" 
 
 A woman stood smiling in the doorway, a stout, grey- 
 haired woman with a touded, guilty air, a cousin, who 
 earned her bitter bread as a companion for various rel- 
 atives. She was always spoken of as staying with Aunt 
 This and Cousin That; after two or three months she 
 was sent away, with a sort of rage engendered by her 
 submission, her poverty and her stupidness, and then 
 when the memory had worn off, she was recalled. Her 
 usefulness was never admitted, but always exploited. 
 
 "Why, Gilbert!" she said, with an air of pleased 
 surprise. "I didn't hear you come in!" 
 
 "I don't think you'd hear a sound if the house was 
 on fire!" said the old lady, tartly. "It's dangerous, 
 the way you sleep. We could all be murdered in our 
 beds, and it wouldn't disturb you." 
 
 "Why, Cousin Selina, I wasn't asleep! I was writ- 
 ing letters!" 
 
 "Well, now perhaps you'll be able to attend to this 
 poor boy. He hasn't had any dinner. And I'd calcu- 
 lated on his having a hearty meal there, so I hadn't 
 planned for a very big supper. And Katie's out. Run 
 down to the kitchen and see if you and Mary can't 
 
22 THE imtlT LAMP 
 
 fix up something nice for him. And tell Mary sapper 
 at five instead of six." 
 
 Miss Dorothy looked terrified. She knew so well the 
 very meagre resonrees of this household where there was 
 never quite enough of anything, where each egg was 
 mentally numbered. 
 
 "I'll do my best," she said, doubtfully, and van- 
 ished. 
 
 "Now run upstairs and get ready!" said the old 
 lady. 
 
 There were three big, unoccupied bedrooms on her 
 floor, but it had seemed to her, and to Gilbert, more 
 fitting for a bachelor to live on the floor above. He 
 had a very large room there, furnished with austere 
 majesty, an ugly and uncomfortable room which he ac- 
 cepted as he accepted everything else in the life his 
 mother had arranged for him. There was a black dress- 
 ing-room attached, furnished with a marble wash basip 
 and two big clothes presses: it was supposed to belong 
 to his room and the one next, jointly, but as Miss 
 Dorothy now occupied that adjoining room, the second 
 door was well bolted. 
 
 He sat down in a large, high-backed rocking chair 
 with a tapestry seat, one of the many pieces of furni- 
 ture sent upstairs in disgrace after long service. He 
 began, absent-mindedly, to rock and to think — about 
 Claudine. His thoughts were all distressful and clouded ; 
 he felt himself irresistibly attracted by that gay little 
 creature, and he resented it. He resented everything 
 about that dance, the casualness, the cheerfuhiess ; his 
 own home seemed to him admirably correct and majes- 
 
THE BRIDE 23 
 
 tic. He felt quite unaccountably insulted. These people 
 had treated him in cavalier fashion. . . . 
 
 He was naturally inclined to sulkiness. It was his 
 refuge from an incomprehensible world. And perhaps 
 his great capacity for being offended came from an 
 equally pathetic source, perhaps it was a sort of protest 
 made by his youth and his manhood against his bond- 
 age. He wasn't aware of the bondage: he believed that 
 his relations with his mother were ideal and that he 
 "humoured" her in a respectful way. But as a matter; 
 of fact, he was less free, he was more under her domin- 
 ion, than even Miss Dorothy. It would scarcely be an 
 exaggeration to say that he was hypnotized. He had 
 been led to believe that he was happy; the poor, sullen 
 lonely creature. He never laughed: he very seldom 
 smiled; he hadn't a spark of humour or gaiety in him. 
 Pendleton privately considered him "heavy," and heavy 
 he was. It hadn't prevented him from making a few 
 conquests though. His handsome face, his invincible 
 innocence and possibly his money and his well-known 
 ability in business had won two or three little hearts ; 
 but though he had been flattered, he hadn't been much 
 touched. He had never before in his life experienced 
 anything like this; this was positively uncomfortable, 
 He was obsessed and annoyed by the memory of Miss 
 Mason of Staten Island. Her sparkling face, her liquid 
 voice, the surprising novelty of her had completely 
 captured him. The idea of a girl as pretty and popular 
 and charming as she being able to talk with a — what 
 was it — a paleontologist in so grave a way. . . . 
 
 Summoned by Miss Dorothy he descended through the 
 vlent house to the dining-room in the basement, always 
 
24 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 rifled when the family was alone, and attacked the 
 dismal feast set before him. He was silent because he 
 was silent by nature, having nothing to communicate, 
 and the two women were silent, for what in Heaven's 
 name had they to say to him or to each other? Meals 
 in that household were perfunctory and ascetic; the 
 old lady didn't like to waste money on food, it needn't 
 be either appetizing or nourishing so long as it was 
 according to tradition, and decent. They finished, and 
 all went solemnly up-stairs again ; the little old lady first, 
 noiseless over the thick carpet, incredibly slight and 
 unsubstantial, then her son, the staircase creaking under 
 his heavy tread, the quiet darkness reverberating with 
 his loud, masculine cough, and last of all Miss Dorothy. 
 They went into the back drawing-room and sat down 
 in the chairs they invariably occupied. The old lady 
 closed her eyes, for that nap she always took, and al- 
 ways denied. Miss Dorothy, owing to the fact of its 
 being Sunday, couldn't take up her fancy work, which 
 was then one of her strongest claims to gentility and 
 gave her at least a semblance of elegant uselessness, 
 and she too closed her eyes, not to sleep, but to continue 
 in her weary and muddled brain her intricate calcula- 
 tions, "planning" she called it. She had to plan for 
 a new black skirt. Could she manage with that alpaca 
 Cousin Selina had given her and if not could she pos- 
 sibly spare the money to buy a new one? She hadn't 
 a salary; simply, when she left to stay with the next 
 relative. Cousin Selina would give her something in an 
 envelope and it might be enoi:^h or it might be very 
 little. She had no occupation for her thoughts but her 
 
THE BBIDE 25 
 
 planning; poor soul. She hadn't a single interest in 
 life. 
 
 As for Gilbert, he beii^ a man, had to read the Sun- 
 day newspapers and to smoke. He had an arm-ehair and 
 a foot-stool and a smoking stand, placed ready for him, 
 in a good light. But his peace "was gone. He was sunk 
 in black depression. 
 
CHAPTER THEEE 
 
 GILBERT GOES A-WOOING 
 
 "T Tl TELL . . ." said the old lady. "She's very— 
 
 VV peculiar." 
 
 There was no word her son could have disliked more ; 
 he frowned. 
 
 "Why?" he demanded. "In what way? How is she 
 'peculiar'?" 
 
 I "She's been brought up," the old lady began, and 
 stopped. "After all, you're the one to be suited, Gil- 
 bert. You're marrying her, not I. If you've got it into 
 your head that she's the only woman on earth to make 
 you happy, very well. Marry her. And I only hope 
 you will be happy." 
 
 "Yes," he said, "that's likely, if you're going to 
 quarrel with her." 
 
 "Gilbert," said the old lady, "I've never quarreled 
 with anyone in my life." 
 
 True enough, he was obliged to admit it. He saw 
 that he had used a wrong word. She didn't quarrel, 
 she didn't argue. But she conquered. And when she 
 disapproved of people, she changed them. He had never 
 tried to understand her methods, but he had seen the 
 results. He supposed it was force of character and that 
 it must be admirable and beneficent. 
 
 26 
 
THE BEIDE 27 
 
 "You needn't "worry about that, my boy,' she went 
 on. "I've never yet had a word of disagreement with 
 any of my sons- or daughters-in-law." 
 
 "I know it, Mother. But living under the, same roof 
 , . . and she's been brought up very differently." 
 
 "Yes; just as I said," the old lady observed. "Very 
 peculiar. . . . However, if you've made up your mind, 
 my boy, there's no use talking about it. I'll do my 
 best, as I always have done and always expect to do." 
 
 Her son believed this; he had never doubted that she 
 was a, perfectly noble, perfectly wise and magnificent 
 woman and he worshipped her. There was an inscrut- 
 able and malicious smile on her shrunken lips; the 
 changeless, infinitely remote smile of god-like amuse- 
 ment at earth's follies which one sees on the face of 
 a bronze Buddha. She had a majesty beyond the need 
 of charm or of fashion. She belonged to an old Brook- 
 lyn family which had become aristocratic by reason of 
 having lived in the same place for four generations, 
 and she had married into a similar one. She had always 
 been rich and immeasurably secure, living isolated in 
 the big house on "The Heights" like the somewhat 
 ferocious monarch of a desert isle, an obscure and un- 
 comfortable existence in which nothing was accomplished 
 and nothing enjoyed. She disdained society as friv- 
 olous; and all luxury was to her abomination. She 
 made, she said, a ' ' proper use ' ' of her money. 
 
 Her chief claims to moral excellence were these : that 
 she had borne six children, and that she had lived for 
 sixty years; and above all because of her marvelous 
 lack of sensibility, an imperviousness which no actual 
 image of Buddha could have surpassed. She had looked 
 
28 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 on at suffering, anguish, despair, unmoved, and that 
 was fortitude; she had witnessed birth, death, without 
 a gleam, of curiosity or speculation, and that was common 
 sense. She had been "just" toward her little children 
 with all the blindness proper to that virtue. 
 
 "It makes no difference why you do things," she 
 always said. "A thing's right, or it's wrong. I don't 
 want to hear your reasons." 
 
 He recognized the old familiar attitude now, the 
 old air of saying — ^"Very weU; go your own way, and 
 learn by bitter experience!" Within herself he felt 
 she was saying — ^"You'll have to reap what you sow. 
 You'll make/ your bed and you'll have to lie in it." 
 And so on. 
 
 "You don't approve of my marrying her then, do 
 you?" he asked. 
 
 "You're twenty-five years old," said his mother, 
 "You're old enough to decide for yourself." 
 
 He felt more irritated than his ideas of filial piety 
 allowed. He drank his coffee slowly and reminded 
 himself that his mother was a widow and that all her 
 other children had married and left her. His thoughts 
 were readily distracted that day, though, and good- 
 will very easy to him. He sat back, lighted a cigar and 
 looked about him, at the dismal basement dining-room, 
 used for all the family meals, with its barred windows 
 through which one could see the feet of passersby, and 
 the horrible walnut buffet and sideboard and the mas- 
 sive square table, and the twelve chairs, three invalided 
 and permanently in comers, the faded carpet that had 
 once been upstairs, the immense crayon picture of a 
 lion's head, the general economical hideousness of this 
 
THE BEIDE 29 
 
 room which proclaimed the old lady's genial idea that 
 anything was good enough for the inmates of the house, 
 and the owner. He had never liked the room, but he 
 fancied it this morning as it might fee — a Paradise, with 
 the charm, the youth, the mysterious strangeness of a 
 young wife in it. 
 
 Here, without question, the young wife would have to 
 come, because GUbert could not and woidd not consider 
 leaving his mother alone. And to be candid, dared net. 
 He owed everything to his mother, he said. Hadn't 
 she made sacrifices to give her children every advan- 
 tage, lessons of various sorts, and unstinted moral ad- 
 vice? She talked candidly of moulding their characters, 
 and that is just what she had done. She had moulded 
 them in her own image, supreme and devastating blas- 
 phemy. They were aH of them like fainter copies of 
 her own sharply written character. This man sitting 
 across the breakfast table from her now was literally 
 made by her. By nature credulous and imitative, he 
 had lent himself perfectly to her manipulations; he 
 thought exactly as she had taught him to think; he 
 disagreed with her in some points, because she had 
 taught Mm that a man must in certain respects di»- 
 agree with women; he knew things, he had had experi- 
 ences unknown to her, but she had caused him to be- 
 lieve, sadly, that a man must so conduct himself. She 
 had taught him that, as a man, he must disappoint his 
 mother. She despised him a little, but she certainly, 
 undeniably loved him. 
 
 She looked at him, stalwart black-avised fellow, with 
 his heavy brows and his obstinate mouth. Wasn't he 
 manly, she thought! 
 
80 THE TJNLIT LAMP 
 
 '*Ah, well!" she said with a sigh. "No doubt it's 
 all for the best, Gilbert." 
 
 He finished his breakfast in manly silence, — ^which no 
 decent woman dare trouble — and getting up, went round 
 the table to his mother, dutifully to kiss her good-bye. 
 
 "I'm sorry you didn't — ^take to her, Mother," he 
 said, a little grieved. 
 
 "Well," she answered. "You're marrying her, Gil- 
 bert, not 7." 
 
 "If she'll have me," he said. "I haven't asked her 
 yet, you know." 
 
 He had long ago promised his mother never to pro- 
 pose marriage to any woman without telling her first. 
 And it was in loyalty to this promise that he had lured 
 Miss Mason from Staten Island to Brooklyn under 
 pretense of showing her a wonderful picture on exhibi- 
 tion in a department store — a Dutch peasant sweeping 
 her cottage, and the motes in the sunbeam were reputed 
 marvelonsly life-like. It was a quite natural thing, after 
 gazing at this picture for fifteen .awkward minutes, to 
 suggest a call on his mother living so near. The old 
 lady had heard more than one mention from her son of 
 this Miss Mason from Staten Island, and she knew, and 
 Miss Mason knew, that this was a visit of inspection. 
 
 After it was over, and the beloved young lady had left 
 the house on his arm, he had, of course, to take her 
 back to Staten Island. And never had she been so nice 
 to him, so kind, so gracious, never had he felt so en- 
 couraged, The next evening was her birthday, and he 
 had been invited to the little dance by her mother. 
 
 "Why don't you come to supper?" Miss Mason had 
 suggested. And they had both turned red and become 
 
THE BEIDE 31 
 
 silent, a little startled and alarmed. Because they knew, 
 both of these, that this would be the time. . . . 
 
 "She may refuse me," he said, and with a glance his 
 mother saw all the anguish he was trying to hide. 
 
 "I don't think she will!" said she with a most 
 detestable smile, which fully expressed her opinion of 
 Miss Mason and her matrimonial hopes. "I don't think 
 there's much fear of that!" 
 
 But Gilbert knew better, and he spent a day of black 
 misery in his office. As the afternoon wore on he be- 
 came sure that she would refuse him. She had such a 
 lot of fellows hanging around — and all of them had 
 those qualities which he lacked, those fascinating social 
 graces. ... He so silent, so unready, a clumsy dancer, 
 a man interested in nothing but business — ^and the Re- 
 publican party. He dreaded, he shrank from asking 
 her, and yet he was feverishly impatient to do so before 
 those other fellows had a chance. 
 
 Never was there a lover more humble than he. And 
 he liked to be humble; he liked to think how a great, 
 powerful 'fellow like himself could be brought low by a 
 slip of a girl. It was a wonderful example, he thought, 
 of the Power of Love. Well, who knows. . . .? 
 
 He had been seeing a great deal of Miss Mason during 
 the past three months. He had gone with Pendleton 
 to make their party call in due form and he had found 
 her on that occasion more friendly and more intimate. 
 It was a Sunday afternoon, and she was alone with 
 Lance. Her mother and father, she said, had gone out 
 for a walk in the Silver Lake woods — ^which Vincelle 
 thought a very peculiar thing for an elderly couple to 
 do, above all, on a Sunday afternoon, when respfectable 
 
32 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 people were best invisible. There were a good many 
 things about this family which he could not approve 
 of; Lance was one of these. That thin sunburnt young 
 man in spectacles with his gloomy face and didactic 
 air jarred upon him beyond reason. He had observed 
 too, that Lance had been reading to his cousin, in cosy 
 intimacy, before the fire in the library. 
 
 But Claudine had been remarkably kind to him, and 
 gentle and friendly. Moreover, Lance had had the 
 decency to remove himself and his big book. Pendle- 
 ton, of course, monopolized the talk. With his flippant 
 nonsense, but Gilbert felt that that did him no harm. 
 He felt that he, sitting in silence, with only a word 
 now and then, a sensible word, mind you, appeared more 
 manly, and he was right ! He touched the heart of the 
 lively young lady; she felt suddenly rather sorry for 
 him, and because he was stupid she fancied him more 
 honest than others. She quite cordially invited him 
 to come again. 
 
 He did, and this time alone. He didn't even mention 
 the fact to Pendleton, and when Pendleton learned of 
 it he took it amiss. 
 
 "I introduced you there," he said, "I didn't think 
 you'd go behind my back that way, Vincelle." 
 
 "I was invited," said Gilbert, "and I went. I 
 didn't know the family was your private property. I 
 didn't know I had to account to you for every — " 
 
 "Damn unfriendly, I caU it!" said Pendleton. 
 
 Gilbert smiled scornfully. 
 
 If their friendship had been a more genuine one, this 
 would have caused a serious quarrel ; but it was a forced 
 sort of friendship, simply brought about by propinqTUty^ 
 
THE BBIDE S3 
 
 They had grown up together, gone to the same school, 
 the same dancing school, they moved in the same set. 
 They had no respect for each other; Gilbert despised 
 the other's frivolity and lack of money-making ability, 
 and Pendleton looked upon Gilbert as a surly and un- 
 generous young boor. After their brief disagreement 
 about Miss Mason they went on as usual, except that 
 they were wary about the Staten Island visits. They 
 went down there at different times, never again to- 
 gether, and each took what advantage he could get. 
 
 The unhappy Gilbert had suffered much, and per- 
 haps learned a little. He had been dreadfully humil- 
 iated. Once Claudine had asked him to ride with her 
 and he had been forced to admit that he didn't ride. 
 Her astonished face. . . .! And he hadn't read any 
 of those books she knew so affectionately. 
 
 He had, when younger and slimmer, played tennis, 
 but of late years since he had become so engrossed in 
 business, his great recreation' had been poker. As for 
 books, he liked reading as much as the next man, pro- 
 vided they were entertaining books. And he liked 
 music, too; not operas, but not trashy stuff, either; he 
 liked Schubert's Serenade, and Traumerei, and things 
 like that. ... He hadn't Pendleton's talent for pick- 
 ing up information, for knowing something about every- 
 thing, but when he heard Pendleton talking so glibly, 
 he consoled himself by remembering that he had had an 
 education exactly like his, of precisely the same length 
 and the same price. So Pendleton couldn't really know 
 any more than he did, no matter how he talked. 
 
 The free, careless air of that household had encour- 
 aged him. In other families where there were marriage- 
 
34 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 able daughters, lie had had an uncomfortable feeling of 
 eligibility, he had felt that everything he did was im- 
 portant and significant, and that he must be careful. 
 Here it was obvious that no one cared. He could come 
 and be welcome, or he could stay away. He had begun 
 to bring flowers and candy, which Claudine received 
 with pretty appreciation. But other people brought 
 flowers and candy, also, and were as nicely thanked. 
 
 He made an effort to study her to learn if she really 
 was a flirt, as Pendleton said. But he couldn't decide.. 
 She reigned like a queen over a court of admirers, but 
 without undue coquetry. She was, in spite of her gaiety 
 and liveliness, a serious girl. She read marvelous books. 
 She played astounding music; she was a great com- 
 panion to her father on his botanical walks and she= 
 collected "specimens," dried and pressed in a book. 
 Weeds, they looked like to Gilbert, but he was willing 
 to admit their value. He had never imagined anyone- 
 so happy as she, so interested and delighted with life. 
 She was a fine horsewoman, she skated and danced 
 beautifully; she took long, long walks in the country, 
 and enjoyed them wholeheartedly; she went to the 
 opera, to concerts, she read, she practised her music, she 
 painted in water-colours, she had any number of friends 
 and all sorts of informal society, she hadn't a dull, 
 or idle moment in her existence. 
 
 He saw no evidences of domesticity in her, but that 
 didn't trouble him. It wasn't an era of domesticity. 
 A wife, in his class, was an ornament and a diversion. 
 Domestic science was an unknown term to both of them, 
 Claudine had escaped the thorough training of her two 
 elder sisters; her mother had conscientiously taught- 
 
THE BEIDE 35 
 
 them to cook, to sew, and to superintend a household, 
 just as she herself had been taught, but with this young- 
 est and brightest child, she had lost heart. She was 
 growing older ; she was tired. And moreover, it seemed 
 io her that the time for all that had passed. No one 
 would ever expect Claudine to cook or to sew. 
 
 "Let her enjoy herself while she can," her mother 
 •said to herself. "Youth is over so soon." 
 
 She would make a charming hostess, let that suffice. 
 Gilbert asked no more. He was completely dazzled. 
 
 His feelings would be incomprehensible to a later 
 generation. They were such polite, respectful feelings! 
 He never thought of Claudine and himself as a woman 
 and a man. She was a young lady, and he was a gentle- 
 man, and even in his most secret soul he respected her. 
 He wanted to marry her and he let it go at that. He 
 "didn't even analyze her charms. 
 
 He was a man of invincible honesty. He wasn't 
 clear-sighted ; he had no self-knowledge, but neither had 
 he any subtlety. He loved Claudine: he longed to give 
 her everjrthing he had. He felt himself unworthy and 
 inferior beside her purity, her innocence, her lovely 
 young spirit. He had tried to the best of his ability to 
 set before her whatever advantages there might be in 
 marrying him, but not through conceit, only to persuade 
 her. 
 
 He had brought with him on one occasion an old 
 magazine, to show her an article in it — "The Old Vin- 
 celles of Brooklyn." It had been written by a sort of 
 Miss Dorothy, a humble and admiring relation, and it 
 was a narrative of that singularly unillustrious family, 
 .beginning with the Huguenot who had come first to 
 
36 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 American shores, and mentioning with solemn venera- 
 tion a long line of lawyers, ministers, and business men, 
 all respectable, serious, and thrifty. Not a vagary, not 
 a passion, among them. 
 
 He showed her this not from pride — although he was 
 proud of it — ^but merely as an added inducement, in the 
 same spirit he had talked to her of his "business pros- 
 ^pects," and his remarkable progress. It was as if he 
 said, "Here is all I have, beloved girl, won't it com- 
 pensate for what I am?" And now he rested his case. 
 He had nothing further to offer. His inarticulate and 
 unhappy wooing was at an end. He was going to ask 
 her, quite simply, if she would have him. 
 
 He arrived at the house in the June twilight. The 
 house was still unlighted, the windows were open, the 
 curtains fluttering gently in a little breeze. There was 
 a magical fragrance from the garden : it was in all ways 
 a magical evening. He never quite forgot it. 
 
 He dismissed the carriage at the gate and walked 
 along the drive, the gravel crunching under his delib- 
 erate tread, the perfumed breeze blowing against his 
 miserable and sullen face. Because, under his serious 
 and pompous demeanor, he was after all, very young; 
 almost a boy. And his whole heart was set on this, his 
 whole heart! Claudine was the one woman on earth 
 for him. 
 
 If she only knew the power she held in her little 
 hands, he reflected ! 
 
CHAPTER POUR 
 
 CLAUDINB's PECUIilAB MOTHBR 
 
 §i 
 
 NO one could have known this better. She was 
 in her rpom, standing before the mirror, looking 
 with critical attention at her image. She was at her 
 loveliest and well she knew it. She was in white, with 
 a pale green sash about her twenty inch waist. iHer 
 red hair was curled over her forehead in a low bang, 
 below which her brown eyes were marvelonsly bright 
 and alluring. Her face was radiant with happiness, 
 but there lay over it a faint shadow, a sort of tenderness. 
 This was to be the day. She knew it. She had read 
 his determination in his face the day before. And it 
 >ras all coming out just as she had wished it to come. 
 Ever since her school days that had been her dream — 
 to be proposed to by a dark, handsome man in evening 
 dress, at a dance. There had been other proposals but 
 none of them just right; there had been other men to 
 whom her fancy had strayed, but never like this. She 
 felt for this silent and stalwart young fellow a pity, a 
 compassion that bordered on pain. She didn't like to 
 let him out of her sight. She longed so to make him 
 happy. He seemed so lonely, so helpless, so neglected, 
 BO pitiably in need of a comrade. Since she had seen 
 
 37 
 
38 THE "UNLIT LAMP 
 
 Ms horrible home and his chilly old mother, she had 
 loved him more, felt more sorry for him than ever. Oh, 
 no doubt about it, he was the man! 
 
 The sense of impending change was upon her. This 
 room would never look the same to her again, her own 
 face would never have quite this look again; after thia 
 evening everything would be different. She was lively 
 and high-spirited, but she was in no way frivolous. 
 She wouldn't make a promise unless she meant to keep 
 it. This was the most important step in her life, and 
 she had considered it well. She had studied her man; 
 she felt that she knew him. She was well aware that 
 he wasn't clever, and that he wasn't very good-natured, 
 but she was so accustomed to good-nature, to kindness, 
 tolerance, that she did not know their value. Let him. 
 be a little cross if he wished, the dear old bear! She 
 would wheedle away his ill-humour with her own gaiety. 
 She would be the light of his life, she would bring 
 youth and happiness into his monotonous existence^ 
 She could be more to him than to any other man. 
 
 Divine and naive idea of a young girl, innocently 
 conscious of her own immeasurable value! 
 
 §ii 
 
 It had been a beautiful day for her, a day of profound 
 significance. She had been waked up by her mother 
 coming into her bedroom to kiss her and wish her "many 
 happy returns." Half asleep she had watched the stout 
 figure moving about the room, pulling up the shades 
 to let in the light of the summer morning, picking up 
 the clothes she had left carelessly about, folding bits of 
 ribbon, straightening the articles on her bureau with 
 
THE BEIDE 39 
 
 ihat silent and inexhaustible kindness she counted upon 
 as she did upon the very sun. 
 
 "Well!" said her mother at last, with her benevolent 
 smile, "are you never going to look at your little 
 presents, chickabiddy ? ' ' 
 
 Then she had sat up, her short heavy braid over one 
 shoulder, and began opening the packages always found 
 on birthday mornings at one's bedside. The gifts had 
 brought tears to her eyes. The love in them, the un- 
 speakably dear intimacy ! Her mother had embroidered 
 a dozen linen handkerchiefs, and an exquisite sachet 
 case for them; her father had presented her with the 
 bottle of Cherry Blossom perfume he had bought every 
 year since she was a child — and which she didn't like— 
 and a big box of chocolates with a ten dollar gold piece 
 on top. Lance gave her a book of verse. Then there 
 was a photograph in a silver frame of her eldest sister 
 with her three babies; there were six pairs of French 
 gloves from one brother and a beautiful edition of 
 "Ingoldsby Legends" from the other, and from the 
 sister who had married only a year ago a combing 
 jacket, trimmed with pale green ribbons. She had so 
 well remembered Claudine's tastes! 
 
 "Oh, Mother!" she had said, with a sob, "you're 
 all so good and dear! I wish . . .?" 
 
 "What do you wish, Goosie?" 
 
 But she didn't quite know. Perhaps she wished to 
 clutch at Time and hold him here forever. 
 
 She had got up and dressed and gone into the garden 
 before breakfast to look at the flowers, and to pick a very 
 few. The roses were just beginning; they were so 
 lovely that she almost wept again. The buds were 
 
40 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 drooping in a sort of enchanted drowsiness, some yellow, 
 some so faintly pink, some a dark and wonderful red; 
 she touched with her finger the waxy satin petals, she bent 
 over them to inhale the fragrance of them, that heavenly 
 fragrance warmed with the sim. She went about from 
 one bed to the other, to see what new thing had come 
 up, what was flourishing, what was disappointing. Her 
 father was a notable gardener; she hadn't his skill, but 
 she had his love for growing things. She enjoyed the 
 garden perhaps more than he did, for she had not his 
 anxieties about it. She sauntered over the wide lawn 
 that ran all down the hillside, the sun warm on her 
 bare head, her white dress trailing over the grass, and 
 as she went she reflected, with a little fleeting melan- 
 choly in her happiness. Nineteen! Nineteen such won- 
 derful years in this garden ! 
 
 But the years to come she thought, would be far 
 more wonderful. 
 
 § iii 
 
 The Masons were quite unabashed in their family 
 celebrations — Mrs. Mason had a perfectly clear concep- 
 tion of the value of these ceremonies in holding together 
 a family, and she made the most of them, in her calm 
 way. It was a revelation to young Vincelle ; he thought 
 it somewhat childish and absurd and not quite the thing. 
 The table that night was set with unusual magnificence 
 with a lace cloth and four silver candelabra, and at the 
 end a wonderful cake was brought, frosted with pink 
 and white and green, and .bearing twenty candles, one 
 for good luck. He was the only guest and he felt 
 embarrassed. 
 
THE BEIDE 41 
 
 After the dinner the dance, the same sort of dance 
 that had been on the occasion of his first visit, but with- 
 out that unique flavor. He felt a little chilled, a little 
 aloof, dreading unspeakably what lay before him. Never 
 had Glaudine seemed so distant, never had she seemed 
 so much a stranger. He began to grow certain that he 
 had no chance at all. Perhaps it would be better if she 
 did refuse him, and he could go home again. . . . 
 
 Young men invited to dances at Mrs. Mason's house 
 in those days were expected to dance, and Gilbert had 
 not much time for reflection. He went dutifully waltz- 
 ing about the ball-room with one young lady after the 
 other, and once or twice went out upon the veranda with 
 a partner. Actually a moonlight night; he couldn't 
 have devised a better setting. . . . 
 
 The moment came. He stood out there with Glaudine, 
 on the lawn, in the moonlight. She had suddenly 
 grown quiet: he could see her face plainly, and it was 
 grave, serious, almost sad. She looked more than ever 
 like a spirit, in her white dress with her slim bare neck 
 and arms. 
 
 The breeze blew the end of her silvery scarf against 
 his face, and brought to his nostrils the faint scent 
 of the perfume she used — some innocent, old-fashioned 
 thing of her mother's. He took her by the arm and led 
 her under the shadow of a row of horse chestnuts. 
 
 Poor devil! He had no fit words. God knows what 
 he faltered out. , . . But she didn't care. Tears came 
 to her eyesj indeed they were both very close to weep- 
 ing. She reached out and touched his hot trembling 
 hand, and they clung to each other, mute, with their piti- 
 ful young love, their hearts aching with the beauty of 
 
42 THE TTNLIT LAMP 
 
 the matchless night and the supreme moment, unique 
 in their lives, never again to be recaptured. 
 
 "Don't tell anyone to-night!" she whispered, and 
 for these few hours it was their secret. 
 
 § iv 
 
 The very next day the trouble began. His mother 
 received the news of his acceptance with a smile of 
 satirical amusement. 
 
 "You're old enough to know what you're doing," she 
 said. "And so is she." 
 
 "Claudine's only nineteen," said her son, answering 
 her tone rather than her words. 
 
 ' ' 7s she ? ' ' said his mother. ' ' I shouldn 't have thought 
 so. She seems very sophisticated. . . . But I suppose 
 that's her upbringing." 
 
 Pursuant to Claudine's instructions he had taken an 
 afternoon off from the office so that he could go down 
 to Staten Island, and see her father. This ordeal didn't 
 particularly distress him : he felt that as a son-in-law he 
 was faultless. He had practically no past ; nothing that 
 could be troublesome, anyway, and financially he was 
 ready and anxious for the most minute investigation. 
 
 The Professor received him with kindliness. He said 
 "Well, young man!" offered him a cigar and said that 
 as Claudine had made up her mind, what were they to 
 do? He asked him a few questions, and then sent him 
 off to Claudine. But, as he left the library, he met Mrs. 
 Mason in the hall. And her look astonished him. Her 
 bland face wore no smile for him: on the contrary, she 
 gave him a glance so cold, severe and merciless that 
 he winced. 
 
THE BEIDE 43 
 
 "When he learned the truth he was stiU more taken 
 aback. She objected! Claudine was tearful and de- 
 jected. She said they'd had a dreadful time that 
 morning. 
 
 "Father says I'm to decide for myself, and that 
 neither he nor Mother ought to interfere. But Mother 
 said — Oh, Gilbert, I can't understand Mother! It's not 
 a bit like her! . , . She said she'd never consent to her 
 dying day." 
 
 "But why?" cried the affronted and amazed young 
 man. 
 
 "She thinks — ^we're not suited to each other." 
 
 "Rubbish!" he said, scornfully. That was a woman's, 
 objection for you! Nothing against him financially, 
 morally or physically, but some absurd feminine notion 
 of suitability. He was a little relieved. 
 
 "I suppose the truth of it is, she doesn't want to 
 lose you, Claudine. I don't blame her," 
 
 "Oh, no!" said Claudine, "it can't be that, be- 
 cause — " she stopped short with a sudden blush. 
 
 "Because what?" 
 
 "Because— I know it isn't that. . . . Oh, Gilbert, dO' 
 try to — ^win her affection!" 
 
 "I don't see why I should!" he answered. "Upon 
 my word I don't see why I should humble myself — " 
 
 "She's my mother, Gilbert, and I love her." 
 
 "Yes, of course, my sweet girl! But, after aU, if 
 you're going to marry me, I come first, don't I? If 
 you really love me — " She began to cry. 
 
 "You know I do! Only — ^you can't imagine how dear- 
 and wonderful Mother's always been." 
 
44 THE UNXIT LAMP 
 
 He said he could have a talk with her and he did. 
 It was not a pleasant talk. This benevolent matronly 
 creature, whom he had always taken for granted as a 
 part of Claudine's background, had suddenly come alive 
 as a woman, as a difficult and unmanageable feminine 
 creature. 
 
 She said: 
 
 "I should prefer not to discuss this matter with you, 
 Mr. Vmcelle." 
 
 "But why?" he protested. "If you have any objec- 
 tion to me, isn't it only fair to tell me what it is? To 
 let me defend myself?" 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "No," she said. "I couldn't put it into words. . . . 
 I am positive that you cannot make Claudine happy." 
 
 "Why do you think I can't make her happy, Mrs. 
 Mason?" 
 
 "It isn't in you," she said frankly. "You are not 
 suited to each other." 
 
 "Well, I believe a woman can adapt herself to any 
 man, if she really cares for him." 
 
 "Claudine's not adaptable. It would be necessary 
 for you to make concessions — ^to be very tolerant and 
 wise. And I don't think you would be." 
 
 He smiled indulgently. 
 
 "I think I understand her," he said. "And I'm used 
 to feminine ways, you know. My mother — " 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "It won't do!" she said, with emphasis. "I shall 
 never consent to it." 
 
 This was the most outrageous affront imaginable. If 
 she had objected to him for any other reason, because 
 
THE BRIDE 45 
 
 of his morals, his religion, his social standing, his finan- 
 cial position, he could have endured it, because he could 
 have argued and proved her absolutely wrong. But 
 just simply to dislike him. . . . 
 
 Of course, he knew how perverse, unreasonable and 
 provoking women were, a man must take that into con- 
 sideration. But that a mature woman should be so 
 idiotic as to insult an eligible suitor for her daughter's 
 hand was a thing unheard of. He despised her ; she had 
 no common sense; she had no regard for her child's 
 welfare. . . . 
 
 He asked Claudine if she would marry him without 
 her mother's consent. 
 
 "As long as your father agrees, and there's no valid 
 objection," he said. "You wouldn't jilt me because 
 your mother's taken some sort of — " he checked the 
 words on his lips and said, very moderately — "taken a 
 dislike to me, would you?" 
 
 But he could get nothing sensible from her ; only that 
 she really did love him, and that her mother was so dear 
 and wonderful, and that there was no hurry, anyway, 
 was there? 
 
 He refused to stay for dinner; he went home in a 
 state of sullen rage, and he carried his intolerable hurt 
 to the person whom he fancied best appreciated his 
 worth. He got cold comfort. 
 
 "There's as good fish in the sea as ever came out of 
 it," said his mother. "They're very peculiar people. 
 They'd never suit you." 
 
 "I don't want to marry the family," he said sharply, 
 " Claudine 's not responsible for her mother." 
 
46 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 "Her mother's responsible for her, though. She '3 
 htought her up according to her own ideas. If you take 
 my advice, you'll put the whole thing out of your head." 
 
 He went up to his own room, with a most unpleasant 
 fancy that all these women knew things about him which 
 he didn't know; that they were all, his own mother in- 
 cluded, ruled by motives not to be comprehended by him. 
 He was very unhappy. If it were only a matter of 
 Claudine and himself! When he had the dear little 
 thing in his arms, she was his, she loved him, she forgot 
 everyone else; if they were married, it would always 
 be so. He did understand her ; he knew he could make 
 her happy if they were alone. 
 
 If they had a little house somewhere, by themselves. . . . 
 He began to dream impossible rustic dreams; he saw 
 them in a vine-covered cottage, such as he had certainly 
 never seen ; he fancied Claudine running down the path 
 to meet him when he came home, flinging her arms about 
 him, her bright sweet face uplifted, her curly hair blow- 
 ing ... oh, he was frightfully unhappy ! 
 
 He didn't know whether he ought to go down to 
 Staten Island again, or not. But Claudine wrote to him, 
 and told him to come. Her mother didn't -in the least 
 mind their seeing each other. So he went, sulky and 
 reluctant, and was very well received. Mrs. Mason was 
 quite natural and pleasant, and treated him just as she 
 treated everyone else ; and Claudine was heavenly. She 
 found a chance to slip out into the garden with him, and 
 as soon as they were alone, she kissed him, quite of her 
 own accord. 
 
 "You see," she said. "Poor mother thinks that if we 
 see each other often enough, we'll quarrel, or something 
 
THE BRIDE 47 
 
 of the sort. So if we just wait long enough, and she sees 
 that we don't, she'll realize that she's wrong; and it 
 will be all right." 
 
 "How long wiU it take?" he asked, gloomily. "Five 
 years?" 
 
 "Oh, mercy, no! Only be patient." 
 
 "I can't be! I don't want to wait! I love you so! 
 I don't want to waste years — " 
 
 "They won't be wasted, Gilbert., They'll be the hap- 
 piest time of our lives. You're happy now, arent you, 
 this very moment?" 
 
 "Not so very. I want you for my own, Olaudine." 
 
 "I am your own. I love you and love you, darling 
 Gilbert." 
 
 Impossible to argue with her innocence; he resigned 
 himself to get what joy he could from these stolen mo- 
 ments. And he knew that no matter how long he had 
 to wait, no matter what humiliation and unpleasantness 
 he had to endure, Claudine was worth it. 
 
 Suddenly, without the slightest pretense of reason, 
 Mrs. Mason gave in, she no longer objected. 
 
 "Marry him if you want to, chickabiddy," she said. 
 
 They were all astonished and a little uneasy. A 
 change had come over that incomprehensible woman. 
 Her color was as ruddy, her activity as great, she was 
 as kind, as pleasant, as competent as ever. But an im- 
 mense moral apathy had seized her, she no longer inter- 
 fered, no longer gave advice. Let her husband smoke 
 fifteen cigars a day, let her child marry whom she would, 
 she seemed indifferent. She had become strangely and 
 terribly remote. She seemed to have a grim secret oi 
 
48 THE UNLIT LAM? 
 
 her own, a knowledge of some event in comparison with 
 which all these things were of no importance. 
 
 No one realized what shadow had fallen upon her. 
 They were willing to accept her change of heart as a 
 whim. But she who was about to be exiled forever 
 had come to see the futility of resistance. She saw her 
 own death coming toward her; she could bear to watch 
 it. And she saw so clearly too that when she was no 
 longer standing in the highway, the others would still 
 go on, and that cry after her child as she might, no 
 sound would ever again reach her. 
 
 Gilbert and Claudine were married that autumn in a 
 little church on Staten Island. Old Mrs. Vincelle was 
 brought there, like a Buddha carried in a procession, and 
 there were a certain number of Brooklyn haute bour- 
 geoisie. But it was a Mason wedding, and Mrs. Mason 
 dominated it. She gave a marvelous breakfast after it in 
 the house on the hill, and hers was the last face they 
 saw as they drove away. She had come out into the 
 road, to look after them, a stout, dignified figure in black 
 silk waving her hand, and emiling after her youngest 
 child. . . . 
 
CHAPTER FIVE 
 
 CliAtJDlNE LEABNS TO ADAPT HERSELF 
 
 BEFOBE she had been in that house an hour she 
 knew that she conld never be happy there. She 
 wasn't ready when the dinner gong sounded, but Gilbert 
 hadn't waited. Lateness upset his mother, he said. She 
 had tried to hurry then, but she was an inveterate dawd- 
 ler, and it was some time before she was quite dressed. 
 She came downstairs with the sprightly air proper to a 
 bride just returned from her honeymoon, but it was a 
 forced and desperate sprightliness. She felt all the help- 
 lessness and terror of a deserted child among strangers 
 as she descended the dark old staircase, padded so thickly 
 with carpet that it was like walking in a bog. 
 
 On the newel post was a standing lamp in which 
 burned a gas jet turned very low, in a shade of red, 
 green and blue glass. She turned along the narrow hall, 
 past the open door of the front parlour, feebly illumi- 
 nated, the middle parlour, the obscure and neglected 
 back parlour, all dark, still, and bitterly unfamiliar to 
 her. She reached the steep flight of stairs leading to the 
 basement, and began going down in utter darkness and 
 silence. The door at the foot of the flight was closed; 
 
 49 
 
50 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 she fumbled for the handle in an absurd panic and 
 stumbled forward as it burst open. 
 
 They were sitting at the table in there, Gilbert at the 
 head, his mother at the foot, and they were taking their 
 soup, evidently determined to begin right with the child, 
 to show her, pleasantly but inexorably, that she would 
 never, never be waited for. She sat down at the place 
 laid for her, facing the door, and the servant brought 
 her a plate of soup. 
 
 "Well!" said old Mrs. Vincelle. 
 
 Her tone was tart, but good-humoured, and she smiled 
 at her daughter-in-law. 
 
 "We're old fashioned here," she said. "Meals served 
 on the minute. That 's the way I was brought up. And 
 Mr. Vincelle was very strict ; if one of the boys was late 
 for a meal, he had to sit at one side of the room till 
 we'd all finished and then eat by himself." 
 
 "I know.. . . I'm sorry," said Claudine. "But I 
 couldn't find things, this first evening." 
 
 Gilbert looked at her indulgently for an instant, and 
 then turned his attention to the roast chickens that had 
 been set before him. He rather prided himself upon 
 his carving, he felt sure that Claudine would observe 
 and admire his dexterity. He had had, in fact, ever 
 since they had arrived that afternoon, an air of showing 
 off, as much as to say — ^here you can see me in my own 
 kingdom, at my ease, my natural self. He had con- 
 sciously tried to impress her ; he had given a great many 
 orders to the servants, and had found fault. But he had 
 not produced the impression he intended ; Claudine saw 
 him suddenly as a little boy, pampered, spoiled, but 
 led by the nose. His mother ruled him absolutely. 
 
THE BEIDE 51 
 
 In a -way she was pleased to find that in spite of his 
 sturdiness and his impatient masculinity he was cer- 
 tainly very human, but on the other hand, it frightened 
 her. She so greatly needed to respect him, to look up 
 to him, to see in him a great spiritual authority. She 
 had left the security and peace of her girlhood to follow 
 him, and he must lead. 
 
 Why did he look so young and sulky to-night? He 
 caught her looking at him and he smiled again, tenderly, 
 but with a sort of constraint. It never occurred to her 
 that he too was suflEering from a great disappointment. 
 He had believed, poor devil, that with Claudine he would 
 have a new life ; and lo, it was nothing but the old life 
 with a new person in it. She was overshadowed ; she had 
 suddenly lost importance ; she had quite ceased to be that 
 rare and precious creature he had adored, and had be- 
 come a sort of phantom. 
 
 "You're not eating!" said the old lady, suddenly. 
 "Don't tell me you don't like chicken!" 
 
 For she too had her disappointment. She had ar- 
 ranged a dinner really sumptuous according to her very 
 frugal mind, and no one appreciated it ! 
 
 "Oh, yes, I do like it, very much!" said Claudine, 
 hastily. ' ' Only ... I think I must be a little tired. It 
 was so stuffy in the train." 
 
 "You mustn't tak^ notions about your food," said the 
 old lady. "A young married woman owes it to other 
 people to keep up her health and strength. You must 
 eat, whether you feel like it or not." 
 
 "Yes, I know!" said Claudine, pleasantly. 
 
 She was mortally afraid of bursting into tears. All 
 their meals hitherto had been eaten in hotels, or trains, 
 
52 THE TJNLIT LAMP 
 
 or boats, where there was plenty to divert her, to make 
 her forget that thing which had been gnawing at her 
 heart all the time these last two weeks, but now in the 
 quiet room, with these two quiet people intent upon their 
 food, there was nothing to help her. It rushed upon her 
 like a flood — ^that terrible homesickness. . . . On this mild 
 September night they would be sitting in the lofty din- 
 ing-room, with the windows open on the dear old garden. 
 She could imagine them in the light of the suspended 
 lamp, her mother, her father, Lance, perhaps other 
 familiar friends' faces, the neat and smiling Sehna 
 waiting upon them ; she could imagine their talk, casual, 
 cheerful, full of family jokes, with the scholarly leaven 
 
 introduced by her father and Lance And at every 
 
 pause would be heard the sounds from the dark garden, 
 the trees stirring, that branch of the big grape-vine tap- 
 ping against the window. . . . 
 
 Gilbert and his mother were talking, in a disconnected 
 ^and perfunctory way. She asked questions about the 
 honeymoon; he gave her the names of hotels, details of 
 the accommodation they had secured; she had a little 
 gossip for him of old friends. When they stopped talk- 
 ing, there came to her ears utterly unfamiliar sounds — 
 a carriage rattling by over the cobblestones, a footstep 
 ringing on the pavement overhead, passing the barred 
 window, mournful whistles from the river. 
 
 After the roast came the pudding, a vanilla blane 
 mange, made in a ring, the centre filled with strawberry 
 jam, and cream poured over it all. And this demolished, 
 they all rose; Gilbert gave his arm to his mother and 
 they started up the stairs, followed by the disconsolate 
 bride. She f dt more than ever like a forlorn child, fol- 
 
THE BEIDE 53 
 
 lowing these two people so mucli older and solider, so 
 much more positive and self-assured than she. Her life 
 was to be nothing but a wretched struggle to please 
 them. . . . 
 
 They entered the austere front parlour where a fldcker 
 of gas revealed the shrouded furniture, the huge, gold- 
 framed pictures on the walls, the grand piano; they 
 passed through this to the second parlour, and in here 
 the dutiful son made a light and settled his mother in her 
 favourite chair. The younget woman sat down near her, 
 with an uncertain smile and her husband drew out his 
 cigar case. 
 
 "Do you ladies object?" he asked facetiously. 
 
 "Go along with you, Gilbert!" cried the old lady, 
 "I do declare I've missed the smell of smoke since you've 
 been away." 
 
 She leaned back in her chair and r^arded him with 
 eomplacency as he blew out great clouds of smoke. 
 
 "Nice to be home, Claudine?" he asked. 
 
 "Oh, yes!" said the little liar. 
 
 He hadn't much more to say; he was a silent fellow 
 at all times and to-night he was tired and a bit out of 
 sorts. All this travelling about had unsettled him; of 
 course it had to be done, but he was glad it was over. 
 They would be much happier now, being settled down. 
 To tell the truth, the honeymoon had not been quite the 
 rapture he had imagined. Claudine had been — ^he re- 
 flected : well, Claudine had been too damned polite. She 
 had pretended to like everything; she hadn't been quite 
 human. No matter what went wrong, she had kept on 
 smiling. . . . With undeniable relief he allowed his mind 
 to drift back to Business. 
 
54 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 The old lady dozed, her two withered hands Ijang on 
 the arms of the chair. There wasn't a Sign of life in 
 the room. Claudine got up and crossed the room to an 
 immense walnut secretary and tried to read the titles of 
 the books on the shelves with eyes dimmed by absurd 
 tears. Hopeless volumes of sermons, forgotten and tedi- 
 ous poems. But she kept on looking at them, with a 
 false interest, only that she might keep her face turned 
 away. 
 
 Gilbert was touched by her lost young figure in that 
 eilent room. 
 
 "After all, it's pretty dull for her here," he thought, 
 and he wanted very much to make her happy, but didn't 
 know how. He had expected that somehow she would 
 light up, transform, enliven this household; he hadn't 
 quite realized that he would be literally expected to do 
 what all young lovers so gallantly promise — to make 
 her happy. He couldn't help thinking of Mrs. Mason's 
 words. ' 
 
 He wanted to get up and put his arm about her, but 
 he was afraid of his mother's ridicule. And blind in- 
 stinct suggested to him the one thing that could solace 
 her pain, that at once dried her tears and made eager 
 her leaden heart. 
 
 "Play something for us, won't you, Claudine?" 
 
 "Do you really want me to?" she cried. 
 
 He got up and went into the front parlour, where he 
 turned up the gas and opened the piano. Then he seated 
 .himself near by, with a pleased smile. 
 
 "Now!" said he. 
 
 She ran her strong little fingers over the keyboai-d 
 int ecstasy. The piano was out of tune and very stiff, 
 
THE BEIDE 55 
 
 but it was music anyway. She hesitated a moment ; she 
 considered her audience, and fate inspired her to play 
 Traumerei. This was one of the few pieces they both 
 knew and, like very many others, they were delighted 
 to hear what they knew. 
 
 "Brava!" said the old lady. 
 
 "I always did like that thing," said Gilbert dreamily. 
 
 Her heart warmed to them, poor darlings who knew 
 so little J)6auty! She felt that in this way she could 
 reach them, could make them understand her. She went 
 on, a tranquil flow of undisturbing harmony, melodies 
 which she believed they would recognize and like. She 
 played to them with profound earnestness, as anxious 
 as a siren to charm the careless sailors. 
 
 Gilbert sat lost in admiration. This was beyond ques- 
 tion a proper wife, a young, charmingly dressed creature 
 who played the piano soothingly in the evening. He 
 thought she had never looked lovelier, so straight, so 
 slender, in her beruffled blue dress, her curly head thrown 
 back. What greater charm could a woman have than a 
 lulling art like this, to dispel the cares of the harslj. 
 masculine world? His heart swelled with proud af- 
 fection ; he was passionately anxious to cherish and pro- 
 tect this exquisite young creature so miraculously thrust 
 into his dull existence. 
 
 She stopped playing ; let her hands rest on the keys, 
 and waited, perhaps to be urged to continue. But her 
 hearers seemed to take it for granted that the playing 
 was ended. 
 
 "Brava I" said the old lady again. "I hadn't any 
 idea you were such a musician, Claudine. Very pretty!" 
 
56 THE UNLIT tAMP 
 
 And GUbert said: 
 
 "You have a fine touch, Claudine." 
 
 She knew that he couldn't have distinguished a good 
 touch from a poor one, but she was not annoyed. She 
 felt very kindly toward them both, because they had 
 listened willingly to her music, and because she had 
 been able to play and to solace herself. She got up and 
 closed the piano, and Gilbert bent over her, to kiss her 
 warm cheek. 
 
 "Wonderful little woman!" he said. "I'm a lucky 
 dog!" 
 
 She was very happy. Here was a way out ; she would 
 practise her music faithfully, perfect herself, become 
 absorbed in it, and there would be no tedious hours. 
 She could become a really fine musician, the wonder 
 and delight of a little circle. 
 
 She followed Gilbert back into the second parlour, lost 
 in her dream. But to the others theinusic, a pleasant 
 little interlude, was over, and the rest of the long eve- 
 ning stretched before them. The old lady began to 
 crochet, and Gilbert took up his newspaper. 
 
 "Like tp see the Woman's Page, Claudine?" he asked. 
 
 Now Claudine had a lamentable dislike for news- 
 papers. She never read them; she wasn't well-informed. 
 No one in her house showed much interest in current 
 events, they envisaged human life as an immense and 
 absorbing history, and the present as one small day of 
 it. Her father was a sort of benevolent Anarchist who 
 couldn't endure the thought of restraint laid upon evo- 
 lution; her mother was blandly indifferent to anything 
 outside her own family; Lance lived in pre-historic ages. 
 Nevertheless, she accepted the Woman's Page, read the 
 
THE BKIDE 5T 
 
 fashion kints, a little article on the care of house plants. 
 Then she put the thing down and sat doing nothing. 
 
 "Don't you do fancy work?" asked the old lady. 
 
 "Yes, sometimes," said Claudine. "But ..." 
 
 She rose. 
 
 "I think I'll go to bed now," she said. "I'm so tired."' 
 
 GUbert looked up from his paper and the old lady 
 stared at her, affronted and amazed. 
 
 "It's only half past nine!" she said tartly. "I 
 should think you could wait till eleven, like the rest of 
 us. I dare say you're not any more tired than anybody 
 else." 
 
 "Never mind. Mother, if she's tired ..." Gilbert 
 began, but Claudiae had sat down again with flaming 
 cheeks. 
 
 "No!" she said. "I'll wait!" 
 
 This was her first rebuke and she felt it a most un- 
 merited one. It was the first time she had ever heard 
 of a fixed, arbitrary bed hour for adult people. It had 
 occurred to her a natural thing to go to bed when you 
 were sleepy. Sometimes at home, the day after a dance, 
 she had gone to bed directly after dinner, with a book 
 to divert the few waking minutes, and at other times 
 she had sat up almost till morning reading or finishing 
 some enthralling bit of sewing. She felt a great anger 
 toward Gilbert, with his half-hearted protest. There he 
 sat reading his silly paper, page by page, every word . . . 
 what did he expect her to do f 
 
 The old lady glanced up suddenly. 
 
 ' ' Come, child ! " she said. " Don 't sit there and brood ! 
 Gilbert, get her the 'Pigs in Clover'!" 
 
 "She won't like it," he answered, deep in his paper. 
 
68 THE UNLIT LAIIP 
 
 "Rubbish! It's something to pass the time and that's 
 all the young folks care for in these days. Get it for 
 her!" 
 
 So from inside the secretaire Gilbert brought out a 
 round box with a glass cover inside ■which were marbles 
 to be rolled through certain partitioned alleys, and 
 finally, if one were skilful, into a sort of little house. 
 He kissed Claudine as he gave it to her, an apologetic, 
 almost a guilty kiss, but she had no smile for him. She 
 sat with the thing in her hands, twisting it this way 
 and that, letting the little balls roll as they woidd 
 through the alleys, and ready at the least word, the least 
 gesture, to burst into outrageous and most bitter 
 laughter. 
 
 One of the marbles suddenly rolled into the pen, and, 
 unaccountably, with this feeble satisfaction, the storm 
 within her subsided. She remembered having read some- 
 where that lunatics were given games and diversions like 
 this to quiet them. She wished that she could teU that 
 to her father . . . she wished that her father could see 
 her, rolling marbles about in a glass-covered box. 
 
 Gilbert was gently shaking her, 
 
 " Sleepy-head !" he said. "It's after eleven! You've 
 been dozing!" 
 
 Both he and the old lady were greatly entertained. 
 Their dazed victim went upstairs, quite well aware that 
 now, when at last she could get into bed, she would lie 
 awake for hours. 
 
CHAPTER SIX 
 
 THE KBTNOTE 
 
 SHE waked up in the dark, terrified by a great banging 
 at the door. She thought the house was on fire, that 
 someone was Ul, that thieves had broken in. She shook 
 Gilbert fiercely. But he didn't stir. 
 
 Barefooted she rushed across the floor and unfastened 
 the door. 
 
 "What is it!" she cried. 
 
 "It's seven o'clock, ma'am," said a meek voice. 
 
 "Seven o'clock!" she repeated. 
 
 "Yes, ma'am, I always call Mr. Gilbert at seven." 
 
 "Oh, I see!" she said. "I didn't know. . . ." 
 
 She closed the door and went back to the bed where 
 Gilbert stiU slept. 
 
 "Wake up!" she said, severely. 
 
 Still he didn't move. She clutched his big shoulders 
 and tried to shake him, but he only groaned. 
 
 "Oh, do wake up!" she cried, in a sort of desperation. 
 
 "All right!" he murmured, but his eyes remained 
 closed. 
 
 She was on the point of tears ! She would really have 
 liked to hurt him. She seized his hair and pulled it 
 vigorously, and at once he sat up, dazed and resentful. 
 
 59 
 
60 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 "Look here!" he said. "That's no way." 
 
 " It 's seven o 'clock ! " she said coldly. ' ' I should think, 
 if you're so sleepy in the mornings, you'd go to bed 
 earlier." 
 
 She herself was very weary and depressed. She had, 
 as ste had expected, lain awake a long, long time, un- 
 happy in the darkness of that unfamiliar room, with 
 the shutters all closed, and no sight of the sky to console 
 her. At home she had always kept her windows un- 
 obscured so that lying in bed she could watch the moon, 
 the stars, the clouds, the sky whether clear, stormy or 
 ominous. The very shapes of the furniture had dis- 
 tressed her, she had tried to make them out in their 
 corners, as she had listened to the muffled, unfamiliar 
 city noises. 
 
 She wasn't at her best in the morning; that was a 
 recognized fact at home, and she was always carefully 
 let alone. But Gilbert put her to shame. When at last 
 he was roused, he was marvelously cheerful; he got 
 up whistling, and set about dressing in leisurely fashion, 
 talking a great deal. He was very much pleased at 
 occupying the majestic room on the second floor, it gave 
 solidity to his new importance as a married man. He 
 thought his mother had arranged it very tastefully, he 
 pointed out to Claudine the new velvet lambrequin on 
 the mantelpiece and the pincushion the old lady had 
 made for them. He picked it up from the bureau and 
 looked at it with affectionate eyes — a tremendous long 
 blue sausage covered. with pleated silk and lace. 
 "Wonderful, at her age, isn't it?" 
 
 Claudine obliged herself to say "yes," but unkind 
 thoughts possessed her as to the value of such work at 
 
th;e beide 61 
 
 any period of life. She sat listlessly combing her hair, 
 trying to hurry, so that she shouldn't again be late, but 
 quite sick with longing for a breath of air, a glimpse of 
 sunshine. 
 
 "I really can't get dressed in the dark!" she said, 
 irritably. ' ' Couldn't we have one of the shutters opened, 
 Gilbert?" 
 
 "No," he said. "Not possibly. The people across the 
 street could look in." 
 
 "Then light the gas," she said. "I can't do my hair 
 in the dark." 
 
 He was a little shocked at this extravagant idea, how- 
 ever he did it, and kissed her, because she looked so 
 pretty with her hair about her shoulders. 
 
 They descended the stairs together and entered the 
 basement dining-room, where the old lady was potter- 
 ing about among her rubber plants and ferns. She 
 took her seat at once at the foot of the table behind the 
 coffee urn and the process of breakfasting began, a meal 
 astounding and repulsive to the bride. Such coffee! 
 And no cream, no fresh fruit ; prunes, oatmeal, ham and 
 eggs, poorly cooked, poorly served. 
 
 "You're moping!" said the old lady, suddenly, 
 
 Claudine looked up with a faint smile. 
 
 "I'm never very lively the first thing." 
 
 "Nonsense! A young married woman can't give way 
 to all sorts of moods and fancies. It's her duty to be 
 bright and smiling and start her husband off cheerful." 
 
 Gilbert frowned. 
 
 ' ' Never mind. Mother ! " he said. ' ' Claudine 's got her 
 own way of being cheerful, and it suits me. I under- 
 stand the little woman, don't I?" 
 
62 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 Claudine was delighted, she would have liked to jump 
 up and rush to him and kiss him. Their eyes met in a 
 friendly and beautiful understanding. This was what 
 she loved in him, for which she had married him, this 
 solid loyalty, this sympathy. She was no longer un- 
 happy. 
 
 "Now!" he said, cheerfully. "Let's see the news!" 
 and picked up the newspaper. He read an item aloud 
 now and then, not because it could by any possibility 
 interest the two women dutifully lingering over their 
 coffee, but because it interested him. He smoked a cigar 
 leisurely, and then it was time to go. 
 
 Claudine went upstairs with him into the front hall, 
 she took down his tremendous overcoat from the rack 
 and laughingly let her arms sink with its weight. 
 
 ' ' Mercy ! ' ' she said. ' ' How can you bear it, Gilbert ? ' ' 
 
 "It's nothing compared to my winter one," he said in 
 his schoolboy way, and suddenly lifted her up, kissed 
 her warmly, and set her down again. 
 
 "Good-bye, sweetheart! Be happy — and don't quar- 
 rel with the Old Lady!" 
 
 Then he ran down the stairs again to take leave of 
 his mother, and left by the basement door. From the 
 front parlour window Claudine saw him walking off in 
 the cool September morning, big, stalwart, determined 
 . . . going out. . . . Envy possessed her. Oh, didn't she 
 wish she could walk out of the house like that, away from 
 the old lady, and forget it all ! 
 
 She didn't quite know how to proceed; she didn't 
 know just what her share in the housekeeping was to be 
 or what diversions and duties woidd fill these days. But 
 she was already aware that she needn't ask, that old 
 
THE BEIDE 63 
 
 Mrs. Vincelle would certainly inform her as to what was 
 expected of her. 
 
 She went up the dark, thickly carpeted stairs to 
 the floor above. It was perfectly still and silent, and in 
 order, swept and dusted, all trace of activity vanished. 
 She looked in at all the open doors with infantile curi- 
 osity, all alike, thick, dark carpets on the floor, lace 
 curtains at the windows, shades pulled half way down, 
 marble mantelpieces covered with fringed velvet lambre- 
 quins, small tables on which were photographs in silver 
 frames, huge bureaus, huge arm chairs, huge rocking 
 chairs, vrith lace antimacassars, and inevitably a horse- 
 hair sofa furnished for naps by a folded "Afghan" of 
 bright coloured stripes. Her bedroom;— their bedroom, 
 was no different from the others; there was nothing 
 intimate or friendly about it. Whenever she went into 
 her own room at home, a hundred things at once sug- 
 gested themselves to her, letters to write, a bit of sewing 
 to be done, a book to read. Here there was nothing 
 whatever; she couldn't imagine anything to do here. 
 She very unnecessarily "tidied" the bureau top, and 
 looked at her own reflection in the mirror. Mrs. Gilbert 
 Vincelle — a young married woman. . . . Romantic and 
 interesting creature. ... 
 
 She wandered, downstairs again ; the chambermaid was 
 dusting the second parlour, scene of last evening's bitter 
 ennui, but the front parlour was empty, and she ventured 
 in, drawn irresistibly by the piano. She opened it, half 
 afraid to disturb the musty silence of the house; she 
 ran up a scale, and it sounded monstrous. But the touch 
 of the keys restored her courage ; she began to play, and 
 as usual lost herself in her playing. She had not yet 
 
64 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 unpacked her music ; she had to draw upon her memory, 
 fragments, entrancing hits, which she played over and 
 over. 
 
 She was interrupted by the voice of the old lady, 
 raised shrilly to penetrate the music. 
 
 "I've ordered Willie for eleven," she was saying. 
 
 Claudine stopped, a little dazed from the harmonies. 
 
 "Ordered Willie?" she repeated, stupidly. 
 
 "The carriage. We'll just have nice time to get your 
 wedding presents put away first. Annie has them all 
 unpacked in the back parlour." 
 
 It was an imposing array, and it raised Claudine 's 
 spirits. She stood surveying all the silver, the cut glass, 
 the fine china, the linen, the clocks, vases, lamps. She 
 looked at them all over again. 
 
 "Isn't this lovely. Don't you reaUy think this is the 
 prettiest?" she kept asking her mother-in-law, and the 
 old lady replied with grim indulgence. 
 
 "But this isn't going to get your things put away," 
 she said, at last. "Now, let's see. . . . The linen you 
 can put up in the linen cupboard; I'U have a shelf 
 cleared for you. We'U take the cut glass down into the 
 dining-room. As for the silver — well, if I were you, I'd 
 put it in the safe deposit this day and hour, but of course 
 you won't. The young folks are all for display these 
 days. So we'll take it into the dining-room with the 
 rest." 
 
 And thus was aU her glittering new wealth disposed 
 of. It gave her an unpleasant feeling of childishness; 
 her things were all superfluous, toys to be made room 
 for among the regular, adult, useful things. No tea 
 would be poTired from her silver pot, no dinner served 
 
THE BEIDE 65 
 
 with her array of intriguing dishes, of flat and per- 
 forated and curved silver; in whatever room her clocks 
 went, they were unnecessary second clocks. She ar- 
 ranged a great many ornaments in her bedroom, where 
 they were quite incongruous; she even put in there a 
 china umbrella stand because there was already one in 
 the hall. 
 
 It was high time now to dress; she found some satis- 
 faction in getting into a new grey broadcloth costume 
 which she felt gave her quite a new dignity. She ob- 
 served that she was rather pale and that, too, pleased her. 
 She looked like a woman of experience, a mysterious and 
 perhaps somewhat disillusioned creature. The old lady, 
 in a black mantle and a small jet bonnet with a widow's 
 veil, was waiting for her in the hall, they descended the 
 steps and got into the little closed carriage and went 
 rattling off over the streets of BrookljTi. A most unin- 
 spired city, Claudine reflected, calm, quiet, self-sufficing, 
 an absolutely Vincelle place. They went first to the 
 butcher, who came hurrying out to receive the order, 
 for old Mrs. Vincelle rarely set foot in a shop, then to 
 the fruiterer's, then the grocer's. She inspected noth- 
 ing; the only question she permitted herself was "Are 
 the oranges good to-day, Frank?" and yet she prided 
 herself upon her old-fashioned virtue in going to market 
 in person every day and she believed herself a match 
 for any tradesman. 
 
 Then, without further instruction, the old coachman 
 turned the heads of the two fat horses, and they went 
 trotting off to Prospect Park, for the invariable daily 
 drive along the same route to the same spot. It was 
 a beautiful morning and Claudine was happy. From 
 
66 THE UNLIT LAMP ^ 
 
 time to time the old lady inclined her head to the occu- 
 pants of other carriages and then Claudine would feel 
 the charm, the interest of her new position as a young 
 married woman. She was conscious of her youth, her 
 slight, delicate figure, her new tailor-made costume, 
 all the touching dignity of a bride. 
 
 They reached the consecrated turning point, they 
 turned and drove home again. The old lady talked a 
 little, she pointed out a house now and then, or gave a 
 word of explanation of some regal old dowager driving 
 past. She was affable, she was almost kind, and in her 
 heart she was a little proud of this pretty young creature 
 — an acquistion of her son's and therefore the property 
 of the family. And what a blow to Brooklyn, that Gil- 
 bert should have passed over all its maidens, and taken 
 a wife from Staten Island! 
 
 They reached home at one, and lunch was at half past 
 one, the nastiest sort of lunch, wafer-thin slices of dry 
 cold mutton, all sorts of little warmed-over concoctions. 
 Claudine made up her miad to change aU this as soon 
 as possible. 
 
 After the meal they went upstairs and the old lady lay 
 down on the horsehair sofa in her bedroom and drew the 
 gay colored "Afghan" over herself. 
 
 "You might as well rest, Claudine," she said. "No 
 one will be coming to call this afternoon. They'll give 
 you a day or two to settle down." 
 
 And she resolutely closed her eyes. 
 
 Claudine hesitated. 
 
 "Would it disturb you if I played the piano?" she 
 asked. 
 
THE BKroE 67 
 
 "Yes, it would !" said the old lady, affronted. "I dare 
 say you can wait." 
 
 Once again that dread feeling of despair came over 
 Claudine. She didn't know what to do! Her clothes 
 were all quite new and perfect, there was nothing about 
 them to alter or to mend. She looked in vain for some- 
 thing to read, but it was a house almost destitute of 
 books. She wandered about, looked out of the win- 
 dows, but there was nothing to see except a quiet street, 
 lined with brownstone houses, and one solitary nurse- 
 maid with a perambulator. She would have liked to go 
 into the kitchen. She haid, in fact, expected to play the 
 role of young mistress of a big house, but she dismissed 
 the idea. Her mother-in-law would never, never allow 
 that. 
 
 She unpacked her music and mapped out a course of 
 study for herself — an alluring course of exercises and 
 immensely difficult pieces, which she intended to attack 
 with new patience and energy. 
 
 "Goodness knows I'll have time enough!" she re- 
 flected, ruefully. "I'll set aside two definite hours every 
 day, and not let anything distract me. This afternoon 
 I'll run over the things I've picked out." 
 
 At three o'clock she heard the old lady creaking about 
 in her room, and music in hand she flew downstairs. 
 Never had her fingers been so nimble, so sure, never had 
 she worked with such complete satisfaction. Here was a 
 field for definite accomplishment, a little living stream 
 running beneath the stagnant lake which was to be her 
 existence. She was expected — she was required, to be 
 utterly passive, she was not to do anything, she was 
 simply to he. To be a. Good "Wife. That was to fill the 
 
68 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 universe, that was to comprise ever3rtliing. She was 
 very willing to be a good wife, but she couldn't help 
 thinking that there could still be a certain amount of 
 time left impossible to fill with wif eliness. 
 
 Now Claudine was not the material of which artists 
 of the first rank are made. She loved music, as she 
 loved literature, and flowers, and many other things. 
 She had, to a certain extent, that quality known as tem- 
 perament, a sensitive and ardent soul. But she had very 
 little patience, and she was neither/ thorough-going nor 
 resolute. It is possible, even probable, however, that 
 under the pressure of her ennui and with the spur of 
 her enforced insignificance she might have developed her 
 talent into something remarkably good, for she had a 
 talent. But it was not to be. 
 
 She completed an hour of Czemy's Finger Dexterity, 
 then she opened her Liszt Album and attacked a terrific 
 piece which needed all her intelligence. She frowned; 
 she played over and over again a superhuman run. 
 
 The old lady's voice interrupted her. 
 
 "Mercy on us child! How long is this going to keep 
 up? Your husband will be home before you know it 
 and you haven't changed your dress." 
 
 Claudine looked round with a distrait smile. 
 
 "I will — in half a minute. . . . This piano needs 
 tuning badly. And more than tuning. It needs — " 
 
 "It'll do very well as it is, I dare say!" said the old 
 lady, briefly. 
 
 "But it isn't good to practise on a piano — " 
 
 "Practise! What do you want with practising? You 
 play very nicely." 
 
THE BEIDE 69 
 
 * ' Oh, but not nearly well enough ! I 'm going to keep 
 on with my lessons. ' ' 
 
 "What!" cried the old lady. "Lessons! A young 
 married woman fiddling about with piano lessons!" 
 
 Claudine was surprised at this sudden hostility. 
 
 "Yes; why not?" 
 
 "Haven't you anything better than that to do with 
 your time?" 
 
 "What else should I do?" 
 
 "I never heard such rubbish in my life! A married 
 iwoman taking lessons! What do you think you're going 
 to do? Give concerts?" 
 
 Claudine was not skilled in quarreling. She had al- 
 ways been quite free to follow her inclinations, and her 
 inclinations had never been harmful or ridiculous. She 
 was accustomed to dignified independence, no one in her 
 household had the least desire to interfere with any of 
 the others, and she could not understand such interfer- 
 ence. She felt herself growing very angry with this 
 meddlesome and tyrannical old person, but she made a 
 gallant efPort to answer nicely. 
 
 "It's only that I'm very fond of music," she began. 
 
 "You'd better be fond of your husband, that's my 
 advice!" Piano lessons! . . . Very well, young woman! 
 There'll be no practising on my piano! It's there to be 
 played on and not fiddled on and banged on." 
 
 Claudine actually turned pale. 
 
 "But you surely can't mind my practising . . . ?" 
 she cried. 
 
 "I d&. All the neighbours '11 hear you. A married 
 woman strumming and jigging away like a school 
 girl. . . . Piece of nonsense!" 
 
10 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 Anger got the better of Claudine. 
 
 "I never heard of anything so unreasonable and so 
 ridiculous ! ' ' she said. ' ' I don 't intend to give it up. " 
 
 "Women that can't give up their childish nonsense 
 have no business to get married. Now then!" 
 
 She walked over and closed the piano and handed 
 Czerny and Liszt to her daughter-in-law. 
 
 "You put all this nonsense out of your head!" she 
 said. "And run upstairs and put on a nice fresh dress 
 and see if you can't tidy that wild looking head of hair 
 before Gilbert gets home." 
 
 But when Gilbert got home he was not welcomed by 
 the smiling and charming young wife he had a right to 
 expect. Instead he found Claudine locked in the bed- 
 room, her eyes red with weeping, and in a state of ter- 
 rible excitement. 
 
 "Gilbert!" she cried. "Your mother says she won't 
 let me practise on her piano!" 
 
 He was astounded and a little frightened. So they 
 were at it already! 
 
 "Well ..." he said. "I don't know. . . . It'll prob- 
 ably blow over, if you'll use tact and patience. . . . Any- 
 >vay, it's a small matter." 
 
 "It's not! It's not! My music is all I have left!" 
 
 "Hold on, Claudine! That's rather strong!" 
 
 "I didn't mean to hurt you, Gilbert dear. Of course, 
 you come first, only you're away most of the time. . . , 
 And you don't know what it means to me. The idea 
 of her being so domineering and cruel!" 
 
 "Claudine," he said, very gravely.- "I hoped this 
 would never happen. Especially as you're so fond of 
 your own people. ... I thought you'd understand how 
 
THE BKIDE Yl 
 
 I felt about — Mother. I know she's unreasonable some- 
 times — but remember that she's old, and I'm aU she 
 has left." 
 
 As an argument this seemed remarkably weak to 
 Claudine, but the tone, the very pitiful inconsequence 
 of the poor chap, touched her to the heart. She began 
 to weep in his arms, bitterly, forlornly, knowing her- 
 self defeated, pitying herself and pitying him still 
 more. 
 
 He kissed her and smoothed her disordered hair, per- 
 plexed and unhappy. He was very tender and kind to 
 her; he bathed her eyea with cold water, he took the 
 pins out of her hair and released the complicated struc- 
 ture. Her sobs ceased; she grew calm and tranquil 
 again, and when the gong sounded for dinner, she 
 came downstairs on her husband's arm, smiling, nicely 
 dressed, the very model of a bride. 
 
 But that night, when they were alone in the bedroom 
 again, she returned to the subject. 
 
 "Gilbert!" she said. "Let me get a piano of my 
 own!" 
 
 "I couldn't, dear. Mother would never consent to 
 that. No, darling, better put the idea out of your head 
 for the time being. You'll find lots of new things to 
 interest you." 
 
 "But won't you speak to her, Gilbert? "Won't you 
 help me? Gilbert, if it's something I want so very, 
 very much, don't you caret" 
 
 "Of course I care!" he protested. "I want you to 
 be happy. But . . . after all, it's Mother's house, and 
 she has to be consulted." 
 
 "Then let's live by ourselves, Gilbert!" 
 
72 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 "We can't move to-night!" he said laughing, and 
 turning out the gas, got into bed. 
 
 But Claudine could not sleep. She had a dreadful 
 feeling of being trapped, of being a captive, helpless, 
 weak, insignificant. 
 
CHAPTER SEVEN 
 
 THE HEDGE WHICH GREW SO FAST 
 
 §i 
 
 IN order to escape she had told the old lady a delib- 
 erate lie. She had said she was going shopping with 
 Mrs. Martinsburgh, because Mrs. Martinsburgh was a 
 highly approved of young married woman considered 
 to be a good influence for the peculiar young Mrs. Vin- 
 celle. Whereas she was really going to meet Lance. 
 She had written to him to meet her in a certain respect- 
 able restaurant where ladies on shopping tours often 
 went to lunch. 
 
 It was a risk ; she was quite likely to be seen there and 
 her outrageous escapade reported to the old lady, but she 
 was desperate. She had to see him. She went upstairs 
 and secured a table, self-conscious and wretched at being 
 there alone. She dared not look about the room for 
 fear of seeing a familiar face, she dared not tell the 
 waiter she was expecting someone. She pretended to 
 study the menu, taking a long time to order, hoping and 
 hoping that Lance would come. But he was late as he 
 always was. Her lunch was set before her and she felt 
 obliged to begin eating it. The room was full, she 
 
 73 
 
Y4 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 expected every moment that someone else would be 
 put at her table. She had laid her muff and hand bag 
 on the chair beside her as a futile protection, and sipped 
 her chocolate with an engrossed air. 
 
 By raising her eyes, she could see her own reflection 
 in one of the mirrors which lined the room; she was 
 paler, thinner, more elegant but — what was it that had 
 gone from her face? She fingered her veil with a 
 delicate little gesture, and glanced down again to her 
 hands, adorned with rings. She wondered if Lance 
 would find her changed? 
 
 And just at this moment she heard his voice, his 
 calm, serious voice, always so low that it was difScult 
 for strangers to understand him. 
 
 "Hello, Claudine!" he said. "Am I late? How are 
 you?" 
 
 He sat down beside her and looked at her seriously 
 through his spectacles. 
 
 "WeU!" he said. "You've changed. . . . What on 
 earth did you want to see me for?" 
 
 The recollection of her suffering rushed over her. 
 Her eyes filled with tears. 
 
 "I had to — ^talk to someone," she said. "And there 
 was nobody else." 
 
 "But — " he began, and stopped. This was a matter 
 for caution, she who had a .husband, a mother, a father, 
 brothers and sisters, and yet could find no one but 
 himself to confide in. 
 
 Five years before, when he was a boy of twenty, he 
 had come to live with his uncle. Doctor Mason. He was 
 a youth of strongly scientific tendency, too poor to study, 
 and the doctor had offered to keep him. His mother 
 
THE BEIDE T5. 
 
 was a garrulous, vulgar woman, with a bitter tongue, 
 well able to make life a burden for her household. Her 
 husband, the doctor's younger brother, endured her with 
 English fatalism; he was an ineffectual sort of chap, 
 anyway, who like so many of his countrymen had turned 
 to farming in the hope of finding in it a refuge from 
 competition and struggle. He had a wretched, stony, 
 hillside farm in Sullivan County, which produced next 
 to nothing ; the family were kept alive only by the exer- 
 tions of his relentless wife and the boundless charity of 
 his brother. Lance, amazingly christened Launcelot — 
 had lived in calm, unceasing opposition to both parents. 
 He would be a paleontologist, and he would not devote 
 himself to money-making. If he did make anything 
 through that work, his, parents could have it, if he 
 didn't they would have to do without. 
 
 He was the most unimpressionable, unsusceptible 
 young man ever bom. Nothing moved him, nothing 
 troubled him. He was a pleasant housemate, for he 
 was never impatient or cross, but he remained mar- 
 velously aloof. He sat at the doctor's feet, worshipping 
 his scientific knowledge, grateful to him for the oppor- 
 tunities he had given him, the years in eoUege, the quiet 
 and peace for independent study, he was grateful to 
 his aunt, too, for her kindly care of him. But he would, 
 have been delighted to go to the ends of the earth on 
 an expedition, and it wouldn't have cost him a pang to 
 bid them farewell forever. 
 
 The only soul with whom he was really human was 
 Claudine. They had been like brother and sister, only 
 at once more friendly and more formal than brothera 
 and sisters usually are. And Claudine was quite con- 
 
'Y6 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 scious of something not at all brotherly in Lance's 
 .regard. She had had too many suitors to be deceived. 
 She had very carefully maintained a nice balance. She 
 knew that he thought she didn't know, and she was 
 artful about it. She thoroughly respected Lance, he 
 was the most candid, unbiased, truly independent person 
 she had ever known, and he was kind, consistently and 
 invariably kind, without effort, simply because it was 
 iis impulse to be so. 
 
 It was upon his candour, his intelligence, his kindness, 
 that she counted now. 
 
 "Oh, Lance!" she said. "I'm so unhappy!" 
 
 "What's the trouble?" 
 
 The waiter was hovering near. 
 
 "You'd better order something," she murmured. 
 
 "I'm not hungry!" 
 
 "But you must, Lance! Please! It would look so 
 ►queer. ' ' 
 
 "A glass of milk," he said, "and a piece of apple 
 pie, then!" 
 
 The waiter was astounded and offended at this ple- 
 T)eian order ; he had, nevertheless, to go and fetch it and 
 they were able to talk again. 
 
 "What makes you unhappy, Claudine?" he asked. 
 
 "I suppose I ought to bear it, and say nothing, but 
 I can't any longer. Lance. . . .! I want to leave 
 Gilbert!" 
 
 This time she had certainly shaken his scientific calm. 
 
 ' ' What ! " he said. ' ' After three months ! ' ' 
 
 "I wish I could tell you. . . . But I could never make 
 ;anyone understand. It's just — ^unendurable." 
 
 "Isn't he— decent to you?" 
 
THE BEIDE 77 
 
 "It's not altogether Gilbert's fault. He tries to h& 
 kind. He thinks he is. But it's the whole life. Oh„ 
 Lanee, it's so horrible! It's like being buried alive.. 
 ..." She had to stop, to struggle with her tears. 
 "I've tried. I've really tried my best. But I can't 
 stand it. I want to go home and live with Father and 
 Mother. Oh, Lance, do you think it would be wrong ? ' ' 
 
 He regarded her thoughtfully. 
 
 "Do you mean as a general principle?" he asked. 
 "Do you mean — do I think it's wrong for a woman to^ 
 leave her husband?" 
 
 "1 suppose I do mean that." 
 
 "It's hard for me to say," he went on, frowning.. 
 "I can't say I've ever thought much about the modern 
 system of marriage. I suppose it's the best — or at least,, 
 the most expedient system for our present stage of 
 development. But I haven't considered exactly what 
 it is. Is marriage popularly considered indissoluble? 
 No, there's divorce. No! ... I suppose it's an arrange- 
 ment for the convenience of both the parties to the 
 contract. In that case — " 
 
 "But I never thought about divorce!" she cried. "I 
 only wanted to get away. Can that possibly be wrong ? ' '' 
 
 Lance was never greatly concerned about ethical prob- 
 lems, certainly not about the relations between men and 
 women. It didn't seem a matter of much importance to 
 him. He envisaged the human race as gradually pro- 
 gressing, adopting now this expedient now that; mar- 
 riage he had looked upon as a rather silly but necessary- 
 part of modem existence. As for woman's revolt, fem- 
 inism, and so on, he merely smiled at it all. He knew 
 too much about Pre-Historic Woman. 
 
78 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 He bent his mind to the problem as to whether the 
 sanctity of marriage was a help or a hindrance to civil- 
 ization. 
 
 "I can't see that there's anything wrong in it, 
 Claudine," he said. 
 
 "Then you think—" she began. "But oh, I don't 
 know what Father and Mother would say. Everyone 
 but you would think I was wicked — and that my life 
 was ruined. . . . Just because I want to be myself!" 
 
 He glanced up in surprise at her tone, and saw her 
 eyes fastened on him, swimming in tears, the most 
 beautiful eyes he had ever seen. It came to him with a 
 sort of shock that this was Claudine 's specific case, and 
 not a general problem ; that it was not women who wished 
 to leave their husbands, but Claudine who wished to 
 leave Gilbert. He saw that she was a lovely and inno- 
 cent young thing, unhappy and desperate; he saw sud- 
 denly what this might lead to. She would be^cast adrift, 
 blamed, gossiped about, always under a sort of cloud. 
 Her position in her own home would be an equivocal 
 one, an unending embarrassment and distress. Hers 
 was not a strong spirit; she couldn't go forward unsup- 
 ported. A terrible pain seized him, he turned his eyes 
 away because he couldn't bear to look at her. And the 
 most intolerable part of his pain was his certainty that 
 she could grow out of her pain; that what she now 
 found unbearable she could one day regard with indif- 
 ference. She suffered cruelly; she thought her fate was 
 a lamentable and wretched one, and it was really 
 nothing; a trifle, a few moments in her history. 
 
 "What would be the sense of my going on?" she 
 
THE BEIDE 19 
 
 asked Mm. "I don't make Gilbert happy, and I'm — 
 dreadfully unhappy myself." 
 
 "It isn't important — ^to be happy," said Lance. 
 "The question is, are you useful?" 
 
 "No! No, I'm not!" 
 
 He pushed away his plate with a nervous gesture. 
 
 "You want to know what I think,',' he said. "Well, 
 I think you'd better go back to your husband." 
 
 §n 
 
 She went home, to dress for a euchre party which 
 was to be given in her honour. She felt numb and cold, 
 ready to die of despair. Everyone was against her. 
 No one understood, no one cared, what she suffered. 
 She had appealed in vain to all the people who loved her, 
 and they had all said — "Continue to suffer. It is best 
 for you." 
 
 She had gone to her father for his support in the 
 piano battle. 
 
 "Buy me a piano of my own. Father!" she had en- 
 treated. "Send it to me as a present. Then the dis- 
 agreeable old thing can't object." 
 
 "But, my dear!" said her father. "When in Home — 
 you know! If I were you, I should avoid conflicts. 
 There's no use exasperating your mother-in-law. The 
 wisest course is to conciliate." 
 
 She had gone to her mother, to pour out all her 
 misery at living under the domination of a strange 
 woman, at not being mistress in her husband's house. 
 But her mother had no comfort to give. 
 
 "I don't see what's to be done, chickabiddy," she 
 said. "You can't expect Gilbert to leave his mother 
 
80 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 alone at her age. It can't be cured, so it must be 
 «ndured." 
 
 Gilbert was still more hopeless. When he saw her 
 dejected, weary, full of nervous excitement and irrita- 
 bility after her long day of emptiness, his remedy was 
 the theatre; and when even that didn't enliven her, 
 he too became irritable. He was beginning to lose 
 patience with her, he was willing now to admit that she 
 was peculiar. And he felt that he was justified. . . . 
 
 Justified in doing things which she never mentioned 
 1;o anyone. They had had quarrels, the very memory 
 of which appalled her. She remembered coarse words 
 he had used, brutal expressions, sneers, gibes. He was 
 always very sorry, always apologized, he said he had the 
 devil's own temper; but Claudine could not forget 
 them. She was neither quick to anger nor quick to 
 forgive. When her temper was aroused, she was cold 
 -and contemptuous and often childishly indignant, but 
 she was never fierce, never cruel. She could not under- 
 stand or forgive his absolute loss of dignity. 
 
 And she could not understand what he called his 
 weakness! She remembered the first time he had re- 
 Tealed it as one remembers a nightmare, the very thought 
 of it brought back the incredulous horror she had felt. 
 He hadn't come home to dinner that night, he had 
 sent a telegram, "Detained on business. Will not be 
 home till late," and Claudine and the old lady had sat 
 down at the table alone, in that sort of hostile intimacy 
 vyhich had grown upon them. After dinner they had 
 gone up to sit in the old lady's room where it would 
 be cosier for two lone women, the old lady with a book 
 
THE BEIDE 81 
 
 and Claudiue witfi the fancy-work she had taken to in 
 desperation. 
 
 Just before bed-time Gilbert came in, flushed, jolly, 
 anxious to talk. He had sat down and entertained them 
 with a long account of the dinner he had attended, and 
 the speeches he had heard. 
 
 "Best thing for business," he said. "You get to 
 know just the men you need to know. It was an im- 
 promptu thing, but wonderfully well done." 
 
 And he told them everything he had had to eat. 
 
 "And by the way," he said, "They had some oyster 
 pates that were the best things of their kind I've ever 
 eaten, bar none. I spoke to the waiter, and he packed 
 me a couple in a box and I brought them home. They're 
 downstairs with my overcoat. Will you get them, 
 Claudine?" 
 
 She did so, and he opened the box and took the 
 pates out. 
 
 "Just try this!" he said, ofEering one to Claudine. 
 
 "I couldn't eat it now, thank you, Gilbert," she 
 said. "Tomorrow I'd enjoy — " 
 
 "No! Nonsense! Eat it now! I want you to!" 
 
 She shook her head, smiling. 
 
 "To oblige me!" said Gilbert in a grieved voice. 
 
 The idea of gracefully yielding, of doing something 
 she didn't want to do, never occurred to Claudine. 
 
 "No, thank you!" she said, more firmly. 
 
 "I insist!" said Gilbert. 
 
 That made her laugh, she thought he was rather 
 funny, anyway, with his excessive garrulousness and his 
 oyster Pates. She was about to answer him with a good- 
 humoured joke, when she saw his face suddenly change. 
 
82 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 and grow convulsed with rage. She hardly heard what 
 he said, she was so startled. He jumped to his feet and 
 addressed her in a furious trembling voice, and sud- 
 denly took the pat^s, on their little friUed paper plates, 
 and threw them on the carpet and stamped on them. 
 
 His mother got up and came near to him, 
 
 "Gilbert! Gilbert!" she whispered, patting his shoul- 
 der. "You'd better get to bed, my boy!" 
 
 He threw a savage glance at Claudine and walked 
 unsteadily away. The old lady bent over her cherished 
 carpet, regarding the damage with distress. 
 
 "Dear! Dear!" she said. "7 don't know. . . ." 
 
 She never looked at Claudine, standing behind her, 
 wringing her hands, her teeth chattering with a sort 
 of nervous chill. 
 
 "I don't know!" she said again. "I suppose I'd 
 better leave it so until the morning. Then in the day- 
 light, perhaps. ..." 
 
 As she straightened herself she met the eyes of her 
 daughter-in-law. 
 
 "What are you doing here?" she asked. 
 ."Let me stay with you!" cried Claudine, 
 
 The old lady looked at her with frigid contempt. 
 
 "You go to Gilbert!" she said. "Your place is with 
 your husband." 
 
 "No!" cried Claudine, desperately. "I can't!" 
 
 ' ' You go ! " said the old lady. * ' Quick ! 1 11 have none 
 of this under my roof." 
 
 And she went so far as to take her by the arm and 
 hurry her out of the room. But there was no cause 
 to be worried about any further scene ; Gilbert had gone 
 to sleep, fully dressed, on the bed. 
 
THE BKIDE 83 
 
 § iii 
 
 And the next morning he regarded it all as a great 
 joke. He complained ruefully of a headache, but he 
 was proud of it. He burst out laughing when his mother 
 mentioned her damaged carpet, and to Claudine's sur- 
 prise, the old lady was wonderfully indulgent. He 
 told Claudine not to mind, it wouldn't happen again; 
 bijt it did, more than once. Only on special occasions, 
 though, as he pointed out to her ; he was no drunkard. 
 He was simply a good fellow ; and he felt that she ought 
 to appreciate his social qualities. He was sincerely 
 aggrieved at her attitude, her scorn, her cold aversion. 
 He told her she was straitlaced and puritanical; he 
 thought she was shocked because he could not imagine 
 that she was disgusted. She didn't find him devilish; 
 she found him repulsive. It was not a question of for- 
 giveness ; she felt for him a profound distaste and aver- 
 sion which she never again overcame. It was not even 
 that she had ceased to love him; she had simply dis- 
 covered that she never had loved him. She was not by 
 nature affectionate or indulgent; she was fastidious, al- 
 ways a little apart from life, never quite human. She 
 was a dutiful egoist. 
 
 She looked back over these three months of married 
 life with a sort of cold wonder. The long, long days, 
 the tedious drives, the dull calls on dull people, the 
 unpleasant meals, the stuffy dismalness of the house! 
 She thought that the Vincelle friends were the most 
 unspeakably tiresome people in the world. To go with 
 her mother-in-law and sit in their augustly gloomy 
 parlours for the required fifteen minutes, or to receive 
 
84 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 them in like fashion at home, to sit at their dinner 
 tables, or to see them sitting at hers, was an infliction 
 almost beyond her endurance. Except at dinners, she 
 saw nothing but women ; they had euchre-parties, recep- 
 tions, luncheons, once in a while a matinee party. A 
 harem world of pampered women, interested in nothing, 
 women whose husbands were pleased to see them ex- 
 pensively dressed, wearing jewels, who required them 
 to be ladylike; but didn't expect them to be seductive. 
 They were all good, all complacent, and they seemed to 
 Claudine years and years older and more mature than 
 herself. She made no friends. Vincelle heard that 
 one of the young married women did china painting, 
 and that aroused a spark of interest in her. She ap- 
 proached the alleged artist, young Mrs. Ryder. 
 
 "Oh, yes! I love it!" the artist told her. "Of 
 course I don't have much time; but I positively made up 
 my mind not to drop it after I married. It's such a 
 mistake, don't you think, to get into a rut? I believe 
 a man thinks ever so much more of his wife if she has 
 some interests of her own." 
 
 Claudine 's heart sank; then it was, after all, nothing 
 but another harem accomplishment, a trick to secure 
 attention. 
 
 "Of course I don't have much time," the other went 
 on. "There's so much to do, isn't there?" 
 
 "What do you do?" Claudine asked, with «earnest- 
 ness. "I wish you'd tell me what you do all day?" 
 
 "Oh ... so many things!" murmured the other, 
 taken aback. "There's the house-keeping, of course — 
 and social duties . . . and with a man in the house there 
 are such a lot of little things. ..." 
 
THE BEIDE 85 
 
 Now it must be admitted that Claudine was not a 
 lover of her kind. She had no special interest in 
 humanity; she was not ready to see the simple human 
 qualities in those about her. She was an aloof, eager 
 soul, greedy for activity, for gaiety, and for something 
 more than that. She wanted food for thought; she 
 was not very original, she needed perpetual stimulation, 
 a constant flow of external impressions. She did not 
 wish to meditate, she wished to observe. 
 
 She was baffled at every turn. She tried to discover 
 what it was that enabled the old lady to pass the time 
 so tranquilly without impatience or weariness. After 
 a few orders to the servants and her marketing, she 
 had nothing to do. Other old ladies came in during 
 the afternoons to talk with her; often there were old 
 ladies from the country spending a few days with her, 
 they talked of other old ladies known to them with a 
 sort of good-humoured indifference. . , . Perhaps that 
 was the key to it — a profound and cynical indifference, 
 nothing mattered; one endured and existed, and life 
 consisted not in accomplishment, but in a perfectly 
 passive Duty. 
 
 The old lady said Claudine was excitable, and even 
 went so far as to call her frivolous. And yet the only 
 part of Claudine 's life which either she or her son took 
 with any seriousness were these horrible little frivol- 
 ities, the euchre club, the dinner parties, the calls. Her 
 social duties. . . , 
 
 "What in the world makes you so restless, child?" 
 the old lady asked her one afternoon. Claudine had 
 come into her room and was wandering about looking 
 at the photographs, asking idle questions. 
 
86 THE TJNLIT LAMP 
 
 "I don't know what to do with myself!" she an- 
 swered suddenly. 
 
 "Do? Why, what under the sun do you want to'do?" 
 
 "I don't know. . • . But it seems. ... Oh, it seems 
 such a waste of time!" 
 
 "I must say you have very queer notions for a young 
 married woman, Claudine. I've never heard of anyone 
 else with such notions. You have your home, and your 
 friends. And there's the euchre club, and Gilbert takes 
 you to the theatre every mortal week. What more do 
 you want?" 
 
 This Claudine was unable to answer. The old lady 
 regarded her severely. 
 
 "I only hope," she went on, "that the time will 
 never come when you'll look back on these days as the 
 happiest time of your life. ... I remember when I was 
 a young married woman — " she sighed. "I can tell 
 you, I hadn't much time to worry about what to do, 
 with my five children." 
 
 "I wish I had five children," said Claudine. 
 
 The old lady looked at her again. 
 
 "Humph!" she said. 
 
 § iv 
 
 She was ready now for the euchre, she cast a last 
 glance in the mirror and gathered up her little posses- 
 sions, handkerchiefs, gloves, cardcase, and muff. A com- 
 posed and mature figure she looked, in her grey broad- 
 cloth dress with a trailing skirt and well-boned bodice, 
 slender, dignified in spite of her smallness. A lady — a 
 young married woman, a finished product. She was 
 
THE BEEDE 37 
 
 supposed to have done with adyentnre, romance and 
 excitement, she was presumed to have settled down. 
 
 She smiled frigidly. 
 
 ""We'll see!" she said. "Just wait! They're all 
 against me — even Lance. But I won't give in! If I 
 can't get away, then I'U change all this! I jron't have 
 a life like this. I won't! I won't I" 
 
CHAPTER EIGHT 
 
 A TEAS LATER 
 
 §i 
 
 THE old lady was going upstairs to the store-room 
 on one of her periodical rummaging excursions, 
 conducted for mysterious purposes of her own. She 
 looked through trunks, bags, and boxes, and emerged 
 from the dark little room quite exhausted, but without 
 bringing anything with her. As she passed the big bed- 
 room she looked in at the open door and smiled to 
 herself, with grim satisfaction. There sat Claudine by 
 the window, her head leaning against the back of a 
 venerable rocking chair, her eyes fixed dreamily on the 
 ceiling. She had been sitting there quite three-quarters 
 of an hour, and perfectly content in her idleness. Not 
 a trace of restlessness, of mutiny, about her, the sparkle 
 too had gone from her glance, she had a new, half mel- 
 ancholy charm. . . . 
 
 The old lady admitted that Claudine had at last "set- 
 tled down." She was stiU peculiar. Perhaps more 
 peculiar than ever, but that was a maltter beyond hope 
 of remedy. It was her bringing up. She had queer 
 notions about sitting alone, and she very obviously dis- 
 couraged conversation, she read pretentious and quite 
 immoral books, but as she never said or did anything 
 
 88 
 
THE BEIDE 89 
 
 improper, Gilbert and his mother were agreed to over- 
 look these unpleasant eccentricities. Naturally, they 
 remonstrated with her at every opportunity, but in a 
 despairing way. 
 
 She was conquered, and she was happy. Not one of 
 the hopes of her girlhood had been fulfilled; she had 
 seen no foreign countries; she had met no remarkable 
 people; she was denied the active and interesting life 
 she had expected. But she was able to smile at these 
 lost hopes. She was happy. 
 
 She had lost the best and dearest friend of her life, 
 her mother. She was obliged to live without a con- 
 fidant, without sympathy or encouragement. In losing 
 her mother she had irrevocably lost her girlhood, and 
 been cast adrift on a strange sea. But she had resigned 
 herself even to that bitter loss. 
 
 She was well aware that she had missed the beauty 
 and romance of the love between a man and a woman. 
 She certainly didn't love Gilbert, she didn't even like 
 him; she was in fear of coming to hate him. But even 
 that she endured with tranquil indifference, as she 
 endured her fettered existence, her hostile mother-in- 
 law, her wearisome social duties. 
 
 Because she had Andree. She wanted nothing more. 
 Andr^e was enough to fill heaven and earth for her. 
 Her love for Andree, her hope for her, the watchful 
 care of her, gave her utter and complete satisfaction. 
 
 It had come as an astounding revelation. She had 
 looked forward to the coming of a baby with despair 
 and revolt ; it would be, she thought, another link in the 
 chain slowly forging to bind her to slavery. She didn't 
 feel old enough or wise enough for a baby. She looked 
 
90 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 upon the whole thing as a horrible indignity put upon 
 her by merciless Nature, and she even hoped that she 
 might die. 
 
 She took it for granted that it would be a son, be- 
 cause everyone else required ^ son from her. Another 
 Gilbert, she thought, a pompous and obstinate creature 
 whom she could never hope to influence, and who would 
 soon leaiH to disapprove of her. She looked forward to 
 its birth with dread and terror, she imagined the 
 wretched tedium of being obliged to carry it about, to 
 nurse it, to be perpetually tied to it, the broken nights, 
 the distasteful duties. 
 
 And to think that it was Andree who had come, after 
 all! This son, who was to have been named Andrew, 
 after Gilbert's father, had been miraculously trans- 
 formed into that wonderful little dark-haired baby, 
 that tiny, plaintive little creature whose first cry had 
 almost broken her heart. 
 
 She had lain with the little bundle beside her, and 
 from time to time reached out a weak hand to turn 
 down a corner of the blanket and look at its sleeping 
 face. The queer little thing! The pathos, the marvel- 
 ous appeal of its weakness, its aloofness, the charm of 
 its doll-like completeness! She never tired of looking 
 at it, she never wanted it out of her arms. Its fierce 
 and despairing cries pierced her soundest sleep; its 
 faintest stir aroused her. 
 
 She occupied the big room on the third floor, so 
 that the baby shouldn't disturb Gilbert, and after the 
 nurse went, she was alone with the baby. Miss Dorothy 
 had eagerly offered to take charge of it at night, but 
 Claudine wouldn't listen to that. She had a little bas- 
 
THE BRIDE 91 
 
 fiinet beside her, where the baby was sapposed to sleep, 
 but at the least sonnd, she would take it into the bed, 
 to lie close to her, while she comforted its inexplicable 
 little woes, whispered to it, sang to it, stroked its downy, 
 restless little head. 
 
 She passed hours of mystic happiness alone with it 
 in the big silent room, where a night-light burned dimly. 
 They would lie looking at each other; she would gaze 
 into its solemn unfathomable eyes, trying to impress 
 her image upon it, trying to reach it. It would fall 
 asleep clutching her finger, and she would weep with 
 joy and terror, afraid of everything, haimted by spectres 
 of croup, whooping-cough, of accidents, of all the cruel 
 chances of life. 
 
 Gilbert had very much objected to the name Andrde. 
 But Glaudine was so ill and weak, and so determined, that 
 he had submitted to it. He thought it was a charming 
 and wonderful baby, and that it would undoubtedly be 
 a comfort to him in his old age. He boasted about it to 
 his business friends; he said it was the greatest thing 
 in life. But he saw only the promise in it; he was 
 impatient for it to develop, to become responsive and 
 human. But Glaudine loved it at each moment; she 
 dreaded its changing. Every day she thought, "This is 
 the very sweetest age ! I wish she would stay like this 
 forever!" 
 
 It was now two months old, and on this day was 
 taking its first airing, in the arms of a highly recom- 
 mended nurse-maid. The old lady had a prejudice 
 against perambulators; she thought it all nonsense any- 
 how to take babies out into the street, but as Dr. Perceval 
 was newfangled and insistent, she made no objection. 
 
92 THE miLIT LAMP 
 
 to a daily outing, provided it was carried. Perambu- 
 lators were against nature; babies were meant to be 
 carried, she said. 
 
 Claudine took little interest in this discussion. As long 
 as they did nothing actually harmful, she didn't care. 
 Her only concern was to protect it, to keep it near her; 
 matters of hygiene she considered a little unreal. 
 
 She heard the sound of heavy and deliberate foot- 
 steps ascending the stairs, and she rushed out into the 
 haU. 
 
 "Be careful, Katie!" she called. "Go very slowly, 
 and be sure you don't catch your foot!" 
 
 She watched with frowning anxiety the progress of 
 the nurse and the bundle in her arms, and the instant 
 they reached the hall, she snatched the baby. 
 
 "She's asleep!" said the nurse, wamingly, but in 
 vain, because the wicked mother had kissed it until 
 it was awake and crying and had to be rocked. It was 
 the first separation, it had been out of the house nearly 
 an hour. Who was to blame her for her rapture at get- 
 ting it back alive and well? 
 
 And it looked so queer and darling in a little lace 
 bonnet, with muslin strings tied under its querulous 
 face, and a coat with capes encasing its helpless arms. 
 
 "Oh, Andr6e!" she cried. "My heart's darling! I 
 don't think I can ever let you go again!" 
 
 §ii 
 
 A year later there was another little girl, and after 
 
 that, the requisite son. They were delightful, pretly, 
 
 healthy babies, and she loved them passionately. But 
 
 they were not like Andr6e. There could never be any- 
 
THE BEIDE 93 
 
 thing in the world like Andree. She concealed her 
 fanatic worship of her first-born; she was a wonderful 
 mother to them all, patient, gentle, wise. She took an 
 unfailing delight in them; she gave her life to them 
 joyfully ; she was flattered and enchanted by the solemn 
 loyalty of little Edna and the teasing affection of her 
 small son. But the look of understanding in Andree 's 
 eyes was immeasurably dearer to her; the clasp of 
 Andree 's hand, a kiss from her, were the very consum- 
 mation of her life. 
 
BOOK TWO 
 THE BREATH OF LIFE 
 
CHAPTER ONE 
 
 APTEE TWENTY YIUlBS 
 
 §i 
 
 "T ORD! I'll be glad when this is over!" said An- 
 JLi dr^e. "And this is Father's idea of a holiday! 
 The poor thing actually said he envied us!" 
 
 Her younger sister was engaged in drawing on her 
 stockings. 
 
 "Come on, Andree!" she said, "We'll be late for 
 lunch and Mother does hate that so. ... No : I suppose 
 this would be a treat for poor Father, after being shut 
 up in a hot oflce all the time." 
 
 "I'd like to see him stand it for one week!" said 
 Andree, grimly. "Just for one week, that's all!" 
 
 "And then, of course, it's cheap," said the sensible 
 Edna. "I suppose he has to think of that, poor thing, 
 with Bertie going to college and you and your awful 
 Mr. MacGregor. We must be a tremendous expense." 
 
 "I don't want to be!" cried Andree. "And I 
 wouldn't be, either, if he wasn't so darned obstinate. 
 I've told him and told him that I could easily earn 
 enough to pay for my lessons by teaching. Mr. Mac- 
 Gregor says I'm thoroughly qualified, and that he'd 
 help me to get pupils. But no! Father pretends to 
 
 97 
 
98 THE TJNLIT LAMP 
 
 be so advanced, and says he wants us to be able to earn 
 our own livings, and then when we can, he stops it. He 
 and Mother are both hoping and praying I'll get mar- 
 ried before I have a chance to do anything. But I 
 won't! I'm going to — " 
 
 "Oh, Andree! For pity's sake! Not that! Do get 
 your shoes and stockings on! It's after twelve!" 
 
 They were sitting on the bank of a wide, shallow 
 stream running its hasty course down the mountain side ; 
 a favourite spot with them. They liked to come there 
 in the morning and with bare feet and skirts pinned up, 
 to pick their way over the stones, with the cold water 
 lapping about their ankles. It was like a broad and 
 deserted highway, lined with trees. On either side were 
 the dark woods, of which they were both a little afraid. 
 They would ascend the stream, "stepping stones," 
 past the sombre belt of woodland to the wide meadows 
 basking in the sun, and then suddenly the banks grew 
 high and rocky, the stream went out of the sunlight 
 and entered a ravine, gloomy and mysterious, and was 
 no longer a stream but a deep and ice-cold pool, fed 
 by a trickling waterfall. Farther than this they had 
 never gone, the climb up the rocks beside the waterfall 
 would have been a very difiScult one, and moreover it 
 was a spot where they didn't care to linger. City born 
 and bred, they had a sort of horror of this silent, im- 
 prisoned place. 
 
 The stream — the "crick," the country people called 
 it, had an unfailing charm for them. They came to it 
 every fine morning and indulged in pursuits which they 
 were a little ashamed of and which they justified by 
 their ennui — aa ennui more pretended than real. They 
 
THE BREATH OF LIFE 99 
 
 talked to each other and to their mother a great deal 
 about the horrible dulness of the little Catskill Moiin- 
 tains summer resort, but they were really very happy 
 in it, and they secretly enjoyed their infantile amuse- 
 ments. They whittled little boats of soft wood and 
 sailed them ; they brought tin pails and scooped up the 
 lazy, fat poUywogs that lay along the edges of the 
 shallow pools in long rows, nasty creatures with a sort 
 of horrible fascination about them. Andrde would watch 
 them wriggling sluggishly in the pail for a long time, 
 with the sun shining through their translucent, speckled 
 tails, and sniff the queer primeval smell of them. 
 
 "Aren't they horrible!" she would cry. 
 
 "Don't look at them, idiot!" her sister would say. 
 "You'll be having nightmares about them again to- 
 night." 
 
 Andree was very irritating about such matters. She 
 wouldn't keep away from things and people and facts 
 that troubled and torij^nted her. That pool, for in- 
 stance. . . . She would" argue Edna into going there 
 with her and insist upon lingering beside it, looking 
 into the dark depths of the water, standing in its icy 
 shallows, laying her hands against the wet moss-grown 
 rocks, until she became so filled with her absurd dreads 
 and fancies that even the sensible Edna would become 
 infected. 
 
 They had been there that morning; they had sat on 
 a fallen tree and stared at the quiet pool, the dark face 
 of the cliff over which the puny trickle of water ran, 
 ran, ran, had been running, just in this way, for God 
 knows how many centuries. And suddenly they had 
 seen a great black snake, swimming rapidly and silently 
 
100 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 on its way. They had fled in a panic, barefooted over 
 the stones and rough ground, out to the ravine and into 
 the sun again. 
 
 Edna had been angry. 
 
 "Why mil you go there!" she cried. "You're so 
 morbid!" 
 
 There was nothing morbid about Edna; she was a 
 distractingly pretty thing of nineteen, very like her 
 mother in her young days as far as appearance went — 
 small, slight, self-confident, with crisp fair hair like 
 a halo about a flower-like face. She was alert, inde- 
 pendent and unsociable; her most profound instinct 
 was to keep silent, to stay alone, to be untouched, un- 
 disturbed while her strong spirit grew. She was a dis- 
 appointment to her mother because she was so difficult, 
 so impossible to influence. She wished to take every 
 new idea and run off with it, to examine it alone, in. 
 peace; she never wanted to talk over anything. Nor 
 did she care much for reading. She observed, and she 
 made deductions from her observations, she formed in- 
 telligent opinions, she judged people with sane and 
 kindly indifference. 
 
 But she did not understand, as Andree did. Andree 
 apparently never did any thinking. She simply knew 
 things, spontaneously. She knew what people would do, 
 what they were, she loved them or hated them. And 
 she was forced to discuss everything with everybody, to 
 talk, to think, until her brain was sick and frightened. 
 She couldn't quite believe anything or quite doubt any- 
 thing. She was a thin, tall girl of twenty, pale, dis- 
 trait, not very pretty, but with a face wonderfully 
 mobile and sensitive. There was a perverse charm about 
 
THE BEEATH OF LIEE 101 
 
 her, about her moods, her immature high-mindedness, 
 her terrible dependence upon others. She would ask 
 your Opinion, and if it differed from hers she would 
 begin to doubt herself, and if you agreed with her, she 
 was obliged to change her mind. . . . 
 
 They had got their shoes and stockings on and set off 
 by a convenient path for the little hotel. 
 
 "If only we didn't have to eat with all those people!" 
 said Andree, sighing. "It takes my appetite away. I 
 do so Jiate the noise they make . . . and those awful 
 babies ! ' ' 
 
 Edna laughed at her. 
 
 "Poor grandma always used to call you 'per- 
 nicketty.' And you are, aren't you? They're not such 
 bad people." 
 
 "How could they be worse? They're stupid and vulgar 
 and horrible to look at and horrible to listen to. "We 
 wouldn't think of bothering with such people when 
 we're at home, and I can't see why we should here. 
 They're not any better in the summer time or in the 
 mountains, than they are in the winter, in the city." 
 
 "Mother hates snobbishness — " 
 
 "Ha! Does she? She's the worst sort of snob in the 
 world. She doesn't like anybody at all. She's bored 
 with everyone, just as much bored with right people as 
 with wrong ones." 
 
 They had come now to the hotel grounds, and were 
 walking across the lawn with great decorum. And just 
 on time, for a bell rang out with a loud and hostile 
 clamour, and the embroidering ladies on the porch began 
 to collect their work and rise. 
 
 Andree and Edna hurried up to their room for the 
 
102 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 process of "neatening," which their mother considered 
 indispensable. She was there, in the adjoining bed- 
 room, standing before the mirror. 
 
 "How hot you are!" she said. "Hurry, I'll wait 
 for you." 
 
 She was a pleasure to the eye, as she always was. She 
 had a well-deserved reputation for being the best- 
 dressed woman in her set, and she took infinite pains 
 to sustain it. She wasn't by any means beautiful, the 
 promise of her young days had never been fulfilled; 
 she was pale, colourless, except for her bright hair still 
 untouched by grey; she was thin and angular, and her 
 features were as tranquil and expressionless as a 
 statue's. But the dignity of the small creature! She 
 was absolutely imposing, she had a look of melancholy 
 and resignation, but a melancholy without lassitude, a 
 resignation without weakness. She had a passion for 
 reserve. Even in her limitless devotion to her children 
 she was a little formal, a little aloof. She was certainly 
 in no way tyrannical or severe, but she commanded 
 unfailing respect. They adored her like a goddess, in- 
 stead of loving her like a human being. She was a 
 perpetual mystery to them. 
 
 Poor Claudine! Like a strayed nymph, forever as- 
 tonished and affrighted at the strange world into which 
 she had been betrayed! She had known no way of 
 adapting herself, she could never feel at home, her one 
 refuge had been to withdraw into herself. 
 
 She was courteous and agreeable enough to all her 
 fellow-guests, but she fled from them. She went o£E 
 every morning after breakfast, her thin form, straight 
 as a dart, charmingly dressed in clear summer colours. 
 
THE BEEATH OF LIFE 103 
 
 a parasol held over her burnislied head, and two or 
 three portentous volumes under her arm, to find a 
 secluded spot in the woods where she could read un- 
 disturbed. She read Epictetus and Marcus Aurelius 
 and Schopenhauer and Emerson, with ardent attention, 
 marking passages, meditating on them, trying to appease 
 and fortify her desperate spirit. 
 
 The idea of her being desperate would have seemed 
 ludicrous to anyone who knew her. She was calm, so 
 self-possessed, so well-poised! She had a great social 
 success in her own milieu, she was something of an 
 authority upon correctness in dress and manner. She 
 was moreover a lady of unblemished reputation, she was 
 never even indiscreet or stupid. She was quite perfect. 
 Not even the resentful Gilbert could find a fla.w in her 
 public demeanour. 
 
 And yet, in her own heart, she was bewildered and 
 lost. 
 
 §ii 
 They went down, all three, to the dining-room, and 
 sat down at their small table, accompanied by a great 
 many glances from the other guests. They never sus- 
 pected how much they were gossiped about, how much 
 interest they aroused. It was the first time they had 
 come to so small and cheap a place for their summer 
 holiday; heretofore they had stopped at lively and 
 agreeable resorts with others of their own comfortable 
 sort. But Gilbert had taken one of those unaccountable 
 fancies to which husbands are so prone. It may have 
 been an obscure resentment at the sight of the care-free 
 and pampered existence of his women-folk, or one of 
 
104 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 those sudden anxieties lie often felt at the thought of 
 the future. However, from no matter what cause, he 
 had suddenly required Claudine to retrench and she 
 had obeyed, with her usual profound and polite in- 
 diflference. Hence the "Pine View Villa," in the Cats- 
 kills, and two small rooms without a bath. 
 
 Their attitude aroused resentment. Claudine had her 
 own special tea, which she made in a pot at the table, 
 and they had extra milk and cream, and various potted 
 delicacies ordered from the city. The landlady took 
 this as a reflection upon her table and it was. And 
 then they had made a special arrangement whereby 
 Andree was to have the exclusive use of the piano in 
 the mornings, and on chilly or wet mornings, when 
 some of the ladies would have enjoyed sitting in the 
 parlour and rocking and chatting, they were not at all 
 pleased by the vigorous rhythm of her interminable 
 exercises. She regarded them no more than so many 
 chairs. 
 
 Edna was the most approachable, but she had a 
 scrutinizing air, an amused sort of interest outrageous 
 in one so young. Altogether a conceited, snobbish, in- 
 tolerable family; that was the verdict. 
 
 "Take the tea and the anchovy paste, Andree!" said 
 Claudine. "And will you bring them up to my room, 
 please? I'd like to speak to you for a moment. Edna '11 
 wait on the veranda for you." 
 
 She closed the door of her room and sat down. 
 
 "Andree, dear," she said. "Was that another letter 
 from Mr. MacGregor this morning?" 
 
 "Yes, it was," said Andree, nonchalantly. 
 
 Claudine waited for a moment. 
 
THE BREATH OF LIFE 105 
 
 "I wish you'd show it to me!" she said, coaxingly. 
 
 "I'd rather not, Mother, it's private." 
 
 "But Andree, my dear, why should you have private 
 letters from that man which you can't show your 
 mother?" 
 
 She had adopted a very tranquil, reasonable tone, to 
 conceal her own distress and the advantage which it 
 gave to Andree. She was confronted once more by the 
 terrible independeitwe of her children, they .all led such 
 busy, lively, entertaining lives in which there was no 
 need at all for her. They loved her, but they would 
 have gone on in exactly the same way if she were not 
 with them. She was unessential, they needed nothing 
 from her. She had never been able to understand how 
 it had happened. When they were little, she was their 
 universe, she consoled, protected, she alone understood 
 them. She had wished to give her life to them. And 
 then little by little they had got upon their feet and 
 walked away, leaving her still standing with empty 
 arms in the nursery. She couldn't follow them; she 
 didn't know how to draw near to them, how to wia 
 them. She was helpless, just as she was now helpless 
 before Andree. The very sight of Andree frightened 
 her, the fragile and mysterious charm of her beloved 
 child wrung her heart, robbed her of worldly wisdom 
 and common sense. She could have knelt before Andree 
 and adored her, and wept for the pity that touching 
 youth and ignorance caused her. 
 
 "I have loved you every moment of your life, from 
 your first breath!" she might have cried. "There is 
 no one in the world for me but you ! I love my other 
 children, but oh, not like you I Not like you! I 
 
106 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 wanted to give all my life to your service. I wanted to 
 live for you, to wear myself out to give you happiness. 
 And you will not have me!" 
 
 She stole a glance at the child's downcast face, muti- 
 nous,, impatient. 
 
 "Andree, my dear," she said again. "Why should 
 you have letters from that man which you don't wish 
 me to see?" 
 
 For answer Andree put her hand inside her blouse 
 and drew out a crumpled letter. 
 
 ' ' Here ! " she said. ' ' Bead it then, if you want ! ' ' 
 
 But it was impossible to do so, to pry into her poor 
 little secret. 
 
 "I don't want to read it, my darling. I only want 
 to talk to you about — " 
 
 To her great surprise Andree began to cry. 
 
 "Oh, Mother!" she sobbed. "That's just what I 
 knew you'd do! Talk it over, and talk and talk, and 
 spoil everything. . . . Why can't you understand? It's 
 nothing, just nothing at all, and you want to talk it 
 into something. Why can't I be let alone? I'm so 
 unhappy!" 
 
 " Unhappy f, Andree, why? Tell me! Let me help 
 you!" 
 
 "I don't know why — except that I never have any 
 peace or freedom. It's disgusting to have to talk about 
 every thought that comes into your head. . . . How 
 would you like it ? How would you like to have to tell 
 exactly how you felt toward everyone and everjrthing?" 
 
 Claudine turned away her head. 
 
 "I see how you feel," she said. "It must be dis- 
 gusting, as you say. . . . But you're surely fair-minded 
 
TEE BEEATH OF LIFE 107 
 
 enough to see that I must make every possible effort to 
 safeguard you. You are young and inexperienced." 
 
 " Wlien you were my age you were married and had 
 a baby." 
 
 Glaudine smiled, one of her rare and enchanting 
 smiles. 
 
 "That's true. I had you." 
 
 "So you see I'm not so very young. Amd as for 
 experience . . . well, honestly. Mother, I don't think 
 you've had much." 
 
 Glaudine was startled. She who had suffered so much, 
 been so cruelly disappointed and mocked by life, who had 
 learned so many, many bitter lessons, to be reproached 
 with lack of experience by this baby? She smiled 
 again, sadly. 
 
 "You've never been to Europe, or met any famous 
 people, or anything. And you've never — " Andree 
 flushed and hesitated. "You've never had any ro- 
 mance. Nothing but just Father, and he's not very 
 thrilling." 
 
 "My dear!" 
 
 "Please don't be shocked! It makes it so hard to 
 talk to you. It's no use my pretending that I want a 
 life like yours or that I'd marry a man like Father. I 
 wouldn't for anything!" 
 
 "Andree, I really—" 
 
 Andree shook her head. She alone of the three had 
 never been drawn to her father, had never been in- 
 fluenced by him. 
 
 "No," she said. "It's no use talking. I want some- 
 thing very different. I don't want any stuffy family 
 life. I'd like to go away, by myself — " 
 
108 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 "Andree! Think what you're saying! How can you 
 be so cruel? What should I do without you?" 
 
 "You've got Bertie and Edna. And you're settled 
 down and all that sort of thing. You have lots of things 
 to interest you, but I haven't anything. That's why — " 
 Once more she stopped, her cheeks scarlet. 
 
 "That's why I like to hear from — Mr. MacGregor. 
 He encourages me. He says there's no reason why I 
 shouldn't make a name for myself, giving concerts. He 
 — ^well, I know he exaggerates, but he says I'm a — a — sort 
 of — ^wonder." 
 
 "Is he urging you to leave your parents?" ' 
 
 "Heavens, no I He just encourages me. He says to 
 keep on practising and practising. And when I get 
 back he's going to give me a lot of extra time." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Because he thinks I'm — ^promising." 
 
 "Andree, isn't there anything more personal beneath 
 this interest?" 
 
 "I don't know," said Andree, curtly. "I don't want 
 to know." 
 
 Glaudine was still for a moment, thinking with 
 supreme displeasure of that man, that music teacher, who 
 had by flattery, by chicanery, won her child's interest. 
 It must be stopped ! Should she ridicule him, point out 
 to Andree that Mr. MacGregor was as old as her father, 
 and a man of no distinction, either mental or physical, 
 a shaggy, lumbering, grey-haired creature only too well 
 used to the silly admiration of young girl pupils? No, 
 ridicule was not a weapon Claudine could handle. She 
 thought for a moment of appealing to her affection, but 
 that too she rejected. She dared not. ... 
 
THE BEEATH OF LIFE 109 
 
 "Andree," she said at last, very gravely. "I am 
 going to ask you to promise me something. If Mr. Mac- 
 Gregor — if this thing — " 
 
 "I know what you mean. You mean you want me to 
 promise to tell you if anything happens." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "But don't you see that that isn't a fair promise?" 
 
 Claudine was startled. 
 
 "Surely your mother has the right — " 
 
 "Oh, yes, you have all sorts of rights!" said Andree, 
 bitterly. "And I haven't any. But if I were you — if 
 ever I have a daughter — ^I'U never, never ask her to 
 promise to tell me things. I wouldn't want to know 
 them if she didn't want to tell them." 
 
 Claudine approached and put her arm about the 
 unwUling girl. 
 
 "Very well!" she said, with a sigh. "I will leave 
 you free to do as you please about telling me." 
 
 Then Andr6e bent down and kissed her. 
 
 "You are a darling!" she cried. "Now I'll rush to 
 Edna!" 
 
CHAPTER TWO 
 
 THE FORSAKEN PBOVIDEB 
 
 §i 
 
 "rf^NE of Gilbert's bad mornings!" thought Miss 
 
 V-/ Dorothy. 
 
 And she slipped into her place behind the cofiEee urn, 
 a little more ingratiating, a little more careful not to 
 disturb him, than usual. He sat at the head of the table, 
 glowering behind his newspaper, and by the very sound 
 of the grunt' with which he answered the cousinly good- 
 morning, she was warned of what might be expected. 
 She sat very still, in order not to attract the lightning. 
 
 He ate his grape-fruit, quite reasonably, and a little 
 dish of oatmeal, and then Delia brought in the eggs and 
 bacon. He glanced at the plate suspiciously. 
 
 "Are these Murray's eggs?" he demanded. 
 
 Miss Dorothy sent the girl a warning glance. 
 
 "Yes, sir," she said. 
 
 "You're sure?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "When did they come?" 
 
 ". . . . Yesterday, sir." 
 
 "Let me see the box!" 
 
 "It was thrown away, sir." 
 110 
 
THE BEEATH OF LIFE 111 
 
 His face became alarming. 
 
 "Dorothy!" he said. "I don't believe it. I don't 
 believe these are Murray's eggs!" 
 
 He leaned across the table and sniffed at the dish. 
 
 "No!" he shouted. "They are not I I know it!" 
 
 He flung down his napkin and pushed back his chair. 
 He had for a few weeks past been importing eggs for 
 his special use from a fellow he knew in the country, 
 and he knew that he was being duped, that these im- 
 moral women, Miss Dorothy and Delia, used his eggs 
 for other purposes, for the household, for puddings, 
 perhaps even ate them themselves. His appetite was 
 extremely delicate at breakfast, no one could quite com- 
 prehend how he felt, especially the morning after a 
 banquet. Suddenly his anger turned into a frightful 
 gloom. 
 
 "Take them away!" he said, with a sigh. "Take 
 the damned things away and never bring me eggs again. 
 Never! . . . Good Lord! I can't trust anyone!" 
 
 Miss Dorothy flushed, and smiled nervously. 
 
 "Would you like ... a slice of ham, Gilbert?" she 
 ventured. 
 
 "Nothing! . . . More coffee!" 
 
 He had put down his paper, and she was in the full 
 glare of his bilious and lowering regard. He picked the 
 thing up again, not to read it, for he had finished all 
 that interested him, but as a screen to conceal from him' 
 this scene which he so hated to contemplate, from that 
 dining-room where he had eaten so many hundreds of 
 breakfasts. Claudine hadn't really changed it, or any- 
 thing else. By the time the old lady had departed this 
 life, Claudine had no more ideas, no more desire to 
 
112 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 make changes. The huge sideboard opposite him was 
 crowded with cut glass, silver, hand-painted china, wed- 
 ding presents, Christmas presents, birthday and anni- 
 versary presents, milestones along the road of twenty 
 years of married life. All very neat, comfortable and 
 prosperous, and yet it offended him. He couldn't really 
 find fault with this home or this atmosphere, couldn't 
 well imagine anything much better. If he had been 
 compelled to furnish a dining-room according to his own 
 taste, he would have produced something very similar. 
 He had even a sort of pride in the old furniture and the 
 curtains and the presents. And yet it hurt and angered 
 him so. 
 
 He looked up stealthily and saw Miss Dorothy, with 
 such a pleased face, just about to begin her grape-fruit. 
 
 The face of a fool he called it to himself, a half com- 
 placent, half terrified countenance, a sallow, soul-weary- 
 ing creature in gold eyeglasses, who existed through his 
 benefactions, one /of the thankless crew he laboured un- 
 endingly to feed and clothe. 
 
 And not one of them made the least effort to compre- 
 hend him. He was a man, and therefore to be humoured ; 
 he was a man and therefore to be conciliated. Like so 
 many sun-worshippers did they all bow down before the 
 inscrutable source of all comforts, all security, suppli- 
 cating him to continue shedding his golden rays. Not 
 from humility, you understand, or because they had the 
 least admiration for his productivity, but because only 
 in this way could they obtain what they wished. It was 
 reaUy a worship, with rites and sacrifices, and splendid 
 rewards to be got if you understood how to go about it. 
 Glaudine and his two daughters and even the unfort- 
 
THE BEEATH OF LIFE 113 
 
 unate Miss Dorothy had all a dearly bought knowledge 
 of what topics would infuriate him, knew his good hours 
 and his bad ones, could read the warning symptoms of 
 his more deadly moods. They knew what he liked to 
 eat and what he liked to hear. And nothing else. His 
 , queer, gloomy soul remained mysterious and solitary. 
 In an alien world he groped for light, he existed like a 
 sensitive child among impervious and indifferent adults. 
 Even his children seemed to him possessed of worldly 
 knowledge impossible to him ; they were aware of things, 
 they discussed things, of which he was ignorant. They 
 were somehow freer and brighter. 
 
 To be considered cross when the spirit was writhing, 
 crying for help . . . ! He was passionately convinced 
 that his malign fate had driven him into an utterly 
 wrong life and that somewhere else there was an utterly 
 right life, beautiful and satisfying, which he ought to 
 have been enjoying. He had no idea of making adjust- 
 ments, or of trying to modify his environment ; he 
 wanted, most naively, to step into another world. 
 
 "What it was he so thirsted for, he didn't exactly know. 
 It was not peace, or love, or fame, or money, or any of 
 those things a man might legitimately demand from his 
 destiny. He knew only that his daily bread was ashes 
 in his mouth, that his soul found no nourishment, and 
 pined and sickened, that it lived in a universe every- 
 where insipid and meaningless. And that with all his 
 heart he resented this fate, above all, this marriage of his. 
 Because it was his conviction, that he, as well as every 
 other man on earth, was entitled to an ideail marriage, 
 and a more or less ardent and beautiful wife. The men 
 who got rather less than this had been cheated, de- 
 
114 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 frauded of what he called "the greatest thing in life." 
 It never occurred to him that he was disappointed be- 
 cause he expected too much, he believed himself disap- 
 pointed because he had received too little. 
 
 He never thought of Claudine without a savage re- 
 sentment. She had swindled him. She was to have 
 brought light, gaiety, charm, into his life, to have trans- 
 formed it into something resembling her old Staten 
 Island existence, she was to have been perpetually allur- 
 ing, fairylike, sparkling. And she had failed in all of 
 this. She was nothing more than a decorous and 
 virtuous wife, and she regarded him with something 
 criminally like aversion. She was cold. And he be- 
 lieved, like more than one other man — ^that her coldness 
 was a fault in her own temperament, and not due to any 
 lack of fascination in himself. It was certainly not a 
 happy marriage. He had grounds for believing that she 
 thought herself a martyr, and he knew that he was one. 
 
 §ii 
 
 Some occult sense warned him of the time. He glanced 
 up at the clock on the mantelpiece, and caught sight of 
 his own face in the mirror behind it. And he wondered, 
 as he always did when he really, consciously regarded 
 himself, how it was he looked like that, how it was pos- 
 sible that his appearance should so little express himselL 
 It was another cause for resentment. 
 
 A heavy, grizzled man of forty-five with a straggling 
 little mustache over a brutally obstinate month. He had 
 a surly way about him, but he was not unattractive; 
 on the contrary, there was something about the gloomy 
 
TKE BEEATH OF LIFE 116 
 
 and bilious gaze of his black eyes that engendered pity 
 and good-wiU. 
 
 But neither pity nor good-will dwelt in Miss Dorothy 
 at that particular instant. She was not resentful, be- 
 cause resentment didn't belong in her stock of feelings, 
 but she was miserable. He was upsetting all her neat 
 little plans for the day, he was keeping back Delia. He 
 was so late, why on earth didn't he get up and be off to 
 his office, where he belonged? Every moment of these 
 days was so precious to her, when she was sole and 
 undisputed mistress in this house which she had always 
 regarded with awe. She could wish that the summer 
 would last forever, and Claudine and the children never 
 return. Think of the joy of going to market in the 
 electric coup6 ! Think of the charm of eating her lunch 
 alone, benevolent chatelaine of all this domain! 
 
 At last, with his terribly rough gesture, he shoved 
 away the plates before him, so that they upset a milk 
 jug, pushed back his chair in a way that made furrows 
 in the carpet, and got up. He went heavily upstairs and 
 took his straw hat from the gigantic hat-rack. He 
 frowned, there was something he didn't like about that 
 dark hall, with the rug removed for the summer. There 
 were certain changes from his mother's day, the glass 
 top of the front door was covered with shirred green silk, 
 and over the open door of the front parlour hung a por- 
 tiere of bamboo tubes strung together with green and blue 
 glass beads, hung there fifteen summers ago. On the shelf 
 of the hat-rack was a little rubber plant in a horrible 
 green scalloped bowl, and a clumsy bronze statue of a 
 fat shepherd boy, holding out an altogether incongruous 
 little tray for visiting cards, a wedding anniversary 
 
116 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 present from his senior partner. Each of these objeeta 
 per S6 he regarded with more or less admiration, but the 
 ensemble disgusted him. He felt that there was some- 
 thing wrong here, and that it was of course his wife's 
 fault. He execrated her in silence. 
 
 He set off down the tranquil street, blazing in the July 
 sun, removing his hat now and then to salute a familiar 
 face. He knew so many people in the neighbourhood, 
 through having lived there all his life, but they were not 
 his friends, these people. They respected him as a man 
 who paid his bills promptly and provided well for his 
 family, but they didn't like him, had no warm feeling for 
 him. He was too gloomy, too preoccupied. He had an 
 air of misery about him which was distressing to a 
 hostess. Claudine was obliged to confess, and to apologize 
 for his reluctance to make visits. She said he was such 
 a man's man ! He was only happy among his business 
 associates. But what she didn't know, what nobody sus- 
 pected, was the positive hatred concealed beneath his 
 farouche manner for all these respectable people. He 
 despised them and loathed them, and was mortally sick 
 of them, and worst of all, he couldn't feel justified in 
 such feelings. Theoretically they were what he admired, 
 and he couldn't see in what way he differed from them, 
 and, yet he knew that he did. This feeling, like aU his 
 other feelings, he kept gloomily to himself. 
 
 He jumped on a crowded car going across the bridge, 
 very hot, very angry at being jostled, and was carried 
 off to New York, to make more money. . . . 
 
THE BEEATH OF LITE 117 
 
 § iii 
 
 Not only at home were his moods known and respected, 
 at his office it was a recognized thing that the early 
 morning was a bad time for him, and that it was most 
 nnwise to disturb him. As usual he strode through the 
 outer office and shut himself into his own small room, 
 without exchanging a word or even a nod. He looked 
 through his mail which had been opened and neatly 
 sorted for him, then pushed it aside, staring after it with 
 a distrait and wretched look. He couldn't put his mind 
 on it, he hated every detail, eVery possibility. 
 
 "Why the devil am I slaving away here?" he asked 
 himself. "Working day in and day out, so that she can 
 go flaunting in fine clothes and idling away the whole 
 summer up there in the mountains." 
 
 He remembered the extensive wardrobe Claudine had 
 taken with her. Never did she suspect, never could she 
 have suspected, how he resented it. The primeval male 
 in him would deny all luxuries to the unloved woman. 
 
 "She! In her silk dresses — ^loafing all day long — ser- 
 vants to wait on her, never does a useful thing! Good 
 God! Think of the time and leisure she's got, and she 
 doesn't even read the papers! Not even charitable! 
 Useless, through and through. . . . Where would she be 
 if it weren't for me? She's got everything she wants, 
 without raising a finger for it. Food, clothes, jewels, 
 money to spend, fool women to jabber with — " 
 
 It seemed to him quite intolerable to think of her 
 privileges ; he couldn't have endured it at all if he hadn't 
 had a certain very curious consolation for his griev- 
 ances. His delight was to picture his wife as cast away 
 
118 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 upon a desert island, and he gloated over her utter 
 futUity there. He could imagine how helpless she 
 would be, how incongruous, she with her fastidiousness, 
 her chilly dignity. She wouldn't be able to make her- 
 self dresses out of grass, sewing with a thorn for a needle. 
 She wouldn't know how, and couldn't learn how, to 
 grind flour from exotic roots, to tame birds, to construct 
 houses. Incurably romantic Gilbert ! That was his test 
 for any woman ; how she would look and behave on his 
 classic desert isle. She must be lovely, strong, and 
 young, and she must be altogether daring and brave and 
 unwif elike, she must be» resourceful and full of alluring 
 wiles, she must urgently need him, and yet be entirely 
 independent. 
 
 He glanced at the clock, took up his hat, and went 
 out to a celebrated eaf^ near by, had two whiskies and 
 soda, and immediately felt much better. He would 
 confess to you that he was rather too dependent upon 
 "bracers," but like all that army, he was merely waiting 
 for a propitious day to renounce the thing entirelyr 
 Some day when he wasn't worried or depressed. No 
 hurry about it; it didn't interfere with his business, and 
 it helped him beyond measure through his fits of awful 
 despondency. He was willing to admit that perhaps his 
 health might be better if he drank less, but he couldn't 
 become really interested in his health. 
 
 He chatted with the other ten o'qlock frequenters of 
 the bar, whom he knew very well, for they came with 
 great regularity. He felt ready for business now; he 
 went back — ^in fact, he now entered the office officially 
 for the first time, in his proper character, nodded geni- 
 ally to the cashier and to his stenographer, an ambitious 
 
THE BEEATH OF LIFE 119 
 
 young Cuban, and began to pace up and down the big 
 sample room, planning his autumn campaign and re- 
 viewing his ' ' line. ' ' A very fine line this year ; he looked 
 upon it with satisfaction as it lay spread out before him 
 on a big counter sloping steeply on both sides and divided 
 into little compartments filled with red rubber cows and 
 white rubber horses, big, brightly colored balls and tiny 
 hard rubber ones, dolls in knitted dresses, rattles, teeth- 
 ing rings. There were among these several novelties 
 which he considered very promising. . . . 
 
 "A gentleman to see you!" said the young Cuban, 
 with his alert and zealous air. 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 "Mr. MacGregor." 
 
 "Don't know him. Where's he from?" 
 
 "Didnt say," replied the young Cuban, with a cred- 
 itable imitation of his chief's brusque business-like tone. 
 
 "Bring him in!" said Gilbert. 
 
 He stood facing the door with a non-committal expres- 
 sion which would be either menacing or genial, as cir- 
 cumstances might dictate. But the man who entered 
 was a type not familiar to him; he couldn't place him; 
 a big, shambling, rugged man of forty or so, a bit un- 
 couth in appearance, but not without distinction. His 
 face was ironic, but his dmile was genial. 
 
 "Mr. VinceUe?" he asked. 
 
 "What can I do for you, sir?" inquired Gilbert, 
 briefly. 
 
 "My name is Alexander MacGregor," said he. "I 
 have Jiad the pleasure of instructing your elder daughter 
 in music." 
 
 bh, a music teacher! Probably about a bill, or those 
 
120 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 outrageous "extra lessons" which his children were for- 
 ever in need of. 
 
 "Sit down, sir, sit down!" said Gilbert. 
 
 Mr. MacGregor did so. 
 
 "I hope I don't find yon very busy!" he said. "This 
 is quite a personal matter. ..." 
 
 "Cigar?" asked Gilbert. \ 
 
 Mr. MacGregor accepted one. 
 
 "It's about Miss Andree," he said. "I understand 
 that you're going out there this afternoon, and I 
 thought—" 
 
 They talked for more than an hour, and Gilbert was 
 captivated. He liked this fellow! He liked his cool, 
 manly air, his practical outlook. Mr. MacGregor began 
 his proposal by stating his financial position, which was 
 sound and satisfactory. He put forward his own good 
 points with assurance and he affirmed that his age was 
 an asset. 
 
 "Andree is very temperamental," he said, "and hard 
 to understand. A young, inexperienced man wouldn't 
 be able to. She requires the greatest tact. A rare, pe- 
 culiar nature. Only men of our age can appreciate it." 
 
 "Well, thought Gilbert, after all, why not? Wouldn't 
 he himself be a marvelous lover for a young girl, if she 
 were tlie right sort of young girl? There was a sort of 
 indirect flattery in Mr. MacGregor's idea. 
 
 Moreover, he found Andree an intensely irritating 
 young woman, and he would be glad to see her safely 
 married and gone away. She was a sort of ally to her 
 mother. She was antagonistic; she didn't admire him; 
 she wasn't the sort of daughter he had expected. 
 
 And he was delighted with Mr. MacGregor's old 
 
THE BEEATH OF LIFE 121 
 
 fashioned idea uf asking his permission before speaking^ 
 to Andree. It was really the first time he had ever been 
 treated as a father should be treated. He took Mr. 
 MacGregor ont to Innch, to a sedate little second floor 
 restaurant known only to connoisseurs. They ate largely 
 and critically. . . . 
 
 By two o'clock indigestion had engulfed Gilbert in 
 black misery. He lingered at the table, chewing a cigar, 
 and meditating. It was Saturday; the ofSce was closed; 
 he had nothing to do until train time. He ordered more 
 liqueurs, more coffee, and refused to be parted from 
 Mr. MacGregor, clung to him, in fact. 
 
 Of course, he said, it all depended upon Andree her- 
 self. Of course it did, Mr. MacGregor agreed. 
 
 "See here!" said Gilbert. "Come out there with me, 
 and we'll see. You'll have plenty of time to pjick what 
 you need for over Sunday. Come on!" 
 
 Naturally Mr. MacGregor went. 
 
CHAPTER THREE 
 
 THE SUITOB WITH CKEDENTULS 
 
 §i 
 
 IT was a iSlial 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 snatch- 
 ing 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. Mac- 
 Gregor 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 an- 
 nounced. "I hope the place isn't crowded." 
 
 "It isn't," said Andree. "I don't see why it should be. 
 I don't see anything to bring crowds of people here, 
 I'm sure." 
 
 "Hush, Andree!" murmured her mother, and be- 
 stowed 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!" 
 
 122 
 
THE BEEATH OF LIFE 123 
 
 All the way to the hotel she was quite perfect ; she 
 told Mr. MacGregor about Andree's difficulties in prac- 
 tising, 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 ; Andree 
 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." 
 
1241 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 "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 Andree away. ' ' 
 
 "Going to leave me? I've heard that before!" 
 
 She was quite white with anger. 
 
 "When it's a question of Andree — " 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 in- 
 fantile 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 Andree — " 
 
 "You're — ^you're positively wicked!" she cried, chok- 
 ing with sobs. "Andree — ^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, dis- 
 tinguished, 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. 
 
THE BEEATH OF LIFE 125 
 
 "No, you don't! I'm not going to be made a fool 
 of! I told him he might speak to Andree — " | 
 
 "And I'll tell him he can't. I won't have any inter- 
 ference where Andree '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 if 
 always infuriated him. He raged at her in a way ofi 
 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." 
 
 §ii 
 
 It was a jolly dinner. Both Claudine and Gilbert were 
 in high spirits, as angry people often are, and Mr. Mac- 
 Gregor appeared greatly entertained. The girls were 
 ridiculous ; Claudine recognized their mood and frowned. 
 She knew and dreaded this high tension, when every re- 
 mark 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 un- 
 fortunately 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, 
 
126 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 no matter how outrageous she had to be. He should 
 not be given the opportunity of putting ideas into 
 Andree's head — silly, headstrong Andree ! She wouldn't 
 leave them alone for an instant. 
 
 As they rose from the table, said Mr. MacGregor : 
 
 "Miss Andree, shall we have a little music? We 
 might run over that new duet — " 
 
 "No, thanks!" said Andr6e, laughing. "Not with 
 you!" 
 
 "Nonsense! Come along!" he said, with authorita- 
 tive, professorial air. "I want to see what you've been 
 doing." 
 
 " No ! " she repeated. ' ' I ,don 't want to ! I won 't 1 " 
 
 "Come, Andree!" 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 noble 
 
THE BEEATH OF LIFE 127 
 
 work. The sight of Andree 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 conserv- 
 atory which she had attended, and where he was a demi- 
 god, adored by students and parents. He had written 
 books on teehnic, he was a prominent man, respected in 
 certain estimable circles, he was well-to-do, his reputa- 
 tion 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. Andree stood beside him, watching 
 his hands, never raising her eyes. And he never looked 
 at her either; sinister fact! 
 
 "And now, you, Miss Andree!" he said. 
 
 She consented instantly. She was fired; she wanted 
 to play now. And Mr. MacGregor crossed the room and 
 sat down beSde 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 tem- 
 perament 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. I 
 
128 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 don't hesitate to say that she is one of the most promis- 
 ing 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 rebel- 
 lious — " 
 
 "Then what do you think she is suited for?" asked 
 Claudine, boldly. But she never had Mr. MacGregor's 
 reply, for Andree 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. , M^acGregor 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 infor- 
 mation 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, and 
 
THE BKEATH OF LIFE 129 
 
 another one thrown in, it would just about make a wife 
 of his own age. The conceit of men!" 
 
 "Well," said Andr6e, "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 Andree, 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, Andree," 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 swaUows 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 drug- 
 store 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 — " 
 
130 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 "Not unless Andree wants to play another duet,'*' 
 said Edna. 
 
 Andree 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 win- 
 dow 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 Andree. 
 
 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 Andree, how little life has to give you! Even 
 the best of it is so poor ! A profound melancholy over- 
 came 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!" 
 
 ^'Andree's asleep. . . . But I was so afraid you'd be^ 
 worrying. Mother darling. I knew how you must feel 
 
THE BREATH OF LIFE 131 
 
 when you saw Mr. MacGregor. . . . Oh, Andree's such 
 a chump! But he's done for! I made her laugh at 
 him, and that's spoiled everjMihing. " 
 
 "You dear girl! How clever and sensible of you! 
 You really do understand Andree wonderfully." 
 
 Edna sighed. 
 
 "She is a worry! She'd marry anyone — she'd do 
 ans^thing, 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 
 iervently, 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 super- 
 stitious dread of being pimished some day for her wicked- 
 ness; some disaster would overtake little Edna, and 
 then she would repent, too late, her idolatry of Andree. 
 
 "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 I 
 
CHAPTER FOUR 
 
 THE UNABASHED OUTCAST 
 
 CLATIDINE waked up to the dull peace of a moun- 
 tain Sunday. She could hear the grinding of the 
 ice-cream freezer on the back porch, and far away the 
 beU 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. Andr6e 
 was up and half dressed, combing her misty dark hair. 
 
 "Edna's pretending to be asleep," she said, scorn- 
 fully. 
 
 "There's no hurry," said Claudine. "She can wait 
 for Father and have breakfast with him. Finish dress- 
 ing, 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 her- 
 self 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 ! " 
 
 132 
 
THE BEEATH OF LIFE 133 
 
 They went out, closing the door quietly on the mo- 
 tionless Edna. 
 
 "What on earth is that row!" said Andree. 
 
 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 Andree, and they looked 
 cautiously in at the open door of the parlour. 
 
 "Oh, I know him!" said Andree. "I saw him come 
 last night, on the train with Father and Mr. MacGregor. 
 TBorrible, vulgar little wretch!" 
 
 Seated at the piano was a slight, fair-haired young 
 man with a minute yellow mustache and a cheerful, im- 
 pudent face. He wore a new black suit and white buck- 
 skin 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 speak- 
 ing to Mrs. Dewey; but in the end they were forced 
 to laugh. 
 
134 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 They went out for a walk, a carefully selected one, 
 where no cows would be met with to terrify Andrea 
 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." 
 
 Andree 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 com- 
 pelled her to maintain her aloofness, her air of slightly 
 inhuman tranquillity. 
 
 But Andr6e 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." 
 
THE BREATH OP LIFE 135 
 
 "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. AndrSe didn't like 
 mountains; the sombre and majestic environment exas- 
 perated 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, Andree reflected. 
 
 "Hope I don't disturb youT" 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. 
 
136 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 "No, thaxik 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 Andr6e, 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 Andree. "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 Andree, 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 Andr6e, 
 grimly. "Lord! How I do hate Sundays!" 
 
 Claudine felt obliged to remonstrate, but weakly, be- 
 cause she was quite in agreement with her child. They 
 sauntered back with reluctant steps, each lost in her 
 own incommunicable thought. 
 
THE BREATH OF LIFE 137 
 
 §ii 
 
 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 Andree, suddenly. 
 
 "Not on your life!" said Gilbert. ^^I'm not 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. Bun 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 ap- 
 proaching and utterly routing Mr. MacGregor. But, 
 to be brief, she didn't so much as mention Andree 's 
 name. She couldn't! Instead they chatted afEably as 
 they strolled; Mr. MacGregor gave some information, 
 
138 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 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 in- 
 terest 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 inter- 
 ests, 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 spite 
 
THE BEEATH OF LITE 139 
 
 of 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'U 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 is hot! 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 dida't come back. 
 Gilbert had got into the car, Mr. MacGregor was stand- 
 ing near. 
 
 "Call the girls!" said Gilbert, impatiently. "I sup- 
 
140 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 pose they're making themselves siek with their cara- 
 mels." 
 
 But they were not in the house, not in the grounds. 
 Mr. MacG-regor 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 chil- 
 dren? 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 
 do but look 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. 
 
 § iii 
 
 They got back a little late for the meal known as Sun- 
 day night tea. She hurried upstairs to wash and brush 
 Tier hair, and there in their room were her daughters, 
 both stretched out on the bed. 
 
 ' ' Edna ! ' ' she cried. ' ' Andree ! 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 coming 
 
THE BEEATH OF LIFE 141 
 
 out of the drug-store and he began to talk. Said h& 
 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 desira- 
 ble 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 Andr6e. "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, bit- 
 terly. "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 Andr^e. "The 
 nice little beast had all sorts of things in his knapsack. 
 We've been eating all afternoon." 
 
142 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 "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 sup- 
 posed 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 Andr6e, "and he 
 is! He showed off all the time, and it was very amus- 
 ing." 
 
 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. 
 
CHAPTER FIVE 
 
 THE bee:a.th of lifs 
 
 §i 
 
 "rpIRBD?" asked Mr. Stephens, 
 
 M. "Not a bit," said Andree. "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." 
 
 143 
 
144 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 "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 Andree. 
 "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." 
 
 Andree 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." 
 
 "7 should!" 
 
 "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." 
 
THE BEEATH OF LIFE 145 
 
 "I don't doubt it, judging by your performance yes- 
 terday morning," said Andree. 
 
 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, 
 Andree 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 water- 
 cloth 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 ordei; 
 
146 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 a 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 in- 
 dependent 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 eat might have objected. 
 He somehow stood out against the background of moun- 
 tains 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. 
 
THE BEEATH OF LITE 141 
 
 §ii 
 
 Glaudine came out the next morning, prepared for 
 the excursion she made every fine morning while Andr^e 
 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 Iboked 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 foot- 
 steps 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. 
 
148 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 "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 nourish- 
 ment 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 
 to do this 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 be 
 
THE BREATH OF LIFE 149 
 
 a 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 any- 
 thing 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 was right. 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?" 
 
150 THE mTLIT LAMP 
 
 "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 — ^val- 
 uable — 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. If you ever 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, you don'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." 
 
THE BEEATH OF LITE 151 
 
 "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 to do much," he said, 
 gravely. "All you could do would be to learn to 
 understand. ' ' 
 
 "Perhaps I do." 
 
 "You couldn't. No one understands — really — ^by in- 
 tuition. 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 crea- 
 ture trying to make love to me?" 
 
 But he went on. 
 
 "The great thing in the world is compassion." 
 
 Then he stopped short and puUed out of a breeches' 
 pocket a gold cigarette case. 
 
 "Isn't it a beauty?" he asked. "I paid what lots 
 
152 THE TJNLIT LAKP 
 
 of 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't it a beauty?" 
 
 "Yes, it is!" she agreed, terribly touched by his 
 naive 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, 
 
THE BEEATH OF LIFE 15S 
 
 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, aiid 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. Be- 
 cause 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. AU the shop people know it. They don't 
 want outsiders to get any of their choice things. They're 
 
/ 
 154 THE TJNLIT LAMP 
 
 like 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 edu- 
 cation, 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'vegot 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 f uU 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 at- 
 titude 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!" 
 
CHAPTER SIX 
 
 THE UNLAWFUL PICNIC 
 
 §i 
 
 AFTBE Ixmch they all, Clandiiie, Andr6e, and 
 Edna, dressed themselves in their ceremonial gar- 
 ments, the modish and immaculate white required by 
 the gold-providing Gilbert, and went down to the rail- 
 way 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." 
 
 1S5 
 
1S6, THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 "That sounds more like the bear," said Ednai "Per- 
 haps 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 Andree 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." 
 
 Andree 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 talk- 
 ing to that young man. He would be angry, and not 
 >rithout 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 any- 
 thing. She put her arm through Andres's and they 
 began to saunter up and down, keeping a discreet dis- 
 tance from Mr. Stephens. 
 
 "He needs to be sat on!" said Andr6e, with a frown. 
 
 "I don't believe you can do it!" said her mother, 
 smiling. 
 
 "He is a thick-skinned little beast. He's insufEer- 
 able!" 
 
 "I don't think so. He's polite enough, if he's treated 
 politely." 
 
THE BEEATH OF LIFE 157 
 
 "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. 
 
 ' ' Lord ! ' ' groaned Andree. ' ' 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 hus- 
 band didn't come out, you're aU 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 
 lend you a bathing suit," he said, looking directly at 
 
158 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 Mr. MacGregor, to whom he had not been, and never 
 was to be, introduced. 
 
 "I'm afraid we're not the same size," said Mr. Mac- 
 Gregor. 
 
 "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 '11 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 Andree, 
 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 char- 
 
THE BEEATH OF LITE 159 
 
 aeter; 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. . . . 
 
 §ii 
 
 It was an imposing safari, observed by the people 
 on the veranda with excessive interest. First went 
 Claudine under a parasol held by Mr. MaeGregor, 
 then the two girls, arm in arm, arid 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 nowl" And Claudine and Mr. Mae- 
 Gregor would lead the march in that direction. Once 
 they had to make a detour to avoid a field of cows, 
 through which Andree refused to pass. 
 
 "Now!" he said. "Just down this hiU, 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 Andree. 
 
 "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 the 
 
160 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 youBg man, horribly chagrined. "It's a beautiful spot, 
 and it's not snakey." 
 
 "It is!" said Andree. "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 Andree. 
 
 "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'U 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 withdraw, 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. MiacGregor 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, more- 
 over, 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 Andree should be the most 
 daring and reckless of them all. Claudine could not 
 swim; she waded waist deep into the pool and stood 
 
THE BEEATH OE LIFE 161 
 
 there 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 alt 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 aU a fairylike smaU- 
 ness. 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 mar- 
 velous resources against suffering. Compared with her, 
 Andree was an immature and farouche schoolgirl. 
 
 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 require- 
 ment of her own nature. She insisted upon swimming 
 too near the waterfall; she would dive, heedless of re- 
 monstrance. She was wayward, taciturn, defiant. She 
 was the only one of the women to get her hair wet, the 
 
162 THE UNLIT LAUP 
 
 only 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 eurtest answers, and was obvi- 
 ously 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 ease and 
 passed it about. 
 
 "Do you mind if I have one, Mother?" asked Andree. 
 
 "I'd rather you didn't," said Claudine, coldly. There 
 was nothing she disliked more. 
 
 But Mr. MacGregor intervened. 
 
 "As long as Miss Andree isn't a singer," he said, 
 "won't you be indulgent, Mrs. VinceUe? I believe 
 they're very good for the nerves. In my younger days, 
 
THE BEEATH OF LIFE 163 
 
 of course, such a thing would have been out of the ques- 
 tion. 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 Andr^e smoked, leaning back against a tree, 
 looking an abandoned, reckless young creature, sur- 
 rounded 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. 
 
 She condemned Mr. Stephens to Limbo. 
 
 § iii 
 
 Naturally when Gilbert came out the next week-end 
 he wished to know all about this picnic, and he wished 
 to know also, although he dared not ask, why his candi- 
 date, Mr. MacGregor, had appeared so obviously dis- 
 couraged. They had become great friends; they dined 
 
164 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 and went to the theatre together, and maintained a de- 
 lightful bachelor intimacy, coming and going as they 
 pleased. He had listened to MacGregor's praise of 
 Claudine with a sore heart. She kept her charm, her 
 affability, well hidden from her husband 1 There she 
 sat beside him, on the veranda, her book politely closed 
 on her lap, just wifely, no more. 
 
 "Who was the fellow who gave the picnic?" he asked. 
 "I've never heard of him. You haven't mentioned his 
 name in your letters." 
 
 "You'll see him in the dining-room this evening," 
 said Claudine. "He's not — ^not quite our own sort, you 
 know, Gilbert, but he's very nice and pleasant." 
 
 "Well, I'm no snob!" said Gilbert. He was in a 
 wonderfully pleasant mood, his wife noticed, and if she 
 had felt the least assurance of its keeping on, she would 
 have unbent a little. But so many, many times had she 
 hurried to meet him half way, only to see Mm retreat. . . . 
 His thoughts would have astounded her. 
 
 "Why in God's name can't the woman be simple and 
 friendly with me — and not so damned suspicious!" he 
 said to himself. "She's always watching me out of the 
 corners of her eyes. ... If we're not — ^in love, there's no 
 reason why we shouldn't be friends." 
 
 He was really anxious to be friendly that day, poor 
 devil, who had never had a friend in his life, or ever 
 been one! 
 
 "No, I'm not a snob," he went on. "That's a fem- 
 inine failing. But I don't like my family making bosom 
 friends of people I don't know." 
 
 "He's certainly not a bosom friend," said Claudine, 
 
THE BEEATH OF LIFE 165 
 
 "and as for your not knowing him, how could that be 
 helped, when you weren't here?" 
 
 "Very well! Very well !" he said, impatiently. "We 
 won't argue. Introduce the fellow to me, and I'll soon 
 see what sort he is. ' ' 
 
 No one could imagine Claudine's dread and misery. 
 She knew very well what Gilbert would think of Mr. 
 Stephens. 
 
 His solitary little table was near a mndow, and a 
 vagrant breeze that ruffled his light hair gave him a 
 boyish and untidy look. He had a book propped up 
 before him and he was eating absent-mindedly. She 
 pointed him out with a smile which was the equivalent 
 of a shrug of the shoulders, throwing the poor young 
 fellow to the wolves. 
 
 "There he is, Gilbert!" she said. 
 
 Gilbert stared incredulously at the cheerful young 
 man, with sleeves rolled up on his sunburnt arms, coat- 
 less, innocently absorbed in his book. 
 
 ' ' What ! " he said. ' ' That fellow ! ' ' 
 
 "I told you he wasn't quite — " 
 
 "And that's the sort of man you encourage — and 
 have hanging around your daughters, while you raise 
 cain about a gentleman like MacGregor!" 
 
 He stared again. 
 
 "You introduce him to me," he said, "and I'll soon 
 settle his hash ! ' ' 
 
 "Don't be rude to him, Gilbert! Remember we've 
 accepted his hospitality. . . . You'll put me in a very 
 undignified position." 
 
 "You've done that for yourself," he said. 
 
 With what reluctance did she approach the unsuspect- 
 
166 THE TTNLIT LAMP 
 
 ing young man, and present him to Gilbert ! He got up 
 ■with alacrity and held out his hand, but Gilbert ignored 
 it. He glanced round, and saw that Claudine had gone, 
 and that he might therefore be rude without fear of 
 interruption. He was terribly upset; he had a dim 
 suspicion that Claudine had set up this man in opposi- 
 tion to his Mr. MacGregor, that it was altogether some 
 beastly feminine plot. 
 
 "I want to thank you for your hospitality to my 
 family," he said, slowly. "However — " 
 
 "However?" repeated Mr. Stephens, encouragingly, 
 but Gilbert found it very dif6.cult to go on. He stood 
 with his hands behind his back, the very image of re- 
 spectability and decent prosperity, lowering at "that 
 grasshopper," as he mentally named the other. 
 
 "However," said Mr. Stephens. "It mustn't happen 
 again. Is that it ? " He was, it must be confessed, rather 
 unduly sensitive to the social disapproval of capitalists. 
 
 "Yes!" said Gilbert. "I'm very particular — ^in re- 
 gard to the acquaintances — about the people — about 
 people I know nothing about — ^where my family is con- 
 cerned." 
 
 "Well," said Stephens, "you can investigate, if you 
 like. You can find out all about me. You can write 
 to—" 
 
 "No! It won't do! ... . No, I'll have to ask you to 
 — ^to discontinue the intimacy." 
 
 "There isn't any intimacy." 
 
 "There's not to be any intercourse whatever." 
 
 "I don't see how you can stop it," said Stephens. 
 
 "I forbid itl" said Gilbert, with a scowl. 
 
 "You can't forbid me, you know. As for your 
 
THE BEEATH OF LIFE 167 
 
 'family,' I don't know whether you can forbid them or 
 not. That's their business. If they consider it the best 
 policy to knuckle down, why, I shan't think any the 
 worse of them. It's the way of the world to dance when 
 the fellow with the money fiddles. You — ' ' 
 
 "Look here, you damned, impudent, vulgar jacka- 
 napes — " 
 
 "Don't begin calling names, or I might call you a 
 damn' vulgar buUy. But I won't. I don't lose my 
 temper so easily. Fellows like me know that when they 
 do lose their tempers, they've got to back it up with 
 their fists. Something your sort never do, do you? 
 You yell and curse, and that's the end of it." 
 
 They were disturbed by the distressful voice of Mrs. 
 Dewey, outraged by these loud voices, but respectful 
 before two such profitable persons. 
 
 "Gentlemen!" she said. "Please. ... !" 
 
 Gilbert turned on his heel and strode out' of the room. 
 He went, of course, to his wife. 
 
 "I've been having a talk with that gentlemanly friend 
 of yours," he said, with a desperate efifort to steady his 
 voice. "And I want to tell you, once and for all, I'U 
 have — I '11 have . . . I '11 have . . . Understand me, both 
 of you — and I want you to tell Andree, too — you're not 
 to speak to the fellow again. Under any circumstances. ' ' 
 
 "I'll have to answer him if he speaks to me," said 
 Edna. 
 
 Both her parents were astonished. 
 
 * ' No, you don 't ! " said her father. ' ' I won 't have it ! " 
 
 "I can't be rude to him," said Edna, in her most 
 tranquil, sensible voice. 
 
 " I tell you ! " shouted Gilbert. " I won 't have it ! " 
 
168 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 Edna said nothing, but the expression of her face was 
 not obedient. Gilbert didn't know how to proceed; he 
 hesitated a moment, then he turned away. 
 
 "Claudiae," he said, from the doorway, "this is your 
 business! You brought them up, and now you can 
 handle them. You see to it that my — ^wishes are carried 
 out. Understand, I'll have no nonsense!" 
 
 "Oh, my dear child!" said Claudine, when the door 
 had banged after him. "I wish you had more — ^tact! 
 Surely Mr. Stephens isn't worth a quarrel with your 
 own father!" 
 
 "I don't know, Mother. I think he's rather wonder- 
 ful. I wouldn't be rude to him for anything. You know 
 Andree and I have seen a lot of him this week. We've 
 been rowing with him, and walking, and he's been as 
 nice as could be. You can't imagine! ... He's so dif- 
 ferent from anyone else we've ever known. And even 
 if he is common, he's not the least bit — objectionable. 
 Why, Mother, you can see how trustworthy and honest 
 he is ! It 's written all over him ! ' ' 
 
 "I know, my dear. But your father — " 
 
 "Father's not infallible. He makes mistakes. He's 
 not a good judge of people at all. And I'm not going 
 to be rude to the poor man. And I'm sure Andree won't, 
 either. She loves to hear him talk. She says he makes 
 her ambitious." 
 
 Claudine was in despair. How did other mothers 
 manage to impress their children? Was the trouble be- 
 cause she was singularly ineffectual or because her 
 children were singularly rebellious? It didn't occur to 
 her that it might be because she was. wrong. She de- 
 cided to try another tack. 
 
THE BEEATH OF LITE 169' 
 
 "Edna!" she cried, fervently. "For my sake, dear, 
 avoid any trouble with your father! You can't think 
 how it distresses me ! " 
 
 "Mother!" said Edna, firmly. "That's not fair! 
 That's just as bad as Father's way. It isn't fair to try 
 to make me do what I don't think is right." 
 
 But she melted at the sight of her mother's face. 
 
 "Very well, darling!" she said. "I hate to do it, but 
 if it'll make you any happier, I'll be tactful. Father 
 won't know a thing about it. I'll give Mr. Stephens a 
 little hint. He's never offended. I'll only talk to him 
 when Father isn't here." 
 
 And Glaudine must be satisfied with this. 
 
CHAPTEE SEVEN 
 
 STEPHENS EXPLAINS HIMSELF 
 
 IT was perhaps a mistake not to have told all this to 
 Andree. She had been almost all the afternoon in 
 the woodshed with two baby kittens she adored, quite 
 happy there in the dim light and the quiet, and de- 
 termined to avoid the possibility of a motor ride with 
 her father. When she came in to dress for supper, 
 everyone was calm again, and Mr. Stephens' name wasn't 
 mentioned. After supper Gilbert had to return to the 
 city, and his wife and Edna went with him to the station, 
 but Andree said she had a headache, and remained be- 
 hind. She sat in a corner of the veranda, still in the 
 same vague and happy mood in which she had passed 
 the afternoon, glad to be alone. 
 
 Presently she saw a familiar figure in the lighted door- 
 way, and she called out, cheerfully — 
 
 "Hello, Mr. Stephens!" 
 
 "Hello!" he answered, but to her amazement, instead 
 of coming to her, he went on toward the steps. 
 
 "Where are you going?" she asked. "To the drug- 
 store? I'll come with you." 
 
 "No," he answered. "No ... I was going for a 
 walk." 
 
 170 
 
THE EEEATH OF LIFE 171 
 
 "Wait a minute!" she said, and jumping up, went 
 over to him. 
 
 "What's the matter?" she asked. "You're — queer! 
 Why don't you sit down and talk to me?" 
 
 He glanced uneasily at the row of dark figures rocking 
 behind them. 
 
 "Well . . . under the circumstances . . ." he mur- 
 mured. 
 
 "What circumstances?" 
 
 "You know what your father said — " 
 
 "No, I don't, and I don't care, either. Tell me!" 
 
 "Not here." 
 
 "Then let's walk!" 
 
 They strolled over the lawn, beyond earshot of the 
 veranda. 
 
 "Well," said he. "We had— words. He told me not 
 to speak to any of you again. I said, of course, I'd 
 speak to you as long as you cared to speak to me. . . . 
 But—" 
 
 * ' How beastly ! ' ' cried Andree. ' ' How horrible ! But 
 please don't pay any attention to it. Edna and I never 
 do." 
 
 "At first I thought I wouldn't. They're free agents, 
 I thought; it's up to them to say whether they want to 
 drop me or not. I've never had much respect for 
 parental authority, in regard to adults. But when I'd 
 thought it over — ^I saw it wouldn't do. It's not fair to 
 you. You're not free agents. It puts you in a rotten 
 position. ' ' 
 
 "So you're not going to speak to us?" 
 
 "No, not that ... I'm going away to-morrow morn- 
 ing." 
 
172 THE TJNLIT LAMP 
 
 "No! No! Dbil't! I couldn't bear to think you were 
 driven away like that! Please don't go!" 
 
 "I must. I 've told Mrs. Dewey already. I— the whole 
 thing has made me — sick. I've got to go!" 
 
 Andree stopped short. 
 
 "Very well!" she said. "If that's all you care ..." 
 
 "It has nothing to do with^— caring." 
 
 "If you valued our friendship — ^as I do — '* 
 ' "You don't!" he cried. "You don't! You can't! 
 You don't know me. ... I'm just a sort of — of freak — 
 to amuse you on your holiday." 
 
 "Look here!" said Andree, sternly. "What makes 
 you think that? "S^ou're the last person in the world I'd 
 have expected to be — silly and sensitive and imagining 
 things like that. Can't you see that Edna and I like 
 you?" 
 
 "I thought you did. . . . But to tell you the truth, I 
 never know, with people like you, how much is real, and 
 how much is politeness. I'm not polite; I'm not used to 
 politeness." 
 
 "No one else ever thought that Edna and I were very 
 polite," she observed, laughing. 
 
 "But I can't make you out!" he cried. "I never 
 realized what a difference there was. . . You're a mys- 
 tery to me." 
 
 "Don't think like that," said Andree, rather sharply. 
 "What I admired so much about you was your way of 
 looking at everyone as simply human." 
 
 They had turned down the road in the direction of 
 the big hotel ; in the dusk he could see her face, and never 
 had anything seemed to him less simply human. She 
 looked to him so wonderful, so strange, so troubling; all 
 
THE BREATH OF liFE 173 
 
 his ideas about the frank and sensible companionship 
 that ought to exist between man and woman were dis- 
 solving in her spell. Never had he felt less companion- 
 able — or less human. He was exalted and very unhappy. 
 Humility was not one of his virtues; he had an honest 
 consciousness of his own worth, and he did not fed 
 humble now, but he was frightened. He knew very 
 well that he was in love with her, and in a silly, un- 
 reasonable way, too. He saw no justification for adoring 
 a woman, but he adored this one. 
 
 "Well . . ." he said. "Why do you like me, any- 
 way?" 
 
 "Because you're real," answered Andrec, promptly. 
 "And honest. And specially because you haven't any 
 limits." 
 
 "Oh — outside the pale!" he cried, very much hurt. 
 
 Andree was surprised. 
 
 "Why do you always think things like that?" she 
 asked. "You seem to think that matters so much — ^that 
 , — ^that artificial difference. It doesn't to me." 
 
 "It has to. I know I'm touchy. I'm ashamed of it, 
 but I can't help it. I'm always looking for slights, and 
 I generally find them. . . . But what did you mean then 
 by my not having any limits?" 
 
 "I meant a sort of feeling — ^that I could tell you any- 
 thing. You might not always understand, but you'd 
 try. You'd listen. I couldn't imagine you ever saying 
 'This is too much!' like Father. You haven't put Up 
 any boundaries." 
 
 , "I see,^' he said, gravely. "Well ... it's true, to some 
 .extent. I don't pretend to understand everyone, but I 
 can say I've never seen a soul yet that was really — well. 
 
174 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 altogether strange to me. There's always somethiBg iflC 
 eomraon. . . . Now, with women, you know. Lots of these 
 fellows — ^writers and all — ^they like to call woman a 
 mystery. I know I said yon were, but now I'm speaking 
 in a general sense. My idea is — " 
 
 He stopped and looked a little anxiously at AndrSe, 
 and was reassured by her quiet attention. He had long 
 ago grasped that strange quality of comprehrasion in 
 her ; she was not particularly clever or original, but she 
 could grasp everything. She didn't know; she saw. 
 It was like a seeress gazing into a crystal; she might not 
 comprehend the significance of what was presented, but 
 she saw, so clearly and justly. Experience in talking to 
 feminine comrades had taught him how dangerously in- 
 clined they were to make personal applications ; this girl 
 would never do that. He went on, a little more easily. 
 
 "I don't see anything mysterious in women," he said. 
 "I haven't any use for what you call 'chivalry.' I'd 
 defend a woman — any woman, anywhere, but it wouldn't 
 be because I — ^well — felt any reverence; it would be be- 
 cause she was weaker. I wouldn't try to make life easy 
 for women — or for anyone. . . . Only a fair show. I'm 
 a man; I expect to take a man's part in the world. And 
 I look to women to take their own part, and do their own 
 work, and shoulder their own burdens. . , . Here's the 
 drug-store; shall we have a soda?" 
 
 Andree assented and they went into the shop, which 
 was filled with couples engaged in the same pursuit. He 
 found a stool for Andree, but there was none for him- 
 self; and he stood beside her, seriously consuming an 
 elaborate thing of nuts, marshmallow, syrup and ice- 
 cream. He was conscious all the time that he was en- 
 
THE BEEATH OF LIFE 175 
 
 joying a luxury; this thing was to him no frappe, but 
 a symbol, a part of his share of the benefits of civiliza- 
 tion. He would have liked to arrange for every one of 
 the workers of the world to have a due allowance of such 
 confections. His thoughts at that moment were very 
 far from Andree; he was, in fact, concerned with the 
 memory of a hokey-pokey vendor on the lower Bast Side, 
 surrounded by dirty children pitifully eager for his poi- 
 sonous wares. He might have been disappointed to know 
 how personally Andree had applied his words — and then, 
 ke might not have been. 
 
 His words — "I'm a man, and I expect to take a man's 
 part in the world," had given her a curious thrill. 
 
 "He is a man!" she thought. "More so than anyone 
 I've ever met." She glanced back over her shoulder at 
 him, but his blue eyes were fixed upon the bourgeoisie 
 consuming their unearned luxuries. She thought that 
 among all the men there he stood forth notably as soldier, 
 sturdier, oddly impressive in his utter honesty. And 
 not bad-looking. His short blond hair showed a neat, 
 iwell shaped head, the mouth beneath his absurd little 
 mustache was a well cut one, resolute and very kindly; 
 he carried himself splendidly. 
 
 "Well!" he said, at last. "Let's be getting on!" 
 
 Andree got up, still thoughtful. He turned in the 
 direction of Pine Villa, but she protested. 
 
 "I don't want to go back now!" 
 
 "Better," he said cheerfully. "Your mother '11 be 
 worried." 
 
 This did not please Andree, for she felt that any such 
 dutiful ideas should have come from herself. She was 
 about to say something a little disagreeable, when they 
 
176 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 caught sight of Claudine coming down the road, always 
 an nnmistakable figure by her gait and her bearing. The 
 young man was disconcerted ; he had no way of knowing 
 how she had regarded her husband's hostility, and he 
 was very much in dread of her politeness. It was too 
 dark to see her face; he had to wait for her voice, and 
 to his great relief, it came to him tranquil and friendly. 
 She didn't say anything remarkable, only "Good 
 evening," but it implied for him all sorts of astounding 
 and exquisite things. She didn't mind his taking a walk 
 with the matchless Andree. . . , 
 
 "I hope you're not converting Andree," she said, in 
 just the light and agreeable tone she would have used 
 toward any of the bourgeoisie. "I shouldn't like her 
 to be a Revolutionary." 
 
 "I'm not, myself," he answered, seriously. "Did you 
 ever read Dostoievsky, Mrs. VinceUe?" 
 
 "Yes," she answered, secretly amused at his fatal 
 responsiveness. 
 
 "Well, I think that fellow's idea is the best philosophy 
 I've ever come across. I believe to some extent in Con- 
 scious Evolution, but not so much through the develop- 
 ment of a new type of humanity as through the devel- 
 opment of compassion. You know. The kingdom of 
 Heaven on earth. I think it's compassion rather than 
 intelligence that can save the world. If you can learn 
 to pity, you learn to help." 
 
 "Presupposing a little energy," said Claudine. He 
 was very much aware of her resistance ; she did not wish 
 to argue; she had a dread of being serious; she was 
 never, never, to be convinced. Her mind and her opin- 
 ions were unalterably formed; she was willing enough 
 
THE BEEATH OE LIFE IW 
 
 to listen, to think, but she accepted nothing. It was 
 altogether different from talking to Andree. 
 
 "I think it's quite possible to be compassionate and 
 selfish at the same time," she went on. 
 
 ' ' Well, there 's nothing wrong in selfishness. It 's vital. 
 It's a force, not a vice. As long as you want the right 
 things. . . . Specially for women. An unselfish man 
 might be a hero, but an unselfish woman couldn't be 
 anything but a victim. . . . Like a child. . . . Imagine an 
 unselfish child. Of course it couldn't survive. What 
 you've got to do is to learn to feel for other people so 
 much that it hurts your selfishness — so that you can't 
 be comfortable unless the rest are too." 
 
 Claudine found his earnestness a little wearying j she 
 wondered how the impatient Andree could endure much 
 of him. He was admirable, and he was very touching, 
 and not for any Gilbert on earth would she offend him, 
 but she wished very much that he might be somewhat 
 less obviously there. He had had his cue to vanish; he 
 could have put such a nice, friendly end to the acquaint- 
 ance, and been entirely in the right, but instead — ^there 
 he was. She had no objection to Andree's talking to 
 him, but she felt that future walks were to be dis- 
 couraged. 
 
 They crossed the lawn, black and spongy under the 
 pines, arid as a matter of course, she began to mount the 
 steps of the veranda. But Andree lingered. 
 
 "Come, my dear," said Claudine. "Edna's waiting 
 for you." 
 
 "Half a minute," said Andree, and her mother en- 
 tered the house without her. Andree leaned against the 
 veranda, her head thrown back, looking up at the sky; 
 
178 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 Stephens stood before her, and characteristically, he was 
 looking down at the earth, very thoughtful. There was 
 a long silence, which neither of them noticed. 
 
 "Good night," said Andree, suddenly, and he was 
 startled to see her holding out her hand. He took it, 
 rather reluctantly, and she gave his a firm, strong pres- 
 sure, and didn't let go. But he drew away almost 
 roughly. 
 
 "Good night," he said, and walked away. 
 
 No other man she had yet seen would have done that ; 
 she was accustomed to having her imperious impulses 
 treated with at least a semblance of rapture ; she went in, 
 more thoughtful than ever. 
 
 The truth of it was, that for young Stephens there 
 were no trifles; everything was significant. He was a 
 man of strong passions and dearly bought wisdom; he 
 knew no middle course between being indifferent or quite 
 otherwise. He had been brought up in a class where a 
 friendship between a man and a woman was unthink- 
 able; or any sort of careless or meaningless intercourse. 
 If you weren't in love with a girl, or on the point of 
 falling in love, you never thought of her. He had de- 
 veloped and he had learnt much; he had a remarkable 
 command over himself ; he would have been able to go on 
 like this for ever and ever, simply talking and talking 
 to Andree, and being quite impersonal, but not if she 
 were going to hold his hand. He really resented that. 
 Old ideas which he fancied he had outgrown came back 
 to him now, with force; a venomous distrust for women 
 of Andree 's sort. As a boy, when he had seen them in 
 the streets, exquisitely dressed, in their carriages, it had 
 given him comfort to believe them all wanton and worth- 
 
THE BEEATH OF LIFE 179 
 
 less chafE. Later, -when he had begun to read novels, 
 all this had been confirmed ; he had made more than one 
 fiery and bitter speech to his comrades on that subject; 
 on these pampered women with their jewels, their furs, 
 their inordinate luxuries. He was honest enough even 
 then to admit the existence of a leaven of desire in his 
 sullen resentment. 
 
 "It's the dream of most fellows like me," he had 
 thought, "to possess a superior woman. And there's no 
 chance of it. No matter what we do, or become, the 
 finest and best of them are always out of reach." 
 
 His candid opinion of the Vincelles would have 
 shocked them one and all. He had studied the social 
 conditions of his country with thoroughness, and he 
 knew they weren't the best, or even the second best. 
 They belonged in a place he could never get to, but there 
 were places above to which they could never attain; he 
 was far better aware of this than they were. He knew 
 that Andree was half-educated and half-trained, that 
 she was not useful and not, socially speaking, orna- 
 mental. And he had been able thus dispassionately to 
 judge her because she had seemed so entirely impossible 
 to him. He knew he loved her, but he had had no hope, 
 and, obliged to withstand her allurement, he had been 
 able to analyze it. The intractable and wayward spirit 
 of her was what he loved; her elusiveness. Always and 
 forever she would do what she wanted; every breath 
 would sway her, but not the mightiest wind from heaven 
 would dismay or turn her from her desire. There was 
 no constancy, no steadfastness in her, but she was honest. 
 She was very largely made up of faults, and they were 
 faults he loved ; wilfulness, recklessness, a sort of casual 
 
180 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 and Tmconscious cruelty, a marvelous selfishness, inno- 
 cent, unambitious, like that of a child. She would not 
 strive, never fight for what she wanted, she would stretch 
 out careless hands for what passing things took her 
 fancy. 
 
 Just at the moment, he took her fancy. Well, he 
 wasn't going to have it that way. He was going away, 
 to forget her, before there was any more to forget. He 
 wanted not to see that dark, mutinous face again, or to 
 hear that nervous and exquisite voice, that seemed al- 
 ways to have a sob in it. Because he was constant and 
 steadfast, and he had no wish to give so very much and 
 to get nothing in return. 
 
CHAPTER BIGHT 
 
 THE THUre IS ON THEIC 
 
 §i 
 
 THERE was a very great deal that young Stephens 
 didn't know about himself, some of it that was 
 obvious to other eyes. He did not go away the next 
 morning; Edna met him after breakfast and entreated 
 him not to do so. 
 
 "We're so dull and miserable here," she said. "And 
 you're the only hope. Do you know what Mother calls 
 you? The Breath of Life! Now after that you can't 
 go, can you?" 
 
 He smiled, a little inattentively. There she stood, so 
 pretty and serene, one of those women who considered 
 it their right to make outrageous demands upon men. . . . 
 He saw suddenly how difiScult it must be to withstand 
 their demands. He did not want to refuse Edna; he 
 liked her very much, because she was frank and friendly ; 
 he didn't suspect that her frankness held a hundred 
 times more reserve than Andree's silences, that she, so 
 smiling and affable, was infinitely more aloof, more 
 mysterious, more unknowable, than her dark sister. 
 
 "The Breath of Life!" he said. "Why?" 
 
 "Because we're all very nearly dead, and you're so 
 
 much alive," she said, tranquilly. "Can't we have one 
 
 more nice day together?" 
 
 181 
 
182 THE VmAT LAMP 
 
 "I don't see ..." he said, doubtfully. "After- 
 well — your father, you know. ..." / 
 
 He had no clear conception of Gilbert's position; he 
 had certainly seen many husbands and fathers who were 
 bullies, but in a more primitive society this bullying 
 carried weight and was not defied. He knew little of the 
 civilized expedients of women; he didn't imagine that 
 Claudine would stoop to deceive. Yet he didn't think 
 her quite capable of independence. 
 
 "Oh, Father!" said Edna, carelessly. "He's just 
 melodrama. . . . And we won't tell Mother, and she'll 
 pretend not to know where we've gone. We can — " 
 
 "But I don't like it!" he protested. "It's a humili- 
 ating position for me." 
 
 "It really isn't, Mr. Stephens. We're the humiliated, 
 deceitful ones, and we don't care. Do you know the 
 country round here?" 
 
 "I was born a few miles down the river," he an- 
 swered, soberly. "In Brownsville Landing." 
 
 Andree came sauntering out of the house, and caught 
 his words. 
 
 "I'd like to hear about you," she said, but he shook 
 his head. 
 
 "No," he said. "That's a mistake. What used to be 
 me isn't me now. It's — ^well, it's like these books — ^they 
 start ofE when the fellow's a baby, and they teU you all 
 the things he thought and aU the ways he grew and 
 changed, until you can't see him at all. I'm darned glad 
 you never saw me or heard of me befqre, and you've got 
 to see only what I am now." He smiled ingenuously. 
 "It's not much," he said, "but it's what I've worked 
 twenty-eight years on, anjrway." 
 
THE BEEATH OF LIFE 183, 
 
 "Come on; let's start somewhere," said Edna. "On; 
 Mother '11 come out and have to not 'conntenanee' it. 
 Let's take a 'ramble'; that's what Father calls a walk." 
 
 "It is a 'ramble,' too, with him," said AndrlSe. 
 
 "Well," said Stephens, "there's a nice place up the 
 road five or six miles — nursery for all kinds of ever- 
 greens, and a little hotel. If you think you can do it — ? 
 It's a steep climb." 
 
 Edna ran in to leave a message for her mother with 
 Mrs. Dewey, and they set off. It was a sultry, hazy morn- 
 ing; it seemed unaccountably oppressive to Stephens, 
 He felt unpleasantly like a new toy to these greedy 
 children ; they looked to him to provide amusement ; they 
 weren't interested in his ideas, which were his life, and 
 they had no faint idea of the wonder of him. He glanced 
 down at his white flannel legs and buckskin shoes; he 
 thought of his appearance in general, his immaculate 
 cleanliness, the comfort of fine raiment, of himself strong, 
 confident, carrying a cigarette case of purest gold and 
 walking by these fabulous girls. And he thought of a 
 sallow youth, ten years ago, lounging outside a pool 
 room in Brownsville Landing, in a dirty grey flannel 
 shirt and a villainous cap, dazed and stupid with inces- 
 sant cigarettes, engaging in candid persiflage with the 
 mill girls who passed. He had bridged that gulf all 
 alone. . . . 
 
 The making of his money he regarded as a minor 
 achievement. It was the regeneration of his spirit that 
 was so remarkable; that, he felt, was little less than a 
 miracle; he would have liked to tell that. 
 
 He had been in the hospital with a broken head, justi- 
 fiably got in a saloon brawl ; he had lain in the ward two 
 
is* THE TJNLIT LAMP 
 
 days, suffering and resentful because he couldn't smoke. 
 No one came to see him; who was there to come? His 
 father, who worked in the brick yards, was always drunk 
 when he wasn't busy, and he had no other relatives; he 
 didn't know what a friend was. He went about in a 
 pack, a gang of youths of his own age, bound by no other 
 tie than that of the pack instinct, all of them more or 
 less vicious, in a pitiful way. They lacked ambition, that 
 is, at eighteen or so, they showed a lamentable disinclina- 
 tion to work every day and aU day in mill or factory. 
 They wanted somethiog better, and even now Stephens 
 fancied that their sordid distractions were better, had a 
 little more of the stuff of life in them. 
 
 In his restlessness and misery, he had turned his at- 
 tention to the man in the next bed, a portly, pallid feUow 
 of forty-five or so, with a black beard and a severe and 
 dignified manner. He looked like a physician, some sort 
 of professional man; he was actually a mill hand, an 
 Englishman named Simms, a Manchester Socialist of the 
 old school, austere and fanatic. He sat propped up in 
 bed reading Huxley, but he was very willing to talk. And 
 in five days he had expounded the world to the sallow 
 ".corner boy." Gesturing forcibly with his bandaged 
 hand — ^he had been badly mangled at his machine — ^he 
 set forth his Quixotic and beautiful doctrines. He had 
 little humanity, no flexibility; he was uncompromising 
 and stern as a Calvinist. 
 
 They had lived together for two years. It was Simms 
 who had shown young Stephens the charm of cleanliness ; 
 he had a bare little room on the outskirts of the town 
 which he scrubbed himself; his habits were fastidious 
 and ascetic. He taught young Stephens sobriety and 
 
THE BEEATH OF LITE 185 
 
 continenoe and his own worth, and he taught him to read. 
 His pupil was not docile; he joined the Y. M. C. A., 
 which was anathema to Simms ; he took courses in every- 
 thing, he frequented the gsminasium. He made use of 
 what the older man disdained ; his ideas were more prac- 
 tical and less sublime. 
 
 He felt now that he was justified and he wished poor 
 Simms were alive, to be argued with. He stole a glance 
 at Andree, and he felt a curious mixture of despair and 
 defiance. He was good enough — but she would never 
 think so. 
 
 §ii 
 
 Claudine had watched them go from her window, with 
 some uneasiness. People of his sort were so hard to 
 handle! Why hadn't he the tact to go away? It was 
 so difficult to keep a middle course between offending 
 him and offending Gilbert; she dwelt with dismay, not 
 for the first time, on the uncompromising nature of men, 
 how rudely they upset all feminine niceties. Nothing 
 might be implicit or vague with them. Even Bertie, her 
 marvelous boy, had to tell her things, and be frank about 
 his feelings, in a way Andree and Edna never" were. 
 
 She spent a peaceful day, reading and writing letters. 
 The letters did her good, put her in touch with her own 
 little world again, restored to her some measure of com- 
 placency. She was unhappy and her life very futile 
 and insignificant, but it might have been so much worse ; 
 it might have been harmful. She re-read Lizzie Wiley's 
 letter, full of the atrocious Bernardine Perceval, who had 
 left her husband. 
 
 "I saw Bernardine," she wrote, "on the street car 
 
186 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 witli the little girl. What she will drag the child into 
 I don't know. I thank God there are still a few like 
 yourself left. ' ' And so on. Lizzie Wiley was a wealthy 
 spinster of passionate moral views and her approval was 
 not without weight. Claudine thought with a faint smile 
 of her own bad moment, twenty years before, when she 
 had wanted to leave Gilbert; she had a fairly definite 
 idea that those moments occurred in most marriages; 
 for an instant she wondered what had made her resist it. 
 Duty? Fear? Lance? She didn't much want to know, 
 and put the thought aside. The fact remained that she 
 had stayed and done well, for Gilbert, for herself, for 
 her children. 
 
 She wrote a plaintively humorous letter to Nina SideU, 
 whose Violet was just Andree's age. Violet was a 
 frightful worry, in a way her daughters would never be. 
 Wasn't that something else to her credit? Then there 
 was Connie Martinsburgh, whose four exuberant and 
 handsome children were all troublesome. Perhaps, al- 
 though she seemed to herself so entirely negative, she 
 did after aU exert a good influence over her family. . . 
 Thait absurd young Stephens had upset her, with his 
 terrific vitality; he had made her feel so pallid, so help- 
 less, so useless. Poor Breath of Life, with his gold 
 cigarette case! 
 
 § iii 
 
 They returned from their "ramble" early in the after- 
 noon, and the girls at once went upstairs to lie down. 
 They were much more fatigued than they cared to admit. 
 
 "Lord! What a cyclone!" said Edna, taking the 
 pins from her crisp, reddish hair and letting it fall 
 
THE BREATH OF LIFE 187 
 
 about her bare shoulders. "He can do everything and 
 he knows everything. That lecture about coniferous 
 trees. . . .! And yet he's amusing." 
 
 Andree was stretcl»««l flat on her back on the bed. 
 
 "He's more than amusing," she said, with a frown. 
 "He's very fine. He's a man." 
 
 "Oh, hardly that!" said Edna, slipping into her 
 kimono. She was startled by her sister suddenly sitting 
 upright. 
 
 "You silly little snob!" she cried. "You make me 
 tired! You don't know anything — ^you can't see any- 
 thing!'? 
 
 "Oh, Gosh!" thought Edna, in alarm. "I do see 
 something now!" 
 
 Andree went on, to point out to her younger sister the 
 mental or moral excellencies of young Stephens; all in 
 vain. She neglected to mention his endearing smile, 
 that odd, tender look in his blue eyes. 
 
 Edna kept whatever she thought to herself. 
 
 "He said he was absolutely going away to-morrow," 
 she reflected. "And she'll forget." 
 
 And by the light of this, the relations between Andree 
 and the Breath of Life seemed rather funny than any- 
 thing else. Edna didn't mention her discovery to her 
 mother, nor did she attempt to stop them or to go with 
 them when they left the veranda that evening. She 
 looked after them as they crossed the lawn, with a benev- 
 olent smile. 
 
 "That poor^ man's going to get a jolt," she reflected. 
 "I dare say Andree '11 get engaged to him this evening, 
 just as she did to Johnnie Martinsburgh last winter. 
 Then she'll get into a panic, and I'U very probably have 
 
188 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 to get her out of it, the same way. "Well! It can't be 
 helped! That's Andr6e, all over. She's so darned 
 sincere every time." 
 
 "Let's take a walk over to your Fern Glen," Andree 
 was sajdng. 
 
 "I don't think — " he began, doubtfully. 
 
 "Yes," she insisted. " There 'U be a moon, won't 
 there, later on!" 
 
 "Your mother—" 
 
 "It's your last evening." 
 
 "I know," he said. "But we can talk here — " 
 
 "I believe you're afraid of me," she said, laughing. 
 
 "I am," he answered, and she suddenly stopped 
 laughing. 
 
 "You'd better let me alone," he went on. "I don't 
 understand your ways. Things you think are funny 
 make me miserable." 
 
 "I don't want a bit to make you miserable, and I cer- 
 tainly don't see anything funny in — in this thing. Do 
 come on! Mother and Edna will be home, and then we 
 can't go." 
 
 She went on, and he reluctantly followed her white 
 figure. They went along the road, walking quietly on 
 its grassy border, he always a little behind her. It was 
 a mild beautiful night, a night on which one could walk 
 forever. Behind the pine trees there was a marvelous 
 faint radiance, the path of the coming moon. The breeze 
 blowing across the apple orchard they were passing 
 brought a wine-like perfume and an exquisite rustling 
 of leaves. The young man looked steadfastly down at 
 his white tennis shoes moving soundlessly over the grass. 
 
 They came to the pasture through which Andree had 
 
THE BKEATH OF LITE 189 
 
 once refused to go, and they saw the great, dim shapes 
 of the cows standing motionless in there. 
 
 "I suppose you want to go around — " said hg. 
 
 "No; I shan't be afraid, if you'll stay near me," she 
 answered. 
 
 He let down the bars, and carefully replaced them 
 when they had gone through. 
 
 "Don't run," he said, "and they won't pay any at- 
 tention to you." 
 
 To his surprise she took his arm and held it lightly. 
 
 "I do hate them!" she said. "What would you do if 
 they were to run after us?" 
 
 "They never do," he answered, briefly, and fell silent. 
 But she was amazed to feel his arm, his firm, strong arm, 
 tremble beneath her touch. She smiled to herself in the 
 dark. 
 
 They came at last to the glen, and sat down on a rock. 
 The moon had risen just above the crags; the air was 
 tremulous with its light. 
 
 "It's too bad there are nothing but owls here," she 
 said. "I'd love to hear a nightingale sing. ' ' 
 
 "I've heard 'em, in England. I was there four 
 years." 
 
 ' ' Now, you see ! With all the interesting things you 've 
 got to tell me, and that I want so much to hear, you talk 
 about going away to-morrow. You can't!" 
 
 "I must!" 
 
 "Are you — going to write to me?" 
 
 "No. What would be the use?" 
 
 "Don't you want to go on being friends?" 
 
 "Look here — are you going to make me say — ^what 
 I don't want to say?" ^ 
 
190 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 "Yes, if I can! I want everything clear and plain 
 between us. You're the first real friend I've ever had, 
 and I'm not going to lose you through any stupid mis- 
 understanding. ' ' 
 
 "Well, then; I covMn't go on being friends. I'd . . . 
 it would have to go on — to something else." 
 
 She was perfectly still. 
 
 "You know what I mean, don't you?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes ... I know," she answered, in an odd, flat 
 voice. 
 
 "And you dont want that. ..." 
 
 "I don't know," she said, "whether I do or not." 
 
 He was so startled that he sprang to his feet. 
 
 "What!" he cried. "I don't believe you do under- 
 stand!" 
 
 "I do! You mean you think — ^you might — later on — 
 fall in love with me." 
 
 Her sublime candour touched him almost beyond en- 
 durance. He walked a few paces away from her, to the 
 very edge of the pool, and tried to calm his heart with 
 that unutterable beauty, that fall of water, like bright 
 silver hair in the moonlight, like a stream from the moon 
 itself, over the face of the cliff, without sound, into the 
 radiant brightness of the pool. If there had been a 
 nightingale to sing there, he thought, it would have 
 broken his heart. 
 
 "As a matter of fact," he said, in a low voice, "I 
 am in love with you now. I shouldn't have told you if 
 you'd let me alone." 
 
 "Why shouldn't I know?" 
 
 "Because — I don't feel like amusing you that way." 
 
 "Oh, but I don't — really I don't look at it like that! 
 
THE BKEATH OF LIFE 191 
 
 How can you always think so of me! I'm not trivial 
 and shallow," she cried, very much wounded. "Ydu 
 ought to have seen that I wasn't!" 
 
 "All right!" he said, grimly. "Now you know." 
 
 "And you're going away?" she asked. 
 
 "I am." 
 
 "Suppose I don't want you to go?" 
 
 "That would make me go all the quicker." 
 
 "You have a — a rather funny way of being in love," 
 she said. "I should think — " 
 
 "Now, see here," he said, with a sort of desperation. 
 "Won't you let me alone? I've told you. I didn't want 
 to, but you made me. You can have all the satisfaction 
 of knowing that you've — ^hurt me and humiliated me. 
 And nothing's going to be any good any more." 
 
 "Why?" she enquired, in a reasonable tone. "There 
 are so many things in your life." 
 
 "I don't want them. I don't want anything but you. 
 I'm — of course you don't know and you don't care. 
 You'll go home and laugh at the impudence of that 
 vulgar — " 
 
 Andree faced him, very angry, 
 
 "That is vulgar, if you like," she said. "To imagine 
 my doing that — ^laughing at you." 
 
 She had come down to the edge of the water, beside 
 him, very near him. She was contemptuous, she was 
 indignant and hurt. And suddenly aU that went. 
 There, in that enchanted glen, with the moon on him, 
 he was transfigured, or it may be revealed. There was 
 nothing mean about him ; his sensitiveness was no longer 
 paltry, but tragic. He was no more and no less than 
 a man; forlorn in his strength and his youth; betrayed 
 
192 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 by the world he fancied he had conquered. Tears came 
 into her eyes; she laid her hand on his shoulder. 
 
 "Oh . . .! / — laugh at you!" she said. 
 
 He started away suddenly. 
 
 "Don't," he said. "Don't do that!" 
 
 A fatal and overmastering curiosity possessed her ; her 
 arm went round his neck, her fingers gently touching his 
 cheek. She was amazed, delighted to feel him tremble 
 under that shadow of a caress; she was exultant with a 
 sense of her miraculous power, never before suspected. 
 In all innocence, she could comprehend his passion, in a 
 great measure because she herself was quite devoid of 
 passion, was able to look on at this. She was impres- 
 sionable, terribly susceptible to the magic of love in 
 others, intoxicated by the emotion she could so easily 
 inspire in others; but within her was always a grain of 
 something hard and cold, never to be touched. An artist, 
 was Andree, always a little aloof; she could never lose 
 herself. 
 
 But she loved him then, humanly enough, with an 
 immature and cruelly exacting love. If he had said one 
 word, made one gesture, to offend her critical and fastidi- 
 ous spirit, she would have hated him. Fortunately he 
 didn't know this, and was not on his guard, not wary. 
 He was as much concerned with his own feelings as she 
 with hers ; they were scarcely aware of each other. 
 
 "You can't really like me," he said, miserably. 
 
 "Ido!"&hesaid. "I do!" 
 
 "But not — ^love?" he said, looking at her with pro- 
 found anxiety. Her glance fell and with eyes veiled, 
 she was no longer so august. "You don't love me?" he 
 insisted. ' ' That couldn 't be ! " 
 
THE BREATH OF LITE 193 
 
 She had no answer to make, but the very droop of 
 her shoulders was acquiescent. He was astounded, in- 
 credulous, more appealing to her in his humility than 
 in any other attitude he could have taken. 
 
 "Be honest with me!" he entreated. "I don't ask 
 you for anything but that." 
 
 "I love you," she said, quietly. It was to them both a 
 priceless boon conferred. 
 
 "But think what I am!" cried the pitifully honest 
 lover. "I'm not in — ^your class. I don't know your 
 ways. I couldn't live like you — " 
 
 Their arms were about each other, and what did all 
 that matter? The strength and tenderness of his em- 
 brace, the reassurance she felt in his unalterable sym- 
 pathy and kindness, made her weep. He was not strange 
 to her; he was dearer and more familiar, even than her 
 mother. There was security in him, and her deepest 
 instinct required security. 
 
 "Don't cry, darling little Andree," he said. "Are 
 you afraid we can't be happy?" 
 
 He was, very greatly. 
 
 "No!" she said, scornfully. "Of course I'm not 
 afraid." 
 
 They sat down, side by side, on a fallen log ; he looked 
 into her dark eyes, glittering with tears; he didn't know 
 how to tell her how precious, how adorable she was. 
 
 "I'll do my best," he said. "Tell me just what you 
 want, and what you don't like. ... I can't help making 
 you happy, when I love you so, can I, darling Andree? 
 I'll be the best kind of friend and lover I can to you, 
 always. I'll never interfere." 
 
 "If you only won't," she said, eagerly. "I've grown 
 
194 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 to rather hate the idea of ever marrsdng, becp,tise it means 
 so much interfering. I want to be myself." 
 
 Stephens privately didn't believe in marriage at all; 
 he had even written a brochure on the subject; he 
 thought it an evil ; he would tell you, asked, or unasked, 
 that he had never seen a happy marriage, or even many 
 endurable ones. He didn't believe in women being de- 
 pendent ; he loathed domesticity ; he revolted at the idea 
 of vows and promises. And now, at this moment, he 
 became completely an apostate. What else could be done 
 with a creature like Andree? Of course they must be 
 married; more than that, he voluntarily made to her then 
 and there all those vows he condemned; he promised to 
 make her happier than he possibly could, he promised 
 eternal love and constancy, he promised that as this 
 moment, so should all their lives be ; he believed it, and 
 so did she. 
 
 " We '11 be friends, Andree, always, ' ' he said. " We '11 
 each have our own life and our own interests. We'll 
 make it a different sort of marriage." 
 
 "Oh, let's!" said Andrfe. 
 
 But while he was already envisaging the next ten 
 years, she was held in thrall by this one minute. She 
 listened to him for some time, but the intolerable feeling 
 grew on her that he was wasting precious time. 
 
 "We don't know how it'll come out," she said, im- 
 patiently. "Let's not bother about it, but just be as 
 happy as we can." 
 
 He was silenced by this admirable recklessness. He 
 took her in his arms and kissed her, and this time she 
 kissed him ; then he rather abruptly said it was time for 
 them to go home. 
 
THE BEEATH OF LIFE 195 
 
 "No; why?" she said. 
 
 But he was quite firm about it. He knew himself 
 better than she did. He was alarmed at his tot^ lack 
 of views and opinions just then; he was not as reason- 
 able as he wished to be. He was mortally afraid that 
 by some expression of his ardour he might offend his 
 glorious Diana. They walked home with their arms 
 about each other, through the fields and the woods, a 
 walk in a dream, in moonlight and shadow. 
 
 He went up to his hot little room and sat there in the 
 dark, heart-sick with the ecstasy of it. He was more 
 troubled and unhappy than he had ever been before in 
 his cocksure existence. This thing, made up of moon- 
 light and Andree's dark eyes, had come crashing into 
 his life, to break it in two. He had not wanted or 
 imagined anything of the sort; he with his talk about 
 biologic necessities. He was appalled at the idea of, 
 going on, because everything within him had stopped. 
 
 He was not easily daunted, but it was a long time 
 before his courage was fully restored. He lighted a 
 cigarette, and it tranquillized him. 
 
 "All right!" he said, aloud. "I made a new man of 
 myself once. I '11 do it again. I've got to." 
 
 That was what he thought. 
 
CHAPTER NINE 
 
 BERTIE 
 
 CLAUDINE had put aside her philosophers that morn- 
 ing, and sat in her little glade, listless and wretched. 
 An insufferable, intolerable summer, a summer altogether 
 wrong and harmful. And inevitably six weeks' more 
 of it. 
 
 "It isn't right to keep the children here in idleness," 
 she said to herself. "Healthy, intelligent adults, wast- 
 ing months and months. . . . They ought to be doing some- 
 thing. They ought to be busy and useful. ... I suppose 
 I got these ideas from poor little Mr. Stephens, but 
 they're good ideas. There was something very admirable 
 about him. ..." 
 
 She smiled at the recollection of the "nice little beast," 
 but the smile vanished instantly. 
 
 "They're both so discontented and restless — ^begging 
 me to take them away. And I can't do anything! I 
 haven't any power, any authority! I can't do the least 
 thing — I can't even leave this place without Gilbert's 
 consent. ..." 
 
 A few miserable tears started to her eyes. 
 
 "That's the reason I have no control over them. A 
 
 196 
 
THE BEEATH OF LIFE 197 
 
 mother otiglit to be wise and firm and — free. But I 
 can't do what I think ought to be done. I've never been 
 able to. I have to argue with Gilbert, or deceive him. 
 That's what it really is, although I like to call it tact. 
 They ought to go home, and study, or work. They don't 
 need a holiday! But I can't make him see that; not 
 possibly. He sneers about 'a lot of idle women,' but he 
 won't let us be anything else. . . . And the older I get, 
 the more — cowardly I become. I can't bear to argue and 
 argue with him. I know I can't win. I haven't any in- 
 fluence over him, I can't — charm him, or coax him, and 
 I can't convince him. He's so obstinate." 
 
 She clasped her hands. 
 
 " Oh ! " she cried. " If I could only, only have had my 
 darling Andree alone, I could have done so much for 
 her! So much! I could have been so wise, so gentle, 
 BO patient, that she would have loved me with all her 
 heart! I could have influenced her and helped her — " 
 
 She hastily wiped her eyes, ashamed of her emotion. 
 
 "How did it happen? Why did I become so help- 
 less? Whose fault is it? Gilbert's? No, I can't think 
 ithat. Other women with husbands just as bad as Gilbert 
 don't allow themselves to be submerged. It's my fault; 
 it must be. There's something wrong with me, some 
 horrible moral weakness." 
 
 Her eye fell upon Marcus Aurelius and Epictetus. 
 
 "No; they're no use — only a drug. I call it training 
 my mind, but it's only trjdng to dull my feelings. I 
 ought to fight and struggle. I must! I must! I must 
 get hold of my children. Now when Bertie's coming, 
 when he hasn't seen me for two months. ... I ought to 
 be able to do something with him. He adores me." 
 
198 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 She fell into a reverie upon her incorrigible boy. Nd 
 doubt that Bertie was lazy, frivolous, and something a 
 little worse — "wild," her friends called him. And yet 
 she never worried seriously about him. He was so ob- 
 viously the sort of person who always comes out on top. 
 It was impossible to imagine him defeated. He was the 
 cleverest of all her children, alarmingly clever, and he 
 was also in some ways the finest of them. He had more 
 sensibility than his sisters, more heart. That was the 
 reason she was so shamefully indulgent toward his fol- 
 lies ; she was aware, almost by instinct, that they were of 
 no significance. 
 
 She decided upon an attitude; she would not be so 
 fond, and full of half-playful remonstrances. No;. she 
 would be friendly, but firm and wise; she would aiioyr. 
 him the significance of life. 
 
 §ii 
 
 They went, one or the other of them, to meet all the 
 reasonable trains. 
 
 "Why not?" said Andree. "For mercy's sake, what 
 else have we to do?" 
 
 But he did not come by any of them. As a sort of 
 punishment for his shocking lack of industry during his 
 late year at the Polytechnic Institute, he had been ban- 
 ished to a solitary camp in Maine with Lance, selected as 
 a tutor of the most serious possible sort. And as Lance — 
 who was perfectly indifferent to the boy's moral defects — 
 wrote encouragingly of his mental attainments, he was 
 allowed a two weeks' visit to his mother and sisters. 
 
 When he didn't come by the five o'clock train, they 
 gave him up for that day. They were all dressed with 
 
THE BEEATH OF LIFE 199 
 
 an eye to his acutely critical taste, and a little crestfallen 
 at their unregarded condition. They came down onto 
 the veranda to wait until the bell rang for dinner, and 
 sat there patiently with the old ladies. . . . When there 
 came, along the mountain road, a terrific roaring, a dense 
 cloud of dust, and a motor-car came up at a hair-raising 
 speed, an eccentric, purple car, very low, with a gigantic 
 engine. From this affair sprang out a figure in a duster, 
 wearing goggles and a plaid cap put on backward. 
 
 They all started up, joyfully, and Andree rushed to 
 meet him. 
 
 "Where did you get that thing?" she cried. 
 
 "It's Pendleton's. What do you think of it? It's 
 a French car." 
 
 "It's tres chic. Come and see Mother!" 
 
 He sprang up the steps, pulled off cap and goggles, and 
 kissed Claudine. And try as she would, she couldn't help 
 looking at him indulgently, instead of wisely. There was 
 something about him. ... He was a very slight boy, 
 barely eighteen, with an unusually dark skin and sleek 
 black hair; he had a trick of keeping his mouth open, 
 which showed his brilliantly white teeth, and gave him 
 a stupid air; he had a smooth, oval face, narrow eyes, a 
 rather weak chin; he looked at first glance like a silly 
 young ass. But after you had looked again you were 
 more inclined to think him a most engaging young devil. 
 He had an odd, sidelong glance and a grimace of gamin 
 impudence; he was never bad-tempered or sullen, but 
 sometimes a little malicious. 
 
 "How did you get on with Cousin Lance, my dear?" 
 asked his mother. 
 
200 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 "Splendidly!" he answered. "Aren't you pretty, 
 Mammy! But a bit spindly. "Why don't you drink 
 ale?" 
 
 "I'm very well, Bertie. Why did you take Mr. 
 Pendleton's car? Isn't it rather a risk?" 
 
 "His look out. He offered it. He's a nice little 
 playmate. He took me out to dinner the first night 
 I got home, because the old man said he was busy. 
 Some dinner! Andree, what is there to do here?" 
 
 "Lots! You can knit and embroider and play 
 solitaire — " 
 
 "We'll eha,nge all that, don't worry! Here's the 
 latest thing in evolution, as old Lance would say, come 
 to put a little pep into the fossils. Mammy, don't 
 you think I've evoluted a whole lot further than Father? 
 Lance says it takes two million years to grow a new toe, 
 or lose one, I forget which, but it seems to me — " 
 
 "That's the dinner bell," said Edna. "Come in just 
 as you are. No one dresses here." 
 
 "Noblesse oiligeJ" said Bertie. "I'm going to dress. 
 Tell them to keep the kettle on the hob — whatever that 
 is — for a few minutes." 
 
 He came down again very promptly, wijh his black 
 head sleek as a seal, and a new and marvelous dark suit. 
 He disdained all the various washable materials; they 
 were "a mess," he said, no one had any business to be 
 hot enough to want them. He was absolutely correct 
 in every detail, a very model of fashion and deportment ; 
 how were they not to be proud of him and delighted with 
 him? He was very attentive to his mother, and even 
 if it were a rather ostentatious courtesy, it warmed her 
 heart. 
 
THE BEEATH OF LITE 201 
 
 She grew aimoyed, though, when he persdsted in smok- 
 ing cigarettes between courses. 
 
 "It's very bad manners," she said. "It's disrespect- 
 ful to me and your sisters. And what's more, no one 
 smokes here in the dining-room. It isn't a hotel." 
 
 "I'll teach it to be. And it's not disrespectful, dear 
 creatures. It's simply being done now." 
 
 "And you're too young to smoke. It's very harm- 
 ful at your age. I can't bear to see you, Bertie!" 
 
 "Mammy, don't spoil my poor little holiday! Two 
 weeks — ^that's all! Up there with old Lance, I neither 
 smoke, chew, drink, spit nor cuss. Let me have my brief 
 day!" 
 
 "When they went out onto the veranda after dinner, 
 his quick ear caught the sound of distant music. 
 
 "What's that?" he asked. 
 
 "Dancing down at the hotel," answered Edna. 
 
 "Free for all, and leave your guns at the door?" 
 he asked. 
 
 And after this, nothing would do, but that they must 
 all stroll down to "look it over," and Bertie, entering 
 ostensibly to buy a magazine in the lobby, looked in at 
 the ballroom and said it looked "good enough." 
 
 "You and Edna sit out here on the piazza, and I'll 
 take a few turns with Andree," he said. "The music's 
 not bad and the floor looks good." 
 
 "I'd rather you didn't," said Claudine. "They're 
 not at all a nice sort of people here. I don't think it's 
 quite the thing — " 
 
 Bertie fell back into Edna's arms like a log. 
 
 "Oh— h— h!" he groaned. "Why?" 
 
 "It's not dignified—" 
 
202 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 "You don't have to be dignified tiE you get married 
 or inherit money. Tell you what ! You come. Mammy ! 
 You can dance some nice, old-fashioned sort of waltz. 
 Come on!" 
 
 "I ought to!" she thought. "It's my duty to enter 
 into their amusements — as long as I can't stop them." 
 
 But after half an hour spent there, she was more than 
 ever determined to influence them — all of them — ^in an 
 opposite direction, away from this unpalatable and 
 promiscuous vulgarity. 
 
 "Don't you think it is better to be bored than to 
 amuse yourselves in such a way as this?" she asked, on 
 the way home. 
 
 "No!" said Andree and Bertie, simultaneously. 
 
 "It seems a pity to me that young people like you — 
 intelligent and well-bred, should be so mad about amuse- 
 ment," she said. "I can't understand it! If you were 
 brainless and dull, it would be different. But there are 
 so many really interesting things in the world, so many 
 wholesome and fine recreations — " 
 
 "Never heard of them, Mammy! What are they?" 
 
 "When I was a girl, we thought it a pleasure to take 
 a country walk with an interesting companion — " 
 
 "You wouldn't like the companions that we'd think 
 were interesting," said Andree. 
 
 "No," said Bertie, sadly. "There aren't any nice 
 amusements left, Mammy. Evolution has done away 
 with 'em." 
 
 She looked at the three faces, at that clever and 
 devilish Bertie, at the sensible, clear-sighted Edna, at 
 Andr6e, filled with a strange and wayward inner light. 
 
 "But you can't enjoy that sort of thing!" she cried. 
 
THE BEEATH OF LIFE 203 
 
 "You can't like to be there, in a room crowded with 
 vulgar, noisy people whom you don't even know! You 
 must see that these new dances are — ^to say the very least 
 —ill-bred!" 
 
 ' ' I accept ! ' ' said Bertie. ' ' Lance was telling me about 
 some fellow that made that his motto, and I think it's 
 a gol-durned good one ! I accept — anything that comes 
 my way." 
 
 "But it doesn't mean that, Bertie. It means resig- 
 nation." 
 
 "I know. And we are all resigned, except you. You 
 want to — diet's see — put back the clock of human prog- 
 ress. Very wrong Mammy!" 
 
 § iii 
 
 The next morning Bertie went again to the big hotel,, 
 and came back innocently with a new magazine for 
 his mother. In the afternoon he went down to the^ 
 garage and drove back in the startling purple car, and 
 asked his mother to come for a drive. Filled with terror, 
 she accepted, and spent two hours in mortal anguish, 
 flying perilously along the edge of precipices, breath- 
 less from the terrific speed. There was no chance then 
 for the serious talk she wished to have with her son,, 
 and after dinner he disappeared again, and didn't return 
 until midnight. 
 
 But she was waiting for him on the verand^. 
 
 "Bertie!" she said. "Where have you been?" 
 
 "Dancing around a little. Mammy!" 
 
 "With whom?" 
 
 "Some girls at the hotel. Very respectable and 
 
204 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 humble, Mammy. I didn't have any trouble with thenl 
 at aU." 
 
 "I don't like it. And I'm sure your father wouldn't 
 like it." 
 
 "So am I. But I'm used to that. It's crabbed age 
 and youth — " 
 
 "Don't be disrespectful to your father! Bertie . . .! 
 Did you — ^have anything to drink?" 
 
 "Oh, yes! A couple of seltzer lemonades." 
 
 "I mean — anything — intoxicating?" 
 
 "Nothing that intoxicated me, Mammy!" 
 
 "Don't be so flippant and provoking! Bertie, I really 
 feel in despair about you. Haven't you any serious or — 
 worthy thoughts or ambitions?" 
 
 "They haven't come yet. But I'm only a child. Give 
 me a chance!" 
 
 "What do you expect to do with your life?" 
 
 "Don't you know," he said, solemnly, "that that's 
 really a ridiculous question. Mammy? It doesn't lie 
 with me. I'm a puppet in the hands of Nature. I'm 
 going to be used by a Blind Force — " 
 
 "Please don't joke!" 
 
 "I don't think I am. It seems to me it really is like 
 that. I don't see much use in spending aU your life 
 ■squirming. I'd rather go along with the rest of the 
 crowd — ^wherever they're going. We don't count much. 
 We're just one more generation. It'll take about a bil- 
 lion years to change us or improve us. So what care I ? " 
 
 "Bertie!" she cried, quite shocked. "Where did you 
 get such ideas?" 
 
 "Lance has corrupted me. I was a poor innocent 
 child who wanted to be an engineer and build bridges. 
 
THE BEEATH OF LIFE 205 
 
 But when I was taught to thiiik a million years at a 
 time, I lost interest." 
 
 "But you've got to pass your life in some sort of 
 work, dear." 
 
 "I'll go into Father's office and show him how to 
 run the show. Then I '11 take a wad and buck the stock 
 market and clean up a few millions and never worry 
 again." 
 
 "Go to bed!" she said, half -laughing. "You're too- 
 silly to talk to! I suppose some time you'll grow up 
 and be a man. And I hope with all my heart I'll be 
 able to be proud of you." 
 
 His exploits that week, however, were certainly nothing 
 to be proud of. He took a golden-haired maiden from 
 the hotel out one afternoon and quite wrecked Mr. 
 Pendleton's car, leaving it helpless on a mountain road 
 to be taken back to the garage on a truck. He ran up a 
 startling bill at the hotel for cigarettes, candies, and 
 "seltzer lemonades" which she suspected strongly, and 
 when she confronted him with it, he said, with chagrin : 
 
 "Pshaw! I told 'em not to send it till after I'd 
 gone!" 
 
 She paid this herself from her own allowance, but the 
 bill for the garage was beyond her. It was going to 
 cost six hundred dollars to repair Mr. Pendleton's car. 
 
 "But he'U pay it himself!" Bertie protested. "He's- 
 a good sport. He knows I'm a young and inexperienced 
 driver, and sure to have accidents." 
 
 "I'm ashamed of you, Bertie, to think of such a 
 thing. I shall have to tell your father, and I'm afraid 
 he'll be very angry." 
 
 "I don't believe in family rows. It might give him 
 
206 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 apoplexy. I should think you'd rather sell your 
 jewels. ' ' 
 
 But she did tell Gilbert, and he was furious. It was 
 not a pleasant week-end, but it didn't depress Bertie. 
 
 "I'm the reed, you know. Mammy, that bows its head 
 to the storm," he said. And the very next day, told 
 her he wanted to, and was socially obliged to, give a 
 dinner-party to some of his friends at the hotel. 
 
 "You can't, my dear. Mrs. Dewey wouldn't—" 
 
 "She says she will. I hinted at it. We can have it 
 at eight, when the others have finished. She says she'll 
 do it in grand style, for my sake." 
 
 "It would cost a great deal. Your father — " 
 
 "Andree and Edna will pay for it, out of their little 
 savings, like sisters should, for their brother's honour. 
 All you have to do is to look lovely and be dignified." 
 
 "But I don't care to encourage those hotel people!" 
 
 "They won't bother you when I've gone. Besides, 
 you can freeze 'em thoroughly at the dinner. I don't 
 care how rude you are to them." 4 
 
 It was a horrible dinner, of the sort that Claudine 
 most thoroughly detested. Silly, over-dressed girls and, 
 one or two of their mothers, and a handful of boys who 
 seemed to her prejudiced eyes nothing but cheap traves- 
 ties on her fascinating son. She was quite perfect, with 
 the affability and politeness she never displayed so well 
 as when among people she disliked. 
 
 But after he had gone away, she was very glad she 
 had done this for Bertie. She missed him beyond 
 measure; of all her children he was the one who had 
 most of her own detached and fatalistic point of view, 
 and he, like herself, could find but cold comfort in his 
 
THE BEEATH OF LIFE 207 
 
 own heart. She understood him, how futile all achieve- 
 ment seemed to him, how terribly necessary was hap- 
 piness. He must be happy; it was that alone which he 
 required from life, not success, like Andr6e, not self- 
 approbation, like Edna, but joy in the moment, like 
 herself. 
 
 She remembered him as a little boy, a beautiful child, 
 a gay and cajoling little thing, his grandmother's favour- 
 ite .. . certainly a very much spoilt child. She liked to 
 remember his passionate admiration of her, how she had 
 always stopped in at the nursery to let him see her, 
 dressed for the evening. How he had called her "pretty 
 Mammy," quite unabashed by his father's disgust for 
 his efifeminacy. 
 
 Even now, with all his weaknesses, his petty vices 
 seemed to her very innocent, very unimportant. It was 
 only his way of looking for happiness. She felt sure 
 that when he grew older, he would find a better way. 
 And if he remained as he was, frivolous, reckless, 
 pleasure-loving, wasn't it better, after aU, than being 
 stolid, prudent, money-loving? 
 
 "My dear, dear boy!" she thought, with tears in her 
 eyes, but a smile on her lips. "Poor Bertie!" 
 
 § iv 
 
 The long, long summer wore away; wasted and arid 
 days they seemed to her. She found but little pleasure 
 in her flowers and birds, no more consolation in her 
 philosophers. 
 
 "I suppose I'm growing old!" she thought, and she 
 allowed herself to dally with the idea of growing really 
 
208 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 old, when nothing would be expected of her, but dignity, 
 which would be no trouble at all. 
 
 "But I'm barely forty!" she reflected. "I suppose 
 there'll be at least twenty years more of this!" 
 
 And her heart sank. 
 
 "It's peace I want!" she said. "I'm not made for 
 struggling or achieving. I've been a wretched failure. 
 ... I suppose I've even failed Gilbert — in some sort of 
 way. All I can do is to go on blundering and trying — 
 for all that terribly long time. ... If I can only see the 
 children on the right road!. . . . And I don't even 
 know what the right road is!" 
 
 She was happy to see her daughters so full of new 
 interest and energy when the time came for going 
 home. I 
 
 "I can live in them!" she said. "If they'll let me!" 
 
BOOK THREE 
 THE CUP IS OFFERED 
 
CHAPTEE ONE 
 
 ANDE^e's EECITAIi 
 
 §i 
 
 GILBERT was certainly very nervoTis. His ner- 
 vousness took its usual form of a great rage and 
 distress about Ms shirt, which he believed was inclined 
 to bulge, and therefore to ruin and destroy him in the 
 eyes of society. Moreover, his own image in the glass 
 filled him with resentment, that portly and ungainly 
 figure, his grey hair, his unromantic aspect. Nothing 
 but a father, that's all he was, a money-maker. He 
 strode around the bedroom, swearing bitterly and 
 scowling, but toward this exhibition of ill-temper Clau- 
 dine was neither frigid nor superior. She felt sorry 
 for him. She chatted as she brushed her hair, and she 
 succeeded in soothing him a little. 
 
 "You look very distinguished, Gilbert!" she said, 
 and she was ready to believe it. 
 
 "Humph!" he said, hiding his pleasure. "That 
 tailor's a fool. The coat wrinkles there, over the 
 shoulders." 
 
 "Not when you stand up straight. I suppose you do, 
 when you're being fitted, you know." 
 
 He straightened himself and looked again. It did 
 look better. 
 
 211 
 
212 THE UNLIT LA¥T» 
 
 "I hope she won't get into one of her freakish 
 humours," he said. "Get stage fright, or anything of 
 that sort." 
 
 "She won't," Claudine assured him. "She's not 
 nervous in public. She's not the least bit upset. Listen I 
 She's playing over her pieces now. . . . Oh, Gilbert I 
 Isn't she wonderful?" 
 
 He went over to open the door into the hall, so that 
 the sound might reach him better, and the great volume 
 jof it impressed him. It must certainly betoken a re- 
 markable skill to do that with such sureness; Claudine 
 had never played so loudly and majestically. 
 
 "You'd better hurry a little, Gilbert," said his wife. 
 "I told Mary to serve dinner promptly at six, to give 
 ps plenty of time, I think I'U go and hurry Bertie a 
 little." 
 
 But really the vain woman wanted her son's approval 
 iand admiration. She went upstairs to the room Gilbert 
 had occupied in his bachelor days, and knocked at the 
 door. 
 
 "It's I, Bertie!" 
 
 "Come in, Mammy!" he called, cheerfully, and as soon 
 as she had entered, he cried: 
 
 "Oh, I say! Queen of them aU! You are lovely! 
 You'll be a riot!" 
 
 She smiled happily. 
 
 "You silly boy! Is it really a nice dress?" 
 
 '*! wish you were going to sit up there on the platform 
 and play. I'd rather hear you, and look at you. 
 Mammy!" 
 
 "It might have been I," she thought to herself, with 
 
THE CUP IS OFFEEED 213. 
 
 a shade of bitterness. "I might have been a mother 
 really to be proud of — a musician — a somebody." 
 
 But she smiled again, and glanced at herself in the 
 mirror. It was the most shockingly expensive dress 
 she had ever had, a real Paris frock of satin in an 
 exquisite shade of green that became her perfectly, 
 and set off her coppery hair and pale skin to their best 
 advantage. She was proud of her small waist, her little 
 feet, in spite of the fact that they were old-fashioned, 
 she was pleased with her miniature neatness and del- 
 icacy. 
 
 She turned to her son. Gilbert had angrily insisted 
 that a boy of eighteen had no business in evening dress ; 
 a dinner jacket was the thing for him. But Bertie 
 had pointed out the fact that the thing had already been 
 ordered and fitted, and would have to be paid for. 
 
 "I never imagined you'd kick," he had said, plain- 
 tively. "You're always so generous. Father." 
 
 He finished scrupulously tying his white tie, 
 
 "Do I look like a monkey?" he asked. "Father said 
 I would." 
 
 He followed his mother downstairs into the dining- 
 room, and the others joined them promptly. There was 
 an air of general satisfaction at the dinner table. They 
 were all pleased with themselves, individually and as a 
 family; they were all unusually festive and spirited. 
 Andree, the heroine, was blazing with excitement. 
 
 "You'd better eat," said Lance, warningly to her. 
 Music was no more to him than a passing phenomenon 
 in the course of man's history; it served to show some- 
 thing of the development of his brain and aesthetic sense, 
 but it would, he felt, in the course of time be regarded 
 
214 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 as nothing more than a frivolity. It was interesting to 
 see how seriously it was now regarded. Still, he was 
 fond of Andree, and he wished her to be successful, if 
 only for her mother's sake. He had an unwavering 
 loyalty for Claudine, never expressed, never quite com- 
 prehended by her, something which in a less preoccupied 
 man might have been called devotion. 
 
 Bertie had once said that Lance had "mastered evolu- 
 tion"; certainly he never seemed to grow; older. "With 
 his light, rather long hair parted in the middle, his tor- 
 toise-shell spectacles, his slender figure, he looked like 
 a sober and enquiring youth, a juvenile professor. He 
 was quite illustrious, in the not very extensive circles 
 where paleontologists may shine, he had been on two 
 noteworthy government expeditions, and had written a 
 large book, but he hadn't made money. The most profit- 
 able thing he had ever done, financially, was to tutor 
 young Bertie. But he was able to exist in comfortable 
 independence, and he wanted no more. He had a calm 
 self-assurance which impressed everyone, even Gilbert, 
 and he was a guest not without honour, a friend of 
 prestige. 
 
 He took out his watch. 
 
 "Time to start!" he announced, and they all rose. 
 
 §ii 
 
 Mr. MacGregor expected a triumph that evening. He 
 had hired a large hall, and had been promised the 
 presence of several well-known musicians and critics, to 
 say nothing of the important ' ' society element. ' ' He had 
 been for years steadily growing in favour, until he now 
 
THE CUP IS OFFEEED 215 
 
 held a unique position as a master who was not only 
 able to give to debutantes a very attractive accomplish- 
 ment, but a man who trained and developed genuine 
 artists. There was a certain youth from the Ghetto at 
 present creating something of a furore as a concert 
 player whom he had "made," and several lesser stars. 
 And he had now up his sleeve two or three surprises, 
 to be released this evening. He had a boy — ^a young 
 Pole whom he had been teaching gratis and more or 
 less supporting, he had a young woman of buxom charm 
 and amazing technic, and he had Andr6e, whose chief 
 claim was not so much in technic — ^though hers was of 
 a high order — ^but the originality of her interpretations. 
 He knew that some of the critics would be indignant 
 at a lack of classic reverence, but others would be 
 charmed, and all of them would talk. 
 
 He himself didn't appear; he stood in the wings, 
 watching and listening, his attention divided between 
 his pupils and the audience. And there wasn't one 
 chagrin; everything went beautifully. His young Eus- 
 sian aroused a sharp interest in the critics, the buxom 
 young woman was at her best, and Andr^e , . .! He 
 was entranced with Andree. She looked like the very 
 spirit of music, filled with an innocent wild ardour, 
 young, lovely, proud. His hopes, his personal hopes, that 
 is, of ever becoming her husband had very nearly faded 
 away, and he was able to regard her with a more im- 
 personal eye. He had never summoned the courage to 
 propose to her ; he knew it would only make him ridicu- 
 lous, and he was beginning to feel rather glad that he 
 hadn't committed himself. 
 
 "She'll go a long way beyond me!" he reflected, 
 
216 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 candidly. "She has a wonderful future before her — if 
 she doesn't make a fool of herself!" 
 
 Her family sat listening to her with ecstatic pride, even 
 Gilbert, who was constitutionally opposed to public life 
 for women. They listened to the enthusiastic clapping, 
 they watched her come back onto the stage again and 
 take an encore, not at aU the timid novice, but cool, 
 careless, aloof as Diana herself. They heard whispered 
 comments upon her all about — "a beautiful girl," "so 
 distinguished," "a magnetic personality," and even a 
 few remarks about her music, and when she joined them, 
 when it was all over, they were at a loss what to say to 
 to her, Edna wept a little. 
 
 They got into the motor; even the chauffeur, who 
 had been given a seat in the balcony, was beaming. 
 They drove home, and went into the dining-room for 
 a little supper, with champagne, to celebrate her triumph. 
 
 § iii 
 
 Claudine was nearly asleep when she heard that light 
 tap at the door, but any voice calling "Mother!" could 
 have aroused her from any sleep but death. She hastily 
 put on her dressing-gown and opened the door. It was 
 Andree. 
 
 "I want to speak to you!" she said. 
 
 AU sleep or fatigue fled from Claudine at once. 
 There was something in that tone, something in the 
 expression of her child's face seen in the dim light of the 
 hall, that froze her heart. She followed her to her own 
 room, which was brilliantly illumined; it had somehow 
 the appearance of a stage, a place pitilessly to expose 
 
THE CUP IS OFPEKED 217 
 
 a secret tragedy; and Andree in her white dressing- 
 gown and her soft black hair unbound looked a fit 
 figure for any drama. Claudine asked herself, with a 
 sinking heart, what was to be her part. . . .? 
 
 "Is anything wrong, darling?" she asked. 
 
 "There's something I want to tell you." 
 
 Claudine smiled mechanically, but her knees were 
 weak, and she sank down on the bed. 
 
 "What is it, dear!" she asked. 
 
 "It's very hard," said Andr6e. "It's going to hurt 
 you. . . ." 
 
 "Don't keep me waiting," her mother said, almost 
 sharply. "Tell me, Andree!" 
 
 Andree sat down beside her, and lifted one of her 
 mother's hands, looking at it with curious abstraction. 
 Claudine didn't stir. 
 
 ' ' Now it 's come, ' ' she thought. ' ' That horrible, name- 
 less disaster I have always dreaded for this creature I 
 love too much. This will be something I cannot endure." 
 
 At last Andree 's voice came, steady and low. 
 
 "You remember Mr. Stephens, don't you. Mother?" 
 
 "Yes. ..." she murmured. 
 
 "We're going to be married to-morrow." 
 
 "Andree! Andree! What do you mean?" 
 
 "Just what I said. Mother." 
 
 At first this seemed to Claudine merely preposterous, 
 almost laughable; one of Andree 's freaks. 
 
 "But, my dear, you don't know the man," she pro- 
 tested. 
 
 "Oh, yes, I do," said Andree, calmly. "We've been 
 writing to each other since last July, and I've seen him 
 quite often lately. And I've made up my mind. I knew 
 
218 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 everyone would make a row ; that 's why I didn't tell you 
 until the last moment. Al's going to Europe on Satur- 
 day, and Tm going with him." 
 
 Nothing in that speech made the slightest impression 
 upon Claudine except the name "Al." That seemed to 
 her of tremendous significance; the vulgar name of a 
 vulgar young man; it made the affair a fantasy. She 
 was not so much worried now as surprised. 
 
 "My dear Andree— " she said. "You. . . ." She 
 paused, aware of the need for caution. 
 
 "I knew you wouldn't understand," said Andr6e, 
 bitterly. "You can't see beneath the surface. I knew 
 aU the arguing and talking and reasoning there 'd be, 
 but it's not going to make one bit of difference. I'm 
 the one to decide, and I have decided. I want to be 
 married quietly at the City Hall to-morrow, without any 
 fuss and — ^talking. I wasn't even going to teU you until 
 afterward but — " She frowned. "Somehow I couldn't. 
 I wanted to make one more attempt to get you to under- 
 stand." 
 
 "To give you your chance," was what she meant, and 
 what her mother understood. This was the supreme 
 moment to come close to her child — ^and she sat spell- 
 bound, like a figure in a nightmare, unable to speak, 
 unable to make even a pretense at comprehension. 
 
 "He's the finest man I've ever seen," Andree went 
 on. "He's honest and kind and — rather wonderful, I 
 ithink." 
 
 "But — he's not suitable — " faltered Claudine. 
 
 "I knew you'd say that ! You'll teU me it's disgrace- 
 ful to marry a man 'beneath' me. Well, I don't think 
 he is, in any way. You'll say — " 
 
THE CUP IS OrFEEED 219 
 
 "If you're going to take my part as well as your own, 
 Andree, there's not much use in going on. I'm not so 
 unsyiSapathetic — or so narrow as you think, ... I 
 shouldn't have opposed you. I should only have asked 
 you to wait a little — " 
 
 "Because you think I'd change?" 
 
 "Only until I felt you were sure." 
 
 "I am sure! I love Al! You don't know how I feel 
 about him. He's so dear and — " 
 
 "Hush, Andree!" she interrupted, almost sternly. 
 There was a faint flush on her cheeks; this unrestraint, 
 this vehemence, caused her a sort of shame. She had 
 suddenly a thousand things to say — ^" Think if there 
 should be children" — ^" Think of the personal habits of 
 a man of his class" — ^And not one of them could she 
 utter. Her almost morbid modesty, her long habit of 
 restraint, forbade her. She grew desperate; she could 
 urge nothing but her own love. 
 
 "Andree," she said, "I wiU tell you what I have 
 never told anyone else in the world. I love you more 
 than my other children! I always have. I — I think I 
 don't really love anyone else. You are aU my life. 
 You are all I care to live for. If you knew . , .1 When 
 you were a baby. . . . Oh, Andree ! I used to sit watch- 
 ing you when you were asleep . . . you were so pretty — 
 and so strange. . . . It — ^made me turn away from God — 
 I loved you so much more. ... If you do this. ..." 
 
 "Oh, how cruel you are!" cried Andree. "And how 
 — ^unfair! How can you want me to spoil, all my life 
 and give up all my happiness, if you love me? How 
 can you not let me alone? Don't you see — don't you 
 understand — ^how I love him?" 
 
220 THE TTNLIT LAMP 
 
 "Andree, that love is nothing to mine — I know!" 
 
 "And you don't try to argue, or give reasons, or con- 
 vince me. Or listen to my reasons. You only want to 
 play on my feelings!" 
 
 "You have no feelings!" cried Claudine. "You have 
 no heart ! You don 't care ! ' ' 
 
 "Oh, don't I?" said Andree, and she suddenly began 
 to sob. "Go away! Go away! I've told you — ^now let 
 me alone!" she sobbed. 
 
 Claudine crossed the room to the bureau and began 
 moving about the little jars and bottles with trembling 
 hands. 
 
 "I won't — reproach you," she said. "I won't. . . . 
 I'll try to understand. ... I want to see — ^Mr. Stephens. 
 Where does he live?" 
 
 "I shan't tell you." 
 
 "Yes, you must. You can trust me, Andree. I won't 
 ■■ — I promise you I won't tell anyone else. I won't do 
 ianything to stop you. ... I only want to hear him. I 
 want to hear — all he has to say. 
 
 Andree hesitated a moment. 
 
 "Very well!" she said at last. "I think I'd like you 
 to. I'll trust you. ... He's at the Biltmore. ... I'm 
 not afraid of anything you can say to him!" 
 
 "No," said Claudine, dully. She was folding up some 
 bits of ribbon, quite mechanically, and putting them 
 into the bureau drawer. The room was very untidy; 
 there lay Andr6e's pretty dress across a chair, and her 
 beribboned .petticoat fallen on the floor. And her slip- 
 pers on the dressing-table. . . . "Was it worth while to 
 pick them up? Was it worth while ever to draw an- 
 other breath? She looked at Andr6e, lying face down- 
 
THE CUP IS OFFEEED 221 
 
 ward on the bedj and her heart was not moved. No; 
 this was the last possible sensation, the very end of 
 everything ; she was going to sink now and be drowned. 
 She went out of the room and closed the door. 
 
 Gilbert hadn't stirred. She lay down beside him and 
 closed her eyes, and at once anguish, like a fierce beast, 
 sprang at her throat. 
 
I 
 
 CHAPTBE TWO 
 
 THE BITTER TEIUMPH 
 
 'M going shopping early this morning," said 
 Claudine, at the breakfast-table the next morning. 
 "There are some very good bargains advertised. . . . 
 How soon do you think you could send the car back, 
 Gilbert?" 
 
 Now Gilbert, although he scoffed at feminine shopping 
 and bargains, nevertheless respected all this as one of 
 the bulwarks of family life. Women must and ought 
 to go shopping. So he said : 
 
 "Take the car. I'll go in the Subway," in the tone 
 of an exasperated martyr. 
 
 Her destination, however, was the Biltmore. She was 
 filled with a feverish anxiety to g6t there; she was in 
 terror lest Mr. Stephens should have gone out, that he 
 would be beyond her reach, that Andree might see him 
 or hear from him before she did. She was going to the 
 desk to enquire for him, when she caught sight of him, 
 standing up, reading a newspaper, and she approached 
 him and touched him on the arm. 
 
 "Mr. Stephens!" she said. "Have you a few mo- 
 ments to spare?" 
 
 He was not pleased to see her; she fancied that his 
 face turned a little pale ; but he greeted her with a sort 
 of subdued courtesy, 
 
 222 
 
THE GUP IS OFFEEED 223 
 
 "Where can we talk?" she asked. "I have some- 
 thing to say. ..." 
 
 "I have a little sitting-room; if you don't mind — " 
 he said. 
 
 She followed him into the lift, still smiling brightly, 
 a smile which he saw reflected in the looking-glass and 
 which alarmed him by its expression of triumph. If he 
 could have read her thoughts as well, his alarm would 
 have vanished. It was her firm resolution to look bright, 
 brave, self-assured; she hoped that her air would not 
 only impress him but herself as well. 
 
 ' ' Oh, God ! ' ' she was praying under her breath. ' ' Oh, 
 just this once, make me equal to the situation ! I always 
 fail; I'm always beaten! Oh, let me, only this one time, 
 win!" 
 
 He opened the door of his sitting-room, and they 
 entered. She began at once, the instant the door closed 
 behind them. 
 
 "Mr. Stephens," she said, "I have heard from Andree 
 what you propose to do." 
 
 He bowed his head, and said nothing. She realized, 
 with surprise, that he was not without dignity; that 
 there was nothing in any way contemptible either in his 
 manner or his appearance. 
 
 "I am astonished," she went on, "that you should 
 have done such an — unworthy thing. Andr6e is very 
 young and impressionable, and you have taken advantage 
 of this to influence her. She neither knows nor realizes 
 what she has undertaken. ' ' 
 
 "Excuse me," he said. "But I'm sure she does. I 
 haven't tried to influence her. I've — I've given this a 
 lot of thought, Mrs. Vincelle. At first I was afraid 
 
224 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 Andree eouldnt be happy witli me . . . but . . . now 
 I do think so." 
 
 "Why, Mr. Stephens?" 
 
 His fair face flushed. 
 
 "It's pretty hard to explain," he said, "but I think 
 — ^well, I think I understand her, and can get on with 
 her. I — ^well — ^I know I'm — different, in some ways — 
 but I can't see that that matters." 
 
 "It does matter," she said, gently. "More than you 
 realize. It may be quite wrong, but it is a fact, Mr. 
 Stephens, that marriages of — of this sort are very, very 
 rarely successful." 
 
 "What kind are?" he asked, with equal gentleness. 
 "As far as I can see, the chances are overwhelmingly 
 against any marriage being really successful. It's — I 
 see it like this : if two people love each other, they ought 
 to, take the risk, they ought to face all the chances as — 
 as gallantly as they can, and do the best they can in 
 what's bound to be a difficult position. Personally, I 
 don't believe in marriage, but I can see that nothing else 
 is practicable just now. All I can do is to make it as 
 little like an ordinary marriage as possible — Cleave Andree 
 as free as I can — " 
 
 "Mr. Stephens — ^I'm sorry . . . but I cannot consent 
 to this." 
 
 He looked full at her with a level and grave glance. 
 
 "The way I see it — ^it's a personal matter between 
 Andree and me. No one else has any right to interfere. 
 And no one can interfere. I — ^you don't know how much 
 I admire you, Mrs. VinceUe, but — ^I didn't think it was 
 necessary to consult you, or anyone else. That's aU. very 
 well in the case of a man who wants money — any sort 
 
THE CUP IS OFFERED 225 
 
 of favours from his wife's family. But I don't. It's 
 only for Andr^e to decide." 
 
 "And I simply don't count," said Claudine, with a 
 slight smile. 
 
 "I know a mother's love is a very strong — " he began. 
 
 "You don't know anything about it! Tou think it's 
 a sentiment; you think it's beautiful to see a mother 
 bendiag over a cradle. You understand that women 
 love their babies. But when the babies have grown up, 
 you forget the mothers. Do you think they evaporate, 
 or disappear? Or turn into troublesome, ridiculous 
 mothers-in-law? But we don't! We go on! If Andree 
 were a child, you'd think I was right to struggle for her. 
 You talk about mothers being left free to do what they 
 think best for their children. But because she's older, 
 and I still want to protect her — " 
 
 "But — don't you see? — ^you don't need to protect her 
 from anyone — ^like me — ^who — ^who worships her! Do 
 listen just for a moment ! All I want in the world is to 
 make her happy. I want her to have a splendid, free 
 life. I don't want to tie her to me. I want her as she 
 is now. I don't want to change her and — fetter her. I 
 understand her. She'd never endure being bound; she's 
 so proud and independent — " 
 
 "And so silly and unstable. That's what you don't 
 understand! But it's no use arguing. I know what it 
 would mean for her. I'm not talking about convictions. 
 I'm talking about life as it is, as she will have to live it. 
 Andr6e's an egoist. She's fickle and headstrong, and 
 so terribly unstable." 
 
 "Let her be," he said, stoutly. "I'm not. I'm 
 
226 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 strong enough and — and earnest enough to put up with 
 anything like that." 
 
 "Oh, don't you see? She'll think anything you want 
 to suggest to her, but she'll always act according to her 
 own impulses and desires." 
 
 ("Just the contrary to me," she reflected, irrelevantly. 
 "People can make me do anything, but they never 
 change my ideas. . . .") 
 
 "But that's just what I want her to do!" protested 
 Stephens. "That 's my idea of marriage — ^that we should 
 both—" 
 
 "Don't argue!" she cried, with sudden violence. 
 "You cannot do this! If you really think any of the 
 things you once said to me — if you have any compassion, 
 and kind human feeling, you can't try to make your 
 happiness on another person's pain. You can't ignore 
 me!" 
 
 "But—" he began, "isn't that just a little— selfish?" 
 
 She clasped her hands desperately. 
 
 "You can't do it!" she cried. "You're kind. You 
 cannot hurt me so!" 
 
 He wished to point out to her the extreme unfairness 
 of her position but the sight of her anguish was too 
 much for him. Even when he looked away, he seemed 
 still to see her tear-filled eyes, her face suddenly so 
 worn, so much older, its fine tranquillity, which he had so 
 much admired, its dignity, gone. It was like a sacrilege. 
 
 ' ' Please don 't ! Please don 't ! " he entreated. ' ' I can 't 
 bear to see you suffer! ... If you'd only realize that 
 I'm trying to make Andree happy — " 
 
 "Can't you have a little mercy on me?" she said. 
 "Even if you think I'm wrong? Andr6e is — ^my whole 
 
THE CUP IS OFFEEED 227 
 
 life; I've let everything else go. I haven't any life of 
 my own, or any hopes. . . . Nothing but her. Oh, I'd 
 go on my knees to you!" 
 
 "No, no!" he cried, shocked profoundly, both by her 
 suffering and by her amazing unscrupulousness. "Mrs. 
 Vincelle ! I beg you ! ' ' 
 
 "Then listen to me! Think of me! Put aside your 
 theories and your principles. . . . Isn't it something to 
 be kind — even to me? Isn't it better to be kind than — " 
 
 But she could not go on; she buried her face in her 
 hands and wept silently. She looked so small, so help- 
 less, so terribly fallen from her almost superhuman aloof- 
 ness. . . . 
 
 "Please don't!" he entreated, again. "I've always 
 had such a great respect for you. . . . I — ^you don't 
 know how I've thought about you. ... I wouldn't hurt 
 you for anything in the world ! Look here ! Eeally ! . . . 
 Please listen! We'll wait." 
 
 She looked up, careless of her tear-stained face, quick 
 to seize her advantage. 
 
 "Give me my chance?" 
 
 "What do you mean?" he asked, a little alarmed. 
 
 "You've done all this — ^you've persuaded her se- 
 cretly — behind my back. Let me have a little time!" 
 
 "To turn her against me?" 
 
 "Yes, if I can." 
 
 They were both silent for a moment. 
 
 ' ' All right ! " he said. ' ' If she can be as easily turned 
 as that, it had better be done before it's too late. . . . 
 But I don't believe you can. I'm not afraid to have you 
 try. I trust — Andree." 
 
 "How long will you give me?" 
 
228 THE imLIT LAMP 
 
 "I'm going to England and Germany on — ^business. 
 I'll be gone about two months." 
 
 "And wiU you promise not to write to her or to see 
 her for two months?" 
 
 "I'll have to see her once before I go, to explain. 
 That'll be to-day. After that, I'll—" He paused and 
 smiled a little, very kindly. "You'll have your chance, 
 Mrs. Vincelle!" 
 
 She rose and held out her hand, and he took it, rather 
 timidly. 
 
 "Good-bye!" she said. 
 
 "But — ^if you find you can't change her — " he said. 
 "At the end of two months — ^wiU you consent to our 
 being married?" 
 
 "What difference will it make, whether I do, or not!" 
 she asked, bitterly. 
 
CHAPTER THREE 
 
 ANDEfe'S WEDDING 
 
 §i 
 
 GILBERT was alone in his office, working in one of 
 his characteristic fits of great energy. A sort of 
 inspiration would seize him, he would map out astound- 
 ing campaigns, design advertisements, write letters to 
 his travelling salesmen which filled them with admiration 
 and enthusiasm, humorous, racy letters, replete with 
 valuable suggestions. The greater part of his time he 
 was cross and wretched, but he had his glorious hours, 
 his days of geniality and amazing penetration. The 
 entire office staff would be enchanted, and ready to adore 
 him, for he had a perverse charm about him, an elusive 
 loveableness, a touch of the fascination so marked in 
 his eldest child. 
 
 He always addressed his salesmen in his own writing, 
 a very neat and legible one, and he was doing that now, 
 his plump, well-kept hand travelling deliberately over 
 the paper, and a faint smile on his lips, when there was 
 a knock at the door and his young Cuban entered. 
 
 "Your daughter is outside, sir!" he announced, with 
 all the homage of a courtier. He was profoundly at- 
 tached to "the family"; he was not without hope of 
 something happening similar to the things he had read 
 of ia French romances — ^that, as a reward for his furious 
 
 229 
 
230 THE UNLIT LAMP. 
 
 zeal, He would one day be invited to dinner, for instance, 
 when he could be presented to the young ladies with due 
 ceremony. After that, the rest would be easy. . , . 
 
 "Ask her to step in," said Gilbert, and looking at his 
 watch, decided that he would take Edna out to lunch. 
 He took it for granted that it was Edna, because it al- 
 ways was. She was sent as an emissary by both Bertie 
 and Andree when they wanted money or permission 
 for any unapproved enterprise, because she knew how 
 to handle him. 
 
 He wheeled round in his chair, and was surprised to 
 see Andree standing there. 
 
 "Well, well!" he said, good-humouredly. "What do 
 you want, eh?" 
 
 He thought she looked "queer," and he stared at her 
 more closely. She had a sort of desperate, defiant air, 
 an unchanging smile. 
 
 "Sit down! Sit down!" he said. "What brings you 
 here, Andree?" 
 
 "I wanted to talk to you. I wanted to tell you some- 
 thing. ... I wanted you to hear it from me instead ,of 
 from Mother, so that you — ^wouldn't fly at her." 
 
 She knew that she was antagonizing him, but she could 
 not help it. The only way she felt able to tell her 
 monstrous piece of news was rudely and sternly, to deny 
 even to herself the dread and shrinking she suffered. 
 Her father's face changed perceptibly, 
 
 "Well!" he said, impatiently. 
 
 She laid her pocket-book on his desk, a beautiful little 
 pocket-book, for she had all her mother's elegance in 
 trifles — ^and stood looking down at him. 
 
 "I'm going to marry Mr. Stephens!" she said. 
 
THE CUP IS OFFEEED 231 
 
 "Who the devil is Mr. Stephens?" he cried. 
 
 Andree b^an to laugh. 
 
 "That man you had a fight with last summer, in the 
 mountains. ' ' 
 
 "What!" he cried, springing up. "What! That com- 
 mon, worthless little cad!" 
 
 "Yes!" she said, looking him steadfastly in the face, 
 and smiling. " That common, worthless little cad. Don't 
 begin to rave at me. You can't stop me. Mother's been 
 trying for weeks." 
 
 "I'm not going to 'rave,' young woman. I have more 
 effective means than that to put a stop to your nonsense. 
 You're not so independent as you imagine — ", 
 
 "If you'll just take it for granted that I'm going to 
 do it, we can talk," said Andree. "Otherwise it's no 
 use, and I'd better go." 
 
 "I see your mother's hand in this!" he said. "Some 
 of her — ^peculiar ideas — " 
 
 "No, you don't. She doesn't even know I'm going 
 to tell you. She's done all she could to persuade me — " 
 
 "Persuade isn't the word I'd use. Look here, Andree, 
 my girl, I'm not going to argue with you. Put this idea 
 out of your head once and for all — " 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Why? Because I tell you to. You're too young 
 to know what you're doing, and you'll have to listen to 
 people who are older and know better." 
 
 "But — about this — you don't know better. You don't 
 know anything about him. And anyway, it's not a ques- 
 tion of knowing, it's a c(uestion of — of feeling. I — ^like 
 him. I'm older than Mother was when she married you. 
 I know what I'm doing. His only crime is being — ^what 
 
232 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 you call 'common.' He's very remarkable. If you knew 
 him, you'd soon see it." 
 
 "You don't know enough of the world to realize that 
 marriages between people of tmequal social position are 
 always unhappy." 
 
 "They're just as unhappy in other cases," said 
 Andree. "I don't believe social position has anything 
 to do with it. It's — disposition. And Al has a wonder- 
 ful disposition." 
 
 "Al!" her father repeated, contemptuously. 
 
 "Yes, Al! That's what he caUs himself. I like it! It's 
 so nice and jolly and — common ! ' ' 
 
 "Andree!" said her father, sternly. "This is nothing 
 but a whim — a freak of yours. ... I think you're only 
 trying to torment and worry the people who love you." 
 
 "You'll see if it's a whim!'' she answered. 
 
 Suddenly he was disarmed; some gesture, some in- 
 tonation of hers, had brought back to him the naughty 
 little girl who had so perplexed and amused him, the 
 scowling little rebel he had so often wanted to shake — 
 and never had. He remembered her with surprising 
 vividness as a child of six, spending a Saturday morning 
 with him, sitting in the corner of this very office, cutting 
 out paper dolls, while she waited for him to wind up his 
 business and take her out to lunch and the circus. 
 
 ' ' Andree ! " he said. " I 'U tell you what. I 'U let you 
 go over to Germany with your mother to study music 
 for a year. ' ' 
 
 "But I'm going to study here! That's what Al and 
 I have arranged. I'm going to go on just the same!" 
 she said, triumphantly. "And he's going to give me a 
 grand piano for a wedding present!" 
 
THE CUP IS OFFEEED 23a 
 
 This put an end to his softness. 
 
 "If you don't renounce this — ^mad idea — at once, and 
 finally," he said, "it will mean — ^that I wash my hands 
 of you. That you'll be entirely cut off from your family, 
 including your mother, whom you pretend to love so 
 much. You'll disgrace — " 
 
 "Nonsense!" she interrupted. "It's not true to say 
 I'll disgrace you, because I want to marry someone you 
 don't like. It's—" 
 
 "Enough!" he said, frowning. "I've said all I'm 
 going to. If you're not prepared to tell me now that 
 you will — obey me in this matter ... or at least, agree 
 to wait a year — " 
 
 "No, I'm not prepared to do that!" 
 
 "Then you may consider that you are no longer a. 
 member of my household!" 
 
 "What does that mean?" she asked, scornfully. 
 "Does it mean you're turning me out?" 
 
 "Yes!" he shouted. "If you haven't the common 
 decency to appreciate, or feel any gratitude for all that's 
 been done for you, you can try doing without for a 
 while. You can go back now and talk it over with your 
 mother, and when I come home this evening, I'll tell 
 you what I've decided." 
 
 "No, thanks! I won't go home. I'U never go home 
 again. It's your home, not mine, I see. Good-by!" 
 
 He caught her by the arm. 
 
 "I won't allow this! I insist upon your going home 
 at once. Do you hear?" 
 
 ' ' Of course I hear ! Everyone in the ofBce must. But 
 I won't go!" 
 
 "Yes, you will!" he said. He was furious, and very 
 
234 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 much frightened. He had no idea what she might do. 
 "I'm going to call a taxi and send you home." 
 
 "You'll have to get a policeman to go with me!" she 
 said, laughing again. "I won't go! I don't mind a 
 row once in a while, but I don't like the idea of a whole 
 lot of them. It was hard enough to come and tell you 
 about this, but you've made things impossible now. You 
 won't treat me as a woman — " 
 
 "You're not a woman!" he cried. And certainly she 
 had never looked less like one. She looked like a school- 
 girl, reckless and ignorant of the consequences of her 
 folly, her face alight with a defiance that was more mis- 
 chievous than resolute. 
 
 "Good-by!" she said. 
 
 "Andree! . . . Confound you! . . . Think of your 
 mother! Go home, and we'll talk the thing over 
 thoroughly this evening ! ' ' 
 
 "All right!" she said, suddenly, and left him with- 
 out another word. 
 
 §ii 
 
 It was due to Glaudine that she remained in the house 
 until her wedding three weeks later. The distracted 
 woman went from one to the other of them, seeing the 
 breach widen every day. She implored and entreated 
 Andree, she faced Gilbert with unparalleled firmness; 
 she was able to keep up an outward semblance of dignity 
 in the family. But it was a monstrous thing. Andree 
 and her father never spoke to each other. The meals 
 were a nightmare, to see them there side by side, so 
 bitterly hostile. She dreaded to speak herself, for fear 
 
THE CUP IS OFFERED 235 
 
 of hurting or angering one or the other of those inordi- 
 nately sensitive creatures. Edna was grief -stricken ; she 
 had tried to remonstrate in the old friendly fashion with 
 her sister, to make her realize the prodigious unfitness 
 of Mr. Stephens, but she had been rudely rebuffed. 
 Bertie was gravely displeased; he disapproved of Andree 
 and also of his parents for not preventing such a 
 marriage. 
 
 "And these are the last days I'll ever have Andree 
 with me!" thought the poor mother. "These bitter, 
 wretched days! This is the end of her girlhood — and 
 what an erifl ! What a memory to take with her ! ' ' 
 
 The day after Stephens had returned from Europe 
 he had invited her to tea with Andr6e, without having 
 made any attempt to see Andr6e alone, or even to write 
 to her. He had no need to ask Claudine whether she had 
 succeeded in alienating Andree from him ; her face told 
 him everything, her smile. He had a little table reserved 
 for them in a corner of the tea-room, and they all sat 
 down in silence. 
 
 But Claudine, glancing up, saw them looking at each 
 other, and it was horrible to her. She saw in his kindly, 
 honest face liiat least kindly, least honest of human de- 
 sires, his mouth had a kind of grimness; he looked so 
 entirely a man. . . . And Andree ! Was that the way a 
 woman should look, who is about to decide her destiny? 
 Her brilliant eyes were full on him, provocative, 
 equivocal. . . . 
 
 They talked, very harmoniously. He told them about 
 his trip in dutiful fashion, because he wanted Claudine 
 to know his position. 
 
 "You see," he said. "I've put about everything I 
 
236 THE trNXIT LAMP 
 
 own into this English syndicate. It pays me well, but 
 I put the biggest part of my income back into it again. 
 I calculate that inside the next five years I and three 
 pals of mine can pretty well buy the rest out, and then 
 we expect to turn the thing into a co-operative enterprise, 
 with the workers sharing the profits. Then, of course, 
 I won't get so much as I'm getting now, but I'm getting 
 too much now. But it'll be a good living — ^something 
 more than that — for both of us, for the rest of our 
 lives." 
 
 "But I'm going to work too, you know," said Andree. 
 "I'm going to study a few years more, and then I'll give 
 concerts. All over Europe!" 
 
 "You -won't have much of a home, will you?" asked 
 Claudine. 
 
 "We don't want one!" said Stephens, cheerfully, "I 
 never could see any reasonable connection between — 
 yrell, marriage and housekeeping. Because I — ^love a 
 woman, that doesn't mean I want her to look after my 
 personal needs. I'd hate to see anyone like Andree tied 
 up to a house and a lot of dull, petty details. I'm not 
 igoing to interfere "with her life. Never ! If I can help, 
 I will, but if I can't, at least I won't hinder her." 
 
 "But — " began Claudine, and she was conscious of a 
 slight flush which mortified her. They didn't mind talk- 
 ing of such things! "A home is supposed — ^isn't it? — 
 to be a place for — ^bringing up children." 
 
 "Sure! But that doesn't imply that the mother and 
 Sather have to spend all their time in it. There are 
 people specially qualified to bring up children. Then 
 let 'em do it!" 
 
 "That doesn't seem — " Claudine began, but she 
 
THE CUP IS OFFEEED 237 
 
 stopped. What was the use? Perhaps he was right; if 
 he wasn't, they would soon find out. 
 
 "You'll have to live somewhere," she said. "What 
 will you do?" 
 
 "A suite in a nice, quiet hotel," said Andr^e, "where 
 I can have my piano." 
 
 So there was nothing to prepare for this young bride, 
 no house-linen to mark, no silver to buy. Even her 
 trousseau she insisted upon buying ready-made. Her 
 mother did sew a few little things for her, but she felt 
 all the time, with every stitch, how superfluous they 
 were. There was nothing required of her; she too was 
 superfluous. 
 
 § iii 
 
 They sat in the motor car, well wrapped in furs, hold" 
 iag each other's gloved hands. In the corner was Lance, 
 who was to give Andree away, and facing them, Bertie 
 and Edna. But the mother was not conscious of them; 
 she felt quite alone in the world with her child. 
 
 They had left Gilbert in the most painful way. He 
 couldn't really believe that Andree would so flout Eim; 
 he had continued to hope that at the last moment she 
 would capitulate, and he longed for that moment. He 
 had never asked about the progress of the affair, and 
 Claudine had said nothing until a few days before the 
 wedding. 
 
 "Eemember, Andree," he had said then, "if you do 
 this outrageous, disgraceful thing, I'U never see you or 
 speak to you again." 
 
 And the morning of that day he hadn't gone to his 
 
238 THE UliTLIT LAMP 
 
 offieie; he had remained in the dining-room, after break- 
 fast, smoking and reading the newspaper. Claudine had 
 come in to him. 
 
 "Gilbert!" she had said. "Gilbert! Please, please 
 come to her wedding !, No matter how you feel about it, 
 she's your own — " 
 
 " No ! " he had cried. ' ' I won 't sanction it ! It 's alto- 
 gether wrong, and I won't countenance it ! She's marry- 
 ing a vulgar, underbred cur who's a disgrace to the 
 family . . . the first and only time I saw the fellow he 
 insulted me grossly. She's absolutely disregarded my 
 authority. She's doing this against my wishes, and she 
 knows it!" 
 
 Through the open door of the dining-room he had seen 
 Andree come down the stairs, quite ready, with her hat 
 on. He had gone out into the hall and stood looking at 
 her, with a terrible twinge of pain. 
 
 "Remember!" he said. "If you go out of this house 
 — ^to marry that man, you can never set foot in here 
 again!" 
 
 "I didn't expect to!" she answered, briefly. "Good- 
 by, Father." 
 
 But he would not say good-by, he went back into the 
 dining-room and from behind his paper he saw them all 
 go. It was as if he were being deserted, rebuked by his 
 family. His hand trembled, he bit his mustache. Andree 
 gone ! And gone to her certain unhappiness, .. . . She 
 would be married, and her father would not be standing 
 beside her. ... He couldn't endure it. He sprang up 
 and hurried to his bedroom, in a blind desire to escape 
 his thoughts. But there was no comfort in that silent 
 
THE CUP IS OFFEKED 289 
 
 Konse. He could think of no better refuge than his 
 office. His child had gone "without him. . . . 
 
 "And yet I'm right!" he cried to himself. "I'm 
 tight! I've done what I ought to have done! I've re- 
 fused to sanction this thing!" 
 
 § iv 
 
 Not one of the party gave him a thought. They 
 reached the church and entered, and Mr. Stephens was 
 waiting there, with two friends. No one else had been 
 invited. Like a woman in a dream Claudine went into 
 the vestry with Andree, to take off their furs. 
 
 "Am I all right?" asked Andree. 
 
 "Yes, darling, very nice!" she answered. She wanted 
 to look forever and ever at that girl in her plain dark 
 suit, her small hat, that gallant and heart-breaking young 
 figure. 
 
 Suddenly Andree crushed her in a fierce embrace. 
 
 * ' Mother ! " she said. ' ' Mother ! ' ' 
 
 "Don't cry, my heart's darling!" 
 
 "I won't; just in a minute. . . . Mother, are you sat- 
 isfied — ^now?" 
 
 ' ' Yes, my darling ! ' ' 
 
 "Tell me, Mother — ^I don't understand . . . why do 
 you care so much about this — ^about this ceremony? 
 What does it matter, if we care for each other?" 
 
 "I think it's this, Andree. I think marriage is the 
 only way to impress upon a man what a woman is giving 
 to him. You know— almost all women know — ^how sacred 
 and wonderful and terrible a thing it is. But I don't 
 believe men quite understand. I think they would take 
 
240 THE TJNLIT LAMP 
 
 it very casually — if it weren't made as solemn and im- 
 pressive as — " 
 
 Andrea flushed. 
 
 "It isn't sacred and wonderful!" she said. "I hate 
 that sort of talk so ! I don't want to impress poor little 
 Al with my preciousness. He's just as valuable and good 
 as I am. He gives up just as much." 
 
 "Andree— my baby— if you'll — " 
 
 "Don't give me any advice about managing him!" 
 Baid Andree, with her sudden laugh. "I'll never try! 
 Hadn't we better go in, Mother?" 
 
 Claudine took her seat in a front pew. 
 
 "Now I must sit here and watch this horrible thiug!" 
 she said to herself. "Oh God! Oh God! Do other 
 mothers feel like this? How can they smile? . . . How 
 can they be pleased — and try to make matches? . . . Am 
 I a morbid, perverted woman ? It 's her destiny to marry 
 someone — and he's a kind man. ... I must be glad I" 
 
 She heard their responses, both of their voices steady 
 and clear, both of them making those promises. 
 
 "I must be happy!" she said, again. "It's just the 
 beginning of her life. There is sure to be so much joy 
 and accomplishment in it. . . . This is only one step. 
 ... I must have fortitude. I can't live her life for 
 her. ..." 
 
 She rose, to face the little man's wife. She kissed her 
 pale, sombre face, she clasped his hand. 
 
 "Be happy!" she said. 
 
 Then she looked round in a sort of panic for Bertie. 
 
 "Bertie!" she whispered. "Take me home! Take me 
 home J" 
 
CHAPTER POUR 
 
 THE BBGINNIMQ 
 
 §i 
 
 THAT day she brought an electric tearpot. They 
 laughed when she took it from its box, for she 
 always brought something, she was trjdng to introduce 
 an element of house-keeping into their business-like 
 existence. 
 
 "But it will be very nice," she said. "We can make 
 our tea up here, all by ourselves, just as we like it. And 
 I've brought a box of cakes from Sherry's, the sort you 
 like." 
 
 Andree was sitting at the piano, weary and a little 
 dishevelled. 
 
 ' ' It will be nice, ' ' she said. ' ' Better than going down 
 to the tea-room, or having a tray sent up. . . . Gosh! 
 I've been practicing over two hours!" 
 
 Al smiled. 
 
 "Doesn't she look like a musical genius?" he asked 
 Claudine. "With that hair?" 
 
 "Give me a cake!" said Andree. "Mr. MacGregor 
 Came in last evening. Mother, and we played until some- 
 one downstairs asked us to stop. . . . But this one part 
 of 'Thais' is lovely, even with a piano alone, isn't it? 
 We're going to hear it again to-night." 
 
 241 
 
242 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 Claudine armouneed that the tea was ready and 
 Andree came over to sit beside her on the sofa. Al 
 waited on them with a clumsiness which Claudine found 
 very pitiful ; she saw too that he was attempting an im- 
 provement in manners, not in a shamefaced way, as 
 another man might have done, but carefully and frankly, 
 watching them with earnestness. 
 
 Andr6e rose. 
 
 "Come into the bedroom, won't you, Mother?" she 
 said. 
 
 Claudine followed her into the little room, so bare, 
 so impersonal, and stood for a moment by the window 
 looking out over Central Park, bright under a new fall 
 of snow. 
 
 "It's a rather nice view," she said, politely. 
 
 "Mother, look here, darling! I want you to help me 
 to get up something for Christmas, will you?" 
 
 ' ' Of course I will ! What had you thought of ? " 
 
 "I don't know. . . . Something nice and human. . . . 
 You and Edna and Bertie. . . . Something like old 
 times. . . . How's Father?" 
 
 "Very well. . . ." 
 
 "Does be ever mention my name? Lord! Isn't it 
 romantic? A young bride, cut off by her father. ... I 
 wish there were someone to appreciate the situation — 
 and me." 
 
 "I'm sure Alfred appreciates you, Andree!" 
 
 "Well, he doesn't. He doesn't care about my music, 
 and that's me. He's awfully fond of me, I know that, 
 but he doesn't think I'm really any more important than 
 all the other young females of twenty with black hair. 
 
THE OUP IS OFFEEED 24S 
 
 My 'group,' he'd call it. I -wish he'd think a little more 
 about me, and less about social justice. I'm sick of it !" 
 
 "My dear!" 
 
 "I am ! Not sick of him, but just of his talking. Just 
 imagine! When I've been plajdng extra well, I some- 
 times ask if I've been disturbing him — ^hoping he'll say 
 he liked it. But what do you suppose he does say? 
 'Not a bit! I don't hear it at all when my mind's con- 
 centrated on my work.' He's writing some sort of silly 
 book, you know." 
 
 "You shouldn't call it 'silly,' Andr^e. It's not fair. 
 He's not silly. He's a very intelligent, earnest man." 
 
 "That's the trouble with him! He's too earnest. 
 "When I want to talk to him about nice little things-^ 
 about us — he's always so — oh, so mighty! We're all 
 types, and everything we do is typical of something. 
 Imagine! Last night Bertie brought in Gaston Mat- 
 thews and Johnnie Martinsburgh — darling children — 
 Bertie says it's chic to live like this in a hotel, wthout 
 any squaw atmosphere — and Al would talk to them 
 about his theories. Of course, they listened to him; he's 
 generally interesting enough, but it's — I hated it! I 
 suppose I wanted to do the boring myself, about music. 
 And I know so well what they'd think of him if he 
 weren't rich. . . . They call him eccentric now, but if he 
 were poor!" 
 
 Andree was lying on the bed, her arms clasped behind 
 her head; how — ^intractable she looked, thought her 
 mother ! 
 
 "I'm thoroughly sick of it all! All this busy life. . . . 
 I can't be busy. I don't know how. When I look back 
 on the old days, it seems to me I spent most of my time 
 
244 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 sitting arormd with you or Edna. That's what I want 
 now, but there's no one to sit round with. Even when 
 Al isn't working, he wants to 'take advantage' of his 
 playtime and rush around and see instructive things 
 and—" 
 
 "Andree, it's not kind or wise to dwell so much on his 
 little shortcomings. He has so many, many fine 
 qualities — " 
 
 "He adores you. Mother, do you want to go and talk 
 to him while I'm dressing? It's very unselfish of me, 
 because I want you every moment. . . . And you're right. 
 He is rather wonderful. He's not common inside of 
 him, a bit. I don't believe he ever had a vulgar thought 
 in his head. He's — ^really delicate. He's a nice person 
 to — ^to live with. ... If he only wouldn't talk so much P' 
 
 Claudine went back into the sitting-room and found 
 her son-in-law hard at work with a German magazine 
 and a dictionary. 
 
 "I've taught myself enough German to get the sense 
 out of things," he explained. "We get out a little 
 magazine we call 'Comrades,' with all sorts of stuff in it 
 from the European Socialist papers, as a step toward 
 Internationalism. I'd be satisfied if I could get just that 
 one idea more generally accepted in my lifetime — ^that 
 all the people in the world are just about the same, 
 everywhere, that they all want the same things, and 
 eniffer from the same causes." 
 
 He stopped suddenly. 
 
 "Do you think Andr6e's well and happy?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes. . . . She was speaking about Christmas. She 
 thought it would be nice to have some sort of little 
 celebration." 
 
THE CUP IS OFFERED 245 
 
 "Sure! "We'll invite some people, and I'll reserve a 
 table downstairs in the dining-room — " 
 
 "I don't think that's quite what she meant. I think 
 something more — intimate, Alfred. ..." ' 
 
 "I see ! Then how about having a supper sent up here 
 — champagne and so on?" 
 
 "That would be very nice, of course. . . . But — ^you 
 know she's very young for her years. ... I thought if 
 you and I could arrange a little surprise — a Christmas 
 tree—" 
 
 ' ' Great ! I 've never had one in my life ! ' ' 
 
 "You see, she's always had one, since she was a baby. 
 I suppose it seems silly — " 
 
 "Not to me, it doesn't. It's just one of those nice, 
 pretty little ideas that I fall short in. My one idea is 
 to buy things. It seems so wonderful to buy what you 
 want, I'm not used to it yet. . . . Gosh! You can't 
 imagine how much I learn from you! That's what we 
 need — ^my kind. We need to learn how to live — oh — - 
 poetically, from the people like you. We never get those 
 ideas. We're too darned worried about food. At first 
 I used to be pretty hard and vindictive, and talk about 
 bringing the comfortable people down to earth. But 
 now I'd like to take the other people a little bit of the 
 earth — a little bit up. ' ' 
 
 She thought as she went home in a taxi, what a love- 
 able creature he was. He was everything that she had 
 always imagined a husband ought to be, a comrade, kind, 
 loyal, never interfering, never attempting to impose his 
 own win. Their life was what she had often dreamed 
 of; Andree had freedom combined with love. 
 
246L THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 And yet — ^it wasn't satisfactory; it was so little satis- 
 factory that it frightened her. 
 
 "Somehow," she thought, "all that isn't enough. . . . 
 That bond — ^that tie of sex alone — ^isn't enough. Even 
 love isn't enough. . . . Perhaps there must be more obli- 
 gation with it." 
 
 §ii 
 
 It was a charming Christmas. Claudine had her 
 Christmas dinner decorously at home with her husband 
 and various members of both families; there were all 
 the proper presents and ceremonies, and she was happy. 
 Happy because she could fly to Andr6e in the afternoon. 
 Her visits there were a secret of Polchinelle ; Gilbert 
 never mentioned them, nor Andree. And yet to-day, as 
 she was putting on her hat, he entered the bedroom and 
 gave her a crumpled handful of bills. 
 
 "Buy something for hert" he said. 
 
 She was terribly touched, but she knew better than 
 to show it. 
 
 "I vidll!" she said, brightly. 
 
 After he had gone, she smoothed out the bills and put 
 them into an envelope, on which she wrote — "Prom 
 Father." 
 
 She gave it to Andree with a smile. 
 
 "Is he coming round?" asked Andree. 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 "I didn't expect him to until there was a little grand- 
 child. That would be the proper thing, of course, and 
 Father does love to do the proper thing. ... I wish there 
 was a little grandchild! That would be something im- 
 portant and interesting. Something real." 
 
THE CUP IS OTTEEED 247 
 
 "Andr^e, you're not going to be trying to-day!" 
 
 "No, I'm not! I'm going to be lovely — ^the spirit of 
 Christmas," she said. 
 
 And she was. She was delighted with her glittering 
 little tree, and with all their gifts. She was gay, loving, 
 almost tender. She dominated everything; they all 
 watched her with pleasure, moving about the little room ; 
 they listened while she played for them. At the end 
 of the evening she and Edna and Bertie sang a Christ- 
 mas carol they had learned as children, and it made 
 her cry a little. 
 
 ''Dear people!" she said. "Thank you all, so very 
 much! You've given me such a happy Christmas!" 
 
 No one thought of densdng that it was her Christmas, 
 or that the common object had been her happiness. 
 
 She went out to the lift with them and kissed each 
 one with particular ardour, her mother, her sister, her 
 laughing brother. 
 
 "Good night!" she said, still looking after them, 
 still smiling, as if she could not bear to see them go. 
 
 They were always glad to look back at that Christmas, 
 for they were never to have another like it. 
 
 § iii 
 
 Andree went back into the room where the little man 
 was sitting, under the Christmas tree. She fancied he 
 looked a little disconsolate and forlorn, and her heart 
 smote her. 
 
 " Al ! " she said. ' ' Are you happy ? ' ' 
 
 "Not so Very!" he answered, candidly. 
 
 "But why? Haven't we had a lovely, happy time?" 
 
248 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 "I feel — a miUion miles away from yon," he said. 
 "I wonder if I'll ever get any nearer to you." 
 
 She sat down beside Mm and drew his head down on 
 her shoulder. 
 
 "I wish you wouldn't!" she cried. "It — chills me 
 so ! I want us to be so very near to each other. I must 
 have it so! I can't bear it if you don't understand 
 everything about me. Why did you say that?" 
 
 "To-night," he said, "with this Christmas tree and 
 all — I don't know — ^but you — it seemed to me that you 
 were like a child — ^just playing at life. . . . And I can't 
 play! I never did, in my life. I can tell you, that 
 chilled mel You seem so very young and so pretty, and 
 so — ^heedless — ^that it makes me feel so very old and 
 worn — " 
 
 "You idiot!" she cried, laughing. "It's just the 
 other way! You're a little boy; you're always talking 
 and thinking about such new things, things that come 
 and go. It makes me feel such a wise woman, a sort 
 of Sibyl. I think that's why I love you — ^because you're 
 so awfully earnest and serious about things that I know 
 don't matter." 
 
 "What things don't matter? Human wretchedness 
 and cruelty and pain?" 
 
 "You don't even know what makes human wretched- 
 ness. It isn't poverty. Why, Al, if you could make 
 everyone perfectly comfortable this very night, if you 
 could take away all hunger and want and injustice, it 
 wouldn't give one little bit of happiness to any of the 
 people who had lost someone they loved. It wouldn't 
 help a woman who had lost her man, or a mother who'd 
 lost a baby. That's what you don't know. Nothing 
 
THE CUP IS OFFEEED 249 
 
 can ever, ever be done to spare people their anguish. . . . 
 I always know — it comes across me in my very happiest 
 moments — ^that the day is coming nearer and nearer 
 when we'll have to part — one of us to leave the other 
 forever. . . . What do you think you can do for that?" 
 
 "That's morbid," he said, curtly. "No healthy per- 
 son thinks about death like that." 
 
 But he caught her close to his heart and looked down 
 at her bent head with troubled eyes, stroked her soft 
 hair with an uncertain hand. 
 
 "I've never heard you talk like this," he said. "I 
 don't like it, darling! Don't you believe that we'll 
 meet again — afterward?" 
 
 "It doesn't matter. It wouldn't do any good, even 
 if we knew. People who do believe that suffer just as 
 much. More, I think, because they haven't as much 
 fortitude as the ones who don't believe. Look at you. 
 You think all these miserable people are going to be 
 made happy somewhere after they're dead, but it doesn't 
 seem to give you much comfort." 
 
 "I don't look at it that way, Andree. The world 
 seems to me like a — sort of school, and I want to see 
 everyone get a chance to learn all there is to know, in 
 decency and — dignity, before it's over." 
 
 "Maybe your way isn't a good way. Maybe they 
 learn more as things are." 
 
 "Injustice never teaches anyone anything but resent- 
 ment and malice." 
 
 "I'm going to play!" she said, suddenly. "Oh, Al! 
 All Why didn't you let me be happy? It may be 
 only for such a little while !" 
 
 "I didn't mean to make you unhappy! I wouldn't 
 
250 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 for anything^ in the world. I'm sorry! Don't play! 
 That damned music sets you all on edge. Stay here and 
 talk to me!" 
 
 "I'm tired of talking. . . . Al, you take up too much 
 time! I'll never amount to anything with you around. 
 You're always bursting into my nice, quiet little art 
 world, and you're so earnest and busy and disturbing!" 
 
 "I know it!" he said, contritely. "It's one of my 
 limitations, old girl. I don't appreciate art in any 
 shape. I don't take it seriously. But I do take you 
 and your development seriously. Very seriously. You 
 go ahead with your own work, and I'll try to shut up 
 about mine. We'll let each other alone, and just love 
 each other." 
 
 ' ' Love 's a terrible disturbance ! ' ' 
 
 ' ' It shouldn 't be. It ought to be peace and completion. 
 It's a help to me. Why, do you know, I have ten years' 
 work planned out — ^three books. I have the data ready, 
 but I haven't begun them yet. I've never worked so 
 well in my life. And it's simply, because I've found you, 
 after looking for you all my life." 
 
 She smiled at him. 
 
 "But you see, I never expected you!" she said. "I 
 never looked for you! You're a surprise — and a 
 nuisance ! ' ' 
 
 She seized his hair in both hands and pulling down 
 his head, kissed him roughly. 
 
 "And yet I suppose you're a sort of help," she said. 
 "Because I'm determined to astonish you. I'm going 
 to spoil all your nice peace and satisfaction, and trouble 
 you and worry you and make you think about me and 
 nothing else!" 
 
THE CUP IS OFFEEED 251 
 
 "Perhaps I'm still a little dazzled and stupid by 
 having got you," he said. "But don't think for a 
 moment I take you for granted. You're the greatest 
 wonder in the world to me. You're not the companion 
 woman I thought I wanted. You're not a pal. You'll 
 never be a friend. You're strange to me, and you always 
 will be. When I look at you, I see some sense in poetry. 
 I know what those fellows mean with that woman- 
 worship I used to hate so." 
 
 "I am a friend to you!" 
 
 "Oh, no,' you're not! You don't care a rap about 
 my work and my plans. I don't exactly want you to. 
 You haven't anything to do with everyday life. You're 
 — ^you're my love." 
 
 "I'm afraid I'll have to be awfully nice," she said, 
 "not to spoil all that." 
 
 "No. It doesn't matter what you do. You couldn't 
 change what I love so in you. It's eternal." 
 
 "Till death do us part!" she said, with a sombre 
 little smile. 
 
 "And after," he added. 
 
CHAPTER FIVE 
 
 THE HOUSEWARMING 
 
 §i 
 
 AL' didn't say what lie thought; it seemed to him a 
 singularly infelicitous time for that. He was 
 beginning to learn the rudiments of a lamentable sort 
 of tact; he followed Andr6e about the new flat and 
 admired all that was pointed out to him; seven rooms 
 and two baths, fronting on Riverside Drive, all fur- 
 nished now and ready for their installation. Claudine 
 had so urged them to have a home that she had won 
 over Andree, and according to his principle, he had 
 yielded to Andree. He said to himself, in his customary 
 struggle to square facts with ideas, that it might be a 
 woman's instinct to have a home, and he was prepared 
 to admit that women had almost all the instincts left 
 to the race. He couldn't quite classify the instinct 
 that made her spend so much money on the furnish- 
 ings; she wasn't ostentatious, didn't do it to "show 
 off" — a thing he could have understood — she didn't 
 do it for him, nor was comfort her object. It was, he 
 decided, her artistic desire for beauty. 
 
 Personally, he was ashamed of it. Riverside Drive 
 itself had long been for him a sort of symbol; many, 
 many times he had come to sit there and feast his eyes 
 
 252 
 
THE CUP IS OFFERED 253 
 
 upon the opulent women with their pet dogs. As a fat 
 man in a white vest and a silk hat typified the Capitalist, 
 so was a stout, well-dressed woman with a Pomeranian 
 the outward and visible sign of all this inward corrup- 
 tion of private life. He saw many such from his win- 
 dows ; there had been one that day in the very lift with 
 him. 
 
 On the question of servants he had been firm. And 
 had been diddled. 
 
 "No," he said. "I can't have people paid to wait 
 on my personal wants." 
 
 "People wait on you in hotels," said Andree. 
 
 "Professionally," he said. "They serve the public, 
 not me." 
 
 "But if we don't have servants, how can we be free 
 to do our work?" 
 
 "That's one of the reasons these private homes are 
 so bad, ' ' he said. ' ' It means nothing but an autocratic — " 
 
 "I know," said Andree, hastily. "Well, then, we 
 can go out to dinner every night, and we'll have a 
 visiting maid and a Jap for a few hours every day. 
 They can still be serving some more of the public when 
 they're not with us." 
 
 "That's nothing but compromise. But it's better 
 than having anyone's life entirely given up to our per- 
 sonal service. I suppose it's a necessary part of — all 
 this," he said, looking about his domain. He was in- 
 wardly miserable and humiliated; Andree knew it, but 
 she felt that he would soon enough get used to it. She 
 wanted beauty and luxury about her, and she con- 
 sidered that several grosser souls might well be occupied 
 in ministering to her. 
 
254 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 "Servants aren't unhappy, Al," she said, "if they're 
 well treated." 
 
 "No, I dare say they're not. Neither are kept women. 
 Or imbeciles," he replied. He suppressed the rest of his 
 thoughts, in deference to Andree's instincts, both fem- 
 inine and artistic. As a woman she was apparently 
 obliged to have a home, and as an artist, it had to be this 
 sort of home. He was conscious himself of a very 
 unreasonable instinct to give her everything she wanted ; 
 he consoled himseK by the reflection that this desire to 
 please women was what stimulated men to supreme 
 effort — a condition which gave more credit tq his sex 
 than to hers, he thought. He had by this time almost 
 entirely discarded his idea that men and women were 
 not very different, were all simply human beings. He 
 considered it generously; which, he asked himself, was 
 the true normal human being, Man or "Woman? Not 
 both of them. . . . 
 
 "Perhaps what we call feminine traits are the really 
 human ones," he thought. "Woman's compassion, her 
 intuition, her flexibility. . . . Our masculine justice and 
 logic may be aberrations from the normal. . . . Women 
 are primarily concerned with realty — birth, love, 
 death—" 
 
 Only Andree was not. He felt discouraged, and 
 went into his brand new bedroom to dress for this party 
 he so dreaded. He had flatly refused to wear a dinner 
 jacket — and not entirely from principle, either. Andree 
 had been unexpectedly nice about it. She came into his 
 room now as he stood before the mirror in his shirt 
 sleeves, and rumpled his wiry hair. 
 
 "That's the way you ought to wear it," she said, 
 
THE CUP IS OFFEEED 255 
 
 laughing. "Every inch a Socialist! But you are a 
 darliag." 
 
 He saw her in the mirror, and it gave him a shock. 
 She was lovely, radiant, in a low cut frock of silver 
 cloth; he might have admired her impersonally on the 
 stage. But as Mrs. Al Stephens, as his wife and com- 
 rade, it made his heart sink. He fastened his low 
 collar and made a neat little bow of his neck-tie. . . . 
 The two clear eyed and fearless comrades who were to 
 face life together — to solve problems of living — ^this 
 earnest young man in a blue serge suit, and this slender, 
 seductive creature in silver. 
 
 "My God!" he said to himself. "The Life Urge 
 works the wrong way — no doubt about it. It's against 
 progress and clear thinking." 
 
 He was not given to facile caresses ; he only looked at 
 Andree, with eyes sombre and doubtful. 
 
 "Am I outrageous?" she asked, smiling, utterly sure 
 of her power. "Would you rather I had short hair and 
 wore a red flannel blouse?" 
 
 "I don't know . . ."he answered, with a sigh. "I'm 
 no better and no worse than lots of others ... I'd be 
 damned eternally for you." 
 
 She threw her arms about his neck and kissed him. 
 
 ' ' That 's dear of you ! ' ' she cried. ' ' Only I don 't want 
 you to be. I don't want to be a drag on you." 
 
 "A drag," he repeated, thoughtfully. She appeared 
 to him not at all a drag, but a terrific impetus — ^in the 
 wrong direction. 
 
256 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 §ii 
 
 Mr. MacGregor was watching Andree with mild amuse- 
 ment. He had pupils who played better than she, who 
 were undoubtedly more gifted, but he had never had 
 one of whom he expected a more brilliant future. He 
 was careful not to teU her that not through talent 
 alone would she conquer, that, on the contrary, her 
 greatest advantage was something quite different. It 
 lay in her extraordinary and provocative charm. He 
 believed that her beauty, the ardour and grace of her 
 playing might atone for certain undeniable imperfec- 
 tions not only in technic, but in interpretation, a certain 
 perilous latitude, an alarming tendency to anarchistic 
 originality. She was standing in the centre of a group 
 of her guests, all men, as befitted her; she was listening 
 with her moody, unsmiling air, quite indifferent to any 
 whisper of admiration. She knew very well how to take 
 care of herself; she had her own particular sort of rude- 
 ness, an odd, innocent sort of bluntness; she wasn't in 
 the least like a married woman. Mr. MacGregor was 
 glad of this, because her husband was a grave error, and 
 it was necessary to keep him in the background. Fort- 
 unately, he seemed willing to stay there; he appeared to 
 be neither jealous nor uxurious. Mr. MacGregor had 
 told her that if she wished to appear in public she 
 couldn't possibly be called Mrs. Stephens, and he hoped 
 that she would have sufficient tact not to look or to be- 
 have like Mrs. Stephens either. 
 
 He was approached by Claudine, who had a secret 
 atonement to make; he understood how she felt; she 
 had, in the matter of Andree, gone farther and fared 
 
THE CUP IS OFFEEED 257 
 
 worse. He was sorry for her, for having sent him away 
 and thus left the field to Stephens. He liked Claudine; 
 she was one of those agreeable people who took every- 
 thing for granted and never said what she meant ; there 
 was a feeling of security in talking to her. She looked 
 charming that evening because she was happy, bright 
 with pride in her marvelous children. She was en- 
 thralled by Andree in her beautiful dress ; this was how 
 she liked to see her; Andree was born to be worshipped. 
 The somewhat scandalous Sevan Martinsburgh stood be- 
 side her, and obviously approved. He was a fair, very 
 tall young fellow of twenty-eight, casual, magnificent, 
 good-humouredly regal; he had a habit of looking down 
 from his great height into adoring feminine eyes up- 
 lifted — ^Andree 's were not. He approved all the more. 
 She was the only girl present who was making no effort 
 to attract; she had the attitude of her father in his 
 young days; it was for others to please her. She was 
 notably unresponsive, not even critical. The conquering 
 Bevan compared her with Vi Sidell, who was quite as 
 good-looking and apparently as indifferent, but Vi's was 
 a false indifference which covered a smouldering readi- 
 ness to be pleased. Vi was insolent, while Andree was 
 only distrait. He had known Andree more or less all her 
 life, but never before had he bestowed attention upon her. 
 It was her cachet; Claudine saw it as such. She couldn't 
 help a little pang of regret at the sight of Al in his blue 
 suit, off in a corner talking to that eccentric Cyril Smith 
 — talking so much and so earnestly. Of course. Smith 
 always looked blank and supercilious like that; and 
 never answered, but she had an unpleasant conviction 
 that he must be bored and indignant. He surely hadn't 
 
258 THE UNLIT I>AMP 
 
 come that evening for this. It was, she reflected, like 
 the wedding guests and the Ancient Mariner, only that 
 Al's tale was frequently by no means absorbingly inter- 
 esting. No one else paid the least attention to the host ; 
 it really wasn't right. She smiled brightly at Mr. Mac- 
 Gregor, but her mind was on the Breath of Life. She 
 saw him run his fingers through his hair in that familiar 
 gesture, making himself so untidy and so touching. It 
 was cruel to put him here, where none of his good quali- 
 ties were visible. . . . Her belief, never shaken by experi- 
 ence or observation, that in a marriage, one or the other 
 of the couple would inevitably change and conform to 
 the other, was slightly disturbed at that moment. What 
 if Alfred never became less opinionated, or Andree more 
 amenable? If they didn't change . . .? 
 
 She was glad as a relief from this oppressive fancy 
 to look at Edna with that young Malloy. He was en- 
 tirely right. He had been brought over by Mr. Quillen 
 from the English branch of the Line, and was reputed 
 as promising; he was altogether a gentleman, and very 
 handsome, and there was about him a romantic air which 
 charmed her mother heart. When he first arrived in the 
 country he had been instantly smitten by the graceless 
 Vi Sidell, but quite of his own accord he had turned 
 toward the simpler charms of little Edna. They were 
 progressing slowly; Edna was not the sort to smite; she 
 grew on you little by little, with her thoughtful, gracious 
 air, and her infantile, dimpled smile. That would be 
 such a good thing. . . . 
 
 Bertie too was entirely reassuring. He was never in- 
 fatuated, like those other silly boys; he had a gallant 
 and delightful air, but it hid a secret indifference. He 
 
THE CUP IS OFFERED 259 
 
 always knew what he was doing; he was no passionate 
 fool, that boy of hers. He could be silly enough, but 
 never without a certain grace ; it was impossible for him 
 to be ridiculous. He had characteristically passed over 
 all the younger and prettier girls and concerned himself 
 with poor Phyllis Jenkins, who already at twenty-five 
 had learned not to take anyone seriously. She was 
 penniless; years ago this had had a sort of romantic 
 appeal, and she had been many times on the point of 
 becoming engaged, to quite nice men. But that has its 
 limits; it was a horrible fact, now, known to all men, 
 that to be engaged to Phyllis Jenkins would be a joke. 
 She knew it herself, and was obliged to be sprightly. 
 She was an angular, almost pretty girl, nervously viva- 
 cious; she had had to be grateful so much that it had 
 rather worn her down. She was wearing a superfluous 
 bouquet of Edna's and a necklace universally recognized 
 as a former possession of Mrs. Arnold's; she had come 
 with the Sidells in their motor and someone else would 
 be morally obliged to take her home. Let Bertie flatter 
 and cajole her as much as he wished; it did him only 
 credit and no harm. 
 
 It is probable that no one else enjoyed the evening 
 quite so much as Claudine. Andree was an inexperi-^ 
 enced hostess and by no means solicitous for the pleasure 
 of her guests. There was a sort of formality and stiff- 
 ness that didn't wear off; there was dancing — ^Bertie 
 saw to that — ^but it was dutiful and polite. The supper, 
 provided waiters and all, by Santi, was good enough, 
 but trite; Andree lacked all hostess alchemy. Only 
 Claudine retained the joyous air of a proud mother at a 
 children's party. 
 
260 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 At last it "was over. Bertie had taken Phyllis home, 
 everyone had gone but Claudine and Edna and the 
 attentive Malloy. Andree stood yawning by the piano.- 
 
 "I'm glad it's over," she said, frankly. 
 
 "It was very nice," said her mother. "Where is 
 Alfred?" 
 
 "I don't know. He went out with Cjnril Smith long 
 ago," Andree answered, carelessly. Claudine didn't 
 like that; she frowned slightly, but the presence of 
 Malloy restrained her from speaking further. She kissed 
 her beloved child and prepared to go; she took it for 
 granted that the young man was coming with them, but 
 Edna, with a nice perception for the psychologic moment 
 for parting, thought otherwise. She and Malloy had 
 had a little conversation to which she desired no anti- 
 climax. 
 
 "Good night, Mr. Malloy," she said, with a smile 
 there was no mistaking. The young man looked after 
 her, astonished and rueful. He was for the moment 
 forgetful of Andree. 
 
 "That's that," he said aloud. 
 
 Andree laughed, and he turned quickly; the light of a 
 red-shaded lamp gave a strange lustre to her silver dress ; 
 she was sitting in a big chair, with her hands clasped 
 behind her head, and she looked — she looked very unlike 
 a Vincelle, he thought. 
 
 "Sit down, if you like," she said, "and smoke a 
 cigarette before you go." 
 
 He was willing enough to do thaf. 
 
 "I thought I was taking them home," he observed, 
 "but it seems I wasn't." 
 
THE CUP IS OFFEEED 261 
 
 "Edna's like that," said Andree, smiling. "Mis- 
 leading. ' ' 
 
 He considered that the privilege of pretty girls. He 
 was a chivalrous and rather artless young fellow, with 
 a kind and susceptible heart; he was a little vain and 
 unduly anxious to please ; he was what would have been 
 called a "flirt" in Claudine's day, with all the innocence 
 the word implied. He gratified Andree 's aesthetic eye; 
 he was faultless, an ornament to the room. He was sup- 
 ple and tall, with a punctilious grace; he had a dark, 
 lean face which might have been too regular in its beauty 
 but for the attractive defects of cheek-bones that were 
 too high and an upper lip a trifle too long. Andree had 
 long ago put him down as stupid as an owl, and had 
 expressed to her mother her dislike for the way he 
 "hovered" about Edna. 
 
 "He's like a stage lover," she had said. 
 
 But to-night she was tired, and his stupidity was 
 agreeable; moreover she was annoyed at Al and wished 
 to keep this handsome creature sitting here until he 
 returned, to punish him. 
 
 He talked about her music, and very agreeably re- 
 membered all the various times he had heard her play, 
 and gave her ardent praise. 
 
 "Oh, but you're not a critic," she said. 
 
 "No," he said, looking at her with a smile. "I'm 
 certainly not a critic — of you." 
 
 It was agreeable of him, she thought, not to be serious, 
 like Al, but to be frankly interested, just in her. She 
 offered him a cigarette from a box on the table and 
 lighted one herself. 
 
 'Al's late," she observed. "I suppose he's gone to 
 
 " 
 
262 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 a meeting. He can't keep away from them. . . . Are 
 you a Socialist, Mr. MaJloy?" 
 
 "I don't really know what a Socialist is. I may be 
 one without knowing it. But I'm afraid I'm frivolous." 
 
 "You're in business, though. That justifies you. I've 
 heard often enough from Father what a prodigious 
 struggle that is!" 
 
 "I've dabbled in music, too." 
 
 "What a horrible thing to say!" 
 
 "I'm not a bit ashamed of it. If you asked me, I'd 
 sing for you." 
 
 "I couldn't accompany you now. I'm too tired." 
 
 "I accompany myself." 
 
 "Go ahead then ! But don't forget that I om a critic ! " 
 
 "You'd never have the heart to criticize my artless 
 efforts." 
 
 He sat down at the piano and began playing in a 
 loose, execrable style which made her frown. But when 
 he began to sing, her frown vanished. He had a de- 
 lightful voice, true, strong, and full of touching fervour. 
 He emphasized his Irishness, he sang old Irish ballads, 
 exactly as they should be sung. . . . 
 
 Andree, leaning back in her chair and listening, was 
 half amused at her own pleasure. 
 
 "Have I 'worked up' this mood?" she reflected. 
 "What a darling he is! I'll be glad to have him i^ the 
 family. . . . He'll be a nice foil for little rumpled Al." 
 
 With his strong and tender voice still sounding in her 
 ears, she held out her hand to bid him good-by. And 
 perhaps without quite meaning it, she gave him a glance 
 that went to his head. She saw him kindle, and she 
 smiled, withdrawing her hand. 
 
THE CUP IS OFFERED 263 
 
 "Indeed I didn't want to criticize!" ste said. "It 
 was very lovely!" 
 
 "You'd inspire a donkey!" he cried. 
 
 "Don't be a donkey!" she said, laughing. "It's late. 
 You'd better go" 
 
 "May I come again?" 
 
 "Of course!" she answered, and almost without 
 meaning it, smiled again, a little too nicely. 
 
 ' ' You 're wonderful, " he cried, impulsively. ' ' Like — ' ' 
 
 "I know," she interrupted, laughing. "Never mind! 
 Good night!" 
 
 "I shouldn't have been like that," she reflected, when 
 he had gone. It had been the most insignificant little 
 conversation in the world, and yet it took on the aspect 
 of a betrayal. She was really uneasy about it; she 
 wandered about the room, waiting for Al, in a most 
 unpleasant frame of mind. Certainly she hadn't said 
 or done anything to feel guilty about ; it must have been 
 some secret mutiny in her heart of which she was only 
 half aware. 
 
 "Very silly of me," she said, almost surprised. "It 
 might help Edna. ... He's a dilatory suitor. ... I 
 can talk a lot about her, in an artful way. ... If I see 
 him again. . . ." 
 
CHAPTER SIX 
 
 DISCORDS 
 § 1 
 
 '•'rpWICE in one day," thought Al. "It won't do! 
 
 X We can 't go on like this ! ' ' 
 
 He was walking up and down that bedroom he so 
 hated, with its silly little four post bed and the thick 
 carpet, and the offensive, dainty imitation masculinity of 
 it — a woman's idea of a ni^n's room. Two little blue 
 shaded electric lamps, a fool of a little table — ^he kicked 
 at the table as he passed it, and Andree's photograph 
 on it fell down. He was profoundly disturbed, not so 
 much angry as dismayed. Trapped; no way of getting 
 out. . . . 
 
 ' ' Why, damn it all ! " he cried. ' ' I can 't be like this ! 
 This isn't me! This isn 't what I meant ! We are inter- 
 fering — every hour of the day, with each other. It 
 pron't do!" 
 
 The first thing had been his fault, he admitted; he 
 shouldn't have been so vehement, or so hasty. But it 
 had been the sort of thing hardest of all for him to 
 endure with patience. 
 
 He had gone into the kitchen, where he was not ex- 
 pected to go, because he had been hungry at a wrong 
 time, and there he had seen a hideous thing. It might 
 
 264 
 
THE CUP IS OFFEEED 265 
 
 have looked to other people like a char-woman serubbing 
 the floor, but to him it was very much more than that. 
 She didn't even look up ; what concern was it of hers 
 who came and went in this house? She was a wretched 
 little old woman ; he stood in the doorway looking down 
 at her, at the tiny knob of white hair on her bony skull, 
 her narrow shoulders working stifSy, at her clumsy 
 hands pushing the brush back and forth. She breathed 
 hard from her puny effort; she tried to appear more 
 vigorous when she heard someone enter, being well aware 
 that for the char-women of the world effort is accounted 
 of more worth than accomplishment. He stared and 
 stared at her, crawling slowly on her hands and knees, 
 doing this work in the stupidest and cruellest way. . . . 
 On the kitchen table her lunch was set out for her on a 
 newspaper by the superior visiting maid; no one would 
 come near her or speak to her ; she was shut up here to 
 scrub alone. 
 
 "Here! Get up!" he said, abruptly. 
 
 She looked round with bleared and watery eyes. 
 
 "Get up!" he said, again. 
 
 "But I ain't done," she protested. 
 
 "Get up !" he shouted. He could not tolerate for one 
 instant longer the sight of this old creature at his feet ; 
 it was obscene. She clutched at the table and pulled 
 herself to her feet. 
 
 "I can do it, if yer ,give me time," she said, with 
 quivering indignation. "If I take longer, I don't charge 
 so much." 
 
 Al knew everything in the world about her; she was 
 the typical "case"; he knew where and how she lived, 
 what she earned and how she spent it. He cross- 
 
266 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 examined her and she answered him mendaciously, but 
 he was able to sift the truth from the lies. 
 
 "Now, see here," he said. "You're sixty-five or so." 
 She declared, for working purposes, that she was fifty. 
 "You've earned a rest. You've worked all your life." 
 
 "I'm able — " she began. 
 
 "You're not. Now, see here! I want you to go home 
 — ^now. I'll see that you get a living allowance from — 
 from a certain source every week. It's not charity, d'you 
 understand, not charity. It's what you have a right to 
 demand from society. You can consider me the agent 
 of society." 
 
 Her education was incomplete and she did not under- 
 stand the meaning of his terms, 
 
 "The Society give me coal last winter," she observed. 
 "I didn't never—" 
 
 He didn't trouble to explain that he represented noth- 
 ing more than impartial justice. 
 
 "Take this now and go home," he said. "And for 
 God's sake, don't go crawling round scrubbing up any- 
 one else's floors, ever! Get drunk, if you want — " 
 
 "Oh, I never, never, never — " 
 
 "It's better," he said. "Better than this. It'U be 
 your money — ^the allowance you'll get. Little enough, 
 but you can waste it any way you like. Try to live. ' ' 
 
 From behind the kitchen door she took down a heart- 
 breaking fuzzy black cape trimmed with jet, and the dis- 
 reputable ghost of a hat ; she tucked the money he gave 
 her into a tremendous hand-bag and retied the clasps 
 with string. She was not grateful, any more than one is 
 grateful for sunshine; in an inexplicable world these 
 benefits came sometimes upon the just and the unjust. 
 
THE CUP IS OFFEEED 267 
 
 She had had a neighbor, mother of nine children, who 
 had been miraculously sent off to the sea-side for two 
 weeks of rest out of forty years of life; she knew of 
 other things like that. She was only in a hurry to get 
 away before further investigation revealed little weak- 
 nesses that might repel the Agent of Society. 
 
 Al had gone to his wife about this, and she had been 
 angry. 
 
 "Who's going to finish the floor?" she demanded. 
 "Jennie won't do that rough work." 
 
 "I don't care if it's never finished. I won't have that 
 sort of thing in my house. It's just what I'd give my 
 life to put an end to. It's — " 
 
 "I suppose you'd admire me if I did it?" 
 
 "Yes, I should," he answered. "You're better able 
 to do it than that poor old skeleton." 
 
 "I don't care much about your admiration," said 
 Andr^e, slowly. " This is j/owr house, is it ? Not mine? 
 That's just the way Father talks. 'My' house ... '7' 
 won't have this and that — " 
 
 "I didn't mean to be arbitrary," he said, quickly 
 contrite. "Only, don't you see . . .?" 
 
 He went on, to explain. Andree could, as usual, see 
 his point of view, but she didn't agree. 
 
 "She's a wretched, drunken old creature," she said. 
 
 "But, damn it aU, why shouldn't she be?" he cried. 
 "What's that got to do with it? You know plenty of 
 people who drink, but you don't suggest condemning 
 them to servitude for life, do you?" 
 
 "If you want to run the house, you can," she said. 
 "You can settle this now. Jennie won't finish that floor, 
 and I certainly won't." 
 
268 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 "Then I will," he said, and he did. Andree hated 
 him for that; she was not too aloof to be unconcerned 
 with what Jennie would think and say of that perform- 
 ance. 
 
 They had lunch in absolute silence; and yet, little by 
 little, they were weakening. They were neither of them 
 quarrelsome or resentful, and they had a marked respect 
 for each other 's obstinacy. One hour more would prob- 
 ably have seen them reconciled and laughing, if Tomlin- 
 son and Bucks hadn't appeared. These comrades were 
 more than Andree could endure; she had in the begin- 
 ning made a frigid attempt to be polite on Al's account, 
 but her politeness was neither desired nor understood. 
 Tomlinson was a big, stout, brutal fellow with a jaw 
 shaved blue; he didn't hesitate to express his opinion 
 of Al's mode of living, and he did it profanely. 
 
 "How the hell you expect to have any influence?" 
 he shouted. "You f reach one thing and you practise 
 another. You and your — — flat and your servants and- 
 your fine clothes ! ' ' 
 
 He was a professional Socialist, a politician; he was 
 honest enough in his aims, but quite otherwise in his 
 methods. He had to consult Al frequently, because Al. 
 had a considerable personal following in various clubs; 
 and centrals, and was quicker and more intelligent than 
 he. He admired Al; he told him frankly enough of his. 
 shadiest transactions, because Al, although tiresomely. 
 honourable, knew life and was not squeamish. He wanted 
 him now to accept a nomination on their ticket, which 
 Al refused. He had a great many reasons for refusing 
 and Tomlinson a great many for his accepting; it was 
 
THE CUP IS OrrEEED 269 
 
 a very loud and furious argument, although neither 
 of them was really angry. 
 
 Bucks didn't enter into it. He was a bald, scholarly 
 little man with a full brown beard, a sort of secretary 
 and mentor to Tomlinson. He rarely talked; he sat and 
 smiled and watched, and was ready to give data at any 
 moment. Andree would have rather liked him for his 
 mildness and courtesy, if his collars had been cleaner; 
 she was not constituted to rise above that. 
 
 She shut herself into her room while they stayed this 
 day; every sound of that loud discussion reached her, 
 and filled her with rage and disgust. And then, to cap it — 
 
 "It's your wife!" shouted Tomlinson. "That's what 
 it is! Your* damn society lady with her fine airs — ^that's 
 what's ruining you!" 
 
 "You shut up and mind your own business!" said 
 Al, and no more than that, no other defense or praise 
 of her. 
 
 Perhaps she didn't realize how tired he was, or how 
 secretly guilty Tomlinson 's reproaches had made him, 
 for after the comrades had gone, she took occasion to 
 speak her mind, and she found him unusually irritable. 
 They took a long stride forward in frankness that after- 
 noon. She called him vulgar and coarse, and he said 
 she was idle and selfish. 
 
 All this Al ranembered now, walking up and down 
 tiie room. 
 
 "It mustn't be this way," he thought. "It must not 
 be. And I'm the one to change it. I'm older — ^I'm re- 
 sponsible. I knew there 'd be difficulties — ^it's my job 
 to explain and to reason, and not to quarrel with her. 
 There must be some common ground. ..." 
 
270 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 "And even if there isn't," he went on. "Even if we 
 never think alike, it needn't matter. Good God ! Haven't 
 I enough restraint and common decency to get along 
 with the woman I love, even if she has different opinions? 
 Let her be herself!" 
 
 He washed his flushed face in cold water and brushed 
 his unruly hair ; he subdued his spirit, and went to look 
 for Andree. He found her in the library, dressed for 
 the street, drawing on her gloves. 
 
 "Going out?',' he asked, unnecessarily. 
 
 She said "Yes," curtly, and then her heart melted; 
 he looked so neat and subdued and good. 
 
 "I'm going for a walk," she said. "Do you want to 
 come?" 
 
 They went out together into the bright Winter air; 
 but try as they would, no words of reconciliation came 
 from either of them. No words at all. . . . 
 
 Was it some subtle reflection of her own mood that 
 made him feel so wretched ? He was quite as tall as she, 
 he was properly dressed, he carried himself well, he was 
 strong, vigorous, not bad looking. Why then should he 
 feel so small, and so — ^he had no other word for it — 
 so cheap — as he walked beside her that day? Of course 
 she was beautiful, but she always had been; of course 
 she was proud and a little disdainful, but that also was 
 nothing new. She looked very lovely in her furs ; he saw 
 people turn to look at her. . . . And suddenly, as plainly 
 as if she had spoken the words, he knew that she was 
 ashamed of him. 
 
 He stopped short. 
 
 "I forgot . . ."he said. "There's something I must 
 finish. I'll go back." 
 
THE CUP IS OFFEEED 271 
 
 She made no attempt to dissuade him, she let him go 
 without a word, with a smile which he knew was one of 
 relief. When he turned back, he saw her, still walking 
 down the drive, a distinguished and beautiful creature. 
 
 "Snob!" he said to 'himself. "Vain, fickle, cold- 
 hearted snob! She didn't want me with her. She 
 doesn't give a damn where I go, or what I do." 
 
 A terrible grief assailed him, which he imagined was 
 anger. 
 
 "I might have known it!" he told himself. "They're 
 all alike — her sort. Pampered and flattered. ..." 
 
 He struggled desperately back to justice. 
 
 "I'm making a mountain out of a molehill. . . . She 
 simply wanted to be alone. . . . Nothing very bad in 
 that! . . . She's only a kid, after all. . . . She cared 
 enough for me to marry me. . . . She does care for me ! " 
 
 §ii 
 
 If he had been able to measure the molehill, he might 
 not have been so sure of exaggeration. Andree went on 
 as if she could never walk enough, block after block, 
 until the sun had gone, and twilight come, and lights 
 began to glitter. She stopped in at the Plaza for a cup 
 of tea. 
 
 "I'm ashamed of him! I'm ashamed of him!" she 
 said to herself. "I'd be ashamed to have him here, with 
 me. I only like him when we're alone. I can't bear for 
 other people to see him. It's like a nasty secret — 
 amour. ... It degrades me. . . . Oh, I ought to have had 
 more pride than to throw myself away on a common 
 little man like that ! Oh, why didn 't someone stop me ? " 
 
272 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 § iii 
 
 The next afternoon, at exactly the same hour, she was 
 walking down Fifth Avenue with Malloy, and with him, 
 went again into the Plaza for tea, no doubt to vindicate 
 her pride. 
 
 And if it was a test, it was successful, for she was not 
 ashamed of him. 
 
CHAPTER SEVEN 
 
 THE PASTBY-COOK'S DAUQHTEB 
 
 §i 
 
 CLATJDINB mounted the front steps with an unusual 
 languor. 
 
 "I'm afraid I'm going to be ill," she thought. "This 
 cold hangs on so. ... I must have some hot tea and lie 
 down." 
 
 To teU the truth, she would not reaUy have been sorry 
 to be ill. It would have been a respite from the night- 
 mare life of the past weeks. Nothing but worry and dis- 
 tress about her son, nothing but disgraceful quarrels 
 between him and his father, and an exasperation and 
 irritability on the part of Gilbert which terrified her. 
 He blamed her for everything, for his disappointment in 
 the boy, for the costly folly of the boy's existence. 
 Claudine was neither able to quarrel nor to keep silent. 
 She felt obliged to defend Bertie, to make excuses for 
 him, she even told lies for him, and paid his debts her- 
 self when she was able. Gilbert frequently fouud this 
 out, and said that she deceived him treacherously, which 
 was true. She was not at all contrite; she knew that 
 with Bertie threats and bluster were of no use whatever ; 
 one had either to convince him by reasoning — which she 
 
 273 
 
274 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 was incapable of — or to win him through his affection, 
 which was what she tried to do. She knew that he loved 
 her perhaps more than anyone else had ever loved her. 
 
 "How can you bear to make me so unhappy, Bertie!" 
 she had asked him. 
 
 "It isn't me that makes you unhappy. Mammy," he 
 had answered. "It's Father. You wouldn't worry 
 about me, if he didn't make you. You know I'm all 
 right — a heart of gold under a rough exterior. A harm- 
 less buffoon. I'm just consciously being wild, as is 
 proper for my years. It's all Father's fault." 
 
 She acknowledged to herself, with some surprise, that 
 he was right. Left to herself, she would not have worried 
 over Bertie ; there was a quality in even his most grave 
 follies, a grace, an innate delicacy which in her eyes 
 quite redeemed them. He didn't love his vices, he played 
 with them. 
 
 She rang the bell, and the door was opened instantly, 
 not by the maid, but by Bertie himiself . 
 
 "Hello, Mammy!" he cried. "I've been waiting for 
 you! Your tea's ready!" 
 
 She followed him into the front room, and found it 
 charmingly prepared for her. He had lighted the gas 
 logs, and had drawn up before the blaae a little gUt 
 table never before used for such a purpose, on which 
 he had arranged a silver tea-service always kept in state 
 on the dining-room sideboard, and a bowl of red car- 
 nations. 
 
 "Why, Bertie!" she cried. "How dear of you!" 
 
 "Wasn't it? Sit down. Mammy, and try a cake!" 
 
 "My dear boy! Did you btiy the flowers and cakes 
 for me yourself?" 
 
THE CUP IS OFEEEED 275 
 
 "I bought the flowers. The cakes were a gage of love. 
 Mammy, lookin' about you, don't you feel convinced 
 that I'd be the best husband that ever was?" 
 
 ' ' I dare say ! ' ' she answered, smiling. 
 
 "Mammy, don't you smell a rat?" 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "Why these preparations? Why this introduction of 
 the topic of husbands?" 
 
 "Do explain! what new nonsense is this?" 
 
 " I '11 tell you, Mammy ! I 'm going to be married ! ' ' 
 
 "Bertie!" 
 
 She frowned with displeasure. 
 
 "True!" 
 
 "I don't like to hear you say such things, even in 
 joke. A boy of eighteen — " 
 
 "Oh, it wouldn't be for five years. Mammy!" 
 
 "You mustn't think of binding yourself to anj^hing 
 of that sort at your age. Surely you're sensible enough 
 to know that you're sure to change — " 
 
 "I never do. But don't you see what a good idea it 
 is? How it will keep me safe in the midst of all sorts 
 of temptations which beset a handsome youth? I sup- 
 pose I am a youth, aren't I? Although no one ever 
 called me one." 
 
 "It's not right to expect any girl to wait five years 
 for you. And what makes you think you'll be able to 
 marry in five years, you siUy boy? You've never earned 
 a penny — " 
 
 "I'll explain all that presently. Mammy, seriously, 
 I've arranged my future in a very remarkable way." 
 
 "And who on earth do you imagine will marry you, 
 after waiting five years?" 
 
276 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 "She is beautiful, good, and rich," said Bertie. "She's 
 the daughter of the King of the Pastry-Cooks." 
 
 "Whof" 
 
 "Her name is Giulia Santigiomi." 
 
 "But who is she? An Italian?" 
 
 "Yes, her father's Santi, the caterer." 
 
 "Oil, Bertie!" 
 
 "I only ask you to see her. She's altogether lovely, 
 and she's had one of those marvelous nouveau riche 
 educations. You know the sort of thing — lessons in 
 everything from the most expensive teachers. Sings, 
 plays, paints, speaks all known languages, studied de- 
 portment and household management and First Aid. 
 She's been for the last two years in a convent in Paris, 
 and they've made one of those regular foreign young 
 girls out of her. You know, modest and gentle, always 
 on the alert to be respectful and polite to old people. . . . 
 The King of the Pastry-Cooks is rather keen on society. 
 He gives monster parties — ^you never saw anything like 
 them; they're awfully pathetic. He gets paid enter- 
 tainers, singers and dancers and — oh Lord! — ^wizards! 
 He loves wizards. We sit in rows in the ball-room, while 
 the wizard holds a show on the stage he's had put up. 
 Then he serves a supper ! Oh ! Never in ypur life have 
 you dreamed of such suppers! . . . And when you're 
 going home, you each get a present. Not a favour, 
 Mammy, but a genuine present-^silver cigarette case, 
 and so on. ... Of course, he doesn't know half the people 
 who come. He prowls around, a poor, fat, gloomy devil, 
 and no one bothers with him. But he sees a crowd in 
 his house, and that satisfies him." 
 
 "Where is the mother?" 
 
THE CUP IS OrFEEED 217 
 
 "Dead, long ago. He has two daughters and two sons. 
 They're all very nice and respectful." 
 
 "But do you think it's quite a suitable match!" 
 
 "Couldn't be more so! My Giulia is the most weU- 
 bred thing that ever drew breath. You'd feel quite 
 ashamed before her. I believe she took lessons in how 
 to behave in all European courts, and how to entertain 
 royalty." 
 
 "But, my dear boy, how do you propose to live? On 
 the — ^the pastry-cook father?" 
 
 "No; I'll get on. Mammy. I always do. I'll either 
 go to Princeton next autumn, or go into Father's busi- 
 ness, whichever you advise." 
 
 "No, Bertie, you're the one to decide. What do you 
 want to do? What do you want to make of your life!" 
 
 "Whatever I can," he said. "I don't really care very 
 much. I want to make a good show, that's all — earn a 
 living." ' 
 
 "Bertie, dear boy, with your intelligence you ought 
 to aim higher than making a living. Isn't there some- 
 thing you can put your heart into? Some sort of work 
 you could really — " 
 
 "Not any more. Mammy. It's this ice-cap." 
 
 "What do you mean!" 
 
 "You ought to know. Old Lance talks enough about 
 it. . . . It's going to cover the earth — a new glacial 
 period — going to destroy life on this planet." 
 
 He rose and began walking about the room and when 
 he spoke again, his voice had changed. 
 
 "I've always wanted to be useful. I'm so dam' sorry 
 for people — ^for almost everyone. I welcomed Evolution 
 like a long lost brother. I thought I could do something 
 
278 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 to help it, perhaps. ... I imagined us all evoluting along 
 into something magnificent. I didn't see any end to our 
 possibilities. I agreed with Al that, if we got together, 
 we could make a heavenly world out of this. . . . But 
 then Lance sprang this ice-cap on me. And — " 
 
 He paused. 
 
 "It was something pretty much like despair. . . . Noth- 
 ing seemed any use. The happier we got, the less would 
 iwe want to be frozen, don't you see?" 
 
 She was terribly touched by the pain in his voice, by 
 the suffering she divined in his queer soul. 
 
 "But it's millions of years away," she said. 
 
 "That doesn't matter, as long as it's sure." 
 
 "We might find a way to live in it, by the time it 
 comes. It might even be a mistake." 
 
 "Lance couldn't be mistaken. You have only to look 
 at him to know he's infallible. And — ^have you seen 
 their fossils, and their reconstructed pre-historic an- 
 imals? Those chaps know everything, Mammy, past, 
 present and future." 
 
 "Come here!" she said. "Sit beside me, dear." 
 
 She drew his sleek head down on her breast. 
 
 "Did this idea bring you to — to any sort of — faith?" 
 she asked. 
 
 "No, Mammy. I simply felt that the ice-cap ought to 
 be kept a secret. I'd have been glad to be a martyr to 
 humanity and kill aU the scientists who knew about it, 
 only I knew more would crop up. I even thought of 
 being a fake scientist myself, and getting up something 
 more cheerful, but that wouldn't get by." 
 
 She cried over him a little, and he sat quite still, with 
 his head resting on her shoulder. She wished so pas- 
 
THE CUP IS OFFEEED 279 
 
 sionately that she had something to give him, some in- 
 vincibly right word. 
 
 "I think you'll get over this, dear boy," she said. 
 
 "Of course I shall," he answered promptly. "I'll 
 get fat and pompous in fifteen years or so. You know 
 that dish. Mammy — Angels on Horseback — oysters 
 wrapped up in bacon? I'm in a hurry to wrap my little 
 oyster of a soul in a lot of nice fat bacon. Then I'll be 
 comfortable. Nothing better, is there, than making 
 money and getting married?" 
 
 "Don't be cynical," she said, gently. 
 
 "You know I'm not. I'm only trying to do what I 
 can. I know what's good for me. Little Giulia's good 
 for me. She's all spirit, but it's the nice, old-fashioned, 
 hopeful kind. I never could tell her anything about the 
 ice-cap, for instance; nothing that would hurt her; and 
 being by nature very candid, that'll help me to learn 
 not to have anything to tell. I'll have to grow placid, 
 don't you see?" 
 
 He sat up and looked at her, with his diabolic smile 
 and his soft eyes. 
 
 "Now, then, will you tell Father in some nice men- 
 dacious way that I've got serious and want to settle down 
 to something? Is it to be college or business?" 
 
 "I think college," she said, smiling back at him. "You 
 know, after all, Bertie, there may be something left for 
 you to learn." 
 
 "All right!" he answered, cheerfully. "And then — 
 come with me to see my pastry-cook's daughter." 
 
 "But shouldn't you bring her here?" 
 
 "I want you to see her in all her gorgeousness." 
 
280 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 "But it isn't quite the thing. You see, you're not — 
 you can't be actually engaged to her." 
 
 "She considers that -we are. Anyway, their code of 
 etiquette isn't inflexible. Please come! And — ^look here, 
 Mammy, if you don't like her, if you don't agree that 
 I've done a masterly thing in getting her, I'll give her 
 up!" 
 
 "I'll go, Bertie," she said. "But bear this in mind, 
 dear boy. If you change your mind, for any reason 
 whatever, about either of your plans, don't hesitate to 
 say so. Don't go on in a wrong course, simply because 
 you've entered upon it." 
 
 "You know I wouldn't. But this time I'm Tighter 
 than I've ever been before." 
 
 §ii 
 
 She went with him the next afternoon, to the house 
 near Prospect Park. The door was opened by a man 
 servant in an elaborate livery. 
 
 "My idea of a flunkey, whatever that is!" Bertie mur- 
 mured. 
 
 They were ushered into a drawing-room, an immense 
 room, furnished with an out-of-date sort of magnifi- 
 cence ; it gave Claudine a sudden insight into the pathos 
 of the household. 
 
 "Look around you!" said Bertie. "You will see a 
 pastry-cook's dream. But you won't have long to ob- 
 serve; Giulia would prefer death to keeping my mother 
 waiting. ' ' 
 
 He was right; she entered almost at once, and came 
 up to Claudine with a most polite, a supplicating air, 
 
THE CUP IS OFFEEED 281 
 
 held out her hand, raised to her face a pair of sorrowful 
 and beautiful eyes. They sat down to talk but it was too 
 much of a task even for Claudine's experience. She was 
 as ^able and impersonal as it was possible to be, she 
 was really well-disposed toward this pretty little thing. 
 But she could evoke from her nothing but a humble sort 
 of politeness. It was evident that she adored Bertie, 
 and that his mother was to her a person of superhuman 
 augustness. She was well-bred, she had pretty manners 
 and a sweet little voice; she was dressed very nicely in 
 a dark blue crepe de chine, which was simple, but ex- 
 cessively expensive. And she herself had an innocent 
 and spiritual charm, like a little strayed angel. She 
 was small and fragile, and she hadn't the least hint of a 
 womanly figure — a child's body, with flat wrists and a 
 tiny neck. Her dark, pallid face was broad at the brows 
 and very narrow at the chin, which made her childish 
 mouth look larger; she had a wonderful profile, a nose 
 straight with the forehead, a short, full upper lip, a 
 minute and heart-breaking perfection. But it was not 
 her beauty which captured Claudine, it was the trans- 
 parent sweetness and fidelity of the little soul. She was 
 stupid, she was pliable, she was a baby, but she had a 
 heart to appreciate Bertie, and a charm to hold him. 
 
 Tea was brought in by two men servants on a tea- 
 waggon, and the signorina dispensed it with deftness. 
 There were cakes and cakes and cakes, cheese straws, 
 rolls, all sorts of sandwiches, and when these had been 
 sampled, the servants returned with ices in the form of 
 lilies lying on leaves of green almond paste. 
 
 Bertie didn't say much, but from time to time Clau- 
 dine caught him looking at his Giulia with half a smile. 
 
282 THE TINLIT LAMP 
 
 a look tender and a trifle amused. He wasn't going to 
 take her too seriously, or expect too much of her. It was, 
 in short, one of those loves which cause a mother very 
 little pain ; she knows she is not supplanted, not dimin- 
 ished. Singular that two of her children should "marry 
 beneath them"! 
 
 She took leave of her future daughter-in-law with a 
 kiss, and the man servant in the hall opened the door 
 for them. 
 
 "It's pouring!" said Bertie. "Go in again. Mammy, 
 and I'll send a few flunkies for a taxi." 
 
 "I'd rather not. We'll find one." 
 
 "You mustn't get wet, especially with that cold. I 
 can't allow it!" 
 
 But she was briskly descending the steps, and he h&SL 
 to hurry after her. 
 
 "How obstinate you are, Mammy! If you won't 
 think of your health, have some regard for your pretty 
 little hat!" 
 
 She shook her head, laughing. She was so happy with 
 this son, with his affectionate, half effeminate ways, his 
 open admiration. She had with him a gay and co- 
 quettish little air no one else ever saw. 
 
 "Come along! We'll be sure to pick up a cab in a 
 minute, Bertie 1 Look at the streams of them going by 1 " 
 
 But all the cabs were full. It was quite fifteen minutes 
 before they stopped an empty one, and by that time 
 Claudine was chilled to the bone, and shivering in her 
 wet shoes and dripping skirts. 
 
 " I 'm sorry, Bertie ! ' ' she said. ' ' I was very stupid 1 ' ' 
 
 He looked at her in silence, and when she was home 
 and safely in bed, he telephoned for the doctor. 
 
THE CUP IS OFFEEED 283 
 
 § iii 
 
 Andree and Al had been to the opera that evening 
 and to supper afterward, so that they were late in get- 
 ting back to the apartment. The desk clerk handed them 
 a message received hours ago. 
 
 "Please ask Mrs. Stephens to go home at once. Her 
 imother is ill." 
 
CHAPTER EIGHT 
 
 MUTINT 
 
 §i 
 
 ANDRBE was wandering about the "second parlour" 
 that Sunday afternoon, in a state of joyful idle- 
 ness, humming to herself. It was so blissful to be at 
 home again, now that the horrible shadow was lifted 
 from her mother. She felt a new and precious sense of 
 lightness and irresponsibility, a return of girlhood. She 
 loved the old life, the kindly servants, the jolly break- 
 fasts with Bertie and Edna, she was even ready to love 
 the stuffy and decorous Sundays she had once found 
 so hateful. Her father was sitting by the open window, 
 reading the paper, and she loved him too^ because he 
 looked just as he had always looked to her. She went 
 over to him and kissed the top of his head. He glanced 
 up and smiled. 
 "Well!" he said. 
 
 "Well!" she answered. "Are you happy? I am!'' 
 
 They were thoroughly and beautifully reconciled now. 
 
 In spite of his disappointment over the conduct of other 
 
 people under the shadow of death, Gilbert knew that he 
 
 284 
 
THE CTJP IS OFFEKED 285 
 
 had acted properly. He had forgiven his daughter, and 
 he intended, in due course of time, to forgive his son- 
 in-law. He had been profoundly affected by Claudine's 
 illness; he had wished to be with her constantly. But 
 she had not wanted him; she had turned always to 
 Andree. He had certainly expected, although they had 
 been more or less estranged for some years, that xmder 
 the shadow of death she would come back to him. She 
 should have said, "After all, we have lived more than 
 twenty years together in storm and sunshine. Let us 
 forget our differences!" But she had not. She had 
 said nothing at all, except to thank him for the profusion 
 of flowers he sent. They hadn't had a single touching 
 conversation. On that night, which he had spent at her 
 bedside, in agony and fear, she had not even seen him; 
 she had lain gasping, exhausted, bathed in perspiration, 
 with half -open eyes, as far away from him as if she were 
 already dead. It was Edna who had consoled him, and 
 led him away, and it was Andree who had stayed by 
 Claudine until the crisis was past. It was always 
 Andree 's name she had murmured — ^"Andree! Baby! 
 My baby!" 
 
 He had done his best to be just and temperate about 
 this, but it hurt. And as she began to grow better, and 
 the danger was over, his old exasperation at her aloof- 
 ness returned. He had really longed for a reconcilia- 
 tion ; he would have told her frankly that he was sorry 
 for many things in the past, and that he hoped with all 
 his heart to understand her better in the future. It was 
 his eternal passion for something perfect and beautiful 
 in life ; if only these twenty years could be crowned now 
 with love, he could have been content. It was easy for 
 
286 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 him to forgive and forget, the sins of other people as 
 well as his own. But it was not easy for Claudine. He 
 clung to her, for he had nothing else, but she had turned 
 away from him to her children, and she had forgotten 
 him. 
 
 He had made a very thoughtful provision for her con- 
 valescence. He had learned from her lawyer that her old 
 home in Staten Island — ^whieh her father had left her 
 at his death — was temporarily vacant, and he had se- 
 cured it for a year. Half of it, that is, for her father 
 had converted it into a double house, an improvement 
 by which she had profited, for she had received rent 
 for both halves for years. With the help of Edna he 
 had removed from the storage warehouse as much of 
 Mrs. Mason's old furniture as they thought good, and 
 later in the spring, when Claudine was strong enough, 
 she was to go there with Edna, to find it all prepared 
 for her. This plan had touched her, she had thanked 
 him with tears in her eyes. He would have gone there 
 with them, if it had been suggested. . . . 
 
 "What's this?" asked Andree. 
 
 He roused himself from his unpleasant meditation, 
 and turned to look at the object she held in her hand. 
 
 "That? It's a game — ^Tigs in Clover.' I remember 
 your mother was very much amused with it when she 
 was first married." 
 
 Andree smiled and began to manipulate it, singing 
 again. 
 
 Now Gilbert had been brought up to distrust happi- 
 ness, especially feminine happiness. His mother had 
 never been happy. Claudine was never happy; the 
 only permissible thing in that line was the benevolent, 
 
THE CTJP IS OFFEEED 287 
 
 and possibly alcoliolically stinmlated, high spirits of the 
 pater famiUas, coming home bearing gifts. He loved 
 Andrfe, he was delighted to have the pretty, -wilful 
 creature about him again, but still, he could not help 
 distrusting such gaiety. 
 
 "When do you expect to go home?" he asked. 
 
 "This is home!" said Andree. 
 
 "Your home is with your husband, young lady!" he 
 eaid, severely. 
 
 "I know! I'm going — pretty soon." 
 
 There wasn't the slightest need or reason for staying 
 another hour. She had been there for four weeks, and 
 her mother was now well on the road to recovery. Al 
 telephoned every day, first he asked about Claudine, 
 whose illness he had taken terribly to heart, and then 
 he always said — 
 
 "When are you coming home, old girl?" 
 
 And she always answered "In a day or so." 
 
 "You know your old father likes nothing better than 
 to have his girl at home," Gilbert went on. "But you're 
 a married woman, and you have to think of your duty." 
 
 "I do think of it. But not all the time. ... I think 
 I'll run up and see if Mother's dressed." 
 
 She had started up the stairs, when the telephone rang, 
 and she ran back to answer it. She was quite sure it 
 would be Al ; this was his regular hour. 
 
 His voice responded. 
 
 "Mrs. Stephens in?" 
 
 "This is Andree!" she answered, brightly. "How are 
 you, Alfred?" 
 
 "Your mother doing wellt" 
 
 "Yes, very!" 
 
288 THE imXIT LAMP 
 
 And then, instead of his usual query, he said — 
 
 "It's about time you were coming home, isn't it?" 
 
 His voice was somewhat alarming, and she answered 
 in her very pleasantest manner. 
 
 "Yes; I'm coming in a day or two, Al." 
 
 "Suppose you come this evening?" 
 
 " Oh, I couldn 't ! Not possibly ! ' ' 
 
 "Why not? I'll come for you about eight." 
 
 "No, Al, it's not possible. My things aren't packed." 
 
 "Edna can pack them and send them after you to- 
 morrow." 
 
 "But how ridiculous! Why should I rush off like 
 this?" 
 
 "Well," he said slowly. "Suppose — ^because I par- 
 ticularly ask you to — ?" 
 
 "You're very unreasonable!" 
 
 "Humour me, then, for once." 
 
 "No, Al!" she said, firmly, "I- can't come to-night. 
 To-morrow — or the next day — ^I'll let you know — " 
 
 "Look here, Andree; I'm coming for you to-night!" 
 
 "But I tell you I'm not going home!" 
 
 "I insist!" 
 
 She laughed. 
 
 "What in the world is the matter with you, my dear 
 boy? Do you imagine you can bully me?" 
 
 "I don't want to. I'm asking you — to do me a 
 favour." 
 
 "It's a ridiculous, selfish, unreasonable favour, and I 
 shan't do it." 
 
 "I'm coming for you just the same, at eight o'clock!" 
 he said. 
 
 She was going to remonstrate with him, but she' found 
 
THE CUP IS OFFERED 289 
 
 that he had left the telephone. Her cheeks flushed, and 
 she bit her lip. 
 
 "Little beast!" she said to herself. But some secret 
 thought made her unusually indulgent, she shrugged her 
 shoulders and dismissed the thought of him. 
 
 She went on up to her mother's room and knocked 
 at the door. 
 
 "It's Andree !" she announced in her triumphal voice, 
 as if that name were a talisman to admit her anywhere. 
 
 Claudine was sitting at her dressing-table, brushing 
 her hair. There was grey in it now, on the temples, and 
 her face was thin and drawn. She wore a negligee with 
 high collar and long sleeves, to conceal the pitiful emacia- 
 tion of her neck and arms. Andree couldn't look at her 
 without a twinge of pain. 
 
 "I'll do your hair for you, darling!" she said, and 
 Claudine willingly relinquished the brush to her. 
 
 "I am some use to you, aren't I, Mother?" 
 
 "I don't know what I should have done without you, 
 dear!" 
 
 " 'Should have done!' Then you don't need me 
 now?" 
 
 "You know how dearly I love to have you with me, 
 but—" 
 
 "But I ought to go home? I'm not useful any more, 
 and I'm not wanted — " 
 
 "Don't be so unreasonable, my dear! It's only that 
 I think it unfair to Alfred—" 
 
 "Why?" she demanded, impatiently. 
 
 "You shouldn't stay away from hiin." 
 
 "Why not? He's always saying he wants me to feel 
 
290 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 free. He certainly shouldn't object to my taking a 
 little holiday." 
 
 "And you ought to be at your work again." 
 
 "I can practice here for Doctor Jaas. The Conserva- 
 tory can wait." 
 
 "You ought to go home!" her mother repeated. 
 
 Andree frowned. 
 
 "Al's just been telephoning, to 'insist' upon my com- 
 ing home this evening. I suppose you think he's right ? ' ' 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "You mean you'd like me to rush off like that?" 
 
 "Yes, I should." 
 
 "I shan't!" said Andree. "I don't suppose you'll 
 mind my waiting until to-morrow to pack my things?" 
 
 "If I were you, I should go with Alfred this eve- 
 ning — ■" 
 
 "I wouldn't for anything! Just give in to his silly 
 whim — " 
 
 "It's not a silly whim. . . . Andree. ... I wrote to 
 him." 
 
 Andree stared at her mother's reflection in the glass. 
 
 "What!" she cried. 
 
 Claudine opened the drawer of the dressing-table and 
 looked into it. 
 
 "I thought — the sooner you went home, the better," 
 she said, in a low voice. 
 
 Andree did not ask why. She understood very well. 
 
 §ii 
 It was a marvel to Claudine that no one else had no- 
 ticed. There was a certain effrontery about them both, 
 a smiling ease, but it should not have deceived Edna. 
 
THE CUP IS OFFEEED 291 
 
 She herself had observed it the first time she had gone 
 downstairs and seen them together. Andree had been 
 at the piano, and Malloy standing by her, to turn her 
 music. She had looked up at him, and met his eyes, and 
 it was not possible for Claudine to doubt that they un- 
 derstood each other too well. She could not help watch- 
 ing them. Malloy was attentive to Edna — ^rather too 
 much so — ^but it was with an air of bravado, of display- 
 ing his versatility, his irresistible fascination. "With a 
 sidelong glance he would follow Andree with his idiotic 
 infatuation, his bedazzlement, plain in his face. The very 
 fact that they so seldom spoke to each other made her 
 quite sure that there was a great deal of which she knew 
 nothing. She regarded AndrSe's cool triumph with an 
 aching heart. She was not shocked or astounded; it is 
 a sad truth that no perfidy or evil could shock that 
 woman. She was willing to believe both the best and 
 the worst of anyone; whatever was presented to her, she 
 accepted. She believed that now she was seeing the very 
 worst of Andree, the selfishness, the recklessness, the 
 cruelty, which she knew better than anyone else. She 
 didn't blame Malloy; not much was to be expected from 
 him. He was kind-hearted and manly, and so on, but 
 wax in hands like Andree 's. He didn't love Andree; he 
 wouldn't have thought of her if she hadn't made him. 
 He had been happy with Edna, and he would be again 
 — if he were let alone. And Andree didn't love him; 
 she would forget him. If it were stopped now. 
 
 That is the reason that Claudine had written to her 
 son-in-law. 
 
 "I really think, Alfred, that for several reasons it 
 would be wise to induce Andree to go home to you as 
 
292 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 soon as possible, and to take up her work again," she 
 had written, and she had left it to his common sense to 
 comprehend and to follow her hint. 
 
 But she hadn't reckoned with his unruly passions. 
 He had put two and two together, to make a sum con- 
 siderably more than four. He had seen Malloy once in 
 their sitting-room at the hotel, where he had come to 
 sing for Andree. He had decidedly not liked him. 
 
 "If he's engaged to Edna — or going to be — ^why does 
 he hang around here?" he had asked. 
 
 "I suppose he hasn't the same idea of etiquette as 
 you," Andree had answered, with an unpleasant smile. 
 "However, if you don't like him, I'll tell him not to 
 come. He'U understand." 
 
 She had intended to wound and anger him, and she 
 had succeeded. But she had done something more; she 
 had awakened in him that old and buried suspicion for 
 women of Andree 's class. 
 
 Years before he had met Andree that idea had been 
 superseded. He had made his money, and had begun 
 to know at least a little of that other world. And he 
 saw that the women there were no more or less than 
 human beings, very much hampered and hurt by their 
 idleness. He had tried to see in Andree not only the 
 beloved woman, but a human being entitled to as many 
 faults and weaknesses as he had himself, entitled to the 
 same moderation of judgment that he himself required. 
 He had deliberately put aside his suspicion of Malloy, 
 he had conquered Andree 's irritability with his patient 
 good-humour, and they had been getting along very 
 nicely the week before Claudine's illness. 
 
 And now, by the words of Claudine's letter, all the 
 
THE CUP IS OFFEKED 293 
 
 fruits of his reason were destroyed, and the old distrust 
 and envy and utter misunderstanding came rushing 
 back. He saw Andree as a stranger of whom he knew 
 really nothing, an unaccountable, alien creature. He 
 knew at once that Claudine's letter referred to Malloy. 
 No doubt the fellow was hanging about the house there 
 all the time, singing to her. . , . 
 
 It was on Saturday night that he got it; he had re- 
 flected upon it all that night, and the next morning, and 
 by the afternoon he was in a humour which would have 
 caused Andree no little astonishment. He hated the 
 Vincelles and all their entourage ; he believed that they 
 were laughing at him, that he had been played with all 
 these weeks, that now they fancied they had got well rid 
 of him. All except Claudine; she wasn't like the others, 
 of course. He wished that he could see her and talk to 
 her, but that couldn't be. She had at least indicated 
 to him what should be done. 
 
 § iii 
 
 At eight o'clock he rang the door bell. 
 
 "I want to see Mrs. Stephens!" he said, curtly, to the 
 servant. 
 
 ' ' She 's at supper, sir. WiU you wait ? ' ' 
 
 "No; just ask her to step here and speak to mef" 
 
 "What name, please, sir?" 
 
 "Her husband," he said, grimly. 
 
 They were all in the dining-room, enjoying the "Sun- 
 day night tea" of their tradition. Gilbert sat at the 
 head of the table and made jokes, like a patriarch ; oppo- 
 site him was Claudine, on one side Edna and Malloy; on 
 
294 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 the other, Bertie and Andr6e. They lingered ; they had 
 not yet thought of rising from the table when the maid 
 entered with her message. 
 
 "Mr. Stephens is upstairs, ma'am!" she whispered to 
 Andree. 
 
 "Who is it?" asked Gilbert, in the t«ne of a man who 
 is master in his own house. 
 
 "Mr. Stephens, sir," answered the girl. 
 
 He turned red; he was sorry he had asked; he was 
 very much at a loss. And so was everyone else. This 
 proscribed man actually under this roof! Gilbert was 
 torn between his anger at the fellow's audacity and the 
 respect due him as a husband. Propriety conquered. 
 
 "Ask Mr. Stephens to come down here and join us," 
 he said. "Bertie, bring up another chair to the table!" 
 
 But the girl returned almost immediately. 
 
 "Mr. Stephens is sorry, sir, but he is in a hurry, and 
 he would be obliged if Mrs. Stephens would come up- 
 stairs." 
 
 Andree rose. But her expression alarmed her mother. 
 
 "Andree!" she murmured, but her warning was un- 
 heeded. Andree went slowly upstairs, and into the hall 
 where her husband stood waiting. He had not removed 
 his felt hat, but he had thrown open the fur-lined over- 
 coat of which he was so absurdly proud. Never had bis 
 appearance so profoundly displeased her. 
 
 "What do you want?" she asked. 
 
 Her tone excited him to instant hostility. 
 
 "I told you I was coming," he said. 
 
 '.'And I told you not to come." 
 
 She looked at him. 
 
 "I didn't think even you would do a thing like this — 
 
THE CUP IS OFFEEED 295 
 
 coming here— waiting in the hall— like a servant with a 
 message — " 
 
 "That's enough," he said. "I only want to know 
 whether you're coming back, or not." 
 
 "When I'm ready, I'll come." 
 
 "I'm ready now. I've waited as long^as I'm going to 
 wait." 
 
 "Are you trying to threaten me?" she asked with 
 cold surprise. 
 
 "No, I'm simply giving you your choice— to come 
 with me, or to stay." 
 
 "I'll stay, thank you," she said. 
 
 She had a sudden impulse of pity for him, he looked 
 so desolate and lost. She thought it would be nice to 
 have her cake and also to eat it. 
 
 "Let's not quarrel!" she said. "Come downstairs 
 and have supper with us!" 
 
 "No!" he said. "I'm going. . . . The servant's de- 
 livered his message." 
 
 He opened the door and went out, slamming it after 
 him with a crash. 
 
 Andree struggled against a great desire to cry, or to 
 shout after him, she didn't know which. 
 
 "Little beast!" she said, aloud. "Vulgar little 
 bully!" 
 
 "What's the meaning of this?" said a severe voice 
 behind her, and she turned to see her father. 
 
 "There's no meaning in it at all," she answered. 
 "^I's gone home, that's all." 
 
 "Did you quarrel, Andree?" 
 
 She was surprised; she had forgotten that fathers 
 
296 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 were supposedly authorized to ask such impertinent 
 questions. 
 
 ' ' No, ' ' she said. ' ' He thought I would come home this 
 evening, but I wasn't ready." 
 
 Gilbert saw some feminine mutiny in this. 
 
 "Did you refuse to accompany him?" he asked, in a 
 portentous voice. 
 
 "Yes," she answered. "Of course I did. Is that a 
 crime? Am I supposed to humour every caprice?" 
 
 Gilbert stopped her with a gesture. He put himself 
 in Alfred's place ; he knew how he would have felt under 
 the circumstances, how humiliated and furious. 
 
 "No doubt he had. very good reasons. You've already 
 remained away for over five weeks — " 
 
 "Pour weeks." 
 
 "Four weeks, then. You have — ^in my opinion — you 
 have neglected him." 
 
 Andr6e made no defense, but her air was not acquies- 
 cent. Gilbert became more fatherly. 
 
 ' ' Now, I '11 tell you what you '11 do, Andree. Telephone 
 your husband, and tell him you'll be home in an hour 
 or so. And I'U take you myself, and make the young 
 man's acquaintance, eh?" 
 
 "No, thank you, Father. I'm not ready to go." 
 
 ' ' Get ready then ! Get ready ! Bertie will telephone for 
 you. Bertie ! " he called. ' ' Bertie ! Just a moment, please ! ' * 
 
 Bertie came running upstairs. 
 
 "Your sister's going home — " 
 
 "I'm not!" said Andree. 
 
 Gilbert was astounded. * 
 
 "This is a serious matter," he said. "I can't permit 
 it. It's your duty to go home to your husband." 
 
THE CUP IS OFFERED 297 
 
 "I'll just postpone the duty for a few days," said 
 Andree. 
 
 "I say no! He came for you this evening and — " 
 
 "What is the matter?" asked Claudine's low voice. 
 She had come up after Bertie, and was standing in the 
 shadow, outside the circle of light cast by the lamp on 
 the newel post. 
 
 "I am telling Andree that she must go home to- 
 night. It seems her husband came to fetch her and she 
 refused to go with him." 
 
 "She'll go to-morrow," said Claudine. "It's rather 
 late now." 
 
 "Father," said Andree, "I don't want to be rude — 
 but it's my own affair. I can't let anyone tell me what 
 I shall do. I'll go home when I think best." 
 
 "This is outrageous!" shouted Gilbert. "You can't 
 adopt that tone toward me, young woman! You've 
 been spoilt and indulged long enough ! Bertie, go down 
 to the garage and bring the car!" 
 
 "No!" cried Claudine. 
 
 "Do as I teU you! Now, Andree, I'll give you fifteen 
 minutes to pack what you need, and then you'll go, 
 ready or not. This is my house, and what I say shall 
 be done. Do you understand?" 
 
 "I believe I do!" she answered, carelessly. "You're 
 putting me out, aren 't you ? Very well, I 'U go ! " 
 
 She turned and ran up the stairs. 
 
 Claudine turned upon Gilbert with desperation. 
 
 "Gilbert! Go after her! Tell her she can wait! TeU 
 her—" 
 
 " I 'U do nothing of the sort ! " he answered. ' ' I won 't 
 be defied in my own house — " 
 
298 THE UlSLIT LAMP 
 
 She seized his arms with her weak hands and actually 
 tried to shake him. 
 
 " Stop her !" she cried. ' ' Stop her ! You don 't 
 realize what you're doing!" 
 
 He looked down at his wife with stupefaction. 
 
 "Stop her!" she cried, again. "Go after her and 
 teUher to wait!" 
 
 "You ought to be ashamed of yourself," he said, 
 severely, "to suggest — " 
 
 But she didn't wait for him to finish. 
 
 "Then I'm going with her," she said. 
 
 With trembling knees she ascended the stairs, entered 
 her room and began dressing. She hastily put into a 
 little b^ a few necessary clothes, her jewel ease and her 
 bank books, and came out again, just as Andree had 
 gone downstairs. 
 
 "Gilbert!" she whispered to her husband. "I must 
 stay with her until they are reconciled. It's a matter 
 of vital importance!" 
 
 He was touched; she was so ill, so weak, so terribly 
 upset. 
 
 "Very well !" he said. "Bertie will take you to their 
 house. Take care of yourself ! You're not fit to go out." 
 
 She gave him a hasty kiss, and taking Bertie's arm, 
 left the house. Andree was already in the street, stand- 
 ing beside the car. 
 
 "I'll have to drive you," said Bertie. "Donald was 
 out." 
 
 "But you won't drive me home, my child!" said 
 Andree. "You can take me to some other hotel." 
 
 "Take her wherever she wants, Bertie!" said Glau- 
 dine, with a sob. 
 
CHAPTER NINE 
 
 EOMB AGAIN 
 
 § 1 
 
 CLAUDINE sat down to answer her distressing cor- 
 respondence. She took a long time to arrange her 
 "writing materials, to adjust the light, for her heart 
 failed her, courage and hope were nearly gone. She sat 
 before the same little rosewood desk she had used in her 
 girlhood, in that little bedroom she had passed so many 
 happy years in, she was at home again, in the house in 
 which she had been born, and she had at this moment 
 no better wish than that she might die there. 
 
 She had brought Andree here the day after their flight, 
 nearly a month ago. She had felt a presumptuous and 
 sublime joy; for the first time in her life she was going 
 to have Andree alone, alone there in that house of gentle 
 memories. She would take her for walks, show her the 
 places she had so loved in her own young days, she 
 would soften her heart and wia her utterly. She would 
 teach her to see the worth of her husband, the sacredness 
 of their bond, with all her love, all her sad wisdom she 
 would lead her backfrom this morass into which she 
 
 299 
 
300 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 had strayed. She had felt sure that she could do this, 
 now that they were alone. Andree was susceptible, she 
 could be persuaded. She had shown a passionate affec- 
 tion for her mother ; she had wept in her arms that night, 
 she had accused herself of selfishness and ingratitude. 
 
 There had been just two days of Paradise, two long 
 days spent together in exquisite companionship. The 
 granddaughter of Selma, Mrs. Mason's most devoted old 
 servant, had come to wait on them, and she made them 
 entirely comfortable. There was nothing to worry or 
 disturb them. They had had their meals together alone, 
 and quiet evenings in the drawing-room before a fine log 
 fire. They hadn't mentioned Andree 's affair; Claudine 
 was content to wait for that, filled with hope by her 
 child's new softness. 
 
 And then on the third evening Malloy came. Evidently 
 Andree had sent for him, for she greeted him without 
 surprise. He was troubled, anxious, very ill at ease ; he 
 had the unmistakable air of a man tormented by an 
 unwelcome passion. He was afraid of Claudine, he was 
 ashamed of his treachery to Edna, he was ashamed of 
 his terrible bondage. But he could not escape. Andree 's 
 mocking smile turned his heart to water. He adored 
 her ; he was unable to hide his madness. 
 
 Andree didn't attempt to see him alone. She brought 
 him into the room where her mother sat before the fire, 
 and kept him there. She asked him to sing, and he did 
 so, his fervent and touching voice sounded through the 
 fire-lit room and moved the wretched mother to tears. 
 What was she to do ? She could see him with Andr^e's 
 eyes, she could so easily understand what it was that had 
 captured that reckless and beauty-loving heart. He was 
 
THE CTJP IS OFFERED 301 
 
 so handsome, so ardent, so entirely a lover. He had 
 none of Alfred's preoccupations; he hadn't, she thought, 
 any thoughts at all, nothing but sentiments and tradi- 
 tions. But a gallant gentleman — 
 
 He left early. It certainly had not been a pleasant 
 evening for him. He had scarcely been able to speak, 
 with Claudine present. But when he was going, and had 
 said good-night to Andree, who hadn't risen, she fol- 
 lowed him out to the front door. 
 
 "Mr. Malloy!" she said. "Have you told— Edna?" 
 
 "No . . ."he said. "I'm ashamed to say I haven't. 
 . . . But of course I shall ..." 
 
 "Don't!" she entreated. "Please don't! Not just 
 yet! If you can — won't you go to see her as usual?" 
 
 "But — do you think that's — ^honourable?" he asked, 
 shocked. 
 
 "It's kind, Mr. Malloy!" 
 
 "But — ^isn't it — only putting it off, you know?" 
 
 ' ' Sometimes it 's better to do that, ' ' she said. ' * Please, 
 Mr. Malloy, if you are able to — ?" 
 
 "I'U try!" he said, quite miserably. "I suppose you 
 don't want — ^me to say anything — ^until you're home 
 again?" 
 
 "Yes," she answered. 
 
 The door closed behind him. 
 
 "Because I'm going to stop this!" she said to herself. 
 "It can't be! I 'm going to stop it ! " 
 
 That was her one object — ^that nothing irreparable 
 should be said or done. She was absolutely certain that 
 the infatuation would not last, there was not one element 
 in it to make it permanent. She was certain that if 
 no monstrous irrevocable folly were committed, Malloy 
 
302 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 would thankfully return to Edna, who really suited him, 
 and that Andree would go back to her husband. 
 
 But she was filled with terror at the possibility of that 
 evil chance. She lay aw^e all that night, trying to plan 
 how she eoidd prevent it. 
 
 No enlightenment came. Malloy came again and 
 iagain. She dreaded to speak to Andr6e, for she knew 
 how speech solidifies and strengthens ihe vaguest 
 thoughts, but it could no longer be avoided. She could 
 no longer be complaisant. She waited until Andree 
 was in bed one night and then she went iato her room 
 and sat beside her in the dark, at the foot of her bed. 
 
 ' ' Andree ! " she said. ' ' I must know I ' ' 
 
 "I w£mt you to. Mother. I've been waiting for you 
 to ask me. ^ . ." She sat up and flung her arms round 
 her mother. 
 
 "Oh, my darling!" she said. "I'm so terribly, ter- 
 ribly sorry! I know I've made you suffer. I know it '8 
 a dreadful thing to do to dear little Edna! But I can't 
 help it ! I thought at first it would only be a lark. I 
 didn't mean any harm. I never imagined this would 
 come! But now it's too late! I love him so, Mother! 
 I never knew what love was before. I never, never felt 
 like this about Al. . . . Oh, Mother! I'd stop if I could! 
 I don 't want to hurt you or Edna. But I can 't help it ! " 
 
 ' ' You can, Andree ! It's not necessary to do what you 
 want." 
 
 "You're so cold and so — good, you can't understand! 
 I love Francis so that I can't give him up. No matter 
 what harm it does, to me, or anyone else." 
 
 "What do you intend to do?" 
 
 "I've written to Al, to ask him to— for a divorce." 
 
THE CUP IS OFFEEED 303 
 
 " Oh ! " cried her mother. ' ' Why did you do that ? ' ' 
 
 "What else could I do? You didn't think I wanted 
 a nasty underhand intrigue, did you, Mother? I -wouldn't 
 -T-I wouldn't even kiss Francis until I was free from 
 Al. I 'm not that sort. ' ' 
 
 "What did Alfred say?" 
 
 "Nothing. He didn't answer. But I know he'll do 
 it. He's always said he'd never try to hold me if I 
 wanted to be free." 
 
 "I think you ought to see him, my child.*' 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 Claudine had no intention of telling her true reason. 
 
 " It 's the best and frankest way to do, ' ' she said. "If 
 you like, I will write to him and ask him to come here. 
 I wish you would see him — ^for my sake, Andree." 
 
 Andree sighed. 
 
 "I will, then, if you like. Mother. But it'U be hor- 
 rible. We'll be horrible. We'll quarrel. All his com- 
 monness comes out when he's angry." 
 
 "You needn't quarrel. Then it's agreed that I'm to 
 write?" 
 
 "Yes," said Andree. "But it's not a bit of use to 
 try your diplomacy, Mother dear! I see througli you!" 
 
 And this very evening she was trying to write that 
 letter. Andr6e and MaUoy were sitting on the porch, 
 almost under her window, now and then she could hear 
 the murmur of their voices. 
 
 "I'll write the other letters first!" she decided, in 
 despair. 
 
 She wrote to Gilbert, the same sort of thing she had 
 been writing all the month. 
 
304 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 "I think it is very necessary to stay with Andree 
 until she and her husband are reconciled. It is a 
 critical time. I hope and believe that all will turn 
 out well." 
 
 He, of course, knew nothing at all of the Malloy com- 
 plication; he believed it to be a simple quarrel. 
 Then she wrote to Edna : 
 
 My dear little girl : 
 
 It is always a pleasure to receive one of your 
 cheerful letters. I can't thank you enough for 
 taking such good care of Father, Bertie, and Cousin 
 Lance. I am very glad you like Bertie's Giulia; 
 she is a charming little creature, and very devoted 
 to him. Your description of their ball was amusing, 
 and, I thought, rather touching. Bertie had told 
 me of Mr. Santi's predUeetion for wizards; I think 
 I should enjoy them myself. Your dress must have 
 been lovely. I am sorry your father thought it too 
 short ! Personally I think that style suits you ; you 
 don't look any older than when you were a little 
 girl going to dancing school. 
 
 Write to me often, my dear little Edna. And 
 don't expect any news from me, because there is 
 none. I am very much better; you are not to worry. 
 As soon as this most unfortunate affair is settled, 
 I shall be at home again. 
 
 Very lovingly and gratefully, 
 YoDB Mother. 
 
 P. S. Be sure to send the furs to cold storage 
 this week I 
 
 She looked again at the little pile of letters she had had 
 from Edna, gay, pleasant, commonplace. And yet alarm- 
 ing. There was not a single mention of Malloy. Edna 
 
THE CUP IS OFFERED 305 
 
 was not one to wear her heart on her sleeve ; she had no 
 ability and no desire for expressing her emotions. Her 
 mother blessed her for her seemly reticence; how easy 
 it was to deal with people who didn't talk, who took 
 80 much for granted! She was quite certain that the 
 poor little thing was very unhappy, but she was also 
 certain that she was not desperate. She had no doubt 
 noticed the change in her handsome lover, but she wished 
 no consoling for it ; she would console herself, she would 
 endure with dignity and common sense. 
 
 And now for Alfred. 
 
 She hesitated for a long time, then began to write, in 
 her careful and delicate hand: 
 
 My dear Alfred : 
 
 I have just learned of Andree's decision, and I 
 think I need not tell you how it grieved me. Not 
 only on your account, but on hers, I believe that a 
 divorce would be a terrible mistake, and I beg you 
 to oppose it resolutely. I beg of you, Alfred, not to 
 consent to it. No one understands Andree as I do, 
 and I know that this would be the very worst thing 
 possible for her. 
 
 She has consented to see you and I entreat you 
 to come and talk it over with her. I trust to your 
 deep affection for her, and to your humanity. I 
 know that she can never be happy and safe with any 
 one but you. 
 
 Will you come on Sunday, if convenient for you? 
 Always your friend, 
 
 CliAUDINE ViNCELLE. 
 
 She stamped and sealed it, and lay down on the bed, 
 to read, to try to read and to forget her bitter anxiety. 
 
306 THE TJNLIT LAMP 
 
 §ii 
 
 Sunday came, and no word from him. And on Sun- 
 day evening Mr. Malloy appeared. Claudine was very 
 much taken aback ; he had never before come on Sunday, 
 and she had very humanly taken it for granted that he 
 never would. She hadn't told Andree that she expected 
 Alfred ; she had planned to take her by surprise, before 
 she could adopt a difficult and dangerous mood. If he 
 should come now! She sat upstairs in her room, in a 
 state of tremulous agitation, looking out of her window, 
 trying in vain to see the street through the fog that had 
 risen, listening for his footfall, though what she could 
 do to forestall him she didn't know. 
 
 Outside on the porch Andree and Malloy were sitting, 
 well-wrapped, coat collars turned up against the thick, 
 chill mist of that April night. Their hands were clasped, 
 but they spoke very little. They were in a mood of 
 sombre depression, not unknown to lovers. Now and 
 then Claudine heard the sound of their voices, forlorn 
 and detached; if it had been Alfred, she thought, how 
 different it would have been ! A continuous flow of talk, 
 and retorts from Andr6e, irritated perhaps, but certainly 
 interested. . . . 
 
 She fancied she heard a footstep on the hilly street; 
 she opened her window softly and leaned out. The trees 
 were dripping on the gravel drive; hoarse whistles 
 sounded from the bay, and — ^yes, undoubtedly, that was 
 the garden gate! A step on the porch, and Andree 's 
 voice — 
 
 "I want to see Mrs. Vincelle!" 
 
 She flew down the stairs and opened the front door. 
 
THE CXJP IS OFFERED 307 
 
 "Come ia, Alfred!" she said. 
 
 He followed her into the sitting-room and stood be- 
 fore her, stiU in his overcoat and cap. 
 
 "So she's out there with him?" he said. "Do you 
 think that's a fait way to treat me!" 
 
 "I'm sorry, Alfred. Very sotry. I had no idea he 
 would come this evening. I wouldn't for Tvorlds 
 have—" 
 
 ' ' He does come to see her then ? In yoxar house ? And 
 you don't mind?" 
 
 "Please sit down!" she said, gently. "I am so glad 
 you came. I wanted so to talk to you — to explain — " 
 
 He took oE his overcoat and cap and threw them on a 
 chair. He was thinner; his face had lost its boyish and 
 alert expression, it was set in an expression of bitterness 
 and misery. 
 
 "I didn't want to come," he said. "It can't do any 
 good. I knew what you thought would happen. You 
 thought if we saw each other we'd— melt. That she'd 
 change her mind. Well, I don't want that. We've had 
 enough emotion. I don't want any — ^love that comes 
 from caprice. No more moods and impulses. I — ^it 
 wasn't that way with me. It was — real." 
 
 "Alfred, you mustn't be hard! It's not like you. If 
 you love her, you must forgive her a hundred times. 
 She's silly and—" 
 
 "It's not a question of forgiving. I don't see it that 
 way. She's free to do as she pleases. It's simply that 
 now I know she's not capable of loyally." 
 
 "Alfred, I give you my word there's been nothing 
 wrong — " 
 
 "Oh, I believe it! She's respectable I" he said, bit- 
 
308 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 terly. "I'm not afraid of her being too generous with 
 — anyone. She'U be like some of those singers and 
 geniuses I've read of. She'll have half a dozen hus- 
 bands, but she'll never do anything ■wrong." 
 
 "That's very cruel and unjust! Surely you've seen 
 enough of the world to understand these — ^infatua- 
 tions. . . . He's a very handsome and attractive man, 
 and she has lost her head. That's aU it is! It won't 
 last!" 
 
 "I know it won't. But it will happen again. It isn't 
 the infatuation that hits me so hard. I can understand 
 that. It could happen to almost anyone. But it's the — 
 the rank, beastly cruelty of it! To walk off and leave 
 me without a word. I — ^you don't know — ^leaving all her 
 little things there — all her little things— telling me all 
 the time she'd come back in a few days. ... It's .. ." 
 
 He got up and walked over to the fire. 
 
 "No," he said. " She can have her divorce. I always 
 told her I'd never try to keep her against her will. But 
 —I wish to God we'd never got married. ... If we could 
 only part now with some sort of decency ... if she could 
 just say, 'It's over. Good-byl' But now — ^I guess you 
 don't realize — I'll have to be caught in a compromising 
 situation — all the dirty, filthy business will have to be 
 written down and talked about by a lot of lawyers. . . . 
 The sort of thing I hate worse than death. It's what they 
 call acting honourably for me to do that." 
 
 "Don't do it, Alfred ! Don't do it, I beg you! I am 
 sure she loves you!" 
 
 "She has a damn peculiar way of loving, then." 
 
 "I know she has. There are horrible things in her 
 
THE CUP IS OFFERED 309 
 
 nature. But I am sure that you know the good in her 
 too. She is honest and — " 
 
 She covered her face with her hands. 
 
 "Can't you see, Alfred? She needs you so! No one 
 else can help. No one else can help her to grow into 
 something better." 
 
 "Please don't cry!" he said, in great distress. "I'd 
 do anything for you. You're an angel!" 
 
 "I'm not! I'm not! I once — ^long ago— thought I'd 
 leave my husband. But thank God I didn't!" 
 
 "But it might have been better for you if you had," 
 he said, frankly. 
 
 She looked up in surprise. 
 
 "No!" she said. "It would have been — I am sure 
 that self-sacrifice is the best way in life." 
 
 "That depends on the object. If you sacrifice your- 
 self for — well, humanity, it's fine and good. But for 
 one other human being, no!" 
 
 She had no intention of permitting an argument to 
 begin. She pulled the conversation away from reason 
 back to emotion, where it belonged. 
 
 "I don't ask you to sacrifice yourself, Alfred. It 
 would make you both happy." 
 
 "I can't do it!" he said, quietly. "She wants to 
 leave me, and I must let her." 
 
 "But you'll see her?" 
 
 "No. Please don't ask me any more. It's settled. 
 I'm sorry— on your account. I should be glad to do it 
 for you — if I could. But I can't." 
 
 He went toward the chair where his coat lay and was 
 about to put it on, when the door opened and Andree 
 entered. He turned and faced her. Her cheeks were 
 
810 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 rosy from the damp air, her black hair curled about her 
 forehead; her mother looked at her loveliness "with a 
 beating heart. Surely he could not resist her ! 
 
 But he picked up his cap and threw his coat over his 
 arm. 
 
 " Good-night !" he said. 
 
 The front door closed after him. 
 
 § iii 
 
 Not fifteen minutes ahead of him Malloy was making 
 his way to the ferry. 
 
 "My God, what a mess!" he was saying over and over 
 to himself. He had never in his life felt so shabby, so 
 shamefaced, as he had felt that evening. There was no 
 triumph in this love; he was a thief. He had mortally 
 stricken that poor little chap. He had humiliated and 
 hurt Edna. He had involved himself and Andr6e in a 
 disgusting scandal. 
 
 "We never can be happy," he said. "Not on such 
 a foundation. . . . But I don't care! I'd rather have 
 her and be miserable all my life!" 
 
CHAPTER TW 
 
 WBSl'WY INTIIRVIiNES 
 
 Si 
 
 ANDBEE was very late that evening. She had gone 
 to the city to do some shopping, and at eight 
 o'clock she had not yet returned. Glandine sat down to 
 sapper alone, but she could not eat. She was filled with 
 apprehension. She couldn't imagine what was keeping 
 Andree. 
 
 The weather had suddenly turned mild, the dining- 
 room windows were open and a sweet damp breeze was 
 blowing in from the garden. Bose had prepared an 
 especially appetizing supper; she hovered about the silent 
 woman, very anxious that she should eat it. The shaded 
 lamp threw a warm light on the table, set out with Mrs. 
 Mason's Rowing old Crown Derby; there was the same 
 order and quiet all about her^that had so delighted her 
 a few weeks ago. But now it frightened her. It was 
 death-like. . . . 
 
 ' ' There 's no use trying to go on, ' ' she thought. * ' This 
 must end! Ill have to tell Gilbert — and poor little 
 Edna. I'll have to go back. ... I've done all I can." 
 
 It was nearly a week since Alfred had come, and in 
 the meantime Andree had begun her divorce proceedings. 
 
 3Ii 
 
312 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 No miracle had happened; heaven had not intervened. 
 This disaster, this ruin was approaching with a sure step. 
 
 "I really don't believe I can eat, Rose!" she said, 
 apologetically. "I'm sorry; your little supper was so 
 nice. Be sure to put something aside for Mrs. Stephens." 
 
 "I think I hear a taxi coming now, ma'am," said Rose. 
 
 They both listened. Rose was right, a taxi was stop- 
 ping outside the house; a man's voice said "Thank you. 
 Miss!" and there was a step on the veranda. Rose hur- 
 ried to open the door, and in an instant Andrea entered 
 the room. 
 
 Claudine sprang up. 
 
 "What is the matter?" she cried, alarmed at her 
 child's face. 
 
 Andree at once began to cry hysterically. 
 
 ' ' Stop, child ! ' ' said her mother. ' ' What is it ? What 
 has happened?" 
 
 Andree sank into a chair by the table and leaned her 
 head on her arms, shaking with sobs. 
 
 "It's too much!" she cried. 
 
 "Go away. Rose!" said Claudine. "Go into the 
 kitchen and make Mrs. Stephens a nice hot cup of tea!" 
 
 Rose vanished. 
 
 "What is it, Andree?" she asked again. "Don't 
 torture me so! What has happened?" 
 
 Andree sat up suddenly and began to laugh through 
 her sobs. 
 
 "I went to see Doctor Lawrence!" she cried. "I was 
 afraid — It's true! . . . There's going to be a baby!" 
 
 She began to shriek with laughter. Claudine seized 
 her by the shoulders, and shook her. 
 
 "Be quiet ! Be quiet, Andree ! Gome upstairs ! ' ' 
 
THE CUP IS OFEERED 313 
 
 Andree shook her head. 
 
 "No!" she cried. "No! I'm expecting company! 
 Francis is coming! Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord! Isn't it 
 funny! Won't he be pleased!" 
 
 "Hush! Come upstairs!" Claudine repeated, and 
 half dragged her to her feet. She put her arm about her 
 and supported her up the stairs to her own room. 
 
 "Lie down!" she said. "I'll bathe your face in cold 
 water. Try to control yourself, Andree!" 
 
 But Andree could do nothing but weep and laugh. 
 Claudine sat by her, patting her cold hands and stroking 
 her hair, silent, waiting for her to become tranquil. 
 
 The doorbell rang, and Andree sprang up, suddenly 
 sobered. 
 
 "Mother! ... It's Francis! You'll have to see 
 him!" 
 
 "We'll tell Rose to say you're not at home." 
 
 "No! I want you to see him! Listen, Mother!" 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 Andree looked at her with a stern glance. 
 
 ' ' You '11 have to send him away, ' ' she said. ' ' Tell him 
 it's all over. I'U never see him again." 
 
 "Do you mean that, Andree?" 
 
 "It would hardly do to introduce a little Stephens 
 into our household," said Andree, with a frigid smile. 
 
 "But what shall I say?" 
 
 "I don't care. Anything! Only, Mother, if you ever 
 let him guess the truth, I'U never, never forgive you! 
 My life is ruined. I've got to give him up. But — ^it's so 
 ridiculous and humiliating. No one must ever know!" 
 
 "But they can't help knowing!" 
 
 "Francis won't. He's stupid. He won't put two and 
 
314 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 two together. Tell him — anything. Say I've repented 
 on account of Edna. Only get rid of him, for God's 
 sake!" 
 
 "Hush, Andree!" 
 
 "Oh, I'm so ashamed and wretched! Why did this 
 horrible thing happen! I wouldn't believe it at first! 
 It was too ridiculous and shameful! I won't have 
 Francis know. I'll go away somewhere." 
 
 Claudine rose. 
 
 "You'll lie here quietly, won't you?" she asked. 
 
 Andree assured her that she would, and closing the 
 door after her, Claudine descended the stairs. 
 
 Of all the painful and awkward tasks she had yet had 
 to do for her child, this was the worst. She couldn't 
 suppress a wry little smile. She who so loved peace and 
 dignity, who was so constitutionally averse to plain 
 speaking ! 
 
 Mr. Malloy was in the drawing-room, walking about. 
 He stared a little at the sight of Claudine. 
 
 * ' Good-evening ! " he said. 
 
 "Good-evening!" Claudine answered, brightly. 
 
 How was she to b^in? She stood quite still, and her 
 silence warned him of something unpleasant to come. 
 
 "It's very difficult — " she said. "Please sit down, 
 Mr. Malloy!" 
 
 He did so, and she seated herself opposite him. 
 
 "I must be very firm!" she thought. "Oh, if I only 
 can get rid of him ! ' ' 
 
 He waited for some time. 
 
 "I hope there's nothing wrong, Mrs. Vincelle," he 
 said, at last. 
 
 "No ... I should not call it wrong. . . . Indeed, I 
 
THE CUP IS OFFEEED 315 
 
 think ... I won't try to conceal from you, Mr. Malloy, 
 that all this has been very painful for me. I have always 
 had the greatest respect for Andree's husband and I 
 thought it a great — a terrible mistake for her to leave 
 him." 
 
 He flushed. 
 
 "I'm sorry . . ." he said. 
 
 "Naturally I think first of her. I knew that this was 
 not for her good. I knew — ^please forgive me — I knew 
 she wouldn't be happy with you. But I couldn't stop 
 her. She is very wilful." 
 
 "But—" 
 
 "But she has — changed, Mr. Malloy! She sees now 
 that she was wrong. She has asked me to tell you so ! " 
 
 He rose. 
 
 "No!" he cried. "No! It's impossible!" 
 
 ' ' She asked me to tell you. She could not bear to do 
 so herself. She — and I too, Mr. Malloy — ^we both rely 
 upon your — fine feeling to understand. And to go 
 away. ' ' 
 
 ' ' But I can 't believe it ! Why, only three days ago — ' ' 
 
 ' ' I know. But you must believe me. She — it's so hard 
 to tell you — she doesn't wish to see you again." 
 
 ' ' Please let me see her ! ' ' 
 
 "She doesn't want to see you. I am sure you will 
 understand that it is best so." 
 
 ' ' What has happened ? What has made her change ? ' ' 
 
 "It is impossible to say. A — a change of heart. . . . 
 But I beg you to accept this as — ^final — and to go!" 
 
 "Very well! "he said. "I'll go!" 
 
 She held out her hand to him. 
 
316 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 "Mr. Malloy!" she said. "Can't all this be as if it 
 had never happened?" 
 
 "I don't see how," he said. "I'm afraid I can't for- 
 get so easily." 
 
 "But — some day I hope you will marry happily 
 and—" 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 "You will!" she assured him. "You are too much of 
 a man to let this really hurt you ! If you cannot have — 
 exactly what you want, you must — " 
 
 She stopped, in confusion, and suddenly, in some 
 inexplicable way, he guessed her meaning. He was 
 astounded. 
 
 "You don't mean—" he began. ". . . Edna?" 
 
 "Yes," she murmured. 
 
 "But — after I've deceived her so?" 
 
 "The only question is — if you — care for her?" 
 
 "I do! I always have! Not as I did for — ^Andrle. . . . 
 But she's the finest and truest girl in the world. ... I 
 can't tell how unutterably ashamed I've beea of the way 
 I've behaved toward her — " 
 
 "Repair it!" 
 
 "Don't you see that I can't!" 
 
 "She doesn't know, does she?" 
 
 "No. . . . But she's suspected that — ^there's some- 
 thing wrong — " 
 
 "It's not too late. If you really care for her, if you're 
 really sorry for what you've done — " 
 
 "I do care for her. Too much to make a — second best 
 of her." 
 
 ' ' Oh, stupid ! Stupid ! " she cried to herself. ' ' What 
 does it matter!" 
 
THE CUP IS OFFERED 317 
 
 He went on, in a horrified voice. 
 
 "You surely wouldn't recommend a marriage founded 
 on a deception?" 
 
 A cynical thought occurred to her. 
 
 "They're all founded on deceptions," she reflected. 
 "On lies that people believe about each other." 
 
 "I'm not recommending anything," she said, aloud. 
 "I only want to say again that I'm very sorry for all 
 this, Mr. Malloy." 
 
 He went away, down the little garden walk for the last 
 time. 
 
 ' ' She 's not the high-minded woman I thought her ! " he 
 reflected. "She's — her ideas are absolutely — sordid." 
 
 And then he forgot her in his profound sorrow. 
 
 Claudina remained for a moment in the drawing- 
 room. 
 
 "He'll go back to Edna," she said to herself. "I'm 
 glad. . . . He'll do as well as anyone else. He's kind. 
 And rather attractive. . . . She won't expect too much." 
 
 §ii 
 
 She was just falling asleep that night, after having 
 seen Andree comfortably settled. She was mortally 
 weary, unable even to think. She had a light burning 
 low, as was her reprehensible custom, and she had a book 
 beside her, in case she could not sleep. But, in spite 
 of her trouble, the murmur of the night wind soothed 
 her, and the air blowing across her face. She had closed 
 her eyes, and a blissful numbness was stealing over her, 
 when she was startled by Andree 's voice. 
 
 "Mother!" she cried. "Mother!" 
 
318 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 She was instantly wide awake. Andree stood beside 
 her, Hke a spectre in the dim light, in her night dress and 
 her dark hair about her shoulders. 
 
 "I want Alfred!" she said. "Oh, Mother , . .! I 
 began to think — " 
 
 Claudine took her dressing-gown from the foot of the 
 bed and laid it about her child's shoulders. 
 
 "I've been so wicked!" she went on. "It frightens 
 me ! I want Al back ! I want to see his kind face. . - . 
 He's so kind and so good! I want to go home to him! 
 I want just him — and this baby. Please, please send 
 for him ! ' ' 
 
 "I will, pet, as soon as it's morning!" 
 
 "I can't wait! I'm so unhappy! I want to hear his 
 dear, kind voice!" 
 
 "Come in here and lie down beside me, darling. Talk 
 to me!" 
 
 With that beloved head on her shoulder, Claudine 
 grew calm and strong again. She would have listened 
 to her all night. What did it matter if this were only a 
 new caprice? It was a good one, a safe one. 
 
 She thought of her own life, of how her child had 
 assuaged her bitterness and given her peace. She thought 
 of the hopes she had relinquished — such little hopes com- 
 pared with Andree 's inordinate ambitions, and she be- 
 lieved that all that was to happen again. Andree would 
 be saved, if she would love her child better than herself. 
 And she believed that this would happen. She looked 
 very earnestly into her face; it was imperious, even cruel, 
 but it was the cruelty of blindness, of one who inflicts 
 suffering without knowing what suffering is. 
 
 She didn't care in the least that Andree 's brilliant 
 
THE CUP IS OFFERED 319 
 
 future was endangered. She didn't care how fettered 
 and narrow her life might become. Better narrow and 
 deep, she thought, than broad and shallow. 
 
 She listened quite unmoved to her child's tears and 
 sobs. It didn't matter. She kissed her with a sublime 
 sort of indifference. She had won ; God had helped her, 
 and she had won. 
 
 § iii 
 
 Alfred came, promptly, the next morning, and Andree 
 received him alone. 
 
 "Al," she said. "Can we make a new start?" 
 
 He didn't look at her. When Claudine had telephoned 
 so urgently for him to come, he had expected something 
 of this sort. 
 
 "I suppose we could make any number of them," he 
 said. "The question is, would there be any use in it?" 
 
 "You said—" 
 
 "I know all that I said. I said you could be free 
 whenever you wanted. And that implied the same thing 
 for me, Andr6e." 
 
 "I don't want to be free." 
 
 "Why don't you?" 
 
 "Because — I want — " 
 
 She held out her arms, her eyes filled with tears. But 
 he did not move toward her. 
 
 "Al!" she cried. "Do please come here!" 
 
 "No," he said. "Let's not complicate the thing with 
 — that. Just tell me what's changed you. I'm here to 
 listen." 
 
 "Suppose — it was only that I'd found out I was wrong 
 
320 THE mSTLIT LAMP 
 
 — and that I missed you, and wanted you back? 
 "Wouldn't that be enough? Haven't you missed me?" 
 
 In spite of himself he was touched. 
 
 "I won't pretend I haven't. ... It was a bit of a 
 shock to me, you know. I'd never expected anything 
 like that. I thought that you — ^that we were so — close — 
 nothing could come between us." 
 
 "Couldn't you forget it? Al, it's hard for me to — ^to 
 beg like this! I can't say anything more. I only ask 
 you if you're willing to start again." 
 
 That was a voice which he found it hard indeed to 
 withstand, a face that moved him beyond measure. Yet 
 he was passionately anxious that no new mistake should 
 be made. 
 
 "But what guarantee would we have that we'd do any 
 better?" he cried. 
 
 "I think—" she began. "I think it would be dif- 
 ferent — ^now." 
 
 "But why, Andree? Do you see things differently? 
 I mean — " 
 
 She had begun to cry a little, 
 
 "You see, Al . . . there's going to be a baby. ..." 
 
 ""What!" he cried. His face had turned quite pale, 
 "What ! My God ! Really? " 
 
 "Very really!" she answered, with a faint smile. 
 
 He sprang up and caught her in his arms, in a sort of 
 desperation, 
 
 "Oh, Andree! I'm so sorry! My lovely, beautiful 
 girl ! I 'm so sorry ! ' ' 
 
 "Don't!" she cried. "You make it worse! Be glad, 
 can't you? I thought you would be. I thought every- 
 
THE CUP IS OFFERED 321 
 
 one would be — simply beaming. ... I wanted you to 
 be!" 
 
 "I'm not!" he said, doggedly. "I love you too 
 much!" 
 
 "Do you?"jshe said, triumphantly. 
 
 ' ' Now you 've got it out of me, ' ' he said. ' ' I knew you 
 would! Yes, I do love you — ^too much, I guess. I don't 
 want anyone but you, ever." 
 
 "Oh, Al! Al! It's so heavenly to have you back again, 
 and hear you again, and see you — ^with your dear old 
 rumpled hair. There's no one like you!" 
 
 "I wish to God you didn't have this before you!" he 
 said, sombrely. 
 
 "But I'm glad, Al!" she told him. "It's life!" 
 
I 
 
 EPILOGUE 
 
 §i 
 
 T struck Claudine with the force of a blow. She put 
 down the book and the night wind at once fluttered 
 over the pages, as if by command of nature trying to di- 
 vert her. But she turned back to the place again, all her 
 heart fixed on the words like the eyes of a frightened 
 child fixed upon an approaching light ; she did not all at 
 once grasp the meaning, but the significance was coming 
 to her, illuminating and dispelling a familiar dusk, re- 
 vealing to her what had always been there, but what 
 she had not seen. 
 
 She had been turning over the pages of an old copy 
 of Browning's poems, given her by Lance years ago, be- 
 cause he had fancied that so small and delicate and pretty 
 a creature must necessarily feed on poetry. As a matter 
 of fact, she had never been poetic, not even very ro- 
 mantic ; she had always had a love for indigestible ideas, 
 which had, in the main, done her very little harm. She 
 might read Nietzsche and Schopenhauer; she remained 
 none the less the Claudine who could wander gay and 
 happy in a garden. 
 
 And now suddenly stood up this robust dead poet to 
 322 
 
THE CUP IS OFFEEED 333 
 
 look into her soul and accuse her, J;o judge and condemn 
 her. The thing had all the solemn horror of what her 
 ancestors would have called the voice of an awakened 
 conscience; it was the handwriting on the wall. 
 
 The sin I impute to each frustrate ghost 
 Is — ^the unlit lamp and the un^rt loin, 
 Though the end in sight was a vice, I say. 
 
 That was for her ! That was an arrow for her heart. 
 
 She was quite alone in the house; Rose had gone 
 out to a lodge meeting of the Lady Pioneers. Claudine 
 was always glad to let her go; she was never so happy 
 as when alone with her ghosts. When the stairs creaked, 
 that was the stout figure of her mother in dull black 
 silk, going about her benevolent household affairs ; there 
 was a rustle of paper ; that was the boy Lance studying 
 in his room upstairs; a faint tapping; that was her 
 father emptying his pipe. The wind blowing across the 
 garden brought back to her unblemished the old emotions, 
 the sheltered security, that careless and formless hope 
 that had filled her girlhood ; she would forget, alone in 
 her room, the reality she had found so bitter. 
 
 But to be a ghost among these other ghosts! That 
 frightened her. She looked about the quiet lamp-lit 
 room ; in the bookcase her old books, on the walls her old 
 pictures, on the bureau the photographs of her father and 
 mother, and a pitiful little bottle of that Cherry Blossom 
 perfume; only the old things; it was as if twenty years 
 had been a dream. She was aware that she had tried to 
 make them so, that she had tried with desperation not to 
 live. Blasphemous effort, rewarded now by this numb 
 anguish ! 
 
 "A frustrate ghost!" she cried aloud, and her voice 
 
324 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 seemed to have no sound. She had a preposterous idea 
 that she was invisible and inaudible, that there was noth- 
 ing in this room but the memory of her. She was only 
 her own dream. She sprang up to look in the mirror, 
 and saw there a white face and wide eyes; an appari- 
 tion. . . . The wind blowing on her was suddenly chill, 
 like a cold breath. 
 
 ' ' No, no ! " she said. ' ' Oh, no ! I want to be alive ! ' ' 
 
 There was for once no solace for her in that dear gar- 
 den; she closed the window and pulled down the blind, 
 to shut away the dark and the troubling sounds; she 
 sat down and clasped her trembling hands ; she tried to 
 see herself once more in the stream of life, let it be never 
 so cold and violent. She thought of Andree; nothing 
 but pain in that thought. Poor young Andree and her 
 poor little baby ! Poor Al ! She thought of Edna, hiding 
 Tinder her tranquillity an unforgettable humiliation, of 
 Bertie, with his gallant despair; of Gilbert, unaccount- 
 ably forlorn. There was a thin veil hung between her 
 and these living, struggling creatures; she could see 
 them but not reach them; she fancied them being swept 
 past her and calling to her and needing her, while she 
 looked on, standing apart. 
 
 "Oh, why haven't I done something? Why haven't 
 I helped ? ' ' she demanded of her shrinking heart. And 
 the inexorable response was "Begin now!" 
 
 But remorse came easier than effort. She passionately 
 condemned herself. She saw herself an egoist; in her 
 young days she had been gay and gracious because she 
 had had what she wanted. And when that had been 
 withdrawn from her, she had grown cold, aloof, finding 
 peace in indifference. She thought of all she might have 
 
THE CUP IS OFFEEED 325 
 
 done, of the influence she niight have exerted. Not that 
 she believed herself stronger or -wiser than these four 
 adult human beings for whom she felt responsible; it 
 •was a mystic belief in the power of a woman and a 
 mother. She was convinced that she could give more than 
 was in her, more than she had ; she loathed herself for not 
 having done so. She believed, as was natural, that if she 
 had tried she must have succeeded. She knew that in her 
 garden everything grew only according to its type; she 
 believed nevertheless that human creatures might be so 
 warmed by her love, so nourished by her tears, that they 
 would grow not according to any laws, but according 
 to her own desires. 
 
 She felt that this was the turning point in her life; 
 she had wasted twenty years, dreamed them away ; only 
 God knew how few or how many remained to her. She 
 was making the most painful effort of her life ; it was not 
 a struggle, she wished it were; it was an attempt to 
 struggle. The lamp must be lit, the loin girded; she 
 must no longer pass among the living as a gentle phan- 
 tom. She must help all these people who belonged tp 
 her; she must by her valour and devotion compensate 
 for what they were denied ; she must inspire and fortify. 
 But what was to breathe life into her ? Love — even such 
 love as she had for Andree — ^had not done it. She was 
 not religious; she could not turn to prayer. And her 
 philosophers had nothing at all to give her. She sat up 
 almost all that night, trying to fan her shrinking and 
 mutinous spirit into a blaze. , . . Her life should be 
 service ; she clung to that idea. 
 
 It was the inevitable moment, due to everyone whose 
 work is finished, to women whose children have grown ; 
 
326 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 it was a little death. But she did not recognize it as 
 that; she felt it to be a spiritual re-birth. The world 
 was empty and she was obliged to fill it with herself. 
 And she was by no means large enough. 
 
 §ii 
 
 She telephoned to Gilbert in his office the next morn- 
 ing; she was so affable that he was upset. She should 
 have been home long ago, anyhow, instead of staying 
 down there alone on Staten Island in that peculiar way. 
 He felt that she was trying to be ingratiating, and this 
 of course aroused his hostility and distrust. Her quiet, 
 clear voice reaching him in the midst of his morning 
 mail caused him all the usual feelings of annoyance in- 
 duced by any thought of home life. She asked him about 
 his health, and he knew she didn't care; she even asked 
 that supremely irritating question "How is business?" 
 Well did he know why his family asked that. 
 
 Then, amazingly, she said: 
 
 "If you're not too tired, Gilbert, won't you come 
 down here for dinner ? The garden is so lovely, ' ' 
 
 "Suppose you come home," he said, surlily, but it 
 was only an instinctive reaction; the bear hitting out 
 with his paw. 
 
 "Do come," she said, pleasantly. "It would be nice 
 to be by ourselves. And the garden — " 
 
 "Very well! Very well!" he said. "I'll come. I 
 can't spend the morning at the telephone. I'U come, 
 Claudine. Good-by." 
 
 Now this disturbed him. He was inclined to suspect, 
 with reason, all advances made by his family, and yet 
 
THE CUP IS OFFEEED 327 
 
 he liked these advances. He felt fairly sure that his 
 wife had some favour to ask, some feminine chicanery to 
 execute, but he was like a king with his courtiers; he 
 was grimly contemptuous of all this beguilement, but 
 he relished the homage. 
 
 The idea of going back to that house on the hill to see 
 Claudiile stirred in him old and unpleasant memories. 
 He felt himself no phantom; he was poignantly aware 
 of the passing of twenty years and youth with them; 
 he didn't feel that he had not tried, but that he had not 
 succeeded. He had made money, just as he had intended, 
 but the rewards of his activity had been unjustly with- 
 held. He had the wrong sort of wife, the wrong sort of 
 children, the wrong sort of life altogether. Still he 
 would do the right thing, as he had always done. He 
 stopped on his way to the ferry and bought Claudine 
 a five-pound box of chocolates, the kinds she hated most 
 and which he had bought for years and years, never being 
 undeceived. 
 
 § iii 
 
 But long before he got there, all Claudine 's plans liad 
 been upset. She had gone about all the morning, seri- 
 ously intent upon her scheme to win back her husband. 
 This, she felt, was the first step along her new road; 
 once he was won back, she would make him into some- 
 thing different, as it was her womanly duty to do; she 
 would take him to concerts and persuade him to read. 
 She had that idea common to good and inexperienced 
 women, of the fascination she might wield if she chose, 
 an idea in no way related to vanity, but a conception. 
 
328 THE TINLIT LAMP 
 
 necessary to existence. She had never yet consciously 
 tried to be fascinating, but at the back of her mind had 
 always been the thought of how powerful she might/ be, 
 if she weren't so nice. She was obliged to believe this. 
 If Gilbert, by analogy, had realized when he wen^ out 
 to lunch, tha^ perhaps seven out of ten men that he 
 passed could have knocked him flat on his back, he 
 couldn't have endured life; he had to believe that he 
 could hold his own, if he wanted. And she, tod, must 
 have her belief in her mystic power. 
 
 She had been sitting down to a delightful, solitary 
 lunch ; the dining-room with its shining waxed floor and 
 well-polished mahogany furniture, the yellow roses in 
 a great Delft bowl, the dim, cool peace all about her, 
 filled her with serenity and courage. Certainly she 
 would change Gilbert and everything else in her life; 
 she intended to ask him to stop here with her for the 
 rest of the summer; a real sacrifice, for it meant the end 
 of this delicate and immaterial existence, and a hateful 
 preoccupation with roasts and wines and laundry. Edna 
 had gone to Easthampton with the Byders, Bertie was 
 away with Lance ; Miss Dorothy could have the Brooklyn 
 house to herself. This transplanting would make her 
 work easier, but she realized that she woxdd have to be 
 notably charming in order to win his consent. She 
 thought a good deal about what she should wear; she 
 was engaged in this when Al came in. He was very hot 
 and crumpled and cheerful. 
 "Oh . . . Alfred!" she cried. "Andr^e . . .?" 
 "Pine!" he told her. "But I had a free afternoon — 
 she had some friends there, and I thought I'd like to 
 see you." 
 
THE CUP IS OFFEEED 329 
 
 "There's nothing at all wrong?" 
 
 "Not a thing! Only — ^I don't know — I've been want- 
 ing to have a talk with you for a good while. ... I know 
 I talk too much, but just the same, it seems to me the 
 best way to get anywhere." 
 
 "Sit down," she said, smiling. "I think you're very 
 fortunate to be able to talk, Alfred. I can't think of 
 anything nicer than to be able to express what you feel." 
 
 He did sit down opposite her, and at once assumed his 
 serious, conversational look. 
 
 " It 's a lot more than that, ' ' he said. ' ' I have an idea 
 that you can't really feel a thing until you do express 
 it. That's the value of talking; not that it conveys your 
 ideas to someone else, because generally it doesn't, but 
 that it wakes up your own brain. . . . But this was go- 
 ing to be about Andree. . . . There's something I want 
 to get from your-something I can't get hold of." 
 
 "If you mean how best to get on with her — " she be- 
 gan, but he interrupted. 
 
 " No ; it 's not that. That 's all a mistake — this ' getting 
 on' with people. It means either humouring her, like a 
 spoiled child, or trying to dominate her. Well, what I 
 Mf ant is, to let her alone. And that's what I can't do. I'm 
 always trying to make her see things my way." 
 
 "But you can't help doing that when you know 
 you're right." 
 
 "I don't know; I only think. I'm only an experimen- 
 ter. I may be wrong about lots of things. Anyway, she's 
 experimenting, too, and she's altogether too fine to be 
 bothered. I've spent the best part of my life shouting 
 people down, and now it's hard to stop. It isn't that 
 I've tried to cram my ideas down anyone's throat," he 
 
330 THE TTNLIT LAMP 
 
 assured her, earnestly. "All I ever wanted to do Was 
 to start people thinking. I've always tried to keep hold 
 of that idea that I was an experimenter, but I'm too 
 darned sure. I'm — ^well, I'm not humble enough, /i'you 
 see? I interfere. . . . Now, that's what I've always ad- 
 mired so in you. That's what makes you so wonderful. 
 You don't interfere." / 
 
 "But — ^Alfred!" said the frustrate ghost, wi^h some- 
 thing like a gasp. 
 
 "I wish you'd explain to me — ^give me some idea how 
 you do it. . . . How your mind works," he weiit on. "I 
 mean, how can you watch, the way you do, without in- 
 terfering?" 
 
 Many reasons prevented her from teUing him that 
 she had very often tried to interfere, and had invariably 
 failed. She was silent for some time, while he waited 
 anxiously for her words. 
 
 "I'd been thinking, only last night, that I didn't help 
 — interfere — ^nearly enough," she said, at last. She 
 raised her eyes to his face with a look he had never seen 
 before, a glance troubled and appealing ; she was making 
 a heroic struggle for candour with her reticent aad un- 
 candid soul. No other living creature had seemed to 
 her so human, so impersonal, so secure, as this young 
 man ; she felt that she could say to him as much as her 
 heart would ever permit her to utter. She quite forgot 
 that he was waiting for wisdom from her ; she grew pale 
 with the intensity of her desire to hold commiuiion with 
 her kind, to hear the truth without entirely telling it. 
 
 "Alfred ..." she said. "It seemed to me — I'd 
 wasted my life." 
 
 "But how?" he demanded. 
 
THE CUP IS OFFEEED 331 
 
 "By not helping." 
 
 "Well ..." he said, honestly. "Of course there's a 
 lot that needs doing in the world, and the people with 
 money and leisure — " 
 
 "I don't mean doing anjiihing," she said, with an 
 impatient little frown. "I mean — ^influencing. I haven't 
 tried to influence the people about me." 
 
 He uttered a mild oath of himself. It was startling, 
 to say the least, that she should talk like this, as if she 
 hadn't heard a word he had spoken — ^when he had been 
 waiting for the secret of her non-intervention. 
 
 "I should have tried to help my children — ^to influence 
 them," she went on, with increasing agitation. "I've 
 stood aside — " 
 
 "But don't you see?" he cried. "That's what's so 
 wonderful! That's the fine thing about you — ^you've let 
 them alone. Even if you haven't accomplished much 
 yourself, you've given other people a chance." 
 
 He was distressed to see tears in her eyes. 
 
 "My children aren't happy," she said. 
 
 "They're living," he said. "They're growing. 
 They're learning their own lessons in their own way. 
 If you'd done what you call influence them, it would 
 only mean that they saw things through your eyes." 
 
 " I 've accomplished nothing. I 've only passed through 
 lifelike—" 
 
 His glance fell on the Delft bowl. 
 
 ' ' Like a flower, ' ' he said,' thoughtfully. ' ' You 've just 
 existed, in a very sweet, gentle way. I think that's a 
 mighty fine thing. ... I don't believe there are many 
 people who have done so little harm." 
 
333 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 He got up; he took her outstretched hand, and went 
 off, without the sage advice he had come .for, but con- 
 soled for lack of it by a variety of new ideas. And he 
 left Claudine strangely assuaged. 
 
 § iv 
 
 She went walking along, gravely inspecting her sweet 
 peas, bending over them to inhale their perfume, to 
 touch with a delicate finger their exquisite petals. They 
 had done very weU; she was proud of them. People 
 passing along the street stopped to look at them in their 
 incredible variety; a great bloom of colour against the 
 high board fence, faint pink, pale yellow, lavender, rose, 
 a strange, deep purple brown; they looked like little 
 winged things, alighting for the moment on the fragile 
 vines. 
 
 She came to the end of the row and turned the comer 
 to the bed where the verbenas stood, and beside them a 
 turbulent little sea of petunias, closely massed. The 
 smell of the moist earth, of the grass freshly cut, of all 
 the little flowers she had planted and tended, came to 
 her on a tiny breeze, and a limitless joy fiUed her. 
 Never before in her life had she felt so happy, so tran- 
 quil, so strong. Her glance embraced the smooth lawn 
 stretching to the gravel drive that encircled the house, 
 and the flower beds against the walls, filled with nas- 
 turtiums, thickly bordered with sweet alyssum, drenched 
 in the sun, hot, fragrant, valiant little things. She was 
 one with all of this, with no more purpose than they had. 
 
 Alfred's words had filled her with actual bliss. She 
 might be a ghost, but she was no more frustrate than 
 
THE CUP IS OFFEEED 333 
 
 that sweet pea that had swung loose from the string upon 
 which it should have climbed, and swayed in the breeze, 
 holding by nothing. She was an unlit lamp, but by the 
 blaze of the sun, who needed her little flame? The world 
 wanted nothing from her, and she had nothing to give. 
 The turmoil of the night before was gone, her little ef- 
 fort ended. 
 
 She saw Gilbert coming up the hill ; he looked hot and 
 cross, with his straw hat pushed back on his head, and 
 the box of chocolates under his arm. But now his cross- 
 ness didn't seem to her alien and alarming; he was noth- 
 ing but Gilbert, a familiar mystery. There was no need 
 to understand him, no need for any excessive interest 
 in him. She wasn't required to explain herself to him, 
 or him to herself. She believed that she could never 
 again be repelled by any strangeness in him, or disturbed 
 by what he did. Her soul felt relieved of all its burdens, 
 light, almost gay. He was one person, and she was 
 another; they couldn't gravely affect each other, they 
 were not inter-dependent; they were allied, but it was 
 an alliance only for their interest, not to hurt or to 
 hamper them. She went out to meet him, with a friendly 
 smile she led him up on the veranda and left him there 
 while she made an artful mint julep. Her friendliness 
 didn't depend upon his being friendly; it was her own 
 independent emotion. But it provoked an instant re- 
 sponse from him. 
 
 "What's come over you?" he asked, curiously. "You 
 haven't been like this for I don't know how long." 
 
 "Perhaps it's this dear garden," she answered, 
 vaguely. 
 
334 THE UNLIT LAMP 
 
 "You'd better stay in it, then," lie said, with a sulky- 
 smile. "It agrees with you." 
 
 "That's what I'd like to do. Won't you come down 
 here for the rest of the summer, Gilbert? It's very cool 
 and quiet." 
 
 "I might," he answered, to her surprise. 
 
 The sun had gone down and a cheerful dusk had 
 fallen, lively with the chirping of .insects. They talked 
 carelessly, of the small things that interested them; he 
 too grew affable, almost tranquil. Astonishing how little 
 he wanted ! Not to be charmed, not to be comprehended, 
 only to be accepted, casually and kindly, just as he was. 
 
 An absurd idea came to her of their two souls, sitting 
 side by side, in rocking chairs, absorbed in the contempla- 
 tion of life; she saw these souls as pliable white things, 
 like half -melted candles, with great black eyes. It made 
 her laugh aloud. 
 
 "What's the joke?" asked Gilbert. 
 
 "Only the sflliest sort of fancy," she said, in a com- 
 fortable tone that didn't irritate him. He didn't ask 
 again, because he didn't care. His desire had been al- 
 ways to be imderstood, never to understand others. And 
 any woman who could sit in the dusk by him while he 
 smoked, who talked so little, who made a julep like that, 
 undoubtedly understood him. He was content.