there are persons who seem to have their emotions under the control of push-buttons, as it were. they are capable of friendship and anger and love and jealousy, but they have been given the faculty of suppressing these emotions until it is their desire to allow them freedom. maude knox was one of these. it would be unfair to say that she was coldly calculating, but she was careful. many of the minor inhibitions which rule american girls did not signify to her; she was broader of mind, capable of perceptions of which her sisters were incapable. but she did not fly into passions, nor was she given to headlong tumbles into love.
her condition with respect to kendall ware was noncommittal. as a matter of fact, she was not in love with him, because he had not committed himself. if ken had come frankly to her, declaring his love, and had asked her to be his wife she would by this time have been as much in love with him as he could have desired. nobody could deny that they were suited to each other, and nature has seen to it that young people who are suited to each other, and enjoy propinquity with each other, do fall in love. it seems to be the law that everybody must love somebody; it also seems to be the law that propinquity is nine-tenths of the matter.... so maude was in a receptive mood. she was ready to let go and be very much in love with ken when a suitable moment arrived—if it ever did arrive.
once she had released her controls she would be tender, faithful, a wife such as any man might boast of. his life would be her life. his concerns would be her concerns. her career would be to make him happy and to make a success of the family of which he would be the head.
just how much she realized of this condition it would be difficult to say. just how much she desired kendall to fall in love with her she herself did not know; but she did like him, liked him a great deal. he was on her mind, and perhaps she even schemed a little to have him near her frequently and so to give him the opportunity to love her if such a thing were to happen. but at the same time she held a serious doubt if she would marry him in any event—because of andree.
true, she was of broad mind, and her life abroad had enabled her to perceive and to understand many matters which are obscure in america. these she could understand and condone or pronounce to be good and even virtuous—when they did not touch her directly. they were all right for others, but—but when they entered her own life that made of it another matter.
if she had been told that in a time past kendall ware had carried on an affair with a french girl—an affair that was wholly of the past—she might have dismissed it after small bitterness and have accepted him without more than a slight question. but this was present, going on under her eyes. she saw the workings of it, and saw that he actually loved this girl. that it was the sort of love he would one day give to his wife she did not believe. that did not seem possible to her.... on the other hand, there were many periods when she knew a fear that kendall would marry andree. she asked herself why he should not marry andree. she had seen the girl, talked with her, found her beautiful and sweet—even good. maude even felt a sympathy for andree to the extent of warning kendall against tampering with the girl’s happiness. her sympathies were with andree rather than with kendall. she had never experienced the slightest aversion for andree, none of that aversion which a woman safe in the possession of what she terms her virtue is entitled by ruthless custom to feel for the girl who is no longer a maid. she was able to conceive of a union such as andree’s with ken as possessing a sort of regularity, as being made more or less regular by the standards and conceptions of the society in which they were living.... but, nevertheless, when it came to marrying ken her american prejudices and conceptions took on life and set themselves up as a barrier.
it was natural that she should be very curious about andree and should wish the opportunity of meeting and studying the girl. she was rather frank and outspoken herself and could imagine herself discussing the situation with this girl and, perhaps, arriving at some determination. but the opportunity failed to present itself for days and weeks. her brief chat with andree on bastille day had proved nothing, and it was not until early august when a chance meeting in the galeries lafayette, where both girls happened to be shopping, gave her the opportunity she desired.
they met on one of the broad winding stairways of that enormous store, andree descending, maude ascending. of the two andree was the more self-possessed. she looked at maude with that quaintly inquiring expression with which she seemed to greet all the world, but gave no other sign of recognition until maude smiled and extended her hand.
“bon jour, mademoiselle,” she said.
“bon jour,” responded andree.
“i’ve been hoping to see you for a long time. we hardly got acquainted in that little chat we had a month ago.”
“you are sure you wish to be acquainted?”
“oh, very.”
“pourquoi?”
“why? that’s difficult to put into words, isn’t it? but i know about you—and you must know about me. we just ought to be acquainted better.”
“eet is possible. you will know me. ver’ well. i also would know you.”
“suppose we have déjeuner together, then. have you finished your shopping?”
“ever’thing—all is completed.”
maude turned and walked down the stairs with andree. they did not speak until they had traversed the crowded aisles and reached the street. each was thinking about the other, but with this difference: maude was wondering what andree thought about her, while andree was not concerned in the least with maude’s opinion of herself. she thought of maude only as some one in whom ken was more interested than she liked, and wondered what this american girl would say to her.... maude was impressed, not exactly in spite of herself, with andree’s appearance and manner. the girl was so slender, so dainty, so appealing, so childlike and fragile! one could not help wanting to defend her and befriend her.... but it was not befriending her to wish to take away the man she loved and who loved her, which was the thing that could not but rest in the back of maude’s mind. she had a feeling that andree knew that desire was in her mind....
“let us go to the petrograd—it is only a few steps. i am living there now. a great many of us american girls live there.”
“ver’ well,” said andree, who, it seemed, had placed herself on the knees of the gods and was prepared to let events wait upon her at their will.
they made their way to the rue caumartin and turned to the right. presently they entered the courtyard of the h?tel petrograd and made their way to a dining-room well filled with american girls in the uniforms of the various war-service organizations. selecting a table in a sheltered corner, they ordered luncheon, nor did they speak except of casual matters until they had finished. andree addressed herself to her plate with that quaint absorption which always delighted kendall. it touched maude now, as everything about this appealing little girl touched her. she found herself actually growing fond of andree as one might grow fond of a lovable child.... and yet she had a certainty that she would not find andree altogether childlike; that in all matters appertaining to her love she would be all woman and amply potent to defend herself and her rights.
“now we shall speak,” said andree, looking into maude’s face with directness, almost with challenge. her own face, if it showed any expression at all, spoke of hesitation, diffidence.
“what shall we talk of?” maude asked, experimentally.
“it is for you to say, mademoiselle. it is you who make the suggestion that we speak together....” then, with disconcerting directness, “you wish to speak about monsieur ware, is it not?”
“yes,” said maude, “i should like to talk about him—and you.”
“it is ver’ well.”
now that it reached the point of discussing kendall, maude was nonplussed for a moment. how should she open the discussion, if discussion there were to be? what could she say that would not be an impertinence to this girl, whom, somehow, she did not want to offend? maude even respected her, perceived that about andree which demanded respect and consideration. she hesitated. andree smiled and leaned a bit forward.
“mademoiselle,” she said, “perhaps it is that you are in love with thees yo’ng man also. is it of that you wish to speak?”
“i am not in love with him, mademoiselle.”
“ah ... but that is not the ver’ truth—no. i have seen. i do not know—maybe you theenk you do not love him, but you do love him. that is why i am willing to speak weeth you.”
“i don’t understand.”
“i am willing to speak weeth you about monsieur ware bicause i love him ver’ much and bicause you also love him. i theenk it mus’ be bicause i know we both wish ver’ much to have him always be happy. is it not?”
“but i do not love him.”
“then, mademoiselle, it is not of a necessity for us to speak at all. if you are merely his frien’, his acquaintance, you have no right to speak weeth me about him. it is so. mais, if you love him”—she lifted her shoulders—“that is ver’ different.”
“he has not asked me to love him.”
“that is well. i theenk he loves me very fidèle. yes. but also he theenk of you ver’ much. i have seen. you are of his country and are ver’ pretty. he theenk of you and compare you weeth me. i am french.... that is not american. he theenk about w’en he goes back to america, and then bicause i am ver’ french and not american he is troubled. he theenk i do not onderstan’, but i onderstan’ ver’ well. he say that he love andree in paris, and in paris andree is ver’ nice, but in america, where all is so different, then he does not know what to theenk.”
“and then?”
“and then he theenk of you, mademoiselle, of you who would not be foreign and strange and at whom his friends would not make to shrug their shoulder’ and lift the eyebrow’—bicause i do not know the manner and the custom.”
“is that all that troubles you—not knowing the manners and the customs?”
“what else could there be, mademoiselle? i am not très-jolie—ver’ beautiful—but also i am not so hideous. i do not know.”
maude shifted the subject because she was not ready to speak about the thing which would be troublesome more than manners and customs.
“has he asked you to go to america with him?”
“no, mademoiselle. we have not speak of that.”
“but you would go? you would leave your france and your people and go to a strange land?”
“i theenk, mademoiselle, that i would leave the worl’ for monsieur ware.”
“as his wife?”
“as to that, i do not care. if he wish, then ver’ well. if he do not wish, then ver’ well, also. the marriage—makes nothing to us. it is only the love.... but you, mademoiselle, you make of marriage the necessity.”
“i would not marry him—i do not think i would marry him.”
“you would love him—as i do?”
“no.... no.... you misunderstand. even if i loved him i do not think i would marry him.”
“and why? it is ver’ strange. perhaps it is some american custom.”
“of course i am american.... but the reason is yourself.”
“myself!... oh, i do not onderstan’.”
“i do not believe i could bring myself to marry him when he has loved you—as he has. when he has—been your lover.”
andree’s eyes were wide with surprise. “it is ver’ strange,” she said. “what have i to make weeth it? suppose one day he do not love me any more, but loves you ver’ much. then you will not marry him bicause of me? oh, that ees ver’—how do you say?—ver’ silly.”
“it is hard to explain. something inside me rebels against it. i would always think about it.... it would seem to me that he was tainted ... not clean as a husband should be.”
“mademoiselle!” andree sat very erect, her lips compressed.
“don’t misunderstand me.... please! i do not mean to offend. i expressed myself clumsily—and yet that was what i meant. it is nothing against you.... i have seen you, and i believe i can almost understand you. you are sweet and good—but you are different....”
“much different, mademoiselle, for that if i love then nothing matters. i give, and i do not ask questions. i theenk not of myself, but of him. it is the truth. i say, can i make him ver’ happy.... but i do not ask if i am so ver’ good that he is not so good as i am?”
“i wish i could explain. i can never understand you wholly, and you—i’m afraid you will never be able to understand me at all. we have grown up in different worlds. you here, i in america.... do you know that what you are doing is very bad in america? that a girl who does as you have done is an outcast? that no one will receive her in their homes nor have anything to do with her? ... people would say you were bad....”
“oh, thees america! it is ver’ sérieux. is there not love in america, then?”
“love is proper only when people marry.”
“and in america i would be a bad girl?”
“yes.”
“bicause i love ver’ much and am fidèle?”
“because you love without marriage.”
“and that makes monsieur ware bad also—bicause he love’ me?”
“it makes him—yes, people would say he was bad.”
“it is a lie. he is not bad, but ver’ good and kind. do i make him bad? oh, mademoiselle, that is a ver’ silly thing. i would only make him good and happy. it is the ver’ truth.... and bicause of me he is made bad and you must not marry him!... regard me, mademoiselle, what harm do you theenk he has from me?”
“no harm from you. oh, i mean it.... i—i don’t blame him. if i were a man i think—yes, i’m sure—i should love you as he does.... but—”
“but he is bad, and i have made him bad?”
“it isn’t you who make him bad....”
“then he is not bad, for there is no other. i am ver’ sure. he is fidèle.”
“you don’t understand. it is not you who make him bad, but the thing he is doing ... his relations with you. they are bad.”
“it is mos’ difficult—like some philosophy in a big book. i make him bad, but i do not make him bad, yet he is bad bicause of me....” her eyes began to flash as she arose in kendall’s defense. “it is not true. what you say is ver’ bad and wicked. for he is nevair bad.... as for me, i do not theenk i am bad. no. i do not theenk le bon dieu believes i am bad. you yourself, mademoiselle, have seen me and speak weeth me. do you theenk i am bad?”
“no, dear. i believe you are good.... i mean it. from the bottom of my heart, i believe you are good.”
“it is well. then, can one take something bad from one who is good? see! to be bad is to offend the good god. have i offended the good god who smiles when there is a great love? i do not theenk. have i made monsieur ken to offend the good god?... i should not be happy as i am if it were so.... have i made him to do a wickedness? am i a woman of that sort? it is not true. all i have desire is for him to be good and to be ver’ happy.... that is not a sin, and it does not make a sin for him.... and you would not marry him even though you love him.... mademoiselle, that is not a good love, not such a love as make the good god to smile.... it is a wickedness to love so....”
“my dear—”
“no.... let me speak. suppose thees monsieur ware have love me and marry me—and i am no more. i am dead. then you would not marry him?”
“that is different altogether. there would be no reason why i shouldn’t marry him then.”
“but i tell you, it is the same. behol’! he loves me so ver’ much, and one day he does not love me bicause the war is done and he mus’ go home, and it is not possible for him to carry me weeth him.... the theeng is ended. it is as if i were dead—as i should desire it to be. the love was the same as if i have marry him.... he would then nevair be weeth me any more. i would be as if i were not.... and he would have taken no harm.... to say that he would be harmed is to say that to love a man more than any other theeng in the worl’ is to harm him, and to say that, mademoiselle, is impie—blasphématoire—to say a theeng which is an insult to god.... no!... no!... you make a wrong.... because he have love’ then he is better—not more wicked.... i say to you, mademoiselle, that the love like i have for monsieur ware makes to keep him from a sin. i know.”
maude’s eyes were not dry. she was listening to a thing that rang with truth and with goodness. she saw what she had never been able to perceive before, and it showed her that kendall ware could take no harm from andree, let their relations be what they might, for andree was good, with a simplicity and a faith and a purity greater and better than any she had ever known. american as she was, reared upon the traditions of plymouth rock, which are as unbending as the laws of the medes and persians, she perceived the truth, saw that to judge is a power withheld from mortals and jealously guarded by god....
“my dear!... my dear!...” she said, tremulously. “i—can you forgive me?... you are right—right. nobody could be harmed by you.... you are sweet and—and wonderfully good....”
andree smiled wanly. “so we need speak no more. we have done. there remains but one little thing, mademoiselle. you love thees yo’ng man, and i love thees yo’ng man.... he loves me now, and until i am dead i shall keep him—keep him.... i shall make to fight for him as i can.... but i am sorry that it mus’ make you sad—if i can keep him. i am ver’, ver’ sorry.... good-by, mademoiselle, we shall not be friend’—no, that ees not possible—and one of us mus’ be ver’ sad.... i mus’ pray that it shall not be myself....”
“good-by,” said maude, extending her hand.
andree turned and walked with quaintly stiff tread and daintily erect body out of the dining-room. maude ascended to her room to think, to readjust herself.... her state of confusion was almost as great as kendall ware’s. she was conscious of her own inadequacy and of her inability to pierce to the true heart of events and see them as they would be seen by a mind at once perfect in logic and perfect in purity.... but, in spite of prejudices bred into her being from youth, she could not see andree as otherwise than right, andree as untainted by evil ... and it seemed a thing impossible that kendall ware could have been made one whit unworthier by any contact with her....
